After Jane had told him all about her big bald suitor, Dominic told Jane all about his big bald archdeacon and the new job possibility in Lindford. (Eventually they will find out that they were talking about the same person.) Then they ordered a curry, drank a bottle of Malbec and descended into fond reminiscence about their theological college days, back when everyone agreed that, one way or another, homosexuality was a problem to be solved. An abomination to be repented of; or an immature phase to be got through on the path to heterosexual wholeness; or else a paternal love deficit that could be rectified by chaste manly hugs.
And now we’re trying to solve it with equal marriage, Jane did not say. She had no faith in marriage’s power to solve anything. It hadn’t solved female subjugation or male aggression, had it? As far as Jane could see, the only thing equal marriage might address was good old-fashioned sin. After centuries of being called sinners – even if you believed neither in God nor in sin – being able to rock up to the altar to be blessed, to be told you’re acceptable just as you are, yes, she saw that would help. That just might mend some of the hurt. God, we could all use a bit of mending.
‘Paul Henderson’s views haven’t actually moved on since he was in Latimer,’ said Dominic. ‘He’s just trained himself to sound more PC and caring.’
‘Well, some people are homophobes – get over it.’
‘Shut up. He votes against the bill, then he turns round and laments the C of E’s appalling track record with gay people on “Thought for the Day”! Did you hear him? Thanks for your pastoral support there, bishop. Fucking hypocrite!’
‘Oh well.’ Jane yawned. ‘The Church moves at the pace of the slowest.’
‘Excuse me? Did I just hear you defending the Church?’
‘Did you? You did. God, I must be drunk.’
Jane was not really listening to herself. She was wondering whether Paul still believed that there was an element of choice in sexual orientation. Whether that friend of his – the one who had wrestled through his teens, before applying himself successfully to project heterosexuality – whether this friend was still joyously married and utterly fulfilled. And whether the friend had in fact been Paul himself. She yawned again, stretched, and said nothing. Dominic was right: secrets are safe with Jane.
The big bald archdeacon has been on a gleaning mission to Lindford Police Station, where he has friends. This is not surprising, as he was himself a police officer before he went into the ordained ministry. He’s learnt that the incident involving Freddie May has indeed been flagged as a hate crime, but there is no CCTV footage. An off-the-record chat established that the police have a fair idea who the perpetrators are, but no witnesses other than Freddie, who was, um, hazy in his recall of events. It probably would not be worth the CPS’s time trying to bring it to court. Even further off the record was the reaction, ‘Way to go, poof!’ when the archdeacon touched on the matter of Freddie’s robust martial arts-based self-defence. A flavour of this conversation has been conveyed by the archdeacon to young tarty-pants, who’d been busy convincing himself he was guilty of manslaughter. Freddie sobbed with relief into the archdeacon’s checked clerical shirt, then offered him a quickie. Numpty.
We are now in Ordinary Time. Or what passes for ordinary on Planet Anglicanism. Father Wendy is on her way to London for the Enough Food IF rally in Hyde Park. You are a good woman, Wendy. No wonder the bishop is sending you a curate to train. I’m sorry that the curate is prickly and still very put out that you will be her training incumbent, rather than the rector of Risley Hill, as originally planned. You may need to dig deep to make this relationship work, I’m afraid.
Chapter 25
Father Wendy needs help with the curate’s house in Carding-le-Willow. She’s trying to keep this in proper perspective – and after her weekend in London, she ought to be able to do this, surely? To bear the G8 Summit in her thoughts and prayers? But oh dear, it’s turning into such a scramble to get everything ready in time for Virginia’s deaconing at Petertide.
Here’s what has happened: the PCC pays annually into a decorating fund, which the diocese then matches, but this has only stretched to getting a firm in to do the downstairs. But what about the upstairs? The diocesan housing officer can find money for paint, but not for labour, and asks whether parishioners could lend a hand? But Wendy’s parishioners tend to come in three categories: they are either at work, or looking after small children, or liable to fall off a ladder and break a hip. This leaves Madge, a nurse who’s just taken early retirement, and even Madge the Miracle can’t get it all done before the date when Virginia intends to move in. And Virginia is very clear about her intentions. So Wendy (feeling pathetic and a nuisance) picks up the phone and calls the archdeacon.
