Acts and Omissions

by Catherine Fox

  Oh bum, now Janet’s going to have that tune going round her head. Their children have taught the grandkids to sing ‘Bob the Bishop, can he bless it?’ Never a dull moment round here. Once she got £39 entirely in coppers, in empty cat food tins. And last year a bloke answered the door stark naked and said, ‘Sorry, can you come back, love? I’m in the middle of something.’ Donations from these streets are generally higher than those from the nice areas (where residents have been known to say, ‘Oh, I don’t do charity’). Same with church offerings, according to Bob: the poorer the parish, the bigger the per capita donation. Interesting, that. Janet bends – oof! getting old – to stick an envelope through yet another ankle-height letter box. Blimey! Nearly got her fingers. She watches through the glass as a yappy little terrier tears the envelope to shreds.

  It’s Pentecost this coming Sunday (the festival formerly known as Whit Sunday). Another knees-up on Planet Church that passes the secular world by. Across the diocese of Lindchester Pentecostal preparations are in train. If you wander round the Close late at night you may hear Laurence, the cathedral organist, practising Duruflé’s Choral Varié sur Veni Creator Spiritus. The cathedral choir are busy with the Lassus Missa Bell Amfitrit’ Altera—

  Stop. Enough of this ‘ooh, father, your maniple’s crumpled’ poncing about! What’s going on in the real world, some of you are asking. What about Renfold, what about Lindford, what about Cardingforth? Forget the cathedral. What about all those unglamorous places where the clergy just peg away, week after week? Where overstretched lay people put in long hours – helping run Alpha courses, toddler groups, food banks, after-school clubs, men’s breakfasts – maybe on top of their demanding jobs? Do the fires of Pentecost not fall there too? Are they not also Anglicans? Yes! I will go further still: even the good folk gathering for café church, who egregiously sing ‘Be thou my vision’ in four/four and ‘wanna see Jesus lifted high’ – they too are Anglicans. And so yes, I say, yes! Let Pentecost come to the C of E: in flash paper and Prinknash incense, in vestments and WWJD wristbands, in Latin and tongues, in Fresh Expressions and eight o’clock BCP. Thy sevenfold gifts to us impart. Shine, Jesus, shine! Whatever. We’ll take it.

  But that’s not till Sunday. Today is Friday. Friday, as we know, is Father Dominic’s day off. He ought to take this opportunity to get right out of the parish and regain some perspective. Better still, let his hair down with some old friends. But these things take energy, they take organizing. I’m afraid Dominic is sitting in his kitchen giving way to self-pity. He wonders why someone else doesn’t organize something and invite him, for a change. Why do none of his friends seem to think, ‘I know, let’s drag Dominic along too, that would be fun!’? Especially now, when he’s had such a horrible week. Don’t they care about him? He knows they do, but when you’re single you tend to slip off people’s radar. Everyone’s so busy being child-friendly and family-friendly, they forget to be spinster-friendly. Is that what he is – a spinster? He tries it on for size. Spinster of the parish of St John the Evangelist, Renfold. It has a Jane Austen-y vibe. Dominic Todd, spinster. Could he inhabit this?

  Just then the doorbell rings. God. If this is a bloody parishioner saying, ‘I know it’s your day off, but . . .’ He goes to the door to give them a piece of his mind. Some instinct prompts him to check through the spyhole first.

  Shit! Dominic recoils, heart bouncing in his chest.

  Would you like to know what has caused such cardiac capering in our poor friend? Oh, go on then. I am all indulgence, am I not?

  Help! It was the Prat in the Hat! Did he hear me coming down the hall? Does he know I’m in? Dominic risked another peep. The archdeacon loomed close and did a finger-waggle wave. Aargh! He has X-ray eyes! Dominic wiped his palms on his trousers as though he were about to share the Peace, and opened the door.

  ‘Goodness! Hello there, archdeacon!’

  ‘Morning, father.’ He tipped his porkpie hat. ‘Busy?’

  ‘Well, actually, it’s my day off, so, um.’ The archdeacon appeared to be nursing bailiff-like intentions of shouldering his way in. ‘But I can probably spare a minute.’

  ‘Cheeky pint?’

  Dominic waited to see if this utterance would dis-encrypt itself. ‘Sorry?’

