The Girls' Book of Priesthood Read online

  THE GIRLS’

  BOOK OF

  PRIESTHOOD

  Louise Rowland

  To Phil, Phoebes and Hellie – for everything

  God Says Yes to Me

  by Kaylin Haught

  I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic

  and she said yes

  I asked her if it was okay to be short

  and she said it sure is

  I asked her if I could wear nail polish

  or not wear nail polish

  and she said honey

  she calls me that sometimes

  she said you can do just exactly

  what you want to do

  Thank God I said

  And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph

  my letters

  Sweetcakes God said

  Who knows where she picked that up

  What I’m telling you is

  Yes Yes Yes

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  God Says Yes to Me

  Part I The Stranger in the Mirror

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II Another Self

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part III Unravelling Threads

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part IV A Time of Reckoning

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Glossary of terms

  Acknowledgments

  A Note on the Author

  Copyright

  Part I

  The Stranger in the Mirror

  Chapter 1

  5 July 2016

  Twelve months to go

  Dearly beloved, we are gath—

  What is this? A Friday-night sitcom?

  Hello, everyone. I’m thrilled to be here giving my first—

  It’s not the BAFTA awards, either.

  In the beginning was the—

  No.

  It was 3 a.m. by the time she’d finally thrown herself under the duvet, fully clothed. The lights in the flats opposite had long since flicked off in a Morse of despair.

  Sermon-writing was never like this when she was training at Wilhurst. Even her thesis, Body Beautiful: Female Iconography at the Heart of Middle-European Medieval Christianity, had tripped off the keyboard in comparison.

  ‘Don’t try too hard, Margot,’ Jeremy had advised her in the Heron a couple of days previously. ‘Just be yourself. Our job is to keep the gathered multitude interested. Or, failing that, awake. I know how you women like to connect through the personal stuff, real-life issues, et cetera. All fine, in my book. Just don’t be flippant. Or too clever-clever. I’d skip any references to Julius of Norwich or the Gnostic Gospels. St Mark’s isn’t really that kind of place. The last curate fancied himself as our very own Simon Schama and most people didn’t love it, to be honest. Though the one occasion I tried to be a bit clever, I had some QC email me the day afterwards, telling me I’d misquoted Rilke.’

  He’d chuckled and taken a long sip of his pint, eyeing her over the foamy rim.

  ‘And not to unsettle you but, well, one or two individuals – OK, maybe a few – may be watching you quite closely on Sunday.’

  ‘Willing me to fail, you mean?’

  ‘Could I trouble you for the sauce?’

  The brown splatter had covered the mash like a muddy massacre.

  She glances sideways back into the mirror now, half-dazed with disbelief. Her fingers reach for the collar. Your entire identity summed up in eight inches of pliable white plastic. Say halo to your new life: curate of the parish, carer of souls.

  She swallows.

  The naked bathroom bulb picks out every blemish: the pasty cheeks, the violet bags, the streaky whites of her eyes. Black clerical shirt: perfect shade for a pale-faced redhead who’s had three hours’ sleep, tops.

  She feels like a rookie stand-up at the Fringe, about to face a sweaty cave full of hardcores. Except this is life or death. Twelve months to prove she’s got the mettle to do this, starting with her first appearance in front of them all in two hours’ time. The past five years have been child’s play compared to what lies ahead.

  She rubs in a third layer of Touche Éclat, another whisk of blusher. Demure and discreet in all things, someone at Wilhurst warned them, reverence and restraint. This is an emergency. It’s all she can do to resist downing the rest of the sherry from the vicar’s welcome hamper. As it was, the Ferrero Rocher didn’t survive the night.

  The collar is chafing at the sides of her neck, even with the extra investment in the latest ‘comfort’ model, complete with inner band for increased air circulation. She should have stuck to the flick ’n’ push version. Each of the four shank collar studs is grazing her skin, demanding, Who exactly do you think you are?

  She steps back and searches the mirror for some vestige of herself. It’s like pulling on a high-vis tabard bearing the words Holy One: black and white confirmation you’re on Bible business. She walked underneath some scaffolding on the Holloway Road yesterday and one of the builders shouted down something she didn’t catch, and then they all started cackling and catcalling.

  Throughout it all, you have to smile, smile, smile.

  She rummages in her make-up bag yet again and pulls out a lipstick in brazen carmine. At least it’ll colour-pop against the funereal black.

  She closes her eyes. She can do this. She’s made it this far. Several of the other ordinands have already fallen by the wayside, not even making it to being deaconed.

  She leans back against the towel rail and takes some steadying breaths. Her sense of vocation has never been greater. The transformative power of God’s love is all around her all the time: she’s never in any doubt about that. In some moments, a quiet, gentle grace; at others, a turbo-charged source of raw spiritual energy. And always, always, that sense of something – someone – greater than she is, cradling her in its care. She knows this is how she’s meant to live out her faith, just as you know, when you fall abruptly, recklessly in love. When life can be altered in the flicker of a smile.

