Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  Yes, home or away, let August be the month of fun. Sadly, August is only fun if you have money – as Becky Rogers knows, curled under her duvet. As parents who rely on school breakfast clubs know. As the homeless, evicted from Lindford cemetery, know. As the trafficked workers in nail bars and carwashes know, painting the nails and valeting the cars of the holidaymakers heading off on their well-earned break. As indeed we all know, deep down, when we wake at 3 a.m. with a jolt of dread from dreams of burning ships, and lie wondering if we have forgotten something.

  Freddie wakes before dawn on Saturday as though someone has wrenched the covers off. Like it’s the police? Fuck. He knows it’s his fault. But what has he done this time? Where even is he? It comes back. He’s still at Dom’s? Man. OK. Scanning, scanning. Nope. Nothing. He’s done nothing wrong. Technically, he’s done nothing wrong.

  He lies back down. So, Brose is calling for him at ten, and then they’ll set off for the weekend. Cool. Bag packed, work shifts covered, all waxed and good to go. Weekend in the country, getting it on at last with the sweetest guy on God’s earth – what’s not to like?

  Oh Jesus. You had to do it, didn’t you? You had to find a way of complicating it. Yeah, no, it’s just a favour to a friend, no? Keeping him company for a week on his cousin’s yacht, all expenses paid? Can I interest you in that proposition at all, Mr May?

  Your lovely company, Mr May, to keep me off the booze. No other services required. Yes?

  Hell, yes.

  I mean, he wasn’t gonna say no to Andrew Jacks, was he?

  Probably better not mention it to Brose, though?

  Chapter 32

  he kind hands waiting to nurse us through. Yes, that is the hope. Good Lord, deliver us. Land us safe on Canaan’s shore. In the midst of life, we are in death. We are all going to die. Dress it up how you will, we are all going to die. Which do you prefer – the impossibility of faith, or the impossibility of no faith? Why is there something, rather than nothing? Because there just is – get over your anthropocentric self? Is that intellectually satisfying? Either way, it’s all too big.

  Some such thoughts passed through the mind of Dr Rossiter at 3 a.m., as she lay in her new bedroom in a miasma of fresh emulsion, listening to an unfamiliar set of night noises, and the rather more familiar sound of Matt snoring. The empty paint cans were lined up by the back door, near the wheelie bins. Durable Matt. Yep, that was her man. Durable Matt, with crisis-resistant faith. The house had been pretty much straight when she tootled back, pedi­cured and hot-stone massaged, from her spa day. Before long, they were going off on a well-earned holiday. Portugal. It would all be fine. Let’s pretend that none of the crap is happening.

  This strategy is the one we have tacitly decided to adopt as a nation. Operation Head-in-Sand. Referendum? La la la. If we do nothing, maybe it will all go away. Let’s quietly forget it all, never actually get round to Article 50. Because it looks like all we’re going to get is a more rubbish version of what we already had until 23 June – with another recession thrown in for good measure. We won’t get to pull up the drawbridge and be a Norway-type Great-again-Britain, all pudding and no greens.

  Anyhow, it’s still the holidays. Olympics, yay! Rowing and cycling golds! Go Team GB! We’ll worry about it all later.

  It is an attitude that scandalizes Ulrika. What a nation of piss-takers, you know? This is how fascism begins. Ach Gott, ach Gott! The window left open, the big fat fascist wanker cat getting in and killing the poor little hamster while she was boozing in the next room with the piss-taking English!

  Poor Uli has taken Boris’s death hard. The following day she made a sad trip to Pets at Home in Lindford, and bought a new Boris and put him in the spring-cleaned cage.

  ‘There,’ said her piss-taking husband. ‘Nobody need ever know, darling.’

  But all Uli can think of is the littlest choristers, and how trauma­tized they will be if they find out – and of course they will find out! This is the bloody sodding Close, ja? And somehow, she finds her heart is breaking for her own little boys, for the redundant roof box and roof bars gathering dust in the garage, the family summer holidays that have slipped away never to return. Empty nest! How did it come round so fast, when all the time she was tearing her hair out over those lazy bums not doing their homework and chores? Ach, why was she always telling them to grow up?

