The Other Side of Loss

Dedication

With grateful thanks and love I would like to dedicate this first novel to all those members of my family, extended family and friends who have been kind enough to encourage and support this endeavour. Especially my immediate family, my wife Sarah and my children, Sophia, Georgianna and Henry, who have put up with me for all these years!

Also to my muse, Sarayu.

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge, with heartfelt thanks, all those who have helped and encouraged me in the writing of this novel. Too numerous to mention by name, I would nevertheless like to single out those few deserving of special thanks.

My daughter, Georgianna, for her early reading of the original manuscript and the invaluable input, advice and encouragement she gave me before anyone else.

Clive Dickinson, who has so skilfully, diplomatically and cheerfully worked tirelessly with me in the editing of the manuscript to allow it to emerge in book form.

Susan Hoffman for hours and hours of patient typing, deciphering my handwriting and dealing with copious scrawled notes.

John Bond of Whitefox Publishing Services, for his professional assistance in so capably steering me through the detail and complexities of the publishing process.

Fiona Thornton for her expert copy-edit – nothing escaped her professional eye and it is a much better book for her input. I am indebted to her for her passionate involvement in the project.

Eugenie Furniss of Furniss Lawton, Charles Walker of United Agents and Broo Doherty of Wade Doherty, for their experienced, helpfully honest input and advice at various stages.

Teresa Tassell and Sarah Appleby; also Andrew Murray of Cara Networks, for their patient help with my rudimentary computer skills!

Paulo Coelho for the inspiration I drew from his seminal book The Alchemist and William Paul Young for his delightfully imaginative book, The Shack.

Emily Furniss of Emily Furniss PR for her success in generating public relations opportunities for the exposure and promotion of my book.

Becky Morrison for her artistic talent in designing the appealing front cover.

My niece, Tara Vaughan, for her invaluable help in getting to grips with the benefits of social media networking.

Paula Snow for her instinctive marketing skills, advice and creative ideas.

Robin Reed and Doug King who, unknowingly, allowed me the time for this project.

Finally, those kind enough to act as my test readers of the early first drafts; for their time, honest feedback and helpful suggestions:

Fiona Irens (especially for her tireless, enthusiastic encouragement of this project throughout)

Georgianna Vaughan

Nick Irens

Teresa Tassell

Boo and Oliver Vaughan

Harriet Bridgeman

Bernard Heng

Chris Roberts.

1

Across the street, a vigorous-looking young man was surveying the run-down Church of St Mungo’s from the point where Pembroke Road joins Earls Court Road. A passer-by, spotting this broad-shouldered stranger, well protected from the incessant rain in his full-length Drizabone, could have been forgiven for mistaking him for one of the itinerant residents of ‘Kangaroo Valley’, recently arrived in London and finding his bearings.

Such a passer-by would have been quite correct in placing Robert Melton from Australia, although he was not, in fact, a newcomer to England. They would, however, never have identified this strapping young man as the newly appointed vicar of St Mungo’s.

They would have shared their surprise with the Bishop of West London, from whose comfortable drawing-room Robert had recently emerged into the surprisingly wet and dreary late summer afternoon.

‘It’s a challenging parish, Robert,’ the bishop had told him, almost before his guest had settled himself into the armchair to which the bishop had ushered him.

This was their first meeting since Robert had been appointed and he had sensed that the bishop had been feeling less at ease than he was, as he watched the tall, stooping figure gather a thin file from the table set in the bow window overlooking the drab, rain-battered garden.

‘It’s a parish in immediate need of caretaking … or rather should I say care and … understanding,’ the bishop had hurriedly corrected himself before continuing. ‘Your last two predecessors found it required more than men nearing the end of their ministry could offer. But in the circumstances, what could we do?’ he had added, half to himself.

Robert had smiled encouragingly. ‘That’s why I’m very keen to get to work there, your Grace.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sure you are.’ The bishop had turned from the window and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘There are so many young people in the parish these days.’

He had settled himself in the chair facing Robert, where he had fiddled with his reading glasses and opened the file, fingering through the papers inside.

‘History and Theology, Peterhouse,’ he had commented approvingly. ‘I was up at Corpus myself, though a good few years before you, of course.’

The bishop had read on. ‘Your grandparents lived near Oxford, I see.’

‘Yes, in fact my grandfather’s still alive, although he’s in a home now.’

‘Nonetheless the dreaming spires didn’t tempt you to pursue your studies there?’

‘I like to think I struck an Anglican compromise,’ Robert had answered lightly, but interested to see how his reply would be received.

The bishop had smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Ah, yes. Train for the world at Cambridge and for the Lord at the other place.’

‘I have to thank Cuddesdon for more than my training for the Church, Bishop.’

‘Quite so. I wouldn’t wish it any other way. But Peterhouse is a long way from Sydney. Clearly this scholarship you were awarded carries considerable prestige in Australia, but what drew you to spend three years studying so far away from home?’

‘I guess it was my history teacher at school, as much as anything,’ Robert had answered. ‘He had been at Cambridge too. The way he talked about it, it really fired you up, made you want to experience it yourself.’

The bishop had nodded. ‘Your mother was a widow.’

‘That’s right, sir. My father died when I was six.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

‘He was killed in a construction accident.’

The bishop had looked up, encouraging Robert to say more.

‘They were building a new section of underground vault for the National Bank of Australia. Dad was down there supervising the work when he saw the huge girder temporarily supporting the middle of the vault beginning to twist and sag. According to the engineer’s report it should never have happened, but his men were the wrong side of the girder.

