I regret to tell you that Freddie was – how to phrase this? – dealing with some surfeit-related low self-esteem issues. He was not proud of the person that was him. He was currently in possession of a wodge of cash liberated from drunken wallets, and a hangover the size of Wales. Everything that could hurt was hurting. If only he knew the ‘1 2 3’ song! But the ‘1 2 3’ song would not begin to scratch where Freddie May was itching that Monday morning. Hard-core stuff, that’s what he needed. The bad boys. The Psalms. Behold, I was shapen in wickedness! Against thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight. Turn thy face from my sins! Cast me not away, cast me not away!
O-o-oh God. Oh God, oh God.
‘Are you feeling all right, Freddie?’ asked Penelope.
‘Yep, I’m— No.’ He bolted out.
The bishop and his chaplain were next door in the bishop’s study, looking ahead in the diary at Holy Week.
They paused. Glanced out of the window.
‘Ah!’ said the bishop. ‘My driver, “emptying himself of all but love” again.’ He noticed Martin’s teeth clench. ‘What is it, Martin?’
‘Forgive me, Paul, but is this really a joking matter?’ Even Martin’s nostrils were rigid. ‘He behaves like a spoilt brat and everyone always indulges him! What’s he paid for? I mean, how can he be your driver when he’s never in a fit state to drive? With all due respect, you sometimes appear to have a blind spot where he’s concerned.’
The bishop deployed his formidable eyebrows. ‘You can leave me to deal with this, brother.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ Martin coloured, dog collar to buzz-cut, and returned to the diary. ‘Maundy Thursday, Chrism Eucharist. You’re preaching, the dean’s presiding.’
‘Excellent! I’ll use Freddie as a sermon illustration of kenosis.’
He shouldn’t have said that.
But honestly, could Martin really not hear how he came across? Like the prodigal’s older brother! It was beyond Paul how anyone could have been in ordained ministry this long without developing some mechanism for dealing with personality clashes. It was basic stuff! Why should Paul be called upon to umpire the whole time?
Nor did the bishop take kindly to being told he had a blind spot by a man completely oblivious to his own foibles, thank you very much!
But of course, Martin was not in a good place right now. After a brief inward tussle, Paul apologized to the Lord and got back down off his high horse.
‘Well, hang on in there,’ he said. ‘He’ll be gone in a few months.’
‘He was supposed to be gone by Easter!’ Martin burst out. Then bit his lip.
The bishop sat back. Ah. Right. ‘Um, Martin, is this more complicated than I’ve realized? Do you want to put me in the picture?’
Tell him, Martin! Tell him the little shite makes your life a misery with his hot breath in your ear, his smut, his blatant pocket billiards when the bishop’s not looking.
‘It’s just—’ Martin took off his glasses and breathed on them as though he intended to gnash a lens. He polished them savagely with his fleece. ‘He gets away with murder, Paul. And he’s taking advantage of your generosity, in my humble opinion.’
‘Well, that’s Susanna’s and my worry, I think,’ said Paul. He waited. But Martin had the lid clamped back on the crucible. ‘So. Where had we got to?’
Martin put his glasses on and looked at the computer screen. ‘The Triduum. I assume you’re going to that?’
‘Of course.’
‘I can’t believe chapter still haven’t invited you to lead it. You’ve been here seven years!’
‘I wouldn’t do it properly,’ said Paul. ‘I’m an ignorant Evangelical bumpkin.’
‘You’re the diocesan bishop! It’s your cathedral!’
Paul will never have to stand on his dignity. He has a man to do that for him.
Outside, the sun still smiles mildly, and crocuses bejewel the palace lawn: purple, mauve, gold, white. There is even a charm of goldfinches tinkling in the silver birch, but the little shite is still in a far country, feeding swine. There he is, bent over, hands on knees, shivering on the drive.
Gah! It’s no good, he’s going to have to stick the lot in the collection plate.
Why? Jesus, why? Why’s he like, ‘Hey guys, I don’t even like you, but I’m all yours, do whatever the fuck you want, seriously, I don’t care, be my guest?’ Why can’t he find some nice guy for a change? Who actually maybe cares about him?
But Freddie knows he can’t be trusted with the nice ones who care. He has to trash their niceness, he wants to, he has to fuck stuff up, so that the outside matches the inside in his fucked-up miserable life.
