‘What a parish, eh?’ Woodburn said, rubbing his temples. ‘Do you think if I prayed very hard the Lord would take pity and transfer me to Mayfair?’ He stuck a finger through a hole in his jacket. ‘The truth is I wouldn’t change it for the world. There’s so much good work to be done here. So many souls to save.’ He glanced up, shyly. ‘Does that sound foolish to you, Mr Hawkins? I fear it’s not the fashion for clerics to talk about souls these days.’
I smiled, understanding better than he realised. I had spent three years at Oxford studying to join the clergy. Three years of rising at dawn to pray, daily seminars in classics, divinity and logic. Long hours hunched over my desk translating Greek into Latin and Latin into English before rushing back to church for evening prayers… and finally to bed. Unfortunately, it was in that gap between ‘evening prayers’ and ‘finally to bed’ where I was tested; and failed magnificently. If only God had put fewer hours in the day. And not invented twins.
‘Well, well. I must call for a chair to take me home,’ Woodburn said, heaving himself up from the bench with the help of his cane.
I rose and bowed. Lucky man, to come and go as he pleased.
He cleared his throat. ‘And will I see you at chapel on Sunday, sir?’
‘Naturally,’ I said, and watched as his face glowed with delight. I had not attended church in months, but there was no harm in keeping the chaplain on my side. ‘As a matter of fact, I studied divinity at Oxford…’
‘Indeed?’ Woodburn’s eyes shone, as I thought they might. ‘That was always a great dream of mine. Alas, the fees… But you did not take the cloth?’
I hung my head. ‘I’m afraid I was led astray.’ By myself.
‘Ah.’ Woodburn nodded his understanding. ‘Well – there is still hope for you, sir. The good Lord loves a prodigal son.’
Yes… and so do good-natured old chaplains. I’d hooked him with it; I could see it in his eyes. There is nothing more irresistible to an honest clergyman than a penitent sinner. Even more so a penitent student of divinity. He was doubtless already dreaming of long nights by the fire discussing the finer points of theology as he dragged my soul slowly but steadily from the brink of damnation. I almost felt guilty for deceiving him. Almost.
Woodburn clapped his hat to his head. ‘D’you know, I believe you have been brought here for a reason,’ he said, in a quiet, earnest voice. ‘God has plans for you, Mr Hawkins. I am sure of it.’
