Day of Vengeance

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘I don’t care for that sort. I’ve always distrusted charm.’

  ‘We’ll soon see for ourselves, my dear.’

  The shops that lined the pavements as we walked from the Tube station were small and rather tacky, selling used electronics, cheap clothing, and the like. A few newsagent/tobacconist shops looked dreary and unprosperous. A payday loan establishment, on the other hand, was plainly doing a roaring business. Several shops were empty, the papers pasted over the windows torn and dirty. Beggars stood at corners hawking copies of The Big Issue, the chronicle of the poor and homeless.

  ‘Urban blight,’ Alan commented.

  ‘The Archbishop should get on that loan place,’ I muttered. ‘A scourge.’ For the Archbishop of Canterbury had launched a campaign against the loan businesses that prey on the poor, with their ruinous interest rates and crippling fees. He proposed setting up small banks actually in the churches, combining low-interest loans with financial counselling, an interesting idea certain to meet with fierce opposition.

  As we neared the church, however, the appearance of the neighbourhood began to improve. Several small restaurants, mostly serving Asian food of one nationality or another, looked clean and inviting. The streets and pavements were free of rubbish. No obvious beggars were present; the pedestrians seemed clean and decently dressed.

  ‘We were told,’ said Alan quietly, ‘that Lovelace has done a great deal of good in his parish. Now I believe it.’

  ‘Jane said it was his staff who did all the work.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, whoever has done it, it’s good work.’

  The church itself, as we approached it, was large but not at all attractive. Built of red brick with dirty white granite trim, it was typical Victorian grim in style. Its architect had apparently leaned toward the Old Testament school of religion, the God of wrath, the sort who, as a schoolboy is reputed to have put it, ‘watched to see if you were doing anything fun and put a stop to it’. The forecourt, of unadorned paving stones, was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence topped with spikes, and the gate, though wide open at the moment, had a large and business-like padlock attached to the hasp.

  ‘Brrr,’ I said as we turned to enter.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Are we going to introduce ourselves to him?’

  ‘Perhaps after the service.’

  The bells began to ring for the service just then, and I was surprised to find them melodious, in tune and well rung. I was surprised, too, to see a steady stream of worshippers turn in at the gates and move toward the door. There weren’t hundreds of them, but in an area of working people, it was heartening to find more than a handful of old ladies to attend a church service at three thirty in the afternoon.

  Inside, the church was comfortably warm. I looked at Alan in surprise. Virtually all English churches house a chill that even the warmest summer day seems unable to dispel. He nudged me and pointed to the base of the wall. Under each window sat a low electric heater, in the style of American ‘baseboard’ heating.

  Good grief. Central heating in a huge church. Amazing!

  For the church was huge, the vaulted roof high overhead, the nave wide. Even the clutter of tombs and memorials that spoils the proportions of any old church couldn’t destroy the impression of immensity. It was not beautiful. Actually, the pseudo-Romanesque styling reminded me of a railway station with garish stained-glass windows. But it was undeniably impressive.

  A verger was directing people to the front pews – pews, not chairs, I noted – and I exchanged glances with Alan again. Apparently, they expected a large congregation that needed to be properly seated.

  And the expectation was fulfilled. The stream of people grew, slowly and then more rapidly, so that by the time the bells ceased their clamorous invitation nearly a third of the church was full. The worshippers were of all ages and descriptions, from the predictable old ladies, most of them white, to young Pakistani mothers with their babies, to Chinese couples, young and old, to young black men. My surprise had by now turned to astonishment. This simply couldn’t be happening in an inner-city London church in the twenty-first century. I pinched myself, but the crowd was still there.

  The organ struck up a voluntary, and yet again I looked at Alan. I had thought I was beyond surprise, but instead of the reedy sound I’d expected, this was the glorious full-throated sound of a proper pipe organ. I looked around for the pipes.

