Acts and Omissions

by Catherine Fox

  FEBRUARY

  Chapter 7

  Jane gets in from work and turns on her radio. Whoopee-doo. Access to an institution that has been oppressing women for centuries!

  It’s true: despite the leftie liberal blood pumping through her veins, Jane is thoroughly pissed off by the whole equal marriage thing. You may have spotted by now that she’s a bit counter-suggestible? The hashtagification of the debate has pushed her ‘don’t fucking tell me what I’ve got to believe!’ button. How many #equalmarriage campaigners does it take to change a light bulb? Homophobe! She contemplates ringing Dominic to share this thought. But then she chickens out. She doesn’t feel up to being shouted at right now. And neither, when it comes down to it, does she want to be mean. Why rain on his parade? She has no theological axe to grind, after all; so surely she could find it in her heart to be glad the bill has made it through the Commons? She gets out her phone and sends him a nice text: ‘Two bearded men snogging AT THE ALTAR! Yay!’

  I should probably explain that this is an old joke. It dates back to the Federation of Theological Colleges Summer Ball of 1985, when Jenny ‘That’s Not Funny’ Bannister – in a burgundy taffeta bridesmaid’s dress – turned her shiny face to Jane in the marquee and shouted above the music, ‘I really don’t see why we should have to look at that!’

  ‘At what?’ Jane shouted back.

  ‘Two bearded men snogging!’

  Jane scanned the theological throng as it bopped, in a miasma of trampled grass and Opium, to ‘You Can’t Hurry Love’. Later it emerged that Dominic had been one of the bearded men; completely, shamefully pissed, and indulging in a bit of naughty Lightfoot Evangelical-baiting on the hallowed lawns of Latimer. A minute later she saw Paul Henderson leave the ball early, shepherding Susanna away from all that, face rigid with disgust. She never did admit to Dominic how shocked she was herself, even though she hadn’t seen anything.

  Her text prompts a phone call. Shall we be nosy and listen in? Go on then.

  ‘Oh!’ (shrieked the dowager) ‘Two bearded men snogging! God, I haven’t snogged a bearded man in years.’

  ‘Sail on, Silver Boy!’ yodelled Jane.

  ‘My t-i-i-me will c-o-o-me toooo shiiiine!’

  Jane held the phone away from her ear. ‘I’ve got a confession: I never did tell you this, but I was actually a bit shocked.’

  ‘I know you were, darling.’

  ‘In fairness, it was pretty shocking back then.’

  ‘Well, we’ve all come on a journey.’

  ‘Yes, haven’t we,’ agreed Jane. ‘I remember the days when marriage was a heterosexual construct that shouldn’t be imposed on gay men, not a human right.’

  Pause. ‘And?’

  Don’t even think of parking here, read the sign. Jane wisely pulled away from the metaphorical kerb again, without enquiring what equality she had a right to, or observing that single people were being pushed even further to the margins. ‘So. Are you free for a drink later? Or are you off celebrating with your fellow beardies?’

  ‘I wish. PCC subcommittee, followed by funeral sermon. Friday?’

  They fix a time and hang up. Dominic rubs his beard. Yes, he still wears a beard: a vestigial much-sculpted affair these days. To his horror the 1970s full beard is making a comeback. If he goes down that route now he’ll look like a hobo! A homo hobo! People will start giving him their spare change in the street! No, he prefers to cut a suave Renaissance gentleman sort of dash. Funny old world. Here he is at fifty-three, chastely abiding by the current Statement of the House of Bishops. More by accident than design. Equal marriage? Of course equal marriage, you grumpy old hag! (Sometimes he hates Jane.) But not, in all probability, for him.

  This is big news, as my reader is doubtless aware. Right now equal marriage is being discussed throughout the whole diocese of Lindchester, in homes and churches, in the street, in the pub.

  Everyone has an opinion. Or at any rate, a gut reaction. How many Anglicans does it take to change a light bulb? Ah, if only it were that simple! What sort of bulb are you talking about? Furthermore, we need to discuss the whole concept of bulbhood – is it timeless, or can it be contextualized? Who decides, and on what basis? After decades of anguished debate the C of E is more or less OK with screw-in as well as bayonet fittings – for table lamps, that is. When it comes to overhead lights, bayonet remains less controversial; but so long as it’s shining, most good-hearted folk won’t insist on scrutinizing the packet it came in. In theory we can even use screw-in bulbs in chandeliers – provided the screw-in bulbs aren’t ever actually screwed in. You’re asking me how many Anglicans it takes to change a light bulb? Thousands. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands. Millions, maybe. And how long does it take? God only knows. In the meantime, it’s night; and from the outside it seems for all the world as though the Church is dark and closed.

