Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  Poor Miriam slumps over the pushchair handle in despair and looks down at the pavement. Why don’t we all lie down on the pavement and howl in misery? That seems like a sensible plan.

  She raises her head. Café. Just opening. Thank you, Jesus! They can probably kill thirty minutes of this godawful day in here. She wrestles the pushchair through the door.

  If Miriam is hoping for a nice anonymous space in which to hone her submission for the Bad Mother Award, she will be disappointed. The café is Vespas. And there he is, the crazy dumb blond who keeps nearly getting kicked out of the choir. The one there was all the rumours about. Mercifully there are no other customers yet.

  ‘Hey, guys! Table for three? Let me grab you a high chair and some menus. Hey, Chad, how’s it going? Dude, cool sweatshirt!’

  ‘Mrs Wathbone didn’t need me today coz Mummy made a mistake.’

  ‘JINKY JINKY JINKY!’

  It happens while Miriam is bending over the pushchair to unbuckle Tabitha. That little pop, like treading on a grape.

  Her eyes widen. Whoosh. No, no, no. She looks up at Freddie.

  His eyes widen. ‘Uh, ambulance?’

  She grips the pushchair handle and nods.

  ‘No worries. I’m on it.’

  As it happened, Freddie barely had time to cross the café and flip the sign to ‘Closed’. Hence the headlines: Woman gives birth in restaurant in less than five minutes. Perhaps you saw the iconic photo: that little scrap swaddled in a Breton shirt, in his mum’s arms.

  Up on the Close, by the chancellor’s front door, the hospital bag still waits, packed and ready.

  Well, well, well. Freddie May: lay clerk, accidental midwife and total flipping hero. I for one was not expecting that. Like Freddie (whose legs went the minute the ambulance arrived and the para­medics took over) I need a little lie-down. Mother and baby both doing well, you will be relieved to hear. Noah Frederick Lawson, 9lb 7oz. And lest you are worried about Chad and Tabitha: ‘Fweddie gave us cookies to eat while Mummy was having Noah, and I did a dwawing of a giant twactor. Look!’

  You only get a finite number of heartbeats. It came to Freddie that night, as he lay in Brose’s arms, head on his chest. He listened to the steady doomf, doomf, doomf. You only get so many heartbeats? The tiny little dude, slippery in his hands? Stroking his knobbly little back, and Miriam wailing, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, is he alive? Is he alive?’ And Freddie all, Babe, he’s yelling, sure he’s alive. Wrapping him up and giving him to her?

  Ah, he could still feel the little heart fluttering away against his palm? And now Brose’s heart, doomf, doomf, and his own pulse in his fingertips, in his throat, his ears? The miracle of it? And ­suddenly he was shaking again, delayed shock probably, and he was all, oh, Jesus, he so needed to be a dad? To hold his own child like that? But how would that ever happen?

  The arms round him tightened, gathering him in close. Hushing him. It’s OK, Freddie, I’ve got you. Ssh. It’s all OK.

  Our stout hero the bishop of Barcup is home from his first episcopal gathering.

  ‘So,’ says Jane. ‘More delays.’

  ‘Well, the slower we go, the more we take with us.’

  ‘Talk about the mills of God!’ snorts Jane. ‘You’ve appointed “a reflection group” to assist with “the process of discernment”?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And this group contains no LGBTI people?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But several known conservatives?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Jesus. What hope is there?’ She raises her hand. ‘Rhetorical. I know you brim with hope. From your big bald bonce down to your Doc Martens.’

  He smiles. ‘Well. At any rate, let’s wait to see what they come up with before we despair.’

  ‘And in the meantime,’ says Jane, ‘there’s always beer.’

  It is harvest weekend. Strange and florid squashes line church window ledges. There are dahlias and apples, and the traditional cauliflowers fluffy. Come, ye thankful people, come. Come to the cathedral (where the flower guild have excelled themselves) for the long-promised Installation and Collation of the new archdeacons.

  It is Saturday afternoon. We will rise to the ancient vaults on our eagle wings and look down. There is Matt in the congregation in mufti and awkward liturgical limbo (former archdeacon, but not yet installed as bishop). Here come the clergy of the diocese. All the tribes have come up: high, low, charismatic, liberal. Let us wave to Father Ed, to Wendy and Virginia, to Martin and to our dear friend Father Dominic. And here are the cathedral clergy. Behold, how good and pleasant it is.