Ah, gone are the days when curates could be expected to move uncomplainingly into houses that the diocese has yet to decorate, rewire or indeed purchase. Gone, too, are the days of low-key training by example and general encouragement. It’s all form-filling and targets and reviews now. Yes, the world of management has invaded the C of E. Unfortunately, it has not brought with it the financial and personnel support required by such professionalization, so the structures rest upon wafer-thin admin. Which means archdeacon Matt works his checked socks off keeping the diocesan plates spinning, with only 0.5 of a PA.
Still, the archdeacon is very happy to troubleshoot in this instance, because Wendy is cheerful, hard-working and low maintenance. (And because he suspects her new curate may prove to be a royal pain in the arse if the house isn’t sorted.) So he tells Wendy he’ll send her a volunteer worker for the week. All she needs to do is provide lunch and point him towards the rollers and cans of magnolia. It’s not really magnolia – it’s the closest match Wendy and Madge could find to Virginia’s Farrow and Ball choices: ‘Lime White’, ‘Matchstick’, ‘Dimity’ and ‘String’. Or, as Madge thinks of it, ‘Fifty Shades of Pus’.
It’s Monday morning. Madge is standing in the avocado bath in 16 Lime Crescent, Carding-le-Willow. The bathroom window is open. She can hear the raindrops pattering down onto the overgrown garden, and music coming from the main bedroom where the archdeacon’s volunteer is supposed to be sanding down the woodwork. Madge cannot hear much sanding going on, but she’s not prepared to police him. Not her problem. She did not just bail out of the whole NHS nightmare in order to run around shouldering other people’s responsibilities.
She goes back to scrubbing the grouting. Damn. Nothing’s going to shift that mildew. She’ll have to re-grout, or Miss Virginia Farrow-Ball will be complaining to the archbishop. A blackbird sings in the lilac tree. Madge breathes in. Lilac and bleach. Next door her co-worker starts singing along to his music. ‘Don’t worry, be happy!’ That would be nice, thinks Madge. I used to be happy. Till the shit-storm of work got to me. She looks down at her bare feet in the bath. Hey, remember when we used to dance, feet? We’ll do that again sometime, OK? But right now there’s grot to bust. She starts humming along. Be happy.
Virginia is not the only new deacon-to-be who will shortly arrive in the diocese of Lindchester. At the end of June Bishop Paul will be priesting last year’s eight deacons on one Sunday, and the following Sunday he will ordain nine men and women deacon. I’m aware that ranks and orders in the C of E can be very confusing to outsiders. How does Anglican hierarchy work? Who ranks higher, a dean or an archdeacon? That’s a trick question in a way: both are priests. I will now lean forward confidentially and murmur an explanation in the reader’s ear.
There are only three ranks in the C of E: deacon, priest and bishop. The order of deacon these days amounts to little more than a probationary year, after which – unless the deacon blots his or her prayer book or jumps ship – priesthood automatically follows. An extremely gifted and well-educated priest, with clear leadership potential and a willy, may then progress to the office of bishop. And that’s it. (An archbishop is just a bishop, only with more knobs on.)
These, then, are the three orders of the C of E. Three
orders, but many jobs. Here’s where the fun starts. A priest might be employed in any of the following jobs: rector, vicar, cathedral canon (precentor/chancellor/custos), chaplain (hospital/armed forces/school/prison), area dean, cathedral dean, archdeacon, prebendary, priest vicar choral, team vicar, priest-in-charge, diocesan education officer, theological college tutor/principal, director of ordinands, and so on. Priests may be stipendiary or non-stipendiary, they may be OLM (ordained local minister) or free range. They may retire, but they still remain priests and can lurk in the crem and take funeral services. It is indeed very confusing.
And now it’s Tuesday. St Barnabas Day. Barnabas, Son of Encouragement. I’m afraid our friend the bishop is not busy encouraging Matt by appointing a fellow archdeacon to share the load. No, he is off for a top-secret interview about which I can tell you nothing. Not even his chaplain or Penelope his PA know where he’s going and what it’s about.
