the Maybury village green to unlock his eighteenth-century church, St Stephen’s. Mitsy had followed him as usual, circling playfully at his feet, despite her age. Dressed casually but wearing his clerical collar he walked swiftly across the damp grass, still wet from the rain of the night before. At 8 a.m. on a weekday he didn’t expect to see many of the villagers out; the commuters had already left for the station in the neighbouring town, so he tended to see the same few faces: the milkman who also delivered groceries, the paperboy finishing his round before going to college, and two dog-walkers. They all greeted him as usual with a warm, pleasant but slightly formal, ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ and he replied using their first names. He knew most of the villagers in his parish by name and he liked the village way of life. His previous parish had been in a deprived inner city which he’d initially believed was his calling. He’d done his best for five years and then asked to be moved, saying he felt he could no longer meet the challenges with everything else that was going on in his life. The bishop had been very understanding, and three months later he and his family had arrived here.
Unlocking the outer door, Andrew left Mitsy sitting obediently in the vestibule as he unlocked the second door and went into the main body of the church. He savoured the welcoming aroma of well-oiled oak, candle smoke, and the slightly musky damp of the solid stone walls. It was reassuring and comforting; a reminder of age and endurance. The church had stood here for nearly 300 years and would remain long after he had left this earth. That he was merely passing through and part of a bigger plan helped nudge his considerable worries into a slightly better perspective.
Facing the altar, he stood at the end of the aisle and crossed himself, then went to a box on the wall and switched on the lights and heating. Mrs Tremain, much-respected chairperson of the parish council, would arrive punctually at nine o’clock as she did most mornings to say a prayer in memory of her dear departed husband, and she didn’t like to be cold. Then at ten o’clock his darling wife, Liz, would lead the Bible study class while he went about his many duties in the parish. He would return to lock the church at nightfall as he did every evening apart from Sunday when he held Evensong. It was a pity the church couldn’t remain open twenty-four hours as it had in previous times – offering shelter and warmth to the needy – but vandals and thieves had put a stop to that some years before when they’d stolen the silver candlesticks from the altar and smashed a stained-glass window.
Andrew went up the aisle to the little altar with its white cloths, simple wooden cross, Bible, and candles in steel holders. Lowering his head he began his usual silent prayers, thanking the Lord for all that He had blessed them with, remembering those less fortunate and those living in famine and war-torn countries. He asked for guidance to make decisions wisely, and then mentioned by name parishioners who needed some extra help: Mr and Mrs James, whose son had been injured while serving in the army abroad; Mrs King’s husband, who was recovering from stomach surgery; Mr and Mrs Watson, who had just moved into a nursing home and whom he would visit later that afternoon; and last but not least his own son, Jacob. He always felt slightly uncomfortable, almost guilty, asking for help for his own, but he was sure the good Lord understood why it had become absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t have asked had it not been essential. Forgive me Lord for asking again but if it is your will … He struggled now; his prayer needed to be answered even if it wasn’t the Lord’s will. He was desperate and his wife was desperate too, and if he was honest they were both struggling with their faith, as they were being tested as never before. When life went well it was easy to have faith, he acknowledged, but when it went badly, really badly, and you stood to lose your only child, it was surely enough to shake the faith of even the most devout and ardent of believers?
‘Please don’t test me further in this way,’ he said as part of his prayers. ‘Anything but this. Not my son.’ As he spoke, the small inner voice of God reminded him that He had sacrificed His only son for the sake of humanity, which wasn’t what Andrew wanted to hear at all. He finished praying by thanking the Lord again and then asking that this day be the one.
Uncharacteristically, Mitsy began frantically scratching at the church door. Crossing himself, Andrew turned from the altar just as the door flew open and his wife Elizabeth ran in, without her coat and out of breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked, panic-stricken, and fearing the worst news possible.
‘They’ve found a donor!’ she cried. ‘It looks a good match. We have to leave now. Come on! I’ve left Jacob getting up. We’ll phone and cancel our appointments from the car. Be quick.’
Mitsy barked as though sharing this good news, and as Andrew hurried after his wife he thanked the good Lord for answering his prayers, and promised he’d never ask for anything for himself again.
Upstairs in the rectory Jacob had managed to wash and partially dress himself and was now sitting on the edge of his bed trying to catch his breath. Stick-thin, pale, permanently exhausted, and out of breath even with the minimal exertion, he’d been off work sick for nearly a year. At 23, having left university with a degree in business studies, he’d been six months into his first job when illness had struck, and a range of symptoms were eventually diagnosed as congenital heart disease. His heart began failing fast and he and his parents were told that a heart transplant was his only hope. While he didn’t have the strength of faith his parents had, he did believe in something – a deity? He too now said a short prayer of thanks before texting the good news to his long-term girlfriend, Eloise.
His parents arrived in his room together. He couldn’t remember a time when they’d looked so relieved and happy. While his mother helped him finish dressing his father checked his bag, which had been packed since he’d been put on the transplant list, ready and waiting for the call. Downstairs they shut Mitsy in the kitchen with food and water (a neighbour would take her out later) and barely thirty minutes after receiving the call they were on their way, overjoyed, but not forgetting that another family had lost a loved one to make this happen.
At the transplant centre a specialist team of doctors and nurses was now assembling as two operating theatres were being prepared, one to remove the donor heart and the other to implant it into the recipient. It was unusual for the donor and recipient to live so close – just twenty miles apart. The transplant programme stretched nationwide and organs often had to be transported miles and at great speed when a donor was matched with a recipient at the other end of the country, although neither the donor’s next of kin nor the recipient of the heart would be aware of this. Their details were confidential and would be kept secret unless they both wanted to know who the other person was. Sometimes the recipient wanted to thank the donor’s next of kin, and if they agreed they were sensitively put in contact with each other, but this was unusual, and often resulted in a heart-warming story in the press or on the news.
It wasn’t just the heart that was being removed. The donor’s family had given consent for all of his body to be used, so as well as his heart going to Jacob, the kidneys, liver, lungs, pancreas, intestine, corneas, skin, nerves, veins, tendons and even the bones from his legs were going to benefit others.
When Jacob arrived at the transplant centre with his parents they were shown to a single room where nurses weighed and measured him, checked his temperature and blood pressure before listening to his chest to make sure he was well enough to undergo surgery. He confirmed he hadn’t had anything to eat that morning; they then took a blood sample and gave him a pot for a urine sample. The anaesthetist arrived, explained what he would be doing and asked him if he’d ever had a bad reaction to an anaesthetic before. He hadn’t – the only surgery he’d had in the past was a tonsillectomy at the age of six. The two surgeons leading the team arrived shortly after and the atmosphere in the room became electric – joyous, with a sense of occasion. They went over the procedure again with Jacob and his parents and reassured
