Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  More millionaires than ever before! We’re turning this whole country into a gated community! he thinks.

  The rich man in his castle,

  The poor man at his gate,

  God made them high and lowly,

  And ordered their estate.

  Yes, he can imagine an England where people had no problem with verse three of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. And America! Don’t get him started on Trump.

  *

  Similar thoughts exercise the mind of the bishop of Lindchester. Lindfordshire in general espouses the view that the Church should keep out of politics (unless the Church agrees with us, in which case we call it ‘traditional values’ not politics). Steve is unlikely ever to have a voice in the Lords, owing to the fast-tracking of women bishops (heralded by the glorious headline Women bishops to leapfrog into the House of Lords.) But he speaks out locally on matters of justice. The MP for Lindford retaliates by bran-dishing declining church attendance in the bishop’s face. If the bishops would stop meddling in things that don’t concern them, if they would only exercise proper spiritual leadership, and teach the people the Ten Commandments, the churches would be full.

  Gosh, if only we’d thought of that. The honourable gentleman is a genius.

  ‘You’re looking a bit miz, darling,’ says Sonya. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘I occasionally feel like Sam-I-am,’ says Steve. ‘They do not like Green church and ham. Here’s me, bouncing round the diocese going “Try them! Try them!” People flatly refuse to engage on principle.’

  ‘—ciple.’ Sonya sighs. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘Would you, could you with a prayer?’ improvises the bishop. ‘Would you in your underwear?’

  She laughs. ‘But some folk are engaging, surely?’

  ‘Yes, yes. They are. But I’m having a Moses moment: Why did you ever send me to this people?’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ She rubs his arm. ‘Still, Marion’s come on board with the restructure, hasn’t she? And there’s the interviews next week, remember? You’ll soon have another bishop to share the load. I know it’s been a bit lonely, but—’

  ‘Would you stop mum-splaining!’

  ‘I wasn’t! And there’s no such thing!’

  He raises a finger. ‘Hang on.’

  ‘What? You’re frowning at me.’

  ‘Got it.’ He smiles. ‘Could you, dressed as Harry Potter? Would you, poncing in a cotta?’

  ‘—cotta! Ha ha ha! Is that the lacy thing? But think – in the book, thingy gives in and tries green eggs and ham. And he loves them!’

  ‘I will hang onto that prophetic word from Dr Seuss.’ The bishop gets up from the breakfast table. ‘Have a nice day. Got your keys?’

  ‘—keys. Yes, thanks. Wait! OK, yes I have.’

  ‘Good. The fewer lay clerks we have parkouring on the palace roof, the happier I shall be.’

  Sonya is correct: the interviews for the bishop of Barcup job are next week. We must suppose that three other shortlisted candidates besides Matt are busily preparing themselves. Since they live outside the borders of the diocese, I cannot be bothered to imagine them for you, frankly. We will concern ourselves with them if they are appointed. Instead, we will lavish all our narrative attention upon our stout hero, the archdeacon of Lindchester. It’s Saturday afternoon. We will sneak into the kitchen and eavesdrop.

  ‘Would you like me to give you a mock interview?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No fear.’

  ‘Come along, Mister Archdeacon. I want to live in a palace. I want you on top of your game.’

  ‘It’s not a palace. Only diocesans have palaces.’

  ‘Well, it’s a palace to me. Come along. I can guarantee that after an interview with me, next Wednesday will be a stroll in the park.’

  ‘I bet. But it’s really not going to be adversarial, Janey,’ said Matt. ‘It’s more a discernment process.’

  This prompted the filthy laugh. ‘Well, suit yourself. I tried. Let me know if you change your mind.’ She went and got a beer out of the fridge. ‘I’ll be in the lounge. Watching the England–Wales discernment process.’

  Passiontide approaches. Clergy across the diocese emphasize once again that passion does not mean lurve. It is not an envelope of little red hearts swirling in the wind. It does not mean enthusiasm, either. It is not something you put in a personal statement. I am passionate about hillwalking (de rigueur for episcopal CVs, I am reliably informed). Like last week’s daffodils – picked, bundled, distributed, displayed, thrown out, composted – passion is passive. It is not doing, it is being done to. Grammar check cannot approve. He was betrayed, he was scourged, he was crucified, he was buried. Consider revising.

