Alright, Vicar?

Alright, Vicar? 

The Vicar was tired. He didn't sleep much last night, he never did, but he was about to plough forward through his long, arduous day as he always did. The Vicar was a faithful and kind man, always putting others before himself and making doubly sure that people's needs were met and that they felt loved and valued. He never had a bad word to say against anyone, nor did he use any foul language or that which would cause offence to anyone around him. He was respectable and well loved by his parishioners. If ever there was a person so made for their calling, it was him, and he was humble about it. 

A vicar's life is never an easy one with countless committee meetings and PCC’s to attend and the mountain upon mountains of pastoral visits to make to the sick, the dying, the bereaved, the abused, and all manner of upsetting situations. All of this and more around the whole of Whitby. Of course, the Vicar attended a great deal of parishioners who were celebrating some pretty joyful moments, such as one of them being confirmed and another who just passed their medical degree, but somehow he couldn't seem to share their joy, it was like something inside of him just didn't know how to be joyful anymore, like a shadow had taken hold of his weary soul. Still, he sucked it up and got on with it. 

One fine Monday morning, the Vicar plodded down the cobble street set a few meters away from the river which eventually led to the North Sea, looking rather tired with bags under his eyes and a gait more lethargic than a drunkard's pitiful morning of unending pain and sickness.

The Vicar approached a cosy little shop in the middle of a terrace of vendors of all kinds, with the scent of fresh doughnuts and coffee racing by his nose, but he didn't seem to pat much attention to it. The shop had a large, clean window spanning the width of the shop. Written in gold, typewriter style text was the name “Little One's Emporium”, a baby's cotton garments and little handcrafted wooden toys lurking in the window driving home the shop’s point. The Vicar nodded to himself and looked down at a business card held lightly in his hand, bearing the same name as the shop. He took a few steps forward and opened the wooden door, strolling in a pram full of baby clothes and other baby products. He strolled up to the unmanned counter and waited patiently for a member of staff to greet him. He waited for a few minutes but no one was in sight. He bent over the counter trying to find any signs of life, but he didn't notice anything that implied anyone worked there. He knew shops that sold baby products tended to be neat and tidy but this seemed a little excessive. Everything was so pristine and organised, he felt a bit jealous, thinking of his cluttered desk and untidy office. Suddenly, like a ghost flying out from the shadows, an elderly woman with grey, curly hair appeared at the counter, startling the Vicar, much to his bemusement. 

“How can I help you, Vicar?” the woman inquired. 

“Will you take any of these?” The Vicar pointed to the pram and the items inside, trying to slow his breathing after almost jumping through the roof.

The woman leaned over the counter and pushed her glasses further down her nose, carefully studying the items in the pram looking for any signs of damage and stains. 

“Oh yes, absolutely! Let me have a look and see how much I can give you.” The woman was delighted at such a large haul but this didn't stop her from scrutinising the items even more closely. 

“No payment necessary. Consider it a donation for the families in hardship.” The Vicar didn't smile or look charitable, he simply spoke, showing little emotion at all. 

“All grown up, eh? Been there before.” The woman walked over to the pram and started unloading the items. “Sarah!” the woman screamed. “Help me with these would you?” 

“I'm sorry but I'm going to have to go, I have an important meeting I need to be at.” The Vicar said. 

“Oh that's no bother at all dear, you leave this with us and we'll make sure the right people get it. You have a nice day now, Vicar!”

***

On that same Monday morning, the Vicar was strutting down the cobble streets to meet a parishioner to discuss funeral arrangements for the poor soul's deceased wife, hence the black outfit the Vicar was sporting and the rather large briefcase, no doubt brimming with prayer books, crosses, and tea lights. The sun was beating down on him much to his pleasure and dismay as it made the day all the more enchanting with the clear blue skies and the warm kiss of the slight breeze, but unfortunately all this came at the cost of being overly hot in the black shirt, causing him to sweat like he'd been sat in a sauna for an hour or so. The Vicar was so very conscious of the patches of sweat under his arms and around his back, making parts of his shirt a darker shade of black, that he had decided it would be best to stop every now and then to let the breeze attempt to dry him a little, although he knew the breeze wasn't strong enough to even start drying him off, he mainly wanted to breathe in the fresh sea air. However, even with the sea right beside him he still didn't crack a smile, only giving the sea a slight nod as if he was thanking it for the excuse to take a break. As he stood gazing out at the sea, motionless and expressionless as though he had been whisked away to another world, a man in a tracksuit came jogging by, completely out of breath but determined to keep on moving. 