  The archdeacon mimed having a swift one. Beamed encouragingly.

  ‘Oh! You mean . . . now?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll buy you lunch.’

  ‘Um.’ Beware of archdeacons bearing gifts! ‘Is this about that funeral?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh God, it’s the lead, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nope.’ The archdeacon beamed again. ‘Do you give up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Grab a coat. I’ll drive.’

  They got into the black Mini and the archdeacon drove to a country pub overlooking the River Linden. On the way Dominic blurted explanations about the funeral and the lead. He couldn’t stop himself. Why was he justifying himself to a plonker who wore checked clerical shirts? That pathetic playground dynamic was kicking in again, wasn’t it? Trying to ingratiate himself with the rugger-buggers so they wouldn’t chuck his schoolbag on the gym roof and call him a poof.

  The archdeacon let him talk. He parked, and they headed into the pub. I bet he’s a real-ale buff, thought Dominic. And sure enough, the archdeacon had a pint of Bishop’s Legover, or some such, while Dominic asked for dry white wine. They ordered baguettes and found somewhere to sit. The archdeacon took a long pull of his pint and leant back. Oh shit, here it comes, whatever it is, thought Dominic.

  ‘How long have you been in Renfold now?’

  ‘Nearly eleven years,’ said Dominic.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Yes.’ The archdeacon was watching him closely. Dominic rubbed his face for stray breakfast crumbs. ‘What?’

  ‘Your mouth turned down when you said that. Which normally means “not happy”.’

  ‘I’m very happy,’ said Dominic. And burst into tears.

  Saturday night. Pentecost eve. A car creeps slowly past the vacant vicarage in the centre of Lindford. The trees thrash in the wind. Raindrops crack on the windscreen. Was it time for a move? Could he imagine himself here? Dominic peers through the wrought-iron gates. One of tomorrow’s hymns plays in his mind:

  Ready for all thy perfect will,

  My acts of faith and love repeat,

  Till death thy endless mercies seal,

  And make my sacrifice complete.

  Chapter 22

  The cherry blossom is past its best. Father Wendy smells rotting petals as she plods with Lulu along the bank of the Linden. It’s like a tiny autumn. Still, the hawthorn blossom is out now instead. It clots the hedges and fills the air with a sweet whiff of corpses. Or so they say. That’s why the hawthorn is thought to be an unlucky tree. The rowan, on the other hand, means good luck. Plant one by your house to keep the witches away. Wendy has no idea how she knows all this folklore. ‘How do I know all this?’ she asks Lulu. Lulu turns her old head up to listen. And there: a crab apple tree in bloom! Right by their bench. They sit.

  Wendy thinks she can’t sing – she was poked in the back when she was six and told to mime – but there’s nobody listening, so she sings anyway because her heart is singing:

  I’m weary with my former toil,

  Here I will sit and rest awhile:

  Under the shadow I will be,

  Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

  A coot calls. There he is, busy with nest-making among the rushes. The fast train scythes through the fields in the distance. On the opposite bank, pounding feet: the young blond man again. Bless, bless. All the blessings of this life on him, on the folk on that train, on her parishioners, on poor old Dominic, on that funeral family, on us all.

  As it happens, Paul Henderson is on the train that Wendy is busy blessing. He’s off to the House of Bishops.

  ‘What will you be debating?’ asked his chaplain as he drove him to the station.
r />   ‘Oh, stuff, as usual.’

  My word, he was grumpy, wasn’t he? You’d think he’d be relieved to have Martin driving him again. But no; perversely, the bishop found himself thinking that life was never dull with Freddie May at the wheel. He missed shouting at him to slow down. He missed the constant stream of lunatic suggestions. ‘A circus! Awesome! We could go to the circus! Let’s get an ice cream, let’s get shit-faced, why don’t we skinny dip? Hey, bouncy castle! Let’s climb that tree, wanna play on the swings?’ At least Freddie had a sense of humour. Even though the bishop spent half his time deliberately not getting Freddie’s jokes. (‘Body piercing studio – cool! You should so get yourself a PA!’ ‘I already have Penelope, thank you.’) If Paul were to look out of the train window, his heart might be rejoiced at the sight of apple blossom, may blossom, rowan blossom, horse chestnut blossom; oh, the whole heaven-on-earth of an English spring morning! Instead the Rt Revd Testy Henderson is reading. What is he reading? Oh, I don’t know. ‘Stuff,’ as usual.

