‘Well, bless you.’ Dominic blinked back his tears. ‘I’ve got some stellar lay people, though. Chloe’s been a godsend.’
‘Chloe?’
‘Chloe Garner. General Synod, Human Rights lawyer? You remember the Vietnamese boat people – back in the seventies, when the UK still had a heart? Well, Chloe’s mother was one of them.’
‘Ah! Got you. Might be good to bring her in on the appointment process.’ Matt made a note on his iPad. ‘Excellento. I’ll be in touch.’ They walked to the vicarage door. ‘How’s Mum?’
‘Hale and hearty.’ Dominic hesitated. ‘We had a trial month. To see if we could stand it, if she ever had to come and live with me.’
‘And?’
‘Maybe a self-contained granny flat?’ said Dominic. ‘And a panic room for me? Could the diocese fund that?’
Matt laughed as he wedged his pork pie hat firmly on. ‘That’s one for the housing officer. Bye for now. Janey sends her love.’
Father Dominic watched the black Mini shoot off down his drive, and vanish with a toot of the horn. Oho! There goes the next bishop of Barcup, or I’ll eat my biretta.
That was merely a guess on Father Dominic’s part. Jane has not breathed a word. She and Matt are now locked in quarantine, while the formal processes run their course. The new DBS check; the Harley St medical (after which Matt will be admitted into The Fellowship of the Finger, along with all the other senior gentlemen in the C of E). We must all bide our time until the Downing Street announcement.
As he drives, Matt thinks over the logistics of the new social welfare officer post. They need to up their game, no question. Pretty clear which way the winds of austerity are blowing, despite the government’s about-face on benefits, after last week’s budget debacle. Now is not the time to be poor in the UK, or disabled, or even plain old unfortunate. Obviously, he knew this before getting a lecture from the missis about twat-faced millionaire Tory spunk-nozzles. Still, always good to get a balanced academic perspective on things.
*
Holy Week. Easter comes so early everything’s out of gear. Secular cogs whine on ecclesiastical chains. It’s nonsense, isn’t it? Kids back at school next week, then off again for two weeks – what’s that all about? Ridiculous. We should take control, get Easter out of the hands of the Church and fix it, like Spring Bank Holiday. They can still do their Holy Week if they want, like their Whitsun, nobody’s stopping them; but at least we can plan stuff properly if Easter Bank Holiday is fixed.
The religious car bonnet is up again, too. The mechanics suck their teeth. Western and Eastern sprockets. Gregorian and Julian chains. Bound to get slippage. We can sort it, but it’ll cost you.
Meanwhile, in every church and chapel people still come. The faithful, the curious, the grieving, the bad, the desperate – they still gather. Stations of the Cross, #PalmsToGo, Experience Easter, Passion Plays, Messy Easter, the triduum. The cruel nails, the crown of thorns.
A cross stands in Lindchester Cathedral, near the baptistery. A rough wooden cross, a barbed-wire crown. All through Tuesday people come and light candles there, as the footage from the Brussels attacks reels out across our screens. At evensong, the procession enters in silence. No glorias this week. From her stall, the dean sees the host of little lights, far off at the west end of the nave. What other prayer can there be, on this day of atrocity?
Death will come one day to me;
Jesu, cast me not from thee:
dying let me still abide
in thy heart and wounded side.
The last note of the anthem fades. Death will come. It will. Kindly, like a friend. Suddenly, in extreme violence. The flames twinkle, a distant constellation in the black, empty night.
On Maundy Thursday morning, the clergy and lay ministers of the diocese head to the cathedral for the Chrism Mass. Is Thursday really the best day? Might not Monday be more convenient?
‘MONDAY?’ (Enunciated in the manner of Lady Bracknell.) ‘The convenience is immaterial!’ Happily, this heretical suggestion was headed off months ago by the precentor (clutching his imaginary pearl rosary) the moment it was floated by the bishop. And him a former chorister! I’m very disappointed in you, Pennington Major!
We will not join the crowds for the blessing of the oils. But I will tell you that it’s a jolly long service. Especially if you are trying to entertain two small children. And (oh God help us!) number three is on the way. Miriam, the wife of Mr Happy (the canon chancellor), lasted twenty minutes. Chad William wanted to see Bishop Steeeeeve (currently a hero, because he could magically take the end of his thumb off), but little Tabitha kept testing the famous nave echo.