He dry-retches till his eyeballs nearly drop out of their sockets onto the gravel.
No, right now it’s not good to be Freddie May. Not one little bit.
Thursday. At last! The Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove is enthroned as archbishop of Canterbury. The thoughts of many a senior bishop quietly stray to York, and the vacancy there. Even the good bishop of Lindchester cannot entirely keep his imagination reined in. The sun goes down red. An angry smear hovers above one of the cooling towers in Cardingforth, as though it’s belching fire. Shepherd’s delight. But when Friday comes, what is this? Blossom from the ornamental plums, wafting on the zephyrs of spring? Sorry. The shepherds were lying. We’re dreaming of a white Easter.
Oh, what’s happening to our English weather? We don’t like it. It never used to be like this, did it? Why’s everything so muddled? Why can’t it be like the good old days, when we had proper seasons, and Peter helped Daddy with the car, while Mummy cooked with Jane? Please don’t worry. It’s not happening, and if it is, it’s just part of the normal cycle of variation. It’s only a blip. An atypically large blip. The largest blip ever. Anyway, we aren’t responsible. Well, maybe we are, but it doesn’t matter, the implications are always wildly overestimated by scaremongering killjoys with wind farm shares. It’ll be fine. Keep calm and carry on shopping. (New word: la la la!)
Palm Sunday. The farmer has brought Nigel the donkey to Cardingforth parish church in a horsebox, which we trust is not too confusing for Nigel. She leads Nigel down the ramp and through the snow to the lichgate. The disciples and the crowd line the church path. Our Lord mounts, and the strains of ‘Ride on, ride on in majesty’ come from within the building. An awkward English ‘Hosanna!’ goes up. Nobody is keen to take off their cloak and throw it down in this weather, but they do it anyway. Nigel clops his way towards the church porch over stripy bedsheets and curtains. He’s an old hand, is Nigel. Been doing this for years. In he goes. Clop, clop on the old stone, crunch, crunch on the palms. Oops! Messy Church. Little Leah’s prayer is answered. Nigel brings his peculiar donkey honour to the king. But Wendy, unsurprised, is ready with a shovel.
And what of the rest of Lindchester diocese this snowy Palm Sunday? There are all-age activities: paper palm fronds are waved to ‘We have a King who rides a donkey!’ (tune: The Drunken Sailor). There are palm crosses, which small boys use as swords to stab one another at the communion rails. There are processions both short and long. There are Gospel readings both short and long, too. Very long, in the case of Lindchester Cathedral, where great swathes of the Passion narrative are intoned, and people are kept standing for an unconscionably long time; though admittedly, nowhere near as long as Jesus was inconvenienced upon the cross.
The clergy of the diocese gird up their loins. The last and fiercest strife is nigh. We draw a deep breath and prepare to enter the carpenter’s shop once again, and put our souls to the lathe.
Chapter 14
Jane’s boiler is kaput. She is sitting in her kitchen in a fetching beret and sleeping bag combo with the gas oven on, swearing and googling plumbers. Should have gone to New Zealand for Easter, silly cow. Both Danny and Mickey begged her to. Why didn’t she? Because she doesn’t want to stomp all over Danny’s Big Adventure, that’s why. A gap year is not a gap year if your mum comes too. Well done, Jan
e. That’s very selfless of you.
And now the real reason: she doesn’t trust herself not to end up in bed with Mickey. Which is stupid. Mickey is married(ish) to Sal, and Sal will be there too. But Sal is worryingly laid back and unpossessive; might simply say, ‘No worries, hose him down when you’re done.’ Hell, Jane is more possessive about Mickey than Sal seems to be. And all Jane can lay claim to is a fling with a horny young Kiwi barman back in 1993. (And oops, there was Danny.) Given that Jane does not believe in marriage, what is her problem? Why is Sal’s putative broad-mindedness a reason not to go? A proper grown-up civilized open relationship where everyone is cool about everything – what’s not to like?