‘My father was a very strong man. He put himself underneath that girder and held it. It can’t have been for more than a few seconds, but it gave the others long enough to escape. It took them three days to dig his body out.’

The bishop had nodded again, but this time with a look of condolence. ‘A strong man and a very brave one. It must have been hard for your mother.’

Pia Melton had been a very pretty woman but Robert’s father had been the only man for her. From the day he died Robert knew he would never have a stepfather, or any half-brothers or half-sisters. Ahead of him stretched a childhood in which his mother’s grief would gradually distance her from her son.

‘My mother was Swedish,’ Robert had answered. ‘She kept her emotions in check. And she had her faith. That got her through it.’

‘I’m sure it would have done,’ the bishop had replied soothingly, before he turned back to Robert’s file.

Robert’s mother had been a deeply religious woman, who had divided her time between looking after her husband and the job she held in Sydney’s newly opened Queen Elizabeth Hospital for Children. Even after Robert’s birth she had managed the difficult juggling act of being a wife, mother and full-time nurse without detriment to herself or those she loved. Her secret, if secret it was, lay in her willingness to subordinate herself and her own pleasure to the absolute necessity of leading a very disciplined and highly organised life. Late nights and early mornings set the pattern of her life.

In return, her one demand of the family had been that Sunday mornings saw them together at either St Andrew’s Anglican Cathedral for the eleven o’clock family Communion Service or, on alternate Sundays, at St Mary’s Roman Catholic Cathedral for the family Mass at ten. This ecumenical arrangement was out of deference to her husband’s upbringing in the Catholic faith and a promise she had had to make at the time of her marriage that any children they might have would be brought up within the Catholic Church.

But Robert’s father had long since lost any interest in religion and at first his mother’s promise to raise their son as a Catholic had irked her. As she became more familiar with the Catholic faith, though, Pia Melton had realised that the differences between these two great Christian beliefs were, at the practical level, minimal. It was only academic pedants, she concluded, who wanted them kept wide apart for the sake of what they regarded as the more crucial theological differences.

‘You mother was Anglican, but your father a Roman Catholic,’ the bishop had commented.

‘That’s right, sir. And after Dad died, Mum stayed true to her word. Every other Sunday she’d take me to Mass.’

‘You didn’t find this confusing?’

Robert had been expecting something along these lines and he had his answer prepared. ‘On the contrary. I found that it helped me cut through all the misunderstanding and misrepresentation.’

‘But at some point you had to choose in which direction God was leading you. Or was that an Anglican compromise too?’ the bishop asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

What Robert could not have confided was that it was biology more than anything else that had governed his decision. The powerful stirrings of teenage urges, coupled with a growing awareness of his attraction to the opposite sex and, he discovered, their not infrequent attraction to him, had persuaded him that he did not trust himself with the concept of the voluntarily enforced celibacy required of a Catholic priest.

Robert realised this was both a physical and spiritual weakness. But he knew that he had to be true to himself as well as to God.

He did not make his decision lightly. It had involved long hours of prayer and soul-searching. He liked the idea of being married first and only to the Church. Perhaps, he had wondered, what he saw in adopting a life of celibacy was a romantic similarity with the Buddhist monks and mystics of the East.

However, apart from his concern over the weakness of the flesh, he had been unable to convince himself that being celibate would, in the end, render him better equipped to serve God than he would be within the framework of marriage to a compatible partner, with whom he envisioned sharing his commitment to the work of the Church.

With the passage of time his father was, sadly but inevitably, becoming an increasingly distant figure in his memory, However, Robert had tried to consider what his wishes and advice might have been. This was complicated in Robert’s mind by the fact that his father had been adopted and had lived with his adoptive parents until he had emigrated to Australia as a young man. As Roman Catholics, they had raised their adopted son as a Catholic too, but what faith, Robert wondered, had his biological grandparents practised? Had they been Anglicans or Catholics, or something else, or nothing at all? He had no idea. That unanswerable question had played on his mind as he grew older.

‘My mother set me a very fine example,’ Robert had told the bishop. ‘I think seeing what her faith gave her helped me reach the decision that was right for me. I knew God was there. But I also knew he wanted me when I was ready. My mother was still alive when I graduated, so I returned to Sydney for a short while before I began my theological training at Cuddesdon.’

‘It was your mother’s death, then, that brought you back to this country?’

‘Yes, I stayed with her after she had her stroke. But she was worn out and I could see what she really wanted was to be reunited with Dad. She was only in hospital for a couple of months and then her time came to go and join him. It sounds strange, almost heartless perhaps, but those weeks when I visited her every day in hospital – I wouldn’t have wanted to miss them.’

The bishop had looked quizzical.

‘What I mean is, Mum was so rock solid in her belief that God was guiding her, even though He had paralysed her and put her in hospital, that I saw a serenity in her that I had never seen before. She’d always been very busy – tired as well. And this was so different. It was uplifting. At least I found it uplifting. Does that seem strange?’

‘Not in the least,’ the bishop had answered. ‘God was speaking to you, through your mother. He knew what He wanted you to do with your life. All He was waiting for was for you to understand it as well.’

