Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  OCTOBER

  Chapter 38

  eptember dawdles to a golden end. How mellow it all is. In the parks of Lindfordshire (though no longer on the palace roof) we still catch whiffs of that elusive pungent shrub the bishop’s wife has never quite identified. But the summer holidays have been packed away now. Ah well.

  Michaelmastide! What if, right there, palm against our palm as we lean on a window, there were angels looking in? Would they sense our yearning? Our whispered Let it be all right. Would they pity us, trapped here, still not knowing how the story ends?

  In Lindchester Cathedral, the chapel of St Michael is crammed with angels. There are Burne-Jones musicians, pale hands on harp and hautboy. There’s that macho bronze Michael, for those who prefer their angels ripped and looking as though they can kick satanic butt. The flower guild have placed a brass vase of Michaelmas daisies at his feet. High above in the gloom hang cobwebby standards from battles of long ago. Ghost flags of ghostly battalions. The sunbeams pass through them.

  An angel of another stamp sits quietly. A guardian angel, I think we must call her. It is Miss Blatherwick.

  Lights flicker on the pricket stand. Above, hangs a new acquisition, a painting of Michael standing not on Satan, but on a human body. His left hand grips what looks like a bloody newborn. The interpretation (for which we may thank the canon chancellor) refers us to the tradition in which Michael conveys the souls of the dead to judgement. ‘The body represents a human being at the time of death. The “baby” represents the soul of the deceased. Artist: M. Johns, 2015. (Egg tempura, gold and silver leaf on wood.)’

  Miss Blatherwick is not sure she cares for this gory modern icon. One prefers to picture the hour of death as a peaceful slipping from one room to the next. One rather hopes not to be clenched in a giant fist and delivered up to judgement, like a joint of meat deposited on the butcher’s scales. But perhaps this is simply to speak from a position of luxury. In poverty, or battle zones – in Aleppo (Lord have mercy!) – could any poor soul expect to depart in peace? In fact, who can say with confidence how the end will feel, even if one is fortunate enough to ‘cease upon the midnight with no pain’; wafted to heaven on a Finzi Amen, as it were?

  Would one not still be afraid?

  Miss Blatherwick gets up from her seat, winces and then crosses to light a candle. She murmurs a prayer for her dear Freddie. (Let him not give way to his fears and spoil everything!) She remembers all those for whom this day will be their last. She prays for those being bombed in Syria. For those (scandalously!) starving in modern Britain. For the Labour Party, who must now put aside division, and all pull together. For the Church. For America. And for all sorts and conditions of men.

  Let it be all right.

  Let it be all right.

  She sets off for home, to see if she can manage some porridge now. My word, what a picky eater she is becoming. She has no patience with herself.

  Dean Marion, too, has said prayers for the Labour Party. Let us knuckle down, stop fighting, and become an effective opposition. Oh, please let Labour not become The Unelectable leading The Irreconcilable Tribes into the political wilderness for forty years (thanks, Gene). She prays for Chapter as well. For unity. They meet next week to discuss the proposed restructure. She fears they may lose a lay member over this.

  *

  Our good friend Father Wendy also shoots up a quick prayer for Labour. Then she dons her Marigolds and sets to work on the house in Sunningdale Drive.

  Madge is here, too, polishing the inside of the French windows with old newspaper and vinegar. I don’t believe anyone has ever done that, in all the time that Becky has lived here with her girls. The plan (knitted up by Archdeacon Bea) is that Becky will come back next week to meet with Martin, and discuss The Way Forward. They all agree it will be much nicer for Becky to come home to a clean, tidy house, ready for a fresh start.

  Wendy sets about the fridge, throwing out the liquefied salad (oh, yuck!) and cleaning vegetable slime from the drawer.

  ‘Know what I honestly think?’ says Madge. She is kneeling on the worktop, shining up the back windows now. Her reflection hovers angelically on the other side, above the patio. ‘I think the girls are better off with their dad in Lindford.’

  ‘Oh, but they’ll want their mum.’

  ‘Leah seems settled. I for one wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.’

  Ah. They both know what an unsettled Leah looks like. ‘What about Jess? Is it fair to unsettle her? She still has two more years at Cardingforth Primary,’ Wendy points out.