Here’s what’s not to like: Dr Jane Rossiter is what not to like. Jane knows all about the ogress dozing in a chair. It wouldn’t take much to wake her, and then it would be all, ‘Fee fi fo fum, he’s fucking mine, take your fucking hands off my man.’ Et cetera. No, Dr Jane Rossiter cannot do proper grown-up civilized relationships. She wants exclusive shagging rights to her bloke. That, or nothing at all. Which is what she’s got. Good. So stop grumbling, you silly mare. She dials a plumber. She’s betting it won’t turn out like it does in porn films. Unless the plumber brings a sleeping bag of his own and they zip them together.
Happy Holy Week, Jane.
Freddie May is also cursing himself. He’s left it too late to get his passport renewed, like he knew he would, so he’s not going away over Easter either, not going to be riding his stepfather’s horses on the estancia, not singing his heart out under vast skies. There will be no Andes on the edge of his vision, no smell of leather, no rude gaucho sex in tack rooms, no forgetting himself, losing himself, blanking all this shit out.
Happy Holy Week, Freddie.
Susanna is not swearing at herself, of course, because she is an Evangelical; but she does say ‘Oh, rats!’ rather crossly when she realizes she forgot to buy marzipan for the simnel cake. Now she’ll have to make another trip, because Easter wouldn’t be Easter if the simnel cake did not have a layer of marzipan and eleven marzipan balls on, one for each apostle minus Judas.
Susanna and Paul are going away after Easter. They are going to their cottage in the Peak District, along with two of their daughters and their families. It will be a squeeze! So no, they really can’t take Freddie, she can see that. Even though he’s clearly in a bad way at the moment and in need of a holiday and she hates to abandon him all by himself in this big house. In the past the Hendersons have gladly scooped up any waifs and strays and included them in their holidays, but ‘No! Sorry, I’m in need of a holiday, too – from Freddie May,’ is what Paul had said. So that was that. Oh dear, who’d be around on the Close next week? Miss Blatherwick is going to Jersey, unfortunately. Will Giles and Ulrika be here? She’d never forgive herself if . . . No, that’s silly. The self-harming was in his early teens. Done with. She’s being very silly. But perhaps she could ask Jane to keep an eye on him? Or Marion? The dean has told Susanna she’s not going on holiday next week. Fret fret. Buzz buzz.
Happy Holy Week, Susanna.
The dean did indeed tell Susanna she is not going on holiday, but the dean is wrong about that. She will be whisked away to Prague by Gene for five days, business class, and screw you, environment. He’s been planning this surprise for weeks now. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d drape her in sable and conflict diamonds as well, and feed her veal stuffed with foie gras and powdered rhino horn. Off an ivory spoon. While castrati serenaded them. Why are people so pissy and judgemental about harmless fun these days, he’d like to know?
Happy Holy Week, Gene.
Timothy, the director of music, is not cursing himself. He is not even cursing the choristers. Or not out loud, anyway. The sixteen boys are working hard on their Holy Week and Easter repertoire, but concentration is an issue; and Thomas Greatrix, the head chorister, is struggling with the tail end of a cold. O Lord, let it only be that. But that very richness developing in his voice (which they’ve all been relishing) probably signals the lengthening of his vocal cords and the beginning of the end. Who else have they got capable of the treble solo in the Sparrow Mass? Josh Wilder, solid workhorse, nothing special? Or Harry Bianchi, tendency to sing sharp under pressure? Let Thomas last another week, just one more week. The Freddie May voice-breaking catastrophe of eleven years ago still hasn’t faded from Lindchester choral memory, when an adult soprano had to be parachuted in at the last minute to sing his part in the new, specially commissioned Lindchester Mass. (And great was the Schadenfreude in other cathedrals.)
You’d better believe Timothy is going away after Easter. Straight after choral evensong. The car will be packed and ready. He’s going to his parents, where he’ll sleep for five days solid.
Happy Holy Week, Timothy.
Oh, it’s cold, it’s so cold! There is snow again on Wednesday. But Maundy Thursday dawns sunny. All over the diocese of Lindchester, clergy scrape their windscreens, get in their cars and head to the cathedral. Bishop Paul has issued a three-line whip: be at the Chrism Eucharist, or feel the full force of my wrath – that is, he will be Very Disappointed. Being Very Disappointed is about as wrathful as Anglican bishops are allowed to get nowadays, anathematization and thumbscrews being frowned upon. But most of the clergy will be there, apart from the ones unable to accept the authority of a woman dean, for gynophobic reasons. I’m sorry – theological reasons. The rest come, the bishop preaches, the oils are blessed – for baptism, for confirmation, for anointing the sick – the dean celebrates, then they go. Tonight some will hold Christianized Seder meals, others will have Lord’s Suppers and foot-washings.
