Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  ‘I’m glad.’

  They walk in silence till they get to the arch. Gah. Maybe next time, talk about the cricket, yeah?

  The rain’s eased off but it’s still tapping and dripping off the trees all around.

  ‘So yeah, thanks for the—’ He gestures at the umbrella. ‘Catch you later?’

  The bishop watches him sprint off towards the Song School. He thinks of that plane falling off the radar. And of every sparrow. Every life. And the father always running towards us.

  Chapter 21

  reddie did not realize, but that awkward conversation under the umbrella almost broke the bishop’s heart. Steve was in the Upper Sixth when he lost his father to a ­ sudden massive brain haemorrhage. The last time he saw him was school sports day, 1978. A perfect June afternoon, white lines on fresh-mown grass, swallows flying high, wild roses in every hedge. The bishop remembers it, these days, in slow motion. Second lap of the 800 metres. Kicking off the final bend. The home straight. He passes Johnson and Backhouse. Draws level with Foley. Foley fights back for fifteen metres. But Pennington’s got the finish. It’s his race. He pulls away. And there’s Dad waiting at the finish as he’d promised, cheering, as Steve crosses the line. YES! The roar of the crowd in his ears, lungs bursting, heart bursting, legs giving way. He could see Dad’s lips moving: Well done! But when he tried to find him afterwards in the throng, he’d vanished. The car was discovered hours later, of course; upside down in a field, still seventeen miles from the school.

  Freddie’s plane anecdote made it into the bishop’s Trinity Sunday sermon. The Father, always running to meet us in the Son, by the Spirit. Elsewhere in the diocese of Lindchester preachers variously used bananas (three sections in one peel); apples (skin=Father, flesh=Son, pips=Holy Spirit); and a triangle of hares with communal ears.

  In Father Wendy’s Messy Church they coloured in Celtic Trinity patterns and made salt dough Trinity pretzels. Neil, beginning his tour of lively churches, disgraced himself at Risley Hill when he caught sight of the children’s cut-out ‘Trinity cross’ craft activity. (Seriously, HOW could nobody have seen that it looked like a bunch of penises?)

  Likewise, the canon precentor – having outsourced the proofreading of the service booklet to some bungling amateur (mentioning no names, but watch my eyes, Mr Bennet) – lost it while singing ‘God in three parsons, blessed Trinity’. Philip, the canon treasurer, was on chorister duty. He used the tried and tested water-steam-ice illustration, and the canon chancellor anathematized him as a modalist.

  Our good friend Father Dominic – after reassuring the former Muslims in his flock that the Trinity is not a denial of monotheism – went round to Chloe’s to lunch and enjoyed Trinity Sundaes (three flavours of ice cream in one glass). Ambrose was also there.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Chloe, as she poured the Prosecco.

  ‘Not coming.’ Ambrose began feeding Cosmo. ‘You sure, buddy? Well, OK then. Can you believe he likes wasabi peas?’

  ‘Did you even ask him? Oh, Ambrose. Freddie May,’ she explained to Dominic. ‘He was meant to be coming, but hopeless here’s wimped out again.’

  ‘No, I’m just taking it nice and steady, playing the long game,’ said Ambrose. ‘Sit! Wait . . . Good boy! I’m still wooing him.’

  ‘Wooing him?’ Chloe hooted. ‘What is this – the eighteenth century? Whoever says wooing?’

  Dominic tried a handful of wasabi peas, and bit back a scream.

  ‘I say wooing. It’s a good word.’ Ambrose held out another nut. ‘Wait . . . Good boy!’

  ‘Isn’t it a work of supererogation, though?’ asked Dominic, eyes watering. ‘Like wooing a free buffet.’

  Silence. Ambrose carried on feeding the puppy.

  Oops. Dominic and Chloe exchanged looks. Oh, come on, does he seriously not know what Freddie May’s like? Maybe he thinks he can change him. Oh Lord! Good luck with that. But no, who’s to say – maybe Freddie can change? We can all change. Maybe Dominic Todd should change, and stop being so catty.

  ‘Well, all power to your wooing elbow!’ he said, raising his glass.

  ‘“Woo woo ch’boogie!”’ sang Chloe.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ said Ambrose. ‘And now let’s talk about something else.’

