Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  ‘Hey. Everything OK?’

  Clearly not. Shirt covered in blood. Assaulted? She tries to get him talking, but he’s out of it. The cold rain falls. He lurches onto all fours and pukes. Chloe rubs his back.

  ‘Hey. Poor you. It’s OK. All done?’

  She phones, and another pastor joins her. Together they get him up on his feet and round the corner to the gazebo pitched in front of the church. They sit him down, put a foil survival blanket round him, and get the first aider to check him over. No obvious injuries. They clean him as best they can. Then Chloe sits with him and waits until he’s sober enough to be put in a taxi home.

  ‘How’s he doing? Have we got his address yet?’ murmurs the team leader.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Chloe. ‘I know where he lives.’

  Rain peppers the gazebo. Gusts shake the frame. Frail enough shelter, she thinks. But it’s here, and it’s still standing.

  General Synod meets next week. Hard-core synod types will be eager to know who else from the diocese of Lindchester, besides Chloe, was appointed in the elections last year. You could look it up, of course. Nothing is hidden that shall not be made manifest via the Church of England website. (Unless it is very confidential, in which case someone will incontinently widdle it on Twitter because they can’t help themselves.)

  In the diocese of Lindchester there are three lay members of synod, and three . . . proctors?! Well, it says proctors, so I assume that’s the correct term for priests when they are incarnate in synodical form. Chloe has already been introduced. She, a pro-LGBTI liberal, is joined by a fierce conservative holding fast to the old school doctrine of Slippery Slope to Abomination (bless him), and a decent conservative of the good egg type. The proctors include our old friend Father Dominic, Virginia (Father Wendy’s curate) and Josh Fitzpatrick. All you need to know about Josh is that he will struggle to keep a straight face when synod debates making traditional vestments optional.

  Sunday morning dawns. Freddie May is not in church. He has ‘food poisoning’. Oh God, oh Jesus, wanna die, please let me die. It’s all coming back in jagged fragments. He opens an eye. Sees the blood–soaked T-shirt on the floor.

  Ah cock. Cannot believe himself, doing blow again so soon after surgery? When’s he gonna learn? Ah nuts, and the street pastor? Noooo-oh. Please no. It was her – wossname’s, new alto’s girlfriend, wasn’t it? Naaw, don’t let her tell him. Don’t let this get back to the precentor. Now the fucking bells are starting. He pulls the pillow over his poor head and cries.

  The sun comes out, transfiguring Lindchester into R. S. Thomas’s bright field. Turn aside. Turn aside. Light streams through the cathedral’s ancient stained glass. Pigeon shadows sail past. Away on the other side of the diocese, the good folk in Josh’s café church come up for communion. They pass between data projector and screen, and for a moment, a word rests on them as they wait in the light: Bread . . . cup . . . glory.

  Chapter 7

  he bishop of Lindchester stood in the office on Monday morning. He looked at his watch.

  ‘He’s not coming, is he?’

  ‘Looking that way,’ said Kat.

  ‘Hmm. Can I ask you to contact him and re-arrange?’

  ‘Sure. You’re the boss.’

  Over the months, Steve had learnt to interpret that phrase. It meant: ARE YOU COMPLETELY MAD? He laughed. ‘What, not go the extra mile?’

  ‘You’re asking me? Not even an extra inch. He’s rude, he’s tantrumy, he’s trained everyone to tiptoe round him. He flat out refused an invitation to take part in the Shared Conversations, and then he vents on Facebook about how you personally betrayed him and denied him a voice. You make time for him today – at his request! – and he doesn’t even bother to show up. He needs a good slap.’ She started a new email. ‘But anyway, let me just quickly contact him to rearrange . . .’

  ‘On reflection, leave it,’ said Steve.

  ‘Oh, OK.’ She closed the email and gave him her beaming smile. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m bound to run into him on the Close some time.’

  ‘Cool. We’ll leave it like that for now, then.’ Bet you anything he hides if he sees you coming, thought Kat.

  *

  Freddie is hiding all right. He’s battened down the hatches. Because of (in ascending order on the Beaufort Screaming Habdabs Scale): Miss B, 2 (light breeze of guilt, small wavelets); his landlords; the precentor, 7 (high wind of angst! whole trees in motion!); Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs; culminating in the force 12 hurricane of dread – SEVERE WIDESPREAD DAMAGE! UNSECURED OBJECTS HURLED ABOUT! – that is whipped up by thoughts of his mentor.