‘You’re right about that, Bishop. Seeing my mother, so contented and at peace, I knew that was what I wanted other people to feel. Everyone: the rich and successful as well as the down-and-outs and the lonely. It’s love, isn’t it? When you boil it down, cut away all the trappings. It’s God’s pure love. My dad lost his life saving his men. My mother gave her life to helping the sick. I guess that kind of mission is in my blood.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for in St Mungo’s,’ the bishop had continued. ‘Looking around the parish will have shown you we have the rich and successful, the down-and-outs, the drug addicts and the lonely, as you put it, in abundance. The difficulty we face as churchmen is in bridging the void between them. And be under no illusion, Robert: that void is deep, and growing wider.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Robert had said, leaning forward. ‘I’ve seen so many different types of people, from all kinds of places, not just England, or Europe even. If I can harness just some of that talent, I’m convinced we can turn things round at St Mungo’s. It was beginning to happen in my last parish and I wasn’t even running the show.’

‘Yes,’ the bishop had said, turning over a page in front of him. ‘The Bishop of Reading has noted your determination in that respect. You certainly displayed a talent for enterprise.’

The bishop drew another sheet of paper from the file and glanced at it before continuing. ‘Appealing directly to local businesses to donate materials for church halls and even, I see, the roof of your church, was regarded as …’ here he had hesitated to check the exact wording, ‘being imaginative by the Diocesan Advisory Committee and the archdeacon.’

‘It may have raised a few eyebrows,’ Robert acknowledged, ‘but I reckoned that if the church-aided schools can do it, why can’t the Church itself?’

‘Why not indeed? And no one could deny the success of your venture.’

‘The way I see it, your Grace, it’s about utilising untapped local resources. Step out of the box. Take a chance. And with church finances as they are, what is there to lose?’

‘Quite so,’ the bishop had replied guardedly. At the same time, with a quiet smile of satisfaction, the bishop thought he detected a possible burgeoning financial acumen in Robert’s answer. A generally unusual trait among the clergy and one that might prove useful in his young protégé’s future, he thought.

Closing the file, he looked directly at Robert to say in a way that required no answer, ‘After putting in so much work, I wonder that you didn’t want to stay to see the results for yourself.’

‘With the opportunity St Mungo’s offers?’

‘And, of course here, you will be your own man: running the show yourself.’

‘That’s the point, your Grace. As I told the PCC and the Diocesan Appointments Board. With God’s will and your backing I know I have the drive and the vision to give St Mungo’s what it needs.’

The bishop had cleared his throat again. ‘Well, all we can ask of you is that you try your utmost.’

‘You have my word on that, Bishop.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ the older man had replied, ‘But if you take my advice, you’ll move steadily, The people who go to St Mungo’s don’t respond well to unexpected change. Give yourself a few weeks to get the feel of the place. That’s what I would suggest.’ Then he turned his attention back to the file.

‘There is one thing I wanted to ask you,’ Robert had said. ‘It’s the church building itself, sir, St Mungo’s. Looking at the parish accounts, the fabric fund looks pretty much spent out. But the church still needs a lot of work and when I spoke to the diocesan architect he seemed vague on when repairs were scheduled.’

‘St Mungo’s used to be one of the finest churches in west London,’ the bishop had answered, getting to his feet. ‘I think we could both do with a cup of coffee, don’t you? My wife makes very fine biscuits, could I tempt you to one of those as well?’ And after Robert had thanked him, the bishop had left the room for a moment.

‘Now, where were we?’ he had asked when he returned.

‘The repairs to St Mungo’s?’ Robert had suggested.

‘I know that the Church Commissioners are keeping an eye on it,’ the bishop answered, hoping he sounded encouraging. ‘I think you and I should leave that side of things to the people who know about it. You concentrate on your parishioners, building up the congregation again.’

‘But if the church itself isn’t maintained properly, there’s going to come a time when there won’t be anywhere for the congregation to go.’

‘Oh, I think that’s a little extreme, Robert. St Mungo’s has weathered two centuries. I think it’s good for a little while longer.’

Now it had been Robert’s turn to get to his feet. ‘I’m a practical man, sir. I prefer to know how things stand. I work better to a timetable, better than having things open-ended.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’ The bishop had taken off his glasses and had started polishing the lenses with the corner of his handkerchief. ‘Well, let’s see how things are looking in, say, a couple of years. Who knows, the whole economic climate might have changed by then. You concentrate on drawing people back into St Mungo’s. The Church Commissioners are practical people as well. If they see the numbers increasing at services, that has to make a difference, surely. Then there’s the giving of course. Keep the parish accounts in the black, pay the parish share in full and on time. That’s the sort of thing they look for. And it starts with the collection plate, Robert. That’s where you’ll see the change – if you take my meaning,’ and he had smiled at his unintended pun.

Robert would have liked to have pushed the bishop further on this point, but the drawing-room door had swung open and a slim middle-aged woman with carefully tinted hair and a winning smile had entered carrying a tray.

‘Ah, coffee! Excellent,’ the bishop had announced, taking the tray and setting it down on a side table.

‘My dear, this is Robert Melton,’ he had said.

His wife’s smile had widened as she had crossed over to Robert to shake hands. ‘Camilla Rogers. It’s very nice to meet you and I do hope you will be very happy here in our diocese.’

Robert had thanked her, had complimented her on her biscuits, and had made polite small talk for a respectable amount of time. By the time he had finished his second cup of coffee, it was clear that his meeting with the bishop had come to an end and when he had put his cup down, he had turned to look at the rain pattering against the window before announcing, ‘Well, I keep reminding myself that I didn’t come to London for the weather. Perhaps, if you’ll excuse me, I had better make a start. As you say, sir, there’s a lot to do.’

‘Of course,’ the bishop had replied. ‘Thank you for dropping in for this chat. Now, where’s that rather fine raincoat you were wearing?’ and he had opened the door to show Robert out.

‘What a charming young man,’ his wife had told him, when the bishop had returned. ‘If anyone can lure people back into that damp, chilly, cavern of a church he will.’

