Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  his time tomorrow, I’ll be looking back on it. Leah invented that mantra on the two-mile walk to her last karate grading. Mantras were Zen. Plus they gave you a sense of calm and perspective. This time tomorrow . . .

  The kitchen clock ticked. Five past six. She was sitting alone at the table, already showered and in her uniform. That weird new clothes smell was coming off her shirt. Her new schoolbag was in the hall, with her new pencil case in, full of new pencils and the embarrassing novelty fast food rubbers from Jess, which she had to take with her, or Jess would be hurt.

  She stared into her bowl. Chocolate cereal was meant to be a special treat. Dad didn’t approve of Nestlé. It looked like rabbit droppings. The milk had gone all brown. She stirred it round and round and felt sick.

  This time tomorrow. This time . . . It wasn’t working. Focus, you idiot! Get in your fighting zone. Visualize a calm place. This time tomorrow, I’ll be looking back on the first day of QM. See? You can do it. And this time next year, it would just be, huh, what­ever, same old. Because then she’d be going into Year 8, and a whole nother bunch of new girls would be starting. Probably they’d be feeling sick too, and thinking, Maybe if I actually threw up, I wouldn’t have to go? Except you’d still have to go the next day, and then your first day would be everyone else’s day two, so you’d be like the only new girl. You’d be totally on your own. Everyone else would be a day ahead of you, knowing stuff, and you’d look stupid and keep having to ask about everything.

  Oh God, what if she got lost and couldn’t find the right classroom? What if she cried, like a total stupid cry-baby? Except it had been scientifically proven that crying was not a sign of weakness. Freddie had cried at his party. You actually had to be pretty cool and OK with yourself to cry in public.

  (Please don’t let me cry.)

  Dad was coming! Quickly, she rubbed her eyes and made herself spoon up some rabbit poo and swallow it. For a second she nearly sicked it straight back up, but no, it slithered down, all bobbly and slimy.

  ‘How are you doing, darling?’

  She twitched a shoulder and scowled. Don’t let him start his lame vicar-y stuff about Jeeee-sus being with her, like she was a Junior School assembly he was taking, or something.

  Tick-tick-tick. Ten past six. Oh, let it be over!

  ‘You’re a lot braver than I was at your age,’ he said. ‘I was nearly sick every day for the first term.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘All right if I take a photo of you in your new uniform and haircut before you set off?’

  ‘What? I’m not that lame, Dad.’

  ‘I know. But it’s for your mum. So she doesn’t miss out.’

  ‘FINE.’

  8.20 a.m. Chloe was just finishing her run-before-work. Her pink trainers crunched through the fallen beechmast. What a lovely day! She saw them in their new uniforms as she left the arboretum. QM Girls, QM Boys, Lindford Comp kids, all creeping like snails unwillingly to school. Aw, bless! The littlies looked more like tortoises than snails, with their humungous backpacks, and their little necks too skinny for their collars. Ha ha! Flashback to herself in plaits and braces and geeky glasses. Oh, hadn’t she been a perfect little sitting-on-the-front-row-and-shooting-her-hand-up homework lover? A half-pint ethnic Hermione Granger!

  Cosmo lolloped along beside her on his lead. He didn’t really get the running thing, daft beast. Every intoxicating new smell and he had to screech to a halt to explore it – Ow! nearly dislocating her arm and jerking her flat. Wow! Who knew how intoxicating the urban environment could be? For a dog, that is. There were plenty of signs of human intoxication – yeuch! – still lying about from the weekend. This was her street pastor pitch. She’d just done the new rota. They were stretched a bit thin at the moment. Could do with a few more recruits. Maybe she should— Ow!

  ‘Cosmo! Stop! Here, boy.’ He bounded back. ‘Look, we need to decide a lamppost policy. We both have to go round the same way, OK? Good boy.’

  Cosmo wagged and squirmed in delight. Treat? Treat? Cosmo came back! Where’s his treat?

  8.45 a.m. The registration bell would be ringing. Martin could almost hear it echoing in his soul. His heart thumped on Leah’s behalf as he studied the picture on his phone. Look at her! Standing tall and white-faced in the hallway, scowling. His brave girl! He fired off some desperate arrow prayers: Lord, let her have a better time of it than I did. Let her fit in, somehow. Let them not bully her.