  Chapter 12

  awthorn leaves green the hedges. Sticky buds – tacky as treacle toffee – burst and extend pale fingers in the sunshine. Vapour trails quilt the sky. Hottest February on record, far worse than predicted, even. The headline slips past. But it leaves a splinter of dread for our minds to snag on. A 3 a.m. dread. Have we forgotten something? Missed a deadline, or a sign?

  Holy Week is not far off now. Palm fronds are propped in vestry corners; palm crosses bought or made. Donkeys are hired; or hobby horses looked out of the Sunday School dressing-up box. Clergy buy in vast quantities of Fairtrade chocolate eggs. The traditional Passiontide challenge commences, of not scoffing the lot before Easter Sunday.

  If you walk round Cathedral Close you will hear the slow mournful ascent of organ tuning. A choral crisis threatens. One of the tenor lay clerks (can) has laryngitis. What will become of the Lindchester Mass – with its fiendishly challenging solo parts – on Easter Day?

  ‘Are you mad, Timothy?’ asked the precentor’s wife. She poured him a glass of Merlot in accordance with the choral myth that red wine is better for the vocal cords. ‘He had the whole of Christmas off for his nose surgery. Then what? Straight back to doing drugs.’

  ‘Oh, I think that was just a one-off, wasn’t it?’ pleads the director of music. ‘Look, come on, we all know Freddie’s the only one who can nail the high notes.’

  ‘No. It’s agreed: no solos till he cleans up his act,’ said Uli.

  ‘Actually, Dr Jacks disagrees,’ put in the precentor. ‘He thinks it will help Freddie lay an old ghost – of when his voice broke.’

  ‘Ja, right. Dr Jacks – who washed his hands of him!’ scoffed Uli.

  ‘Oh, Andrew still has influence as an older, wiser friend,’ Giles said. ‘Viz Mr May has finally got himself a job.’

  ‘And? Will he keep it?’ asked Uli. ‘He’s had jobs before, and blown them.’

  There was a pause as they all scanned that last utterance for innuendo.

  ‘We can but hope,’ said Giles. ‘I think you should give him a chance, Timothy. Do as the great Mr Dorian himself commends – try a little tenderness.’

  ‘Tenderness! Everyone cuts him too much slack, if you ask me,’ was his wife’s reply. ‘He’s got to learn. Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof.’

  Ah, if only life were a pony farm. Better still, a luxury Argentine estancia. Mr May would be in his element there. He could literally be a dude! In the literal sense of literal. But Mr May must make do with a job waiting on tables, alas.

  There’s a newly opened coffee shop just where the Lower and Upper Towns meet, right by the old stone gateway. Vespas, it’s called. The reader can probably picture it: unpretentious, in a locally sourced sourdough, naked-bulby, apple-cratey kind of a way. There are pictures of Vespa scooters on the bare brick walls. The paintwork is grey. Retro coffee cans to hold the cutlery. There’s honest white crockery, milk served in dinky little bottles, old school chairs. And a single bloom in an Orangina bottle on every table. Here you may recapture something of that early nineties buzz, when a cappuccino was thrillingly edgy; for this is the home of your cortado, your breve.

  Vespas is a hotbed of dapper hirsuteness. Perhaps Freddie might grow his beard back, now he has no mentor to smile derisively? (Coz who gives a shit what An
dy thinks? The list of father figures who’ve betrayed your trust. The more he thinks about that lamebrain cliché accusation, the more he’s, guess what, babe, gonna add you to my list of asshole amateur psychologists?) Yes, Freddie is still smarting from that lunchtime recital of Dorian high-handedness. His new boss sports the chops and twirling tache of an Edwardian cad. It was a laidback interview in which they awesomely outduded one another. The waiters at Vespas wear Breton shirts and are called waitrons. No, we eschew smirking. Vespas is a force for good in Lindchester: it pays the living wage. This is more than can be said for many a local employer. (Including – tell it not in Gath – the cathedral café and bookshop, though they aim to achieve this by the end of the year.)

