Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  Her poor heart races round the globe to Danny. There is still a baby-shaped gap in her embrace that nothing else will ever fill, even though Danny is a great six-foot-four lump of a twenty-two-year-old now. But he might be back next month. Maybe in time to see his step-dad made bishop . . .

  But judgement, now. Judgement. What do you think of that, Dr Rossiter? If you don’t believe in heaven or hell, why are you so exercised at 3 a.m. by the image of two cosmic turnstiles, labelled Sheep and Goats, that will admit you to one or other of those destinations?

  Part of the human condition? Probably. Only a psychopath could come through life unscathed by guilt. Even if we’re basically decent, there’s the constant wear and tear on our compassion every time we fail to relieve the suffering of others – it takes its toll.

  Sheep?

  Goat?

  What will the verdict be? It’s probably the Hillsborough inquest that’s fuelling this. Justice and vindication after twenty-seven years. Crowds of thirty thousand on the streets of Liverpool for that Magnificat moment. And now Orgreave? Another toxic vat of corruption and cover-up ripe for opening. Ah, here’s the tender spot. Goat! Class traitor! She’d wasted the early eighties plunged into the radicalism of the Christian, not the Students’ Union. Yeah, that’ll be what prompted that Susanna Henderson moment – baking flapjacks and taking them to the striking junior doctors outside Lindford General Hospital. Because it’s the same fucking battle. Pissing on the truth, pissing on the poor. The same wankers who’d burnt their fifty-pound notes in front of beggars, and sneered at the eighteen-year-old Jackie Rossiter, were now dismantling the NHS. Literally the same ones.

  If she had her time over, Jackie – with her short A’s and her perm, her Isle of Wight holidays, her Campari – Jackie would stomp the shit out of them in her proudly deployed white stilettos. Why had she gone native? Tried to go native – of course it hadn’t really taken. You can take the girl out of Blackgang Chine . . .

  If she could go back and rescue those shoes . . . You’ll need a couple of smart frocks and some high heels, Jackie. Oxford made me ashamed of where I come from. Ashamed of my people. Oxford called me chippy whenever I committed the cardinal sin of taking things too seriously.

  It’ll be getting light soon. The blackbirds of Lindford whistle. The archdeacon of Lindchester snores. Jane gets up and makes herself a cup of tea. She opens the back door and steps out onto the cold patio. My shoes, where are my poor old rejected shoes? Maybe Judgement Day is a lost property box. Where everything is restored?

  MAY

  Chapter 18

  oe unto you who have booked a round of golf, bought disposable barbecues, or planned a picnic. Woe to the jolly little stalls erected on Cathedral Close for the May Market. Woe to the medieval frolics in the grounds of Lindford castle. Woe to all townie pub ramblers in the wrong footwear and non-waterproof coats.

  Yes, woe to the whole pack of them; for see how rain ascends like wrathful smoke from the fields! O world turned upside down – rain rising, not falling? Lord save us all. Motorways smoulder. Plashing wildfire devours our landscape. Some wag looks through a window and says, ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind a spot of global warming!’ Jousting is cancelled for health and safety reasons. In every parish church in Lindfordshire, the marble knights turn on their tombs at this pouncet-box milksoppery.

  Look, Lord, in mercy upon Lindfordshire this Rogationtide! ‘Although we for our iniquities have worthily deserved a plague of rain and waters . . .’ To prayer! For who knoweth if he will return and repent, and leave a blessing behind him?

  The sun comes out in glory in the afternoon. Not because it must, or because (with silky flouncing hair) we’re worth it, but because it simply does. Because it may. And with one heart, the grateful people of Lindfordshire say: ‘Typical! Why couldn’t it have been like this this morning?’ They all of them walk past the blessing without noticing it.

  Well, perhaps not all of them. Our lovely Father Wendy notices, as she plodges through the mud with Pedro, along the banks of the Linden. She notices the rape fields mustering their yellow fire. She sees how the mayflowers crowd the hedges and how the ancient pear trees are clotted with creamy blossom. She catches the scent of crab apple and cow parsley and sees bluebells in the mushed-down rust of dead bracken.

  And because there is nobody about, she sings: ‘“Hail the day that sees him rise!” Nearly Ascension Day, Pedro.’