‘I wonder,’ the bishop had answered, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

‘Oh, come on, John. The way those blue eyes look at you. If the Reverend Melton can’t fill pews at St Mungo’s, I don’t know who will. I think you all did just the right thing giving him the job.’

The bishop had taken a sip of coffee. ‘We didn’t have much choice. Robert Melton was the only candidate. He doesn’t know that, of course. But it doesn’t look good to the powers that be. Nor does it make it any easier for me – or for him. The good people of St Mungo’s won’t be in for a tranquil ride with the Reverend Melton. I’ve seen his kind before. He’ll either make a gigantic stride towards becoming our youngest Archbishop of Canterbury, or he’ll destroy himself and the parish with it.’

‘Aren’t you being just a little pessimistic, John?’ his wife had asked.

‘I wish I were, my dear. I very much fear that Robert Melton may be the last vicar of St Mungo’s. I know you won’t breathe a word about it, but there’s talk of reorganising the whole deanery. They want to carve up Melton’s parish along socially compatible grounds. That was the loathsome phrase. It’s going to save the diocese the cost of two other clergy, besides Melton’s own stipend. Numbers. That’s what the Church Commissioners look at, and at this present moment the numbers are not in our favour: mine or his. And we don’t have time on our side.’

2

Although he chafed against it, Robert soon recognised there was wisdom in the bishop’s advice not to rush things. In fact, after only four weeks in the job, he had begun to realise that the situation in the parish was far worse and much more complex than he had feared. He was even beginning to have some understanding of, if not actual sympathy for, his two predecessors. Until now, he had been trying hard not to regard them with disdain over what he saw as their litany of failure.

Now that he had had time to familiarise himself with the physical dimensions of the parish and meet the tiny handful of regular churchgoers, Robert had come to the conclusion that the parish was not so much run down through any disadvantage of being where it was; its problems stemmed from a failure to understand the polarisation that had been quietly occurring over the years. This had now created a difficult situation in which, to succeed, he felt he would have to engage the combined powers of a skilful diplomat and a ruthless dictator.

The Church of St Mungo’s itself was in fact just on the right side of one of those established, but unmarked, London boundaries between a ‘good’ area and a ‘not so good’ area, that only Londoners would know about. The parish, on the other hand, straddled both sides of this boundary. This was where a large part of the problem lay.

On the good side of the boundary the parish was, quite literally, dying. The few regular churchgoing parishioners were, by and large, genteel, elderly and infirm. They could be, and by Robert’s predecessors were, forgiven for being more concerned with the next world than this one.

The remainder of those living on this side of the parish, and it was by far the largest proportion, were in youthful early middle age, with young families beginning to reach into the upper-teenage bracket. A significant number of these were hard-working executives, employed in the City.

English, American, Dutch, Swedish, French and German – this part of Kensington had, in recent years, also become an enclave for well-to-do expatriate families who were responsible for the development of a burgeoning cosmopolitan atmosphere. This was clearly manifested in the springing up of continental-style cafés, delicatessens and cheerful eateries that, on fine days, spilled onto the adjoining pavements in a very un-English way – a practice that had previously been the sole preserve of those more popular public houses of the sort that were always festooned with baskets of hanging flowers.

The international element of the area self-confidently and cheerfully co-existed with their more reserved English neighbours. It was the ‘overseas crowd’ who willingly got involved and took a lead in supporting community events, or neighbourhood activities, which, if left to the reclusive attitude of the English, might otherwise never have taken place, but from which all in the end benefited.

In parish terms, however, Robert had begun to realise that, regardless of nationality, this executive class was largely caught up in the self-absorbing task of wealth creation at its most personal and materialistic. In pursuit of this, they either had no time for, or inclination to acknowledge any need of, God in their well-ordered lives. Some of them who did in fact attend church from time to time, did so to conform with the standards of the peer group in which they aspired to move. So their decision to go to church was arrived at by way of the same social compass with which they selected the right schools, friends, clubs and social engagements.

However, for those in the regular churchgoing communion, to whom this approach to religion might apply, the close proximity of the well-endowed and undoubtedly magnificent St Mary Abbots was much more appealing.

St Mary Abbots had it all: beautiful monastic architecture, soaring spire, accomplished campanology, a renowned choral tradition and an illustrious congregation (that periodically included members of the royal family from nearby Kensington Palace). By comparison, impoverished, worn-out and down-at-heel St Mungo’s on Earls Court Road offered little contest.

On the not-so-good side of this invisible boundary, the parish was mostly made up of the kind of itinerant backpackers from all over the world that Robert had spotted right away. They were accommodated in cheap Earls Court hostels, or more pretentious establishments in which the term ‘hotel’ was often incongruously coupled with the name of a god from the ancient Greek pantheon: Apollo, Dionysius and Zeus being among the favourites.

Mixed together with these was a vast array of bedsits, shoehorned into what were once substantial mansion apartment buildings. These now housed a diverse cross-section of humanity, ranging from those engaged in the oldest profession in the world, through drug-dealers to hard-working, conscientious student nurses.

The occasional exceptions to the almost uniform youthfulness of this part of the parish were the single old people. Many of them, like St Mungo’s itself, had once known better days; now down on their luck, they survived in an increasingly hostile world by taking refuge in some form of harmless eccentricity or another. Usually to be found in the cheapest basement flats, in rent-controlled buildings, these were the batty old ladies who took in hundreds of stray cats and spoke to no one, except perhaps the milkman on whose kindness they relied for an affordable supply of milk.