They trawled round the shops to buy an Easter egg for Daddy (Ssh, it’s a secret surprise!). Chad solemnly offered passers-by his organic mini-rice cakes with the words ‘Body of Christ keep you ternal life’. Tabitha screamed and arched in her pushchair. Kind old ladies asked if we’re teething? No, we’re demon-possessed. Miriam toiled back up the hill to the Close, sick and starving. They sat on the stone bench in the west porch and waited for Daddy, with Chad hammering relentlessly away, ‘Why can’t I have some Easter egg? Why? Why?’ Dimly, Miriam could remember the days when she was glad when they said unto her, let us go into the House of the Lord.
The service was finishing. Tabitha had screamed herself to sleep, thank God. And yes, Chad was eating Daddy’s Easter egg. Off and away it sailed, like a helium balloon, the last fuck Miriam gave. She leant her head back. I’m so rubbish. What a dismal grey horrible day. Tears trickled. Snot trickled. Too tired to wipe. The final hymn started: ‘Crown him with many crowns.’ It was muffled behind the doors, like a heaven she was barred from. One day, maybe a million years from now, she’d get her life back.
There was a mighty clatter of bolts. Miriam hastily wiped her face on her sleeve. The great doors swung open. A blast of music. Out came the cross, the procession, clergy, people.
‘Bishop Steeeeve!’ shouted Chad. ‘Bishop Steeeeeeve!’
Steve turned, saw them there. He reached out to Chad. Picked him up, chocolatey hands and all, and continued on his way laughing.
All hail, Redeemer, hail!
For thou hast died for me;
thy praise shall never, never fail
throughout eternity.
*
It’s night. The feet have been washed, mass said, altar stripped. The people have all gone. Father Ed sits alone in the church of Gayden Magna by the altar of repose. When the vigil is over, he must go back to the vicarage. Don’t tell me, Neil. Please don’t confess. Not tonight. Though why not tonight? What better night than this, to admit it is finished?
Ah God, but he doesn’t want to know who it is, the one who’s lighting Neil up, making him smile all the time, making him hum his old Sunday School favourites. Joy! With joy Neil’s heart is ringing, while all the time Ed’s heart is breaking.
Is it nothing to you, you ice-cream vans who pass by? The sun shines this Good Friday. Bright stunt kites swoop, stoop, scoop, up on the green hill of Lindford Common. The first punts of the season sally forth on the Linden from Gresham’s Boatyard. Yay for the four-day weekend! Burger fumes from disposable barbecues rise like fragrant offerings. Lindford arboretum seethes with rollerblades and Heelys, with scooters, bikes, skateboards and the occasional exploding hoverboard.
In the afternoon, the Churches Together March of Witness passes through Lindford Market. Jess Rogers walks with her dad in the sunshine. She’s sad for Jesus. But Leah wouldn’t be seen dead. March of WEIRDNESS, more like. Jesus is crucified outside Debenhams. Chief priests in borrowed Anglican cassocks wag their heads. Silence. The centurion proclaims with a Lindcastrian twang that ‘Truly, this was the son of God.’ Father Dominic leads prayers through a megaphone. People pause and look. Oh yeah – Good Friday.
The sun goes down. It lays a blinding path across the Linden, across Martonbury reservoir, across each lake and pond and flooded field, over every impossible impassable expanse where
hope and heart both fail, a bright highway to the other side.
*
The clocks go forward and Easter comes. Fires blaze in the dark across the diocese of Lindchester. In Cardingforth the vigil happens on Saturday night. After everyone has gone, Father Wendy is left in the church alone, hiding eggs for the hunt tomorrow morning. Not too cunningly – the eggs must be found. She banishes her annual fear that some child is going to discover a lost egg from the 1940s in a cobwebby corner, and eat it. She pops the last egg on a window ledge. There. And now sleep.
Freddie May sleeps at last. His heart is light. He’s found an accountant! Handed over that big scary box of crap, all the unopened HMRC envelopes, the pay cheques, the receipts, the whole mess of his life. Leave it with me. I’ll work it out. Mates’ rates. Pay me when you can. Oh God – Freddie’s literally IN LOVE with that guy! Yeah, no, not literally literally, coz – what’s her name? Hot Chinese girlfriend, street pastor? – but yeah. He’d only been standing right next to him for like months in quire, without knowing the guy was his literal saviour? Total legend. And tomorrow he’s gonna nail that solo. Face down the bad memories. Yeah. All good. Because Easter?
