“I don’t even think the newspapers would be interested anyway. Maybe a generation ago, but not these days.” Rachel’s face had reddened. “I am not sure why we are having this conversation. Is it to save my marriage or protect your church?”
“Now, there is no need to think like that. I am just here to care. I can offer advice and help,” said the bishop, quite pleased he had drawn some anger out of her. “Perhaps you would like to talk to my wife.”
Not far away in Church House James was sitting at his desk. He felt besieged. On the one side he had the responsibilities of his family, on another there were those of his job and the weight of moral obligations. There were the demands of Terry, which he so wanted to meet, and the demands of the archdeacon which seemed so stark and lifeless. Already the walls of his fortress were crumbling.
He looked around his room, the books, the files, the notice board of important dates and information. Did any of this matter when his life was falling apart? A Franciscan cross hung on one wall. He had got it many years before on a retreat at a convent, at a time in his life when everything seemed certain. It was a simple brightly decorated Jesus dying in agony and yet hopeful for the world around him. He wished he could share such optimism, and see a purpose to his own inner turmoil.
From his window he could see the ruins of the castle beyond the little park. Of some local historical importance, it stood as reminder the Cathedral once drew to live in its shadow powerful and significant people. Now with missing roof and collapsed walls the castle was just a place to imagine the glory of past opulence and high living. Everyday James watched the steady trickle of tourists who visited it. At the start of each day he watched a man unlock the gates, put out the welcome sign and open the shutters of the small ticket booth. James wondered what kind a job it would be. From where he sat it seemed so tempting to have no moral responsibilities, no hollow face to present to the world, no burden of a vocation parching your soul. He could be that man, living a simple fulfilling life; then he could be free. He might not be rich, or have a good pension, the words of the archdeacon were ringing in his ears, but he would be free. Like St Francis stripping off his clothes for the beggar, all the false pride and glory of his job could so easily be given away.
There was sudden knock on his door.
“Come in!” he shouted adjusting himself in his chair.
“Hi James it’s only me,” said Charles standing at the door. “Just wondered how you are.”
“Fine, thank you, Charles,” replied James without wanting to give anything away to this man.
Charles wanted to ask about the ultimatum from the archdeacon, but he knew he couldn’t because he wasn’t supposed to know about it. He wanted to tell James he was being a fool and he should stop trying to damage the church. He wanted to warn him to leave Terry and let Victor have his man back. He wanted to ask if he was ready to hear what Rachel had to say now she had been to see the bishop. But he could say none of these things.
“Well, you know where I am if you want to talk,” Charles said as he closed the door again.
“Bastard,” whispered James. Charles was part of the problem, a reminder of how unwholesome his work in this place had become.
James looked again out of the window. The sun was catching the tops of the walls of the castle now. It highlighted the jagged edge of destruction. Over the years these walls had given way, first to abandonment and then the steady progress of the weather. All the tourists had gone and the man was making his round at the end of the day. I could be that man, thought James, and be free of people like Charles.
“Bugger the archdeacon and his talk of saunas and pensions, I will show him,” vowed James to himself.
His life was not to be over-run; he would not capitulate and let them tell him how to live, who and when to love. If he didn’t make a stand now he would lose his self-respect, any sense of a profound purpose. He was almost grateful to the archdeacon, for giving him the ultimatum and driving him to this point.
He looked around his room as if for the last time. He tidied his desk so those who would clear it would have little to do. He purposely and slowly opened and closed each draw, taking out those things of personal value. He took the cross down from the wall examining it carefully to appreciate the pain it portrayed. He had never quite done that before. He took the pictures of his two children, smiling unperturbed in their school uniforms, and with the other things carefully placed them in his bag. He closed the filing cabinet with a thud, turned the key, and thought for a second to put in his pocket. But he wasn’t going to be destructive and make it difficult for those who would have to follow him. He took two postcards from the notice board. One was from Terry in Egypt, a picture of the Temple at Karnack. He read what it said: “Love you now and always.” He turned to the computer and clicked on a website. There he ordered flowers for his secretary to be delivered on Monday morning, no note or message included. He deleted his emails.