“Alright, Vicar!” the man exclaimed, snapping the Vicar back into the world. The man continued jogging on without ever looking back, huffing and puffing as he went. The Vicar looked around frantically as he tried to get his bearings and, in a somewhat trance-like state, continued on his way. 

***

Staring at the plastic number ‘thirteen’ nailed to the tattered black wooden gate held precariously by rusted hinges drilled into the waist high brick wall, the Vicar took a deep, shaky breath and clenched his briefcase tightly. He took another deep breath and crossed himself before grabbing the rusty handle and pushing it down ever so slightly. As he gently pushed open the gate he was startled by the clang of metal crashing to the stone floor. Without hesitation the Vicar entered the small well kept garden and cautiously looked around, noticing the equally rusted inside handle lying in pieces, hoping no one saw his embarrassing action. The Vicar looked horrified, as though he had committed some great carnal sin. As he knelt down to inspect the damage a young, casually dressed man approached him. 

“Alright Vicar,” the man smiled, noticing the embarrassment on the Vicar's red face. “Don't worry about that, it's been dying to come off. I didn't get round to fixing it, so I'm glad really. Won't you come in? It's much cooler inside”. 

The Vicar stood up straight and brushed himself down, desperately trying to regain his self pride, and smiled slightly. The Vicar was always cheered up, even if only a little, by the seemingly brazen Northern accent, much different from the King's English he was used to. 

As the Vicar passed through the hallway of the little, cosy house, a photo of a woman set in a well dusted and polished wooden frame caught his eyes. She was well dressed, wearing a floral pink dress with frills by the wrists and at the hem. She looked so happy as the golden, late evening glow of the sun beat down on her face, almost turning her long, blonde, wavy hair to gold. The Vicar didn't smile or even react to the photo, merely wondering to himself why she was so happy, indeed how she could have been so happy. Watching him ponder through the kitchen door frame, the man began to fill an iron kettle and turn on the gas hob before gently placing the kettle down to boil. 

“Tea, Vicar?” the man inquired, attempting to free the Vicar from his prison of thought. 

“Please,” the Vicar said, somewhat startled by the man's question from out of the silence. “Your wife?”

The man's eyes darted around, starting to shine all the more. “Yes. Charlotte.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

Baffled by the man's question, the Vicar didn't respond. They both locked eyes, staring deep into one another, almost looking through each other. As they held their eyes in their places within the uncomfortable silence the iron kettle began to screech, spewing steam from its spout without end. The man continued to hold eye contact for a brief moment before snapping back into reality, turning quickly and whacking off the gas hob. He bowed his head over the kettle for a brief moment then he picked up the kettle and poured the water into two floral patterned mugs. 

“Why an iron kettle?” the Vicar asked, his voice solemn and quiet. 

“Charlotte bought it on our honeymoon. She loves… loved… rustic and traditional items.” A dark wave washed over the man's face, pulling his forehead down and drawing tears to the cusp of his eyes. 

The man walked past the Vicar, neither of them looking the other in the eyes. The Vicar followed and they both sat down in traditional looking armchairs in the living room. 

In the cosy, sunlit room the Vicar sat down in a smooth fabric armchair, the kind one would expect to see in a nineteenth century stately home, and opened his briefcase, pulling out books of various sizes and colours. He put his hand in the case another time but paused before looking up at the man to meet his gaze. The Vicar looked down at his case and slowly lifted out a small wooden cross standing on a wooden base and gently set it down on the round coffee table between him and the man. The man winced ever so slightly, so subtly in fact that he wasn't fully sure that he had actually shown any expression at all. However, the Vicar, with his keen eye for detail drilled into his character during his clerical training, detected the man's discomfort as though he had seen him jump out of his seat with unbridled horror. 

“Don't like religion, Matt?” the Vicar inquired. 

“I have my reasons, Vicar.” Matt said, his eyes not showing any sign of losing grip on the Vicar's. 

“Your wife, Charlotte… I'm sorry.” the Vicar said with a slight tone of comfort. 

“I know. Thank you.”

Matt’s eyes welled up with so many tears that even the slightest blink would have sent them cascading down his cheeks like a waterfall after days of constant, heavy rainfall. The Vicar's face remained as solemn as it had all day. 