  She opens her eyes and bullies some more colour into her cheeks.

  Is she good enough, though? The stakes couldn’t be higher. Anything might derail her. Maybe her father was right and she has lost the plot in pursuing this as her calling?

  It’s twenty past nine. She snaps off the light, snatches her bag from the bed and walks out of the door.

  A short way along the pavement, she stops and retraces her steps into the tiny studio flat, hurries to the rickety bookcase and runs her fingers along the top shelf. She pulls down a small flat grey stone with a hole in the centre: it’s travelled everywhere with her, since she found it all those years ago with her mother on the beach at Hengistbury Head. Its contours lie warm and familiar in her palm. She slips it into her pocket, takes another breath without glancing back at the mirror and rushes out of the front door.

  Highbury Fields is muggy, drizzle-sodden, as she makes her way across, a drumbeat throb in her right temple. Her fringe is already kinking at the edges. The haters will take one look at the madwoman at the lectern and rest their case.

  She crosses over, turns right and stops. St Mark’s. The Georgian-V
ictorian mishmash in which she will make or break her career. She pulls the buckle of her shoulder strap higher. Something about the church’s solid, burnt-fudge façade always reminds her somehow of the sea: the way it changes mood and tone according to the season or the light. This morning’s moist grey gauze flattens the whole exterior, making the whole post-war patch-up more of a misjudgement than the seamless blend it sometimes appears to her to be.

  One hundred and eighty-two years. How much joy and wonder, grief, loneliness, despair – ecstasy – have played out here, she wonders? And now, enter stage left, the clueless upstart.

  She sighs, rolls her shoulders back and continues on past the huge magnolia tree by the porch, resting her palm briefly against its trunk.

  As she steps inside the porch, however, the distinctive blend of over-the-hill chrysanthemums and Mr Muscle floor polish is like slipping into a second skin. The board by the front door displaying the photos of the church team, with a gap where her own face will be. The patchwork spread of notices below: the coffee rota, curling minutes from April’s AGM, the plea for second-hand toys and books for the Kool Gang, the sign-up sheet for last week’s summer fete, the Polaroid of Jeremy gamely holding a bored-looking salamander at the Pet Blessing service. She smiles at his open face, age indeterminate beneath the close black crop, the pronounced widow’s peak above the unexpected yellow-rimmed glasses. The vicar is a one-man rebuttal of all those studies that have 95 per cent of clergy down as introverts, a statistic that probably still holds good, given the number of sociopaths she met at Wilhurst.

  She glances up to the top of the board where the church’s mission statement sits in large bold print.

  Jesus was open to all. So are we here at St Mark’s. Whoever, whatever you are, wherever you’re from, we welcome you unreservedly to our worshipping community and Eucharistic table.

  Her pulse slowly regains its composure. It’s all so reassuringly offend-no-one C of E. Not a whiff of Sturm und Drang, no twanging electric guitars or speaking in tongues, no fairy lights on the altar or lacy accessories: just, for her, that profound sense of belonging, of coming home. The numinous bathed in the familiar, like stepping into a tiny village church and catching the delicate scent of candle wax, cloth-bound hymnals and well-worn hassocks; dust pirouetting in the shafts of sapphire, ruby and gold like sparkled stardust in the ancient air.

  Just as I am, of that free love

  The breadth, length, depth and height to prove,

  Here for a season, then above,

  O Lamb of God, I come, I come!

  The organ’s wheezy exhalations taper up behind the altar screen. A profound silence falls, punctured eventually by two or three psychosomatic coughs, then the soft swish of the choir’s robes as they retake their seats.

  Margot drags her head from the service sheet and stares fixedly at the decorated reredos across the sanctuary. She’s aware of every single pair of eyes in the building. All the young families, the Highbury great and the good, the male couples, the older couples, the singles, the one-offs, the huge battalion of retirement-aged women, the lonely, the bored, the nostalgic, the devout, the loyal, the aspirational. The well-wishers. The ill-wishers. The expectant.

  She swallows again. Lord, help me. You chose me to dedicate my life to Your service, when sometimes I’ve no idea why. Help me to reassure them all that there hasn’t been some hideous mistake in taking me on. Even those who don’t want me here. I know this is a long journey and I’ve only just pulled out of the station, but I desperately don’t want to fail.

  She gets to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jeremy discreetly holding up his thumb.

  The air has thinned. She turns to her left and takes a few slow steps along the tatty crimson, hugging her surplice close, glad she decided against high heels. The scent of yesterday’s lilies is overwhelming as she shuffles her notes on the lectern and arranges her face into poise.

  Jeremy guessed about 1.45 this morning: they’d coagulated into a blur. She looks out over the top of their heads and focuses on the fire-exit sign above the door: Jeremy’s last-minute top tip. Minutes pass, or so it feels. She fills her lungs and lifts her chin. Deep, authoritative. No high-pitched girly tones.

