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jonestowers · 7 years

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Teenage Bishops, part fourteen

That evening the Archbishop of Canterbury sat in his flat in the counsel house abutting the cathedral. After taking his leave of the Archbishop of York it had been tempting to get the car to run him down to London for an evening out but an alert on his smartphone had reminded him that he was officiating at a service in Canterbury Cathedral at 9am the following morning.

Quite justifiably doubting his own ability to be up, out of London and in Canterbury by that sort of time of the morning, the Archbishop decided to spend the night in Canterbury. It would save him the journey the following morning and besides, his accommodation there was every bit as comfortable as Lambeth Palace. And a good deal more peaceful. In Lambeth Palace the Archbishop’s evenings (when he was in) were a succession of visitors and interruptions. Normally the Archbishop welcomed this, loving an audience and having a secret fear of being alone. This evening was different – all he wanted was to be alone in order to think through what had gone on, both in Staithes and in his life these past few days.

Prodding a fork into the succulent-smelling takeaway curry which he had sent a prebendary out for earlier, the Archbishop of Canterbury looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. In search of diversion from what he actually wanted it to think about, the Archbishop’s mind wandered to tomorrow morning’s event, a service welcoming the return of a relic of St Thomas Becket to the cathedral for the first time in 700 years. The relic, a fragment of the saint’s elbow, had its home in Hungary but had been sent on tour as a goodwill gesture by the Hungarian government.

‘I didn’t get into the job for this’ the Archbishop had moaned to one of his phalanx of advisers. ‘Opening act to a bone. What’s it on tour for anyway? Are they hoping to shift a lot of merch? Tell me there’s a tour t-shirt!’

Perhaps, reflected the Archbishop, he should have written a sermon. ‘It doesn’t matter if I do or not’, he thought bitterly, ‘the press office will hand me one anyway.

‘Perhaps I’ll try with the Jesus thing again. Didn’t go well last time but I’ll get the hang of it. Difficult stuff to talk about. Be a fuck of a lot easier if that Maria woman had been for real. Shame about that.’

This train of thought was interrupted by a buzz on the intercom. The Archbishop of Canterbury wearily got up from the settee, setting the curry gently on the rug, and picked up the telephone.

‘Visitor for your, Your Grace’ said the Security Guard.

‘Here?’ asked the Archbishop pointlessly. ‘But no one knows I’m in.’

‘This gentleman appears to, Your Grace.’

‘Is it someone I know?’

‘I couldn’t say, Your Grace. He says he wants to talk to someone about Jesus.’

‘God, really? Oh. Right. Er…send him up.’

The Archbishop pressed the intercom button and hanged up the handset. A feeling of purpose spread through him. THIS was what a proper Christian archbishop was supposed to do – welcome in weary foot-sore pilgrims and talk to them about Jesus and things.

‘Get IN!’ shouted the Archbishop, clapping his hands before returning to his place on the settee. He had barely had time to open one of the cans of beer which had arrived with the curry before there was a knock at the sitting room door.

‘Come in!’ called the Archbishop, marvelling once again at how the use of this phrase instantly made him feel more like a middle-aged headmaster than a teenager. The door opened and in stepped a man. He was possibly taller than average, with fastidiously neat hair and an open smile.

‘Your Grace!’ he greeted the Archbishop with a slightly East European tinge, striding across the room with his hand outstretched. Before the Archbishop had chance to rise from the settee, the man was next to him.

‘Don’t get up, Your Grace’ he said, shaking him by the hand.

‘Er…hi’ said the Archbishop, feeling slightly overwhelmed by this incursion. ‘I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘Such an honour to meet you, Your Grace. I’m Phil. Phil Harrald. Thank you for making time to see me at such short notice.’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I was just passing and I saw the light on, and the car outside. Oh, Your Grace, I’ve been wandering the streets these past few hours, hoping for a sign, and then I passed by on the street just down there and saw your light and…wow!’

‘Wow’ repeated the Archbishop. ‘So, what can I do for you? D’you…want a beer? I’d offer you some curry but there’s only one fork and I don’t know where they keep things here. You can use a corner of the naan to scoop some of it up, if you like?’

Phil demurred, but helped himself to a can of beer. There was a brief silence.

‘So, you want to talk about Jesus?’ said the Archbishop. Phil looked surprised.

‘If…YOU want to, Your Grace.’

‘That’s what you’re here for, yeah? Spiritual…what’s the word? Sounds rude but isn’t. Suck…’

‘Succour?’ asked Phil.