  But Pedro is intent on the moorhen dabbing along the path ahead. Wendy pauses to watch how the water is combed as it rushes white over a little weir. Graffiti blights the lovely old brickwork of a humpback bridge: ‘Happiness is a journey not a destination,’ it chides. She walks on, but now she notices the litter-clogged trees, abandoned sofas and highchairs, compacted car cubes stacked in the scrapyard.

  She reaches down to stroke the greyhound’s silky ears. ‘Oh dear. What will become of us all, Pedro? Why do we ruin everything?’ She steers her thoughts back to Ascension Day, and her sermon. The homecoming. The hero returns. She pictures an open-topped bus in Leicester. The crowds filling the streets as the victorious team comes home. Our champion has conquered. Rejoice! Everything is new! Don’t stand bereft in the stadium, staring at the empty pitch.

  Miss Blatherwick is another noticer. In the evening she takes her customary constitutional round the Close, down the steep steps, along the river, then back up the pilgrim path again, and home.

  Spring is too far on. This is not good. It is a symptom of a global disease. How long will we tell ourselves there’s nothing to worry about? As she climbs carefully down the precipitous steps she hears a snatch of music from above. Someone rehearsing in the Song School. Alto voice. She knows the tune. Ah yes, Herbert. Vaughan Williams setting. She delves into her inner anthology for the poem.

  Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,

  A box where sweets compacted lie;

  My musick shows ye have your closes,

  And all must die.

  Yes, all must die. All, all. The sycamores on the Linden’s banks tower like lime-green thunderclouds, bright, ominous. But there’s her old friend the blackbird, still singing away. He, or his descendants, will be on the same tree, still singing, after she’s breathed her last. And the bluebells will come up again and again, every sweet spring, among the stitchwort and ramsons. And all manner of thing shall be well. Brace up, Barbara.

  She forges on – passing unkissed through the kissing gate – in her Burberry mac (a shrewd investment in the 1950s and still going strong), and her trusty galoshes. Suddenly she realizes: she has bought her last clothes. These will see her out.

  This is not true for my other characters. Some buy clothes on whim (O reason not the need!), others out of necessity. The archdeacons of the diocese of Lindchester are messaging one another again on this very subject, even as I write.

  BEA

  Could knit you a mitre if you like.

  MATT

  Ta. But the missus is all over it.

  Jane is indeed all over the task of kitting out her man in proper episcopal glory. The announcement will be next week, and at some point after that Matt will be consecrated in York Minster – Lindchester being in the Northern Province – and then installed in Lindchester Cathedral. (I WAS GLA-A-A-A-AD!) I have not fixed the dates yet, but of this we may be certain: he will need ‘Episcopal Wear’. I’m a bit disappointed that Matt is such a low-maintenance bloke, really. He’s inclined to treat his new kit like a uniform, old ex-copper that he is. He has no instinct for sartorial anguish. Neil, now! Neil would bring the proper levels of stress to shirt choice. But Matt’s rubbish. Have you got it in my size? In purple? How much? Sorted.

  Dr Rossiter has been forced to step into the breach.

  ‘God, I lurve vestments porn!’ says Jane. ‘Fifty Shades of Purple! OK. I’ve decided: I’m going to buy you a zucchetto.’

  The archdeacon eyes her. ‘Is that a make of Italian scooter?’

  ‘No, y
ou ineffable proddywoddy! A zucchetto,’ she consults the webpage again, ‘as any fule kno, is an eight-segment cap lined with chamois and finished with a looped cord. A looped cord – think of that! Made from – fan me someone! – made from our red purple imitation ribbed silk.’

  ‘That’s for poofs.’

  ‘I’m telling on you! I’m reporting you to Stonewall. And the Vatican.’ Jane continues browsing. ‘I want to buy you something for your special day. Something you’ll really like.’

  ‘Buy yourself a sexy dress, then,’ says Matt. ‘I’m using J and M Sewing, same as always.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Wait! Would you like a Canterbury cap?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure? It’s made from a high-quality red purple velveteen . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘G’wan, g’wan. It’s constructed to fold flat when not in use.’

  ‘Stop Wippelling me!’

  ‘Ha ha ha! You love it, you old pervert.’