  Someone smacks their lips in the front pew, right below the lectern. Margot can’t resist glancing down. A father has his toddler balanced on his shoulders to get a better view, as though Margot’s a new arrival at Rainforest Life in London Zoo. In front of him, the likely lip-smacker: an older woman with scrubbed red cheeks, snaggle teeth and an unfortunate mole, gazing up at her, as though witnessing a beatific vision.

  Jeremy gives a small cough. Margot forces herself to focus back on the fire exit, fingers gripping the side of the lectern.

  Her mother always used to quote that American film star’s line about acting: it’s all about standing up naked and turning around very slowly.

  Do this for her.

  Margot Goodwin. Priest-in-waiting.

  ‘May I speak in the name of the Living God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen. So, hello, everyone.’

  Chapter 2

  Same day, 5 July

  Queasiness comes in waves as she watches the vicar flicking off the bank of lights in the porch. Two hours in and she’s already given the antis enough fodder to launch an excommunication. Jeremy shrugs on his raincoat and shoos her outside, rattling the huge bunch of keys.

  ‘Nice work, Margot.’

  Her heart plummets five floors. Killing with kindness. Maybe he’s saving the dressing-down for next week’s supervision.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy. I don’t think I quite nailed it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. That whole “the contents of my handbag” number was fine.’ He drops the keys into his rucksack. ‘Who knew about the philosophical symbolism of mascara wands?’

  The go-to emergency sermon of all trainee priests with ovaries. How could she have been so stupid?

  ‘In fact, several people at coffee told me how much they enjoyed it,’ he continues.

  ‘Did they?’ She hesitates. ‘One couple I spoke to seemed a bit put out. Said how they normally like extensive scriptural input, how they always go home after a sermon and reread the relevant passage in the Bible and plan their week’s witness around it.’

  Jeremy sighs.

  ‘I have a pretty good idea who that was. But you can’t please all the people all of the time. Actually, we’re all doomed to failure, if that makes you feel any better.’

  He smiles across at her, brandishing a couple of bursting bin bags, and she waits as he places them on the pavement opposite.

  Coffee had been hideous. Actors aren’t expected to leave the stage and mingle with the audience the moment the curtain falls on a first-night production, catching the appalled whispers behind. Yet twenty minutes after she’d walked away from the lectern, she’d had to circulate around all the different clusters in the hall, a chocolate bourbon balanced in the saucer of her lukewarm coffee, smiling gratitude at the friendly welcomes, joining in the new-girl chat, dipping her head at the slightly too intrusive questions, trying to ingratiate without giving too much away, and all the time braced for someone to start yelling one of St Paul’s clobber texts about how women should know their place and keep quiet in church.

  Jeremy comes back alongside her.

  ‘Penny for them?

  ‘Oh, you know, I was just thinking about this morning.’

  ‘Don’t be too much of a perfectionist, Margot. Canterbury wasn’t built in a day.’

  He nudges her arm. She looks down at her lace-ups and nods.

  ‘In any case, I didn’t spot anyone playing sermon bingo, so you’ve already bagged several brownie points. Come on, the Heron’s calling. I bet you’re in need of something stronger than Millicent’s coffee. I keep telling her to add another scoop, but she’s worried about overrunning the entertainment budget.’

  Ten minutes later, she’s sitting on a scratchy green banquette, watching her incumbent
thread his way through the bar of the unreconstructed boozer opposite Highbury tube that doubles as their off-duty HQ. Jeremy’s a head taller than most of the customers, but his rapid progress is still impressive. Brick-cheeked regulars make way for the man of the cloth. One or two even touch their temple as he passes, possibly confusing him with Father Joseph from St Aloysius of the Holy Redeemer.

  Her gratitude for the gamble he’s taken is now shot through with a deep unease. The jokes that had seemed reasonably witty at 3 a.m. had popped in the air one by one like silent soap bubbles. She’d been aware of several people nearby flicking through their orders of service, as though checking to see whether there was a complaints hotline. The Rainforest Life toddler had had two screaming fits before emptying an entire box of Lego into the aisle. One man in his early thirties had even taken out a copy of Private Eye and a packet of crisps, the synthetic smell of onion strong enough to overpower the lilies.

  She leans back and closes her eyes, aware of a shuddering exhaustion in every inch of her body, as the clinking and chatter carry on around her.

  ‘Oops, thought we’d caught you napping there, Margot.’

  She jerks herself upright, mouth dry. Jeremy is holding two glasses of red, now joined by a man in his fifties, cream silk shirt undone a button too far, choppy silver layers on his collar.

  ‘Too much partying, Reverend?’ The smile is silkily suave, appraising.

  Jeremy puts the drinks down and claps him on the shoulder.

  ‘You two haven’t met. Margot, this is Fabian Spence, rising star of the PCC.’

  Fabian’s hooded eyes are assessing her with the impersonal thoroughness of an airport scanner.

  ‘Pleasure.’

  The hand is cold and impeccably manicured.

  ‘Can I get you something, Fabian?’