  Everything is done reverently and in order. The choir is Glad. No lay clerk smirks in the worship songs. Kay Redfern and Alan Bowes add Venerable to their names. About time too! There is applause. Bishop Steve preaches. We stand to sing. ‘All my hope on God is founded.’

  But we only have a finite number of heartbeats.

  Dominic feels it kick off. Wild frenzied galloping. He stays calm. Makes his way out along the row, finds a steward. Says: ‘Heart.’

  Then he is lying down. Heart racing faster, faster. Could this be it? What, now, Lord?

  ‘Me through change and chance he guideth.’

  A white face swims over him. Ed.

  ‘Only good and only true.’

  Ed squeezes his hand. ‘God unknown, he alone.’ Whispers his name. ‘Dommie. Dominic.’

  ‘Calls my heart to be his own.’

  Chapter 37

  ometimes the end bursts into the middle, catching us out while we are still in the thick of it. The bookmark halfway through the novel. Bills unpaid, dirty fridge, browsing history not deleted. And all those things we were going to say. I’m sorry. I love you.

  Writers plan, then we must stay close to our characters and follow the line of words to see where it goes. But no matter where the line takes us, the novel will eventually close. There will be a last word, and that will be that. The End.

  But not today. It is not the end for Father Dominic. This makes me happy, because for a moment I genuinely thought he was a goner. The line of words does not go via that route. He did not die at the back of Lindchester Cathedral, after all. No, he merely made a complete tit of himself.

  ’Well, I wouldn’t put it like that,’ said the GP on Monday morning.

  Dominic had not met her before. She was about twelve.

  ‘From what you’ve described, it sounds like SVT,’ she went on. ‘Supraventricular tachycardia.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘So basically, that just means an abnormally fast heart rate? It’s not life-threatening, but it’s pretty scary while it’s happening.’ She was enunciating clearly and giving him the encouraging smile he reserved for old biddies. Sauce!

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Then it sounds as though you had a panic attack on top of it. People often feel as if they’re dying during a panic attack.’ Another biddy-soothing smile.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So I’m going to refer you to a cardiologist for an ECG. They probably won’t find anything, unless you have another episode of SVT while they’re actually doing the ECG. Let’s quickly take your blood pressure, OK?’

  Don’t you mean my BP? Dominic bared his mighty arm.

  ‘Do you smoke? No? Excellent. Weekly alcohol intake?’

  ‘Oh, let’s see.’ What were the current guidelines? And more urgently, what preposterous claim had he made last time? ‘Obviously, it varies.’

  ‘Ballpark?’ She applied the cuff. It was one of those automatic machines.

  ‘Ooh, say, fourteen units? Give or take.’

  The cuff gripped his arm like a policeman apprehending a criminal. Argh, I confess! Then it eased off.

  ‘Hmm.’ She studied the monitor. ‘That’s a bit high. We’ll take it again in a moment. Could you just hop on the scales for me?’

  Of course it’s bloody high! thought Dominic, as he bent to unlace his shoes. I’ve just been lying to you about my alcohol intake.<
br />
  ‘Are you under a lot of stress at the moment?’

  He opened his mouth to deny it. That’s when the tears surged. Mum. Dear old mum. What on earth was he going to do about her?

  As he walked home across Lindford, everything looked so very dear and lovely that it hurt. Michaelmas daisies. Winking knees through busted jeans. Of course – Freshers’ Week. He kept getting a mawkish urge to sing the hymns of childhood. What was that Primary School hymnbook? With Cheerful Voice. Wavy green and blue lines on the cover.

  Fair are the flowers,

  Fairer still the sons of men

  In all the freshness of youth arrayed!

  He battled his way through the leafleteers outside the Fergus Abernathy building. Pizza and paintballing. ‘Yet is their beauty fading and fleeting.’ He wanted to scoop them all up. Come to Father! Take care of yourselves, my darlings. Be kind. Don’t get hurt, don’t waste a single minute of your precious lives.

  He blotted his eyes and walked on. Oh, pull yourself together, Todd. What a dreadful time to be reaching adulthood, though. Austerity and inequality, hatchet job on the welfare state, Brexit fallout, Labour tearing itself to ribbons. And Donald Trump! Lord, were they seriously going to elect him? Dominic pictured that iconic Thatcher and Reagan Gone with the Wind poster. Are we really careering back there again?

