Always Believe Page 17

  “Why? You’re not tying me to anything – I want to be with you, Greyson.” Angela’s clear grey eyes searched Greyson’s face for an explanation and Greyson garbled the rest of her confession: “When I took my vows – I didn’t think I’d ever… I’m not allowed to have sex!”

  “I’m sorry?” gasped Angela. It had obviously not been what she’d been expecting to hear.

  Greyson sighed: “As a Church of England priest, I – I’m supposed to – to inspire confidence, you know – to act as a kind of role model. That means I can’t be in a casual relationship. And if I’m in a steady one – I have to remain celibate.”

  “What?? But that’s – that’s absurd! I mean – I thought priests had families – kids…”

  Greyson sighed again and took Angela’s hand, trying to convey as much love as possible through a simple touch: “They do – but then – they are not gay. The celibacy clause only pertains to homosexual relationships.”

  “Oh – oh, yes, I see. That’s so – so ridiculous! That’s so unfair! And you wonder why I don’t believe in God!”

  Greyson bit her lips: “I don’t think it has anything to do with God – I believe God is Love and accepting of everyone. But – I have to obey the rules, which are made by men, and not by God. There is a possibility it will change – maybe rather soon. There’s a Synod next year – in four months. The issue will be discussed. I hope – I hope things are going to change. I’m praying for them to change. But until then – I can’t – we can’t be together – like that. And…”

  Seeing Angela was going to protest, Greyson gently hushed her up with a finger on her lips: “Let me finish, darling. I can’t ask you to wait for me. Because – it could be a few months, but it could be…” She lowered her eyes, unable to look at Angela’s distress and finished in a murmur: “It could be forever – or I would have to make a choice, but it’s not a choice I can make now. I don’t expect you to understand, but – I’ve just made a huge one, and… I’m not sure I could survive another one.”

  Greyson couldn’t help thinking of Elaine – of how her choice had nearly destroyed her and had killed their relationship. After Elaine had told her about the rape, Greyson had begged her to leave the army. Again and again. She had offered to leave too – she had gone down on her knees and pleaded with Elaine to denounce her attackers and to go back to civilian life. She had failed, Elaine had left. Was she doing the same with Angela? Was she trying to chase her away? Was she so scared of her feelings that she was trying to antagonise the only person who had stirred her heart in a decade? Even though she knew she ought to stay and talk, she hurriedly finished dressing and mumbled a vague excuse about having to be on time for her first patient. And she ran.

  Chapter 25

  Unbeing dead isn't being alive. e.e. cummings

  As she knocked at the door of the office she shared with Emily at the church, Greyson’s heart was in her mouth. She could just have gone in, as technically it was hers too, but she always knocked, and especially today. The message she had left on her colleague’s answer phone had been brief to the point of being almost rude, as she had been too tense to tone it down: “Emily – I need your help – I need to confess. Can you meet me at the church? Tonight?”

  During the five days since her night with Angela, she hadn’t slept much, and had thought of nothing else. She had gone to work, she had visited parishioners, she had read the Bible, but everything, even the most mundane everyday tasks, had reminded her of “that” night. On the fourth day, she had driven to another town, where she knew the priest offered auricular confessions every Thursday before evensong, but she had remained in the car park, unable to take the last steps. Suddenly, the idea of admitting what she had done to a fellow priest had become unthinkable. Even though she knew the theory – that he would listen without judgement and help soothe her troubled conscience – she couldn’t help feeling ashamed, not of what she had done, but of having disobeyed the rules. She wasn’t ashamed of loving, but of having yielded to the passion of the moment. She had thought about the famous Anglican aphorism about confession and reconciliation – some should, none must, all may. She certainly ought to, but she couldn’t face it. As she drove back home, furious with herself, she decided there was one person she trusted not to judge her, and she phoned Emily the next morning.

  “I confess to Almighty God, to His Church and to you that I have sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.”