  Come with me and we’ll take a closer look. The recycling box outside the deanery is full of empty champagne bottles again. I believe there was another little celebration there yesterday. Discreet, in deference to the views held at the palace; but gleeful all the same. We will turn a blind eye and pop in on Miss Blatherwick instead. I wonder what she thinks about all this? This morning Miss Blatherwick is hanging up her bird feeder which she’s just refilled with niger seed to attract the goldfinches. Unfortunately, in doing so she has also attracted Amadeus the cathedral cat. Bad puss! She claps her hands at him and shoos him away; but of course, Amadeus will just bide his time and slink back when she’s not there. Nothing in this life is ever simple, that is what Miss Blatherwick thinks on the subject. One acts with the best of intentions, but there are always unforeseen repercussions. Casualties. Tears and regrets and recriminations. Doesn’t she know it. However, Miss Blatherwick is of the firm opinion that this ought not to deter one from doing all the good one can. Careful on that stool, Miss Blatherwick: we need you! You’re no use to the birds or anybody if you fall and break your neck!

  In the perfect kitchen of the palace Susanna is baking again. The passing of this bill means that Paul is in for another round of flak. Later this morning he’s giving his reactions on local radio. He will reiterate his support for the Statement of the House of Bishops, and then everyone will brand him a homophobe, just like they did poor old Michael Palgrove yesterday. Honestly! What do they expect him to say? What a way for him to start his new ministry as archbishop of Canterbury! She pauses her electric mixer – dear Lord, please be with Rosemary and the children in all this – then resumes beating the dough.

  They are probably going to quiz her this afternoon at work, too. Susanna volunteers for a charity that supports young offenders on their release. This is how her path crossed with Freddie’s and why she feels so responsible for the situation. (She has successfully lobbied for a three-month extension to his stay with them, by the way.)

  ‘What do you think, Susanna?’ they will ask in the office. What does Susanna think? She doesn’t know, she just doesn’t know! She doesn’t want anyone to be hurt and left out, so her instinct is to support gay marriage. (Equal marriage, Susanna!) But then there’s the Bible and the worldwide Anglican Communion to think about. Oh dear, oh dear! She tips three packets of chocolate chips into the mixture. As soon as they’re baked she’s going to take a plate of warm cookies through to the office to cheer everyone up. Susanna is not so naive as to think that home-baking has a genuine soteriological function. She knows she cannot solve the gay issue in the C of E with her triple choc chip cookies. But she can make the world a little bit nicer, a little bit kinder. And who are we to denigrate small acts of kindness? Those who perform them will surely not go without their reward.

  A bit of kindness will not go amiss in the bishop’s office this morning. The diocesan communications officer is busy briefing the bishop in his study. Penelope, the bishop’s PA, is fielding emails. She now has a new and closely guarded password which Freddie does not know. Thinks Penelope.

  The bishop’s chaplain is at his desk scowling a
t some paperwork. The Revd Martin Rogers is in his mid-thirties and looks like an Action Priest™ fresh out of the box: buzz-cut hair, be-zipped and multi-pocketed navy blue trousers, all-terrain hybrid trainer-shoes and a navy blue fleece over his navy clerical shirt. Armed with Bible and Swiss army knife at all times, he looks poised to mountain bike over the peaks and take the gospel to Hull. He is not actually reading his paperwork through his flexible titanium-rimmed glasses, because that little git Freddie May is in the room.

  The little git is waiting to drive the bishop to his radio interview. He lolls in a swivel chair, with last night still gleaming over him like a smutty halo. He yawns, stretches vastly, rumples his hair, sorts the nads out, checks his phone, smirks, swivels the chair back and forth. He looks as though he might slide off at any moment. His clothes look as though they might slide off at any moment. Skin-tight, or falling off: that would just about sum up the clothes of Freddie May. He starts humming ‘I Believe in Miracles’, and working his tongue stud into the gap between his front teeth. Martin can hear it.

