‘So!’ said Susanna, head tilted pastorally, as if Jane’s dog had just been run over, ‘how was Christmas? How’s Danny getting on? Have you heard from him?’
‘Oh, we Skype, so I know he’s still got all his limbs. He says everything is sweet. Or awesome,’ Jane emended, bringing her customary academic rigour to bear. ‘How was your Christmas?’
‘We had a lovely time!’ Susanna listed the family frisks and jollities the palace had resounded to. But the head was still tilted: Jane knew she would circle back shortly to dump more pastoral concern. Jane did not want to talk about Danny. She did not want consolation from someone who knew all about the empty nest syndrome.
She headed her off: ‘What does Paul think of the latest on gay bishops, then? Looks like the C of E has shot itself in the foot with its usual aplomb.’
‘Oh, I know!’ wailed Susanna. ‘It’s all so sad. I do wish—’
Freddie padded in.
An interesting little pause followed.
‘Ssh! Fag in room!’ he whispered.
‘Morning, Frederick,’ said Jane.
‘Hey, Janey.’
He gave her that smile, the one that either enslaved people or made them want to slap him. Jane felt both impulses. He looked as though he might start winding himself round ankles and table legs any moment, purring.
‘Jesus! – Sorry, Suze. Is that a black eye?’ she asked. ‘Whatever happened to you?’
‘Oh-h-h. I like fell over? Hit my head?’
‘Omigod, you look terrible?’
‘Nah, I’m good?’
‘I’m relieved to hear it?’ Jane sometimes played this game of escalating uncertainty with her students as well. She watched Freddie lean over to get a cereal bowl out of a cupboard. ‘I see Santa didn’t bring you a belt, then.’
‘Checking my ass out again, Dr R?’
‘Freddie!’ chided Susanna.
‘Looking pert,’ said Jane.
‘Jane!’
I think we’ll leave them at this point. Take it from me, there is seldom much serious conversation once Freddie appears. Instead, let’s follow Jane along the steep cobbled street that winds down to the Lower Town. She plans to spend the morning mooching about, soaking up the atmosphere, and trying to recreate in her imagination the cholera-infested riverside slums of the mid-nineteenth century, and work out where the tanneries once stood. This is where her current subject of historical research, Josephine Luscombe, lived and worked. A great Victorian activist, was Josephine: improving the lot of the poor (Lindchester leather workers), confronting the indifference of the rich (Lindchester Cathedral Dean and Chapter). Josephine was the kind of woman Jane very much enjoyed researching, but would avoid if she saw her coming in the supermarket.
I ought to mention that Jane is employed by Linden University in Lindford. That is its name. It is not called Poundstretcher University. I’m afraid Jane isn’t popular. She forgets departmental meetings. She has migraines on peer appraisal days. She is so cunningly thick about IT innovations and anything on a spreadsheet that people have stopped expecting her to engage with them. Overworked colleagues complain to the head of department, but what is Professor Bleakley to do? Yes, Dr Rossiter weasels out of administrative roles; but she does fulfil her teaching commitments, and she does get published.
But as Jane walks along the muddy riverbank past Gresham’s Boats, swiping the willow fronds aside, she is not thinking of Josephine Luscombe. Her thoughts speed all the way round the globe to New Zealand. She sniffs back her tears. Dammit. He’s fine. He’s having the time of his life. But she’d had Danny with her all his eighteen years till Boxing Day. Brought him up single-handed from day one. This feels like amputation.
We won’t risk giving Jane a big hug and telling her it will pass. We would only get an earful. She carries on walking till the Lower Town gives way to countryside. Behind her the cathedral on its mount is erased by fog. Mist lies low on the fields, bounded by the hedges, like cream poured into square dishes. The cows all stand motionless. Here and there white stripes of water lie along the old ridge and furrowed earth. A crow caws from an empty poplar. I am every dead thing, thinks Jane.
Then she calls herself a silly mare, turns, and walks briskly back towards Lindchester.
Up on the misty mount, in the palace office, Penelope is panicking over the bishop’s electronic diary. Tomorrow 8 p.m.: Argentine Tango? Argentine Tango?! What on earth? Some fundraising event for their partner diocese? Paul won’t even be here, he’ll still be in London. She must be going mad! She had no recollection of booking that in whatsoever.
