The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

‘Merrily, in these litigious times…’

‘I see.’

‘Anyway,’ Asprey said, ‘I thought you ought to know. I realize it can be quite embarrassing for someone in your position when people latch on to something like this and blow it up into something it isn’t.’

‘Yes,’ Merrily said. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’

When he hung up, she was looking at the moon over Paul Klee’s rooftops in the print opposite the desk. The moon was very faintly blue. She looked down at the sermon pad and saw that under the apple she’d printed the words SMUG and GIT.

At dusk, Merrily went to lock up the church, glancing, on the way out, at the prayer board on which parishioners could write the names of people for whom they’d like prayers to be said.

There were twice as many as usual. One had the final sentence underlined; it said: THIS IS FOR SUNDAY NIGHT.

Walking back through the churchyard, an isolated spurt of sleet hit her like grit from under lorry wheels, and she hurried under the lych gate.

What did you do here? What did you do about healing? How did you explain all those times when there was no cure, when the condition worsened? What did you say to them when, after the quiet times, after the unity, after the being part of something bigger… what did you say to them when, after all that, God appeared to have let them down badly?

Back in the scullery, with about twenty minutes before Jane’s school bus was due on the square, she prodded in the number for Sophie at the Hereford Cathedral gatehouse. Time to make an appointment with Bernie Dunmore.

‘Gatehouse.’ Male voice.

‘Bishop…?’

‘Merrily Watkins, as I live and breathe.’ Bernie sniffed. ‘Well, with slight difficulty at the moment, seem to be developing a cold. Sophie’s just popped across to Fodder to get me some herbal thing which she insists is going to deal with it.’

‘Echinacea?’

‘What’s wrong with Sudafed, I say.’

‘It’s a drug.’

‘And?’

‘Bernie,’ Merrily said, ‘where do we stand on healing?’

‘As in…?’

‘Spiritual.’

‘We brought out an extensive report,’ the Bishop reminded her. ‘It’s called “A Time for Healing.”

“A Time to Heal”. No, when I say we, I mean we, the Diocese. As distinct from we, the Church.’

‘Bugger,’ said the Bishop. ‘Have you no pity for a man with a cold? Your department we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Healing and Deliverance. Remember?’

‘Is it, though? My job description says Deliverance. Healing sounds like the C of E spin doctors softening it up. Less bell, book and candle, more touchy-feely caring.’

‘You have a specific problem with that?’

‘Possibly.’

The Bishop didn’t reply. He would know better than to quote St Mark’s version of Jesus’s parting message, pre-ascension; as well as the Church’s healing mission, it appeared to advocate picking up snakes, cause of many deaths in the US Bible Belt.

‘All right, I’ve been doing this slightly experimental Sunday-evening service,’ Merrily said. ‘Loose, open- ended. I thought it was working. I mean, it brought in some of the villagers who normally wouldn’t notice if the steeple fell off. Even Jane’s been a couple of times, when the weekend job allows. So… a modest success.’

‘What I like to hear.’

‘People actually saying they’re reaching something deeper in the way of understanding and awareness. And discovering you can actually learn meditation for free. But it wasn’t meant to be… I mean, it didn’t start out as a healing session. We did pray, though, as you would, for a woman who’d been told she had a malignant tumour. A week later she was told that she didn’t have a tumour at all.’

‘Congratulations,’ the Bishop said.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t be more delighted—’

‘But you can’t help wondering if it was an answer to your prayers, in the strictest sense.’

‘The local GP rang to point out that it was probably a misdiagnosis. Or a technological problem with the scanner. Or an administrative cock-up, or — at worst — one of those very rare medical anomalies. Now, he could be entirely wrong, or covering something up. And he’s massively out-numbered by all those people who would clearly like to think that something did happen…’

‘Obviously.’

‘But… Bernie, they’ve started to bring out their sick. They’re recalling lesser ailments prayed for and subsequently eased. This morning I was asked if I’d mind curing someone’s asthma, even though he doesn’t live in the parish.’

‘They believe you’re a latent healer?’

‘I stress that if it’s happening it’s not down to me, but I suspect there’s a feeling that the Deliverance minister has a hot line. Like the fourth emergency service? The nature of the Sunday-evening service has been… misrepresented.’

The Bishop breathed so heavily into the phone that it was like the germs were coming down the line.

‘You do have a more exciting ministry than most of us, don’t you, Merrily?’

‘Maybe I’m missing the humour here, Bishop. Young guy who gets acute asthma attacks and whose aunt is afraid that the next time it happens…?’

There was a long pause. Down the phone, she could hear the traffic in Broad Street, a door opening and closing, quick footsteps on the stone stairway to the gatehouse offices.

‘You know Jeavons is back,’ the Bishop said.

‘Jeav—? Oh.’

‘I mean, if you wanted to talk to someone about this. Someone who actually knows about it, as distinct from a knackered old admin bloke like me. I was only thinking, with Huw Owen being away…’

‘I’ve never met Jeavons,’ Merrily said.

The Bishop blew his nose. ‘You’re not the first to raise the question of healing lately. Healing groups is the normal approach. I think we all agree it’s better to share the burden. It also raises ecumenical possibilities, particularly with the Catholics, and I’m quite drawn to that. Ah… hold on one moment…’

She heard another voice. She heard the Bishop saying, ‘Well, I don’t know how to work the blessed thing.’ She thought about Catholic priests she knew and how they’d react to the idea of working with a woman.

Bernie came back on the line. ‘Sophie goes out for five minutes, place ceases to function. Did I mention Jeavons?’

‘He’s in Worcestershire, right?’

‘He’s been abroad. Semi-retired now, of course. Rather prematurely. Few years ago, there was a move to fast-track him into purple — view to Canterbury, one suspects. The little greaseball Blair was keen, for obvious reasons. Red faces all round when Jeavons tosses it back at them and says he’ll retire instead. What he wanted, we discover, was his freedom, to pursue his specialist interests, hover over psychic surgeons in Chile.’

‘At the Church’s expense?’

‘Dunno. My information is that he’s back in the country and available as a consultant to selected clerics — although I was once told it would be unwise to refer just anybody.’

‘Huw talked about him once,’ Merrily recalled. ‘Only—’

‘Because, if anyone’s on the edge of a crisis, Jeavons has been known to tip them over.’