Such Men Are Dangerous (22 page)

As Simon moved away, to the nods and muttered thanks of several who had been busy with their notepads, one woman even made a smiling gesture of applause. He himself was pleased with his performance. Normally he believed that God sought to inspire him and—not simply that—actually to speak through him so long as he felt himself to be in a state of grace with his channels of communication unimpeded. (Well, any dedicated clergyman must surely feel the same.) But so often things got in the way, human things, and he was enormously thankful that today, just now, so far as he was honestly aware, they hadn’t seemed to do so.

Inside the building the bell had now rung and Michael was waiting at the appointed place. “They’ve got television out there,” he said. “I won’t know what to say.”

“Just tell them the truth, whatever it is they ask you.”

“I feel nervous.”

“Of course you do. But they’ll be very nice and as soon as it starts you’ll feel okay. And, obviously, God will be looking after you. When William comes the three of us will say a prayer together.”

Michael looked round furtively. There were now plenty of others walking down the corridor, with their satchels or their bags. “As long as no one sees us.”

Simon laughed. “Anyone who does, we’ll rope them in.”

“All right. Though actually I already feel a bit better.”

“Good. But that isn’t going to let you off a thing. What sort of day have you been having?”

The brothers acquitted themselves well. They jointly gave a straightforward account, neither embellishing their experience nor detracting from it. Simon saw very much why God had chosen them, or thought he did, and felt (more optimistically than he had yet felt about anything that day) that the many millions who would later on be watching could hardly help being impressed. He began to think that whatever the cynics and the intellectuals might have to say about it the bulk of the nation would be very much moved by such a patent display of sincerity and in its heart would not only want to believe but actually might start to do so. When William recited yet again the angel’s words (with just one brief omission—which was afterwards supplied by Michael—but with neither the flat delivery so often associated with recitation nor the injection of artificial stress) Simon could imagine that all over the country people would be nodding their heads, at least in spirit, and saying to themselves and one another, “That’s right, there’s a lot of truth in that, it’s the sort of thing I’ve always thought myself.” If only, he reflected, if only there was some way in which to channel all that sympathy before the whole episode became played out, its novelty and impact compromised. A tidal wave of simple human feeling, harnessed and irresistible, that was what was needed, and very quickly too: a tidal wave flooding along the very backbone of the land, washing through it and down it and beyond it, from John O’Groats to the Houses of Parliament, from Land’s End to everywhere.

31

As it turned out, though, it was neither the boys nor Simon who got the most television coverage that night. Josh Heath was seen not only on every news broadcast that went out, from
John Craven’s Newsround
to
Newsnight
some six hours later, he was also interviewed on
Sixty Minutes
—a programme which claimed to ‘present the issues of the hour, and some stories with a smile’ and was a special, scoop, last-minute guest on the Russell Harty Show. Here he gave a graphic and fairly accurate account of recession-hit Scunthorpe, with some of its steelwork chimneys now smokeless and much of its machinery now silent, shops closed, dole queues longer, feelings of hopelessness growing. The account he gave, however, of the life of one particular family in the town was slightly less accurate: a cheerful, churchgoing unit, challenged, strengthened and united by its experience of unemployment over the past four-and-a-half years. When asked if its life style was likely to be greatly affected by the publicity, he said he hoped that neither he nor his wife nor children would ever exploit the fact of their having been singled out by God (at this point he needed to explain, with highly amused forgiveness, the misconception in that morning’s
Chronicle
about his not being a Christian: “part of the endearing charm of Fleet Street”) but that being only human, he couldn’t deny the emoluments for such little shows as this (much laughter: from the audience, the other guests, from Russell and himself) would certainly be highly welcome and come in rather handily for buying all those little things like pillowslips and tea towels and facecloths and shoes and clothing which the government clearly didn’t imagine the unemployed should ever need to have replaced. Beyond such parochialism, he said, he hoped that the life style of every family in the universe was likely to be greatly affected by the publicity. He was in his element, had all the makings of a television star, and Russell, covering his eyes as if to hide the tears, expressed a good deal of concern for the safety of his own job—would Josh, perhaps, give
him
a spot on the show after
he’d
been out of work for four-and-a-half years? Josh promised that he would, he’d remember all his old friends. The audience showed how warmly it had taken him to its heart by the length and energy of its applause and the credits went up with each man having his arm around the other’s shoulder and with the remaining guests capering self-consciously in attendance. The whole thing was a merry hoot and about thirty seconds of it was inserted by the BBC into its main news slot of the evening and was consequently the only part seen by Simon. He’d been celebrating a house communion with one of the discussion groups and his hostess had turned on the TV so that they could all watch ‘Scunthorpe’s red-letter day, its hour of fame and glory’. “Well, one hopes it’s going to be something a little more than that,” demurred Simon, drily, but he didn’t press the point. The clip was taken from Josh’s description of conditions in the town and Simon was very favourably surprised; he handed over to God, in a private word of thanksgiving, his still woeful lack of trust. “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.”