  She had chosen to kneel, in traditional fashion, because she wouldn’t have to see Emily’s eyes when she confessed she had slept with the latter’s new step-daughter. As she accused herself of having been inconsiderate of others’ feelings, of having been selfish, of having let her passions rule her, and of having broken the law of the Church, Greyson tried to show due contrition and remorse, but she had no regrets. Even worse, she was certain she would do it again, and finally admitted that too. Then she fell silent, waiting for Emily to give or to refuse her absolution. She felt the older woman’s hand on her head before she heard her speak.

  “Hear God’s word. If we claim to be sinless, we are self-deceived and strangers to the truth. If we confess our sins, God is just, and may be trusted to forgive our sins and cleanse us from every kind of wrong. The blessing of God almighty, Father, Son and Holy Spirit be with you now and always. Amen. Go in peace; the Lord has put away your sins, and pray for me, a sinner too.”

  Greyson swallowed hard and slowly go up, still avoiding the reverend’s glance. When she finally met her eyes, Emily was smiling at her.

  “Good for you, Greyson!”

  “I’m sorry?” She must have heard Emily wrong – there was no way she would have…

  “I said – good for you – for you both. I’m glad you found each other.”

  “But… But – it’s wrong!”

  “God is infallible. Men who speak in His name are not. If you love her – then that’s all it matters. You would do well to re-read the Sermon on the Mount. Consider it your penance. And pay particular attention to Verse 34… I’ll let you in peace – I have to go back to Edgar – we’re going to a concert tonight.”

  Once she was alone in the study, Greyson put the kettle on. She could have done with a drink, but a cup of builder’s tea would have to do. Without any milk or sugar, the taste of bitter liquid as much a penance as the reading, but it would have to do. She turned her bible’s pages to Matthew 5 and began reading the Sermon… Verse 34… She smiled wryly. “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Indeed! Only if she ever wanted to be happy in a relationship again, she would have to do something about that “tomorrow” – even if it meant disobeying the Church for now. As she tried to put thoughts on paper for her next sermon, all she could see was Angela’s face alternately smiling and frowning at her. One minute, she thought she had done the right thing by not asking the younger woman to wait, and the next she believed she had made the biggest mistake of her life…

  When Greyson put her pen down – literally, since she could never type her sermons directly on the computer – she saw it was already past 11pm. She rubbed her eyes wearily – she had been sitting there for more than five hours and she still didn’t know exactly what she was going to preach about, or what she wanted to do about Angela. She hadn’t even contacted her since their night together and she was ashamed of it. Then again, the younger woman was probably better off without her. After all, who would want to be saddled with a partner with as many issues as hers? Her heart certainly didn’t agree with her mind about that, but… She would just have to make do with her work – she didn’t need anyone in her life, did she?

  A few days later, she bumped into Paul at the surgery. The young man was carrying an awkward-shaped parcel in blue wrapping-paper, with a big bow on top, and Greyson couldn’t help being intrigued. “Sorry for being nosy, but… I just have to ask…”, she said, gest
uring towards the bulky parcel.

  Paul grinned conspirationately: “It’s a surprise! You’ll see tonight, like the others. No peeking – even if you bribe me with a chocolate muffin…”

  Greyson frowned: “Tonight? What’s happening tonight?”

  Paul rolled his eyes: “Sometimes I think you live on your own little planet, Doc. We’re celebrating Maisie’s 21st at the pub. Didn’t you see the note on the noticeboard?”

  Greyson smiled sheepishly: “I didn’t – I… I don’t really look at the noticeboard. Anyway – she hasn’t said anything to me, so…”

  “She didn’t dare – she said you always look so busy – and so… I think she might have used the word “harassed” – that she didn’t dare ask you. Actually… I think she might be a bit frightened of you. Or in awe.”

