Here's one I wrote earlier

I enjoyed writing this, I wonder if nayone can be arsed to read it!

“Is this the real life, is this just fantasy?” By Tony Hebden

The car-park was now full and Edward, transformed into a traffic-warden for the day, was consequently directing the chauffeur-driven cars into the gaps between the trees in the episcopal estate – “thank goodness it’s been dry this week,” he thought, mentally wearing his other, gardener’s hat, for the moment.

The bishop called them to order.  As the one tasked by his Grace with chairing the meeting, without prejudicing the outcome, of course, it was his duty to stick to the timing the Archbishops’ Commission had set.  By 5 pm that afternoon they had to know the name of the newly-formed diocese – and to be ready to offer a recommendation as to which one of them, or some other, should become the new ‘Ordinary’ or ‘super-bishop’ as the media were already calling him – no chance of a woman this time, but next, who could tell?  He sighed; caretaking an amalgamation of dioceses was one thing, dealing with the aftermath of women in the episcopate was better left to those at the very top of the tree, or at least the over-paid bureaucrats in London – it was, he had to admit, beyond him.

They were looking at him now, a sea of dog-collared heads with their carefully studied expressions of righteous ‘nearer-my-God-to-thee’ concern mixed with an affected air of disinterest – they didn’t fool him – they all had their own well-argued speeches to persuade the commissioners that the new diocese should perpetuate their own See in some form, and, without any shadow of a doubt, they all wanted the job that was rightly his.  He’d ordered his first mitre whilst at least two of them were still curates.  It was his house, he was chairing the meeting – the day, he vowed, would be HIS!

* * * * * *

Tom parked his car some distance away.  It would give him valuable seconds before arriving at the door.  Seconds, for what, he wasn’t sure – to pray, to discover an urgent appointment, to develop an uncontrollable illness?  Inexplicably he had already reached the door and turned the handle; she was too ill to open the door for him herself and the carers wouldn’t be back for over an hour.  Quite a risk leaving the door unlocked perhaps, but, in her condition, a thump on the head from a burglar’s blunt instrument would be a welcome shortcut, a merciful exit from the unbearable journey which he, as her priest, was now about to share.

* * * * * *

 

“The inescapably industrial nature of the new See would not be mirrored in a diocese named after the most rural city in the County, namely Ripon.  Nor would the title ‘Diocese of Wakefield’ be anything but a throwback to the days, long past, of the three Ridings and Robin Hood.  Bradford and its infamous ‘hole’ have become a byword for inter-racial conflict, over-ambitious planning and local-government incompetence, whereas Leeds is a modern, vibrant commercial and social centre with two first-class universities and the finest teaching hospital in Europe.  It is a cultural magnet, a first-choice venue for inter-national sporting and music events, home to world-class theatre, opera and ballet companies, with a football team on the fringes of the Premier League – just missed the play-offs this time, but next season . . .”  The 38 year old suffragan paused, blushing, he’d gone too far, but at least his words were being recorded – in print they would look far more convincing.

* * * * * *

Tom held her hand gently, bending down to catch her words, steadfastly ignoring the plaque-encrusted teeth and the gaping nightdress which, on a younger woman, could be evidence of an attempt to seduce him, but, for her, was a sign that she no longer cared for her dignity or her reputation.  The chart detailed every bowel-movement, her urine filled the bag by his leg – her concerns were elsewhere – heavenward he hoped.  She spoke.

“He loved me and I loved him.  The hitting was the drink – she should never have said those things about her dad.  She didn’t even get to . . .”  The tears were hard to see, but the heaving of her shoulders told him that she was sobbing, not crying.  Their only child, now living in New Zealand, would not be flying-back soon – something they both knew, but would never discuss.  Whose contrition should he be fostering?  What easing of her passing would he offer – he didn’t know, this was his third visit in as many days and he still found himself wordless on the matter.  Squeezing her hand he said a prayer. She smiled, there was comfort for both of them in that gesture and he was gone, late for his tea and unprepared for the PCC meeting once again.

* * * * * *

 

“A reduction in the number of bishops would, in fact, save very little money.  The level of bureaucracy will, quite clearly, be determined by the number of parishes and the type and quantity of the necessary structures and, as we all know, it’s that that will constitute the greatest expense, not the number of us chaps, or gals, wearing purple shirts!”  He’d got them back now, he knew. This was something they would all agree on and the smirks, on cue, at his reference to women bishops, sealed his triumph.  They all knew now that he was the safe pair of hands at the tiller through these choppy waters . . .

* * * * * *

 

“Mary rang again about the invoice for that paper, and the couple wanting a baptism for their four-year-old.  I can’t keep putting them off.  Did you get back to the funeral director about the gravestone – it may not be Shakespeare, but it’s what the family want and they’ll only appeal to the bishop if you say ‘no’ and when has he ever refused a bereaved family?  He can’t afford to look bad in the local press, not when he wants to be the ‘super-bishop’.”

 

Tom sighed.  She was right, but how could he possibly comment?  As the bishop said at synod, only last week, it was important for the people to know their bishop; he had to be local and familiar – the code was easily broken, but the truth was that, unlike the amalgamation of any two or three parishes, there would be no loss in the number of chiefs when the old dioceses came together to form the new one and, as one of life’s little ‘indians’,  he’d better be careful what he said if he didn’t want four parishes next time.

* * * * * *

“So, in conclusion, we’ve prayed, spoken, reflected and considered-carefully and we’re now ready for the final act of discernment.  But, before we complete the process I’d like to invite you to some refreshments on the palace lawn – a little indulgent perhaps, but, after all, we’re holding the future of several million people in our hands – we don’t want their spiritual needs to be mishandled just because of low blood-sugar or the distraction of rumbling tummies, surely.”  Game, set and match?  The archdeacon smiled, his name was already pencilled-in as the first area-bishop of Huddersfield – if he ascended to the newly-created throne – and his archdeacon wasn’t known as ‘the Bulldog’ for nothing – he’d snap at their heels all right – it wasn’t just God that moved in mysterious ways, he mused.

* * * * * *

Tom left the PCC meeting both heartened and disappointed.  There was still a huge shortfall between the money on the plate and in the envelopes and the parish-share, but Sheila had been pure gold.  Her story of coming to faith following the death of her son had moved everyone.  That suggestion of sharing personal stories in house-groups had been unexpected – how did Bill know that he’d been toying with the idea himself?  Well-handled it could transform the congregation from a third-rate religious social club into a God-centred Christian Community . . .

* * * * * *

 

“So, we’re all agreed then . . . the new diocese will be called  . . . .”

* * * * * *

As his mobile rang, Tom was already dressing.  He knew she’d never last the night.  Just as well he’d stayed-up to prepare the funeral – at least he could have a nap afterwards.  Mary would just have to be patient a bit longer – Lord, it was only two reams of paper, after all!