  Meanwhile, in the neighbouring house, little Chad William, the chancellor’s son and heir, trots in to Mummy (vastly pregnant on the sofa and feebly watching Peppa Pig with Tabitha because she is a bad mother; she is not making salt dough or going to the library for a Family Fun Day).

  Chad says, ‘Mumma, I saw a wat.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A wat. It came out of my bedwoom floor.’

  ‘A rat! It was probably just a mouse, sweetie. How big was it?’

  ‘Huge and big and giant.’

  Miriam lets her head slump back against the sofa. Oh, bloody hell. Mice she can ignore. Rats must be dealt with. She heaves herself up and goes to phone the cathedral office.

  It’s Monday morning, and a doorbell rings on Sunningdale Drive. Upstairs, under her covers, Becky Rogers weeps. On the doorstep Madge, retired nurse and Father Wendy’s right-hand woman in Cardingforth parish, waits. Madge looks at the overgrown lawn. Hmm. She peers through the window. Evidence of girls: a play den made out of blankets. Comics, crisp packets. She presses the bell again. No answer. She texts Father Wendy to let her know. She’ll call again this afternoon.

  Where are the Rogers girls? the reader asks. They are off on an adventure, yay! They are going exploring on the train! They have a picnic in their backpacks. Jess has her pink Barbie backpack, Leah has her black-and-white karate bag. It is SO exciting! They are taking the train to Lindford, and then another train to Martonbury! TWO TRAINS! They are going to visit their old friend Jane, who has moved house, and lives in Martonbury, and they are taking her some biscuits and a card to say welcome to your new house!

  Dear Jesus and God, please, please, please let Jane be in and let her be able to help us. Don’t let them put Mum in the loony bin, and don’t let it be my fault, I will do anything you ask, I promise I will never not believe in you again, I’m sorry for everything, only let it be all right, Amen.

  Let it be all right, let it be all right. Some version of this has been prayed down the ages by people of faith, and by people whose faith is known to God alone (the squeamish Anglican way of saying non-Christian). Hands still grope in prayer’s direction. The words Oh God still tumble from unbelieving lips. Let it be all right.

  You can bet Freddie May has been praying it.

  Ambrose stopped the car.

  ‘Little walk?’

  ‘You betcha.’ Bit of outdoors action? Get in.

  They headed down a narrow path. Birds. Butterflies. Sky kinda cloudy, but sun on their backs? His heart was going crazy. Should be total heaven? But now, not so much. Tried to blank the whole Andrew thang from his mind, but nu-uh.

  They stopped and Freddie aimed for flippant? ‘This another of your kissing gates?’

  ‘No. It’s a spanking stile.’

  ‘Course it is. Coz you grew up in the country, right?’ He vaulted over.

  ‘Seriously,’ said Ambrose. ‘Old country custom. When the ploughboys were coming home, if they caught a milkmaid climbing over a stile, they were allowed to spank them.’

  ‘Bull. Shit.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ He climbed over and they carried on walking. Little path went between hedges. Hoverflies hanging in the air, then zipping away.

  ‘I’d totally let you, though?’ Freddie cut him a sideways look. ‘Yessir, any time.’

  Brose leant in and whispered, ‘I’d figured that out, thanks.’

  ‘Ha ha ha! That obvious, huh?’

  ‘Out of interest, how far would you trust me?’

  ‘The whole nine yards, babe.’ They stopped. There was a
gate, and cows standing by a tree, lit up by the sun. Freddie fired up some weapons-grade slutaciousness. ‘Try me.’

  ‘OK. How about you tell me what you’re feeling so guilty about?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘So it’s not hanging over us all weekend. Maybe?’

  Freddie laughed. ‘I’m not feeling guilty! Why would I be feeling guilty?’ Shit shit shit. ‘Ask me something else?’ He set off again, swishing the weeds with his hand.

  ‘Wait.’ Ambrose caught his arm. ‘Can I confess something?’

  Freddie’s heart skipped into crazy double-time again. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I came out of uni with no debt. Basically, through gambling. Professional poker.’

  ‘Seriously? No way! You’re a professional gambler?’ Freddie wavered. ‘Wait. Is this another of your wind-ups?’

  ‘No,’ said Ambrose. ‘But you can’t be sure, can you?’ He took Freddie’s hand and pressed it to his chest, like maybe Freddie would feel his heart beating there, and believe in him?

  ‘Nope. No idea. You got me.’