  ‘Electronic,’ Alan whispered in my ear, pointing to a speaker high overhead. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  Then the choir entered on an opening hymn, and it was more like what I had expected. Obviously not professional, the choir was mixed, with women taking the place of the boys of the usual cathedral choir. But they sang on key, they sang enthusiastically, and the congregation joined them with a will. I watched them file into their pews to one side of the altar, not a formal quire as in a Gothic church, but adequate for their needs. The singers were led by a verger and followed by a clergyman in cassock, snowy surplice, and stole. The rector, presumably.

  He turned around to face us, and I was stunned. The man was gorgeous. There is simply no other word for it. His silver hair, thick and wavy, set off a tanned face with eyes that rivalled Paul Newman’s: blue, blue, blue. His smile was enough to light up the church, even had the sun not been shining through those ugly windows. He moved with a springy grace that positively radiated energy and belied the evidence of his hair. Surely he was prematurely grey? This had to be a young man, or youngish, anyway.

  He spread his arms wide. ‘Welcome, brothers and sisters! God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.’

  From the moment of that simple and familiar sentence, I was mesmerized. The Reverend Geoffrey Lovelace’s voice matched his appearance – deep, warm, compelling. It forced me to really listen to the words of the service rather than just repeat them by rote. His voice was actually more musical than the choir’s music. They sang short, simple settings of the Psalms and canticles, and did them competently, but I waited impatiently for them to stop, so I could listen again to the rector.

  At last he ascended to the pulpit, and an expectant hush spread through the church. The congregation, too, had eagerly awaited this moment.

  He repeated his opening gesture and words. ‘Welcome, my brothers and sisters, welcome. Whether friend or stranger, you have come to a place of healing, a place where all may bring their broken and troubled lives and be made whole. Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He said, “My peace I leave with you.” St Paul spoke of the “peace that surpasses all understanding”. We live in troubling times, my friends. We all have pain in our lives. We must seek the peace, the rest, that Jesus has promised us, and it is my job to help you find it.’

  I hung on every golden syllable. This, I felt, was a man who could change my life, a man who could work miracles. He spoke of new directions for the neighbourhood, new initiatives from St Barnabas’ Church. I didn’t care what he said. He could have recited lists of laws and rules from Leviticus, and I would still have listened in awe.

  At last he pronounced the blessing and there was a final hymn. Choir and clergy filed out in procession while the organ played a postlude, and Alan took my arm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  He sounded urgent. I would have stayed to listen to that remarkable organ, but I rose and followed him out.

  ‘I thought you wanted to meet the rector. Alan, slow down!’ I was panting to keep up with his long stride.

  ‘Sorry, love, but it’s good to breathe some fresh air.’

  ‘But, Alan …’

  He gave me rather a grim smile and, taking my elbow, steered me up the street to a respectable-looking, if rather plain, pub.

  When he had fetched pints for both of us and brought them to the scarred table, I said, ‘All right. What’s eating you?’

  He downed a large quaff of beer and sighed with satisfaction. ‘Ahh. That’s better. I’d had a bellyful of the Rev
erend Mr Lovelace.’

  I frowned in disappointment. ‘I was actually rather impressed. He’s such a powerful speaker.’

  ‘Is he? What did he say?’

  ‘Alan, you heard him! He talked about peace, and the needs of this area, and … well, I can’t quite remember everything offhand, but I know he was good.’

  ‘Anything about Christian love? Redemption? Loving God and one’s neighbour? Anything about Easter, recently past, or Whitsunday, soon to come?’

  ‘I tell you I don’t remember the details.’ I sipped my beer and tried to remember just what Mr Lovelace had, in fact, said, and my mind began to clear. ‘I think I begin to see what you mean,’ I said slowly after some reflection. ‘He didn’t actually say anything very specific, did he?’

  ‘Except for rather a lot about how much he’d done for the parish. Oh, he used the word “we”, but it was obviously the royal, singular “we”. He also mentioned, fairly subtly, how much more he could do if the parishioners would only shell out a bit more cash. And you lapped it up, didn’t you?’

  I opened my mouth to utter an indignant reply, but it died on my lips. Yes, I had indeed ‘lapped it up’.