  It’s lunchtime on Monday, and here he is, still curled up under his duvet. He’s twenty-five, but he’s like a little boy who’s run away from home to the bottom of the garden to make everyone sorry – and now he’s waiting to be found, only nobody’s come looking for him. Maybe nobody cares, maybe nobody’s even noticed he’s run away? Or maybe they have, only they’re bored of his fucking numbnuts soap opera, so they’re all, ignore him, man, just leave him out there in the cold. He pulls the duvet over his head.

  Uh–oh. Footsteps.

  Red alert. Storm Totty approaching. Take action!

  Too late. The door bursts open, curtains are ripped back. Duvet yanked off.

  ‘Dude! Totty!’ Freddie snatches his pillow to cover himself.

  ‘Up! NOW.’ She points to the door. ‘Shower, shave, dressed, and downstairs in fifteen minutes. We’re going to talk, young man.’

  ‘Fine.’ He drags himself up. Godsake.

  ‘Shift!’

  ‘Ow!’ He scuttles to the door before she does it again. Du-ude! You are so inappropriate!

  There. Pippa Voysey-Scott, wife of the canon treasurer, is not part of the ‘let’s tiptoe round Mr Tantrum’ brigade.

  ‘What is going on with you this year, Freddie Bear? You’d been doing so well! Come on, what’s wrong? Out with it.’

  Out it all comes.

  Diagnosis: You’re just having a wobble.

  Prescription: Stop being a wally. Get yourself to the clinic. No more drugs. Hand-written apology to everyone you’ve been rude to. Change those manky sheets and do your laundry. Find an accountant, pull your finger out and look for a job.

  And is tomato soup OK for lunch?

  Freddie cries into the soup – aw, Heinz Cream of Tomato, just like Mum gave him whenever he’d been poorly! – because he’s got what he wanted. Someone cared enough to come looking for him.

  ‘Thanks, Totty.’ He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Love you. Man. Don’t know why I’m such an attention whore.’

  She rumples his hair. ‘Apply brain, Freddie Bear. Work out why. Then maybe you’ll be able to move your life on a bit.’

  Rain at dusk. Wet roads across the diocese of Lindchester. Wet fields, wet footpaths. Wet roofs, trees, umbrellas, shoes, coats. Misery, misery, woe. Wet sofas abandoned in empty streets. Wet, wet, wet, wet, wet.

  Storm Imogen has landed. Oh, this is by far and away the worst yet! cry southern folk in their Londo-centric cocoon. Storms that trash the unimaginable far-flung wastes of The North are not real storms. Why, they fit on the screen of our smartphones! But Imogen, now – Imogen has blown actual fences and trees down before our very eyes and caused chaos on Southern Rail.

  On Tuesday morning several people on the Close come down to find the apology fairy has called in the night and posted a note through the letterbox. Gene reads over the dean’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s doubly right, of course. He is a complete pain, and you do rock, Mrs Dean.’

  Marion laughs and shakes her head.

  ‘So, what’s in the deanly diary today?’ asks Gene.

  She runs through her list. ‘And the choristers’ pancake party tonight,’ she concludes. ‘Bother. And a group of visiting Methodists on a Quiet Day. I need to think what to say in my welcome.’

  ‘Sisters and brothers,’ improvises Gene. ‘You are at the cutting edge o
f decline, and we have much to learn from you.’

  ‘Thanks, darling. I can always count on you.’

  She hurries across to the cathedral for Morning Prayer. The wind shivers the crocuses and gives her cloak a theatrical twirl. What she didn’t tell Gene is that she has reached a decision. She is going to tell the bishop that she is happy – in principle – to explore the idea of a restructure. The one who has called her is faithful, yes; but everything’s still a bit raw. Too raw for the salt of Gene’s wit. And in any case, Steve is unlikely to want to do much this side of General Synod.

  I hope my readers are not alarmed by this tendency among the senior staff to hold out on their spouses. You will remember that Matt has struggled to find the exact moment to mention to Jane that he’s applying for the suffragan bishop job. We shall, on eagle’s wings upborne, to Lindford ascend, and find out whether they have managed to be candid with one another yet.

