‘As soon as I’m off these crutches, I’ll be out of your hair,’ she says. ‘Four to six weeks, they say. You’ll still get your holiday. And it’ll be cheaper once the schools go back.’
‘Don’t fret.’
‘You can tell that chappie from the diocese you won’t be needing a downstairs shower.’
‘As it happens, I’d quite like one. For guests.’
‘I’m not moving in with you, Dominic.’
‘Too bloody right you’re not!’
But we both know you are, he thinks.
Father Wendy locks up the church hall in Cardingforth after the second day of the holiday club. ‘Everything was fine and dandy-dandy! Children of the Lord.’
Is everything fine and dandy-dandy with Becky Rogers? wonders Father Wendy. Leah’s collecting me, coz Mummy’s too tired to get out of bed. That doesn’t sound good. She’ll call round later in the week and check.
She turns on the radio and sits down to a very late lunch – oof! And there’s the news. An eighty-four-year-old French priest, murdered as he celebrates the Mass. Oh, world! You horrible, horrible world. I have nothing left to give for you, no more prayers, no more tears. But tears trickle down her cheeks all the same. In the patch of sunshine on the kitchen floor lies the ghost of an old dog who would have cried with her. Oh, Lulu. Wendy wipes her eyes.
Wendy remembers her gran, explaining why she’d given up midwifery and gone in for teaching. It was all the blood. I couldn’t be doing with it. I can’t be doing with all the blood, either. Oh dear, oh dear. I can’t stop crying.
The sun goes down over the diocese of Lindchester. ‘“Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight,”’ prays Miss Blatherwick. (Is there no comfortable position?) Who else is awake? Leah is awake. (What if Mummy’s got mental health issues? What if she has a breakdown?) Marion is awake. (Should they put together a bid to the government scheme to fund extra security for big services?) Matt is awake. (Everything shipshape for the move? Janey coping?) Dominic is awake. (Get over yourself and agree to move in, you mad old hatter. We’ll jog along somehow.) Virginia is awake. (What if the house the diocese has found her is ghastly?) Ambrose is awake. (Freddie, Freddie, Freddie. Should he float the possibility of a holiday together? A weekend? Still too soon?) Neil is awake. No, I tell a lie: Neil’s asleep, but not before giving Ed a dose of insomnia with his panicking. (Aye, but what if some nutso comes at you with a machete, out in the sticks? You and three auld ladies! You’re a sitting duck!)
The Gayden Magna church clock chimes tinnily in the distance. Half past two. I hope he wasn’t too scared at the last, thinks Ed. You can’t have dreamt, at eighty-four, that a martyr’s crown had been laid by for you. Bless you, bless you, standing by your altar, faithfully serving to the last. I hope you weren’t too frightened, my brother. I hope you could already feel those kind hands pulling you through from the other side, delivering you safe and sound. Rest in peace, rise in glory.
Neil snores. No, I’m not getting a stab-proof vest, you twit. Imagine standing at the altar dressed like that! No, we just have to trust.
The last days of July pass. It’s Saturday. Swallows gather in twos and threes to natter on telegraph wires. An old woman waters a withered tree. A tabby cat spots an open window, and tenses to spring. The Chorister School hamster stirs in his sawdust nest and dreams his hamster dreams. Brides wake. Grooms wake. And life goes on, as in the days of Noah.
We just have to trust. But what if you know you can’t be trusted? What if you know you’ll just trash it all? Better get it over with, no? End it now. Maybe that way, it won’t hurt so much? Yeah, only problem is, how can you end a thing that’s not even a thing yet?
So they’re back in the King’s Head? Sitting opposite each other, coz that’s what Brose likes? Antidote to all those months on dec, apparently? There’s eighties music playing, like all his dad’s favourites, he kinda half-knows them?
OK. Cards on table time. OK?
‘So, Brose. Where’s this going? Our, uh, what’s it even called, this relationship? thing? we’ve got? I get that we’re “taking it steady”, but I just need to know, is that like synonymous to “going steady”? Coz yeah, I’m a bit all, left wondering?’ He sucks in air. Man, really shit breath control, there? Clears his throat. ‘I mean, what am I s’posed to say, when people ask, is all? Like, what do you think of me as?’
‘A tart. Definitely. What?’ Ambrose does his innocent face. ‘That’s what you said.’
Freddie knuckles Brose’s arm. ‘C’mon, dude, I’m serious – what are we?’