  Bear with me for a moment: I’m about to dump a bunch of Anglican facts on you. All bishops are in the College of Bishops, but not all are in the House of Bishops. The House of Bishops is made up of all the diocesan bishops, plus seven suffragans, four from the Province of Canterbury, three from the Province of York. The lovely bishop of Barcup (Bob the Bishop, can he bless it?) is one of those three. Together, these gentlemen constitute the House of Bishops. Oh, not forgetting the bishop of Dover (stunt double for the archbishop of Canterbury at diocesan level). But before long there will be women participants of the House of Bishops, too. Actual women. After the narrow defeat back in November of the measure to allow women bishops, ‘the House decided that eight senior women clergy, elected regionally, will participate in all meetings of the House until such time as there are six female members of the House’. Whether you shout ‘huzzah’ or feel patronized by this is entirely a matter for you. And now back to the story.

  The train stops at Martonbury station. Bishop Bob spots Paul in the quiet coach with empty seats around him. Oh no! But fortunately Paul is reading and hasn’t seen him, so Bob abandons his reserved seat and heads to the opposite end of the train to Coach A instead. He feels bad about this, but he honestly can’t face the whole journey to York making polite conversation with his diocesan.

  In the quiet coach Paul steals a glance out of the window and sees Bob disappearing down the platform. Thank the Lord. He feels a bit bad about this, but he really didn’t relish the thought of making polite conversation with his suffragan all the way to York.

  The young blond man reaches the old bridge, the halfway point of his long run, and crosses it. He’s running for the endorphins, running to fill the horrible hours of waiting, running so he won’t have to sit around with nothing to do, obsessing about tomorrow’s interview. There’s nothing out here but the pounding of his music, the pounding of his feet, the pounding of his heart. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  It is Monday afternoon. Reserve chief invigilator Dr Jane Rossiter is invigilating an exam because, yes, chief invigilator Dr Elspeth Quisling has a ‘migraine’. Dr Rossiter and her team of paid invigilators – who seem to know what they are doing, thank God – are invigilating not just one but five different exams simultaneously. There are 218 students in the Luscombe Sports Hall this afternoon, scrawling, staring into the distance, sniffing, swigging water. Undergraduates all swig water these days. They have to, obviously. Because climate change has transformed exam halls everywhere into the Gobi Desert, thinks Dr Rossiter.

  I really hope Dr Rossiter does not get bored. I hope she doesn’t sneak out her phone and follow the Commons debate on the Same Sex Marriage Bill and end up thinking: Aggressive homosexual community? What’s that supposed to mean, dickbrain? The fags are arming? They’re herding us into Sound of Music sing-alongs at gunpoint? Oh, for fuck’s sake – a stepping stone to something further? Like what? The outlawing of heterosexual marriage? Compulsory queering lessons in all state schools?

  I really hope Dr Rossiter is not doing this, as it would not conform to the qualities looked for in an ideal chief invigilator.

  On Tuesday morning a little red car pulls out through the gatehouse of Lindchester Cathedral Close. It is driven by Miss Barbara Blatherwick. Beside her sits Freddie May, white-faced, in his newly dry-cleaned defendant’s suit. So far he’s held it together. He managed – just – not to go out and get off his tits last night. But he’s jittery, feels sick, like he’s hungover all the same. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes.

  Well, wouldn’t you be terrified? Isn’t that your idea of a nightmare, having to stand up in front of people and sing a solo? But that’s not the problem. You could stick Freddie in front of a packed Albert Hall and he’d say ‘Bring it on!’ He’s an adrenaline junkie. To him, performing is a rush, like bungee jumping, like black-water rafting.

  Miss Blatherwick negotiates the four-by-fours heading up the hill towards the Choristers’ School. Freddie keeps his eyes shut. He has suspected for a while that he’s wired up backwards. He’s phobic about shit normal people take in their stride. But it’s just this minute dawned on him that he’s even more terrified that people will spot his phobia, and despise him. Suddenly he hears his dad’s voice at all those karate gradings and contests: ‘Stop being such a girl! Man up, son! Fight back!’