  So they talked instead about #Brexit, about the Church of Scot­land allowing gay ministers to marry, and whether vanilla ice cream was wrongly stigmatized as unadventurous and dull, whereas in fact it was subtly gorgeous and could only be appreciated by a refined palate.

  Then they moved on to the newly created Diocesan Social Welfare Officer post. True to his word, Matt had brought Chloe into the frame. She had helped shape the job specification and the wording of the advert (which you may see in the church press and on the diocesan website). The bishop had shaken the Brownlow Trust by the throat until the trustees coughed up the funds. So it looked very much as though Dominic was going to have a clergy colleague at Lindford parish church. Possibly Virginia, possibly not. But either way, goody-good.

  But there are other appointments to be made in the diocese of Lindchester first. On Thursday – once Steve has had time to turn round after the meeting of the House of Bishops in York – interviews will take place for the newly created archdeacon posts. The interview panel will be able to make two very good appointments from a strong field. More I cannot say. Please imagine that the successful candidates are much-loved clergy from elsewhere, and will need time to break the news to their current congregations. Meanwhile, if you like, you can exercise yourself with the question: ‘And how much are four archdeacons going to cost the diocese, I should like to know?’ or lament that there was no proper consultation (which is the Anglican way of complaining that nobody asked you).

  It’s Friday morning. Bishop Steve is praying, processing yesterday’s interviews, committing it to the Lord. He knows he is not a patient man by nature. An 800-metre specialist, not a marathon runner. ‘Stephen would do well if he bothered to apply himself’ – to quote pretty much every school report he ever got. It’s true: he’s always been a dilettante blessed with flashes of effortless brilliance.

  But love – there is no end to love. Enduring all things, believing all things, hoping all things. He has come to see that the Spirit is gently implacable, like a heavenly mason at work on his pet project. Hasn’t he felt it, year on year? The fashioning hand at work, chipping away at his impatience with sustained effort, and replacing it with something more durable. Until he’s become a grafter, of all things. Steve Pennington, a grafter!

  This is probably his last job, isn’t it? There will be no parachuting out of Lindchester to go and be brilliant elsewhere, if he gets sick of fishing all night and catching nothing. He looks at the bookmark in his Bible, as he does every morning: ‘Be strong and of a good courage . . .’

  The fish are there! But the poor old C of E is toiling through the dark hours, despairing, mending the nets, toiling again, despairing again. Has the word now finally come? ‘Put out into the deep water, and let down your nets for a catch.’ Deep water – that’s where we are all heading, whether we admit it or not. But the catch – the word seesaws between meanings – what’s the catch, the miraculous catch?

  I am not God. The miracle is not my responsibility, Steve reminds himself. My job is to remain at my post and be faithful. And to overhaul the nets of the diocese – however unpopular that makes me.

  It is still green and grey in Lindfordshire, as May drifts to an end. Swallows dip low over cow-squittered meadows. But the rain holds off. Good gracious – fair weather for the Bank Holiday? Unheard of. At last, Ambrose’s patience is rewarded. Saturday 8 p.m. His phone buzzes and his heart does a reverse two-and-a-half somersault pike off the high board.

  FREDDIE

  Yo! You hungry? Pizza overload here. Wanna get involved?

  AMBROSE

  Maybe. What kind?

  FREDDIE

  Meat feast.

  AMBROSE

  Would I like to get involved in your me
at feast? Hell yeah.

  FREDDIE

  LOL. You’re dirty ;-)

  Guy totally cracks him up. Freddie can never one hundred per cent tell when he’s kidding? So yeah, they finish the pizza between them, but then suddenly it’s, now what? Hnn. Hadn’t thought this one through. Coz maybe Ambrose wasn’t kidding, maybe it’s about to get awkward?

  Freddie starts tugging his hair. They’re still at the table, with beers and all the pizza boxes.

  ‘Uh, so listen, Brose – you’re . . . still into me? A bit?’

  ‘No.’

  Whoa. OK. Read that one wrong.

  ‘I’m into you a lot.’

  ‘Tsh.’ Freddie swats him. ‘Seriously, no, listen: you do get that I mainly prefer older guys?’