  The photo wavered a moment. Then Martin blinked. What was he thinking? Nobody in their right mind was going to pick on Leah Rogers, even if she flatly refused ever to fit in. Was she a changeling, this fierce martial daughter of his? Oh, but let it be all right. Let her have a good day, be with her, let her not be lonely, let her find some kindred spirit!

  He blew his nose. Now he ought to send the picture to her mother. Although—

  Send it. She was not a bad mother. He was not going to punish her by seizing this chance of getting custody. He did not need to do that. His first priority was the girls and their long-term wellbeing, which would not be best served by their parents fighting over them in court. He made himself take a mental step back. The events of the summer were unfortunate. It was unfortunate that the girls’ mother was suffering from depression and had not sought help. It was unfortunate that he had been unaware of the situation, and that the girls had suffered as a consequence. But he would not apportion blame, either to himself, or the girls’ mother. Although—

  Leah, first day at QM. Hope all is well with you. M.

  Send.

  Personally, I would quite like to apportion a bit of blame. So would the Venerable Bea Whitchurch. We would both like the rector of Risley Hill to take the rap for the havoc he selfishly caused. Bea has done what she can, but all her offers of pastoral support have been rebuffed. She can only watch and pray – and prepare a thorough briefing for the new bishop of Barcup, to land on his desk the minute he is officially installed.

  It will be a busy season of installations this coming term in Lindchester Cathedral. Installations and Collations (the proper term for the plumbing-in of new archdeacons). The precentor cracks his knuckles, and readies himself for the exquisite anguish of fine-tuning the liturgy. Out come the well-worn copies of ‘I Was Glad’. Laurence, the organist, dusts off his favourite thunderous French volleys (which to the untutored ear sound like a dyspraxic ogre trampling up and down the manuals). Iona, the sub-organist, daydreams an improvisation that almost, but not quite, seems to include phrases from ‘Send in the Clowns’.

  A whole new set of music folders have now been bought for the Lindchester Girls’ Choir. For political choral reasons that are entirely beyond me, the girls may not yet be called ‘choristers’, nor may they wear cassocks and ruffs. But it is a step in the right direction. We look forward to their first appearance at evensong after half-term. The precentor has asked the canon chancellor to identify suitable readings for the occasion (and no, the passage about Lot’s daughters is not suitable, thank you, Father).

  ‘It was fine.’

  That, as every parent knows, is all that any self-respecting child is allowed to divulge about their day at school. Martin Rogers had cleared his diary in order to be in, so that Leah wouldn’t be coming home to an empty house. As every parent knows, only one permitted question remained. Into this frail vessel Martin poured all his parental angst:

  ‘So what did you have for lunch?’

  ‘Food.’

  In another clergy household altogether, the same question was posed.

  ‘Chips and veggie burger, and salad, and then— Oh, I meant to say, I met this really cool girl? She does karate, so we all call her karate girl? She has her hair cut really short, and I mean short? Can I get mine— Yeah, sorry, and then there was three choices of pudding or yogurt, oh, or fruit? We tried to go up twice only they caught us, you have to scan your— Science is going to be awesome, this other girl, Rachel, says her older brother at QM Boys says that if you, like, stockpile che
micals each week and hide them in this hole in the bench, then later in term you can actually get this really MASSIVE explosion going, and the teacher goes ape, and you can be all, innocent face, I have no idea what just happened? We are so going to do that, her name’s Leah, and ha ha ha, you won’t believe this? Go on, guess! Never mind, you’ll never guess, only her dad’s a vicar too? I mean, how awesome is that?’

  ‘Sounds fabiola, darling,’ said Kay Redfern, the archdeacon elect of Lindford. But her eyes met Helene’s and they both had the same thought. Leah Rogers? Uh-oh.

  Uh-oh is exactly what the bishop of Lindchester thought on Thursday morning, when Kat reminded him about his next engagement. He’d been rather hoping Freddie wouldn’t get round to booking an appointment. Oh well.

  ‘Freddie. Good to see you. Have a seat.’

  Kat slipped back out, leaving the door ajar, as per Steve’s instructions.

  ‘Uh, yeah, so, just wanted to like give you my thoughts, like, formally, to your face, if that makes sense, like, ahead of your thang?’

  Pause. ‘My thang?’