‘Oh.’ He sits there, like it’s a long division sum he’s trying to work out in his head?
‘I mean, maybe we’re just buddies?’ Freddie prompts him. ‘Coz it’s not like we’re actual lovers, is it?’
‘You’re saying we don’t love each other?’
‘Aw, c’mon.’ Drops his voice. ‘We don’t fuck each other, is what I mean.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He goes back to the mental maths.
‘So?’ Freddie draws little circles on the back of Ambrose’s hand. ‘Kinda wondering if you have any plans in that direction? Ever? You know?’
‘Oh, I have plans.’
Ba-doom. World-tilt there. ‘And? Gonna share them?’
Guy just smiles. ‘Maybe.’
‘Oh man. This better not be your croquembouche shit again.’
‘What?’ His face falls. ‘You don’t like croquembouche?’
‘Hello? I’ve still never had any?’ Freddie skims a beermat at him. ‘You were all, I’m gonna make you croquembouche—’
‘I said for your birthday,’ he protests. ‘That’s not till the end of August!’
‘Just can’t wait for that, babe – to see what bullshit excuse you come up with.’
‘To be fair, I’ve actually been concentrating more on my magic.’
‘AGH!’ Freddie slumps forward and thunks his head on the table. He despairs. Literally? He sits back up. ‘Look, admit you can’t do magic, either.’
‘Got a pack of cards?’
‘Oh sure, coz I always bring cards to the pub.’ Eye roll.
Brose leans forward, whispers. ‘Check your back pocket.’
‘Nu-uh.’ Freddie folds his arms. ‘Nope. Not falling for that again.’
‘OK.’
They wait. Staring match. Barman walks through, collects some empties. The song’s still playing. Yeah, be good to be indestructible, to never get hurt. Ah, nuts. Freddie’s gonna crack, he knows it. Can’t help himself. With a big sigh he checks – whoa!
‘No fucking way!’ He only pulls out a deck of cards! ‘What the? You! Ha ha! When did you do that?’
Ambrose shrugs, like, Weird! He can’t explain it. Then he takes the cards out of the box, shuffles them sloppily overhand, like maybe a six-year-old would? Aw bless. He hands them to Freddie. ‘OK. Check they’re just normal cards.’
Freddie flips through. ‘Look fine to me.’
‘Is the two of hearts in there?’
Freddie finds it. ‘Yeah.’
‘OK. Put it back. Now shuffle them for me.’
‘See, this here’s how you shuffle.’ Freddie does the whole riffle-and-cascade thang. Hands them over.
‘Maybe I should try that,’ says Brose. ‘Damn! Sorry.’
Freddie’s crying with laughter, I mean crying? He gathers up the scooted cards from all around the whole table. ‘Dude, you suck, you proper suck at this? Admit it, you have no clue— Whoa!’
‘What?’ He sits there acting blank, with a card stuck on his forehead.
Freddie guffaws. ‘Is that meant to be the two of hearts there?’
‘Yes. It isn’t?’
‘Sorry to break it to you.’ Freddie plucks the card off and shows it to him. ‘The Joker – oh, wait.’
The guy’s only laughing at him? Gold!
‘Have you been playing with me this whole time?’ asks Freddie.
‘Possibly. A tiny bit.
’
‘Naw!’ He wraps his arms round his head. I am so dumb. Man. ‘No fair!’
Ambrose puts the cards back in the box. Smiles into Freddie’s eyes. ‘So. My plans. Want to come away with me next weekend? Maybe?’
‘Dude, I can’t.’ Shit, shit, shit. ‘I’m working.’
‘Can’t you rearrange your shifts?’
‘I can’t. Babe, it won’t work. I’m – gah! OK. Maybe. Yes.’ He grips his hair. ‘No. Yes. But I’ll let you down. So’s you know. Don’t trust me, you hear?’
‘Well, I’ll let you down too,’ he says. ‘That’s normal. It’s what people do. And then we forgive each other.’
AUGUST
Chapter 31
ugust. Every year we have such high hopes of you as we run on empty through July, telling ourselves how blissful it will be to have nothing to do. No pressure, no deadlines, no task but to relax and enjoy ourselves.
The countryside is lulled to drowsiness. Thistledown floats. Hoverflies ply the ragwort. Bees ply the honeysuckle. Cafés ply their trade in historic Lindchester as punts ply the Linden. Season of booze and mellow stonedness in the parks and gardens of Lindfordshire.