The men in this category were fewer, but generally more outwardly sociable. They tended not to live so long and were less careful with whatever slender resources they had left, as a result of which they sometimes found themselves facing eviction by not always unkind so much as exasperated landlords, who had no wish to become an unpaid extension of the social services. In this way, the relentless downward spiral of poverty would eventually force them onto the streets. Once there, whether through ignorance or a deep-rooted shame, coupled with an antipathy towards a patronising bureaucracy, arrogantly administered by people they regarded as intellectually and educationally inferior, they regularly failed to take advantage of the economic safety net on offer to them. This left their available share of help to be exploited by less scrupulous, shameless swindlers, who had made a lifelong career out of milking the social security system for everything they could get. As Robert discovered, the parish of St Mungo’s was in many respects a microcosm of the nation at large.

It did not matter from which walk of life they came – the great majority of the people living in his parish were wholly indifferent to religion, and particularly in the case of the younger people, to establishment religion. The idea of going to church had moved beyond being an inconvenience to an otherwise leisurely Sunday to become something faintly embarrassing: a complete irrelevance in their self-sufficient lives.

To the socially and financially secure middle-class element, the role of the vicar was now regarded with a patronising benevolence. His primary function was seen as a duty to mark, with due ceremony, their rights of passage in baptism, marriage and death. To the itinerant younger element the vicar was seen as an outdated, eccentric figure of fun.

Despite this, Robert’s arrival had created a flurry of considerable excitement amongst the stalwart hardcore of dependable parishioners,. The older, mostly widowed, ladies of the parish were, in this respect, only teenage girls trapped in ageing bodies. They were not immune to Robert’s considerable charm and striking physical presence, his robust good looks alternatively reminding them of much-loved sons and, real or imagined, secret lovers from the past. They reacted towards him with a potent mix of maternal fantasy and suppressed lust. They vied with each other surreptitiously to host a lunch or tea for the new vicar, while volunteering to undertake all kinds of small services to the church, the neglect of which had forced Robert’s rather less attractive predecessor to resort to a changeless display of artificial flowers between Christmas and Lent.

Even the handful of older men in this group found they were not immune to Robert’s infectious enthusiasm and they responded to his vitality and encouragement to get involved in the work of the parish in a way that made them feel both useful and younger again.

It was already clear that Robert had that rare gift of leadership. With this most unlikely, and admittedly small, volunteer army of elderly, ragtag and bobtail ‘soldiers’ from the genteel side of the parish, the battle to save St Mungo’s had, in a sense, already begun.

Once the first couple of weeks had passed, a new, more frequent schedule of weekly services was instigated. A simple but effective church pamphlet was now being created for parish distribution: with no money to pay for it Robert had utilised the well-tried concept of local business sponsorship to good effect. In newly organised parish discussion groups, concepts previously unthought-of at St Mungo’s were now being enthusiastically considered as a way to increase utilisation of the building and deliver a positive boost to raising the level of awareness of the church in the community.

With these early plans set in motion, Robert decided it was time to tackle the other side of the parish, although in contemplating this, he realised he didn’t know where to begin. There was no obvious starting point. His Kensington parishioners, as he called those who lived north of Cromwell Road, had no contact with his Earls Court parishioners – those who lived, however temporarily, south of it.

From what he could ascertain, it seemed that no Earls Court parishioners had shown up at St Mungo’s in years. When he announced to his Kensington parishioners that this situation was to be addressed and asked for suggestions as to how it might be tackled, his request produced blank and baffled stares from a congregation that saw no need to bring that kind of social risk into their well-ordered, complacent lives.

As he had tried to convey to the bishop, Robert felt that bringing together both sides of this parish would benefit the two quite separate communities. He pictured his elderly Kensington parishioners, drawing on their years of worldly experience, assisting the younger, impetuous and less experienced Earls Court parishioners in exchange for a vicarious share in the comradeship and youthful enthusiasm that would sustain them against the crippling loneliness of old age.

Unfortunately Robert was alone in this thinking. It was one area of muttered disagreement with their new vicar in which the Kensington side of the parish was united against him. At best, they saw this youthful idealism as naive and misguided and, at worst, as interfering and disruptive to the equanimity of the parish. There were even those who talked of ‘nipping it in the bud’ with a strongly worded letter to the bishop.

Robert soon realised that to succeed in this goal of parish unification he would have to overcome many preconceived notions and deeply held prejudices on both sides. He also knew he would have to find a way to do it alone.

Barely two months into his ministry, Robert had began to appreciate the Herculean task that lay ahead of him if he was to succeed in saving St Mungo’s and making it matter again in the West London diocese. In that realisation he sought comfort from the Confucian saying ‘A journey of a thousand miles must begin with one small step’. Not for the first time, he acknowledged, western philosophy and faith could learn much from the Orient.

*

It was at about this time that Robert began to recognise a pattern from a not infrequent visitor to his church; one, however, who never attended Sunday services.

Perhaps to say ‘pattern’ was an inaccurate description, because the visits made by this striking-looking lady of mixed race had no regularity or discernible aim, other than in a certain consistency of purpose. She seemed to visit the church fairly early in the day, maybe once or twice weekly, but never at weekends. She would come in and sit, or kneel, in a truncated pew at the very back of the church that lay directly in the shadow cast by the pillar it abutted. She was usually there for anywhere between five and twenty minutes, invariably at a time when no one else was around.

Robert had noticed her leaving the church on occasions and had watched her turn left and cross over Cromwell Road, to become engulfed in the Earls Court part of his parish.

