Darkwoode (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1

The towering horse chestnut trees on either side of the approach to Selsey Tower (the grandly-named home for nearly a century to successive bishops of the mid-Wales Diocese of Pengwen) were only just beginning to come into flower, Father Georgios Anagnosides observed, as he sauntered down the driveway towards where his conspicuous canary yellow Citroen 2CV was parked. Their flowering was running perhaps two weeks behind their counterparts in Exeter. It was a chilly afternoon in the second week of May, and the young priest could barely feel the enfeebled rays of the subdued sun on his face.

Standing by the driver’s door of his car, he looked back towards the unprepossessing red brick mansion that doubled as bishop’s residence and diocesan office; and smiling with about as much conviction as he could muster, he waved at the balding middle-aged figure in purple cassock and cincture standing on the doorstep. The man who had just offered him a lifeline, and a living, on the Anglo-Welsh border. He watched as Bishop Mervyn Mortlake turned around, and re-entered the building. Only once his prune-faced inquisitor had finally disappeared from sight, did Georgios draw the packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d been trying to give them up for the past two years: but today was not a day on which he was likely to make any headway with that ambition. Already, he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision.

***

‘Anagnosides. That’s rather a curious surname, if I might say so. Greek, I presume?’

‘Yes, Bishop. My grandparents came over to Britain, when my father was in his teens, during the Greek Civil War, back in 1947. We still have family in Cephalonia.’

Bishop Mervyn nodded sagely. ‘I see. Anagnosis as in “agnostic”? An ironic name for a priest.’

Georgios smiled. ‘Not quite. Anagnosis actually means “recognition” or “reading”, with particular reference to a public reading of scripture, in a church or synagogue. It can also carry the sense of “knowing again” or “owning.” To read something, again and again, is to know something more deeply, to own it, to allow it to become part of you. Rather like the Lectio Divina method of studying scripture, meditating and praying. The very opposite of agnosticism, in point of fact.’

‘Well - my grasp of Greek is a little rusty,’ replied the bishop, frowning. ‘But you should know, I suppose, given your ancestry.’ Georgios suspected that the man interviewing him was not someone who liked to be contradicted.

‘So,’ continued the bishop, glancing down at the file lying open across his desk, ‘a First in history from St Ignatius Oxford, then a doctorate. The offer of a fellowship follows, the start of what might have been a glittering academic career. But instead you turn it down, and elect to train for the priesthood at Westcott, exchanging Oxford for Cambridge. Always a poor move, in my opinion, swapping the elder for the younger institution. I stayed in Oxford, and trained at St Stephen’s House. Why the change in direction? Not the universities - I mean the change in vocation.’

‘The death of my mother in a traffic accident had a lot to do with it.’

‘Ah, you found God in the midst of your grief?’

Georgios shook his head, conscious he was contradicting the prickly bishop for a second time. ‘No - I lost my faith. But I decided to give God a second chance. I went to Westcott House to study theology in the full expectation of having my doubts confirmed. If God could demonstrate his existence to me, to my satisfaction, then I’d resolve to serve him. If not - we’d go our separate ways. God won.’

Bishop Mervyn snorted. ‘Extraordinary. I’m surprised, with that attitude, any Warden of Ordinands would have supported your application. If you’d been in my Diocese - frankly, I certainly wouldn’t have accepted you for training.’

Silence. The bishop looked across his desk sternly, as if expecting - daring - Georgios to respond. But the young priest remained still, and met the bishop’s gaze impassively. Georgios sensed that the future course of the interview - and its ultimate outcome - was now hanging by a thread. He also knew that there must be no third contradiction of the bishop for the duration of their time together. But nevertheless, he stayed calm.

A full minute passed, with the steely-eyed bishop regarding him severely, fingering his pectoral cross all the while. Then, the purple-clad prelate lowered his gaze, seemingly returning to regard the documents laid before him. Georgios thought he saw the ghost of a smile fleeting across his face, before the lugubrious mask reformed.