But Leah is not happy this August. Even getting her third kyu was Meh, not YAY! Karate brown belt was meant to be cool. It was cool. So how come Leah just felt bad? She’d walked two miles to the club and back by herself on Sunday for the grading, coz Mummy was still ‘too tired’ to drive her. She’d taken the grading fee out of Mum’s purse, like Mum said to. But then there was no more money for food, so on Monday afternoon Mum said to take her card and get some more out. She told Leah the PIN number. ‘Get out fifty pounds, Leah, and buy some picnic treats. You and Jess can have a picnic in the garden.’ And Jess was all, ‘Yay! Can we get Haribo?’ And Mum went, ‘Get what you like.’
Jess had gone to bed now. Leah was out on the flat roof. There were some birds crashing about in the big tree. Then it went quiet. A feather floated down. The ice cream van went past towards where the comp was. (BIG SCHOOL – no, don’t think about it.)
Why, why had she done it? She only looked coz Mum would never let her see the bank balance. BIG mistake. For a second she thought it was all OK, they still had thousands of pounds. Only then she saw the minus sign. Oh God! She’d glanced across at where Jess was spinning round the lamppost. Her hands went all shaky. No money! Yet money came out, fresh, like it had just been printed.
But everything had been ruined. Obviously, she couldn’t explain to Jess how come after all they weren’t buying all the treats in the world, and Jess went all why-why whiny and Leah yelled at her. ‘Because not, OK????’ in the aisle in Spar, and people stared. Then she had to pretend she had a headache, so Jess wouldn’t be frightened. They went home and Jess put up her princess castle play tent and made Leah a special bed to lie on coz of her headache, and then Leah pretended to feel better again. But even the Coke and Tunnock’s teacakes tasted crap.
Supposedly, they were going on holiday next week. Mum was going to find a really good last-minute deal. Leah picked at the warm scabby roof. It was like lumpy sandpaper. She wasn’t meant to climb out of her bedroom window like this, but who even cared? It wasn’t like Mum was going to tell her off, was it? Coz Leah would just say, fine, then I’m telling Dad you’re just lying in bed all day and not looking after us properly.
Leah could do anything right now. Anything at all. Mum would have to let her, or she’d tell Dad. It was like a dream come true.
Except there was no money.
What if they couldn’t go on holiday? What if they couldn’t afford her QM uniform, and train season ticket? What if she had to go to Cardingforth Comp, with the big scary kids after all? NO! Stop thinking about it!
Oh, maybe she should tell Dad anyway? Even if it was ‘a total betrayal’. Except Dad was away in France. And maybe Mum would be well again tomorrow, like she promised. Leah lay down flat on the warm roof and shut her eyes. Freddie May. Freddie May. Her heart twisted all up on itself, like an animal in a tight burrow trying to turn round. A long way off she heard a train, unkerty-tunk, unkerty-tunk, unkerty-tunk. Everything sucked. What if nothing was real? She rubbed her wrists on the sandpapery roof. Hard. I hate my horrible life.
On the other side of Cardingforth, Father Wendy’s husband Doug was hitching up the caravan and checking the tyre pressure with his little gadget thingy. He liked setting off in the evening and driving at night to avoid the holiday traffic. Wendy was just composing her out-of-office message when she remembered: I never did pop round to check on Becky Rogers! Botheration. Scoot round now? No, Doug would get cross. Wendy dithered, then made a quick call. No answer. She left Becky a message, hoping all was well. She’d text Madge, and ask her to look in on them. You are not indispensable, Wendy Styles, she told herself. And you and Doug desperately need a holiday.
Dean Marion, also desperately in need of a holiday, has been whisked away by her devoted husband on a luxury cruise in the Land of the Midnight Sun. She had once mentioned in passing that this phrase had enchanted her as a good middle-class girl reading her copy of Look and Learn (and falling in love with the emperor’s grandson from The Trigan Empire). Marion has to be very careful what she mentions in passing. I do hope Gene is not going to surprise her in the cabin in a Janno outfit.
Jane has also had a surprise sprung on her by her devoted husband. It is Wednesday, the day of their house move, and she is enjoying a luxury spa day. She sweats in the sauna in her clapped-out old black swimsuit, accessorized with the same sardonic expression she wore for Matt’s consecration. Spa day. Fer feck’s sake. She’s guessing that her predecessor considered this kind of carry-on a high treat.
Still, it beats unpacking boxes, so bless Matt for trying.
