Thumbs up. Another bout of dry-retching. ‘Gah. Ffff . . . kinell.’ He spits on the gravel.
‘Lovely, Frederick.’
Freddie straightens, then peels up his vest and wipes his face with it.
‘Right. Good. Well, do join Susanna and me for lunch if you’d like to.’ The bishop sets off for the cathedral. As he walks he labours to erase that musclescape – abs! pecs! piercings! – from his mind.
And suddenly he remembers. Gropes in his jacket pocket. Pats himself down. Gone! It was this suit, wasn’t it, the charcoal grey pinstripe? Never say it’s fallen out somewhere! Has Suze found it? Oh, Lord! The awful hilarity of it seizes him. Later. He’ll have to worry about this later.
It is not the intention of this narrative to visit evil upon its characters. We may rely upon the characters to run into trouble quite unaided. But for today, in Lindchester Cathedral in the Ordination of Priests, all is well. Virginia, hiding in a side aisle, watches Bishop Paul’s face on the screen as he lays his hands on the head of each candidate in turn. She sees the care, the tenderness there. ‘Send down the Holy Spirit on your servant for the office and work of a priest in your Church.’ Next week, God willing, she will be able to approach that new doorway, knowing a friendly presence is waiting to greet her on the other side.
Yes, all is well. Paul gets the names of all the candidates right. Nobody gets a heel stuck down an aisle grating, or stands on the back hem of their cassock when kneeling. Nobody’s phone goes off. The retired bishop who led the ordination retreat preaches well. The small person stating very audibly, ‘But I have to go now!’ gets there in time. Nobody knocks over a full chalice. No lay clerk is caught smirking on CCTV, even when singing the phrase ‘vibrating love’ (tune: Danny Boy).
During the Benedictus the terrifying Mr Dorian closes his eyes and smiles when the tenor solo line comes in. He breathes in – ah! – as though he can smell the apricots ripening on heaven’s terrace.
Kind of average, my arse, Mr May.
JULY
Chapter 28
If the diocese of Lindchester were a dog, it would be panting in the shade with its tongue lolled out. Tarmac melts on the roads. Everywhere, the scent of lime blossom. The Close is woozy with it. Oh, the bees, the fainting bees! All the livelong day. And at night honeyed breath creeps through open windows, where naked bodies sprawl under thin sheets, un-Englishly. Come slowly – Eden! Lips unused to thee – The songbirds have fallen silent. No dawn chorus. Just the sleepy wheeze of the greenfinch, the scream of swifts, the ke-wick! ke-wick! and answering hoo-hoo-hooo! of owls in the dark.
This is the second week of the heatwave. Friday will be end of term for schools in the region. Too hot for those Leavers hoodies, but not too hot for egg and flour fights, or scrawling your name all over your classmates’ white school shirt, or getting shit-faced behind the gym on vodka disguised in Pepsi bottles, mentioning no names but watch my eyes, Felix Littlechild. Or for jumping fully clad into the school pool and breaking your ankle: yes, you, don’t look at your friend, Lukas Littlechild. (Why are clergy children always the worst?)
The ordination of deacons has taken place. Virginia is now curate of the parishes of All Saints, Carding-le-Willow, St Martin’s, Cardingforth, St Mary’s, Holy Trinity, and the King’s Café Church, Lingmorton. That should keep her out of mischief. Father Dominic is busy preparing a ten-minute presentation for his upcoming interview, and getting weepy at the thought of having to break the news to St John’s that he’s leaving – if he gets the Lindford job, that is.
Choral term has ended. The cathedral choir is on holiday until their tour to Germany in two weeks’ time. Visiting choirs, ranging from ‘rather good’ through to ‘execrable’, will hold the fort over the summer. The visitors traditionally offer two things: they sing the weekend services, and – by their lack of volume, or their hubristic choice of repertoire – remind everyone how excellent the cathedral choir actually is. Unfortunately (fortunately?), the choir scheduled for this coming weekend had to cancel. Giles has scrambled to arrange cover: Byrd’s Mass for Three Voices will be sung by his loyal wife, a bass lay clerk, willing to sing for free(!), and the lovely Freddie May, basically a tart, willing to do anything.