At first he hadn’t given the woman too much thought, but as the weeks passed and the difficulties within the parish became clearer, Robert started to take more interest in this mysterious visitor. If none of his other Earls Court parishioners stepped inside St Mungo’s, he decided that she might be his best chance of getting to know people who lived on the other side of Cromwell Road.

He missed her next couple of visits and then came the morning when, just after nine, he saw her enter the church and go to sit in her customary place. Robert quietly positioned himself unobtrusively near the back of the church and waited for her to get up to leave. As he stood there he wondered how to approach her without making it obvious that he wanted to chat with her – something he instinctively felt might be unwelcome. Rightly or wrongly, he sensed that the hold on whatever it was she came to St Mungo’s for was not strong, and that she could easily be frightened off.

When she rose to leave, Robert stepped out of the shadow to open the door and he gave her what he hoped was his most disarmingly friendly smile. ‘I’m Robert Melton,’ he said. ‘I’m the new vicar here and I just wanted to say how pleased I am to see you coming to St Mungo’s.’

Whatever response he might have expected, he could not have been more surprised by the one he got. The woman looked at him briefly, with an expression of completely blank disinterest, before stepping outside and very deliberately closing the door in his face behind her. She had not spoken a word in reply to his attempt at a friendly overture.

For a moment Robert was quite shocked. Then he opened the door and stepped quickly out into the street, still half expecting a delayed response, perhaps even an explanation or apology. He was not used to rejection, and such blunt rejection had left him temporarily speechless. But the woman was nowhere to be seen.

For the remainder of the day he found himself thinking intently about just what it was he thought he had seen, besides the studied disinterest on her face, in that brief moment of eye contact. Was it fear? Was it disdain? He could not be sure. Perhaps it was all of these and something more.

3

Brenda had walked quickly away from St Mungo’s, hoping that the young vicar didn’t try to follow her.

The other one had been different. Grey-faced, with thinning hair, the lingering smell of Lifebuoy soap and a loose-fitting dog collar from which his scrawny neck poked like that of a wizened tortoise, he had always scuttled into one of his dark recesses in the church whenever he had caught sight of Brenda. She preferred it that way. Most men would make it their business to sidle up to her; the ones with hands like octopus tentacles and beer-steeped breath were the worst. But the old priest had looked intimidated rather than lecherous. Brenda realised he was more alarmed by her than she was by him and once she had felt confident that he would not disturb her, she began to find peace and a sanctuary of sorts in the sad-looking church, where even the sound of the traffic hurrying past outside seemed like an echo from a different world.

St Mungo’s had provided Brenda with privacy and peace, somewhere she could spend time alone with God without the anxiety of people butting in. The old vicar was harmless enough, but it was the well-meaning churchgoers, whom Brenda knew might try too hard in their urging of her to join them at Sunday morning services, that she wanted to avoid.

Now this handsome, fair-haired young vicar had suddenly appeared. Brenda felt irritated, betrayed almost. It was as though St Mungo’s itself had craftily embraced him behind her back. Brenda’s private sanctuary had been discovered. All she could hope was that her reaction had been sufficiently off-putting to make the new vicar think twice before approaching her again. A similarly blunt response from her had worked with other men in the past, why should it not work with him?

As she walked briskly down the busy pavement, though, the memory of the shocked look in the young vicar’s eyes and the genuinely friendly way in which he had spoken to her began to nibble at her conscience, slowly diffusing Brenda’s irritation and disappointment.

She thought of Sister Lucy regularly. Even so, Brenda was surprised that she had come to mind at this moment. Sister Lucy had read Brenda’s thoughts in those early days of frustration and overwhelming sadness. But she had offered practical help too: her meagre savings, sixty dollars; the note pads and pencils; clothes; books; the imitation diver’s watch. In later years, it had been the little silver cross that had come to mean most to Brenda – that, and the letter Sister Lucy had given her that she still read from time to time:

I know nothing of your past or what may have led you to these events, but the honesty and eloquence of your eyes tell me all I need to know. You are a good person – of that I am sure.

Life will be difficult for a while as you come to terms with your new circumstances. Although it will be hard, try not to dwell on your disadvantages but focus instead on your advantages …

Keep the little cross in your pocket. When you are lonely, sad, frightened, or – as I know you will be again one day – happy, the touch of it between your fingers will remind you, and just you, of the journey you are on. Please know that from now on, and for the rest of my life, you will always be in my special daily prayers. One of my precious ‘Starfish’. May God go with you.

With great love and care for you at this Eastertide.

I remain affectionately yours,

Sister Lucy

The quiet, even the slight chill, inside St Mungo’s reminded Brenda of slowly coming round years ago to the feeling of cool cotton sheets and a sense of peace through which she could hear the hushed voices of people calmly going about their business.

With gradually increasing consciousness she had become aware that her head and mouth hurt, but nothing like as much as the pain she felt in the lower abdomen and the area between her buttocks.

Through the intense ache in her head, she had tried to understand where she was and what had happened. Gradually, as she had lain with her eyes closed, full consciousness had returned and with it the memory of the nightmare of what she had endured.

Seeing a young black nun pass the foot of the bed, Brenda had tried to call out to her. A strange strangled sound she had not recognised had been all that had passed her lips. She tried to lick them. Nothing happened.

Gingerly she had put her fingers to her open mouth. Her head throbbed. The pain in her mouth and throat had been almost more than she could bear. She could not understand what was wrong. Seeing another nurse nearby, she had tried again to call out to her and had feebly attempted to wave an arm.

