Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  ‘Leah. Psst. Leah,’ says Jack in maths. ‘Snape’s dead!’

  ‘Duh. I know. Voldemort kills him in The Deathly Hallows.’

  ‘No, the real Snape. The actor Snape! He died.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Liar!’

  Leah flips him the finger and bends her head down over her worksheet. What is the ratio of GREEN cylinders to total cylinders? Snape is dead? He can’t be! How? What is the ratio of GREEN cylinders – Who even cares? Leah sweeps her work from the desk and rushes out of class.

  The crucible of primates opens. It will be a while before the heat goes out of it and we can see what’s left. Gold? Baseness of the worst kind? Guarding the good deposit of tradition? Or legitimizing homophobia? There is no shortage of answers. This is Anglicanism: it depends who you ask. The worksheet wavers through tears. Q. What is the ratio of TRUTH to total love? Shall we sweep it aside and rush out? But where would we go?

  O Anglican Communion! Best of churches, worst of churches. Church of hope, church of despair. And who – outside your doors, going about their daily business on the streets of Lindfordshire – even cares?

  If I could knit you up, like some cosmic knitting archdeacon, I would. But it feels like trying to knit with barbed wire. Barbed wire and human hair.

  Father Dominic, shielded to some extent by his low expectations, is nevertheless heartbroken. Again. Again! How long, O Lord? He thinks of the primate of the Episcopal Church, and prays for that grace, that dignity, for himself. To know you are right, yet to bow your head to pain all the same.

  The dean stares up at the crucified Christ in the Lady Chapel. She signed that open letter urging the primates to repent of the Church’s treatment of LGBTI Christians. It seems to her now that she can hardly bear it. Cannot bear it.

  The lay clerk of Gayden Parva – more lovely than a summer’s day, though less temperate – shares his views about fuckwitted African primates on Facebook.

  Archdeacon Matt rubbed his hands over his bald head. Oh Lord. Schism avoided. A week ago, he’d’ve settled for that. But this was not going to play well in the headlines. The Episcopal Church of America on the naughty step for breaking ranks on the old gay marriage front. Short-term missional and pastoral disaster. But the long game? Hmm. Only time would tell, but it looked to him as though there was now some wiggle room on how we define marriage. Some canny phrasing in that document. He was betting a whole heap of spiritual hard graft – reconciliation, foot washing, tears – went on behind closed doors. Didn’t translate well into secular speak, but it would not be wasted.

  Jane came in and rubbed his back for him. ‘Bummer,’ she said. ‘Have you remembered Dom’s party?’

  Dominic’s party will be remembered for a long time. Somewhat hazily in some cases, I will admit. Haziness was accelerated by those cases of champagne donated by Neil Ferguson, on top of the supermarket Prosecco laid in by Dominic himself.

  I offer the reader some edited highlights.

  Neil (in wig, catsuit and platform boots) was heard demanding why that bawheid archdeacon had been invited? Correct him if he was wrong, but this party was a send-off for the ‘starman’. Was the archdeacon a Bowie fan? He thought not.

  The archdeacon begged to differ. Broke out the old photographic evidence.

  Very well. Very well. The archdeacon could stay. Provided he put on the zact same lightning make-up, right now. Eds, where’s ma kit? Eds?

  Eds was in the kitchen with Freddie May.

  Seriously? Yeah, no, thing was, Eds was a sweet guy? He was! Seriously, Eds was the kind of sweet guy guys always go home to, yeah? But Freddie, he was just a bad habit? Like, nobody really wanted him, for keeps? Oh God, sorry, crying now. Lemme make you a cocktail?

  Eds’ eyes darted round. Save me, someone!

  Where, where is the person willing to save poor Ed from a dirty Martini mixed by Freddie May – clad as he is in nothing but tattoos, piercings, and a cheeky pair of gold spandex shorts?

  Who else was there? I’ve lost track. Clergy from the Lindford deanery, naughty graphic designers from London, diocesan staff, old friends, old enemies. Whatever. Let all the people boogie.

  ‘The thing is, Jane. Thing is, the star man has already visited us.’