At least it’s cool in the cathedral. Dr Jane Rossiter, in her doctoral gown (that is what it is called; it is not called a Scarlet Whore of Babylon gown), is very glad that this is the venue for Poundstretcher University’s graduation ceremonies. It is Wednesday morning. She sits with her colleagues and tries to keep the ‘oh, for fuck’s sake!’ look off her face, in case the camera strays in her direction as the Dean of Faculty stumbles through the obstacle course of names. Böröcz, Knyazev, Zhōu.
Earlier the Close sounded like a film set for a Regency coaching epic, with the clopping of stilettos on cobbles. The chancellor looks each graduand earnestly in the eye, always the eye, as he shakes their hand. ‘Congratulations, all the best for your future. Congratulations, all the best for your future.’ His gaze never wavers to the skirt, which is often shorter than the heels are high.
What a carry-on, thinks Jane, whose degrees were awarded in absentia. New outfits, manicures, hair appointments, photos. It’s like a bloody wedding. What has made these pieces of paper and their attendant ceremonies such a big deal again? Obviously, it’s a monster fed by consumerism; but is there more? Some echoing emotional void here? The absence of proper local communities? Of God? Or is it just the generation pendulum swinging predictably back towards all things traditional?
Such are the musings of Dr Jane Rossiter during the Faculty of Farts and Inhumanities graduation. But then she is distracted by her phone vibrating. Mindful of the cameras, she waits till the new graduates are filing out in procession before she checks. Ha! a message from wazzock chef. A link to YouTube. She clicks on it. And snorts. Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’. Jane concludes from this that wazzock chef definitely works at Poundstretcher, or else he wouldn’t have known she’d be in her gown today.
The archdeacon of Lindchester is just arriving at Lindford for the interview, when his phone vibrates. A message from Dr R. A YouTube link: ‘These Boots are Made for Walking’. He’s still grinning as he enters the parish church hall, where the churchwardens are waiting with the candidate. By this evening Father Dominic Todd will have two things to celebrate: Royal Assent will be given to the Same Sex Marriage Bill, and he will have a new job.
Freddie May is wearing pink this afternoon. Yeah, take that, haters. The Queen fixes it for queens. He’s in a pink vest and pink board shorts. He’s very tanned. In fact, after many hours spent on the palace roof, he has (ssh!) no tan lines. Penelope is on annual leave and Fuckwit1 is off chauffeuring the bishop to something. Freddie is in the office alone.
Uh-oh.
But wait, Freddie May is actually behaving himself for once. He has done those admin tasks which he ought to have done, he has left undone the hacking which he ought not to have done, and is innocently running through his part for Sunday’s Byrd Mass, when a hassled young mother arrives with two little girls in gingham school frocks.
It is Becky Rogers. She’s early for hand-over time, but banking on being able to dump the girls on Penelope while she dashes to the dentist for an emergency appointment. Wisdom tooth. The poor thing is demented with pain and co-codamol. Here’s what happens.
‘She’s on holiday? Oh no, this was the only slot they had! Um, when is the children’s father due back?’
‘Say five, maybe? It’s cool, leave them with me.’ Freddie saw her expression. ‘Um, hello? I’m CRB-checked to death. The choristers?’
‘That’s not . . . No! I didn’t mean . . .’ Yeah, you did, thought Freddie, watching her go red. ‘I don’t want to impose on you.’
‘No worries.’
Becky looked at her watch. Pressed a hand to her throbbing jaw. ‘Girls, will you be all right with Freddie? Mummy won’t be long.’
‘Promise you’ll bring us sweets and a comic?’ said the older girl.
<
br /> ‘Well, I don’t know, we’ll have to see.’
‘Daddy always buys us sweets and a comic.’
‘I said we’ll see, Leah. Well, if you’re sure, Freddie? Thanks. You’re a star.’ She pushed her hand through her damp hair, battling with tears. ‘Right then. Mummy’s going now, girls. OK? Don’t pester Freddie. Just read your books and play quietly. They have my mobile number if there’s a problem. Bye, girls. Be good. All right? Bye now.’
‘Bye, Mummy,’ said the little one. The older girl ignored her.
The door closed. Becky’s footsteps crunched off across the gravel drive.
Freddie looked at his two charges. The older one was in Fuckwit1’s chair pretending to read her Horrible History book. Man. Had she got that passive-aggressive shit nailed. The younger one was sucking her hair and gazing up at him.