As yet he had done nothing irreversible, nothing to say he wasn’t actually coming back. But he knew this was it, the day he would walk out of his office and never return. The clock on the wall said 5.30. It was a pleasant clock which he had bought the year before. He would leave it, since every room needs something to mark the passage of time. He drew down the blind at the window. Now the room was in darkness, put to sleep, forever as far as he was concerned. He opened the door and stood for moment taking in the gravity of what was happening.
“Good bye,” he quietly said, as if to a person sitting in his chair. It could have been him in a different life, in other circumstances, if he had been willing to tow the line. The person in the chair looked back at him and smiled, seeming to understand the choice he was making. Good-bye to a vocation of twenty-five years, to much that had been so precious to him once, to a life he could no longer live.
He closed the door firmly and walked towards the stairs. He knew at this time of day most of the staff would have already left. They would be beginning an ordinary weekend, indistinguishable as any other. He wanted to walk away from an empty building, knowing it would seem easier that way. He wanted to treasure on his own the end of his life in this place.
Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs. At first thought he could pop back to his room, but there was something so final about the way he had closed his door he knew this was not possible. Within a moment he came face to face to with Richard.
“Ah, James, there you are.”
“Hello, Richard. I am just off home.”
“See you next week, then?” Richard asked, perhaps with too much interest in his voice. He was aware of all that was happening; indeed he felt it was particularly his job to know.
“Bye,” was James too quick response as he passed him. Perhaps he should have said more, but he felt he couldn’t. There was a fear in him that Richard might have the power to persuade him to stay. He needed his own dignity, and his silence was the only way he could preserve it.
“Are you ok?” shouted Richard as James descended the stairs, every step taking him further away. Richard was demanding a response.
“Fine, see you Monday,” he shouted back as he reached the front door, stepped outside and was gone. He knew it was a lie, for he hoped he would never see him again.
Chapter 10
In a matter of weeks, in the spring, Terry and James moved into their new home. There can be no better time of year to start something new. Terry had sold his cottage in an expensive village and bought an old farmhouse in a cheap one closer to The Fens. It wasn’t much grander, for it was only a modest Victorian dwelling, but for them it was a sanctuary from the madness of their lives.
The house occupied a corner plot near the parish church, which oversized and definitely underused, was a relict of the age when the corn tithes of the surrounding farmland brought wealth and influence to the local parson. His professional descendent still lived in the village, in a small modern house tucked away down Vicarage Lane, but he was rarely seen except on
Sundays. Perhaps this was because he had six other churches, or maybe he was lazy and depressed after ten years in obscure rural ministry.
On the other side of the road stood the public house, which had also seen much better days. Terry could see it across the village green as he sat at the head of the dining table. ‘I can see everyone go in and out of the pub’, he would pronounce, but few people did, except a mob of underage drinkers and the occasional retired farmhand. It was one of those pubs needing renovation, but this would depend on the ejection of the landlady, a woman of dubious credentials and reputation. It felt like she had been sent there in exile, as punishment for corrupt practices in a more salubrious setting. The same of course might be true of the vicar.
Other residents were what might be expected. There were those who had always lived there, and always would, for no reason often than pure inertia. Their experience of life outside the village was minimal, but this did not disqualify them from saying how good it was to live here, compared to everywhere else. There were those who had moved a few miles from another village, perhaps through marriage or work, and they reminisced about the definite benefits of where they came from. The cleaner Terry and James had employed was one of these. After twenty years she never felt settled in the village, and was always planning to move six miles back home. It was a plan that would never happen. The inertia had got to her as well. However, she was one of the village’s greatest gossips, and on the principle it was better to have her inside the house looking out, rather than passing by on the street looking in, they decided to take her on for three hours a week. She was not particularity enthusiastic or skilled in cleaning, complaining that her bad back meant most weeks she could only do ‘light duties’, which consisted first and foremost of making a pot of tea and catching up with the latest news. Terry and James knew their reputation in the village depended on the stories she shared over other pots of tea, and that if they paid her well, made few demands of her, spoilt and praised her children whenever they came with her, their good name in the village was secure.