“I loved her, you know.” Matt’s voice began to crack as the strain of his grief pulled harder and harder, dragging his soul to the pits of the Earth. “It's like every day has become, I don't know, numb, dark. I can't…” Matt broke down and the tears sitting at the edges of his eyes finally burst their banks and flooded down his face. He bowed his head and buried himself in his hands, clawing at his hair and slowly moving his head in every direction as he tried to find some peace in the noise inside his mind. The Vicar looked on with the same neutral expression, almost like he wasn't even there witnessing the life destroying grief of the poor man in front of him. He raised his arm slightly with an open hand and reached towards Matt but recoiled before he could extend the gift of comfort to him. Despite the Vicar's internal confusion, he couldn't bare the sight of Matt doubled over with grief like he had unbearable pain in his stomach, and he outstretched his arm once more and committed to the act of comfort by placing his open hand on Matt’s shoulder. 

“I know.” the Vicar said, his own voice starting to break as though Matt’s pain had travelled through the Vicar's arm and right into his heart. Tears began to pool in his eyes and every now and then one would break out and trickle down his quivering cheek. “I know, I really do.”

“Alright, Vicar?” said Matt, taking his head out of his hands and looking towards the Vicar with his still tear filled eyes. 

“No.”

“I know you're here to talk about my Charlotte's funeral, but I've had time. You haven't, have you?”

“No.”

Matt took a deep breath and sat up straight, composing himself and wiping away his tears. He stood up and dragged his chair beside the Vicar's. The Vicar had his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably at his own grief. 

“This isn't right. This isn't why I'm here.” the Vicar said. 

“I've had time, Jim, time to sit with it and accept it. Since Emma died you've not stopped. Such is a Vicar's life I suppose, but still, you're human.” Matt sat down and wrapped Jim in his arms, pulling him close to his heart. 

“I have my moments of grief that are hard, but I'm OK, Jim. Talk to me.” Matt simply looked at the Vicar, willing him to just hand him his pain. 

“Where do I start? I'm never asked to talk. I don't know where to start.”

“It's hard and I know it was some months ago, but what happened?”

“My Emma… She was… Stabbed. Murder-suicide.”

There was an awful silence that filled both the room and their souls, piercing their hearts and filling Matt with dread. 

“Jesus Christ,” Matt cursed, “Forgive me, Jim, but Jesus Christ. I knew it wasn't a peaceful end but I didn't know that. I'm so sorry.” Matt pulled Jim towards his heart even harder, trying to steal his pain and destroy it within himself. He hated seeing such a strong man, trusted and loved by a whole town, completely shattered into thousands of tiny shards, cutting Jim as each shard crashed to the ground. 

How could we have overlooked the Vicar's pain?  Matt thought with a feeling of guilt that even he hadn't checked in with Jim to see if he was OK. Maybe he felt guilty on behalf of the whole congregation and parishioners; he wasn't so sure what he felt. Have we really taken Jim for granted? It seemed so, and Matt knew it was true. 

“You know she was pregnant with twins? A boy and a girl. We were so happy.” Jim broke the silence with a revelation so disturbing that the difficult silence would've been happier. “We were going to call our boy ‘James’ and our girl ‘Lisa’. We were so excited. They couldn't be saved. She was stabbed right through the womb and then the heart. Right through the fucking womb!” Jim shouted with such anger that he would've made even the Devil shake in his boots. “And I saw it all.”

Matt turned white as he digested the horrors Jim had witnessed. 

“And yet,” said Matt, “you continued to care, to serve us all with all your heart and soul.”

Jim looked up at Matt and smiled. 

“Thank you.”

“Why thank me? Didn't I just make you relive something you would rather have hurried?”

“Yes, but you're the first to ask.”

Wiping his tears from his cheeks and drying his eyes, the Vicar sat up straight and grabbed his notebook and pen. For the first time since Emma's passing, Jim smiled. He smiled so brightly and with so much relief at the passing weight he had been carrying for a long time that Matt smiled too, not anxious about discussing Charlotte's funeral. They both looked at each other knowing their pain and felt a wave of peace flow over them. From that moment on they needn't carry such colossal weight with them anymore. They had banished all that destroyed their souls from each other, and they began planning the send off Charlotte deserved. 

After that day, Matt and Jim met regularly, be it at a coffee shop, at the local park, or in either of their houses. They would reminisce about their lives with Charlotte and Emma. They laughed and they cried, sharing every detail of their lives knowing the bond they had formed through their shared pain. The parishioners understood what Jim had endured and finally started to see him as a man with emotion like the rest of them, finally seeing him and not just using him. Finally, after so long being trapped in the dark, the Vicar continued to care and serve, but this time with a smile so profound no one could take it away. The Vicar felt like Jim again, resurrected from his own grave, and he was happy.