Page 87 of The Armor of Light
‘I got rid of it at Oxford.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘I wasn’t sorry to lose it. There’s a certain amount of prejudice in the university.’ The words were mild but there was an undertone of bitterness.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
They entered the palace and Elsie showed him to her father’s study, a comfortable room with a big fire and no desk. ‘Mr Mackintosh has arrived, Father,’ she said.
‘His luggage is here already!’ The bishop got up from an upholstered chair and shook hands enthusiastically. ‘Welcome, dear boy.’
‘I’m greatly honoured to be here, my lord bishop, and I humbly thank you for the privilege.’
The bishop looked at Elsie. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, dismissing her.
She did not leave. ‘I’ve just been to the funeral of three Sunday school children, all in the same family. Their father died, their mother struggled to feed them, they caught a chill in the damp room where they lived, and they all died in a day.’
The bishop nodded. ‘They are now with their heavenly father,’ he said.
His complacency angered Elsie. In a raised voice she said: ‘Their heavenly father might ask why their neighbours did nothing to help them. Jesus said: “Feed my lambs,” as I’m sure you’ll remember.’
‘I think you’d better leave the theology to the clergy, Elsie,’ he said, and he winked conspiratorially at Mackintosh, who responded with a sycophantic smile.
‘I will,’ she said, then she added defiantly: ‘And I’m going to feed nourishing broth to the Lord’s lambs.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ he said sceptically.
‘Or at least those who come to my Sunday school.’
‘And how will you do that?’
‘Our kitchen is plenty big enough and you’ll hardly notice the increase in the grocery budget.’
He was taken aback. ‘Our kitchen? Are you seriously proposing to feed the town’s poor children out of our kitchen?’
‘Not ours alone. The supporters of the Sunday school will do the same.’
‘This is preposterous. The food shortage is national. We can’t feed everyone.’
‘Not everyone, just my Sunday school pupils. How can I tell them to be good and kind like Jesus then send them home hungry?’
The bishop turned to the newcomer. ‘What do you think, Mr Mackintosh?’
Mackintosh looked uncomfortable: he did not like being asked to arbitrate between Elsie and her father. After a hesitation he said: ‘The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s my duty to be guided by my bishop, and I imagine the same goes for Miss Latimer.’
He was not as brave as Elsie had thought. She said: ‘The Methodists are particularly keen on the idea.’ This was hope rather than fact, but she told herself it was a white lie.
Her father reconsidered. He would not want to appear ungenerous by comparison with Methodists. ‘How many children attend the Sunday school?’
‘Never less than a hundred. Sometimes two hundred.’
Mackintosh was surprised. ‘My word! It’s normally twelve children in a small room.’
The bishop said to Elsie: ‘And you and your Methodist friends want to feed them all?’
‘Of course. But there are many Anglicans among our supporters.’
‘Well, you’d better talk to your mother and find out what she thinks our kitchen can manage.’