  Matt doesn’t exactly love it. But he’s aware that his new job is going to tread repeatedly on Janey’s sore toe. From now on, the whole church world is going to call her Mrs Tyler. She’s obviously made the decision to be amused by it all. Rather than, a) never showing her face at anything churchy, or b) kicking people in the slats when they say: ‘Oh, you’re the bishop’s wife, aren’t you?’ And for this he is grateful enough to put up with any amount of private piss-taking.

  Polling cards wait on hall tables, or propped on mantelpieces, or pinned to noticeboards. Super Ascension Thursday dawns. Local council elections, Police and Crime Commissioner elections, and in some places – though not Lindchester – voting for a new mayor. And everywhere, God has gone up with a merry noise, though few these days hear the trumpets.

  Today, some Lindfordshire voters find their pencils hovering as they stand in the secrecy of the plywood booth. It’s safe. It’ll be CON HOLD. They wrestle with a temptation to drop an adulterous X in some other box. Just to register a certain discontent with the way things are going down in London town. True, we’ve got to crack down on immigration. But voting against taking 3,000 unaccompanied children? That’s not right, is it?

  What a nation of piss-taking nose-thumbers we are! Voting in a Muslim mayor, dubbing our ships Boaty McBoatface. Best of countries, worst of countries. Serious only about never taking stuff seriously. God forbid we should be caught out in earnestness.

  The gentlemen of the choir gather ready for solemn Eucharist for Ascension Day. The canons arrive, Mr Happy cutting it fine as usual. The dean lays down her burden and takes her customary deep breath. Calm, calm.

  The precentor looks at his watch. ‘Where’s Tarty McTartface?’

  ‘Gone for a wee,’ says Nigel, the senior lay clerk. He turns to Ambrose. ‘What is it, Mr Hardman? Did you just sigh?’

  ‘I wish you guys wouldn’t all call him that,’ says Ambrose. ‘Everyone does it.’

  An Oooh! ripples round the choir.

  ‘I think you’ll find Mr May self-identifies as a tart,’ says Nigel.

  ‘So? That still doesn’t make it OK,’ says Ambrose.

  The senior lay clerk inclines his head. The word prig hovers, all unspoken. ‘It’s meant affectionately. We’ve all known Freddie since he was . . .’

  ‘A tartlet?’ suggests Giles. He intercepts a flash from the dean’s eye. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Ambrose is right,’ she says.

  Everyone looks away. Up at the ceiling. Down at their black shoes. Smirks are repressed. Madam Dean has spoken.

  ‘So can we agree that the names stop, please?’ says Marion.

  There’s no time to process this: the spurts of resentment and hilarity, the prickles of self-justification. Footsteps. Freddie flies in, tugging his surplice over his head.

  ‘What?’ he whispers to Ambrose. ‘What just happened?’

  ‘Ssh!’ says Giles. He presses the button and away out of sight up in the organ loft, the organist winds up her improvisation.

  Silence. The ting! of a tuning fork. The antiphon begins.

  ‘Men of Galilee, why gaze in wonder at the heavens?’

  *

  ‘Mr Bennet has a point, though, deanissima,’ says Gene. ‘Freddie eagerly embraces his tarthood.’

  They are standing in the deanery garden with a glass of Krug each. The deanery bees ply their fumbling trade in the apple blossom.

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t,’ says Marion. ‘It’s limiting. Nobody takes him seriously. I feel sad I hadn’t spotted the dynamic until Ambrose pointed it out.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to be taken seriously. People have conveniently low expectations of vacuous little tarts,’ says Gene. ‘But as always, you are right, O Queen. From henceforth I will slut you no sluts.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They take a silent turn about the lawn. A blackbird trolls the opposition from the top of the deanery roof.

  ‘Are Mr May and Mr Hardman an item these days?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s any of our business,’ says Marion.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to know.’

  The gentlemen of the choir could have answered Gene’s question with a resounding No. They were all privy to the ‘Don’t slut-shame me, asshole’ tirade that broke over Ambrose’s head in the vestry afterwards.

  ‘Ah! A classic of the genre!’ said Nigel, as the door slammed. ‘Are you all right there, Mr Hardman?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Freddie is not fine. He is out running. Pounding out the miles until it hurts.

  Entertain the possibility . . .

