TT - 25 Douglas Takes Michael by Surprise

Michael Glebe steps out into the cold November air and thinks about gloves for the first time in seven months. It seems so long since he's had to think about dressing his hands before leaving the house that he recalls the old routine as though it were some some strange and forgotten ritual from his distant past, like the annual letting down of his school blazer cuffs. He slings his bag across his body, courier style, and decides to brave it manually naked. He has already spent more time than seems possible in a hamster wheel of self-defeating tasks that morning and he can’t face going back into his flat above the cafe for another round of re-losing his keys whilst looking for his gloves which he knows he had right before he started looking for his library card...

Michael passes down the narrow side-passage between the cafe and the Morgan’s house and opens the gate into the little courtyard garden where Sal lets him keep his bike . Roz is standing outside the loo which has been tacked onto the back of the cafe. Her wild, aubergine hair is in two bunches today.
“Not planning on going in there, are you?” She says, nodding her head towards the lav door and dipping into a packet of Revels
“Hmm? Oh no - just getting my bike.” Michael says with a brief smile and takes hold of the handle bars.
“Good. I’m waiting to do a second flush.” She takes another handful of brown shiny nuggets and pops them into her mouth.

Michael is now in a bind. His flat is an existential horror scene of overdue library books, belching bins, and unopened mail. Beyond the passage is the High Street with its endless stream of beaming villagers looming up at him like manikins in a ghost ride "So?! How did it go? Should we call you Doctor Glebe? Not yet? Oh well, never mind. Chin up!" And between the rock and the hard place: Roz, hand dipping rhythmically into the Revels, waiting to go back in for a second flush.

Michael decides to make a dash straight across the High Street and into the church yard. Then it’s just a short stretch up Blythe Lane before escaping onto the footpath. This will take him across the railway tracks and out through the new housing development where he doesn't know anyone - where nobody knows anyone - and bring him back onto the University road a safe quarter of a mile beyond the village. He wheels his bike back up the passage, checks for oncoming pedestrians in both directions, then darts across the road and through the wrought iron gates of St Maggie’s churchyard. It’s a clear bright morning and the large trees cast strong shadows across the grass and the old tombs. One or two leaves still spin on invisible threads beneath the branches. The air smells of cold.

As Michael approaches the small gate that opens onto Blythe Lane he realises he is not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the churchyard. He leans his bike against a bench and sits down. Emboldened by the quietness of the village, he starts to fantasise about making it to the Village Deli unaccosted for a capuccino and a still-warm pecan slice. He’s already been through the ‘failed my viva, oh dear, how sad, never mind’ routine with the exuberantly camp proprietor, Jason (“never mind lovey, the examiner was probably just jealous of your biceps.”), and the shop should be quiet at this time of the morning.

Michael leaves his bike unlocked, not because Tendringhoe is idyllically free of crime, but because he has faith in its inbuilt anti-theft device, which is to say, only he knows that the handlebars have to be directed 6º east of the actual direction in which the rider intends to travel. The Deli dash is successful. The bike is still there when he returns. The Capuccino keeps his hands warm. It’s too good, of course, and sure enough, just as Michael has dabbed the last remaining dob of maple syrup from the paper wrapper he hears the vestry door open. Looking up he sees Douglas Carduggan swishing towards him in his Church of England frock, his crisp white surplus as beautifully shadowed as sculpted marble, and an oversized green and gold book-mark hanging round his neck.

Of all the silhouettes that currently threaten to pop up at windows, spring out of doorways, or lever up from the ground like a Western-themed target practice, Douglas’s is the most dreaded. Although he has never articulated it to himself explicitly, Michael intuitively understands that Douglas relishes a role; whether it be liberal vicar, godly gastronome, or Post-Bultmannian centre-forward, and he understands perfectly the bit-part that he is expected to play. Indeed, this is his own particular area of expertise. But how can Michael be Phaedrus to Douglas’s Socrates when he comes from the house of Lysias not with an exquisitely crafted speech but with a big fat turkey of a fail.

“Well if it isn’t young Mr Glebe!” Douglas sits beside him on the bench. Michael feels the wooden slats bow slightly beneath him.
“Hello Douglas, and before you ask - No - not good news I’m afraid.” Michael says with a grim smile.
“Oh dear.” Douglas replies, then adds quizzically “In what sense ‘not good news’?”
“The viva.”
Douglas looks lost for a moment, then he takes a sharp little breath of recognition. “Ah, yes. You’ve had that already, have you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Sounds like it didn’t go too well.”
“Referred. Six months.”
“But you were expecting that you’d have to make some changes.”
“Well, minor corrections yes. But another six months! It was a bit of a blow to be honest with you Reverend.” Michael screws up the sticky cake wrapper and squeezes it inside his cardboard cup.


Douglas sits back on the bench and pretends to admire the day for a few moments. He has noted Michael's untypical use of his title and he guesses correctly that it is an implicit request for professional counsel. “Hmmm.” He says, after a while. “Suppose I were to ask you this - who are the people in your life whom you most admire? You don’t have to tell me, just make a little list in your mind.”
Michael thinks for a while. His grandfather comes instantly to mind, then he has to cast around a little further. He realises that there is something to admire in most of the people he loves, but his thoughts keeps coming back to his friend David, still fighting back from a devastating car accident.
“What do you admire about these people?”
“Oh God. Lots of things.” Michael sighs. “I suppose…I suppose I admire their dignity. And courage! And perseverence.” He stops talking and looks at Douglas. “Ah - I think I see your point.” He gives a little laugh but it unexpectedly catches on a tiny sob and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut for a moment.

Douglas puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes God allows us to fail one test so that we can pass another.”
Michael thinks it has nothing to do with God, but he’s comforted by the general gist. "Thank you." Michael smiles at Douglas appreciatively. "That helps, actually."
"Of course, of course." Douglas stands up with a grunt of effort. “I'm afraid I do have to dash off. Hospital Day today. But pop over later if you feel like a chat.”
“I might, actually, if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
Michael gets up and throws his cup into the waste-paper bin then wheels his bike round onto the path.
“No cycling till you’re out of the gate!” Douglas says jokingly, as he walks away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vicar!” Michael says, rather camply. His spirits are quite improved.

Douglas continues across the churchyard. “Poor old Michael.” He thinks. He can see that he his young friend has had a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. He rather imagines that this is Michael’s first brush with academic failure.

As Douglas strides through the church gates he is spotted by Cleanth Morgan, who is staring idly from an upstairs window with his extra strong cup of early morning decaff. The sight of the vicar, a billowing pillar of black and white, still fills Cleanth with the unpleasant memory of a situation left unconfronted - unconfronted because of his own impotence and cowardice. As Douglas turns into the High Street, Cleanth suddenly puts down his cup and flings open the window, sending a pigeon flapping into the air. Douglas looks up, startled.
“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Cleanth announces.
Douglas can only assume that Cleanth is enjoying some kind of obscure joke. “Surely only The Lord knows everything, Cleanth” He replies, adopting the usual embouchure.
The Vicar's smug jocularity only enflames Cleanth further. “Pervert!” He shouts, his Canadian ‘r’s’ almost entirely swallowing the consonants, but although he forces his head agressively forwards his shoulders are already retreating and his arms have begun to pull the windows closed behind him.

Douglas stands in the street below, stunned. What does Cleanth think he knows? What riduculous conclusions has his nasty little mind drawn from what he's just seen? Was it because he put his hand on Michael's shoulder?! Douglas consciously directs his mind to the thought that Cleanth must have gone quite insane, either that, or he's projecting his own fears and desires, but another voice says ‘How could Cleanth know? How could Cleanth possibly know!"