  He was approaching the vicarage. Quick, happy face for mother. His father had been carried off by a heart attack when Dominic was nine, and it wouldn’t do to make her fret. Dominic’s own heart was currently behaving itself, but golly heck, that tachycardia scared him! It was as though his old Honda had been fitted with a jet engine.

  He turned into his drive. The first leaves were sidling down from the branches. All this fading and fleeting beauty. ‘My Jesus, thine will never fade.’ Oh, my Jesus. Oh, holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death.

  ‘Honey, I’m ho-ome!’ he called as he opened the door. ‘Nothing to worr—’ Oh my God! ‘Mother, I can smell gas!’ He belted into the kitchen.

  Mrs Todd looked up from her Sudoku. ‘Oh, have I left it on again?’

  Dominic lunged at the hob and turned off the hissing ring, then opened all the windows. ‘You’re a complete liability!’

  ‘Still, not to worry,’ she said. ‘It’s not the kind that poisons you. It just blows you up.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s fine then. Except it blows half the street up, too.’

  ‘Pooh, fusspot. What did the doctor say?’

  He told her. ‘So everything’s fine. Apart from the palaver of getting a twenty-four-hour blood pressure monitor fitted. White coat hypertension, indeed! I’m not scared of you, Dr Missy! You’re younger than my second-best biretta! I didn’t actually say that,’ he added.

  ‘Really? I always say things like that.’

  ‘I know you do, dear.’

  ‘But they aren’t worried about you? Jolly good.’ She picked up her biro and set to work briskly on the grid. He saw her sneakily wipe her eyes. ‘I’m just putting any old number in,’ she explained. ‘I hate Sudokus, but they’re meant to ward off dementia. Did you know you can get human ashes put into fireworks?’

  ‘Honestly, mother. Even after I’m dead you’re determined to blow me up!’

  ‘I was thinking of me. I’d quite like to go out with a whizz-bang.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Dominic. ‘I’m having you made into a nice pair of diamond cufflinks.’

  They fell silent.

  ‘What a funny old life,’ she said at last. ‘Still, I’m glad we’ve got a bit longer.’

  ‘Me too. Sorry I gave you a scare like that.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Come on. Give over, you old trout. Why not move in properly? It’d be a load off my mind.’

  ‘I’ll trout you, sonny Jim.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  Mrs Todd blew her nose. ‘I don’t know. Oh, go on then. Yes.’

  ‘Calloo-callay! O frabjous day!’ Dominic danced a little jig.

  ‘Go on with you, you daft ha’porth. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Mrs Todd was not alone in being glad to have Dominic around a bit longer.

  ‘I so wished you were there, darling,’ said Father Ed. ‘With your Boys’ Brigade CPR training. I thought poor old Dommie was going to die, and all because I was sent to Scouts. Anyway, he’s fine, thank God.’

  ‘So basically, the wee jessie had a panic attack?’ said Neil.

  ‘Hmm.’ Ed stroked his chin. ‘I wonder if there’s a module on “Bedside Manner” in the reader training course?’

  Neil treated him to the wide blue stare. ‘Who said anything about reader training?’

  Ed waited to be asked why the recycling had not been taken out. But instead, Neil began fidgeting with his new Fitbit.

  ‘Och, fine, so you know about that, then. Problem now is, there’s no way himself is going to recommend me,’ he said. ‘Him, Laurie. The rector. Not since I braced him about his wife being an alkie.’

  Ed’s eyes popped. ‘Wow. Um. I didn’t . . . Was that your place to—?’

  ‘Aye, but that’s the thing, big man,’ Neil burst out. ‘It’s nobody’s place. Nobody’s saying anything, and that poor lassie needs help, you know? Oh, I was tactful. I didn’t just wade in. But no. Apparently, we all have to pretend everything’s fine, because God’s healed Julie of her alcohol dependency, praise him. And I haven’t done my five thousand steps today,’ he added. ‘I’ll maybe go for a quick run, clear ma head.’

  ‘That’s a bit worrying about Julie, Neil. You might want to have a chat with Archdeacon Bea,’ said Ed.

  ‘Don’t look at me, pal. I’m not dobbing him in.’