Foot-washing! Seriously? Ew. Corns, bunions, rough skin, chipped nail polish, hairy toes – who wants to handle cheesy, pongy, sweaty feet? Or worse: let someone else handle your cheesy, pongy, hideously embarrassing feet! This ritual belongs in a hot country, where dusty roads and sandals and reclining at table make it a routine necessity, not in wintry England in the twenty-first century! Yet Christians feel obliged to give it a go, because Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. It’s a symbol of leadership through service. The first shall be last; the greatest, least. That’s why it’s the clergy, the bishops, deans and popes who do the washing. Generally, in Anglican cathedrals only one foot per person is washed. (The via media, let’s not get carried away, please.) The symbolic twelve sit, a trouser leg rolled up, a foot bared, waiting, while the choir sings Duruflé’s Ubi Caritas. Some foot-washees will have cheated and had a sneaky pedicure. I hope the water’s warm. I hope nobody’s wearing tights. I hope nobody’s ticklish. Or a fetishist. An air of awkward silliness hangs over everything, as if some ceremony of Masonic toe-curling is under way.
Odd, then, that it should still be so moving.
Let’s go to Lindchester Cathedral and snoop. Marion the dean has instigated another of her changes: instead of a representative twelve, anyone who wants to can have a foot washed. Giles the precentor is not keen on this innovation (it is, after all, an innovation), but Marion is the dean. She wants to try it. If there is no take-up, they can go back to the old way next year. There are four foot-washing chairs waiting empty. There are four foot-washers: Marion, Paul Henderson, Giles, and the leader of the Triduum, Charles De la Haye, a retired bishop who cuts rather a saintly monkish figure, and is not in the least an Evangelical bumpkin. All four have stripped off their outer vestments and are waiting on their knees with white towels. Water is poured into four basins.
The choir begins to sing. Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Ah, that haunting alto line, those unsettling harmonies. The sound rises to the great vaulted ceiling, fills the whole dark cavern of Lindchester Cathedral. Where charity and love are, God is there. And one by one, people come forward. They actually do! They dump their pride, they fling away the embarrassment, they sit and peel off a sock, and get a foot washed. Deus ibi est. Deus ibi est.
Freddie May holds it together until the moment when the treble line comes in. Exsultemus, et in
ipso jucundemur. Ah, cock. He remembers this, maybe the last thing he sang as a treble. Struggling to hit the notes. Not high, even. Let us rejoice and be pleased in him. He’s crying. Can’t stop himself. Shit. There’s no holding it back. So he kicks off his flip-flops and pads barefoot to the front, to the only empty chair: Marion’s. He sits and sobs. He’s like the apostle Peter: not my feet only, but also my hands and my head. Wash me, wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. So Marion, kneeling, washes his feet and dries them with the white towel. But he’s still sobbing, face hidden in his hands. She takes him in her arms and holds him. Just holds him.
From where he is kneeling washing another foot, Paul sees. Ah, Marion’s got him safe. She can do what Paul longs to, but can’t, because it’s too complicated.
The altar is stripped. The clergy and people depart in silence. On the hillsides under the snow, ewes lie frozen with their newborn lambs dead beside them.
Good Friday. Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? Tesco’s in Lindford is heaving. Great mountains of three-for-a-tenner Easter eggs are tumbled into bins. The air is full of the spice of hot cross buns. Frazzled mums shout, ‘Right! That’s it! You’re getting nothing!’
Holy Saturday. In Lindchester Cathedral the flower guild are surrounded by boxes of white carnations, yellow tulips, lilies. Gavin the deputy verger is constructing the Easter bonfire in the brazier. He smiles. Tomorrow at 5 a.m. this thing’ll go off like an incendiary device. Tinder-dry twigs and kindling from the 2011 Christmas tree. Shredded paper. He shakes his bottle of lighter fluid, shoosh-shoosh. Yeah!
In his mind’s eye he sees the flames streaming in the wind, the Paschal candle lit, and carried into the dark cathedral. One tiny point of light. And the dawn coming.
Acts and Omissions Page 9
