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Authors: Richard T. Kelly

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‘Would you like a drink?’

‘No, thank you, I’m okay.’

Lockhart bridged his fingers. ‘Have you considered that
perhaps
what you really want to do is to, well, make good a loss?’

‘No, not at all, I can’t see how that would …’

Lockhart winced and waved a hand. ‘No, forgive me, I am a psychoanalyst
manqué
. I ought really to stick to what I know.’

John coughed. ‘Sorry, I will perhaps take a small drink if I may.’

Lockhart nodded, rose and went to his drinks table, unstopping the decanter. ‘I don’t mean to harass you. The fact is, I was myself reluctantly called. And that is the more common way, I find. The early Fathers, you know, a good number of them were
nominated
. Pre-ordained? In spite of what path they may have wished to
follow
.’ He handed John a small port and resumed his seat. ‘No, the common element isn’t really a calling. It’s a sort of a wound we carry, I’d say. An intimate wound.’

John was silent, uneasy. Having felt his own inner ballast
overturned
, he had no notion of how now to take Lockhart’s
confession
. The master glanced down at the papers before him, as if abashed, then looked longer, and was silent awhile.

‘You were born the same year I was ordained. I daresay half your generation were baptised in an Anglican church. The next lot, it wouldn’t surprise me if that number were halved again. You’ll be aware, I’m sure, of the present catastrophe in church attendance. When they offer the figures now, I have to look away. Like a car crash.’

After some moments, John shrugged. ‘I don’t know, what are you asking me?’

‘Just consider this. You’re twenty-two. As a candidate for ministry you propose to devote your whole working life to Christ. The duties are taxing. The pay is not generous. I’m asking are you serious?’

‘I do understand – the price of the ticket, Reverend.’

Lockhart raised his chin and smiled. ‘Of course you do. Very good, John, very good. Well, I really look forward to welcoming you among us.’

The master steered him out of the door, and then John stood alone once more in the wan sunlight of the college quadrangle, its lawns, beds and paths segmented around a slow-trickling stone fountain. He was unable to entirely shake the sense that he had been weighed in the balance, found a little wanting. But if Lockhart were laying some kind of wager on his level of
commitment
, then – and in this John was determined – the master had yet no notion of the zeal with which he would be repaid.

Chapter VII

WISE COUNSEL

Wednesday, 25 September 1996

‘Now be ready to bite your tongue here, marra,’ said Jack Ridley.

In reply Gore merely rapped the hardbacked notebook in his lap. He was not entirely certain if Ridley’s remark was by way of scold or friendly warning, just as he was not entirely certain of its maker. But they were on the road again, driving north of Hoxheath through Arthur’s Hill for the mile or so to St Mark’s Church in Fenham. It was the dog-end of the working day, the only time, Gore understood, when his Parochial Council could be quorate, given the diverse commitments of its members.

Ridley steered his Fiesta through a sprawl of handsome
semidetached
housing, the pavements congested with teenage
schoolchildren
in impeccable black sweaters and blazers. St Mark’s Church was set back through gates, in tidily landscaped grounds. They walked up the pathway to the vestry, a modern glass-fronted extension bolted onto the chapel. Inside, the door to a meeting room was propped open. Therein the table was already populated, teacups laid out. The Reverend Bob Spikings moved quickly down the length of the room to take Gore’s hand.

‘Hullo there, John. So, you, uh, found us, then?’

Spikings seemed to Gore like some dreamy corporate IT boffin, apologetic and mildly harassed. He was bespectacled and tidily bearded, probably in his late forties, a peeling Filofax and a mobile phone set by his teacup. Gore paid only a half-measure of attention as he was escorted round the table for the naming ritual. Here was a retired lady hairdresser, there a technical manager with Findus Foods; a manager at the electric company sat with a former bus driver. A journalist had a pen and pad before him.
Spikings’s petite dark wife Rose had taken the chair by her
husband
. Gore assumed his seat beside Ridley at the far end of the long table, nodding in the direction of Monica Bruce, and struck a contemplative pose.

Spikings called the table to order and offered thanks to the attendees, who nodded sagely in approval of themselves. Then hasty footfalls emanated from outside and a latecomer ploughed into the room, dressed in clerical suit, barking some last remarks into a phone clamped to his ear. He grasped a free chair, made his phone to vanish, and smiled broadly at the assembled. The man from Findus tapped his watch. Spikings cut in. ‘Simon Barlow, everybody. Simon has his own eventide to be ready for, but he’s come across town tonight to help us out.’

‘Not a problem,’ Barlow chirped. ‘Happy to. Really sorry, everyone. John.’ And he waved to Gore down the length of the table. Gore nodded coolly in return.

‘John, you and Simon, uh, know each other, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Gore, ‘from Grey College. We’re maybe older and wiser now.’

‘Bound to be, mate. That’s the real world, isn’t it? Lessons, all the time.’