  If members of the choral foundation were surprised at Freddie’s entry into paid employment, Freddie was even more surprised. Honestly? Didn’t even know Vespas existed. So he’d been heading downhill to Lindchester station to get the train to London. Only with each step there was this voice going, why are you even doing this, you whore, when you know you’ll just end up giving the cash to the foodbank? It’s not like you’ll even enjoy it. Plus you’ll trash your nose again. Why, why?

  Man, what is this – like I’m slut-shaming myself now? Like I’ve internalized the haters? He got halfway across the bridge. Nope. No good. Not gonna happen. He turned round and headed back. That’s when he saw the advert in the window.

  So cool, he’s got a job. Only, gah! Now there’s this whole bunch of info – National Insurance, tax codes, forms, all this stuff with like numbers he can’t remember where he put? Probably it’s all in his room somewhere, maybe in that old Amazon box where he sticks all the shit he knows he’s gotta deal with, but never does? Man, why does sorting one problem always just open the door to this whole new avalanche of scary crap? Fucking HMRC coming after him, with their red-letter final demands like some fucking red-eyed psycho, all ‘Heeeeere’s Johnny!’ Oh Jesus. Why’s he so dumb? Why hasn’t he found an accountant, like Totty said to? Not like he can afford one, but still?

  ‘So, deanissima, who’s going to be the next bishop of Barcup?’ asks Gene.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not on the interviewing panel,’ replies Marion.

  ‘I realize it was never going to be you. You don’t get out of bed for a mere suffragan post! What! Renounce your far-reaching executive powers to become some lickspittle junior bishopette in the thrall of Stevangelical? Is this to be borne?’

  ‘Not helping, darling. Really not helping.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Well, how about a fortnight’s post-Easter break in Havana? Would that help?’

  ‘What?’ Marion laughs and presses fingertips to temples. ‘Havana! That’s— well, of course, yes, but— Sorry, I can’t see beyond Holy Week, Gene.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘But I can only manage a week. There’s the Deans’ Conference, remember.’

  ‘What Deans’ Conference? You didn’t tell me! Ooh! Is there a spouses’ programme? Am I invited? Where is it?’

  ‘Liverpool.’

  ‘Oh, not bloody Liverpool!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve already declined on your behalf,’ replies Marion. ‘On the grounds that you are a total liability.’

  ‘You can’t hide me away for ever, deanissima.’

  ‘I can try.’

  Term staggers to a close. In Cardingforth Primary the knives are out for the Easter Bonnet parade, an annual tradition in which Mumzillas are pitted against one another under the flimsy pretext of hat decoration. As this is not a church school, the judging will be transparent and fair. First Prize will go to the best bonnet, rather than the bonnet of the poor mite whose parents have just split up.

  Pity the poor children whose mums refuse to engage. They will be left to scramble together some amateurish concoction out of paper plates and egg cartons. Leah Rogers despises Easter bonnets. Plus anyway, she’s an atheist. She tried making a pagan Ostara bonnet, by attaching Jess’s old Barbie with her hair cut off to a sunhat of Mum’s, but Ostara kept falling over and then the hat came off. Whatevs. Jess’s pink hat with the fwuffy bunny-wunnikins didn’t even get runner-up, so good.

  *

  Dr Jane Rossiter aches for term to finish. She spends all Wednesday in her office doing wall-to-wall tutorials to damp down deadline panic. Jane is a consummate professional. She marks to the marking criteria posted on the unit Moodle area. She will not penalize those who email her thus: ‘hey jane sorry i cant make my tutorial as im a bit under the weather. can I email a draft for feedback thanx in advance.’ She is particularly fond of the excuse ‘I cant make it because i only just noticed work put me on an early shit’, accompanied by the assurance that any advice about how to answer the question ‘would be greatly appropriated’. My advice to you, young Flaky, is to buy a Time Turner on Amazon, and make sure you attend your lectures and seminars during the past two terms.

  But at least this is keeping her mind off the interview. Sorry, discernment process. How is Matt getting on? Jane keeps catching herself nearly praying. His interview is at 2 p.m. A sudden flurry of keen students occupies her till 3.30, by which time it’s presumably all over. This now requires the kind of retrospective intercession she remembers from her Christian days, when she’d promised to pray for something, then forgot: Lord, let it have gone well. A Time Turner prayer. That said, God – presumed to be outside the constraints of human time – would have no problem granting requests couched in the past tense hortative. Jane is not even clear what she means by hoping it’s ‘gone well’. That Matt will be appointed? She consults her feelings: pride in her man, and a roughly 2:1 ratio of hilarity to grumpiness at the thought of becoming Mrs Bishop. Then there are Matt’s feelings to consider. Which are less ignoble. He just wants to be in the right place, doing the thing he’s called to do.