He was rather less impressed, however, by the review of the Harty show which he read the following morning but by then he’d had further harsh reminders of the perfidy of the press and couldn’t discount the possibility of prejudiced reportage. He had read, ‘Vicar claims he could set the world to rights!’ (
Daily Express
), ‘Car park angel urges Brake fast at Tiffany’s!’ (
Sun
), and an editorial in one of the so-called quality papers which spoke of ‘the clergyman in the case who couldn’t drive a base suspicion from the mind of at least one viewer that he hoped everyone would soon be playing a well-known game called
Simon says
.’ That same editorial concluded with a sentence even more disquieting. ‘Such men,’ it summed up, economically, ‘are dangerous.’

The
Chronicle
had followed up its ‘exclusive’ with a wholly neutral and therefore very welcome report on what Simon had said outside the school—and on the sentiments of the Scunthorpe community at large, with special emphasis on the people among it who actually knew the Heaths—as well as on the reactions of other local, and national, figures in the Church. All the dignitaries spoken to had been predictably guarded; Dr Runcie cheerful but entirely non-committal. There was only one clergyman, reportedly, who had cried “Hallelujah!” to the press and even
his
comment was merely to the effect that he was prepared to believe the thing was true rather than that he actually did…which, of course, was fair enough, thought Simon. As for the politicians—Mrs Thatcher had remarked with good-humoured tolerance that the way to hell was paved with good intentions, while the other party leaders had been less indulgent but equally dismissive. (Referring to the PM’s remark David Steel, leader of the Liberal Democrats, had said she wasn’t just coining a phrase, she really
did
know, although he admitted doubt as to the accuracy of her adjective.)

Simon didn’t notice that the byline wasn’t
By Geraldine Coe
until she rang him later in the day. He’d been working on his sermon for next Sunday—it felt almost strange that the ordinary things could still be going on—while his mother and the church secretary had been sharing the job of filtering his calls. Elsie collected Simon from the sitting room and the two women went to make their first pot of coffee of the afternoon.

“How are you?” asked Geraldine.

“Strictly no comment. I think that can be regarded as the standard answer of the moment from henchmen of the Church.”

“But then you’re not the standard model. You’re allowed to branch out.”

“In that case, I suppose I’m very well, thank you. Albeit a bit tired. How are you?”

“Did you see I’ve been demoted?”

“In what way?”

“I’m no longer covering the Madison assignment.”

“The Heath assignment. But why not?”

“My editors weren’t much pleased by that interview I had with you. That non-interview. I can’t for one moment think why, can you?”

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be.” She laughed. “I still don’t know what happened, though.”

“I do.
I
was feeling angry. And
you
countered.”

“But I could understand your anger. And, anyway, you got over it. In fact I saw the way you stood before the crucifix and how it steadied you. I think I mentioned that I’ve always been agnostic? While watching you, however, I suddenly felt something stir.” She laughed again. “My friends say it was sex, I claim it was religion. Or, if you like, religion plus sex.”