  ‘Oh good. Because I’m thirty-two.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I mean like a lot older? Like forties, fifties?’

  ‘OK.’

  Man. He does this the whole time? Goes OK, like he’s agreeing – only is he? Or is he all, I hear you, dude, but you’re wrong?

  ‘Cool. And just so’s we’re clear, you do get that I’m not vanilla? And I mean, really not?’

  Ambrose laughs. ‘Yes, Freddie. Receiving that loud and clear.’

  ‘OK then. Cool.’

  It goes quiet. Guy’s smiling at him. Cathedral clock chimes. All the blackbirds singing. Gah! Get me outta this, somebody?

  ‘Would you like to see some close-up magic?’ asks Ambrose.

  ‘Whoa!’ Freddie sits right up. ‘You can do close-up magic? Awesome!’

  ‘Sure. Got a pack of cards?’

  Freddie races off, opens random drawers in the dining room. Where does Totty keep them? OK, here they are.

  ‘Man, gotta tell you, I get crazy excited for this stuff? Like it’s real magic? Literally?’

  Ambrose moves the empty boxes aside, shuffles the deck. Fans the cards. ‘Pick one.’

  Freddie picks one.

  ‘Look at it.’

  Freddie looks at it.

  ‘Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘OK. Two of hearts?’

  ‘Ah! Two hearts beating as one. Good. Put it back, anywhere.’ Freddie slips the card back. Ambrose shuffles again. ‘Now, I’m going to find your card.’

  Freddie guffaws. ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘Watch.’ Very slowly, Ambrose starts dealing the cards out onto the kitchen table. He keeps glancing up at Freddie, like he’s checking, is this your card? And Freddie cannot stop laughing. He’s literally shaking, crying with laughter? And the whole time, here’s Ambrose, super serious, slowly turning the cards over?

  He stops. ‘Is this your card?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Is not! That’s the ace of diamonds.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s your card.’

  ‘Bullshit! Told you, two of hearts. Yeah, it is – and you literally went two hearts beating as one!’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now!’ For one second, Freddie wavers, the guy looks so blank. ‘You so did!’

  ‘Really?’ He’s frowning at the card. ‘I thought I said I’ll buy you a diamond solitaire.’

  ‘You are so full of shit!’ Freddie wipes his eyes. His stomach hurts. ‘So where’s my card, huh?’

  Ambrose sits back. Scratches his jaw. ‘Hmm. Maybe you should check your back pocket?’

  ‘No way! No fucking way! This is awesome!’ Freddie checks both pockets. ‘Nada.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Freddie starts laughing again. ‘Dude, admit it – you can’t do magic at all, can you?’

  ‘I can,’ he says. ‘I’m doing it.’

  Silence. And there’s a blackbird still singing? ‘Aw, are you getting metaphorical with me again?’

  He leans forward and whispers. ‘Why don’t you check in your wallet?’

  ‘Whoa!’ Freddie stares at the wallet, lying there on the table from where he paid the Deliveroo guy. ‘Get the fuck out of here! Awe-SOME!’ So he checks? Nothing. Tosses the wallet back down. ‘Man. Can’t believe I just did that.’

  ‘Not there? Weird. Look in the fridge.’

  ‘No fair, dude! Teasing me? Told you I’d believe anything, I’m that crazy for magic.’

  Ambrose puts the cards back in the box. He’s smiling. ‘Then I’ll practise a bit more.’

  ‘Yeah right, magic man.’

  The minute Ambrose went, Freddie checked in the fridge. How dumb was that? Then he checked the cards, and – well, duh – the two of hearts was there in the deck. But later, when he was getting undressed, he was still kind of half-expecting the card would drop from his shirt, or turn up under his pillow?

  Something wakes him in the night. He lies there, listening to the owls, the clock? And he’s all, know something – I’m happy? That is so weird, it’s like my actual heart is smiling? He drifts back to sleep.

  On the other side of the Close, blocked by the cathedral, the blue light of an ambulance flickers.

  Flickers.

  Flickers.

  JUNE

  Chapter 22

  reddie was one of the last to hear. It was choral half-term, so for once he’d been able to say yes to working a Sunday at Vespas. Traded it for getting Bank Holiday Monday off? All day long he waited tables, and man, he must’ve got through his entire repertoire of Italian songs, like three or four times? Shedload of tips. Get in!