  Entertain the possibility . . .

  But he can’t. He knows what’s gonna happen: he’s gonna trash the whole thing before it’s even started. Coz that’s the only thing he knows how to do?

  Chapter 19

  he glorious weekend weather lasts; though the air sweats with pent-up rain. People dither between sunglasses and umbrella as they set off in the morning. Cherry blossom is on the turn, like tissues dunked in latte. Cloudbursts. Sunshine. Sodden lilac droops over fences. The horse chestnut candles are out. It’s fan yourself with the pew sheet, shorts-under-cassock weather.

  And, like a thunderstorm that fails to clear the air, Tartgate lingers. The Song School twangles with rumour. Freddie and Ambrose stand side by side in quire, sealed in separate dimensions of the multiverse. The more sensitive choristers register all this on their ‘scary-grown-up-fight’ barometers, and they struggle to concentrate. Poor old Timothy very nearly loses his rag. The precentor very nearly phones Mr Dorian. Everyone agrees: this is ridiculous. But everyone is rather hoping someone else will deal with it.

  In the end, it is Ambrose who takes matters in hand.

  Freddie heads home after evensong on Tuesday. Hating this, hating— Whoa! He whips round. There’s Ambrose behind him, totally blank and all, What?

  ‘Dude. Not cool.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You grabbed my ass!’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now!’ For a wild second Freddie doubts himself, the guy’s so totally, I did not do that? They stare at each other. ‘You so did!’

  Then Ambrose grins. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  ‘Excuse me? Unbeliev— Oh, wait.’ Freddie puts his fists on his hips. ‘Yeah, I see where you’re going with this – like, I’m a tart, I should totally be up for it?’ Freddie catches sight of Nigel and a bunch of the other guys, making for the King’s Head. They’re all looking this way. He drops his voice. ‘Dude, you do not get to do that, ’K?’

  ‘OK,’ whispers Ambrose.

  ‘Plus you don’t get to call the guys out on what they call me?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And most of all, you don’t get to tell me how to act, yeah? Ever. I mean that? You do not get to change me!’

  ‘OK.’

  The guy’s still smiling! ‘Stop fucking agreeing with me!’

  ‘No.’

  Freddie flings his hands up.
Man, this is like trying to keep hold of a frog? The conversation keeps jumping away from him? Problem is, it’s starting to get funny, and it’s not funny. He heads down the steps. ‘OK. So’s you know. But yeah, listen,’ he mutters, ‘sorry I lost it.’

  ‘Well, sorry I upset you. I don’t want to change you, Freddie.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  They stop again. He’s still smiling down into Freddie’s face, like this moment, this literal moment, is everything. And Freddie panics and wants to shake him. No! You got it all wrong, man. Coz I should change?

  ‘You’re fine how you are,’ Ambrose says.

  Freddie shakes his head.

  ‘Really?’ says Ambrose. ‘Because from where I’m standing – dayum!’

  ‘Uh, o-ka-a-ay.’ He tries to laugh. Man, you’re only blushing? What are you – twelve? ‘I guess.’

  Off they go again. Slowly, so they won’t overtake his landlord, walking ahead of them there. Freddie looks down at his Converse. Laces trailing on the cobbles again. A little tragic in a grown man.

  ‘Does this bug you?’ he asks Ambrose. ‘The shoelace thing?’

  ‘Not even slightly.’

  Freddie sees the canon treasurer going into the house. Hears the door slam, rattle of letterbox. ‘Hnn. So apparently, I use the weak form of the shoelace knot?’

  ‘The what? Says who?’

  ‘Andy. Says I’m tragic.’

  ‘Andy’s a tool,’ says Ambrose. ‘Who’s Andy?’

  ‘Dude. Only Andrew Jacks?’

  ‘Oh. Him.’

  ‘Not a fanboy, huh?’

  Ambrose snorts. ‘Sorry. I know he’s your mentor.’

  ‘Was. We like, wound that up?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Yeah. So now we’re “friends”. Coz apparently, I’m not good enough to ever be more than that?’ They reach the drive. ‘Wa-a-ay too dumb, too young, too ungrammatical? Oh, plus my dress sense?’

  ‘There you go.’ Ambrose shrugs. ‘He’s a tool.’