  ‘Maybe she can live with Mum, and Leah with Dad?’ Madge starts humming. It’s a song she’s learnt from Jess, who never stops singing and chattering on those drives home from school. A Maori lovesong. That Freddie May (is it bad that Madge still laughs whenever she thinks of his rude mural in the curate’s bedroom?) had been in and led a singing session, apparently. Now half the school wants to be a chorister.

  ‘They should think about getting her into the cathedral girls’ choir,’ she says, pursuing her line of thought out loud. ‘She sings like a little angel.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Wendy laughs. ‘That won’t go down well with Leah! Becky told me she set her heart on it. But she’s like me, poor thing. Tone deaf.’

  ‘Huh. We all tiptoe round that girl. It’s all right for her: she’s bright. Oof!’ Madge clambers down from the worktop. ‘With the best will in the world, Jess won’t be passing her eleven-plus. She’ll end up at Cardingforth Comp.’

  ‘All mine went to the local comp,’ says Wendy. ‘I’m not a big fan of grammar schools.’

  ‘Nor me, to be honest,’ says Madge. ‘I failed my eleven-plus. Still feel like a thicko sometimes.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s what it did to people. I passed, actually,’ admits Wendy. ‘But my best friend Linda failed. I can still picture us, that September. We stood at different bus stops on opposite sides of the road, pretending we couldn’t see each other. We never really spoke again.’

  They look at one another, in their Marigolds. And they laugh.

  ‘What price your fancy education now, posh girl?’ asks Madge.

  We have eavesdropped to some purpose. Leah is settled. She really is. Martin gets texts at home time: Going to Lyds. His father’s heart rejoices that his lovely difficult girl has found a friend at last, in the daughter of the new archdeacon of Lindford. The two of them take Kay’s dog for a walk round the arboretum, and gather conkers.

  I should probably mention that Kay sometimes gets a text at exactly the same moment: Going to Leahs. In fairness, they eventually go where they claim they have been. It is considerate of them to spare their parents the worry in the interim.

  And Freddie May has been given a Choral Outreach role. Goodness!

  The director of music was hugely impressed back in July, when Freddie stepped up at no notice and wove musical magic at the Primary Schools Leavers’ Service in the cathedral. It was clear Mr May had been hiding his teaching charisma under a bushel, and could communicate in coherent sentences when he chose. They had been under-utilizing his talents. Timothy has set about rectifying that.

  Needless to say, Mrs Precentor does not approve. But Mrs Precentor has no official role in the governance of the music department. All she can do is rant at the precentor in private. And rant she does: Um Gottes Willen! Timothy is rewarding bad behaviour! Freddie is still skiving off rehearsals and being a dick about Haydn’s Creation! Oh, poor Princess Frederica can’t bear to sing with the Community Choir, because Roger’s sharp and hurts his precious ears! Fine, let Timothy go ahead and make him a choral animateur – it will end in tears.

  The dean, however, looks kindly on the director of music’s decision. As we know, she believes that Freddie can be trusted. I wish I could say that Freddie believes it. And that Miss Blatherwick’s prayer will be answered. And that it won’t end in tears.

  ‘They only blooming nicked my cocktail ciggies!’ says Kay to Helene. ‘Little monkeys! They smoked them
up a tree and made themselves puke. Karate girl swore her to secrecy, but Lyds always tells me everything.’

  ‘Karate girl!’ Helene folds her arms. ‘That kid is a minx and a little fibber.’

  ‘Should I tell her dad? Bugger, this is a bit awkward. He’s technically on my patch, isn’t he?’

  ‘But you’re not his line manager,’ Helene replies. ‘That’s Geoff Morley at St James’s.’

  ‘Wow. You’re scary. I don’t know how you remember all that.’

  ‘It’s my job to remember.’

  ‘But should I bring it up with Martin, though?’

  Helene shrugs. ‘Up to you.’

  ‘Well. Anyway, they probably won’t do it again if it made them sick.’

  Hmm, thinks Helene. If that’s all they do, we’ll have got off lightly.

  October dawns. Today is Matt’s installation, at last.

