Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  Swans glide past. Whoa. Was that thunder there?

  Girls’ choir, ah c’mon, why so whispery? Didn’t we get past that? And now Timothy’s all, We have to rethink their Advent piece? Understandably. If they sing like that in a packed cathedral, nobody’s gonna hear them. But to take the piece off them and score it for the whole choir, isn’t that just gonna piss on the embers? He has to find a way of keeping the flame alive. So they believe the girls’ choir train is still bound for glory?

  There’s Father Wendy and her dog on the opposite bank. Freddie raises a hand. She waves back. Ha, that time he tripped over Pedro? And Wendy was all, I pray for you? Aw, she’s praying now. He can sense her prayer following there, like a dog at his heels. Man, he so wishes he had a dog! Him and Brose? Still can’t agree. That week in the cottage? The best. Only, pff. Gone. Like it happened in a whole other world. The pre-Trump era.

  He reaches the halfway point, over the bridge, and heads home. He sees the cathedral in the distance. Thunder keeps banging away. And here comes the hail – man it stings. Yeesh!

  Suddenly, he wants to cry. Ah, everything’s toxic. Brose has totally closed down, walking round like a zombie, same as he did after Brexit? And Freddie knows he can’t make stuff be less shit for him? Whenever he tries, Brose just offloads on him. What is wrong with you, Freddie? Wake up! Don’t you get how bad this is, the logic of where this ends? It ends with cattle trucks. It ends with people like you and me getting thrown off the top of buildings. Everything’s fucked. We’ve waved off the last possible moment for doing anything about climate change. Goodbye, world.

  There’s only so many times Freddie can lay himself open to this, it hurts so much. He caught a word with Chloe, and she was like, Don’t worry, hang on in there. He’s an introvert, Freddie, you need to give him space to process this on his own.

  Maybe it’s time to try again, though? Maybe drag him to the Odeon tomorrow, see Fantastic Beasts? Except, how shallow is that?

  Mile after mile, with the hail gritty underfoot. Mud. Leaf slime.

  Then weirdly – hope? This keeps happening. Right when there is literally no reason for it, when he’s walking to work or something, suddenly he’s . . . glad? Out of nowhere. Like an old Christmas cactus you’ve given up on, then whoa, there are all these bright pink flowers? How mad is that?

  Hope springs up in impossible places, like buddleia sprouting from sheer walls, from implacable concrete. Becky Rogers is flat-hunting in Lindford. Now and then Martin ventures a suggestion, or an offer of help, and Becky manages not to slap it down. On Saturday, the whole Rogers family will go to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, too, to make up for missing the fireworks. Yay! Can we buy popcorn?

  Once Lydia has thought very seriously about her behaviour, Kay has decided that they will head to the Odeon in Lindford as well. But Lydia needs to realize how much she contributed to Leah’s parents’ distress, by not telling anyone where Leah might be hiding. She should have mentioned the den on the substation roof. Does Lydia understand? Lydia nods and meets her mum’s eye a shade too earnestly.

  Oh God, I’m losing her, thinks Kay. She used to tell me everything. ‘OK. Let’s go then.’

  Helene doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. That Rogers girl is a bad influence.

  I think half my little world is converging on the cinema this Saturday. Ambrose is there, in his new stripy yellow-and-black socks that Freddie promised him way back in the summer. They sit in a double seat and Ambrose cries at the end. If it could only be like that. If we could only obliviate an entire continent, wipe the slate, wave our wands and rebuild our wrecked world.

  Outside the Christmas lights of Lindford swing in the wind. The street pastors walk the gum-spotted streets to seek out the lost, help up the fallen. A vicar takes homemade soup and sandwiches to the homeless people camped in his churchyard, using his mum’s best wedding china.

  Chapter 46

  his train is bound for glory, this train.’

  It is Monday morning. Jane has an earworm. Thanks, Freddie May. That’s the last time you come to Sunday lunch. Her train rattles on. She stares out at Lindfordshire as it whizzes by. Leaves whirl past the window. ‘This train don’t carry no liars, this train.’ Through tunnels, under bridges, it goes; along miles of bracken-edged track, back gardens, dead willow herb.

  ‘Don’t carry nothin’ but the righteous and holy!’