  ‘Uh, House of Bishops?’

  ‘Ah!’ Steve smiled encouragingly. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Cool. OK.’ Freddie studied his shoelaces. ‘So.’

  Steve waited.

  ‘Yeah, listen, do you believe gay sex is sinful?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I bet some of it is,’ said Steve.

  Freddie snorted. ‘Yeah, no, stop making me laugh, I’m serious here. I bet some straight sex is sinful.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Right. Just not like, major league sinful?’

  ‘Look, Freddie.’ He sighed. ‘As you probably know, I still believe – looking at the general drift of the Scriptures – that there’s something about the union of a man and a woman that’s normative.’ Freddie was staring at his laces again. ‘Part of God’s original plan in creation. Even setting aside procreation, there’s a complementarity—’

  ‘Yeah, no, no. A of all, it’s not all about difference, coz otherwise, why not the animals, yeah? They’re even more like, “complementary” to Adam. And B of all, if we’re on creation, think about it, what about, it’s not good for man to be alone? But you’re all, Freddie, I’m sorry, but actually you do have to be alone, you can never be with someone, coz that’s not part of God’s original plan?’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘Yeah, you are, dude. It’s like you’re saying, so, you’re left-handed? Cool, that’s not a sin. God still loves you, but you can’t ever use your left hand. You don’t have to use your right hand, but left hand? Nu-uh.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘Forget it. Who am I kidding? Not like I’m gonna change your mind, Paul.’

  ‘Steve,’ said Steve.

  He flushed. ‘Steve. Catch you later.’

  ‘Can I pray before you go, Freddie?’

  But he was off.

  The bishop stood a long time in his office, looking out across the drive, feeling like a total and utter failure. A verse floated into his head: Let God be true, but every man a liar. It was breaking his heart but he could not, could not abandon the position he still believed was the truth.

  He watched the crocodile of choristers coming back from their morning rehearsal. Remembered his own first day at a different cathedral school. Shorts. Knee socks. Yellow chorister cap. Homesick and weepy. But it passed. It all passes.

  Will we ever be out the other side looking back on this debate? This time next month, next year, in five years, in ten years?

  Chapter 36

  ist lies across the diocese of Lindchester again. Spire top, rooftop, treetop, hilltop – all are rubbed out. Then the sun burns and the landscape smokes like the aftermath of some disaster, the way it did in harvest days of yore when they still burnt the stubble.

  Jane stared out of her new bedroom window on Monday morning. Pah! The mist did not fool her. Another miserable hot day lay in store. She could feel it, like a pending migraine. It’s autumn, for God’s sake! Season of boots – boots, I tell you! She pulled on her jeggings and BOOTS, but wisely went down the upper-body layering route, so that she didn’t end up ripping off her jumper and sitting in the departmental strategy day in her bra.

  But I’m right, and you’re wrong, weather. She jabbed a finger. Let’s not forget that.

  Sadly, Matt was not there for her to shout at cathartically on some trumped-up pretext. He was off on his very first College of Bishops jolly, where they would be locking mitres over ‘Issues in Human Sexuality’. And for the very first time, any episcopal imbecility that ensued was going to impinge directly on Dr Jane Rossiter. Huzzah. She was very much looking forward to being put in the invidious position of needing to smack the chops of anyone who disparaged Anglican bishops, while inwardly ­admitting they had a point.

  Still, it was all rather lovely. Later, as Jane stood on the quiet platform at Martonbury station, she was forced to concede that it was gorgeous. The stillness, the hedges glowing with hips and haws. A feeling surprised her: joy. As palpable as an old friend sneaking up on her and bursting out. She narrowed her eyes. That bastard was praying for her down in Oxford, wasn’t he?

  We can neither prove nor disprove Jane’s theory for, as you know, we may not join the College of Bishops as they gather to deliberate. But we may, in a heartfelt Anglican manner, pray for their discussions, speculate, and pour anticipatory scorn on anything they might come up with. We have done our bit. According to temperament, we have campaigned, tweeted, blogged, manoeuvred, kept well out of it, shrugged, or wept tears of despair. It is now out of our hands, and in the bishops’. Or God’s (though not all Anglicans can say that without needing to get their toes surgically ­uncurled afterwards).

  Tears of despair were certainly what Freddie shed after his aborted talk with Steve. Ambrose asked how it went.

