Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)
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Catherine Fox is an established and popular author. Her debut novel, Angels and Men (reissued in 2014) was a Sunday Times Pick of the Year. Her other books include The Benefits of Passion and Love for the Lost (reissued in 2015), Acts and Omissions, which was chosen as a Book of 2014 by The Guardian, and its sequel, Unseen Things Above (2015). Catherine lectures at Manchester Metropolitan University.
First published in Great Britain in 2017
Marylebone House
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London SW1P 4ST
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Copyright © Catherine Fox 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Extracts from The Book of Common Prayer, the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced by permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press
Extracts from the Authorized Version of the Bible (The King James Bible), the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced by permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Extracts from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible are copyright © 1946, 1952 and 1971 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Common Worship: Pastoral Services copyright © The Archbishops’ Council, 2000, and reproduced by permission. All rights reserved.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978–1–910674–21–5
eBook ISBN 978–1–910674–22–2
Typeset by Lapiz Digital Services, India
Manufacture managed by Jellyfish
First printed in Great Britain by CPI
Subsequently digitally printed in Great Britain
eBook by Lapiz Digital Services, India
Produced on paper from sustainable forests
For
Kate and Vicki
Love, love, love, love, love
Dramatis personae
Bishops
Steve Pennington
Bishop of Lindchester
Vacancy
Bishop of Barcup
Rupert Anderson
Archbishop of York
Priests and deacons
Cathedral clergy
Marion Randall
Dean of Lindchester (the boss)
Giles Littlechild
Cathedral Canon Precentor (music & worship)
Mark Lawson
Cathedral Canon Chancellor, ‘Mr Happy’ (outreach & matters scholarly)
Philip Voysey-Scott
Cathedral Canon Treasurer (money)
Lindchester clergy
Matt Tyler
Archdeacon of Lindchester
Bea Whitchurch
Archdeacon of Martonbury
Martin Rogers
Borough (and Churches) Liaison Officer
Dominic Todd
Rector of Lindford parish church
Wendy Styles
‘Father Wendy’, Vicar of Renfold, Carding-le-Willow, Cardingforth
Virginia Coleman
Curate to Wendy Styles
Ed Bailey
Rector of Gayden Parva, Gayden Magna, Itchington Episcopi, etc.
Laurie
Vicar of Risley Hill
Kay Redfern
Vicar of St Andrew’s Barcup, partner of Helene
People
Cathedral Close
Gene
Husband of the dean
Timothy Gladwin
Cathedral director of music
Laurence
Cathedral organist
Iona
Assistant organist
Sonya Pennington
Wife of Bishop Steve
Nigel Bennet
Senior lay clerk
Freddie May
Tenor, lay vicar of Gayden Parva
Ambrose Hardman
Alto, lay vicar of Gayden Magna
Miss Barbara Blatherwick
Cathedral Close resident, former school matron
Philippa Voysey-Scott
‘Totty’, wife of the canon treasurer
Ulrika Littlechild
Precentor’s wife, voice coach
Helene Carter
Diocesan safeguarding and HR officer, partner of Kay
Kat
Bishop Steve’s EA
Miriam Lawson
Wife of canon chancellor
Chad William Lawson
Son of canon chancellor
Tabitha Lawson
Daughter of canon chancellor
Beyond the Close
Dr Jane Rossiter
Lecturer at Linden University, married to Matt Tyler
Neil Ferguson
Father Ed’s partner
Andrew Jacks
Director of the Dorian Singers
Becky Rogers
Ex-wife of Martin, mother of Leah and Jessica
Leah Rogers
Older daughter
Jessica Rogers
Younger daughter
Mrs Todd
Father Dominic’s mother
Lydia Redfern
Kay’s daughter
Chloe Garner
Street pastor, lawyer, lay member of General Synod, cousin of Ambrose Hardman
Madge
Retired midwife, Cardingforth
All Creatures Great and Small
Cosmo
Chloe’s labradoodle
Pedro
Father Wendy’s rescue greyhound
Dora
Kay Redfern’s golden retriever
Amadeus
Cathedral cat
Boris I
Choristers’ hamster
Boris II
Choristers’ hamster
Contents
JANUARY 2016
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
FEBRUARY
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
MARCH
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
APRIL
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
MAY
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
JUNE
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
JULY
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
AUGUST
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
SEPTEMBER
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
OCTOBER
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
NOVEMBER
Chapter 43
Cha
pter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
DECEMBER
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
JANUARY 2016
Chapter 1
It is the best of times, it is the worst of times,
it is the season of Light, it is the season of Darkness,
it is the spring of hope, it is the winter of despair,
we are all going direct to Heaven, we are all going direct the other way.