Gore was curious to see what a few years out in the field had done for his old classmate. For sure, he had grown out the rather
Hitlerjugend
grade-two crop formerly favoured, but he retained a bristly and fastidious goatee. Still familiar, too, the sleepy, hooded hazel eyes, the glottal stops that were his Essex birthright, and the skewed grin that seemed to shoot up one side of his face. Gore glanced around the gathering: anyone who appeared cosy with the latecomer, either verbally or in body language, had to be
suspected
for a suburban crusader of Barlow’s evangelical stripe. But for the moment the apostle Simon sat alone, generally resented.

Spikings pressed his palms flat on the table. ‘Okay, now
everybody’s
finally, uh, bothered to show up, I think we should kick off by talking timetables. The schedule for John’s mission in Hoxheath. John, how long do you say – actually, how much time do we
all
think John should set aside for the groundwork? The
prep and canvassing and so forth, before he calls a date for his first service?’

The ex-hairdresser had raised a troubled hand.

‘Yes, Susan?’

‘Sorry, Bob, but can we not start and say what sort of a service we’re talking about?’

‘What
sort
?’ Spikings chuckled uneasily. ‘That’ll be up to John – I mean, within the usual, uh, parameters, of course.’

‘Yes, but, we don’t know who he
is
, see.’

Gore glanced at Spikings so as to assume the speaker’s role. ‘It will be the
sort
of service I’m sure you’re used to, Susan. Reverent and seemly. I should say, though – as you all know, this is a
low-budget
production. And we’ve no idea yet who is our
congregation
, right? So I’ll have to use a bit of imagination. I’m sure you can all trust me on that.’

Spikings was nodding emphatically. ‘It’s your show, John.’

‘It’s not ideal, but, is it?’ muttered the bus driver. ‘Having it in a school?’

Monica twitched. ‘What’s wrong with my school?’

Gore countered. ‘Well, firstly, I don’t have any choice, not as far as I know. Second, I can see this is a fine building you’ve got here. I’m sure we all think our older churches are very handsome, but these days I’m not sure they’re wholly appropriate for who it is we need to reach.’

‘He’s right, you know.’ It was Barlow, to Gore’s surprise. ‘No use droning on about lovely old buildings if they’re crumbling down on all sides and there’s no one in ’em but two old dears and a dog. That’s not a
living
church.’ Barlow leaned forward,
clenching
his fists in emphasis, a debating trick Gore knew of old.

Susan was riled. ‘Well, Mr Barlow,
we
get more than two old dears, I can –’

‘I bet you do. No, but look, I don’t want to get us off on an edgy one, but – is this council just a talking shop? Are we just gonna sit here carping on at John about what he should do before he’s done it? Or are we gonna try and give him some practical advice? Something he can work with?’

A kindly effort
, thought Gore. Though it didn’t sound entirely spontaneous.

‘Fair enough, John’s not done this before and you don’t know him. But I do. Don’t you worry, he knows his onions. Guys like John and me, we’re trained, this is what we’re
for
. But what we’re talking here, surely, is nuts and bolts. Spadework.’

The manager nodded. ‘Aye, getting round the doors, leafleting people and that.’

‘Agreed. John needs volunteers, right?’

‘Yes.’ Spikings seemed anxious to recover his chairmanship. ‘Yes, of course, we need a list of people ready to help John with the, uh, spadework.’

‘Exactly,’ said Barlow. ‘John will give the orders. But we find him the troops.’

Spikings gestured to his wife, scribbling diligently on a pad. ‘Okay. How?’

‘Well, we should have a proper coffee morning,’ said Susan.

Of course
, thought Gore,
all things in the Church get done over hot beverages
.

‘Then,’ said Barlow, ‘as our friend says, John needs to start pounding them streets.’

‘Aye, you’ll have to get on your bike,’ Mr Findus chortled.

‘Well, I’ve got rather a good one, as it happens,’ said Gore.

‘Can I just say?’ The journalist spoke up. ‘That might be
something
I could get in the paper. You know, “the cycling parson”? Bit of publicity.’

‘Right. Minute that one, Rose. Action point, Phil to talk to the
Journal
.’

‘Okay,’ said Barlow. ‘Now, not to usurp your role, Bob, but I suggest we get down to brass tacks. Targets. What do we
practically
hope for John in terms of turnout?’

The subsequent silence was awkward. Gore was himself curious.

‘I find,’ Spikings hazarded, ‘that … thirty people? Is a, uh,
perfectly
good congregation. I mean, not too shabby.’

‘Thirty,’ Barlow repeated. ‘That sound okay by you, John?’ Gore nodded. Such a target would cause him no pain, at least for now.
‘Okay, now we’re moving. But let’s not put a cap on the ambition. See, at my church in Gosforth right now we get about two
hundred
and fifty.’

Liar. How on earth …?
thought Gore.

‘Not so long ago, but – yeah, we were about thirty. Then, bit by bit, more people started coming along more regular. Why was that, eh?’ The table was Barlow’s audience now, in his hand. ‘Because they were
invited
. By someone they knew. It’s all about building networks, see?’

‘A lot depends on where you’re starting from, Simon.’ Spikings too, Gore could see, was feeling a needle’s prick in Barlow’s veiled boast. ‘You have more of a, uh,
middle-class
catchment.’

‘It’s not a
class
thing, Bob. That’s not the attraction. It’s about friends telling friends there’s a place they can go and make
new
friends.’

