Crusaders Read Free

and bit his lip at a front page reporting strife at the annual conference of the Trades Union Congress in Blackpool. BLAIR TO SEVER UNION LINK ? Scanning the write-up he gathered that a few coming characters in the Labour Party – to which he had subscribed staunchly since his fourteenth birthday – had been mouthing off about policy at supposedly private dinners. Most likely, Gore assumed, in the hope that their unthinkable thoughts be controversially made public by the journalists in attendance. It was all too clearly the behaviour of a government-in-waiting, growing bumptious in the queue for succession. Amid a list of MPs quoted in defence of their brazen colleagues, Gore searched for, and was unsurprised to find, the name of the man who would be representing him before this day was done – Dr Martin Pallister, Labour member for Tyneside West, newly promoted Opposition Whip for Education and Employment. The man, indeed, for whom his older sister was employed as strategist, spin doctor and all-round major-domo. Susannah had always been a purposeful soul, and in Pallister she seemed to have found a prime focus for her energies. They made a team, sharing the same taste in good dark suits and well-mintedphrases. Gore himself had first encountered Pallister more than a decade ago, when they were both scruffy lefties of a sort. Now the MP and his sister had joined the big push to revise Labour’s gospels. That they were clearly effective in same did not allay his view that they were a gilt-edged disgrace.
    His meditation was broken by murmurs from behind the outspread paper, and his arm was lightly tapped. It was the husband.
    ‘I’m gannin’ to the buffet car, Father, can I fetch you back owt?’
    ‘Oh, well, actually I’d love a tea if it’s no bother.’
    Gore’s hand went to his pocket, but the man was shaking his head and clambering out of his seat. His wife smiled. ‘I’m Tina Grieveson, Father, how’d you do?’
    ‘John Gore. Pleased to meet you.’
    ‘Aw, likewise I’m sure. Me husband’s Stuart.’
    ‘A most considerate husband he is too.’
    Stuart Grieveson returned bearing three plastic cups, a wad of napkins and a fistful of miniature milks. ‘How far you gannin’ the day then, Father?’
    ‘Call me John, please. I’m for Newcastle.’ He noted the recognition wrought by his horizontal vowels.
    ‘Aw, you’re from the north-east then?’
    ‘I used to be,’ Gore smiled. ‘Been away a good while. But I’m back now. For work.’
    ‘Aw, really?’ A thoughtful silence. Tina made as to spit something out. ‘And is it – as a vicar then? That you’ll be working?’
    Gore gestured down his collared and black-clad frame. ‘No, as a circus clown.’
    Stuart eked out a smile that persuaded his wife to follow suit. Gore felt they were all suitably at ease, and so grew expansive. ‘No, that’s right. What I’m doing, I’m going up to what they call plant a church.’
    ‘“Plant”, you say?’ asked Tina.
    ‘You mean start it from scratch, aye?’ said Stuart. ‘Build it out of nowt?’
    Gore nodded, gratified by this speed of uptake, for he had been braced to deliver a longer explanation. ‘That’s right. It’s funny, I’llbe giving services in a local school to start with. Until we find out whether I can pull a crowd. The Church has its doubts, to be honest . But it’s the fashion right now, you see. Not new churches, as such, more like new sorts of churches.’
    ‘Where’ll you have yours then?’ Stuart asked. ‘What bit of Newcastle?’
    ‘Out west. Hoxheath?’
    Stuart let out a low whistle. ‘Dear me. What they call inner-city preaching, eh?’
    Again Gore sensed a familiarity of terms. ‘Are you churchgoers yourselves?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ said Tina. ‘It’s Gosforth where we are in Newcastle, we belong to a nice big congregation.’
    ‘That’ll be a blessing.’
    ‘Oh it is. We have quite a brilliant young vicar, I must say, fella by the name of Simon Barlow. He’s