  Greyson laughed awkwardly: “Surely not – but I certainly don’t want to intrude…” She was afraid Paul might be right, as she certainly hadn’t made much effort to participate in the life of the surgery. To be fair , it was hard to juggle between her various duties – the practice, the home visits, the homeless shelter once a week, and all her obligations, first as a deacon and now as a newly-minted vicar. So even though she had officiated at Maisie’s wedding and saw the young woman nearly every day, she couldn’t say they were very close.

  “You wouldn’t be intruding. Whether you want it or not, you’re part of this place. You’ve got to come.”

  Greyson tried to argue, thinking of the mountain of church work awaiting her at home, but Paul cut her protestations short: “You’re coming – even for half an hour, and even if I’ve got to drag you to the pub myself. Besides… There’ll be cake!”

  “Oh… Oh well, okay, then – but I won’t stay long.”

  When Paul knocked on her office door several hours later, Greyson stifled a sigh. She really just wanted to go home, take a hot shower and vegetate on the sofa. She had had three unplanned drop-in patients who needed prescription renewal, a suspicious case of measles and a particularly harrowing appointment with one of her female patients. Franny Wilcott had come a few times, first for an asthma inhaler renewal and another time for a sprained wrist. Greyson wished she had had more time to talk to her then. She had noticed the woman had looked tired, but for a middle-aged schoolteacher, that was nothing out of the ordinary. She had explained the sprain as a hard landing on a wet floor in the school lavatories. This time, Mrs Wilcott had been holding her right arm awkwardly and had seemed to be in pain whenever she was taking a breath. Greyson closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the painful consultation…

  “I think your shoulder is dislocated,” said Greyson gently. She had seen enough injuries like that to be sure, but she tried not to scare her patient. “Will you let me take a look? Or would you rather go to the hospital and have it x-rayed?”

  “No! Can’t you – can’t you just give me something for the pain? I – I have to get home.”

  Greyson frowned: “I understand if you don’t want to go to the hospital, Mrs. Wilcott, but you have to let me have a look. And if I’m right, I can try and pop it back for you. If you could just undo your shirt for me?” She saw her patient take a deep breath and stand up straighter, as if she had suddenly taken a decision. Franny Wilcott began to unbutton her shirt and Greyson came closer to help her take it off. She hadn’t been expecting the huge bruises on the woman’s torso and arms, nor the still red finger marks on her wrists. Making sure she wasn’t pressing on one of the purple bruises, she pushed the upper arm back in its socket. Her patient stifled a gasp. “It’s okay – it’s done – you’ll have to wear a sling for a few weeks but it will be all right. However…” Greyson gently palpated the woman’s ribs and saw her inhale sharply: “You may have broken one or maybe two ribs as well, but I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that. They will have to heal on their own. I’ll write you a prescription for painkillers, though. You can put your shirt back on.”

  Greyson went to sit back behind her desk and let her patient dress. Then, without looking at her directly, she asked gently: “Mrs Wilcott – can you tell me what happened?”

  “What happened? Nothing happened! I’m just clumsy – I fell – on the stairs!”

  The woman’s panic was obvious in her voice and Greyson adopted a more forceful manner – she didn’t want to scare Franny Wilcott, but she couldn’t just let it go: “Mrs Wilcott – who did this to you? I can assure you I’ve seen my fair share of injuries, and the marks on your body don’t come from a fall. Please – I only want to help.”

  Franny Wilcott hid her face in her hands and began to weep quietly. Dismayed, Greyson pushed over the box of tissues. She should have known better than to speak harshly to an obviously traumatised woman! She made her voice as gentle as she could: “Franny – if someone is abusing you, that’s not right. You need to get away from him. Or have you been assaulted?” She threw the last option as an afterthought, but with the past sprained wrist the former one was much more likely.