Chapter 4
Snow! Look, look! Snow, everybody! Snow over the entire UK! Schools are closed, meetings cancelled, planes grounded. Visitors from North America look on in astonishment and make the mistake of belittling our snow. We are extremely offended by this, for obscure reasons locked up deep in the English psyche.
Let us rise up on wings like eagles until we can survey the whole diocese of Lindchester beneath us, tucked up under a white blanket. Then off, off forth on a swing! And down into Renfold, where the good people of the borough have been hanging up fat balls and replenishing their feeders because they worry for the garden birds. More for the birds than for the homeless, but that is the way of things: they can see the robins, they cannot see the homeless. (And the robins are not smelly and weird and doing drugs.)
And look – even the brick church of St John the Evangelist looks pretty in the snow. Already we can see footprints leading to the door where the faithful few fought their way bravely to Morning Prayer. It has finished, and Father Dominic is on his drive now, trying to scrape the snow off his car with the Methodist church magazine someone has kindly popped through his letter box. He swears as snow goes up his sleeve. Suddenly he laughs at himself. Why is he even trying to take the car?
Five minutes later we see him come out in his thick socks and wellingtons, and set off on foot to his meeting. He’s wearing a nice knitted hat with Nordic snowflakes on and little plaits dangling from the earflaps. His mum gave it to him for Christmas. He’ll be late, but his frazzled soul will be restored by the grace of snow. It renders all gardens lovely, both the kempt and the unkempt, blessing wheelie bin and wisteria alike. He cuts through Prince Albert Park on his way to meet with his fellow Renfold ministers. Together they are setting up a food bank. A food bank in Renfold? Lindford, maybe; but Renfold? When, Lord? When did I see you hungry and naked and homeless and not come to your aid? Keep your eyes peeled. You will shortly be seeing a lot more of the Lord. The north wind of austerity doth blow and we shall have snow. Dominic will be handing out more sleeping bags and mugs of tea. He’ll be spending longer on the phone checking out sob stories and trying to find hostel spaces. He’ll end up paying for more and more emergency overnight B&Bs. Yes, sometimes he’ll be taken for a ride; but on the Last Day he won’t end up on the side of the astounded goats.
But Dominic is not contemplating the beauty of Big Society as his wellies creak through the silent park. He’s not even stressing about his church electoral roll renewal. He’s wondering whether to give old Janey a ring and drag her out – snow permitting – to the cinema tonight, to watch Les Mis. He’s a bit worried about her. He stops under a beech tree. A squirrel curses him roundly from a branch in gruff little quacks. ‘And also with you,’ says Dominic.
We’ll leave him standing in the snowy park making his call, and mount up again on our biblical wings and speed to Lindchester and circle the Close. See that old-fashioned lamppost under the trees? We might be in Narnia. Any minute now Mr Tumnus will come trotting by with his parcels. Aw, there on the cathedral lawn – a crocodile of snow choristers processing to evensong! And high up on the cathedral roof, another snowman in a pointy hat gazes pontifically down. Who on earth has climbed all the way up here with a purloined crosier? Down below, the vergers are busy strewing grit on the steps and across the paving, melting safe pathways for the faithful and the litigious; while over on the south side o
f the Close a wretched penitent shovels snow. He’s been instructed to get out of the bishop’s sight. It’s Freddie May. Not happy. Seriously not happy. Right now he’s like totally starving? Literally? And he’s right by Miss Blatherwick’s door. She’ll have cake. Cake! No, I’d keep shovelling if I were you, Freddie. The bishop has not yet spotted that his spare crook is missing from the umbrella stand, and right now he will not be amused.
Round we wheel to the north side. Look down again: that grand Georgian house there is the deanery. It’s very big, you say? Indeed yes, so big it generates its own microclimate: permafrost. It is not as big as the palace, naturally; but it is bigger than the precentor’s house, which in turn is bigger than the houses of both the canon chancellor and the canon treasurer, because the canon precentor is the first canon. (We like everything done decently and in order here in the Close.) The deanery is where Mrs Dean, the Very Revd Marion Randall, lives. Come with me. We are going to be cheeky and have a nose around.
You will notice straight away that it is not as perfect as the palace. It is, however, effortlessly posher. Those are real Eric Gills on the walls. I am strongly tempted to pinch that William de Morgan lustreware bowl on my way back out. Did you hear a gale of laughter coming from the dean’s study? The canons are assembled there for their weekly canons’ coffee. I dare say that in a more gracious era they would have been having canons’ breakfast in the huge dining room, with kedgeree and kidneys in silver chafing dishes. But this is the twenty-first century, and they are having coffee. The dean’s husband is about to carry in a second cafetière. Let’s follow him. There’s a fire in the hearth, but the canons are sensibly still wearing their coats. I apologize in advance for the language.