  ‘Would you stop doing that, Freddie?’ says Penelope. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

  Freddie rears up without warning: ‘Maggie-eee Thatche-e-er! Po-o-ope Benedict! Uganda-a-a! Westboro fucking Baptist Church! Martin Rogers! Can you hear me? Your boys took one hell of a beating yesterday! Your boys took one hell of a—’

  Martin snatches up the staple gun on his desk and fires off a volley of staples in Freddie’s direction. They fall harmlessly onto the carpet. Martin goes back to his paperwork.

  ‘Oooh!’ Freddie pours himself out of his chair and slinks over to Martin’s desk.

  But here’s Susanna with her plate of cookies, thank goodness. Martin will not get a tongue in his ear this morning. He will not be squeezed or tweaked or cupped. He’s had to endure all these things over the past nine months. I don’t want you to imagine that he makes a note of each separate incident. He is not logging a record for HR. There’s no way he’s going to make himself ridiculous by lodging a complaint about sexual harassment in the workplace. But that’s what it is, though, isn’t it? It’s bullying. Martin is powerless to cope with it. Sometimes it reduces him to tears, almost. Aha, because he is seething with repressed homosexual lust! the reader concludes. Wrong: because it catapults him straight back to the misery of school – the other boys hiding his underpants after swimming, flicking him with towels in the changing room, humping him in the lunch queue, calling him a fag. I wish Martin could tell Freddie this. Freddie would be distraught. He would cry with remorse! He has no idea: he just plays with Martin the way Amadeus plays with a baby bird. Because he’s bored and thoughtless and destructive.

  I wavered there for a moment. It would be so easy for me to sit Martin and Freddie down and make them open their hearts to one another. I know this would head off a whole world of trouble later on in my tale. I’m like Susanna: I want to rustle up a batch of narrative cookies and make everything lovely for everyone. No. I must resist. Life is not a vicarage tea party. It’s a pilgrimage up a steep and rugged pathway. There may be cookies along the way, but they are only food for the journey.

  Chapter 8

  Shrove Tuesday. Already the shock of the pope’s resignation has receded. Across the diocese of Lindchester, clergy (or their spouses) are buying in eggs and flour and lemons for the parish pancake party. By now – unless they are very low church – they will have rounded up last year’s palm crosses ready to burn for Ash Wednesday. Getting the proper consistency for liturgical ashing is not as easy as you might think. Dominic has been known to cheat and grind up charcoal in his pestle and mortar. This year he’s going to follow a colleague’s advice and microwave the palms first.

  The colleague is Father Wendy. Yes, I know, but that’s what they call her. She’s given up trying to stop them. Mother Wendy would be worse – flying round in a nightie tending the Lost Boys! I think the Revd Wendy Styles will cheer you up, because like most parish priests, she’s just faithfully getting on with it. Her patch is four small villages where Renfold straggles out into almost-countryside. These villages include Cardingforth, so technically Wendy is Jane’s vicar. Wendy is how Jane might have ended up, had she pursued her theological training, got ordained, and been given a niceness implant.

  Come, let us stretch those eagle wings and shake Lindchester out of our feathers. It’s good to cleanse our palate with the sorbet of normality, after the rich fare of the Close. Follow the river out over mournful industrial estates and retail parks until we reach fields ashed with snow, a shriven landscape. Willows burn bronze and copper in the sunshine. We’ll keep the Linden below us, ignoring the Cardingforth cooling towers as they plume out their cumulonimbus warnings. There, look: beyond the tin-roofed tyre place and the allotments, can you see a little square-towered church in a huddle of yews? That’s All Saints, Carding-le-Willow.

  Here comes Father Wendy, in floral wellies and a pink puffy gilet, her cheeks red, robes bag over her shoulder. She pauses to wait for Lulu, her chocolate Labrador, who is now a waddling arthritic. They pass under the lichgate, dedicated to the boys of the village who never came back from the war. Thomas, Walter, John, John, William. Seventeen of them. All the boys of Carding-le-Willow. ‘Come along, old girl,’ says Wendy. ‘Good girl.’ We’ll follow them through the churchyard and go inside and wait for the midday Holy Communion to start. Lulu’s claws click on the tiles. Breathe in the scent of lilies and old stone. Keep your coat on.