  ‘That’s my point, Freddie. I’m good at bluffing and misdirection. At lying, basically. And you aren’t.’ He kind of smiled, but sadly. ‘You’re really not. So please don’t pretend nothing’s going on, OK?’

  ‘Gah!’ Freddie bumped his head on Ambrose’s shoulder. ‘OK, fine. So there’s this friend, we go way back? Known him half my life, since school? And he was, uh, wanting me to go on holiday with him, end of the month? And I kinda said I would?’ He shrugged. ‘Yeah, so not that big of a deal. I’m just sweating the small stuff, like the arrangements?’

  Ambrose smoothed Freddie’s hair back, and kissed his forehead. ‘OK.’

  Tell him, you dick. He knows you’re lying. ‘Nnngah. It’s Andrew? Sorry!’

  ‘What?’ Ambrose flushed. ‘That cunt!’

  ‘Wow.’ Freddie stepped back. ‘Wow. Stay classy, Brose.’

  ‘OK, fine. I apologize to vaginas everywhere.’ He stood there, like eyes wide, breathing hard through his nose? ‘Ah, I hate that guy. The way he talks, the way he acts. Andrew Jacks? Really?’

  ‘Sorry sorry sorry.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry for the C-bomb, there. I never say that. But come on. What the hell, Freddie?’

  ‘Look, listen. It’s a schmucky thing to do, I get that? Dude, I told you not to trust me?’ Freddie felt himself filling up. But then he could hear Kat: Plus you’re manipulative. He sniffed the tears back. ‘So.’

  ‘So,’ repeated Ambrose. ‘What now?’

  ‘I don’t know? Probably, this is the part where I get dumped?’ he whispered.

  ‘Wrong. This is the part where we do some serious talking. Agh!’ Ambrose snapped a hand through the tall grass. ‘Why would you do this? Freddie, please understand I’m demented with jealousy here. It’s like he’s deliberately flaunting his power over you. You did tell him about us? Oh my God, you didn’t!’

  ‘Sorry. I kinda— So he was all, I just want your company? He’s scared he’ll fall off the wagon, if— Normally he goes with his painter friend, only this year she’s—? It’s not anything. I mean, he totally emphasized, “no other services required”?’ Freddie rubbed his eyes. ‘Listen, I’m sorry. Don’t be jealous. You want me to bail? I’ll ring him. Yeah? Yeah. Probably I should do that?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you what to do.’

  ‘Shit. Now I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?’

  ‘Well, you’ve given us some work to do, that’s for sure,’ said Ambrose. He began walking back to the car.

  Freddie choked on a sob, felt like his throat had literally broken? He stumbled after him. ‘Brose, I’m so sorry. Are we going back to Lindchester?’

  ‘What? No!’ He turned. ‘Of course not. This is just a fight, not game over.’

  ‘I hate this. I can’t do this stuff!’

  ‘Sure you can.’ Freddie saw him relenting. ‘We fight, then we talk, then we find a way of making up. That’s how it works.’

  ‘Yeah, but it won’t work. Dude, I’m telling you – I can’t be trusted.’

  ‘Says who?’ asked Ambrose. ‘You keep repeating that. Who says you can’t be trusted?’

  And right then – with like seriously spooky timing? – his phone began to play: I’m Alright.

  ‘Do you need to get that?’ asked Ambrose.

  ‘Nah.’ Couldn’t his dad, just for once, let it be? He’ll leave a message.’

  He left a message: Ring me, son. He left several messages. Freddie ignored them all. In the end, in desperation, Mr May senior called the only other number he had: Miss Blatherwick’s. He remembered how the famous Miss B had always looked out for his feckless heart-breaking waster of a son through his schooldays, and after. She could pass the message on. Break it to him gently.

  Chapter 33

  here was the doorbell. Janey must have forgotten her key. Hullo. Matt could see two small figures through the dimpled glass. Local kids? He opened the door. Oh, crap.

  ‘Morning, girls.’ He scanned beyond them for Mum or Dad. ‘Lovely to see you. What can I do for you today?’

  The older one, Leah, was looking daggers at him. Sudden flashback to that safeguarding malarkey with tartypants a couple of summers back.

  ‘We’ve come to see Jane,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve brought some biscuits and a card,’ added the younger one, beaming up at him under a wonky mum-cut fringe. Little sweetheart.