‘Is this Fair Trade, Gene?’ asked the precentor.
‘Certainly not.’ Gene had the fabulously snooty accent of someone who grew up in South Africa. He crossed to the fire and placed another chunk of last year’s cathedral Christmas tree on it. There was a brief roaring crackle. ‘It’s Monsooned Malabar.’
‘Oh good,’ said the canon chancellor. ‘Because I really hate that un-monsooned crap.’
The canon treasurer laid a hand on the chancellor’s arm, tilted his head and made big melting eyes like the bishop’s wife. ‘Oh dear! Another bad night, Mark? I’m so, so sorry!’
‘Put it this way: I’ve started googling adoption services.’
‘Come, come, Mr Chancellor!’ said the precentor. ‘Like as arrows in the hand of the giant, even so are the young children!’
‘Fuck off,’ said the chancellor.
‘Right, people,’ said Marion. ‘Let’s make a start, shall we?’
They are about to get down to business. A sneaky glance at Marion’s list shows that they will be discussing such things as the Choristers’ School, FAC, Safeguarding, HLF, Food Bank (yes, even here in Lindchester), Employment Tribunal – Lord have mercy! We will leave them to their acronyms and hot potatoes, follow Gene out and shut the study door. There is another gale of laughter. The precentor has just stated that he sees no liturgical objection to holding an Argentine Tango Mass and calling it a Fresh Expression. Yes, news of the bishop’s diary malfunction has whipped round the Close. Keep shovelling that snow, Freddie.
It occurs to me that you are frustrated by that closed study door. You may be wondering what the canons are like, what they do? Very well. I will introduce the Dean and Chapter clergy in turn.
The most important person in any cathedral is the dean. The cathedral may be the bishop’s seat, but the dean is the boss. The Very Revd Marion Randall is fifty-four, and I find her rather dashing: tall, with a strong jaw, direct gaze and cropped hair. She reminds me of a 1920s aviatrix. She ought to have a biplane parked on the lawn. Actually, I think I may have a crush on her. There were flutterings in the theological dovecot when she was appointed, as you can imagine. I’m told that the school chaplain snatched up his biretta and left for another job, lamenting ‘the creeping protestantization of the Church of England’. Ah yes! Creeping relentlessly up on us since the Act of Supremacy in 1534.
Next comes the canon precentor, the Revd Canon Giles Littlechild, whom we have met. He is in charge of worship and music. Traditionally, cathedral canons come in two styles: tall and cadaverously thin, or robin redbreast. You may categorize them as they pass you in procession on Sunday mornings. Giles conforms to the former type. His mad hair suggests he forks his toast out of the toaster without unplugging it first. Precentors need to be full-time professional pedants and control freaks. It’s in the job description. They are born and bred in the briar-patch of the English cathedral choral tradition. Giles ticks those boxes, but he is blessed with a sunny disposition and a puerile sense of humour.
The charism of grumpiness has been bestowed instead upon the canon chancellor, the Revd Canon Dr Mark Lawson. He is the scholar priest of the outfit. Education and outreach are in his portfolio. He tends, I fear, towards the robin redbreast physique. By the time he’s fifty he will need a ‘front measurement’ taken when he has a new cassock fitted. You can see him in his stall at evensong with his Greek and Hebrew Testaments, like a mage scowling at ancient runes. Systematics is his thing. I was once told the title of his DPhil, but I’m afraid it sounded like white noise to me. Bear with him: his six-week-old son and heir is colicky. Mark paces his study for hours every night, jiggling the screaming scrap, while poor Miriam sleeps upstairs. Up and down, up and down: he croons Latin irregular verbs and observes how ably his son declines to sleep.
Lastly we have the canon treasurer, the Revd Canon Philip Voysey-Scott. Before entering the Church Philip was a city banker, a full-blown 1980s coke-snorting, red braces yuppie. Give him numbers, he’ll crunch them for you. He has the carrying voice of one born to halloo above the yammering of hounds, receding fair hair combed back in the Dracula manner, and a jumble of Scrabble tile teeth. I’m told he skis like a James Bond stunt double. Talk to him for more than five minutes and he’ll be able to impersonate you mercilessly.