  Later, back at the Andersons’, I was rueful. ‘I’m more than a little annoyed with myself.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m not usually susceptible to a flim-flam artist. I’m feeling very stupid.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Lynn. ‘I was taken in at first, too. Tom and I had heard so much about him, we went one Sunday, and I thought he was marvellous for about five minutes. I think he employs a form of mass hypnotism, actually.’

  ‘I admit the thought that came to my mind when I first heard his voice was “mesmerized”. But I’ve always thought I was one of those people who can’t be hypnotized.’

  ‘You probably can’t,’ said Alan, ‘not when you have any idea what’s happening. You have a strong will, so you set yourself against anyone who tries to manipulate your mind. But in this case you had been lulled into a receptive mood by music and the soothing, familiar words of the service. You were open to suggestion. And the fellow has a golden voice and uses it, I have to admit, to maximum advantage.’

  ‘So why didn’t you succumb?’ I still felt stupid and, illogically, annoyed with Alan.

  Alan covered my hand with his. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, love. I didn’t succumb, as you put it, because, for one, I’m a male. A honey-voiced Greek god has limited appeal for me. Second, I’m a policeman, trained to look behind a façade. What I saw beyond his wasn’t very pretty. And third, I remembered what Kenneth had said about the man’s “charisma”, so I was on my guard.’

  Lynn said, ‘Tom was livid with the man that one time we went, said he was an Elmer Gantry of the worst sort. He wasn’t very happy when the man ended up on your shortlist, Alan, and if we’d known you were on the commission, I imagine you’d have heard from him. We’re not C of E, and we don’t even go to church all that often, but the man has ambitions, and we’d hate to see him get to be Archbishop. Anyway, enough of that. What will you have to drink?’

  After a leisurely cocktail hour and dinner, Tom and Lynn asked about our plans for the next day. ‘I trust you’re not rushing back on the first train,’ said Lynn. ‘Because I thought you and I could do some shopping. There are some new spring hats at Harrods you’d adore, Dorothy.’

  ‘You know quite well I can’t afford their hats, and I don’t need a new one, anyway.’

  ‘When did that ever have anything to do with it?’ asked Alan. ‘A hat is not an object that one needs, except in the coldest of weather, and very few of yours, my dear, are made so as to keep your ears warm. Here’s my credit card. Go and buy yourself a spectacular hat, and we’ll call it your birthday present.’

  ‘My birthday is in October.’

  ‘Your unbirthday present, then.’

  ‘Well, we do need to stay in London to spend some time with Walter and his girlfriend. I promised Jane we’d phone him.’ I explained to Lynn that we wanted his opinion about Mr Lovelace. ‘Though now I’m not sure we need another opinion. But I’d like to see him, anyway, and meet his lady-love.’

  ‘Let’s do both,’ said Lynn. ‘We’ll go shopping, just us girls, and then meet Walter and his girl and the guys for lunch. There’s a trendy new place in Parliament Square I’ve been dying to try. That part’ll be our unbirthday treat for you, Dorothy.’

  SIX

  When I’m with Lynn, we take taxis. Cost is not an issue with the Andersons. So we pulled up at Harrods’ main door in splendour, and found the millinery department after only a brief survey of the Food Halls, which I can never resist.

  The hats were stunning. Many of them were the ‘fascinator’ type, entirely unsuited to a woman my age, but the clerk tactfully steered me to the ones designed to flatter grey hair and cover wrinkly foreheads.

  The one I chose at last was pale blue, a cloche made of some sort of stiff net, with a bow and spangles. It was utterly impractical, and utterly gorgeous. ‘And it goes with that outfit,’ said Lynn. ‘Leave it on. And we need to hurry a bit if we’re to meet Walter and Sue on time.’

  We had agreed to pick up the kids at their flat in Bloomsbury before meeting our husbands at the restaurant. There was time for no more than introductions before we all piled back in the taxi and headed down Charing Cross Road.

  I hadn’t seen Walter for ages, so we had a lot of catching up to do. He was excited about the possibility of a job with the Museum of London.