  ‘Yes, darling, he has.’

  ‘Thass the incarnation.’

  ‘You’re pished, Dommie.’

  ‘And he BLEW OUR MINDS. Mean it, Jane.’

  It is Saturday morning now. Father Wendy plods along beside the Linden with Pedro. Oh Pedro, it’s darker than ever, isn’t it? It’s so hard to believe spring will come. If all you did was watch the dawn, you’d think things were getting worse.

  Wendy stops and gazes out across the waterlogged landscape. For a moment, everything seems upside down. The fields look to her like sky covered with a thin film of earth.

  Chapter 4

  t is the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. The Anglican Communion has been spared the awkwardness of entering this in shambles and fragments. Ought we, despite everything, to muster some kind of Hallelujah? (Or – if that smacks of happy-clappiness to you – an Alleluia.) Once again, Anglicans have come to the hard-won conclusion that schism is never the answer. (Unless the question is: what do you call it when there’s a split between strongly opposed parties?)

  It is not the business of this narrative to tell you what to think. Instead, we swish the biting sword of satire from the morally precarious vantage point of the fence, while in our other hand we seek to hold a torch (like a little candle) as steady as can be. We will point its nosy beam into the lives of our characters, piously humming an old Sunday School favourite: ‘You in your small corner, and I in His.’

  Blue Monday. 5.30 a.m. The bishop of Lindchester is in his study praying. I realize that I have not yet taken you into Steve’s head. Thus far, we have merely hated him from the outside. Here he is, on his knees.

  He prays for those who feel hurt and betrayed. He prays for those who are persecuted and shot at, who are flooded or burnt out of their homes. For the hungry and homeless in his own diocese. He prays for friends and family, for his incredible EA (sine qua non), for the clergy and people of the Lindford deanery (whose turn it is in the diocesan cycle of prayer), for cathedral Dean and Chapter, and for lay clerks who excoriate him in ad hominem Facebook attacks. And when he has run out of words, he carries on praying in some private tender scat of the spirit, meaningless, charged with meaning, syllables poured out like pebbles into a stream, intercession too deep for uttering.

  It is still dark outside.

  Ha, if you’d told Steve at the age of twenty this would be his daily pattern, he’d have laughed. He knows he’s a lazy toad by nature. A corner-cutter, a trader on his personal charm. He also knows he’s a bear of very little brain. People think he’s brighter than he is because he has the gift of the gab. There are bears out there with brains the size of a planet; but Steve (who idled his way through Cambridge and fluked a 2.1) frequently sounds like their equal, because he is not so tongue-tied by nuance.

  He has a bookmark in his Bible: ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’

  Ah, he could have skimmed through his life. He could have been one of those maverick, inspirational English masters (O Captain, my captain!) at some public school or other. Generations would have adored floppy-haired Mr Pennington. Sir, with his witty repartee, his dandy clothes. He could have lived in his depth, in the warm shallows, surfing by on the crest of his popularity.

  Instead of which, he has to captain this creaky tall ship on a dark and very deep sea. He could have stayed in Aylesbury! If you can’t be popular and beloved as a suffragan bishop, then when can you? (He thinks, with the skewing perspective of hindsight.) For him, Aylesbury was like being a curate all over again. Second in command. Sorry, me hearties – I’m just the mate. You’ll have to ask the skipper. Have a tot of rum!

  Steve has a
nother bookmark; a folded-up page from an old order of service. It is – how lovely, in this Week of Prayer for Christian Unity! – the Methodist Covenant prayer:

  Christ has many services to be done:

  some are easy, others are difficult;

  some bring honour, others bring reproach;

  some are suitable to our natural inclinations and

  material interests, others are contrary to both . . .

  He had thought, when he was first ordained, that he would toughen up and outgrow his aversion to conflict. But it seems to him that all he has acquired over the decades is the knowledge that everything passes. That, and a sense that the Lord is with him.