  Yeah. Way to go, Dad. So here’s your grown-up son: he can kick the shit out of anyone who starts on him, but he can’t fill out a fucking job application by himself. I mean, hello? A seventy-eight-year-old woman is having to drive me to an interview! I’m still a girl, I’ve just learnt to hide it behind my ‘Hey, everyone, I’m a brain-fried fuck-up!’ act. Shit, Dad, I can’t man up, I just can’t do this reality thing, I want someone to look after me. Please. Please.

  Miss Blatherwick – once they are safely in the Lower Town – reaches over and squeezes Freddie’s arm.

  ‘Ah nuts. Now you made me cry. Miss B, what am I going to do without you?’

  Freddie doesn’t know, but Miss B has been plotting. She’s arranged to meet an old friend for tea in Barchester. She will confide in Christine. If Freddie gets this choral scholarship, Miss B can rest assured that there will be someone on hand who will take no nonsense, feed him homemade cake, and keep a special eye on her boy.

  And what about our boy Dominic? Who is keeping a special eye on him? Why, the archdeacon, of course. He’s not feeding him homemade cake, that’s not really his style, but he’s got a plan. It’s now Thursday afternoon. The archdeacon is in his office in William House, playing Hearts in the few minutes before Dominic is due to arrive. He does not play against Pauline, Michele and Ben. The archdeacon plays against the pope, the AB of C and Dr R. Dr R is currently winning. She kicks his door panel in, she murders his Mars bar, and now she’s whipping his ass at Hearts. The minx. But here’s Dominic.

  God, thought Dominic as he entered. Please not a harlequin patterned clerical shirt! ‘Afternoon, archdeacon.’

  ‘Afternoon, father. Take a pew. Get you anything? Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Dominic sat. The archdeacon beamed. Like a bloody sunlamp. Shine, Jesus, shine! ‘Well, I took a look, like you suggested.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ asked the archdeacon. ‘Think it might be a fit?’

  Dominic hesitated. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Bearing in mind this is not a good time to leave St John’s.’

  Dominic stared.

  ‘It’s never a good time to leave. Not if you’re doing your job properly.’

  ‘I’m not sure I am,’ said Dominic.

  ‘Aha, that funeral. Yep. Had a cracking green ink letter about that.’ An even broader beam. ‘Want to see my reply?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sure? I was very supportive.’ He stretched his long legs and crossed his ankles.

  Dominic spotted he was wearing black and white bloody harlequin socks to match his shirt.

  The archdeacon noted him spotting this, and l
aughed. ‘Look, friend, I may be a prat, but I know the difference between a good parish priest and a bad one. The folk at Lindford have just had first-hand experience of a real baddie. I’ll fill you in on that some time. Now, Bishop Paul’s been wanting a lively Evangelical Charismatic church— Wait,’ the archdeacon raised a hand. ‘I know you aren’t. Paul’s been wanting a Charismatic presence in Lindford for some time now. It’s daft that there isn’t one in a university town. But after this, nope. These folk just need someone to love them. Love them to bits. You da man, Dominic.’

  ‘I . . .’ Dominic felt tears surge up again. ‘That’s what the bishop wants?’

  ‘That is indeed what the bishop wants,’ said the archdeacon. ‘Though it’s possible the bishop is unaware of it.’

  Trinity Sunday. Another arcane jolly on Planet Church. Consubstantial co-eternal. Who can we get to preach? Who gets the short straw? Can we use flash paper again? No, you can’t. This week you must use water, ice and steam to illustrate the mystery of the Three-in-One. You may also catch your congregation out with the hymn ‘I bind unto myself today’, which changes tune halfway through without warning.

  It is now late on Sunday evening. The bishop (still unaware of what he wants) is unwinding with a well-earned glass of wine. House of Bishops: over. Trinity Sunday sermon: over. Catching up on admin: over. Freddie May problem: over. (He got the choral scholarship – thank you, Lord!) The bishop’s mobile rings. Local number, unknown caller. He very nearly doesn’t answer.

  ‘Is that the bishop of Lindchester? Sorry to bother you, sir. It’s the police. We have a Freddie May here.’

  Chapter 23

  The journey home from Lindford Police Station went like this.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, Paul. I’m sorry, OK? I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Freddie, for the last time, you have nothing to be sorry about. I know it wasn’t your fault.’