  ‘I’m really interested in treasure trove and that sort of thing,’ he said, ‘so this is right up my street. It wouldn’t pay a lot at first, but there are lots of possibilities for advancement. And Sue just might be able to get in at the Museum of Childhood.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s the one with the dollhouses, isn’t it?’ I became interested in dollhouses – or dolls’ houses, as the Brits call them – some years ago and still enjoyed them, though I no longer had one of my own. So we talked toys, and miniatures, and London history, quite happily until we were jarred by a sudden stop.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said our driver. ‘Bleedin’ idiots!’ He was plainly addressing not his passengers but the drivers ahead. ‘Oughtn’t to be allowed, if they don’t know how to drive in London.’

  We were nearing Parliament Square. Traffic on the other side of the street was moving, but nothing on our side. Lynn made a quick decision. ‘We’ll walk the rest of the way, thanks. Not your fault,’ she added to the driver. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, madam,’ said the driver with a broad smile that gave me some idea of the size of the tip.

  ‘Is there a parade or something?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never seen the traffic this bad.’ The pedestrian traffic was thick, too; we were not the only ones to have abandoned wheeled transport.

  ‘Not a parade,’ said Lynn. ‘The cabbie would have known. It could be a wedding or a funeral at the Abbey, I suppose, but only really important people are married or buried there, mostly royalty, and it would have been all over the news … Oh, good heavens!’

  We had rounded a corner and could see in front of us what looked like a riot scene. People everywhere, placards waving in the air, bullhorns blasting out slogans, on the one hand, and orders from the police to move along, on the other.

  ‘What on earth? Are those cardboard crowns they’re wearing?’ Sue, who was the shortest of us, craned her neck to see.

  ‘They’re mitres,’ said Walter. ‘A lot of women wearing cardboard mitres!’

  The signs were homemade, and were all different, but with the same theme: ‘The Church is Sexist!’, ‘Mitres for Women’, ‘Equality under God’. I saw one reading ‘Diana was Murdered!’ which seemed to imply some confusion on the part of the demonstrator, but for the most part the women were united in their demands, and getting quite raucous about it.

  As we drew closer, the chants grew better organized. ‘What do we want?’ shouted one woman with a bullhorn. ‘Women bishops!’ the crowd chanted back. ‘When
do we want it?’ ‘NOW!’

  I didn’t see exactly what happened next, but one woman either dropped her sign or else deliberately hit a policeman over the head with it. At any rate, she fell, and immediately the women around her were brandishing their signs and shouting at the police. Others began running in that direction.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Walter. I hurriedly took off my new hat and crammed it into its box, and then followed as he miraculously shoved his way through the gathering crowd, dragging Sue by the hand.

  More than anything in the world right then, I wanted Alan beside me.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked after a few minutes, as we panted in Walter’s wake. I thought I knew London pretty well, but there were still plenty of odd backwaters where I could get lost in two minutes without my trusty A to Zed.

  ‘There’s a church just along here,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about it, but if there’s a quiet place anywhere, a church ought to be it.’

  ‘Not if there are any lady bishop wannabes in it,’ I thought I heard Lynn mutter.

  The church, thank heaven, was quiet. There were a couple of women going purposefully back and forth on some business or other. A young man in a cassock and dog collar glanced our way for a moment, and then stopped to speak to one of the women. A lingering odour of incense hung in the air, and a statue of the Virgin Mary occupied a niche above a small stand of lighted candles.

  ‘Roman Catholic?’ I whispered to Walter.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He gestured to a Book of Common Prayer in the pew rack. ‘Anglo-Catholic, probably.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d like me using my mobile, but I must talk to Alan. He and Tom may be waiting for us somewhere in that mob, and they’ll be worried.’ I stood and approached the young priest. ‘Excuse me,’ I said in those stifled tones one tends to use in a place of worship, ‘but my friends and I came in to get away from an unpleasant demonstration a few streets away. Is there a place where I might use my phone without disturbing anyone?’