Robin's Way 09

The next morning was busy, to put it mildly. After Morning Prayer, attended by the usual handful of older ladies, I went back to the Retreat to work with Miriam and the others to get things ready.

"Robin, you don't need to help with the rooms, that's what we are here for," Miriam said as I brought in the new bedding.

I smiled at her. Like so many who helped us, she had an exalted view of the role of the priest, it was, in truth, one I struggled with. As I said to her:

"Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, Miriam, I think he would not mind me helping change the bedding!"

From the look on her face I could see that she thought I was a strange one.

By coffee break time, we had things more or less ready, so, in a change from the usual rather pallid coffee Miriam served, I ordered in from the café down the road - along with some pastries. The Last Supper it wasn't, but fellowship is to be found where you find it. It was, I thought, important to make it clear to those kind enough to help that they were appreciated. I had seen too many churches where the vicar seemed to take it for granted that others would help; I wanted them to know they were valued.

"Are these the women the police found yesterday, Robin," Jean asked.

Jean was in her early fifties, her husband had left her a few years back, and she found in the church a comfort and support; she was what one might call a stalwart - except that sounded rather patronising. She was a good woman and she liked to help others; what more could God want?

"Yes, they are."

"Are they prostitutes, Miss Robin?" chipped in Maureen, a grey-haired woman in her sixties.

"They were captured and raped by Russian soldiers, Maureen, and we want to rhelp them recover and find their self-worth again."

I thought it best to be clear. Church communities tend, by their nature, to be female and slightly censorious about sexual activities outside of marriage. I wondered sometimes how they would react if they knew that I was gay? How odd, I thought. In what other sphere of modern life would one have to wonder that? There were times... but then there were still substantial numbers who did not think that women should even be priests, so I should be thankful, I guessed, if only for small mercies.

"That is awful," Jean said, "men can be such beasts."

That produced a general murmur of agreement and an animated discussion with examples of male behaviour which supported the initial comment.

I forbore to ask the ladies why, in that case, they were all, or all had been, married. Gossip has a dynamic of its own, and I knew that most of them would, of course, exempt their own man from the general condemnation. The thought crossed my mind as to whether I should come out, but then Maureen interrupted that train."

"I don't know, ladies, here we are all trashing men, what will the Reverend think of us. Ignore us Miss, most men are nice."

I could hear the unspoken question hovering on her lips when Miriam chipped in:

"Do you have a boyfriend in London, Miss Robin?"

"No, no," I answered, "single and available," I joked.

Later, I kicked myself for not saying anything. But why should I have? Still, I felt like a coward.

The police turned up as promised at noon, bringing the women with them. We had everything prepared, and we had collected clothes for them. We laid on a lunch to welcome them. They seemed to visibly relax. I was able to assure them, collectively and individually, that they would be safe if they stayed with us. I advised them to be careful.

As they went back to their rooms to settle in, my phone buzzed. It was Irina.

"Robin, can I come round later to see the women?"

"Yes, see you about four perhaps?"

"Okay, see you then."

I held a prayer meeting at three, as I had advertised it to the women, and to my delight, they all turned up. It was a simple Book of Common prayer evening prayer service, but it met our needs. I needed to rest back on the rock of tradition. The old familiar language soothed my soul and seemed to speak to them.

Afterwards, over afternoon tea, I talked with them about what they could and could not do, explaining that they could not do paid work, but would be paid by the State a basic sum to allow them to live on. We all agreed that it was rather silly, that they would be paid for not working. It was at that point Irina came in. I introduced her. I could see the worried look in the eyes of the women.

"Irina is here to make sure that lines of communications remain open to your families at home, and also to make sure that the men who say they rescued you do not try to break the law by encouraging you to take paid work."

Anna, who I had noticed was a sort of unofficial leader of the group, clearly grasped what was being said and said:

"So, you are saying, Miss Robin, that anyone who attempts to find us paid employment as sex workers would be breaking the law."