  Well, that’s me stuffed then, she thinks. Unless, of course, the act of boarding is reckoned unto us as righteousness. No ticket required. Anyone can board – so long as they’re prepared to leave everything behind. No luggage on the Glory train. ‘Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it.’ Ha, that would level the playing field between rich and poor. We have to ditch the lot and take a punt on heaven existing. There’s only the conductor’s word for it that this train goes right through, and comes out on the other side. Because only the conductor has gone on ahead of us to that ­undiscover’d country. The one traveller who has returned.

  Honestly, I should be a preacher, thinks Jane. If only I hadn’t jacked in the training, I could be a fecking bishop by now, too. She leans her head back and shuts her eyes. The world of faith is right there, like one of those parallel universes just millimetres from our own, but in a different dimension. She can almost feel it grazing her knuckles. As if she might rub against it with the back of her hand, stealthily, like a stranger’s fur coat in a crowd, or the wing of a huge bird. An angel’s wing. White, like a swan. Cool and supple, unutterably other . . .

  Her head jerks up. She scans round to see if anyone has caught her dozing. They are all deep in their own devices and desires. But we’re not bound for glory, are we? According to her poet friend, Spider, we have sown postmodernism and reaped post-truth. We are bound for hell in a handbasket.

  But Danny is fine. And he’s coming home for Christmas. Jane draws a deep breath. Tears threaten. Dammit. Madwoman crying on train. Matt’s prayer had been answered. Danny is fine. Thank you, God, who I still miss and now and then ache to believe in.

  Across the diocese of Lindchester people get ready. Advent rings come out from vestry cupboards. Here and there, early Christmas trees glimmer in suburban windows, and the Lindford Rotary Club Santa sleigh has already begun ho-ho-hoing its way round the estates. Tsk! Undaunted, the liturgical pedants adopt their unsustainable annual stance of not singing Christmas carols until midnight on Christmas eve. The strains of ‘Wachet auf’ emerge from organ pipes everywhere.

  The girls’ choir files sensibly up to the triforium, to rehearse their own special part from up there (squee!). Gavin, the cathedral deputy verger, scrapes away last year’s wax from the stands. Soon, soon, hundreds upon hundreds of candles. Smell of snuffed wick, hot wax. Oh yeah!

  Mince pies are ordered for the post-Advent carol service bash at the deanery. Gene brings out this year’s collection of plonk for the mulled wine. Supermarket Chateauneuf du Pape, mainly – hostess gifts from guests who don’t know any better, bless their Marks and Sparks cotton socks.

  Archdeacon Bea has been busy making sheep for the Messy Nativity animal trail around the shop windows of Martonbury. While she knits, she prays, calling to mind the clergy and churches under her care. She sometimes visualizes her prayers as birds. White knitted doves that take flight on purly wings and speed off to perch on a spire, or a shoulder, or perhaps on a hospital bedhead, and silently bestow a blessing.

  *

  Perhaps one such prayer roosts in the bedroom of the rector of Risley Hill. Laurie wakes with lurch, as if the Second Coming has happened and he’s been left behind. Poor Laurie comes from a hellfire Nonconformist background, and at 3 a.m. his brain still defaults to damnation.

  Julie snores beside him, on her back, mouth open. He can smell the vodka. Who are we kidding? he thinks. She’s an alcoholic. She has not been healed. She’s a drunk and I’m a sham. He’s all glossy surface, no substance. His ministry began so well! Solid foundations, praising God, enjo
ying favour, the Lord adding daily to their number those who were being saved. But now, ah, for years now, he’s been building with straw. One match, that’s all it would take. He can’t go on like this. Fending off worried church members. Hunting down the bottles, disposing of the empties. Hiding her car keys. Never confronting her.

  In case she confronts him.

  Except she can’t confront him because she doesn’t know. Nobody knows. He deletes his browsing history each time in a panicked sweat of repentance. Sometimes he lasts months. But then he finds a reason. He needs to do some research, yes? To help him understand the struggles that teenage boys and young men face in this digital age. But each time he craves a harder hit. More degrading, more extreme.

  Younger.

  Delete! (Can you ever really delete it, or is it always there, somewhere, each keystroke saved on the hard drive for the police to find?)

  This is not him, even! He has no interest in teenage girls, young teenage girls. He has never once been unfaithful to Julie. Never even touched another woman inappropriately – despite the rumours and false accusations.