  The consultation lasted for nearly forty-five minutes, and when Franny Wilcott left, Greyson was feeling almost as drained as her patient. She had phoned a women’s shelter, made sure Mrs Wilcott could go there, but of course she had no guarantee the schoolteacher wouldn’t just go home to the husband who had been abusing her for two years…

  Greyson straightened in her chair and stretched – the last thing she wanted to do was go to the pub with her colleagues, but she had promised Paul she would. And it might help take her mind off from work. She told him she would join them in a few minutes and went online- she didn’t have time to nip to the shops, and most of them were already closed anyway, but she didn’t want to go empty-handed. Ten minutes later, she left the office, printed gift certificate from Amazon in her pocket. Not very imaginative, but Maisie would probably be okay with it.

  She found the rest of the team easily enough, as they had commandeered a whole section of the pub and strung up a “Happy 21st ” banner over a few tables. She ordered a glass of white wine and went to join them. Maisie greeted her with a smile and the gift certificate got an “Awesome, thanks, Doctor!” Her curiosity got satisfied when the young woman unwrapped Paul’s parcel, a Dr Who-themed tea set, with a larger than normal teapot in the shape of a Tardis. Maisie’s husband joined the party just before she left and although the two young people weren’t very demonstrative she could see their mutual love in their eyes.

  As she changed into sweats and made herself a cup of tea that night, Greyson mulled over her day. In less than twenty-four hours, she had seen the best and the worst of having a significant other… From the ninety-something couple she had visited in their home in the morning, who had married during the Second World War, he a pilot and she in the ATS, to Maisie and her young husband, some people radiated so much love that it was almost physically painful to be alone. And then, the worst, too – Franny Wilcott, who hopefully had chosen the shelter over her abusive husband, or the young pregnant woman she had seen at the beginning of her afternoon surgery, who had admitted her boyfriend was sleeping around – thus the gonorrhoea putting the baby at serious risk. Life at a GP’s surgery was all too much like a soap opera sometimes… She yawned and considered switching on the television, before her eyes landed on a pile of unopened mail she had got from the church. She really ought to open it – Emily had warned her most of it would probably be junk mail – Greyson would never have guessed the number of church-related object-selling companies in the UK – but there might be important letters hiding there too. Some of the older parishioners still found paper better than the internet. After chucking out several mail order catalogues and pizza parlour ads, she found a non-typewritten envelope addressed to her. The handwriting looked familiar, too. She ripped it open and when her eyes found the signature, she almost cried out in shock… It couldn’t be… Why now? She took several deep breaths, attempting to calm herself down before she read the letter. Her hands shook and the sentences blurred. “My darling Greyson, you will wonde
r why I am writing to you now. I don’t mean to be cruel, or to give you false hopes. That is, assuming you still like me a little. In fact, very selfishly, I am writing this for myself, because… Because I want you to know I’m still alive? Because… Because I’ve never stopped thinking about you. I hope you’ve found someone else. I hope you’re making a life without me – we had several wonderful years, but we were not meant to be together for the rest of our lives. Even if “it” hadn’t happened, I believe we would have drifted apart. I never meant to contact you again, but when the article came my way – would you believe one of my colleagues’ brother was ordained with you? – I couldn’t ignore it. I just had to write. As if to assure myself you were well and happy, although I’ve given you no way of replying. At least I know you’ve achieved your goal, and that makes me very proud of you. I hope you have also found love again. I won’t promise to pray for you, as you know God and I are not the best of friends, but I send my warmest, loving thoughts. Your Elaine.”

  By the end of the letter, Greyson’s tears were falling freely. That stupid article! She and the other ordinands had been warned a journalist from a national newspaper wanted to write about them as their group was so diverse – about as many men as women, aged twenty-three to sixty. And then, for the ceremony itself, they had been asked to fill in a form for the bishop about their pastimes and interesting facts about themselves… She didn’t play sport, she didn’t have time for hobbies, so she had finally put down “I can drive a tank, speak almost fluent Swahili and passable Pashto.” The bishop had used their questionnaires answers during the ordination, and the journalist had attended… Her first name and unusual skills had appeared in the paper…