‘That’s the one. So. Jesus. Fire away.’

‘Ah’ said Phil. ‘He’s not specifically why I’m here. Jesus, I mean.’

The Archbishop’s face fell.

‘I can’t believe how hard it is as the Archbishop of Canterbury to find someone to talk to about Jesus.’ He took a swig from his can. Phil followed suit.

‘Apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to come in here under false pretences.’

‘S’alright’ said the Archbishop airily. ‘I was bored anyway – glad of the company. So, go on.’

Phil looked at the floor as he spoke.

‘It’s about the event tomorrow.’

‘The bone, relic thing?’

‘That’s right, Your Grace.’

‘What about it? I can tell you, it’s not much to look at. Looks like something you’d push to the side of your plate in the Harvester.’

‘So you’ve seen it? It’s here in the cathedral?’

‘Oh yeah – downstairs, on the altar.’

‘And you’re officiating at the ceremony tomorrow?’

‘That’s right. My name’s on the Cathedral.’ The Archbishop paused and furrowed his brow. ‘I s’pose, strictly speaking, the cathedral’s name’s on me, isn’t?’

‘So what I wanted, Your Grace, was…’

‘Then again, no’ said the Archbishop, ignoring him. ‘It’s not like ‘The Archbishop of Canterbury’’s my name, is it? It’s my, sort of, title thing. The cathedral’s title is on me, I should’ve said. Carry on.’

‘Thank you your grace. I come to you tonight because of a personal sadness in my life.’

‘Oh, man’ said the Archbishop sympathetically. ‘Tell me about it. Literally, I mean.’

‘It’s my sister. She’s only five. I’ll…let me start at the beginning. You’re probably thinking I’m pretty old to have a five year old sister. I was born just after my parents married, thirty years ago. My sister was born five years ago; sort of ‘Indian summer’ for my parents.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘They both died in a car crash when she was three months old.’

‘Shit!’ said the Archbishop. ‘Sorry. I mean…my deepest condolences. God rest them.’

‘Thank you’ said Phil. ‘So I’m all Chloe has in the world. And she’s all I have, as well.’

‘Hard times, man’ said the Archbishop. He opened another can for himself and offered one to Phil, who took and opened it.

‘So what can I do for the two of you?’ asked the Archbishop.

‘There’s more to the story, I’m afraid. Since the accident Chloe and me…we’ve managed ok, you know? Work have been very good and people have really rallied round with childcare and she just started school last year and well, I was worried about that but it’s gone really well – she loves it there. It was so nice to see her with the other children, finally able to…smile. But then…’

‘Go on’ prompted the Archbishop.

‘She started looking a bit under the weather a few months ago – not enjoying things as much either. God knows, she’s a brave little thing but it was like the… spark went out of her a bit, you know? So I got her to the doctor, obviously. Tests. Hundreds of bloody tests.’

‘And did they find anything?’ asked the Archbishop.

‘No. Nothing they can put their finger on, anyway. But she just gets sicker and sicker. She’s half the weight she was a couple of months ago. Hasn’t been to school in five and a half weeks now – just lies there all sort of listless. It’s all I can do to get her to eat a bit of breakfast most days.’

‘Bloody hell, man’ said the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘I feel for you, I really do. I guess you’re sending her off to America for some new treatment, yeah? It’s always America, isn’t it? Fundraising, yeah? Well you’ve come to the right man. The right Archbishop, I mean. You know who’s got seventeen million followers on Twitter AND the seventh most popular Youtube channel in the country? Me, that’s who. I’m going to get every one of my followers to send in as much as they can, and before you know it, we’ll have little Chloe on that plane and on her way to Amer…’

‘I don’t want money’ said Phil.

‘You don’t want…oh’ said the Archbishop. ‘I’m good at that kind of thing. Just assumed that was what you…sorry, Phil. I’m sorry. I should have realised. God, I’m so THICK. You want me to pray for her, don’t you? Of course you do. I’ve got to get this into my head. That’s what people want. Prayer. Do you want to…say a prayer now?’

‘I don’t want you to pray for her’ said Phil. ‘I mean, I do, and I’d be very grateful if you would, but that’s not why I’m here.’

‘Then why ARE you here?’ asked the Archbishop of Canterbury. The strong lager, combined with immense tiredness, was taking its toll upon him and he felt he was starting to lose control of the conversation. ‘If it’s not money and it’s not prayer, then what DO you want?’

Phil leant forward in his chair, until his face was inches from the Archbishop.

‘The relic’ he said.

#Teenage Bishops

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