The house stood on a fairly large plot that under the previous owners had been left to grow into a jungle. At the centre of the weed-filled lawn stood a magnificent walnut tree, whose canopy had spread above the confusion of growth beneath, standing as a testimony to a century and a half of life and love in the garden. Over the long warm summer Terry and James devoted almost every day to cutting back the undergrowth, reclaiming the lawn, and trimming the hedges, bushes and trees. In the course of this they discovered and resurrected an abandoned pond, a delightful statue of a naked man, and an old summerhouse leaning at a fearsome angle. Six skips of garden rubbish were filled in as many weeks, and they celebrated their efforts with a garden party towards the end of August. Unfortunately it rained all evening and the guests saw little of their efforts.
James had been signed off work, on the recommendation of his doctor who was appalled at the way he was treated by his employer. There could have been grounds for harassment and bullying but, in the church, employment rights are not necessarily protected. Matters were complicated because James so obviously committed a sin in choosing to live with Terry, and clergy are not allowed to do such things. Yet nothing in his job, other than taking occasional services, meant he needed to be ordained. If he had been a layman there would have been less leverage for getting rid of him, particularly as Church House already had staff whose private lives, in as much as they were the business of anybody, were extremely colourful. The situation of James seemed mild in comparison. But he was a priest and this seemed to make all the difference.
One day there was a call on the house phone from Richard. Again James was puzzled how Richard knew the number, when they were trying to escape into obscurity. The diocese wanted to come to some financial arrangement so that James could resign ‘gracefully’ and with the minimum of fuss. James agreed to meet Richard, though not at Church House, where the attention of the staff, however well meaning, would have been unbearable. The canon succentor’s house near the Cathedral was suggested instead.
When James arrived at that door two days later his memory of previous visits came flooding back. Once he had been there to arrange a service in the Cathedral to mark an exhibition of children’s drawings of the tsunami, when the succentor’s spoilt dog had sat on his foot for almost the entire meeting. He had been here for committees on worthy causes, such as the diocesan benevolent fund for widows and orphans with a grand total of £200 a year to dispense. All this seemed part of a former life, quite removed from reality.
“How are you?” enquired Richard as they settled down for a cup of tea in the upstairs drawing room. They had come via a grand staircase, the big brown dog trudging behind them.
“So, so,” was James answer careful not to give too much away since he was supposed to be on sick leave, and to say he was fine, however casually meant, might be taken as evidence of his health and fitness.
“I have written up this Compromise Agreement for you to sign,” continued Richard, quick and to the point. He had to admit James was in a strong position, having committed no crime. The same exacting standards could not be applied to other Church House staff, particularly not to Richard whose private activities could not bear scrutiny. Richard apologised for the harassment and bullying of the archdeacon, but made no comment on the archdeacon’s suggestion that clandestine activities were a necessary evil. What concerned Richard, and the bishop behind him, was the public nature of what James had done. To declare your love for another man, and to act on that love, was quite unforgivable.
James looked at the agreement, bemused at its legal jargon but understanding the implications. It was a resignation with a promise never to disclose the terms to anyone and to never make a claim for unfair dismissal.
“We can give you £12,000 if you sign it,” offered Richard, knowing it was over six months’ salary for James and a generous offer.