Paul is aware that at some point during this mysterious interview he will be invited to spill the beans about anything in his background that might be a problem should the press get hold of it. (My son is a loan shark/drug addict. I was done for drunk driving back in the 1980s. That kind of thing.) Paul’s problem is that he can’t think of anything. He had a great-uncle who was an alcoholic. One of his daughters married a Baptist. This is footling, but that’s genuinely all there is. He does not even have a problem with booze and internet porn, for heaven’s sake! Yes, there is a real gap in Paul Henderson’s CV in the wild oats section.
All this will happen in a secret venue outside the diocesan boundaries, and therefore beyond the remit of this tale. However, as your author, I am willing to use my discretion and tell you briefly how it will play out. It will go something like this.
At some point as he sits facing the panel, Paul will remove his jacket (the room will be warm). He will drape it across a chair and begin to confess that he has nothing to confess. Whereupon something will tumble out of his suit pocket and roll across the floor in front of the astonished gaze of his inquisitors.
Fortunately for those of us who care about Bishop Paul, this something will prove to be a pink plastic yoyo out of a cracker, because Paul has not worn this particular suit since Christmas Day. You panic far too easily, dear reader.
It is a bit odd that Susanna hasn’t found the yoyo and removed it, mind you. She is usually meticulous about going through pockets before hanging up or laundering her husband’s tossed-down clothes. (Now that is a grave fault Paul might have confessed, had he thought of it. Many marriages have foundered on the rock of tossed-down clothes.) Susanna has rescued all manner of stuff in the past. Coins, £20 notes, orders of service, mobile phones, wallets, vital business cards, slices of cake wrapped in paper napkins. She’s checking his pockets right now, in fact, before sending off his charcoal grey pinstripe to the dry-cleaners.
Liquid Gold? What on earth can this be? Susanna pops on her reading glasses. Room Odorisor. She unscrews the lid to see what it smells of. Sweetish, yet slightly—
What—? Oh, goodness!
Heaven pounces upon the bishop’s wife. There’s a madman at the dial of her pulse: he ratchets it up higher, higher, faster, faster. She’s going to die! She staggers to the bed. A minute or two later it all subsides, but the poor thing is left with such a blinding headache she has to spend the afternoon sleeping it off.
We will tiptoe away and leave her in peace, and see how the decorating is going over in Carding-le-Willow on the afternoon of day two. Let’s find out how Madge is faring with the Son of Encouragement the archdeacon has sent.
‘That’s not clever!’
‘But ma-a-an, is it big.’
‘How old are you? Eight? You paint over it right now!’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘No. And turn that down. Why aren’t you working?’
‘Jus’ waiting for the undercoat to dry. Hey, dontcha love this song?’
‘I don’t believe this! You’re stoned.’
‘Nope. No way. Not me. Hallelujah!’
‘Don’t lie to me, sunshine. I know weed when I smell it.’
‘Nu-uh! That’s paint fumes. Wanna dance? Aw, c’mon.’
Madge thrust the roller at him. ‘I’m serious! Stop laughing.’ Damn. He was setting her off now. ‘Paint over that thing now, or I’m calling the archdeacon.’
‘God bless Mother Nature!’
Suddenly Madge felt a nostalgic tug of yearning for a toke, for those years when she was a student nurse in London and it rained men, it actually flipping did. She tossed down the roller. ‘Freddie May, you’re a ba-a-ad influence.’
‘Yeah! Work it, girlfriend! Nice moves for an old lady! Hallelujah!’
Wendy hesitates on the doorstep with the key. She looks up at the open bedroom window. How long is it since she’s heard Madge laugh like that?
‘Well, Lulu, shall we just leave them to it? I know, we’ll pop to the shops and get them some cake and come back at teatime.’
Lulu thumps her tail twice at the word ‘cake’, then hauls herself up and hobbles back down the garden path after Wendy.
It’s raining. Not men, just rain; rain over the whole diocese of Lindchester. The river is rising. Rain gets in under the perspex on the cathedral notice board and runs down the Dorian Singers’ poster, buckling it.