"That is precisely what I am saying. Prostitution is not illegal, but anyone paying you to work as one would be breaking the law. You will, of course, Irina, be taking that news back to Dimitri?"

"Of course, Robin. Now, ladies, I need to see each of you to get details of your relatives so I can let them know where you are."

That, as I told Irina when she had finished, should be fed back to Dimitri and his friends.

"The fact is that whatever they wanted, the police are watching them, and any attempt to use these women and Dimitri will find himself under arrest."

To my delight, Irina reported back the following day that Dimitri was furious at being thwarted, but had decided to cut his losses.

At supper with Anna and the women that evening, she raised the question of what they could do.

"Well," I said, "volunteer work is not forbidden, and will stand you in good stead if you get asylum. What skills do you have?"

It transpired that there was a whole variety of skills.

"Can I suggest," I said, "that we form a volunteer corps? This town has many poor people, many lonely ones, many needing help, if we can help, then it will win support for you. What skills have we between us?"

There were a variety of skill, including an accountant, but for the most part they were practical - so we were able to offer the locals help with their gardens, their cleaning, their cooking, and childcare.

"Are we allowed to do these things, Miss Robin?"

"As long as we receive no money, yes."

"But how will people even know we are here?"

"Leave that to me," I smiled.

I had already arranged to see that journalist who had been so anxious to see me. She loved the angle about refugees helping us.

"That's a wonderful idea Miss Topham."

"It's about being a community," I said, "and getting away from the ghastly idea that people fleeing persecution are somehow a burden on us. We are wanting to help, and God knows, there are enough people here who need it, who have been left behind by the State."

The result was an excellent piece in the local paper, which was picked up by one of the nationals and by the local television:

"Rev Robin rides to the rescue!"

I told Bishop Jane what we were doing, and she was delighted.

"Sounds like a pastoral visit is needed, my darling. Well done, you!"

"Well, I'd be delighted to welcome you," I smiled.

I had hoped that this would help with the process of acceptance of the refugees, and though, in a wider sense it did, I could not help noticing that Miriam, and one of two of the others, especially Maureen and Jean, seemed rather cold in their attitude when I went in the following morning.

As I had to work closely with Miriam, I would have preferred to let it ride, at least until after our Tuesday "mingle," where some of the Ukrainian women would be helping us with some of our older members and their friends, but I thought I'd better find out what was up.

My phone buzzed. It was Jane.

"Excuse me, Miriam," I said, and went into the vestry to take it.

"Robin, thank God!"

"What is it?"

"I am sending a photo - you will see what it is."

And there it was - a picture of Irina and I kissing outside the hotel where we had stayed during the Surtees saga. It was a full, open-mouthed kiss, leaving little, if any room for ambiguity. It was a kiss between two lovers, passionate and heartfelt.

"This was sent to me this morning, anonymously, with a message saying:

'Robin Topham is a lesbian predator. This will go to the newspapers unless you stop her interfering.' We need to talk darling."

"That explains something," I said.

"What?"

"When did you get it?"

"This morning, but I was in a meeting until just now."

"Miriam has been off with me this morning, I'm guessing, but I don't think I'd be wrong to attribute it to that."

"Let me take some advice, darling, talk soon."

I went back into the kitchen, where Miriam was giving the Ukrainians instruction about their duties.

"We need to talk, Miriam."

She looked at me.

"Vestry, now!" I said.

"Miriam did you get a picture of me with another woman this morning?"

She looked shocked.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"I do not think that is an option. Show me."

She did. They were the same pictures as the ones sent to Jane.

"Are you one of them?"

"If by 'one of them,' you mean am I gay, I honestly don't know. Irina and I had a brief affair some time before I came here, but, in so far as it is anyone's business, I am celibate. Why do you suppose these were sent to you?"

"I don't know," she blustered, "someone wants us to know the truth about you."

