12

Back to work

Over the course of Tom’s illness I have gradually been doing less and less work. I am fortunate that, as a vicar, I am pretty much free to do as much or as little as I feel able to. I am also extremely blessed in having a curate, Ank, who, with others from the church, quietly bears the load of pastoral care, of ­funerals, of children’s activities, of worship, without burden­ing me.

Two or three weeks after the funeral, Annie and I turn up for church on Sunday and sit at the back, silently weeping our way through the service. At the end of the service Pete, someone we hardly know, but who has clearly heard all about us, comes up behind us and lays his hands heavily on our heads and shoulders. He prays fervently, in a loud, cheery voice, thanking God for victory over death, praying that the Holy Spirit would fall upon us with power and that everything would turn out OK and we’d go on our way rejoicing. He means well, but I cannot bear it. My anger surges to the surface. If I had the strength I’d get up and deck him! It reminds me of a passage from Primo Levi’s profound book about his experience in a Nazi concentration camp during the war.1 There has been an arbitrary selection of people for the gas chamber. A young man, with a wife and children, who knows he will die tomorrow, lies on his bed, weeping. Meanwhile, an old man, called Kuhn, sits on the next bed, rocking back and forth in prayer, loudly thanking God that he has been spared. ‘If I were God,’ says Primo Levi, ‘I would spit on Kuhn’s prayer!’ That’s how I feel about Pete’s prayer, too.

Most people are kind, respectful and thoughtful. They do not try to change us or the fact of Tom’s death. Rather, they sit and weep with us.

A week or two later, I turn up for an evening service. It is an occasional act of worship called ‘Adults Only’. The idea is to eat together, to be creative, to tackle issues current in people’s lives and to allow time for discussion. It is a small group led, this time, by one of our ordinands – trainee vicars on placement with us. He talks about pain and suffering, but then reads a passage from the Bible which says that, despite the suffering, everything will turn out hunky-dory in the end. ‘Well,’ he asks, looking round at us, expectantly, smiling, ‘what is our response to that?’ No one says anything. I tell myself to not say anything either. ‘If you can’t say anything helpful, Alan, don’t say anything at all.’ It certainly wouldn’t be helpful. I remind myself: ‘You are the vicar, so just let it pass. Don’t take your feelings out on this poor guy who is inexperienced and doing his best.’ I shouldn’t have come. I am not ready for this yet. It is all too raw. I wait. I count to 60. I bite my lip. In the end, the silence is too much for me. I cannot bear it. I cannot keep it in. The anger wells up and overwhelms me. So, finally, I blurt it out, saying: ‘It’s complete bullshit.’ Just as I thought, it isn’t helpful. There is a stunned silence. No one knows what to say. After a while I walk out and go home.

Annie is a psychotherapist with an organization offering integrated health care to those working in the international mission, aid and development sectors. Many of her clients have had deeply traumatic experiences. She will be in no condition to work with them for many months to come. Her employers are understanding. She is given compassionate leave. She receives a full salary for a while. Then half. Then nothing. More than half our income has now disappeared. It is not something you think about, but suddenly, just when you are at your most vulnerable and needy, you find yourself facing not just serious illness, death and grief, but financial problems as well. Many, in similar situations, end up in very serious financial difficulties indeed.

Being a vicar is not well paid, but at least there are fringe benefits. No one ever suggests that I shouldn’t be paid in full. Furthermore we live in a house provided by the Church, so there is no mortgage or rent to pay. The Bishop sends us some money, for a holiday. Friends also help in a variety of ways. A couple we used to work with in Argentina, but haven’t seen for years, send us £1000 in the post, quite out of the blue. Financially, thank God, unlike many people in our situation, we will be OK.

I gradually start to get back to work. I do the easy things first. I go to a community meeting. Pop in to our local infant school. Things I enjoy and which do not take a lot out of me emotionally. I begin to think I could, perhaps, manage a funeral. The funeral director rings me about an elderly woman from the parish who has died, Mrs Frost. She leaves a husband and two adult daughters, both of whom live in Cambridge. It sounds pretty straightforward. I decide not to pass it on to Ank this time. I’ll do it myself.

I turn up at the house of one of the daughters, where Mr Frost is staying for the time being. His other daughter is also there. I check the deceased’s name, age (87) and the date and time of the funeral. We sort out hymns and readings and I begin to ask about her life. They’ve been married for over 60 years. It turns out she has had heart and other serious health problems since her early sixties. Papworth Hospital fitted a pacemaker and later on did by-pass surgery, which extended her life by 25 years. She has had a good innings. But her husband is clearly very agitated. Then, without warning, he blurts out, in a loud voice: ‘It’s so unfair! So unfair!’ Then he wails: ‘Why? Why?’ Instead of gratitude for their 25 bonus years together, he feels bitter and aggrieved. All he can think of is how unfair it all seems, how alone he now is, how badly done by. I feel the anger well up again within me. I look straight at him: ‘You ungrateful old sod! How dare you complain! You don’t know how bloody lucky you are! She lived for 87 years. Eighty-seven! Not 21, like my son! So don’t give me your pathetic, self-indulgent: “Why?”!’

This time I manage to control my anger. I say this to myself. To him I say, with all the sympathy I can muster, which isn’t much: ‘I am so very sorry.’ I go home, deeply shaken.

The following week I decide to do some pastoral visiting. I book three visits in my diary. People I know well who are lonely and would appreciate a visit. Not difficult visits. Betty is first up. She is a small, elderly woman with a big personality who has had a difficult life. She lives in the back room of a council house, heated by a single paraffin heater to save money. She is eccentric, but I like her a lot. Almost every time I go to see her she hands me a grimy, old envelope. Inside are several ten- and twenty-pound notes. ‘This is for the pipeline,’ she says, in a low voice, meaning the water project our church is supporting in Uganda. She has given me over £1000 for this project during the past year alone, all saved from her pension, but this time there is no envelope. She wades straight in. She says, angrily: ‘Why didn’t you go and see Elsie before she died?’ ‘Well,’ I begin, ‘to be honest I’ve not really been much in circulation, as you know. Ank went to see her – and, in any case, she was a Catholic and the Catholic priest has been to see her.’ She is not to be put off so easily. She states categorically that I am the vicar, this is my parish and I should have gone – and that’s that. I start to become angry myself and can scarcely restrain myself from retaliating and saying something, to this generous, faithful, frail, if sometimes difficult, elderly woman, that I might deeply regret. I leave under a cloud, feeling dreadful. I can’t face the other two visits. I am drained and exhausted. I go straight back home instead.

As an adult I have often reflected on how fortunate I was to have such loving and supportive parents and extended family. They provided a solid foundation that has given me considerable inner strength – and I have needed it. Some years ago, when I was a curate, the vicar was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. At about the same time his marriage broke down. His emotional turmoil and worsening health were, for better or worse, played out in the church community. It meant that what had been a large, thriving, confident congregation began to flounder. As I stand at the door of the church one Sunday morning, greeting people as they leave, Margery, a member of the congregation, grasps my hand fiercely and says: ‘Thank God for you, Alan! You’ve got strength enough for us all!’ At first I am flattered, but, gradually, I begin to see what a lie it is. Now, years later, after Tom’s death, any remaining thoughts of being strong have gone. I am no longer robust. I am shattered, broken. Now it is my turn to see my personal turmoil and tragedy being played out in public, in a different church and a different community. I have tried to love and minister to people on this council estate parish on the edge of Cambridge for over ten years, but now it seems to me like a bottomless pit of need, overwhelming me. I know that I simply cannot meet that need any more.