‘So, ladies. Whatcha wanna do?’
‘We’re not ladies, we’re girls,’ hissed Leah. ‘And we’re not talking to you, because we hate you.’
Back at ya, kiddo. He looked at the little one. Jessica? ‘How about you? You hate me?’
Jessica gave him a heart-melting smile, shook her head. Then froze when big sis shot her the evil eye.
‘So who’s this?’ Freddie squatted to look at the doll Jessica was swinging by the legs. ‘Punk Barbie? Awesome haircut!’
‘I did it.’
‘You did? Awesome. Yep, that is one kick-ass Barbie. Maybe give her some tattoos as well?’
‘She’s not allowed,’ said Leah from behind her book.
‘Not allowed, huh?’ Freddie shrugged at Jessica.
She shrugged back, then whispered, ‘Actually, now I need a new Barbie coz I can’t style this one’s hair any more.’
‘It’s your own fault,’ said Leah. ‘You’ve got to learn.’
‘Listen, tell you what – you can style mine.’ Freddie sat cross-legged.
‘She’s not allowed.’
‘She so is. Go ahead, Jess.’
Jessica opened her Barbie backpack and found a pink hairbrush. She stood behind him. He could hear her breathing. Then very gently, the plastic bristles touched his scalp. Tugged. Smoothed. He sighed. Man. How long since anyone had brushed his hair? Maybe Miss B, combing for nits back in the day? Or his mum, even? Brush, brush, brush.
Breath in his ear. ‘Freddie?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Why have you got ear rings in your chest?’
Ri-i-ight. He rearranged his vest, smothered a laugh. ‘Um, coz I like how it looks?’
‘It’s because he’s gay, stupid.’
He felt the hairbrush flinch. ‘I know.’
‘No, you don’t. You don’t know anything, baby. You don’t even know what gay means.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Liar. What does it mean, then?’
‘Not telling.’ The brushing started up again, double tempo.
‘Ha ha ha. See? You don’t know. It’s when men have sex with men. They suck each other’s willies and stick them up each other’s bums, that’s what it means. Ask him, if you don’t believe me.’
‘Hey, hey! Way out of order.’ Ah nuts. Now the little one was gonna cry. ‘First of all, that’s not what it means, OK? It’s about who you love, not what you do. And second of all, why don’t I steal us each a Magnum from Susanna’s freezer?’
‘You’re not allowed.’
Screw you. ‘Is that right? Well, if you’re scared, I’ll steal one each for Jess and me, and you can just read your book.’
‘I’m not scared, for your information,’ said Leah. ‘I want a white one.’
He cupped a hand round his ear. ‘Magic word?’
Evil eye again. ‘Avada kedavra.’
A moment later he was hanging over the open chest freezer, soaking up the cold. Gah, un-fucking-believable! Eight-year-old girl, hating on me! Witch. Yeah, but to be fair, probably some older kid in the playground told her, and she was just passing on the joy to little sister, the way you do. Kind of, ha ha ha, there’s no Tooth Fairy.
Ew, flashback! Hadn’t thought about that for ever. Back when he’d be like, thirteen?
Ah, it was nothing.
Just this older guy, this grown-up? First real snog. No biggie. Except, even now he had no words for how wrong that felt. And the guy was all, ‘Ooh, so you don’t like that? Then don’t come on to me, kid.’
Freddie fished out three ice creams and shut the freezer. But back then I was still a kid! Mother Nature suddenly gives me this totally insane new toy, and I’m, y’know, all, whoa! Flying skateboard, everybody! And figuring out what it can do? Then you had to slap me down. You had to be all, ‘That’s right, cry-baby – Santa’s dead.’
Easy to forget how sick and scary the grown-up world feels to kids, thought Freddie, as he went back through to the bishop’s office.
‘Everything all right, Freddie?’ asks the bishop, after Martin has gone home with the girls.
So what’s he gonna do – grass up an eight-year-old girl for hurting his feelings? ‘Yeah, fine, thanks.’
But the bishop, with his finely calibrated Freddie barometer, knows he is lying.