  His heart was still smiling as his shift ended. And he was ­thinking, tomorrow afternoon, if Brose wasn’t already doing something, they could maybe hook up? Not one hundred per cent sure where he was going with this; but hey, the guy made him laugh? Good thing, no? Tomorrow morning was for Miss B’s garden, of course. And this time he was so not going to let her pay him? Man, it felt good to just help her out for nothing, and not be desperate for the cash? Aw. Love ya, Miss B.

  Such were Freddie’s happy thoughts, as he jogged back up the hill on Sunday evening. I wish we could spare him. He had inevitably missed all the shocked exchanges that ricocheted round the Close. Collapsed. Taken away by ambulance. Of course, there were intercessions at the 10.30 Eucharist and at evensong. Candles were lit and tears shed at the shrine of William of Lindchester. And now there was the helpless waiting.

  The canon treasurer and his wife were oblivious. They’d whizzed off on Saturday to their place in Norfolk. Pippa was not going to be there to break the news gently to Freddie. People assumed he already knew; indeed they rather hoped – when he arrived back from work – that he might have an update. This was what ran through the mind of the senior lay clerk, when he passed Freddie under the big archway onto the Close.

  ‘Freddie. How are you coping? Any news?’

  ‘Hnn?’ Guy was all, I’m so sorry for your loss? ‘What? Dude, you’re kinda freaking me out here?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Nigel laid a hand on Freddie’s arm. ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ He felt his pulse kick into overdrive. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Sweetie, it’s Ambrose. I am really sorry.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. What happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we all thought you knew. He’s in hospital.’

  Freddie could hear Nigel talking. Stroke. Middle of the night. Ambulance. Intensive care. It was all echo-y, like in a movie, when something super bad’s happening? But I saw him only last night! He was fine! Freddie heard his own voice going, ‘Oh my God. He’s gonna be OK?’

  Running tests. His cousin’s with him. Waiting to hear more.

  ‘Oh my God. I don’t believe this?’

  He felt Nigel grip his arm. ‘Are you all right, sweetie? Listen, Alan and I are in tonight. Come to us. I’m just off to buy wine. Yes? Freddie?’

  ‘Yeah, no, yeah.’ He blotted his eyes. ‘Thanks, but Imma go to Miss B?’

  ‘Of course. Would you like me to walk over with you? No? Well, you take care, Freddie. Really sorry to break it to you like that. Ring me if we can d
o anything. Promise?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks, man.’

  Nigel watched him go. Damn damn damn. You cack-handed idiot, Bennet, assuming he knew. Would Freddie be all right? Should he follow and make sure? No. Miss Blatherwick was a safe pair of hands. She’d look after him.

  But Nigel had forgotten that Miss Blatherwick was away for the Bank Holiday weekend, visiting her friend Christine down in Barchester. Freddie had forgotten this, too. It came back to him just as he reached out to press her bell. No-o-o-o! You knew this, numbnuts. This was why you were gonna do her garden tomorrow morning – surprise her when she got back?

  He sat on her doorstep and wept. Shit. Shit! All he could think of was Ambrose? Only last night! Laughing at me, all ‘Then I’ll practise a bit more.’ What if he never got the chance? What if that was it? Oh God, let him be OK, let him be OK? Jesus, he can’t die! But what if he does?

  The blackbirds were all still whistling, like nothing had happened? This can’t be real. What am I gonna do now? Oh Miss B, why aren’t you here?

  Then he was remembering Andrew that time? Saying, I do regret the time I wasted not believing my good fortune. I can’t ring him. Can’t.

  He rang him.

  ‘Mr May. How lovely.’

  ‘Dude, is this a good time? Only I didn’t know who else to call? Oh God.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Freddie spilled it all out.

  ‘You poor darling,’ said Andrew. ‘Now listen carefully. As is your wont, you’re busy catastrophizing. You haven’t established the facts yet. Ssh. No – listen to me, please – no, those aren’t facts, Freddie. Those are the whispers going round the Close echo chamber. You need to ring the hospital—’

  ‘Dude, I can’t! I just can’t? They won’t talk to me, plus I don’t know what ward, or—’