Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)
Page 31
He tries to focus: Advent. ‘Light and life to all he brings, Risen with healing in his wings.’ Even so, come Lord Jesus! Except: ‘Woe unto you that desire the day of the Lord! The day of the Lord is darkness, and not light.’ So, which is it – light, or darkness? Both strands run through the Gospel. That urgent either/or – sheep/goat, wheat/chaff, wise/foolish, in/out. Yet at the same time, there’s the unceasing all-embracing compassion of our God, who wills not the death of a sinner.
Steve finishes his coffee. Come on, gather those rambling thoughts, Pennington. The day is at hand.
There is another bishop praying in the diocese of Lindchester this Monday morning. Unlike Steve, the bishop of Barcup is a firm believer in keeping the old powder dry as a back-up to trusting God. Matt is not inclined simply to hope the former bishop of Lindchester’s letter goes away. Nope, they need to get the diocesan comms officer on board ASAP. Probably good to catch a quiet word with young tartypants at some stage, so he’s not blindsided if the thing goes tits-up. Which it easily could. There’s at least one journo out there with a serious axe to grind.
Matt rubs his head and face. Great. As they haven’t got enough crapola hitting the fan, with the restructure fun and games kicking off. Local press have got hold of it now. Duncan, the finance officer, has made the connection between the HR officer and the archdeacon of Lindford and is crying foul. Obviously, Matt’s confident Helene kept the processes squeaky clean – transparency, avoiding conflict of interest, Kay stepping out of various meetings – but things look set to get pretty personal if it comes to a tribunal.
No offence, 2016, but Matt will be glad to see the back of you. Just to round it off, he’s in the domestic doghouse. Today is their second wedding anniversary. Janey got him a swanky Egyptian cotton dressing gown, but he forgot. Head-desk. Schoolboy error. It turns out, cotton buds from the bathroom do not make an acceptable second anniversary present, even if they’ve been gift-wrapped. Funny that. Diary’s chocka, so he can’t even scramble a posh restaurant booking, then pretend he had a surprise lined up all along. Still, Janey’s granted him a one week ‘exceptional factors’ extension. (The exceptional factor being ‘you’re a dickhead, Tyler’.)
The sun comes up over a white landscape. Earth stands hard as iron. Roofs and railings have grown a white pelt overnight. High above and silent, vapour trails are darts of light in the blue. All Lindfordshire is silver-white in the low sunshine – white twigs, white plumes on dead buddleia, and splashes of gold where sunshine glows through the remaining oak leaves. Light-gilt sheep graze in the frost. A turbine turns, turns. Pigeons sit hunched on branches and youngsters pull up their fur-trimmed coat hoods.
Neil, on the fast train to London, wonders if the time has come to stop dividing his life in half. Should he sell the agency, set up something new nearer to home? Aye, this is home now, out here in the boonies with Ed. Two years today they’ve been civil partnered, can you credit it? And maybe next year, General Synod willing, they can finally get married. Not holding his breath there, mind you. He stares as Lindfordshire whizzes by. Light races along the rails and the rain-filled tractor ruts. Well? I’m open to suggestions, pal. What do you want me to do?
Jane stamps her feet on Martonbury station platform. Her breath smokes. She grins. Cotton buds! Dickhead.
*
Freddie jogs down the hill towards Vespas. His heart is singing and he’s almost, almost airborne? Seriously, another second and his feet are gonna literally leave the ground? Does he fancy soloing in Messiah? HELL YEAH! Headlining with Andy, ha ha ha, bring it! Man, must be some jinx on tenors lined up to sing in Lindchester, though. First James Lovatt, next wossname. Vocal cord nodules? Eesh. So yeah, now it’s Freddie? Probs better watch out he doesn’t fall under a bus, yeah? Giles and Timothy, they must really trust him? Awesome.
‘Comfort, comfort ye my people . . .’
Plus the little dude’s christening a week on Sunday? Aw.
And Brose. Freddie laughs. All ri-i-ight.
Yes, all is well again between Freddie and Ambrose. It came to Freddie last week that he was forever waiting for Ambrose to act the grown-up? Sort stuff out, you know? What if, maybe, it was down to Freddie? So, long story short, he Whatsapped him.