  ‘Babe, no offence, but I really don’t wanna talk about it? Coz yeah, total crash and burn? Had all this stuff planned, but every word, and I can literally hear myself sounding dumber than a big dumb thing? So I panic? And I’m, I have to get out of here? Nice one, Freddie. Coz now Steve’s all, what can you do? You just can’t reason with them! Ah, Brose, I seriously do not know why I’m even trying to convince him? Not like he’s gonna make all the difference, you know? Yeah, like there’s not shedloads of other conservative dickwads ready to screw us over yet again? But it’s like, I have to change Paul’s mind? Man.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Gah! Steve. I keep randomly doing that?’

  Ambrose had an idea it was not so very random. But he held his peace.

  At the very hour when Jane was ambushed by joy, Giles, the precentor, was on the platform at Lindford station, waiting for the train to London. There was to be a gathering of precentors to give thought to That Which Must Not Be Named, but may only be alluded to sotto voce as The Unhappy Event.

  Alas, reader, it cannot be denied that the Event will come. Not soon, we pray. May it be happily and gloriously deferred for many more years. That said, it cannot be allowed to catch the cathedrals of our land unawares like a thief in the night. Thus it is not un-reasonable to speculate that every precentor already has a secret file hidden under a secret code word on his or her hard drive against that day.

  We will wave Giles off, and spare a thought for him and his fellow black-clad clerical colleagues sweltering in the armpitty embrace of London with the hot breath of the Tube all close up and personal. Here in the temperate zone of the Midlands, we fare slightly better, though we are menaced by thunderstorms. On Tuesday, an ominous light charges the air at dusk, as though a red filter has been slapped on the cosmos. Leah Rogers tackles her first lot of maths homework at the kitchen table, and the room fills with threat. Dominic’s mum calls him to the window to look at his doolally geraniums, and tells him ‘The End Is Nigh.’ Up on the Close the cathedral radiates pink light. Miss Blatherwick stops to get her breath, and gazes in wonder. Goodness. The entire red/orange spectrum burns like a trompe l’oeil: cherry leaf on the lawn, al
l the cotoneasters and nasturtiums, her little car.

  Yes, across Lindfordshire every red secret is briefly laid bare by this unseen nutter at the colour dial. Poor Neil, out running along narrow lanes between berry-studded hedgerows, suffers a non-specific attack of John Knoxitis, and has to sing as he runs. Aye, he’s a bad man, but ‘Jesus paid it all’. All. All. All. No condemnation, you hear me? ‘I’ll wash my garments white in the blood of Calvary’s lamb.’

  Lord have mercy! But then the sun sets. Phew. As you were, Lindcastrians.

  ‘But why, Mummy?’ asks young Chad William, the chancellor’s son, on Wednesday morning. He is wearing his little pale blue St William’s school sweatshirt for the first time. ‘Why didn’t Mrs Wathbone need me?’

  BECAUSE MUMMY IS A CRAP MOTHER, OK? ‘Because Mummy made a mistake, darling,’ says Miriam. ‘Mrs Rathbone needs you to start nursery tomorrow.’

  Bloody staggered starts. Though staggering is appropriate. Staggering is the word right now. Staggering back up the mount, pushing the pushchair, sweat pouring off her in this heat. Are you still here? Haven’t you had that baby yet? Why yes, I had the baby last week! I just stuffed this giant fitness ball up my dress because being pregnant IS SO MUCH FUN!

  The hospital bag is packed and waiting in the hall. Sonya is standing by to look after Chad and Tabitha, when the time comes. Ah, God! Miriam has been pregnant for ever, and it’s still a week till the due date. And then they’ll probably let her go another fortnight, unless these bloody Braxton Hicks turn into the real thing. Three weeks!

  ‘But why doesn’t Mrs Wathbone need me till tomorrow?’

  ‘Darling, I’ve explained. Mrs Rathbone doesn’t want everyone starting nursery all at once.’

  ‘But why—’

  ‘Chad, please stop asking. I just made a mistake, OK?’ She stops walking and gets her breath.

  ‘Jinky! Jinky! Jinky!’ shouts Tabitha, jerking in her pushchair.

  Great. She’s come out without the drinky beaker.

  Why? Why? Why? Jinky jinky jinky!