The young nun Brenda had first seen had come quickly to her bedside. Her face had had a look of great compassion and relief as she had gently said, ‘So, you’ve regained consciousness. At first we weren’t sure you were going to make it.’

Bewilderment had clouded Brenda’s face. The nurse had placed a finger on her lips and explained, ‘You were found on the roadside, four days ago. Luckily someone brought you here. But you should really rest now. You lost a great deal of blood and you’re going to be very weak for a while yet.’

But Brenda could not forget how she had tried to speak again, nor how the unrecognisable sound and excruciating pain had made her grab the nun’s hand and hold it tightly. Then the pain, fear and misery had given way to sobbing and tears.

‘All right, now you are awake, the doctor wants to speak to you,’ Sister Lucy had said, disengaging Brenda’s hand and laying it gently on the bed, but not before softly stroking it. Brenda had been surprised to catch sight of the tears in the young nun’s eyes.

Brenda had replayed that scene in her memory many times since. She wondered where Sister Lucy was now. More than likely still working in that same hospital in Trinidad, where she would be looking older now of course. If Brenda was still in her special daily prayers, she had often wondered what Sister Lucy would think of how she was making use of her ‘special gift’. That thought would give Brenda a sick feeling in her stomach. Sister Lucy had seemed too kind to be angry with her, but would she be disappointed – ashamed, maybe? Embarrassed? How could Sister Lucy understand her situation?

This had been one of the reasons that had drawn Brenda to St Mungo’s. God she felt, did understand her. But what had it been about this young vicar that had made Brenda instinctively think of Sister Lucy? Did Brenda want him to understand her as well? And why would that be important? She was not angry any more. But she was confused.

4

Robert took his encounter with the enigmatic parishioner as a personal challenge. However, he had to admit it confirmed that he was now no further forward in his attempts to find a contact, or bridge, into the more volatile and fluid part of his parish. He needed a different approach, which led to his resolve to immerse himself in the cosmopolitan culture of that part of the parish in order to see if he could find a way in and make his own contacts.

He began by making a practice of crossing over Cromwell Road to have lunch in one of the area’s numerous, smoke-filled pubs whenever he could. He started shopping there too. Even though it placed an increased burden on his always precarious finances, he now switched from the efficiency of Tesco’s to the small individual, mostly Asian, shops that lined Earls Court Road. On the nights when he could, he would mingle with the throng at the bar of a popular pub, trendy pseudo-French brasserie, or some basement jazz club. A music lover in the broadest sense, Robert was a jazz and blues aficionado.

Work had kept him so busy that Robert had neglected his own social life and the odyssey into the colourful, multi-cultural and, above all, youthful atmosphere of this freewheeling part of the London scene held its own attraction for him. He became aware again of shapely young ladies, many of whom frequented the area’s cafés, bars, clubs and restaurants. They in turn noticed him and on more than one occasion, Robert found himself being approached with a directness that he had at first found disconcerting, but later came to appreciate for its honesty.

Robert responded by being equally straightforward. He never attempted to fudge the question, always asked early on in any encounter, about what he did for a living. The initial reaction of outright disbelief would be swiftly followed by one of incredulity and thereafter, in nine out of ten cases, a complete change in manner. This involved the burial of all overt sexual interest, reducing the encounter to nothing more than an exchange of superficial pleasantries, which continued only for as long as social decency dictated was necessary. Then the girl in question would extricate herself to return to her friends or seek out another, more promising, male target.

The irony of how the honesty of the initial approach disappeared the moment he told them he was a vicar was not lost on Robert. The way in which their direct candour was immediately replaced by a thin veneer of embarrassed, insincere politeness always disappointed him. It was, however, something he had grown used to accepting. He found he felt almost sorry for having to deliver the shock he knew was coming, and he greatly resented the narrowness of opportunity for female company of his choosing that this general reaction to his calling seemed to present him with. It was as if he had somehow deceived them by infringing an unwritten law that good-looking, healthy young men could not be called by God to serve in his Church; even when that Church permitted a married priesthood.

On the other hand, Robert discovered soon after his arrival at St Mungo’s that, on the Kensington side of the parish, there was to be no shortage of ‘respectable’ daughters and granddaughters paraded before him by openly scheming mothers and grandmothers. Here he had had time to observe another prevailing pattern. If one of these girls was pretty, fashion-conscious, glamorous, self-assured, or even just nice looking and clever with it, the prize of becoming a vicar’s wife would have been strongly discouraged: the unspoken belief being that such a girl could do much better than that for herself.

It was always the less attractive, chronically shy, fat and frumpy girls that Robert found himself being introduced to at little ‘impromptu’ luncheon or tea parties. Somehow it was contrived that he should sit next to the unfortunate girl in question, or find himself left alone with her on some impossibly small window seat. While he could not experience any more attraction to these poor girls than other men, the human and priestly side of his personality would never allow him to be dismissive. He hated seeing the barely disguised hope and gratitude in their eyes as he tried to focus his attention on them, reminding himself, without any conviction, that it was a person’s interior disposition that mattered. Above all he strove always to treat them with kindness and respect, for which, at least, they were unashamedly grateful. It was at moments like this that he best understood, and indeed almost envied, the rule of celibacy in the Catholic Church.

*

Early one morning, during a foray into the Earls Court district in search of breakfast, Robert found himself seated at a window table in Café Rouge, next to the tube station. He had just started on his second cup of coffee when the door opened, heralding a blast of cool morning air and the entrance of a very attractive, mixed-race woman. She walked with an attitude of easy familiarity to a seat at the bar, where the young man serving greeted her with a cheery, ‘Good morning, Brenda’ and, without waiting to be asked, poured her a cup of coffee.