FREDDIE
Babe, what’s a man gotta do to get some croquembouche round here??????
AMBROSE
Where’s my owl?
FREDDIE
???
AMBROSE
You promised me an owl. No owl, no croquembouche.
FREDDIE
LOL Wait . . . I’m on it. (Pause.)
FREDDIE
There you go.
AMBROSE
Um. Pretty sure that’s not an owl . . .
FREDDIE
No?
AMBROSE
Maybe bring it round and let me check it over?
FREDDIE
LMAO. On my way . . .
I believe now would be a good moment for me to delve in my narrative toolkit and select the strategy of ellipsis. I do this to spare your blushes – or else to allow you time to bring your own feverish imagination to bear. That is entirely a matter for you.
Afterwards.
‘Dude, so are we . . . OK?’
‘Hope so. Sorry I’ve been such lousy company, Freddie.’
‘Yeah, look, listen, uh, there’s not . . . something else going on?’
Silence. Ambrose closed his eyes.
‘Shit!’ Freddie’s heart thundered. ‘I’m dumped?’
‘What?’ His eyes popped wide open again. ‘No. No! Why would you think that?’ He grabbed a pillow and hit him.
‘Gah, dude, I don’t know?’ Freddie fended him off. ‘Only c’mon, when you go all silent on me, I’m like— Hey! Are you crying? Aw, babe.’
‘I’m fine. Sorry. Give me a moment?’
‘Sure.’ Outside the clock chimed, and tiny, like it was a long way off, a robin singing outside the window?
‘OK. It’s just, Freddie, you have to understand, right now it feels like you’re the only good thing that’s happened in this whole nightmare year?’ He wiped his eyes. ‘But look, I’ve got a confession. Ah, I should’ve told you this ages ago.’
‘Shit! You’re married!’
‘What? No! What is wrong with you?’
‘Sorry!’ Freddie wrapped his arms round his head. ‘Stop that!’
‘Then stop second-guessing me!’
‘Yeah? Then just tell me what it is already!’
Turned out to be his dad? Trying to co-opt Ambrose, get him on board with his schemes for Freddie’s future? Brose was all, I should’ve told him no right at the start. (Ha, like that would’ve made a difference!) But it was the funeral, Ambrose didn’t like to sound rude, wanted to make a good impression. And then little by little – with everything sounding so reasonable at every stage – he found himself being drawn in deeper.
Yeah, sounded about right. Vintage dad. Freddie was all, Hey, don’t beat yourself up, babe. Once he starts, you have to be fucking Houdini to escape.
So basically, now Freddie was ‘finally showing signs of settling down’, if Ambrose was happy to ‘act as his financial advisor’, Freddie’s dad was now prepared to advance Freddie the same amount his stepbrothers and sisters all inherited from their grandfather. It would be simpler all round if Ambrose just allowed Freddie believe Granddad had changed his mind about his will . . .
Wow. Nice, Dad. Course, Freddie sent him a text telling him to back the fuck off. 1. Please do NOT discuss me with my boyfriend behind my back. Not OK. 2. I am not expecting any money from Gramps. 3. I do not need or want any money from you tnx. End of.
Yeah, right. When was it ever the end of anything with Dad? He’d find another way.
All set for Christmas? we ask one another. Secret Santas that nobody really wants are organized in offices. Advent rings go up on doors, cards drop on mats. (Daring thought – has the time come for not sending any?) Queues lengthen in the Post Office
as the threat of a strike looms.
In Lindford, a woman gets the keys to her new flat. She lets herself in and stands in the bare sitting room, and imagines Christmas differently this year.
Elsewhere, a woman phones her GP. The receptionist asks: ‘Is it an emergency?’ And because she doesn’t like to make a fuss, she says’, ‘Not really’. She is given an appointment for next week.
Elsewhere again, a woman weaves as she drives along the country road to Risley Hill. Ah, there it is. She knew it would come in the end. The blue light flashing in her rear-view mirror. She pulls over, switches the engine off and closes her eyes. Waits for the knock on the window.
At the same moment, a nine-year-old is writing her letter to Santa. What Leah and me would really really like is a puppy! She draws a puppy and sprinkles glitter. Glitter puppy! Yay!
