Life for Reverend Stan Merritt had slipped into the comfortable routine of regular services, paperwork in the church vestry, and regular meals in the vicerage. 

Still, he found time to pop down to the local for a tipple, especially after dealing with elderly Mrs Prewitt who lectured him at length on the sinfull, lustiness of the petunias growing near the church notice board and demanded he tear them up.

The pub was quiet, when Stan slunk in, a man besieged. 

"The usual, your Eminence?" asked Ned the publican, rag in hand with a thin smile on his lips.

"You know, Ned" Stan answered fishing through his pockets for a pipe. "Enough smoke comes out of your arse, the Vatican could shove you in a fireplace to announce the next pope." He retorted most un-reverand like, referring to his ecclesiastical rival's method of electing their top man.  He then nodded to confirm his drink order.

Just at that moment, a representative of said ecclesiastical rival set foot in the pub. The doctor had told him to try to make a few changes in his life and habits. Break some routines. Create new ones. Visit different places than he normally frequented. Perhaps that would help his mind break away from the darkness it had engulfed it for so long now and create openness to see goodness and joy again.

Well, this had to be Providence and the doctor a messenger angel! It was that Anglican priest he knew by face and attire, though not by name. Gabriel had been wanting to meet the vicar for a while. Though not part of the One, True, Catholic and Apostolic Church, the man was still a community leader and worshipped the same God. The work they could do together! Perhaps he could even help the poor man find his way back into the mother church. Gabriel even thought he had heard something about the pope!

Naively, he sat down next to the vicar, his own black cassock immediately marking him out as a Catholic priest. "You are the Anglican vicar are you not? St. Hilda's?" He held out his hand. "Father Richards, of St. Hilda's Catholic church. I believe we have been mixed up on more than one occasion."

Stan laughed "Ha! did it myself when I first arrived.." he sucked on his pipe trying to light the blasted thing. "Ned? I'm paying for my learned colleague's drink here."

The feud was entirely political. According to the the First Council of Constantinople, The Nicene Creed, as amended, was a shared document. No argument there. The trouble revolved around that long dead fat man Henry and his inability to keep his drawers cinched tight. That, and the exact nature of the role of the pope. From Stan's side of the street, he was a bishop of the church - of Rome precisely - certainly, but not, as they believed the head of the church globally from Aberdeen to Zanzibar.

"I'm surprised they let you out among the hoi poli. Aren't you cloistered?" Stan asked sucking on his pipe.

There! The minister offered him a drink and called him a colleague! They would be great friends! Gabriel ordered a halfpint of ale - whatever was on the tap, which provoked a judgmental frown from the barman. He had frequently joined his friends in pubs during his student days, but nowadays he only drank wine at dinner, and he had no idea what to order in a place like this.

"Thank you. No, not all of us, luckily. Some shepherds we'd be if we never attended to the sheep."

A deeper frown from the barman. Gabriel bit his tongue.

"Fancy yourself a shepard do you? I suppose you're out in the wild looking for that lost lamb. Don't fret, we'll look after the other 99 for you while you're away. Or if that doesn't sit too well with you, there's always the Methodists..."

Gabriel's pale sun-shunned face gained a little colour. Oh dear, had he already caused annoyance? He wasn't certain how to handle the jab and instinctively decided to treat it as well meaning banter and his own words as such as well. "Oh they are quite comfortable in the fold. Always welcome to come have a look," he laughed it off.

Then, eager to smooth things over with the barman he took a sip of his drink, only to be able to then raise the glass and mutter: "Hm, this is good." It was ghastly. He didn't know how he had enjoyed it in his student days.

Now to turn to more civil conversation. He turned back to the Anglican minister. "How are you finding Whitby so far,.. reverend?" he settled for that. He couldn't call the man 'father' and to address him as 'vicar' would be to admit the validity of his ordination. But neither did he want to cause offence with a simple 'sir'.

Stan's eyes narrowed at the use of 'Reverand', there was nothing wrong with the title, it just wasn't the proper one. How was Whitby? The town was on the sea, so it was cold; the damned aroma of fish seeped into everything, it's population were as near brutal as the tribal warriors he had fought in Africa, it utterly lacked the genteel sophistication of his previous parish in the outskirts of York. However, because his St. Hilda's was the Church of England, the pews were usually full. Those same rowdy men of the brine and their spawn were nothing if not patriotic in the practice of their religion. God Bless 'Em.

"The sea is nice.. good for the lungs" Stan answered, sucking on his pipe.

Oh dear. He had messed up again. This was awkward. It seemed befriending other community leaders was going to be a bit trickier than he had anticipated. Gabriel hid his flustered face behind his glass as he took a long drink. The liquid tickled his throat and tears sprang into his eyes. His adam's apple bobbed above his Roman collar.

"That's, yes, the sea is wonderful..." he said vaguely, more occupied with suppressing the need to cough. Then, recovered, he added: "There's quite a few less salubrious areas though. Have you visited the Cragg or Tate Hill?" This was the part where they teamed up to fight poverty together! Alright, he was a little less hopeful of that outcome now, but he could still try.

Stan drew in a big mouthful of smoke and let it flow around his mouth. The Cragg or Tate Hill... those were poorer, grubbier areas of town. While his church was clear that ministering to those poor folk was paramount, Reverand Merritt had yet to visit. They had little to offer him except their problems. He preferred to talk to the likes of the McPadraics, the Carringtons, and the Rochesters to name a few "hnm. Not yet.. I am still becoming accustomed to my parish. It does keep me quite busy. Soon though. I hear there are nuns ministering down there. They your lot?"

“Of course,” Gabriel replied kindly to the vicar’s explanation for why he had not visited the slums yet. He was judging this guy real hard. The Church of England was a church for the aristocrats and comfortable middle classes. Was it any surprise that the slums got ignored? It turned out this man was no exception. He glanced at the man’s form. Clearly he was living a comfortable enough life. Then Gabriel realized that he was being self-righteous, and he judged himself as well for good measure.

“Yes, yes, they’re catholic. The bishop brought them in to help out after…” After the parish priest had run off and left Gabriel with more than he could handle on his own. “… after it became clear that there is too much work to be done there for one person.” Whew. “Any relief project going on from your church? I was thinking it would be great if we could bundle our efforts.”