‘I take Simon’s point,’ said Gore, deciding to be generous. ‘It’s obvious people on the estates I’ll be dealing with can lead quite isolated lives. We have a chance to get them together into a group, however small. Make them welcome. Treat them well.’

‘Now of course you need a bit more muscle,’ said Barlow, ‘if you want to pull in two hundred. At mine we’ve got the live music, the crèche, the youth leaders –’

‘Your success precedes you, Simon,’ muttered Spikings.

‘Well, but I do like to think it’s something to do with the
preaching
. Bringing the gospel to people every day. Don’t forget that either, John.’

‘I’ll preach the gospel, Simon.’ Gore held his fire. ‘Once there’s people to preach to. Once they’re sitting comfortable. First, they need a place to sit.’

Silence, and a few sharp looks exchanged. Susan raised a hand once more. ‘Are you going to have a Sunday School?’

‘Right!’ said Barlow cheerily. ‘Whatever happened to Sunday School, eh?’

‘In due course, perhaps. If I can raise these volunteers.’

‘Well, you want young people, I’ve got ’em, John. So I’ve got a few tips for you in that department.’

Jack Ridley cleared his throat fiercely at Gore’s side. All looked to him. ‘It’s worth saying, Mr Barlow, they’re having maybe a dim view of the “old dears”, but I see a lot of the older folk round Hoxheath, they’re not happy making the trip to Fenham of a Sunday because the buses divvint run in this direction. So they have to cadge lifts off their children. Their grandchildren even.’

Spikings nodded fiercely. ‘Well, there you go. There’s a, uh, demographic that needs targeting.’

Gore nodded. ‘I was wondering too about diversity?’ He assessed the blank faces and ventured afresh. ‘Thinking laterally, are there other kinds of partnership possible? In the community? A youth club, a woman’s centre? Is there a Muslim association?’

Mr Findus scowled. ‘Try the health centre. The doctors are all Bengali.’

‘Don’t run before you can walk, John,’ said Barlow smilingly, reclining in his seat.

Spikings intervened. ‘John, you have a limited budget,
remember
. There’s the Urban Fund, there’s contributions, and that’s about it. Oh! There’s a thing we need to talk about, fundraising, minute that if you would, Rose.’

Barlow waved a hand. ‘Honest, John, whatever money you’ve got, you want to spend it like it’s the last you’ll ever have. And not on half-baked social services that aren’t in our remit. Not before you’ve got a single volunteer.’

Okay
, Gore thought,
another time then
.

‘I think,’ said Spikings, ‘we need to get that coffee morning in the diary without delay. It should be an early evening, really, shouldn’t it? Where do we have it?’

‘I would be glad,’ said Gore, ‘if we could have it at St Luke’s. Get started, break the place in.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Monica.

Spikings looked to his wife. ‘So. Tea and biscuits for parents, pensioners and all interested parties at St Luke’s School. Lovely.’

*

As Gore followed Ridley out into chillier evening air, Barlow was climbing into the seat of his octane-blue Ford Mondeo, but on
seeing them both he re-emerged hastily and strode toward Gore, arms thrown out alarmingly wide.

‘John, what am I thinking, eh? Proper hello?’

Gore was yanked into a clumsy embrace that he suffered for the sake of form, until Barlow stepped back and beamed at him. ‘Well, that was scintillating stuff, eh?’

‘Thank you for contributing.’

‘Oh, you couldn’t have kept me away. No way, not when I heard about this number. “John Gore evangelizes Hoxheath.” Whatever next?’

‘I didn’t think urban mission was your thing, Simon.’

‘Wouldn’t have thought it was
yours
, John. No, the whole
planting
thing I’m fascinated by. I envy you. It’s a real test, though. Good luck to you, mate.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, you’ll need it, you know that?’ He dropped into a
conspiratorial
mode. ‘In terms of driving things forward round here? You’ve got a lukewarm engine under you.’ He had taken Gore’s arm, freshly touchy-feely. ‘You still in touch with old Lockhart?’

‘Not so much. He wasn’t keen on my coming here. Leaving where I was in Dorset.’

‘Dear me. Never thought the master and his blue-eyed boy would come to blows.’ Barlow was making a most regretful face. Gore ignored the easy scurrility.

‘I didn’t know you’d come north, Simon. How did that happen?’

‘Oh, I just fancied getting my hands good and dirty. Out in the field. Like you.’

‘Not so much dirt about where you are in Gosforth, if I
remember
.’

‘It’s not as leafy as you think, mate. Nowhere is in Newcastle.’ Barlow’s estuarine emphasis –
‘Noo-carsel’
– was violence to Gore’s ear. ‘Anyway, but. Now I’m here I can’t imagine being
anywhere
else. No, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, John. “I will tarry at Ephesus until Pentecost, for a great door and effectual has opened unto me, and I have many adversaries.” Let’s you and me have a pint sometime, eh?’

That corkscrew grin vaulted and curled up the right side of Barlow’s face once again, rolling back the years. He turned, waved a hand over his shoulder, and strode back to the Mondeo.

BOOK: Crusaders
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