Hot, hot, unbearably hot. Little Jessica is twisty and weepy and she can’t sleep. Daddy opens the window wide and gets her water with ice cubes. He takes away the duvet and tucks her up under just a sheet. She whispers a question.
‘It’s not true, is it, what Leah said?’
‘What did Leah say?’
Jessica hides under the sheet and says it.
Martin tightens in shock. ‘Oh, take no notice. That’s probably something Leah heard some big children saying. She’s got no business repeating it to you, because it’s private grown-up stuff that little girls can forget about till they are a lot, lot older. Night, night, darling.’
Then he goes to confront Leah and tells her he’s Very Disappointed.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Leah doesn’t look up from her Horrible History. ‘Freddie told us.’
Chapter 29
Martin followed the correct procedure. He made a note of what had been told him. He did not investigate the allegation himself. He did not contact the alleged perpetrator. Instead, he waited a few days and rang Jan Lewis, the cathedral safeguarding officer. Jan was on holiday, so Martin was referred to the diocesan safeguarding officer. He reported the matter to her, and followed it up with an email summarizing his grievance. And then Martin took his daughters to Normandy for two weeks, to stay with his parents, his sister and her family, who had hired a farmhouse. Somewhere remote, somewhere with no mobile signal or internet connection. Because he really needed to get a proper break, away from it all.
We are now in the holiday season. The bishop and his wife have taken theirs early this year, so that they can be back in the country when daughter number three has her second baby in August. The Hendersons are in Corfu. They chose this destination because Susanna had always wanted to go there, ever since reading My Family and Other Animals in her teens. Insufficient research led her to pick Kavos as an ideal spot to begin their two-week tour. Freddie wept with laughter when he heard this. He was driving them to Birmingham airport at the time, and the bishop had to shout at him to watch the road.
He dropped them off. Thursday afternoon. He was supposed to drive straight back to Lindchester. But hey. Who was gonna know? He could go anywhere. Literally? Well, if he had any money, that is. Got his new passport – thanks, Miss B. Taken him in hand yet again, so he’d be able to go with the choir on tour, beef up the back row, lend a hand supervising the choristers.
Oops, not concentrating. Looks like he was on the M42 south by mistake. Might as well go to London. His phone rang, but he didn’t answer it. Couldn’t risk a ticket while twocking the bishop’s car. Later, when he checked, it was only some HR person in the diocesan offices wanting to see him. It could wait till Monday.
And now it’s Monday. Helene Carter is at her desk in Diocesan House. In front of her is Freddie’s file. I should probably explain th
at Helene, the diocesan safeguarding officer, is new. Brought in two months ago from the public sector, to move the diocese on from the flawed child-protection practices of the past, in the teeth of offended parishioners muttering ‘political correctness gone mad’. It is her duty, at all times and in all places, to implement current good practice, as outlined in Protecting All God’s Children.
Our good friend the archdeacon has just had an email from Helene. He thunks his forehead with the heel of his hand. What’s the Close tart been up to now? Great timing, with Jan on holiday. Normally they’d get this done and dusted with the minimum fallout.
Perhaps you have already begun to suspect that Matt has a bit of a tricky-Dickie reputation? He’s sharp on process, as is seemly in an archdeacon, but he’s capable of ducking and weaving. He’s flexible in his definition of what constitutes a ‘temporary’ change to a church building, for example, when it comes to granting faculties. He is frowning now about Helene. High-powered lady – he’d been in on the interviews – but with the best will in the world, she’s not had time to get her head around the C of E. She doesn’t speak the lingo or get what makes people tick yet. All righty. Time to bring her up to speed on the background here. He sets off for her office on the other side of William House. We will listen in on their conversation.
‘Thank you for coming, Matt.’
‘No probs,’ said the archdeacon. ‘But before we kick off – just so you’re not blindsided – you’re aware there’s a spot of history here?’
‘Yes. But as far as I can see, Matt, none of it’s germane to the issue.’ She ran her eyes down the list. Credit card fraud, theft, unauthorized taking of a motor vehicle, affray, possession of Class B drugs. ‘No record of any concern about his fitness to work with children.’
‘Good.’ He sat. ‘But I meant history between Martin and Freddie. Basically they hate each other’s guts.’
He watched her make a note of what he had just alleged. Ooo-kay. Nothing was off the record, then.
Acts and Omissions Page 18