Simon hesitated. She added quickly: “I hope that hasn’t shocked you.”

“No. No, of course it hasn’t.”

“As I get older I seem to grow more forthright. Anyway, to return to the other evening, that’s when I began to behave badly: just at the point I was thinking, well, if someone like you could so clearly draw such strength from your belief…”

“In a way,” he said, “it’s reassuring: the very fact that you did begin to behave badly.”

“Reassuring? How so?”

“Well, they say that when the Holy Spirit starts to move in somebody, that’s when the devil goes to work as well, shaking up all the rotten things inside and sending them straight to the surface.”

“It’s strange you should say that. I kept telling myself it must have been some demon who had got into me—although I then thought it was purely a figure of speech, nothing more.”

“Not a bit strange.” There was a pause. “Anyhow, even if nothing else comes out of all this, we may still be able to feel it was worthwhile.”

“All this, for one believer?”

“For one finally staunch believer? Every time.”

“I think that you must be…pretty close to being a saint.”

“That’s nice. And how would you define a saint?”

She thought a moment and then said slowly: “As someone who can give other people a vivid glimpse of the kingdom of God.”

He was surprised. He had expected her to say, “As a person who leads a very good life,” or something of that sort. Recently he had heard one definition given by a Franciscan friar: as someone who, when lying sick in hospital, cares
more
about the recovery of the patient in the next bed than about his own. He told her this and then mentioned that on such a rating he was light-years away from being a saint, especially if there was any question of acute physical suffering involved. “You see, I’m such a baby, I would possibly make the most complaining patient in world history! This modern age may not be perfect but thank God they’ve at least done away with such things as the stake and the rack and the thumbscrew!”

“You mean, in hospital?”

He laughed but then swiftly changed the subject. “Are you phoning from the office?”

“Yes.”

“Then you haven’t had the sack?”

“Not yet. No, I rang simply because I wanted to let you know I think I believe in your angel—I know I believe in his message—and I know I believe in you. What’s more,” she added, “I thought you might find it encouraging to hear that six of the women in this office say they believe implicitly in everything that’s happened.”

“I do,” he said. “Thanks.”

“And they’re merely the ones who’ll admit it. Now if in just one office—I agree, of course, it’s certainly a large office but to counteract this it’s a
Fleet Street
office and where could you find a place reputedly more sceptical than that?—if in just one office there are six people who freely declare that they’re with you, not to mention many of their children, mothers and spouses, then only think about the kind of following you’ve got throughout the country. Simon, it seems to me that you should mobilize those followers, take the nation by storm, not allow a single one of them the time to draw breath…”

He laughed. “Then all I’m left with is a lot of dead followers.”

“Oh, please don’t make a joke of it. Doesn’t that excite you?”

“That’s why I make a joke of it. I must confess it’s an idea which isn’t wholly new to me.”

“And you could do it! I
know
you could do it! You’d be like Henry V leading the English towards Agincourt!”

“That strikes the right non-jingoistic note.”

“I warn you: I shall start to believe that you and Josh Heath are interchangeable!”

“But you forget, there are still the more orthodox lines of approach, even if they
have
had the ground cut out from under them.”

“That sounds defeatist. And slow. It doesn’t fit in with my image of you.”

“I grant it would be slow. But if we believe that God has everything in hand, will do all he can, other than interfere with free will, to help us propagate his message, then we know he’ll take very good care of the timing.”

“Yet how do we know he isn’t doing precisely that right now, in urging you to throw all caution to the winds?”

“I suppose we don’t.” His tone sounded grudging. She was not deceived.

“Isn’t Christianity a creed for heroes? Not for those timid souls who work only by the book?”

“It depends on the book,” he answered, more briskly. “You’re a very persuasive young woman. Possibly a dangerous one. You must give me time to think.”