  If Bishop Steve admitted publicly that his current role is deeply unsuitable to his natural inclinations, it would sound disingenuous, of course. Does he not ooze confidence? With his four archdeacons and his restructures and his growth agenda! Do we not wrinkle our noses at the whiff of mini-MBA McMellitus management-speak, the vulgar Evangelical number-crunching Green-itis that lingers in the room after Slick Steve has left?

  Talent pool! When was talent ever a Christian category? Well, apart from Jesus’ parable about the talents, obviously. Which admittedly is how the word entered the English language in the first place. Yes, yes. Apart from that parable – in which those who have ten are unchristianly given ten more, and the poor person with one talent is punished for not using it! – when was it ever a Christian category? What is this Evangelical love affair with success? As though the church were an economy which has to grow year on year, and increase thirtyfold, sixtyfold, a hundredfold, rather than being a seed that has to fall into the ground and die? No, we reserve full shuddering rights when we think of the likes of Steve Pennington. There goes the C of E. Would we not rather it ceased to exist, than continued in so uncongenial a form?

  Meanwhile, the clergy and people of every Lindchester stripe still have to crack on with it. They bring good news in word and deed, in pulpit and out of it, at all times and in all places. They donate to the foodbank, they volunteer at the foodbank, they are served by the foodbank. Father Dominic spends many hours in courtrooms, testifying that his Iranian brothers and sisters are genuine converts. The Revd Martin Rogers – the Borough (AND CHURCHES) Liaison Officer – works with homeless shelters, street pastors, respite homes, church ministers, social services, charities, schools. They seek tirelessly to make-do-and-mend Big Society’s nets so that nobody slips through. And yet they slip through. Walk through any town in the diocese and you will be asked for change. Spare any change? God bless you. Have a nice day. Spare any change? It is curious, is it not, to be blessed so often by the person in the gutter, who has nothing else to give you?

  But whither the diocese of Lindchester? Will Stevangelical prevail? The eagle-eyed among you will have spotted that the post of suffragan bishop of Barcup has now been advertised. You may check out the details in the usual places, and apply, if you feel called. Has Matt got round to broaching this with Jane yet?

  Right. About that . . .

  ‘Honey, I’m ho-ome!’

  Matt swiftly closed down his CV. Gave her a big smile from behind his study desk. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘I bring a bulletin from outside Planet Church.’ Jane dumped her satchel and dropped a kiss on the archdeacon’s head. ‘Nobody gives a stuff about the Episcopal Church gay marriage slap-down! I went in and said, “Torrid week, eh?” and m’colleagues just looked at me. So I said, “the Primates?” And they went, “Oh! Of course! What happened?” These are Radio 4 listeners, and they didn’t know! My good friend Spider feared I was breaking some tragic news about mountain gorillas.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘It’s just one more instance of our colonial bread coming back to us on the waters.’ Jane settled down in his armchair to deliver a semi­nar. ‘Basically, if we hadn’t exported our English obsession with criminalizing buggery, we wouldn’t have this headache now, would we?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  There was a pause. ‘I sense you have other more pressing matters.’

  ‘Sorry. Bit distracted.’

  ‘Top secret, eh? That why you hit the boss key when I came in?’

  For a second Jane glimpsed the small boy the archdeacon had once been. Caught bang to rights, hand in biscuit barrel.

  She laughed her filthy laugh. ‘Porn?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You can watch as much porn as you like, Mr Archdeacon. Provided I get to watch it with you.’

  ‘It’s not porn.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, fine.’ Jane got up and made to flounce out. ‘Wait! Biblical Bonking says no passive aggression!’

  The archdeacon sighed.

  ‘OK, got it.’ Jane laid a hand on her heart. ‘Matt, I just want you to know, whatever it is, I love you very much, and I promise I won’t yell at you.’

  The archdeacon nodded. ‘All righty.’

  ‘The last bit was a lie,’ Jane whispered.

  ‘I realize that,’ he whispered back.

  We must leave Matt to stew for a bit longer. This is Jane’s decision, and who are we to interfere in someone else’s marriage? She knows perfectly well what’s going on here. Dominic told her the rumours before Christmas and she tootled straight over to Martonbury to cast her eyes over the house. She has already nailed being the world’s worst archdeacon’s wife, and it would be idle to say Jane is not ambitious.