The cathedral sleeps. The new Paschal candle lies on the vestry table. Easter lilies wait in the dark, legions of pale angelic trumpets. Up in the bell tower the mufflers are off. The air is crammed with pent-up Alleluias. And outside, in some garden, the first blackbird whistles.
Surrexit!
Father Ed gets back from the dawn vigil to smell bacon cooking.
‘Made you breakfast, big man. Happy Easter. Buck’s Fizz? Thought I’d, ah, come to church with you later. If that’s OK.’
He sees Neil’s hands are shaking as he holds the bottle. His heart goes out to him. ‘Darling. Just tell me. It’s OK.’ And it will be. At the last.
‘Aw shit. Can’t hide anything from you.’ Neil peels the foil, untwists the wire. ‘What gave it away?’
Ed is shaking too. ‘Those Wednesdays in London. Last weekend.’
‘Aye, well. Well. Here goes. Coz he’s, ah, been wanting me to tell you.’
With the world’s worst timing, the cork flies.
‘Look, I admit it,’ says Neil. ‘I did an Alpha course.’
Chapter 14
f course, Neil rapped on Ed’s skull for suspecting him of straying again. But what of that? ‘To God be the glory, great things he hath done!’ Neil sings in the kitchen, he sings in the shower, he sings in bed. ‘The vilest offender who truly believes!’ And Ed laughs. He can’t stop laughing at the big fat Easter joke that has been sprung on him.
‘Oh, and apparently, no swearies if you’re a Christian! Know that, did you?’
‘No,’ said Ed. ‘I have to confess, I had no fucking idea.’
‘That’s what I told ’em. I said, how come the priests I know are all potty-mouths, eh?’
‘They mean you can’t swear if you’re an Evangelical,’ said Ed. ‘Out of interest, what’s their teaching on homosexuality?’
‘Och.’ Neil waved a hand. ‘It’s batshit. Doesn’t add up.’
‘Did you by any chance tell them so?’
‘Heh heh heh. We went the full fifteen rounds on that one. Well, you’re wrong there, pal, I said. I hear you saying that, Dan – that’s his name, Dan – I hear you saying that; I don’t hear Jesus saying that. The Bible says? I’ll give you Bible says! Look at you wearing your daft wee hipster hat (no offence) in church. And what about women speaking up and teaching and usurping authority in church, eh? Got a problem with that? No. So don’t Bible me, pal, I was in the Boys’ Brigade – I’ve got Bible coming out of my ass. Aye, and another thing – you don’t believe it either, Dan, not deep down, I said. You know it’s homophobic, and you know that’s not right, coz basically, you’re on the side of life. And they are, Eds. That’s the weird thing, the thing I don’t get: they honestly are. You can feel the love coming off them. But they keep banging on, Yeah, but the Bible says?’ He shrugged. ‘That’s what I mean. Doesn’t add up.’
‘So you’re not repenting of your disordered gay lifestyle?’
‘Disordered gay lifestyle?! The only disordered thing round here is you. I’ve told you how to stack the dishwasher properly, and look! What’s this? Eh? Which way up do the forks go?’ Neil wagged a finger.
‘How was “the Holy Spirit weekend”?’
‘Unfeckinbelievable. Woo hoo! You won’t believe this, but I actually got slain! You know – keeled over backwards, like they do? They have people there to catch you. Seriously, by close of play, I was off my face on Jesus. Will you stop laughing!’
‘Sorry, can’t help it. This is why I thought you were in love with someone.’
‘I am! “. . . sweeter and sweeter as the days go by . . .”,’ sang Neil. ‘Remember back in the nineties, rolling on pure E?’
‘No, Neil. Actually, I don’t.’
‘Well, like that, only better. Everything’s . . . shiny. You, this kitchen . . .’ He paused.
‘That might be another thing Evangelical Christians aren’t meant to say,’ said Ed.
‘Aye, I was just wondering that.’
Everything is shiny for my lovely Ambrose too. I realize I haven’t described the invisible alto properly yet. I gave the reader a glimpse of a big man walking a labradoodle, but this will no longer suffice.