Talking of puppies, Chloe rings her cousin Ambrose to wail.
‘Oh God! Remember that dog Cosmo raped? Well, I ran into her owner in the arboretum. Argh! It’s only the new archdeacon! Kay? I was mortified! Apparently, those little monkeys never breathed a word! But I gave them my card, I said. Didn’t they tell you? Kay did not know a thing about it! Ha ha ha! Oh, I shouldn’t laugh, but how could she not have spotted her dog’s expecting any day now? I mean, it’s obvious! Oh, I feel terrible! Should I offer to take one of the puppies?’
Silence.
‘Well, say something, useless!’ urges Chloe. ‘Is it my responsibility to help? Should I offer cash, maybe?’
‘Don’t ask me. You’re the lawyer.’
‘Oh, thanks!’
‘What breed of dog?’
‘What difference does that make?’ cries Chloe. ‘Golden retriever.’
‘No! You’re kidding me!’ Ambrose laughs. ‘Golden labradoodle puppies?’
‘Yes, I guess. If that’s what they’re called.’
He laughs again. ‘Well, that’s Christmas sorted. Put me down for one.’
Chapter 48
ow to help your dog whelp (with pictures). Kay and Helene did some panicked research. The average number of pups in a litter is approximately eight. Eight! But litters can vary from four, with fifteen being the largest known! FIFTEEN! Help!
I’m afraid Kay was very disappointed with Lydia when the truth came out. Irresponsibly leaving poor Dora unattended like that! Lydia (defenceless against maternal disappointment) tearfully deflected the lion’s share of the blame onto Leah, whereupon Kay got on the phone to Martin to complain.
It was greatly to Martin’s credit that he took it on the chin. He did not remark that if this was the worst her precious daughter got up to, then frankly, Kay should count her blessings. Nor did he retaliate by reminding her that Lydia knew all about Leah’s hiding place on top of the electrical substation, the night Leah went missing.
His mildness was rewarded. A couple of hours later Kay rang again to apologize. Martin, being English, apologized straight back, and offered to bring round the box from Becky’s new washing machine (he had also done some internet research), if that would be helpful?
‘Yes! That’s so kind!’ said Kay. ‘Oh help, the timing’s a nightmare! You don’t want a puppy, do you?’
‘Er, not really – but I’ll ask around, if you like.’
*
It came upon the midnight clear, in a large cardboard box in the corner of the dining room, when the human fuss had died down and the house was quiet. Light from a table lamp shone golden on Dora’s nest. Yes, it was time.
Upstairs, the humans slept through it all.
Helene was first down the next morning. She heard the squeaks as she headed to the kitchen. She hesitated. It seemed unfair – she wasn’t really a dog person. Call Kay and Lydia to share the moment? No. Better to check it out first.
Dora lay sleeping. Beside her, one, two, three, four, five puppies. All alive and well. Good. OK. Five was manageable. Helene gave herself permission to breathe. Bedding needed changing, but no dead pups to deal with before Lydia got up.
Helene stood a moment watching. They were lined up like sausages, blind as moles, feeding away. Toffee coloured. Big heads, little baldy pink ears. They looked half-finished. Dora opened a sleepy eye.
‘Well, many congratulations, Dora. That’s a considerable achievement.’ Good grief! She sounded like she was about to announce a performance-related pay increment.
Dora wagged her tail once in acknowledgement.
What do you know? I’m welling up, thought Helene. She squatted down and stroked the dog’s head. Well done.
‘Aren’t they just ridonkulously CUTE?’ whispered Lydia in registration.
‘Yeah, yeah, they’re cute.’ Miss Dutton kept glancing their way. But Lydia was totally obliviated, as per usual. ‘Shh.’
‘So we tied different coloured ribbons round their necks? And I’ve given them all names? That’s Toffee, and Butterscotch – he’s secretly my favourite? Taffy, Caramel, and I was going to call this one Fudge? Only Mum’s like, that sounds like the F-word? So we went with Honeycomb—’
‘Lydia Redfern! Is that a phone?’
See? Told you, thought Leah.
‘Sorry, Miss Dutton, only I was just showing Leah something super-exciting?’
‘Well, if it’s super-exciting, perhaps you’d like to share it with the whole class?’