  The archdeacon tiptoes to the kitchen where Jane is marking student assignments. He hovers in the doorway holding a sheaf of papers. She looks up from her laptop, takes in the situation, and laughs her filthy laugh.

  He sighs. ‘I know you know.’

  ‘I know you know I know.’ She puts out her hand. ‘Want me to proofread it before you send it off?’

  ‘Would you?’ He passes her his application.

  ‘I wondered when you were going to mention it.’

  ‘I thought about Valentine’s Day,’ he says. ‘Only the deadline’s before that, unfortunately. But I’ve drawn a little heart on it. Look.’

  ‘So you have, you romantic devil!’ She starts reading. ‘I warn you, I’m in full marking mode. I’m liable to scrawl “support” all over it.’

  ‘Bring it on, Dr R.’

  ‘OK. Just don’t send me a pissy email saying you’re disappointed with your mark.’

  ‘All righty. Pancakes later?’

  ‘Lovely.’ She doesn’t look up.

  There’s a pause. ‘Are we OK, Janey?’

  She lowers the application. Considers him, head on one side. ‘Yeah. We’re OK. Another time, why not talk it through with me first? Idiot.’

  He sighs again. ‘Sorry. Lived on my own for too long. Got a bit too used to keeping my own counsel. I’m working on that.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I was . . . trying to pick my moment.’ He rubs his face. ‘Frankly, you can be scary, Jane. Even for an old ex-copper like me.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m working on that, too.’

  ‘Good.’

  Pause.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ she raps out. ‘Make my fecking pancakes!’

  He snaps a salute. ‘Yes, ma’am!’

  The annual game of hunt-the-palm-cross is under way across the diocese, ready for Ash Wednesday. They lurk on noticeboards, on car dashboards, tucked behind mirrors, slipped down the back of desks, used as bookmarks in Bible commentaries. No matter how many you hunt down, doh! there will always be some you miss. In the vergers’ vestry in the cathedral Gavin gets out a big brass bowl and tests the blowtorch on a pissy memo from the precentor. The choir rehearse Allegri.

  In the vicarage of Lindford parish church a pancake party is in full swing. Father Dominic is in his Our Lady of Guadalupe apron, flipping pancakes, while his mum (who is still visiting) mixes more batter. The sight of someone making pancakes from actual milk, eggs and flour – rather than out of a shake-and-pour bottle – briefly awes everyone in the kitchen. Mrs Todd is an incarnation of pure bake-off!

  But then Chloe enters with her new labradoodle and the fickle crowd apostatizes into puppy worship. Even Father Dominic, I’m afraid.

  ‘Oh, look, look, look! Look at you! Come to father! What’s he called? Cosmo? Cosmo puppy! Oh, please say you’re bringing him to synod, Chloe?’

  Chloe laughs and shakes her head. ‘I wish! No, Ambrose is coming over to puppy-sit for a few days.’

  ‘I’ve got a better plan,’ says Dominic. ‘Why doesn’t Ambrose go to synod as my body double? Nobody will know. Why, we could be identical twins separated at birth!’

  ‘Yeah. And by twenty years!’

  ‘Hush! Identical, just distributed differently,’ says Dominic. ‘He’s arranged on a vertical axis, that’s all. Eh, Cosmo? Cosmo agrees with father. Yes, yes, yes.’

  He hands the writhing pup back and returns to his frying pan.

  ‘Wash your hands!’ cries Mrs Todd. ‘You’ll get puppy slobber in the pancakes.’

  ‘I love your mum,’ whispers Chloe.

  ‘Have her,’ he whispers back. ‘I’ll pay you.’

  ‘I heard that, Dominic Todd!’

  Ash Wednesday arrives, and now it’s Lent. We give stuff up, or take stuff up, according to the prevailing winds of doctrine. Anglicans once again taunt their lapsed Catholic friends by pointing out that Sundays are not part of Lent. What?! Since when? The nuns never told us that! And once again we must all decide at what point we can wipe the ash smudge off our foreheads. Too soon, and it looks as though we are ashamed of our faith. Too late, and we risk the charge of acting like the hypocrites our Lord denounces.