elcome to Lindchester. Are you sitting comfortably? If so, then I assume you are at home, rather than in a pew – or (Lord have mercy!) stuck on one of those beastly plastic stacking chairs, knowing you will leave a sweaty bum print whenever you stand for a hymn. Pour yourself a glass of Christmas whisky (a gift from the undertaker, perhaps, if you are clergy). Alternatively, make yourself a cup of that weird spiced Christmas tea out of the hamper your sister-in-law sent. It needs using up. Comfortable?
Then I will begin. I will tell you a Tale of Two Churches. One is the Church in glory, like a bride adorned for her husband; the other – inhabited by the likes of you and me – is the Church incarnate here on earth, ankle deep in the mire of the imaginary diocese of Lindchester. But perhaps, if we catch them in Emily Dickinson’s certain slant of light, we may glimpse a bit of glory around the grubby edges of our characters.
What of those characters? How are they faring? More than a year has passed since we waved them off last Advent. It is Saturday night now. The nice Chablis has all gone. Only the yucky coconut ones rattle round the plastic sweet tub. The last clump of Christmas pudding is clenched blackly under cling film like a fist preserved in a peat bog for 6,000 years. We are still telling ourselves someone will eat it. Listen! Can you hear the tiniest tinkle – faint as bells round the necks of nativity oxen on your mantelpiece – of pine needles falling from Christmas trees? Yes, needle-fall is general across the diocese of Lindchester, for Christmas has been and gone. New Year has been and gone, too. We wait, lolled on sofas, remote dangling in slack hand, for the start of term, or work, or whatever comes under the heading of Real Life.
What does the year hold in this best of times, this worst of times; this season of bake-offs and season of foodbanks; this Green spring of muscular theological hope and Lothlórien winter of hand-wringing theological despair? We will peep through many a stained-glass window in pursuit of answers. Once again, you will find yourself dogged at every turn. Your narrator will stand a little too close, breathing in your ear and commenting in the manner of an overzealous cathedral guide who is not content to leave visitors to wander around looking at things by themselves. I will burst out of vestry cupboards and through the fourth wall right into your face. I will betray my sacred Jamesian office wherever possible. Is this your first visit to Lindchester? Would you like a brochure?
How are your Anglican wings? Give them a shake, and we will mount up, as in days of old. It is dark, but there below is the River Linden, many miles meandering with a mazy motion. There are the water meadows – vast lakes at the moment. Can you just make out the stands of trees, the wooded rises? Give thanks for these boons, O people living in towns further downstream. Without them, the Linden would be in your sitting room by now. As it is, the Lower Town of Lindchester has been flooded twice this winter.
Where shall we go? To the archdeacon’s you say? Ah, but which archdeacon? There are two – our old friend, the Venerable Matt Tyler, archdeacon of Lindchester, and the Venerable Bea Whitchurch, archdeacon of Martonbury. A lady archdeacon, no less! We will save Bea till later (pausing only to report that those scoundrels in the cathedral refer to her as ‘the little teapot’). Historically, there have been two archdeaconries in the diocese of Lindchester, but if the new bishop gets his way, there will be four. Four! The multiplication of archdeacons! A terrifying sign that we are all going to Chelmsford in a handcart.
The town of Lindford lies below us now. Let us bend our joyful footsteps to the house of the archdeacon of Lindchester. There are two cars on the drive these days – the sporty black Mini and the knackered old wreck belonging to the archdeacon’s—His what? His wife? Has Jane learned to embrace this title? Did she shake her head and smile indulgently as those cards dropped through the letterbox addressed to ‘The Venerable & Mrs M. Tyler’?
Let us sneak in and find out. You will see at once that it is a nice house, warm and clean. The archdeacon’s taste has prevailed throughout. This was not hard, as Jane’s taste is for not giving a monkey’s about homemaking. I admit it’s a bit generic, a bit like a show house, for Matt is a pragmatist. There’s none of that girlie clobber. And no chuffing cushions. Like most red-blooded Englishmen, the archdeacon can’t be doing with cushions. This is why he has to act as a cushion himself, when his beloved needs something to prop her feet on while lying on the sofa. Which is what she’s doing right now.