  It is raining. This is a bummer, as Jane has decided to wear her black velvet opera coat, which has not had an outing since her wedding day. She teams it with a 1940s-style wide-legged black jumpsuit, her silver-and-sea-glass choker, and her trademark sardonic expression.

  She sits at the front next to Matt’s dad again, who calls her Jen. The cathedral is full. The front five rows are reserved for family and friends. Good God! It must be like drowning. Everyone Matt has ever known will pass before his eyes as he ponces down the aisle. Jane turns and scans the throng. There are his sisters and his cousins and his aunts – the whole cathedral shebang always reminds her of Gilbert and Sullivan. Former parishioners from all over. She clocks a line of hardened middle-aged reprobates who can only possibly be coppers. A lanky ginger one winks. She quells him with her Grande Dame eyebrow raise, and turns back to face the front.

  Damn. This is why the sardonic expression must be deployed: Jane cannot let herself ponder why she is alone today. Where is the Rossiter tribe? Where is Danny? Heck, where are her friends? She should have invited Spider. Dommie is robed up and in the procession (with his smelling salts and brown paper bag, she devoutly trusts). Her surrogate son is on choir duty. She is sitting next to a kindly old boy who can’t even get her name right.

  But she is not letting herself think of that. Today is not about Jane Rossiter. It is about her big bald bloke, who she loves more than— Dammit! Sardonic expression!

  Once again, Lindchester Cathedral was full of our friends. It went off rather well, with all the bells, whistles, trumpet stops, crooks, mitres, words of welcome from ecumenical partners, handshakes from the chain gang, bunfight afterwards – everything, in short, that such an occasion requires.

  We were not obliged to sing Slane in 4/4 (Deo gratias). There was no worship band (shudder), and the lay clerks sang the Modern Version (sneer) of ‘The Lord’s my shepherd’ with reasonable grace. I will just dob in the precentor, by telling you he illegally emended ­ that line in the hymn ‘In Christ alone’.

  So we now have a properly installed bishop of Barcup. He will be referred to as ‘the bishop of Barcup’ until such time as his new sobriquet is ratified.

  Before we take our leave, let us hover tenderly above the throng. See how these Anglicans love one another. They greet one another with a holy kiss, gossip, mingle, reminisce and try to eat chicken satay from sharp sticks without stabbing their uvula. A select group will head out to Matt and Jane’s house afterwards to party properly.

  Two eleven-year-old girls slip away from adult supervision and meet behind a pillar.

  ‘So did you tell her?’ mutters one.

  ‘Yeah. Don’t be mad. Sorry.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Served us right we puked.’

  ‘But did you tell her about—?’

  ‘God, no!’

  Their eyes dart left and right. Nobody’s heard them. Nobody need ever know.

  ‘Good. See you at school then,’ says Leah.

  Chapter 39

  here is a real nip in the air now. October! Where has the year gone? And golly, what a year!

  Sonya-Sonya is plumping cushions in the palace ready for the (expanded) Senior Staff meeting. Three archdeacons and the new bishop of Barcup for the first time, although it’s just Matt, of course.

  She nips back to the kitchen and arranges some chocolate oatcakes on a plate. (Bea and Matt will get the giggles later, as they watch their colleagues’ first encounter with Sonya’s amalgam-trashing signature recipe.)

  The bishop leans against the Aga with his coffee.

  ‘We never guessed back in January what lay in store, did we?’ says Sonya.

  ‘Right then!’ He drains his mug, mind on the agenda. They are having one of those companionable marital conversations, chuntering along on parallel lines without ever intersecting.

  ‘Little did we know what a huge watershed the EU referendum would be!’

  ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends!’

  ‘—friends. Have fun.’

  ‘You too.’

  What Steve doesn’t realize, and will probably never know, is that whenever Sonya hears the word ‘watershed’ she half-pictures a stone shack with a slate roof on the side of a mountain. In Wales, perhaps. Bike shed, coal shed, watershed. She has never stopped to ask herself what goes on inside. Pumping of some kind? But she knows how to use the word correctly, so I think she will get to the end of her life with that building still intact, rain dripping from its eaves and sheep wandering by among the gorse.