‘Hmm. An excellent report from Westcott, and an even more glowing one from your training incumbent. A challenging parish, that one, in Leicester. I served in the Diocese of Leicester myself, once upon a time, you know. Very multicultural. Lots of Poles, Irish - and, of course, Asians in abundance now, thanks to Idi Amin. Somalis too, over the last decade. Thirty percent of the city’s now non-White. Twice that percentage, actually, in the parish where you were placed. Well you’ll find Templeton very different, I’m afraid. But perhaps a country ministry will provide a welcome opportunity for you. It’ll be better than your past year’s experience, for certain. I understand you’ve not been enjoying your time as a university chaplain, yes?’

‘Correct, Bishop. Regrettably, I don’t think I’ve turned out to be suitable for my current appointment.’

‘That’s an understatement. I believe you’ve been asked to leave at the end of this academic year. Not - I’ve been assured - because of any scandals. You wouldn’t be sitting in front of me now if that had been the case. No, there’s simply been an acknowledgment all round that you’re something of a square peg in a round hole there.’

‘Precisely.’ And if you could see how appalling the attitudes are of these entitled upper-middle-class students that still make up far too large a percentage of the intake at Exeter, with their faux ‘Cool Britannia’ affectations, you’d feel like a square peg too. In some ways, it’s even worse there than it was in Oxford and Cambridge. What did the Church have to say, at the dawn of the new Millennium, to such as these? Far better for it to be engaged in radical social action in the challenging and changing suburbs of a city such as Leicester. At least I felt purposeful as a curate in Leicester. Would I feel the same way about mid-Wales, I wonder?

Georgios had allowed himself to become distracted. What was the bishop saying now?

‘Well, fortunately for you, we’re almost as desperate to find someone for the Templeton group as you are desperate to find somewhere else to go after your minor debacle in Devonshire. The parishes have been vacant for over six months now, and my attempts to find someone from within the Diocese to take them on have been utterly unsuccessful. We’ve advertised twice in the Church Times. You are the only interested applicant, it seems. You’ve read the parish group profile, I take it? You’re fully aware of the nature of the previous Vicar’s untimely death?’

Georgios nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Good. They’ve had a torrid time of it lately. Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach were a separate incumbency until April last year. The Revd Huw Davies-Jones had been their Rector since 1990. A most unsuitable appointment, made by my predecessor, I’m afraid. He was one of those dreadful evangelicals, without the least bit of proper priestly formation. He trained at Oakhill Theological College - so what do you expect? Not a clue about Gregorian chant - but give him a guitar - hmm... Unfortunately, he didn’t stick to his guitar. He had an affair with his daughter’s piano teacher. Resigned his living in August 1999. He’s a taxi driver somewhere in the West Midlands now, I hear. I couldn’t find a replacement for him, so after consulting with the Senior Staff I suspended the parishes, then amalgamated them with Templeton next door. Edgar Dyson had been there since 1987. Well-liked, solid pastoral work, nothing too extreme in terms of churchmanship. He was a safe pair of hands.’ The bishop sighed. ‘Emphasis, alas, on the was.’

‘I’ve read the news reports following the inquest,’ said Georgios. ‘There seems little doubt, then, that he took his own life?’

‘No doubt whatsoever. As clear a case of suicide as you could ask for. What remains completely unclear is why he did it. There were no indications of anxiety or depression beforehand. Professionally, he was doing a good job with the new parish grouping. His personal life was untroubled. His poor wife was the one who found his body - alongside some young boys, I gather. Poor things.’ The bishop paused, reflective for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he continued. ‘Anyway, it’s been a major headache for me. The Rural Dean has tried his best to keep the show on the road - you’ll meet him, of course, soon enough, should you accept the appointment. Then there’s the curate - Benedict Wishart - I take it you’d have no problem working alongside someone who’s - err - in a relationship?’

Should you accept the appointment…

Trying to conceal his excitement at this tacit admission that the post was practically his, Georgios asked: ‘Relationship, Bishop? Could you clarify that for me, please?’