"Someone who also sent these to Bishop Jane with a message that these would go to the press unless she stopped me interfering. Does that sound like someone who wants to be helpful, or like one of the Russian mobs trying to intimidate me?"

I was unusually direct, and that seemed to take her aback; after all, to ask that question was also to answer it.

"The Russians, but, but Mother Robin, it is against God's holy law to lie with a woman."

"As it is to lie with a man before marriage, Miriam, so before we start examining the mote in my eye, shall we look at the beams in the eyes of every woman who had sex before marriage? After all, there is more about that in Scripture than there is about women lying with women,"

I had not meant to mount such an offensive, but the fact was that I was upset, how dare someone try to use Irina to discredit me? But where, where the heck had those pictures come from? Time, I thought, for a word with Macduff, but first, I needed to talk with Irina and with Jane.

I left Miriam to ponder what I had said, and then texted: Jane, to see if she was free; Irina to say to call me as soon as she could; and Macduff to say I had a few questions.

Answer from Jane came there none, but Macduff phoned by return.

"What is it, that sounded urgent?"

"It is, can we meet soon, I have some questions only you can answer."

"Well, I was about to have lunch at the Green Man, if you fancy a bite, see you there!"

I did, indeed, fancy getting away from the atmosphere in church, so took him up on his offer; it was only a few minutes' walk.

"I thought a glass of Chablis might be welcome?"

"It would, thanks."

We ordered some sandwiches and settled in a corner seat.

I showed him what Jane had sent. He looked at me as though amazed.

"I don't know what to say. Where did these come from?"

"I am guessing from our Russian friends. But the question is more precise, what sort of camera took these? I ask because there was a cctv camera across the road from the hotel, and I think it came from there. Who has access to cctv cameras?"

"We do," he said, "they are designed to help us."

"Would a non-police officer have such access?"

"It's very unlikely. I can get colleagues in the Met to check. When was this?"

"It was right after the operation to take down Ryan Surtees," I said, "and the police were all over the place for a couple of days."

"Are you...?"

"Thinking that these came from the police mole? Yes, I am, and I fear that there is only one person who was with the Met then and is here now."

His face drained of colour.

"You're thinking it is Elena?"

"Well, I doubt it is anyone else, alas," I said, sadly.

"Does this get you into trouble with your bosses?" He asked, as we ate our sandwiches.

"It could," I said, "but I want to go on the offensive."

"How?"

"Wait and see," I teased.

"Can I ask?"

"What, am I gay?"

The colour returned to his face - with a vengeance.

"Not, erm, that it is any of my business."

"I see," I said, "so your taking in an interest in me was entirely altruistic?"

"Well, no, but, well I don't erm want to pry."

"It's okay," I said, "we're friends, and I do, as it happens, have a girlfriend, but as to whether that means I am gay, who knows?"

He squeezed my hand.

"I can't believe these bastards have tried this on you."

"I suspect I am lucky they have only done this. Think what happened to Olena."

"But why?"

"Why? I'd guess these people had invested a lot in these women and are furious that I have out-thought them. Someone, probably Elena, has fed them these pictures in an attempt to get me out of the way."

"I am really sorry Robin, let me get onto this. Can you send me those pictures?"

"I shall," I said, obliging, "but no gawping at them!"

"No, Miss," he laughed.

I was on my way back from the pub when my phone buzzed. It was Jane.

"My love, I have had a word with the Archbishop, who is furious, but advises caution."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"No idea, my love, I suspect he wants it to go away."

"It isn't going to," I said, "but I have an idea. I am not going to tell you, darling, because you need plausible deniability."

"Robin, are you...?"

"Going to do something unwise, you bet. These swine are not going to stop me."

"That's my Robin."

I phoned Hattie, the journalist with whom I had spoken earlier and who had managed to get both her stories about me into the nationals.

"Hi Robin, what can I do?"

"I may have a story for you - a big one, could you meet me for coffee at the usual place this afternoon."

"Sure, you've been good to me, so see you at three, okay?"