  His advent sermon is ready. Judgement is not something to fear, amen? Say to the anxious, be strong, fear not, your God is coming with judgement – yes, but coming with judgement to save you! Our God is a God of gentleness, praise him. Fear not.

  Oh, then why is he so afraid?

  Clear history. The last hour. Today. Today and yesterday. All time. Clear. Clear. For once and for all, please, Lord. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Please.

  *

  I was not expecting to feel sorry for the dodgy vicar of Risley Hill. But then, I didn’t know the whole story. He is not the only one of my characters who is afraid of being found out. Lydia still quakes when she thinks of her guilty secret. Even though she’s almost one hundred and fifty per cent certain it’s OK. Because they’d know by now, if—Surely?

  ‘No, Dora.’

  The dog froze, caught in the very act, fleece throw in mouth.

  Both Kay and Helene laughed.

  ‘Did you ever see such a picture of guilt?’ asked Kay. She rescued the throw, folded it and draped it on a chair back. ‘Whatever’s got into her?’

  ‘Maybe she’s broody?’ said Helene.

  ‘Are you broody, girl?’ Kay bent down and rubbed the dog’s ears. ‘Aw, sorry, Dora-nora. We can’t let you make puppies now. Maybe next year, hmm?’

  Lydia hovered from the doorway. Shitake mushrooms! ACT NORMAL!!! She wandered to the table and scooped up her dinner money. ‘So, off-to-school-now-Mum-bye!’

  Outside on the street, Lydia strolled and whistled casually. She gave a naturalistic wave to Mum, who was watching out of the window. Good thing Lydia was so good at drama, and could pull off super relaxed like this, to avoid arousing suspicion. She got out her phone to text Leah: SHIIIIIIIITTTTTTT!!!!!!! NOOOOOO!!!! Think Dora probs pregnant!!!!!

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Kay. ‘Now what’s she up to?’

  ‘Checked your cocktail ciggies, recently?’ asked Helene. ‘Or have they moved on to the drinks cabinet?’

  ‘Oh God, I hope not.’

  Dora let out a long doggy sigh and slumped in her basket.

  Cold nights. Frost winks on pavements like an infinity of tiny stars, a universe of stars under our feet as we hurry home. If we escape the orange smudge of towns there are stars above us too. Stars of wonder, whole realms of glory. Sleepers, awake! It will come upon a midnight clear. There will be angels bending near the earth. But once again, man at war with man will not hear the love song that they bring.

  Miss Blatherwick is getting ready. Since that episode of nodding off in the chapel of St Michael, she has been brisk with herself. Shilly-shallying is selfish. Her friends are worried for her. (Dear Freddie! Offering to drive her to the doctor, fretting over her.) And who knows, this too may turn out to be nothing serious.

  Her copy of Adam Bede waits on the coffee table, with the bookmark still only halfway through. It is not Miss Blatherwick’s custom to abandon books. Perhaps it had become too associated with waiting rooms and tests, and whatnot, and hence one’s reluctance? She picks it up and puts it in her handbag and sets off for the GP’s, and then to her solicitor’s. I would like to finish it, she thinks.

  ‘You’re planning on asking him?’ Iona rolls her eyes. ‘You’re mad, Timothy. Just tell him on the night, like last time.’

  ‘That was a one-off,’ says the director of music. ‘It’s not fair to spring it on him. He needs time to prepare.’

  ‘Prepare? It’s Messiah, for God’s sake. Bet you he’s got every single note filed away in his freaky memory. He could probably sing the timpani part. Or burp it. Did you know he’s been teaching the girls to burp? Nice.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m asking him,’ says Timothy. ‘Giles agrees.’

  ‘Good. Excellent plan. Give him maximum scope for self-sabotage.’ Iona stomps off to the organ loft to practise.

  ‘Well, I trust him not to do that,’ Timothy calls after her.

  The door slams.

  His entire whole life Freddie has known he can’t be trusted. Fucking stuff-up was inevitable. In fact, it actually made sense to proactively fuck stuff up, just to get it out of the way? But recently he’s been all, Whoa, whoa, whoa. Can we get a reality check here? This is a thought, not a fucking law of nature. It’s not gravity. It’s not every-action-has-an-equal-and-opposite-reaction. I mean, who says I can’t be trusted?

  Yeah, yeah.