  She opens a nice IPA and snorts. Jane Rossiter, you are a bad person. Get back to the study now, and put the poor man out of his misery! She tilts her head. Yes? Nah. Let the bugger stew.

  *

  If you can remember being at Dominic’s party last Friday, then you were not really there.

  ‘Let’s have a Rickman night, Eds. Let’s watch Truly, Madly, Deeply.’

  ‘But we just did.’

  ‘Did not! When?’

  ‘At Dom’s. Only you fell asleep on the archdeacon.’

  ‘Did not! Hate that fecker!’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Ed gets out his phone. Checks. ‘Looks pretty snuggly to me . . .’

  ‘What! Gimme that.’ Neil studies the picture at arm’s length because no way is he old enough to need reading glasses. Some vague memory. Someone big and solid holding him. ‘Yes, well. And why hasn’t the recycling been taken out, I’d like to know?’

  And so another dark January week draws to a close. Don’t despair. Stand in your doorway at six any evening now. Yes. That really is a blackbird singing, juicy and gorgeous as summer berries.

  The dean is out cycling again before evensong. They have just reached the halfway point. It’s been raining. It will rain again. There are more storms on the way. But today it’s mild.

  ‘I’m completely knackered.’

  ‘Would you like an energy-packed banana to revive you?’ asks Gene.

  ‘Provided that’s not a euphemism. Oh!’ Marion guffaws. ‘What on earth is that?’

  Ah, she’s laughing. ‘This, deanissima, is a banana guard, a purpose-built protective case for bananas.’

  ‘Good grief! Did you buy it at Ann Summers?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ says Gene. ‘It’s from Lakeland. Sonya-Sonya recommended it. It accommodates every shape and size, and protects against bruising and battering-attering.’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the banana guard: a paradigm of inclusive church! Come along now, eat up.’

  The dean eats her banana through tears of laughter.

  Finally. Gene draws a long breath. The worst is over.

  ‘You know what it’s felt like?’ she says. ‘Like when I was a little girl and my parents fought. Tim and I would sit on the stairs and listen to them screaming and throwing things. We were terrified. Terrified they were going to split up and abandon us.’

  Gene knows she was thinking of it. Thinking of leaving. ‘Maybe there comes a time when splitting up is kinder all round?’ he says.

  ‘No.
We can’t.’ She seizes his arm. ‘We can’t cut one another adrift, we cannot abandon one another! Not now. This world’s too dangerous and desperate.’ She hauls herself onto her bike. ‘Come on, let’s get back. Evensong.’

  As she cycles, muscles burning, Marion thinks of those cars in Canterbury, lined up and waiting with the press, ready to carry off the conservative primates when they walked out. Only the cars had not been needed. Like the ribbons of the team everyone knew would win the cup, they had not been needed.

  Oh, please say the evenings are just starting to lighten? begs Marion. Please say the year has turned the corner? She slogs along the disused railway track. Darkness is not the last word. Darkness cannot be the last word.

  FEBRUARY

  Chapter 5

  ritain waits for Stormzilla to cross from America. Here in Lindfordshire the wind rehearses. Vapour trails slide helpless down the sky. Gusts flinch silver across puddles. Listen. An experimental chord in the treetops. A papery percussion of laurel leaves. Somewhere a metal gate gnashes, like the teeth of the iniquitous. Silence. As if between movements. Then forte! Leaves fly. Bulb shoots quiver like plucked strings. Up on Cathedral Close the flag is wrapped round its pole, but the free half still flaps bravely.

  It is Monday. The bishop’s Executive Assistant arrives at the office, driven on the gale like one of the bad nannies in Mary Poppins; rather than descending serenely, the way our lovely Penelope would have done (sugar spoon poised) back in the good old days, before Steve so heartlessly got rid of her. The EA punches in the code on the keypad that replaced the old lock; the one that half of Lindchester had a key for. The code is closely guarded, and changed every three months. Freddie May does not know the code (thinks the EA).