The usual place was a café on the sea front, and there, punctual as ever, was Hattie.

She'd already bought me a cappuccino, so we got down to business.

I showed her the photos and the text that was with them.

"Fuck! Sorry pardon my French, Robin. This is dynamite! What do you want me to do, try to prevent it getting out if they pass it on to the press? I will do what I can, but you know what journos are like - piranhas."

"The opposite. I want you to publish it, along with the story that the Russian mafia are trying to destroy me because I have, twice now, prevented them exploiting vulnerable women."

Hattie looked at me.

"But, but Robin, forget what I said about journos, we are not all like that. I'd love to help."

"Hattie, the best way you can help is by publishing this and destroying their leverage. It would look pretty bad for the Church to discipline me for kissing another woman just because the Russian mafia were trying to put pressure on me."

"But if they do, Robin, what will it mean for you?"

"Hattie, you saw Anna and the others. Together we are trying to build back their self-respect and self-reliance, I am asking them to be strong; I have to show the same strength."

"What about your Bishop, how does he feel about this?"

"He," I said, "is a she, and she told me not to do anything mad."

"And you ignored that?"

"No, I have my own definition of mad. Mad would be to let these man blackmail me and allow them access to the women they have tried to exploit and already abused. In that scenario, my career does not matter. I am a pastor, a good shepherd, and if I have to sacrifice something, so be it."

Hattie squeezed my hand.

"If you are really sure, Robin. Let me get back, it will be our lead, and I'll get onto the Mail, which I think will also want to go with it. But Robin, I have to ask. Are you sure?"

I was, and although I felt distinctly wobbly as I walked away, I was sustained by that inner voice which was the Spirit guiding me. This I had to do. I was not some knight on a white horse rescuing these women, I was a fellow sinner working with them to make something good come out of evil. That mattered. As for the rest, well a Church that would discipline me for those pictures after knowing why they had been sent, well that was a Church I was not sure I wanted to be part of. I did not think it would do that to me, but I had to do what I was doing. There I would stand, I could do no other.

I got back to the Retreat just as Miriam was closing up.

"Mother Robin, I am sorry."

"For what?"

"For being such a bigot. My opinion is what it is, but I should not have spoken to you like that."

I smiled.

"Opinions are something we all have, Miriam, and I'd never judge you for yours. All I ask is the same."

"What's going to happen?"

"If you get tomorrow's Daily Press, you will see."

I saw her shake her head as she walked away.

Had I lost her? Had I lost others? Well, if so, then if this ended my career in the Church, perhaps that would be just as well. I was resigned. I left myself in God's hands.

I texted and then phoned Jane. I told her what I had done.

"Darling, that was terribly brave of you."

"Is that like in the civil service, my love, where the Minister gets told he is "very brave" when he is proposing to do something seriously silly?"

"A bit, darling, but I mean it, you are being brave. I have made sure that if the journalists want a quote of two, there are members of our organisation who will support you."

"And you, Jane?"

"Darling, you know that at this point I can't. I won't condemn you, but I can't come out in support until I see how the land lies."

She was right, no doubt and of course, but why did I feel so utterly alone?

My evening prayer was a long and anguished one, but as I came to the end of Compline, a kind of peace descended on me. I should not judge Jane. I was not in her shoes (rather nice ones as it happened) and did not have to carry the burdens she did. I had to trust in her and her love, hard though it was when what I wanted was her to defend me to the hilt. But this had been my decision. I would bear the consequences.

I woke early and prayed.

Only then did I go online, and the first headline that hit me on the BBC news was:

"Lesbian vicar blackmailed by the Mob: see the Mail for the full story."

I clicked on the Mail.

"A kiss to die for? Rev Robin's rendezvous with the Mob, by Hattie Miller.

And there, on the local news site, the same stories were writ large.

My least favourite headline was the Sun's: "Randy Rev Robin's Russian Romp!" Did you ever come back from a headline like that?

My phone buzzed. It was going to be one of those days.