The door of the sauna opens and two more women come in. They all say ‘Hi’, then Jane shuts her eyes again. Damn. Since hitching her wagon to Matt’s, the number of people she’s meant to recognize has quadrupled. But after that first flinch, they are pretending not to know her either. My, this is relaxing. Jane sticks it out for another couple of minutes, then goes for a swim.
She floats starfish-wise. These are the good old days. Hindsight will prove it. The present always feels like a disaster. She tries to let it all drift away. Brexit. Labour Party meltdown. The joke/threat that is Trump. Climate change. The move. The whole Mrs Bishop kit and caboodle— Uh-oh. I know who that was, thinks Jane. Helene from HR, and her partner. But that’s OK. Because I didn’t see them.
‘Who was that?’
‘Matt’s wife.’
‘Damn. Did she recognize us?’
‘What if she did?’
‘Oh, I know, but I was hoping we wouldn’t run into anyone. I don’t want Steve getting any more green ink letters over my appointment.’
‘The bishop’s a big boy. He can cope. Kay, everyone’s entitled to a private life.’
‘I know. Sorry.’
Of course everyone is entitled to a private life! But that doesn’t mean people won’t talk about you. Even Evangelicals – to whom gossip is anathema – will talk about you, under a veneer of prayerful concern. In choral circles, however, we are less squeamish. Quod erat demonstrandum.
On Wednesday evening, the Music Department convenes at the precentor’s house to transact some choral business. Let us sneak in and eavesdrop, as they discuss the Lindchester Cathedral Community Choir concert this autumn (Haydn’s Creation) in a – let us boldly coin a neologism – conbibulous manner.
‘Ja, but too bad,’ says Ulrika. ‘We’ve booked James Lovatt now. Freddie can sodding well sing in the chorus with everyone else – like he’s paid to do, you know? Gott, he’s such a bloody divo.’
‘Tut tut!’ chides the senior lay clerk. ‘After he sang the Lindchester setting so brilliantly at Easter!’
‘He’s a lazy bum,’ says Ulrika. ‘Nigel, trust me, he turns up at his singing lessons with me, and just sight-reads!’
‘Because he’s bored, darling,’ says Giles. ‘He
needs a challenge.’
‘He can’t just swan in and cherry-pick the solo parts. He has to earn it,’ says his wife. ‘Oh, look. Is Laurence asleep?’
‘Wha’? Still here.’ The organist lurches upright in his corner. He does his trademark wasp-swatting-at-a-picnic wave, before subsiding back into the chair depths like a sea anemone closing.
‘Bless him,’ says Giles.
‘Maybe Ambrose will be a steadying influence?’ suggests Timothy.
‘Plus he can explain, if a mean person uses a big word,’ says Iona, the sub-organist.
There is a choral ‘Ooh!’ at this.
‘Freddie’s not as thick as he acts,’ says Timothy.
‘No, that’s just a decoy,’ agrees Iona. ‘He’s actually even thicker. It won’t last. He’ll drive Lanky mad.’
‘God! Don’t say that!’ says Nigel. ‘We don’t want another back row break-up on our hands.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, can we shut up about Freddie bloody May?’ Ulrika gets up. ‘I’ll fetch another bottle. Scheisse!’ She stumbles over a pouffe.
‘Steady, old girl!’
When she’s safely out of the room, the precentor whispers, ‘Entre nous, effortless virtuosity is an affront to her Lutheran work ethic.’
‘No offence to Mrs Littlechild, but Freddie needs another voice coach, Giles,’ says Timothy.
‘No funding,’ Giles replies. ‘Unless Dame Barbara pops off and leaves us a bequest . . .’
They cry out against the idea of Miss Blatherwick’s demise.
There is a crash and a volley of German from the kitchen.
Giles leaps up and bounces off the doorway in his haste. He takes it in: open window, upset cage with its door wagging. ‘Oh bollocks!’
‘He’s got Boris!’ wails Ulrika. ‘That cat is a wanker!’
Oh dear. We will tiptoe away, as the Music Department of Lindchester Cathedral hunts (with ill-suppressed maudlin mirth) for the missing Chorister School hamster.
On Friday, a select group gathers at Father Dominic’s for a themed evening of pre-Olympic caipirinhas, made by everyone’s favourite cocktail waiter. Dominic can’t go away while his mum is still recovering from her op, but he can still have fun. (She can go to bed and take her hearing aid out.)
Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3) Page 20