‘Yes, but surely you’re owed a sabbatical,’ said Jane.
‘Nope,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘We’re entitled to one every ten years. I’ve only clocked up six.’
‘Can’t you wangle something? I want to apply for study leave next year.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Yes, but I want to spend it in New Zealand. With you. I’ll tell the bishop our marriage depends on it. Come along, now. Do it for me. Remember the Penningtons’ lovely Biblical Bonking book? Quality time. Acts of service.’
The archdeacon sighed. Pity the bishop’s wife had given that copy of their co-authored book to Jane, not him. No chance to deflect it. At least Janey had tired of reading him excerpts every bedtime.
‘Can I get you a top-up?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She handed over her glass. ‘And then you can come straight back and carry on the sabbatical conversation.’
‘The rules is the rules, I’m afraid. Ten years.’
‘Pah. You could at least ask him.’
‘Fine. I’ll ask him.’ Matt hauled himself up off the sofa. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, though.’
He padded through to the kitchen in his Christmas socks and got the last of the Prosecco. He closed the fridge and rested his forehead against it. Oh, Lord. Vexed though the sabbatical question was proving, it was going to look like a cracker joke by this time next week. Which was when he’d probably have to float the suffragan bishop of Barcup possibility . . .
You will infer from this that our good friend Bob Hooty has retired. The big detached Tudorbethan house in Martonbury is vacant. I fear that once again I must trouble the reader with the question of who will be the next bishop. It won’t be as convoluted as the appointment of the bishop of Lindchester, I promise, since suffragan bishoprics are not Crown appointments. That said, gone are the days when a diocesan bishop could simply have a conversation in his club with an old chum from theological college, and appoint him. There will be an advert. I believe the archbishop’s appointments secretary will have names to commend. Then there will be a shortlist and interviews conducted by a panel. Is the new bishop of Lindchester powerless here? By no means. He will get the person he wants, I dare say. It would be deeply inappropriate of him to take that person to one side and confide his intentions. But once Bob’s farewell service was out of the way, it was not out of order for him to enquire, in passing, if he was right in thinking that the archdeacon’s paperwork was up to date . . . ?
Bishop Steve has not been idle in our absence. He has made changes. He plans more changes still. One of his earliest moves was to let the lovely PA Penelope go, and appoint an executive assistant. This was a deeply unpopular move on the Close. Even inanimate objects in the bishop’s office seemed to cry out at the injustice. There was a stage when the office computer inexplicably autocorrected ‘bishop’ to ‘wanker’ whenever the new EA tried to send an email. Goodness. How did that happen? The bishop also chose not to appoint a new chaplain, on the grounds that he didn’t really need one. This sent ripples of fear throughout the Slope Society nationally.
Honestly, if he wasn’t such a nice bloke, everyone would hate Bishop Steve.
Of course, there are those who, unmoved by considerations of personal charm, hate him in adherence to long-held principle.
‘I hate him, for he is an Evangelical!’ declaimed Gene in his Royal Shakespeare Company voice. ‘But more for that in low simplicity, he is trying to merge cathedral and diocesan structures like they’ve done in bloody Liverpool!’
‘Yes, darling.’ The dean did not bother looking up from her book.
‘On the specious grounds that it makes sense and would save money!’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘What a wanker.’ Pause. ‘Yes, darling?’
‘No, darling.’
‘Oh.’
Marion is still dean of Lindchester. No change there. She was not the first woman bishop in the Church of England. Nor the second, third, fourth or fifth. Indeed, we are losing track of how many women bishops we now have. Why has she been passed over? I cannot say. Deep in unfathomable mines, the Crown Nominations Commission treasures up its bright designs.
There have been choral changes on the back row of dec. We have a new alto lay clerk. He arrived last autumn, accompanied by what the gallant elderly gents in the congregation designated (in the unreconstructed privacy of their hearts) a jolly attractive oriental dolly bird. Mr May has somehow managed not to get himself booted out of the choir. He skipped the whole carol concert season re-cuperating from nose surgery, and is off visiting his mother in Argentina at the moment. Actually, I tell a lie, he should be on his way home by now. Tomorrow the loyal Miss Blatherwick will drive to the airport to collect him.