  ‘OK.’ Ed raised his hands. ‘But look, don’t you think it might be time to find another church? I know Josh is desperate for help over in Martonbury. And there’s the street pastors. You might like that.’ Ed stopped. Damn. He was sounding like his mum suggesting good books to take on holiday. ‘Sorry. I’ll butt out. Tell you what, let’s call round on Dom with a bottle of fizz later. Make a fuss of him.’

  ‘Fine, but we’re taking Bolly. I’m not drinking his crappy Prosecco, you hear?’

  It was a nice little gathering, though a leetle more sedate than it might have been, had Dominic’s new colleague Virginia not joined them. Virginia’s licensing as the diocesan officer for social justice (and associate vicar of Lindford parish church) will be this Sunday. She has moved into her new house, rented by the diocese from none other than our lovely friend Ambrose. (He’d been letting it since he’d moved to Vicars’ Court, and was glad not to have student tenants again.) The following Saturday will be the installation of the Rt Revd Matt Tyler as bishop of Barcup, after which we can slump back and fan ourselves with a Book of Common Prayer (or perhaps an iPad with the Daily Prayer app open) and recover.

  *

  Father Dominic’s survival is not our only cause of rejoicing. Up on the Close, the metaphorical bunting is out for little Noah Frederick too. The individual who made an off-colour joke (something about it being a dramatic first encounter for Mr May) got vaporized by a flash from the dean’s eyes.

  ‘Not funny, Gene. Look, we all need to start taking Freddie much more seriously,’ said Marion. ‘I think he responds well to being given responsibility. He’s proving time and again he can be trusted, if we are only prepared to give him a chance.’

  ‘I repent in dust and ashes, deanissima. Though personally, I fear Mr May is on countdown to self-destruct. All this worryingly grown-up behaviour . . . But no matter. More wine?’

  But the dean waved away the vintage Pomerol. There was much on her mind. She had begun sounding out the members of Chapter about the restructure, ahead of the crucial meeting. After that, the game would be afoot. Would folk grasp the bishop’s vision? Or would some need to be eased into early retirement? Oh Lord, was it going to be a bloodbath of employment tribunals and recrimination?

  The Lawsons are prepared to give Freddie a chance. They have as
ked him to be Noah’s godfather. Of course they have! Freddie’s heart just melts with love for that little dude? Does he wanna be godfather? Hell, yeah!

  Except now – as he and Brose walk Cosmo along the riverbank – he’s projecting into a catastrophic future, where he gets back in with the wrong crowd? Then it’s the whole stealing and drugs thang again, which lands him in prison? – I mean, what kind of a godfather is that for a little dude?

  ‘Or alternatively, maybe none of that will happen?’ suggests Ambrose. ‘Maybe you’ll have a brilliant singing career instead, get married to some guy who adores you, and live happily ever after?’

  ‘Whoa. Dude.’ Freddie stops short. Blinks. ‘You’re thinking . . . Did I just hear the M-word there?’

  ‘Freddie, it’s a bit soon to be talking about marriage,’ says Ambrose, all pretend stern. ‘We can’t even agree what breed of dog we want.’

  ‘You brought it up, not me! Ah, man!’ He swats him. ‘I don’t know why I even bother talking to you.’

  They walk on under a horse chestnut tree. Freddie kicks the broken conker cases. Cosmo is going wild for some smell. Then Ambrose bends and unclips the lead.

  ‘Wait up! Is that OK?’ asks Freddie.

  ‘Yep. Chloe’s been training him.’

  They watch Cosmo tear off along the path.

  ‘That dog is mental,’ says Freddie. ‘No way is he coming back, my friend. Nu-uh. Gonna be here for hours.’

  ‘Watch this.’ Ambrose whistles.

  Nothing.

  ‘AHA HA HA! Told you!’

  But then, no way! No fucking way, he’s only coming running? Crashes through the weeds, screeches to a halt, tail wagging. Starts leaping up at Brose?

  ‘Good boy!’ Ambrose gives him something from his pocket. He clips the lead back on.

  ‘Well, whaddya know?’ marvels Freddie.

  Ambrose cuts him a side look. ‘He comes back because he knows he’ll always get a treat from Daddy.’

  ‘That so?’ Freddie rattles his tongue stud round his teeth. ‘Then Daddy needs to keep them treats coming. Is my thought.’

  Stillness. The dog pants. Another conker patters down through the leaves.

  ‘I’m on it, Freddie.’ But like Gene, Ambrose knows the countdown clock is ticking.