So – big in what way? Brick outhouse big, like archdeacon Matt? I think not. If Ambrose is brick built, it is in the manner of one of those 1960s Roman Catholic church bell towers; the kind that on closer inspection turn out to be fire stations. He is tall and a bit lanky, without being skinny. Rangy. Rangy is the word. He has big hands and feet. And you know what they say about men with big hands and feet? Exactly. They are useful in goal. And in goal is where we will find him this Easter Monday. Before we head off to the match, let me just swiftly add – to preclude the possibility of your picturing some Nordic Eric Northman-type blond giant – he has dark hair and eyes. Nice enough looking, but not drop-dead gorgeous (or trust me, there’s no way he would have waited invisibly on dec for so long).
It is the annual fiercely contested Easter Monday match on the Chorister School playing field. Headmaster’s Eleven vs Choir Dads. The headmaster’s team includes an assortment of colleagues’ sons back from uni, lay clerks and choral scholars, and (brilliantly!) Kat, the bishop’s EA. The Choir Dads are a bunch of sporty middle-aged blokes whose dodgy knees and waning talent are offset by cynical violence.
Storm Katie batters the south of England, but the sun shines here in Lindchester. The big trees creak, some daffodils are felled, but that’s the sum of it. Chaffinches sing in dancing hedges. The grass has been mown, the white lines are fresh on football pitch and running track. (Did you feel the little spurt of adrenalin there, at the thought of school athletics?) The after-match tea is already laid out in the school hall under cling film. There has been a pleasing amount of competitive baking; though some lead-swingers have bought supermarket cakes. Ah, we still miss Susanna! The new Mrs Bishop has done her best. Look, there is a plate of Sonya’s signature chocolate concrete oatcake.
Kick-off approaches. Studded feet clatter round the Close towards the pitch. Smell of mud and trampled grass. There goes the whistle. Shouts from players, encouragement from the crowd. A pigeon rises – clap-clap-clap . . . soar . . . Up on the spire the weathercock swings, watching the tiny players with a golden eye.
I will not bore you with a detailed match report. Final score: Headmaster’s Eleven 7–2 Dads. ‘Man’ of the match (eye roll) was Kat, who scored four of her team’s seven. Freddie May scored two; the other was an own goal. Ambrose made several good saves. He might have saved the two he let in, were it not for a tender-hearted streak that did not enjoy seeing any team comprehensively tonked. Well, that and a brief lack of focus after some shirt-off celebrations at the other end of the pitch.
Yes, Ambrose’s world is shiny. Here’s why: he has just looked for the second time directly into Freddie’s face. Normally h
e only sees him in his right-hand peripheral vision as they stand on dec (apart from during the psalmody – if the altos aren’t singing – when he gets to sit and contemplate Mr May’s hinder parts and delight in his legs).
The first full-frontal episode resulted in Ambrose carting a box of paperwork home on Easter Day. The second went like this: the match was over and they were all heading back to the school for tea. Freddie overtook him, with Kat riding on his back, both belting out ‘We Are The Champions’. Then he wheeled round and doubled back to Ambrose.
‘Hey, well played, Angus.’
‘Ambrose.’
‘Gah! Ambrose!’ He gave him an arm squeeze. ‘Sorry, I – Whoa! Nice guns, man.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Welcome.’
And that was it.
‘He’s into you,’ sang Kat in his ear.
‘Nu-uh.’
‘Yuh-uh.’
‘Naw, dude, he’s my accountant?’
‘Your accountant’s into you.’
‘Stop that! Look, he’s got this hot girlfriend? Telling you.’
‘Yeah, and I’m telling you.’ She dug her heels in. ‘Hi-yo Silver away! I want my tea.’
The bishop and his wife watched them go.
‘Look! Well, praise the Lord!’ said Sonya. ‘I’m so glad we came to watch. Aren’t you?’
‘No. Not my favourite way of spending a Bank Holiday.’
‘—liday. I know, love. But it’s important for Close relationships, isn’t it? Socially, I mean. The Easter match is really—’ said Sonya. ‘Did you know Kat could play like that?’
‘Of course I did,’ said the bishop. ‘That’s why I appointed her.’
‘—ted her. Really?’
‘Yes. There was very little between her and the second choice. So in the end it came down to me wanting an EA who could snaffle up those opportunities in the box, and tuck away a tidy goal or two in the crucial Easter Monday fixture.’
‘Oh shut up, grumpy!’
Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3) Page 9
