Chapter 9

Robert Bethune:

I’ll admit that it was a relief to return home undamaged after delivering Emmanuel’s message to Alfie Brown. Khenan’s company was supportive, reassuring, too. If – shortly after meeting Callie – I’d been told that I’d be friends with her father I’d never have believed it, but that’s how it was. I was getting to like the guy. Not only that, we were both becoming regular faces at Saint Jude’s.

David Staniland:

When I was appointed to the living of Saint Jude’s, I thought I was lucky. The congregation was small but energetic, committed, with a full range of age including the teens often absent in other churches. They were very welcoming, too, but I soon began to feel quite inadequate, as I felt they had something I lacked, but desperately wanted. That changed one Christmas as I was shaking hands with everyone after the service. One ... worshipper ... a plump, motherly woman with flaming red hair, looked intensely into my eyes as she squeezed my hand, and I felt something change inside.

Subsequently, I was able to participate fully in the life of the church and found a new, deeper, real relationship with God, something I’d sought most of my life. It turned out that the woman, Kat Bird, was a witch. That’s another story, but I’ll just say I had to adjust my understanding of God and spirituality. ‘By their fruit ye shall know them’. It was a year or two later, though, that I encountered Robert Bethune and Callie McPherson, also at Christmas; there might be something significant in that, I suppose.

I was on the outside of the story. I subsequently conducted a funeral for Callie’s mother. Not easy. The congregation, who had taken Callie to their hearts, put together a meal for her and Robert after the funeral. But as we were eating, another entered and came to me wanting to talk. That was Khenan Williams, Callie’s father, out of prison on licence. He was wanted by the police in connection with the death of Callie’s mother. He wanted to speak to Callie, but sensibly decided to approach her through me.

He spoke to her, then, when the police arrived, went with them without a murmur. I suppose, circumstantial evidence to the contrary, he was believed and I found that he was coming to Saint Jude’s on a regular basis. I spent quite a lot of time with him and became convinced of his redemption.

What of Callie? She was too young to legalise any formal relationship with Robert. She was taken down to Maldon to stay with Dulcie Hanson ... no, Chesterman. Peter Hanson died. Robert, like Khenan, became a more or less regular attender at services.

One day, I was in the town centre, heading for the Diocesan Office. Usually, I walk purposefully, you know, looking ahead, planning a route, aiming for thinner patches of people. Walking to get to my destination, rather than to enjoy the walk. Something caught my eye, though. It was as though a shaft of sunlight had touched something. I looked, and saw a scruffy man sitting on a coat, a small dog curled up next to him, a paper cup on the pavement in front of him. I was about to look away when I thought, ‘and the priest walked past on the other side of the road.’ If you look, you’ll see beggars in odd corners, propped against walls, perhaps with a scrawled notice on a piece of cardboard. I was used to that, used to walking on. I went over to him.

“Hello,” I said.

He looked up at me. “Got any change to spare?”

“What would you do with it if I had?” His eyes met mine, then dropped.

He sighed. Shrugged. “Probably buy some fags. Maybe a coffee.”

“I don’t carry much money,” I told him, “I use plastic mostly, these days. I’ll buy you a coffee, though.”

He was silent for several seconds, then, “Thanks. Milk and sugar.”

There are several coffee shops and assorted kiosks along that street, and I went to one, bought a takeaway coffee and a cheese sandwich. I handed them to him.

“You’re a vicar,” he said. There was no element of query in his tone. There might have been accusation. “Do you do this often?”

“No,” I admitted. “I was prompted today.”

He just nodded. “Thanks. What church?”

“Saint Jude’s,” I said. “Not far.” I pointed in the general direction. “First Sunday in the month we have a bring and share meal. There’s usually plenty to go round.”

“I’ll think about it,” he told me.

I walked on, but as I did, I started noticing the little huddles here and there. For perhaps the first time I actually thought about what I was seeing.

My interview with the Archdeacon was routine. Saint Jude’s was, for such a small congregation, doing more than might be expected in terms of contributing to Diocesan expenses, not, admittedly, enough to pay my salary. It was suggested I take on a second church in an adjacent parish, and I said I’d consult with the Parochial Church Council, though I was pretty sure they’d agree. Perhaps not happily, but they’d agree.