So there we are: Maid Marion and her Merry Men. We will be seeing more of them, never fear.
Dusk falls. The bishop’s wife is baking a carrot cake. The Archers is on. Susanna is making cake because she cannot put the world to rights. Cake is her default mode. It was just a naughty prank, not hacking as such. Paul’s being too strict. No, no, don’t be silly, Paul’s right. Freddie needs boundaries and accountability. Oh, if only he’d sort himself out and apply for uni, or something! Whatever will happen to him? No, she mustn’t feel bad. It’s not as though they’re heartlessly chucking him out with no warning! He’s known from the word go it was only ever for one year. He’s still got three months to sort something out. They’ll just have to be firm with him. She renders the top layer with a coat of cream cheese icing, plastering over the cracks.
A dark, deep winter’s night in the diocese of Lindchester. More snow is forecast. The gritters are out. Cold has settled like a grey lid over the country. How long, O Lord? When, when will the winter be over and past and the time of singing come again? Jane is crying at her computer. New Zealand is a long, long way away. There will be no singing any time soon.
Chapter 5
And still it snows. It snows, it thaws a little, it freezes. The pavements are treacherous. Shops and restaurants are quiet as art galleries. This is the glummest week of the glummest month, enlivened only by the peaty glow of Burns’ Night and the approach of February. February is a short month. And then it’s March. Amen, even so, come quickly, Spring.
In the village of Cardingforth (that is its name, it is not called Lardingforth) dawn breaks pink behind the power station. In Sunningdale Drive (that is its name, it is not called Cooling Tower View) Jane stares at her coffee. Outside, the shouts of children sliding to school. Inside, silence. The radio is off because the Today programme got too strident. Upstairs nobody is taking their customary forty-five-minute shower, or wallowing under their duvet because they’ve got a late shift today. Then again, nor have they joined
up, gone to Afghanistan and got shot in the head. She has not seen their naked body tossed into a gutter. Nice. Thanks for that one, Dreams R Us. Jane stares at her coffee and thinks: Half the time he’s living a day ahead of me. I’m living in his yesterday. Ha. Stuck in yesterday. The plan had been not to end up like this: not to be one of those mothers so overinvested in her child that life feels pointless once he’s gone. But then, the plan had been not to have children. Furthermore, it would pass. Jane slaps her thighs. Up, and be doing, gal. But she continues to sit, staring at her cold coffee, and watching Danny, in an endlessly replaying loop, walk away from her under the big sign: ‘All Departures’.
Reader, I have been remiss. I have taken you up onto rooftops and into kitchens but not into the cathedral. Come with me to Lindchester, and I will put that right immediately. We will fly there, rather than toiling like medieval pilgrims over landscape plotted and pieced and up the cobbled streets. A biting wind blows today. The snow choristers are two rows of sorry stumps on the lawn. The bell chimes for Morning Prayer.
One by one the retired priests totter up to the cathedral door, eyes watering, noses pink with cold. The day will come when their old bodies can no longer get them to church, but their souls will attend until their Nunc Dimittis on life’s last evening. The habit of faith has worn a groove in their lives. Where else would they go? I have been young and now am old; and yet saw I never the righteous forsaken. Yet never. Yet never. They lean on the heavy door – dear me, this implausible frailty, this affront of elderliness that has come upon them! – and stagger into the warmth and shelter, where the memory of myriad candles lingers in the air. They pull off their furry Russian hats, their leather gloves, and wipe their noses on pocket handkerchiefs. Then begin the long walk up the south aisle to the chapel of St Michael and All Angels.
You will like this chapel, I think. Take a seat and admire the Burne-Jones stained glass: angels and archangels and all the company of heaven. On summer days the flagstones are puddled with colour. A macho bronze of St Michael (school of Epstein) offsets the androgynous languishing in the windows; while above the altar hangs a vast abstract, brooding, shot through with wild joy (or quite possibly terror). If you like your Annunciations with lilies, this will not be to your taste. The Chapter clergy are all waiting prayerfully, apart from Mr Happy, who will rush in with sick on his shoulder as the late bell starts chiding. Miss Blatherwick is here, of course, along with a handful of other stalwarts; and so, today, is the bishop. Beside him sits his chaplain, a tightly wound coil of Evangelical passive-aggression. Quite a gathering for eight o’clock on a January morning.
Acts and Omissions Page 3