  She looks at her watch. The interview panel will be at the fisticuffs stage of discernment by now. Matt should get a call from the bishop this evening some time. There are a few more hours to fill. She sticks a note on her door in case another student rocks up, and goes to get a coffee.

  We will maintain our policy of not intruding into bedroom or boardroom. I will just hint that the process of discernment was not entirely straightforward. I hesitate to describe the panel as dysfunctional, but there are historic tensions in the diocese of Lindchester. The decision was not unanimous. But a decision was reached.

  Jane was cutting through Lindford arboretum on her way home when the text arrived: Thunderbirds are go! She stops. Feels a rush of something. Joy? A collared dove croons. For a second the scene feels shot through with meaning. She texts back: Well played, Rt Rev Tracy!

  ‘Hire a donkey. G’wan, do the thing properly. Why don’t you hire a real donkey, Eds? I’ll pay.’

  Father Ed drums his fingers on the Welsh slate worktop. ‘Boundaries, Neil? I don’t tell you how to do graphic design. You don’t tell me how to be a parish priest.’

  ‘Fine. Be like that.’ Neil adjusts something or other on his sports gadgetry. Hums lightly. Does a quad stretch.

  Oh shit. Ed knows the symptoms. Here it comes.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, I’ll be in London this weekend. Mention that, did I?’

  ‘No, Neil. You didn’t.’

  Neil makes eye contact. Honest as the day is long. ‘Aye, well. There’s this big project I need to put to bed.’

  The phrase twangs as subtly as a Freudian banjo.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right. OK. Off for ma run. Gonna shave five seconds off my PB. See you, big man. Mwa mwa.’

  No need to hire a donkey, is there? thinks Ed.

  Ambrose follows him up the stairs to the lay clerks’ vestry after evensong on Palm Sunday. He breathes in Le Male. Ambrose, the invisible alto. If he sang on can, not dec, would Freddie May actually see him? If he waved, maybe? Probably not.

  They’re all taking off their cassocks.

  ‘Hey, so I’ve been meaning to say?’

  Ambrose freezes.
Me?

  Freddie is looking at his phone. Glances up. ‘Yeah, nice set of pipes, dude.’

  Nigel Bennet, the senior lay clerk, leans round Ambrose and whispers helpfully: ‘He’s got a nice set of everything.’

  Freddie laughs. ‘Yeah?’

  And now, after months of standing next to each other in quire, Ambrose feels himself coming into focus for the first time. Let all mortal flesh keep silence. Everything hangs in the balance. Yes? No?

  ‘Hnn.’ Freddie goes back to his phone.

  Ow.

  Chapter 13

  ell, let’s find a way of making this happen, then,’ said the archdeacon to Father Dominic. ‘I’ll look into funding streams. Heard about the Brownlow Trust? Pot of money from the former theological college. Trustees are a tad tricky – like to play silly buggers with the purse strings. But Bishop Steve’s keen to free things up, and use the funds to develop our social justice agenda. Confident you can work with Virginia – if she turns out to be the best candidate?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dominic.

  ‘Nobody’s claiming she’s a barrel of laughs,’ said Matt, getting to his feet. ‘But that’s something you can help her with. I gather.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Curses! Rumours of out-of-hours jollity during General Synod had got back to HQ.

  ‘All righty. I’ll run it past Virginia, then, and keep you posted. Bring Martin Rogers into the loop – Borough and Churches Liaison will want some input on the role and job description. But basically, split post: associate vicar here, social welfare officer – or whatever – for the diocese.’

  ‘Sounds fab. But at the risk of putting a spoke in my own wheel, isn’t St James’s a more obvious choice? Geoff’s got so much social justicy stuff happening already. The Food Bank, Debt Advice, Street Pastors—’

  ‘Yep, thought about that. But you’ve got your Farsi congregation. Anyway, the bishop wants to get behind your work here. Seems to us you’re stretched pretty thin, Father.’