  ‘To say welcome to your new home,’ explained Leah.

  There was a pause. Does not compute, does not compute.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Matt. ‘Janey’s out right now—’

  Whoops! The old pastoral antennae gave an almighty wag. He clocked a look of despair on the older girl’s face.

  ‘—but she’ll be back any minute. From her run. So if you’re happy to hang on . . .’ His mind zipped through the possibilities. No way was he going to invite them in, given Leah’s history of porky-pies in the safeguarding department. Nor could he turn them away. Something was clearly amiss. Awkward kid, but Janey had managed some kind of rapport with her, back when she’d lived on Sunningdale Drive too.

  ‘I know. Why don’t we potter along and find a café and get us some breakfast? I’ll text Jane, and she can join us there. All righty?’

  The older one stood biting her lip. Tears brimming.

  ‘We’ve actually had our breakfast, I’m afraid,’ said Jess.

  ‘Second breakfast, then?’

  ‘Like hobbits! Yay!’

  ‘Bingo!’ said Matt. ‘Like hobbits.’

  But Leah nudged her.

  ‘What? Why can’t we?’ demanded Jess.

  ‘Because, OK?’ hissed big sister. ‘We should go.’

  Yikes. How the hell to hang on to them till Jane rocked up, without it sounding like enticement? Couldn’t start tempting them with sticky buns and pop, could he? ‘Look, the thing is, I promised Jane I’d treat her to a slap-up breakfast,’ improvised Matt. ‘Why not join us? She’d love that. You can give her the card.’

  ‘Yay!’ said Jess. ‘Can we have hot chocolate with marshmallows?’

  Leah yanked her arm and muttered something.

  ‘Why not? I like hot chocolate!’ whined Jess.

  A whispered exchange Matt couldn’t hear. They were going to bolt. Come home, Jane! ‘Breakfast’s on us, of course. Jane’s treat.’

  ‘Fine,’ snapped Leah.

  So that was it. Poor kid was worried about money. What the hell was going on back at home? ‘Okey-dokey,’ he said. ‘I need to get some shoes on, and text Janey. Want to explore the garden while you wait? Peachy. Won’t be a tick.’

  He shut the door, already speed-dialling the diocesan HR and safeguarding lady. Needed Helene to file a case note PDQ. Lordy, what a world they lived in, where you couldn’t scoop up two desperate kids and give them a hug!

  A-a-and breathe. Jane got the desperate message from Matt, and rose to the occasion magnificently. She rathe
r liked Leah, having been a cross-grained little besom herself at that age, raging at her assigned gender role and hating the adult world on principle.

  We may leave the Rogers family safely in the bosom of the diocese of Lindchester now. Phone calls were made to Becky’s GP and parents, and to Martin in France, who cut his holiday short and sped home to his girlies. The girlies had a lovely night camping out at Jane’s and Matt’s (all duly logged by Helene) in sleeping bags (YAY!) while they waited for Dad to come home. After that, the bishop of Barcup and his wife were able to shoot off to Portugal to recover. Phew.

  All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. This is not to say that everything shall be peachy on every given occasion. Did you tick the I Agree box without reading the terms and conditions? I never promised you a rose garden, reader. Or if I did, it was not a rose garden with the thorns edited out. Indeed, where would we be without thorns to prove that the grace of God is sufficient for us? I hesitate to suggest that there will be a reward in heaven for those who torment the flesh of others in order that grace may abound. But if there were such a reward, then the vicar of Risley Hill would be laying up treasure for himself, all right.

  The archdeacon of Martonbury was drafted in to help support the Rogers family at this difficult time. Matt couldn’t help thinking a woman’s touch might be required, a spot of the old listening and hand-holding. Rather than the bloody irritating problem-solving mansplaining approach he himself went in for (according to the missus).

  So Bea did some hand-holding. Becky felt able to pour out her heart, as she had in the past to Father Wendy. What had triggered this crisis? Perhaps it was the hideousness of the school holidays, that sudden lack of structure that had been holding each wretched day in some sort of shape? But I think it was hope that did for Becky. Misery we can wade through. It is hope that poleaxes us. Hope came in the form of a phone call, a suggested getting together to catch up, an offer of fellowship in Christ (nothing more, of course), and the chance to pray together.