  Wendy, as she stands behind the altar and looks out, knows she’s in the right place. This is what she was made for. Behind her the low winter sunshine slants through the window. As the service progresses it angles slowly round her flock like a patient searchlight, illuminating each bowed head as it passes. All they need to do is sit there and they will be touched. That’s all we have to do, thinks Wendy. Turn up, put ourselves in its path. Sometimes faith is that simple. What she can’t know, of course, is that from where we are sitting, she is transfigured too. Her grey hair and oatmeal cassock alb are edged with glory; light streams from her upraised hands. Let all mortal flesh keep silence.

  Afterwards Wendy boosts Lulu into the back seat then gets into her car. She’s off to Cardingforth now – to Sunningdale Drive, funnily enough, though not to see Jane. She’s calling on a pastoral case, at the request of the archdeacon. It is, as they say, complicated. A priest in the diocese has fallen in love – plunged disastrously through the floorboards of life and into love – with someone else’s wife. The wife of the bishop’s chaplain. Poor Martin, yes. It was a mutual falling. Becky Rogers moved out before Christmas, taking their two little girls. She rents a house on Sunningdale Drive, because she cannot, cannot be with Martin any more! The priest is still in his rectory; he has not moved in with them, may never do so. He too is married and has three teenage children. The situation is not good. Good may yet come out of it, but right now it’s hell. Becky, when she opens the door, looks as though one of Emily Dickinson’s imperial thunderbolts has scalped her naked soul.

  We will not intrude. I will just tell you that all Wendy does today is listen. Lulu listens as well, and every time Becky cries – in fact, in the split second before she does – Lulu senses it, raises her old head and cries too, because she cannot bear the pain.

  I’m afraid that won’t have cheered you up as much as I’d hoped. We’d better head to Lindchester for a bit of light relief. We will fast-forward to evening, and gatecrash yet another party in the deanery.

  Yay! The choristers were in the kitchen experimenting to see if pancakes will stick to the ceiling. Simmer down, simmer down! Sixteen prepubescent boys, all hyper, all with well-trained vocal cords, some painfully virtuosic in the whistle register. The approach to total meltdown was being accelerated by that catalyst of naughtiness, Freddie May. Marion had already been forced to confiscate the Jif lemons.

  Gene glided suavely round the adults, like the serpent before he was condemned to go on his belly, taking the edge off things with a last-cha
nce-before-Lent Pouilly-Fumé. Present in the kitchen were: Giles the precentor and his German wife Ulrika; Timothy, the director of music; Iona, the sub-organist with the dragon tattoo; the inevitable group of liggers (three lay vicars, four choral scholars); and Miss Blatherwick’s successor, June, who right now could cheerfully have strangled Freddie for winding her charges up to fever pitch right before bed. Not present was the cathedral organist, Laurence, on the grounds that kitchens typically only have four corners, and there was no guaranteeing one would be available for him to hide in if he came tonight. He was practising alone in the dark cave of the cathedral instead.

  ‘Mr May! Sir! Mr May!’ piped the choristers (we like a spot of 1950s formality here in the Close). ‘Mr May, will you do your thing for us?’

  ‘Do my thing? You want me to do my thing?’

  ‘No!’ shouted Timothy, Giles and Ulrika together. (Ulrika is a singing coach.)

  ‘Dudes, the grown-ups say no.’

  ‘Oh, ple-e-ease, Mr May!’

  So Mr May took a deep breath – the adults clapped hands to ears – and gradually a noise emerged from his mouth. Oh, horrible! What on earth? A human didgeridoo, a concrete mixer full of lost souls!

  Let me explain. In his schooldays, Freddie – beguiling the hours spent in corridors after being ejected from lessons – somehow taught himself to split his voice in the manner of a Tibetan Buddhist monk. Don’t ask me how – vocal resonators? Harmonics? Ulrika could probably explain. Anyway, this transgressive noise thrills the choristers to their core and they are always begging for another demonstration.

  ‘Stop it, Freddie!’ ordered Ulrika. ‘Boys, don’t try to copy him! THOMAS GREATRIX!’

  Thomas froze. Head chorister. Ought to know better. Tomorrow at evensong he was due to sing that soaring treble line in Allegri’s Miserere. Silence. No boy moved a muscle as the juggernaut of Mrs Littlechild’s wrath swept past them, stirring their hair.