Rain rolls down the palace windows. It’s Saturday and Susanna is baking again. She is surrounded by cooling muffins. She’ll take one to Paul once she’s iced them. He’s upstairs in his study preparing a sermon. Freddie is off out somewhere.
Oh, if only she hadn’t googled it! She knows she should say something. And she will! It’s just finding a tactful moment. Paul’s under such pressure. Oh, it’s probably just her being silly as usual. There will turn out to be a perfectly innocent explanation, and they’ll both laugh at her getting into a tizzy about nothing again!
But Susanna has yet to come up with the innocent explanation for the bottle of amyl nitrite hidden in her husband’s pocket. Believe me: she’s tried. (Medication? Paul is keeping a secret heart condition from her?) Which leaves . . . Which is clearly nonsense!
The rain switches sharply to hail. It clatters and bounces against the kitchen window. What was the song she used to sing to their little girls?
Rainy, rainy, rattle stones, don’t rain on me.
Rain on John O’Groat’s house, far across the sea.
Decorating done. Next week, the garden. Madge locks up at 16 Lime Crescent and gets on her bike. She cycles home in the rain. As she pedals she laughs. She laughs and sings. Hallelujah! It may be painted over, but she will always know that there’s a giant todger standing to attention over Miss Virginia Farrow-Ball’s bed. Amen!
Chapter 26
Midsummer. Wild roses scramble up embankments and over hedges. Down by Gresham’s Boats tourists clash punt poles on the Linden. The tea shops of Lindchester are bustling. Undergraduates, released from exam bondage, make day trips to Historic Lindchester to picnic on its riverbanks and chunder on its cobbles.
The Dorian Singers’ concert this coming Saturday is sold out. I fear we must attribute their popularity as much to the theme music for that TV drama as to their technical brilliance. Many of our favourite people will be there in the audience. Some will have complimentary tickets and sit on the front row covertly reading a Bible commentary; others will be unable to afford a ticket, and will sell programmes instead, then lean on a pillar, gaze hungrily at the director, and drift off into Dorianland for a spot of choral sex.
Wendy will be there. She’s bought a ticket for Madge as well, to say thank you for all her help with the curate’s house. Jane and Dominic are going, but sitting in the cheap seats a long way from the stage. This may not matter too much, because it is the Dorian Singers, and who knows where those nutters will sing from? The cathedral administrator, a very nice gentleman called Terrence Hodgeson nearing retirement, has risked life and limb inching along narrow walkways up in the clerestory with the canon prec
entor, whimpering ‘Health and safety!’ and begging Giles not to allow the Dorian Singers up here.
It is Monday. Freddie – nose mending and black eyes faded to a pair of dark circles – is back in the bishop’s office after his week of painting and decorating. Penelope has already confiscated the stapler and told him to step away from the guillotine. In desperation, she’s given him the Dorian Singers’ photocopied programmes to fold.
‘No! Hugo Milton-Hayes? No way! I was at school with him. How come he’s in the Dorian Singers? Fucking drama queen countertenor. Huh.’
‘Is it Dorian as in Dorian Gray?’ asked Penelope.
‘I’m guessing Dorian mode? Like the white notes, D to D on the keyboard?’ Freddie sang it for her.
‘How on earth do you know? Have you got perfect pitch?’
‘Nah, I can just like remember what a D sounds like?’
‘That is perfect pitch,’ hissed Martin without looking round.
‘No, Marty, it’s actually pseudo-absolute pitch.’ Freddie prowled across to where Martin was sitting.
‘Freddie, leave!’ shouted Penelope, in her best dog-training voice.
‘Wha-a-at? I was just going to give him a back rub.’
‘Well, don’t. You know he doesn’t like it.’
Must we go through this soap opera every single day, thought Martin. The pathetic ‘Look at me, aren’t I a naughty boy?’ routine, which Penelope simply colludes with. Martin clenched his teeth so hard his ears started ringing.
‘What can wash away my stain? Nothing but the—’
‘Excuse me?’ Martin snapped. ‘Some of us are trying to work.’
But Freddie raised his voice till it filled the office. ‘What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.’
Acts and Omissions Page 16