‘Hmm.’ Bishop Mervyn Mortlake pursed his lips, and placed his hands together, as if in an attitude of prayer. ‘Fr Wishart is a homosexual. He has entered into a personal relationship with another man. They live together in the Old Rectory in Morrington. Not the one that Davies-Jones was living in - that’s been sold off by the Parsonage Board now. No - they’re living in the old Victorian Rectory. Rather fine, as I recall. Anyway, Fr Wishart assures me that he is celibate. Unlike in England - where they’re tying themselves in all sorts of knots - here in Wales the bishops have a little more discretion about appointments in these circumstances. Anyway, he’s only an unpaid curate - not a stipendiary incumbent - so one can afford to be a little more accommodating. It’s up to you what use you make of him of course, but you’ll probably be grateful for the extra help.’

‘Are the parishes aware of his circumstances? And if so, are they accepting?’

‘Well, there’s been some difficulty,’ said the bishop, evasively. ‘But nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle. Any problems, speak to the Rural Dean or, if absolutely necessary, the Archdeacon.’

And not you, you mean, thought Georgios. Typical.

‘Which reminds me,’ continued the bishop. ‘You appear to be an unmarried man. Is there anyone - significant - in your life, at present?’

Only the bloody Church could get away with such an unsubtle prurient line of questioning these days. He’s not really interested in whether or not I’m married. He just wants to know if I’m gay.

Sadly, my fiancée and I split up last month,’ responded Georgios. ‘She wasn’t sure, in the end, that she could see herself married to a clergyman. We both agreed that it was for the best. So no - I’m single.’ The priest had sensed the strong sense of relief emanating from Bishop Mervyn the moment he had said the word fiancée.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the bishop, insincerely. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I have another meeting shortly. When can you start?’

‘So you’re offering me the position?’ asked Georgios, cautiously.

‘Of course!’ declared the Bishop of Pengwen imperiously. ‘Should have thought that was obvious. Do you accept?’

***

Naturally, he’d said yes. He’d had several unsuccessful interviews elsewhere. This was as good an offer as he was likely to get. It brought him nearer to home, and his beloved grandmother: sprightly though she was for her age, Georgios was acutely aware that at 92 she was in the final autumnal years of her life. The mid-Wales countryside was gloriously beautiful, and he wouldn’t miss Exeter one bit. As for Caroline - it would be good to put a bit of distance between them. Life was too short for regrets. Time to move on.

Georgios took a final drag of his cigarette, and almost threw it out of the window: but given he was still within the grounds of Selsey Tower, thought better of it. Instead, he stubbed it out beneath his left foot, and turned the key in the ignition with his right hand. Momentarily he considered whether he should travel back to Exeter via Templeton, but then dismissed the idea. He’d already paid a brief visit to the place that morning (making sure his coat was buttoned up to hide his clerical collar), but calling in for a second time on the same day was asking for trouble: he knew he had to keep his appointment strictly under wraps for a few weeks yet. Besides, it would mean adding perhaps three quarters of an hour to an already three hours long journey, and he had tickets to a Monteverdi concert that evening that he didn’t want to miss.

Tickets, he thought: only one would be needed, now that Caroline was no longer in his life. Ah well. Let’s go home.

***

Bishop Mervyn Mortlake stood at the window of his study, once again fingering his pectoral cross contemplatively, as he watched the yellow 2CV drive off. As soon as it had driven out of the gates, he walked across the room to a side table, upon which there was a whiskey decanter and a telephone. He lifted the jewelled silver cross on its silver chain over his head, and put it down on the table. He poured himself a large glass of whisky, then picked up the telephone receiver from its cradle, and dialled a number, muttering something under his breath as he did so. A few seconds later, a voice from the other end answered:

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Bishop Mervyn here. Your new Vicar has just left my office. I had to make a show of it - as if he really was being interviewed - I didn’t want to make it look too obvious. But he’s just what we need. He’s inexperienced, knows nothing about our ways. He won’t get in the way, like Dyson did.’ He took a sip from his whisky, then chuckled. ‘So spread the word, my friend - I’m sure you’ll all find the appointment most satisfactory.’