Until now Robert had only seen her within the shadows of the church and he was struck by two things. Firstly by how really very good looking this young woman was. She had exceptionally fine features and a manner about her that hinted at a more sophisticated past than the life she appeared to be leading at present would suggest. The other was that she didn’t speak. He noted she had not replied to the barman’s friendly good morning with anything other than a quick smile. The barman in turn had not appeared to expect more than this while busying himself with pouring her coffee and fetching a small jug of milk, neither of which she had asked for. Robert decided that she must be a sufficiently regular customer with habitual tastes that it made both small talk and the need to repeat an unchanging coffee order redundant. Nevertheless, he thought this silent approach exuded a coolness that bordered on the arrogant.

Robert watched her for some while, noting the shapeliness of her long legs as she sat poised, rather than perched, on the high stool. Her skirt was short, but only fashionably so. The blue silk scarf, which she wore loosely around her long neck, enhanced a face with the striking features of a model: high cheekbones, penetratingly large dark brown eyes and a refined nose set above a generous, well-defined mouth. A modestly applied hint of red lipstick provided a sensual contrast with her dark skin. Robert thought her skin was beautiful: an unblemished, burnt olive colour that had a velvet smoothness and texture more consistent with that of a teenager than a young woman who was probably in her mid-twenties.

While he was watching her, Robert noted again that, whenever another regular customer or member of staff greeted her, the young woman’s only reply was a friendly smile, accompanied by a raised hand or nod of acknowledgement.

Suddenly Robert became aware that she was returning his stare with a look of mild annoyance. He was overcome with shame and embarrassment and turned hurriedly away. He wondered if he should perhaps go up and apologise for his rudeness. but he decided this might only make matters worse. Instead he finished his coffee and signalled to the waitress for the bill.

He was just putting on his coat when he realised that this silent beauty was standing beside his table. Without saying a word she handed him a small printed card and returned at once to her place at the bar, but not before Robert had caught an expression of sensitive intelligence in her dark brown eyes. Flustered, Robert put the unread card in his pocket, thanked his waitress and left.

Back at his small office attached to St Mungo’s, he pulled the card from his pocket and read:

Hello, my name is Brenda. Due to an incident when I was 16 I am no longer able to speak. This makes me comfortable with other people’s physical differences.

Please understand and respect that it is only to those with physical differences that I specialise in offering my particular massage services.

Because of my lack of speech I am an excellent listener, precisely because I have the time to hear things that speaking people don’t.

I charge by the hour and will quote you a rate if you wish to avail yourself of my services. Please call to make an appointment.

There followed a telephone number, with the area code of the local exchange.

The realisation of what this young woman probably did for a living struck Robert like a thunderbolt. Deep in thought, for a long time he just sat holding the card in his hand. He couldn’t reconcile the image he had begun to form of this woman who regularly visited his church, with the darker picture of the sordid backstreet business he now conjured up. Added to this was the shock he felt in discovering that there was a reason why she didn’t speak and the guilt at having presumed her to be both rude and arrogant.

Robert looked again at the card in his hand. It was of poor quality: the printing was both uneven and slightly crooked. Robert guessed that Brenda needed large quantities of these cards. The inside of every telephone box he passed seemed to be plastered with the same kind of notices posted by other young women offering a variety of similar services.

He looked at the telephone number and was curious to know why someone who couldn’t speak needed a phone. He thought also about the unsenti-mental directness of the wording on the card, wondering what could possibly have happened to render a sixteen-year-old girl mute, while showing no other outward sign of injury. But, looking again, he saw that the card quite clearly said ‘incident’ and not accident or illness. This seemed to imply something far more sinister.

His curiosity was getting the better of him and Robert lifted the handset from the rather old-fashioned telephone on his desk and dialled the number on the card. After a couple of business-like rings the recording of a polite female voice came on the line.

‘Hello, thank you for calling,’ the recording began. ‘I’m speaking for Brenda, who, as you know, is mute and unable to talk. Because of this, Brenda has a special affinity for those afflicted by any kind of physical handicap or disability. If you do not qualify please ring off now.

‘If you do and would like to make an appointment with Brenda, please call between six and eight on a Monday evening, when someone will be here to make appointments for the coming week.

‘Brenda offers an affordable, discrete, unhurried service that is dedicated to sensitively helping and pleasing all her special customers. Your sensibilities will be treated with the utmost respect and your privacy will be assured. You will not be disappointed. Although Brenda can’t talk, you will find that she speaks eloquently with her eyes and hands.

‘If your message requires a response, please leave a telephone number, then please be patient. Someone will get back to you on Brenda’s behalf, usually within forty-eight hours.’

There then followed a short list of rates, dependant on the amount of time allocated.

Robert was stunned by what he had just heard. He slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle, aware that any idea of the worldliness he thought he possessed had just been shaken. As he looked at the card in front of him and ran the recording through in his mind it began to dawn on him just how sheltered his own upbringing, and that of most of those he knew, had been. Yet he, as a priest, was expected to know about and embrace everyone in his parish, from whatever walk of life they came and regardless of the business they might be engaged in.

It was with wry humour that he tried to imagine the general reaction of the good people from the Kensington side of his parish if they knew the true extent of the gulf that Robert would have to bridge, if he was ever to break down their English reserve and prejudices in the reunification of his parish.

Now that he had had time to adjust to the situation into which he had stumbled, he was more determined than ever to succeed in reaching out to Brenda and those like her,