  My dad.

  Gah, does it have to come back to his dad? Like he’s endlessly rehearsing this same textbook gay cliché? (The list of father figures who have betrayed your trust.) No denying he’s trapped in his own counter-suggestibility, though, his Pavlovian ‘fuck you, Dad’ reflex. Problem is, what happens when what his dad wants, is actually what Freddie wants – only he can’t admit it, coz no way is he giving his dad that satisfaction?

  Like, Dad ‘approves of Ambrose’. Finally, you’re in a ‘stable relationship’, son!

  Except, is it stable, though? Ah, maybe he’s catastrophizing again? But Brose is still really down, and Freddie’s starting to freak out that maybe it’s not just the whole Trumpocalypse State of the World thang, it’s actually Brose getting cold feet? Coz that week in Somerset, they were just begi-i-inning to float the moving-in-together idea? But now, nu-uh. Silence. And whenever he wants to raise it, he kind of can’t, coz it sounds all self-obsessed and needy?

  Oh God – what if it’s over?

  Gah, stop that. No time for it right now. Gotta rehearse the girls for Sunday. Will it work, his idea? It’s a bit left field. Ah, let that be all right. Please.

  Advent arrives. Fidel Castro dies. We should be thinking about this. Pondering the Bay of Pigs, having a reaction. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. There’s no slack. Everything is speeding up. Has it always been like this – history, one damn thing after another – and we never noticed? Didn’t we once spend hours over the Sunday papers? Not just snatch news scraps on the hoof, always intending to digest it later?

  What if it’s over – the life we love, the world we know?

  Get thee up onto a high mountain, bringer of good tidings. If ever we needed good news, we need it now. Be not afraid.

  *

  The girls wait high up in the triforium. Their candles flicker in the dark, lighting their faces. The cathedral is packed. In the nave below the choir sings: ‘This train is bound for glory.’ ‘People get ready.’ The girls watch Freddie for the signal. The song trails off down below, a final whistle.

  Then Freddie sings. His voice rings out like the archangel’s:

  ‘“The trumpet sounds within my soul . . .”’

  And the girls reply:

  ‘“I ain’t got long to stay here.”’

  DECEMBER

  Chapter 47

  ecember. Here and there light shines in the windows of early risers. The dean makes her first cup of coffee. No matter how early Marion gets up to pray, when she looks
across the Close, there is already a light on in the bishop’s study.

  Yes, the bishop is at prayer. Or rather, he is gathering his thoughts, calming his soul, in preparation. He can see the cathedral Christmas tree standing shadowy in the faint glow of the Narnian streetlamps. Logs from last year’s tree are stacked and waiting beside the drawing-room fireplace. Hand-chopped by the lovely Freddie May. A year ago, Freddie could barely bring himself to talk to us, bless him. Sonya was praying fervently for a melting of heart. Well, they are further on now. It’s been several months since the last diatribe.

  The bishop winces. He can only hope and pray his predecessor’s letter to the House of Bishops doesn’t get leaked. Steve has the utmost respect for Paul Henderson – and indeed, for anyone who finds themselves same-sex attracted, yet at huge personal cost, chooses not to act upon it. But he rather questions the wisdom of Paul’s intervention in the debate.

  He smiles. Well, there’s one from the depths of chorister memory. A thousand Christmas lights. Yes, let this dark earth be bright once again.

  Yes, Christmas in the dorm. The wild excitement. Who’d get picked for ‘Once in royal’? Sugar mice. Look and Learn annual. View-master!

  So tempting to believe that was a lost age of innocence and simplicity. To edit out the chilblains, the Cold War, the systemic sexism and casual racism. Tempting, too, to think of 2016 as an unprecedented disaster; while for huge swathes of the world – and of his diocese – this year seems to herald a bright new dawn, not the end of the world. Listen, listen to this voice – this is Steve’s plea. Listen to the poor, the marginalized, the frightened, the patriotic. The Other. These people aren’t all racist bigots. He tries to believe this.

  Ah, how fractured everything is. Why is it so impossible to entertain the other view? It’s not the duck/rabbit picture, where you can see it both ways. No, it’s more like the dress that went viral. He remembers his frank disbelief when Sonya maintained it was blue and black. No matter how hard he tried – squinting, holding it at arm’s length – it refused to be anything but white and gold.