‘Cool!’ Lydia leapt up. ‘So my dog’s had puppies?’
Leah yanked on her blazer. God, she could be dumb sometimes.
But Miss Dutton only went, ‘OOH! Let’s see!’
Then everyone had to look, and the entire whole class went, aw, puppies! I so want one? Even Miss Dutton was totally under the Puppyarmus jinx – she had a pug. And all she did was tell Lydia to put her phone away in class in future.
‘I don’t get why you’re not excited,’ whispered Lydia. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Course I’m excited. I’m just not a publicly demonstrative person.’
But secretly she thought the puppies looked kind of icky, a bit like foetuses still? Plus she kept thinking of The Very Disappointing Incident, and how she and Lydia googled it when they got back to Lydia’s. They were all NOOOO! It swells up and they get locked together? Gross!
That was just dogs, obviously. You’d have to be pretty babyish to think that happened with humans, wouldn’t you, ha ha! Leah nearly mentioned that to Lydia at the time, only then she didn’t.
There you are, reader. I bring you puppies, like the Balm of Gilead, to heal the sin-sick soul. All manner of thing shall be well. We will now wave off the excited girls of QM and take wing to a different part of Lindford.
It is a while since we paid a visit to Poundstretcher University. Look at that. Dr Jane Rossiter has a bunch of red roses in a beer glass on her office desk. If you peer closely you will spot that it is actually a dozen red cotton handkerchiefs cunningly fashioned into long-stemmed roses.
Matt had produced them with a flourish at breakfast.
‘You can never have too many hankies, Jane.’
‘Actually, you can,’ said Jane. ‘Just to head off another flamboyant romantic gesture, a thousand hankies would be way too many.’
‘Duly noted. Um, are you still pissed at me, by any chance?’
‘No, and I wasn’t at the time, really,’ she admitted. ‘I just wanted you to sweat a bit.’
Silence.
‘The old antennae are still registering pissed,’ said Matt.
‘Yes, well, you weren’t to know, but when I was five, I was made to stand in the playground with a label round my neck,’ she told him. ‘“I did not bring a clean hanky to school.”’
‘Really? Pretty Dickensian.’
‘I’ve not been a huge hanky fan since then.’
He put his arms round her. ‘Come on, Janey. What’s up really?’
‘Bollocks. Fine. Danny wants to meet his English rellies while he’s over here,’ she said. ‘Wants to get a better sense of his roots. I can’t not oblige, can I?’
He hugged her tighte
r and said nothing. Matt knew a rhetorical question when one bit him on the backside.
‘Oh well,’ said Jane. ‘Thanks for these, anyway.’ She sniffed the hanky roses. ‘They appear to be the scentless kind.’
‘I thought about spraying them with Febreze,’ said Matt. ‘I got you something else paper as well.’ He produced an envelope. ‘Tickets for Messiah this Saturday.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Did you buy these?’
He took a prudent step back. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘No, you didn’t! You were comped them, you lying toad. Grr. Don’t bloody tell me I’m meant to sit on the front row again, like a good little bishop’s wifey? I am!’
‘Oh, please come, Janey. Freddie’s singing again . . .’
She smacked him round the head with her bouquet.
‘Ow. Can I take that as a yes, then?’
‘Yes, you wheedling bastard.’
If you wander the streets of any town in Lindfordshire and nose through house windows, you will glimpse people trimming their Christmas trees. It is wall-to-wall carol services in the cathedral now. Bars and restaurants bristle with red felt antlers and bon-homie as office dos get under way. In Lindford marketplace the garden shed Christmas market goes up again. Shoppers get snockered on Glühwein and impulse-buy festive jumpers. The piper still pipes outside Marks & Spencer, and the backdrop of seasonal dread descends: how on earth will we fit everything in?
On Thursday Matt got into his Mini and headed for the Close. Emergency troubleshooting meeting re the restructure. Needed to catch a word with Bea about the Risley Hill situation, too. Pretty grim news about Julie’s drink-driving charge, but it sounded like Laurie was ready to ask for help at last.
Matt parked up and rang the treasurer’s bell, on the off-chance young tartypants hadn’t left for work yet.
Just in the chuffing nick of time, as it turned out.