Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

by Catherine Fox

  There is a hiatus before the happy pair arrive, in which rather a lot of Gene’s champagne, vodka and caviar is consumed. The generous Blatherwick Bequest to the Choral Foundation (still a secret) is openly discussed. The lay clerks race clockwork nuns. Kat, the bishop’s EA, takes on Neil in a fiercely contested tennis ball keepy-uppy challenge in the hallway – and wins. Aye, but only coz he let her. Ed and Dominic dotingly compare puppy pics. Gene attempts to provoke the bishop by riffing on the lamentable mission creep of Evangelical management-itis in the Church. The bishop replies that if Gene has an alternative oar to hand, then by all means start paddling. The church canoe is hurtling downstream, brother, but there might still be time to turn it round before the Falls. Gene’s answer – if he has one – is quelled by a stern glance from the dean. He raises his hands. He has promised to behave.

  Jane, too, has promised to behave.

  ‘I bet Jen would’ve made a better bishop’s wife,’ she grumbled in the car.

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Matt. ‘But you have one definite advantage.’

  ‘Yeah, point taken. I’m still alive.’

  ‘Mind you, if she’d still been alive when I nearly ran you over in that alley,’ said Matt, ‘I might’ve had my work cut out.’

  Jane laughed her filthy laugh. ‘Ooh, you bad bishop.’

  ‘Ew. Get a room, you guys,’ said Danny from the back seat.

  Archdeacon Bea has made no promise to behave. She spends time talking to Sonya, who has just come from reading to Miss Blatherwick. Sonya explains about the great Adam Bede readathon.

  ‘Ah, bless her,’ said Bea. ‘So she’s not in a hospice?’

  ‘—piss. No, she’s at home.’

  The bishop of Barcup, standing nearby, does a nose trick with his champagne.

  But wait! A text has arrived from the nurse. All done.

  Yes, the final chapter and the epilogue is finished. The last words have been read: ‘“Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee.”’ The book has been closed and put down. Freddie and Ambrose are on their way over now. Miss B sent them packing, because she’s in on the secret, of course.

  Positions, people!

  Iona seats herself at the deanery piano. The door opens. A drunken chorus of ‘Congratulations’ bursts out. Aw, you guys!

  Then ta-dah! Leah and Jess wheel in a trolley with another even bigger croquembouche, which they’d spent all afternoon helping Uli to make. It fizzes with sparklers, and leans like the Tower of Pisa – but not bloody bad for a first attempt, ja? There are cheers, tears, and popping corks. Naw, you GUYS!

  And now it is nearly midnight. As is traditional, the revellers will gather at the cathedral’s west front, around the Christmas tree. They will drink champagne, and caterwaul ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as Great Tom tolls twelve. Here they come now. Some of the non-designated drivers are staggering a little, I fear.

  Jane clutches at Gene’s arm.

  ‘Oopsy-daisy, Maisie!’ he says.

  Her promise lapses. She launches her final rant of the year. ‘Farewell 2016! Don’t forget to write. And helloooo 2017! The rough beast slouches towards Washington to be born.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ says Gene. ‘America just needs to get shit-faced for four years. It’ll learn.’

  ‘Not before we all get obliterfried.’ She grips his arm. ‘It’s the end of the world.’

  ‘Oh, it always is, Mrs Bishop. It always is. Ah, look!’

  Everyone looks. A red Chinese lantern sails past high above the spire.

  Where will it come down? wonders Marion. We’re not meant to let them off any more. They set fire to things. Kill livestock. Oh Lord, the far-off unimagined consequences of our actions. Cities burning. Dead children. Even now, as we stand here. And yet, we are still standing here. Together, in spite of everything. In spite of the storms ahead. The employment tribunals. General Synod. The Anglican Communion hanging by a thread.

  She turns to Bishop Steve. ‘Well, we’re still here.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. He sees Freddie, hovering as though he has something to say. But he doesn’t speak. So Steve says, ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And you finished the book! If memory serves, the galloping horseman gets there at the eleventh hour, with a hard-won release from death?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And they get married and lived happily ever after?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sobs once, then reins it back in.

  ‘Bless you.’ Steve puts an arm round his shoulders. ‘Come on. Awkward Evangelical man-hug.’

  Freddie smiles through his tears. Leans on him. ‘Thanks, Steve.’

  Any minute now we’ll be looking back on it. The final second will tick past. Everything is poised. Everything always is. Best of races, worst of races. We are so small. We cannot scramble out of our finitude and be sure how it will end. We cannot escape from the brackets and check the formula. Is there a plus against us, or a minus?

  ‘Nearly time,’ says the nurse. ‘Would you like me to open the window?’

  Miss Blatherwick stares. The nurse’s face looks odd. Like a rather interesting Picasso. There is something urgent. A plane going down. A message from Freddie. But no. That was a long time ago.

  The nurse squeezes her hand. ‘I’ll open it. Then we’ll hear it strike midnight.’

  Fireworks. They’ll all be there, waiting. Come in and rest; it has been a hard day for thee. Aha, she thinks. So this is what it’s like. Father’s voice. Time to get up, Barbara. Good. I had been so afraid.

  They are counting down. Ten. Nine. Eight. The chimes start.

  The nurse looks at her watch.

  Love, thinks Miss Blatherwick. That’s all. Love.

  Cheering. And there’s Great Tom tolling out. Love. Love. Love.

  ‘Happy New Year, Barbara.’ The nurse takes her hand and bends close. ‘Did you say something, my dear?’

  Miss Blatherwick breathes out her last word: ‘Love.’

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank everyone who read Realms of Glory as it unfolded during 2016. I am grateful for your company along the way, and for your feedback and comments. An especial thank you to everyone in Liverpool Cathedral, to my colleagues in the Manchester Writing School, and to my friends and family. Without your support, the challenge of chronicling this strange year in real time would have proved impossible.