  Oh Lord! Everything’s changing. Lindford vicarage is in chaos. A bunch of cowboys employed by the diocese are here to install a downstairs bathroom. Dominic’s dining room will become his mother’s bedroom. Who needs a dining room? He always entertains in the kitchen. The kitchen is the beating heart of a house, after all. A whole raft of decisions now looms about Mother’s bungalow and effects. But there’s no rush. Calm, calm.

  Next week he’s having his ECG, and getting that wretched twenty-four-hour blood pressure monitor fitted. Why on earth is he dreading it? Because he feels guilty, that’s why. As though his poor health is his own fault, and the tests are going to lay bare the weak foolish workings of his heart for the whole world to see. Still, on the plus side, some things are changing for the good. He has a colleague to share the load now. The bane of his life – rotas – are no longer his concern. Virginia has revealed herself as Queen of Spreadsheets. Goody-good.

  St Francis Day is upon us, when vicars everywhere consider holding a pet service. It will be like God’s holy mountain! Ferrets will lie down with rabbits, Jack Russells with rats. What could possibly go wrong?

  Talking of animals, Cosmo is in disgrace. Or, put more properly, Chloe is in disgrace for not controlling her rapey dog. It turns out that the promise of treats is sufficient to override every temptation, apart from the scent of a lady dog in heat.

  ‘He’s not rapey. He’s a dog,’ said Ambrose. It was Wednesday evening. ‘He’s a good dog. Aren’t you, buddy? Yeah. Good boy.’

  Cosmo sat up at this. Good boy? Good boy? Treat?

  ‘I know, but I was mortified!’ lamented Chloe. ‘Just when I’d trained him to come back!’

  ‘Look, the other owner has to take some responsibility, too, no? Was she off the lead?’

  ‘She was actually tied to a fence.’

  ‘What, and they’d just left her?’

  ‘It was two girls, playing. They were up a tree. I gave them my card and told them to get their parents to ring me. But I haven’t heard back.’

  Ambrose shrugged. ‘Then maybe everything’s fine?’

  ‘Fingers crossed. Probably he’s still too young to make puppies. Oh God!’ Chloe laughed. ‘It went on FOR EVER! I kept trying to make polite conversation. So, how’s school? – la la la, this isn’t at all awkward – do you girls have any hobbies? Then one of them was promptly sick in a bush. I know! Maybe she was grossed out.’

  ‘By animals being animals? Oh, c’mon.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. We didn’t all grow up on a farm, tractor boy.’ She gathered he
r papers. ‘So, that’s the update. If some irate dog-owner handbags you, that’s probably what it’s all about. Thanks for walking him, Brose. Is Freddie—’

  ‘He’s busy.’

  Chloe hesitated. ‘OK. Byesy-bye.’ She headed out to her street pastors’ meeting, where they were training up some newbies. Damn. That Freddie May. Don’t let Brose get hurt. Please.

  So that is Leah and Lydia’s dark secret. They had been strictly warned to keep Dora (the Explorer) away from other dogs. They had failed in their duty of care by climbing a tree to smoke the archdeacon’s cocktail ciggies.

  Still, they got away with it. Nobody need ever know!

  Oh, the changes and chances of this fleeting world. Chapter has given a green light to the restructure. It is ever our high principle not to linger in boardrooms, dear reader. Be thankful. I have spared you much tediousness. You may protest that I have also barred you from many an interesting committee meeting. But if you are the sort of person who finds committee meetings interesting, I dare say you are a deanery synod rep or something, and get quite enough fun already. Chapter’s approval was never really in any doubt. Deans do not proceed with this kind of thing unless they are pretty sure they won’t be hung out to dry. But – as Marion feared – there has been a resignation.

  Gene rose to the occasion with a bottle of Taittinger Comtes de Champagne 2005, not because they were celebrating (they were not), but in accordance with his motto that there is no situation in life that cannot be improved by a bottle of champagne.

  Marion barely had the heart for it. The resignation was not a grand storming out. That might have been easier to endure. No, they were losing a real saint, a former university VC who had served on Chapter faithfully for fifteen years, but who felt out of step in the current climate. He sensed it was time to stand aside to make room for new blood. He hoped Marion wouldn’t interpret his retirement as a criticism of her leadership. He continued to have every faith in her.