  ‘Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’

  Miss Blatherwick wonders, as she stands in the queue waiting to be ashed, whether this will be her last Lent. Whether by next year she will already have appeared at the eternal Eastertide. Perhaps this year will provide that other date, the one waiting to be revealed on the far side of the dash. Barbara Blatherwick, 1935–? Next week she will ring the consultant’s secretary. Unless the letter arrives before then, of course. She can picture it lying on the doormat. She will look down, inhabiting that last moment of ignorance, before stooping to find out the results.

  *

  Envelopes on doormats. The catch in our breath when we glimpse a lover’s handwriting. Already these things are acquiring a period feel, like blotting paper or pen wipers.

  Freddie May comes down on Sunday morning and finds an official-looking envelope waiting on the mat. Shit. He just knows it’s a bollocking from someone. Oh God, now what’s he done wrong? He rips it open as he races, late, to the Song School.

  What? The? Actual?

  A storm of tiny red hearts swirls round him in the wind.

  Chapter 8

  awn breaks pink over Lindfordshire. Finally, some decent winter weather. Proper hard-core frost, cast forth like morsels – as in the good old Prayer Book days (none of your modern half-arsed Common Worship frost). We were forgetting what winter used to be like. A cold manna lies over everything. Every bramble strand, every blade of grass is feather-edged, all the dead bracken, all the reed heads along the Linden. Every tile on every roof, each single rock in trackside rubble, nothing is spared, nothing neglected.

  A big man walks a labradoodle puppy through Lindford arbor­etum. He enjoys the smush of frozen grass; the tinkly crunch of puddle under boot.

  Half-term. Middle-class parents start out with good intentions. They make trips to the library, the museum, the swimming pool, the cathedral. (Is this your first visit? Would your little girl like our animal trail leaflet?) But in the end, one way or another, they crack. They bribe their little ones with Haribo and crassly gendered comics. They stick the kids in the car and visit someone, their sister, old school friend – anyone! The wheels on the bus go round and round, horsey-horsey’s feet go clippety-clop. They arrive home and collapse, their parenting bolt shot. It is the witching hour of ‘You’re Tired’ tantrums. And before you know it, the bottle is open and it’s self-medicate o’clock.

  In some happy cases, Grandma comes and stays for a few days, to allow the frazzled young parents a romantic Valentine’s weekend mini-break. Sonya, the bishop’s wife (—p’s wife) has been off doing just that, down in Reading. She has had a lovely time with little Phoebe, while her son and daughter-in-law went to a luxury spa hotel, no doubt to have a massive row, drink too much, and then accidentally conceive a second Pennington grandchild.

  I’m begi
nning to have a soft spot for Sonya. (Mind you, for which of my characters is that not true, here in the empathy forge of the novel?) She’s a valiant soul, juggling supply teaching – nursery and reception, she loves the littlies – alongside being Mrs Bishop. She is a bit lonely in Lindchester. Nobody is mean, but she’s not really necessary the way she was in Aylesbury. She doesn’t even bake, like her predecessor! Poor Sonya feels like a bit of a spare part; especially on Sundays, when she has to choose between trailing around with Steve or finding a church of her own. The problem is, there really aren’t any New Wine congregations of the kind she feels at home in. Not near to Lindchester, anyway. And it’s a bit of a nonsense driving all the way to Martonbury every week, isn’t it? So she ends up worshipping at the cathedral. She’s never really got the hang of it – going up to communion the wrong way, or tripping over short genuflectors in the aisle, and generally feeling stupid.

  I’m afraid Sonya arrived back late on Tuesday night feeling a bit woeful. Bishop Steve was away at General Synod, of course. The Close was silent. It was choral half-term. Ah, who will be kind to Sonya for me?

  Oh no, oh rats, oh bother. She’d only forgotten her front door key. Well, never mind, there was a spare one hidden under the . . . Oh rats, oh bother, oh bum! She forgot to put it back last time she locked herself out, didn’t she? Oh bother, oh bum, oh piddle. She looked at her watch. Twenty past midnight. Canon Giles kept a spare key to the palace. She looked across the Close. All the lights were out in the precentor’s house. She couldn’t go and wake them all up! Again!

  She’d have to, though. What was the alternative? Sleep in the car? Maybe she could sleep in the car. But it was flipping freezing. And anyway, what would it look like, the bishop’s wife spending the night in her car! Oh, why are you such a twit, Sonya? She tried the palace door on the off-chance Steve hadn’t locked it when he left, but of course he had.