fiction
The Sociopathic Vicar’s Curate’s Christmas – Part 2
Soon I would be leaving my curacy to be installed in my first parish. To satisfy any curiosity, the process of a parish taking on a new vicar is referred to as installation. Rather like installing new software on a computer. Except with less bad language and a greater likelihood of the vicar working correctly. Hopefully.
My curacy had been a useful and necessary step on the path to becoming Archbishop of Canterbury. I had learnt a little more of the ways of the Church and developed a good reputation in the process.
But.
But there was Ms. Orslow, head teacher of the local primary school and her production of the Nativity. I had given her sensible advice, but I knew that as soon as I had left, she would have whipped the tea-towel off Abdul’s head for the sake of the “optics”. And there would be a strictly unclean breakfast of bacon and sausages offered to Mary and Joseph.
Additionally, her casual assumption of myself as a programmable decoration at her Nativity was unacceptable.
Life had taught me that if you leave a problem then sooner or later, it will be back to bite, so I pondered the best course of action as I walked home. I took a short cut through the local Tesco, picking up a pint of milk on the way. It’s a large store, designed to attract trade from the nearby dual carriageway.
As I passed the sandwich section, I saw Adrian Nelson. He worked for the local rag and did a lot event coverage. A few photos and a hundred words with a list of participants – that kind of thing. Earlier in the year I had helped him through a difficult bereavement.
“Hello, Adrian,” I said. “Getting your dinner?”
He smiled and said, “Yeah,” picking up a plastic container of cold pasta. “Just enough to keep me going until after the Nativity play.”
“Ah! So, you’re doing the report for the paper, are you?”
That little chat went quite smoothly. People might be surprised that I spend so much time talking to people. It is simple. It is about investment and increasing the utility of those around you. If you invest in people, then they don’t mind doing you the occasional favour.
Walking down one aisle, and past the end of another. I saw a couple with a baby carrier perched on top of their trolley. The man picked up a bottle of wine from an aisle-end display and put it in the trolley. The woman took it out again and put in back on the display.
I strode over to them, and said, “Marina! Mike! How are you? And how is little Jessica?”
As soon as they saw me, their faces lit up. Little Jessica had not had the easiest start to life, and I had visited the neo-natal ward every day for a month. Not that they were church-goers - I had just been there for them. And the lack of church involvement meant they were effectively off-grid.
“Hi David,” said Marina, “Jessica’s doing really well and looking forward to her first Christmas!”
“I am so glad to hear it. I saw her big sister, Lucy, at the Nativity rehearsal.”
“Yes, she’s playing Mary. We’re so proud. Mike has even got out of work early to see her.”
They were on a tight timetable, because there was only just enough time to pick up Lucy after school, get her fed, and then back to school again for the Nativity. Still, we managed to have a useful talk before going our separate ways.
I arrived at the school promptly at five and Ms. Orslow waved me over to my allocated seat in a disinterested fashion. Making my way across the school hall, I nodded to the editor of the local paper.
“Evening, Jon,” I said. “I’m surprised to see you here. I would have thought Adrian would have been doing tonight.”
He shrugged, “Adrian came over unwell, and the job had to be done.”
I nodded and took my seat. Adrian’s illness was not exactly a surprise, after my earlier encounter.
Parents filed in, sitting awkwardly in chairs designed for people half their size. Eventually, ten minutes late, the event started.
Although Abdul started without a tea-towel on his head, I have to say that the Nativity went well. I particularly liked the bit where Mary – played by Lucy – took the tea-towel off her own head and placed it on Abdul’s. It quite made his day, and his parents were smiling broadly. One of the reception children tripped over her over-sized cardboard sausage, but Jon very kindly helped her up. Probably the only time in his life he would touch a sausage.
We sang Away in a Manger, with varying degrees of accuracy, and I said a few words in exactly the way Ms. Orslow hadn’t wanted before I led a standardised prayer. Ms. Orslow thanked all concerned and a few who weren’t, and the Nativity ended.
I mingled afterwards as proud parents waited to pick up their offspring. Jon the editor spoke a few moments with Ms. Orslow and then departed. As he left, he nodded and smiled to me. I left a few minutes later.
As I was crossing the car park, I heard quick footsteps behind me.
“Curate!” someone called.
“Ah, Ms. Orslow,” I replied, turning to face her. I waited for her to speak, but she just stood there, clenching her fists by sides. I heard a slight squeaking noise and realised she was grinding her teeth. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone look quite so angry. I regarded her with interest, to see what would happen next. When nothing did, I decided to give her a little prompt.
“I thought it was a very nice touch the way the girl playing Mary gave Abdul her tea-towel,” I said. “Very inclusive.”
“She wasn’t supposed to do that, and you know it! It spoiled the optics of the whole thing! You set that up, didn’t you?”
“How could I? She doesn’t come from a church family.”
“And that newspaper man! He was all over the bacon and sausages.”
“I assure you that I barely know Jon Gold, but I did tell you it was problematic.”
“Oh, I know you did. You act so holy, but you’re just like me, aren’t you?”
At the point, I tuned out. When someone can say lines like that, you know they have a Netflix subscription. Anyone else would realise how stupid it sounds. I let her rattle on for a while before interrupting.
“Jonathan Gold left Fleet Street because he got bored of politicians and thought he might make a difference in the local community. He now feels justified.”
“What do you mean?”
“He will write the standard article on the Nativity suitable for consumption by the families. Then he will write an editorial about you, addressing the difference between the needs of the school and the needs of the individual. And he’ll keep watching you. You will no longer be able to put the “optics” of the children above their needs.”
“But… but why?”
“Because you have been putting the cart before the horse. Because you confuse the good of the school and the good of the child. You make the children, and all those associated the servants of the school. What Jon understands is that the school should be the servant of the child. When you forget that, the children can become a convenient, mass produced commodity.”
“And you’re claiming your Church is different?”
“Remember what I said before the prayers, about the message of Christmas? I believe in what I say, and in my own way, I try to live by it. Sometimes I really wish that I didn’t, because it would make life so much easier. But the message is what it is. Love, truth, peace, and justice.”
I turned and walked away.
I suppose that if I had a Netflix subscription, I would have been tempted to call “Merry Christmas”, or, more likely, “Happy Holidays” over my shoulder. But I don’t.
I walked away in silence, concentrating on keeping directly between Ms. Orslow and the streetlamp, so the light would create a nice halo-and-silhouette around me. It would have spoilt the effect to turn around to see what she was doing, but I heard nothing, so presumably she was standing still and fuming. Maybe even thinking, although perhaps that is a little too much to hope for.
Still, it shows that even sociopaths can have a happy Christmas.
Disclaimer: Although handling a situation like this correctly is difficult for anyone, as usual, Rev. David Wilson’s use of the ends to justify the means is problematic.