“It is not the money, it is the way it all has to be secret that disturbs me,” replied James. What worried him more was the severing of his ties with the church, the ending of twenty-five years of ministry. How had he come to this place? Once he was an enthusiastic curate so dedicated to the church he worked night and day. Later, he had been a model vicar with a well-attended parish church and rejoiced in being innovative in ministry, popular with parishioners and those beyond. He had sat on countless diocesan committees, sifting through the necessary tedious church business. Above all he had been good; never close to any kind of scandal. He had heard about vicars who had run off with organists, or whose marriages had spectacularly collapsed, but he never imagined he would ever be the subject of such rumours himself. It was as if he had been struck by lightning: one minute all was fine and unremarkable, the next he had been propelled into a dazed state of bewilderment. James put his hand in his pocket and felt the small bag of stones he always carried. They helped him understand his predicament.
“You do know what you are signing, don’t you?” enquired Richard, impatient with the silence. “Or do you need a bit of time to think about it?” He was making it obvious that, for everyone, the sooner the matter was settled the better. “I can’t guarantee this offer will be around for long.”
James wasn’t listening. He was thinking about something else. Perhaps, he thought, the fact he had always been good was the cause, and in the end the strain of arid morality was too much. After all he was only human, and the repression of his sexuality over twenty-five years had built up a pressure that had suddenly burst out. In reality he was still naive, and his inexperience made him a consummate fool in love, and in his dealings with the church. He needed to grow up, stop dreaming, and treat the world and the church with the cynicism they deserved, but he was not yet at that stage. Today he was happy to sign away what rights he had as an employee, because first and full most it meant he could be with Terry. And of all the things in his life, this certainly mattered the most.
When James got home Terry was standing in the backyar
d.
“Come and see what I have done,” said Terry excitedly, as he took James’ hand and after a welcoming kiss led him down the garden. Proudly he showed James how hard he had worked. “I have cut back all these branches, and now the sun can get in. It makes everything seem so much bigger.” He was right, for the years of neglect had shrunk the garden. Only now could its full potential be seen.
James changed into his gardening clothes and they chatted as they worked. They so enjoyed each other’s company they liked to work together, weeding the same patch of ground, clipping the same bush, chopping down the same tree. They were so much in love that every so often they paused to kiss again, not caring that the sweat of their faces had made their lips salty. They joked about the people who walked past, the old farmhands who wanted to stop and commend them for their hard work.
“It was a grand garden once and it is good you are making it like that again,” said one old man. He had not the slightest idea that Terry and James were lovers but on account of his age and life experience it is doubtful he would have cared. Those who have lived the longest can be the most understanding and forgiving.
They worked on into the evening, stopping only for tea. This was always done in the most formal of ways, James bringing out a tray with silver teapot, milk jug and sugar basin, china cups and a plate of scones. Terry, even in his dirty gardening clothes, his face smeared and his hair ruffled, would have it no other way, and it was one of those things that so delighted James about him. A sense of decorum and style even in the mist of a tremendous mess. It was part of the security of Terry which made James content; whatever happens, they would always able to have tea on the lawn under the great walnut tree.
“I could live like this forever,” sighed James.
“Well, I don’t see why we can’t,” smiled Terry. He had never been happier.
After dinner, they returned to their garden work but in a more light-hearted mood. They had worked hard most of the day and much had been achieved. They chased each other between the bushes, grappling to the ground to be mercilessly tickled until the tears of laughter ran down their faces. They built a bonfire with all the debris and when the darkness and coolness of the night began to encroach they lit the pile and sat, their knees touching, staring into the flames. This was a time, in the flickering light and warming glow, when they could share their innermost thoughts, their hopes and fears, and most of all, their dreams. It was a time of intimacy and closeness that neither of them had ever experienced with anyone else in the same way before. It made them so certain their love was right. After the talking, and there seemed no more to be said, they fell silent. They lent to share a deep and incessant kiss. As before they became one that night, under the canopy of the walnut tree, in the soft glow of the dying embers and beneath the awesome beauty of a wide starry sky.
Gay Before God: An Awakening Love Forbidden by the Church Page 12
