‘Thank you. But we have to keep an open mind.’
‘For sure.’
Helene then outlined the diocesan safeguarding policy for him.
Now, the archdeacon was a big easy-going secure guy. It was not easy to patronize him. But heck, she was giving it a whirl. ‘Yep. Got that, thanks.’
‘I’m just underlining the fact that we need to be above reproach, Matt.’
‘We certainly do, Helene.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘All righty. Hit me with it.’
She handed him a print-off of Martin’s email. It had bullet points. The archdeacon was not overfond of bullet points. It alleged that Freddie had violated good practice by:
undertaking to supervise two young girls alone without another adult chaperone
inappropriate language
emotional abuse in discussing subject matter beyond the developmental capacity of six- and eight-year-old girls, i.e. giving explicit descriptions of oral and anal sex between adult men
inappropriate behaviour by exposing himself and showing them his nipple rings
encouraging inappropriate physical contact by inciting them to brush his hair
rewarding inappropriate behaviour and encouraging secrecy by giving them ice creams.
Martin, Martin, Martin. Really? The odd cheeky expletive, maybe. But explicit descriptions of oral and anal sex? Getting his tits out? That didn’t sound like Freddie. (Well, not to an audience of little girls, anyway.) Then again, was it likely Martin would fabricate that? Or his daughters? Clearly something must have gone on. Hmm. The archdeacon had encountered the Rogers girls more than once. Older one was a right little madam.
‘Well, for what it’s worth, my hunch is that this will prove groundless. Out of interest, is this what both daughters allege?’ He watched her make a note of his hunch. ‘Or just the older girl?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that.’
‘Well, can we find out?’
‘Not for a fortnight, Matt. They’re away on holiday in France. Martin made it clear he wouldn’t be contactable.’
Dumping the bombshell then scooting off. Nice. ‘Well, let’s get Freddie in and hear his side of the story.’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him. We have to suspend him immediately, of course, pending investigation.’
‘From what? Folding the hymn-sheets? Mowing the cathedral lawn? Come on.’
‘No, Matt. From any role that involves contact with children.’ She consulted Freddie’s file. ‘My understanding is that he’s a “choir chaperone”, which is why we have a CRB certificate for him.’
‘Fair point.’ Yep. Probably no wiggle room there. Lucky it was the vacation.
‘The issue is the choir tour next week.’
Oh, bugger. The archdeacon rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Look, any chance we can get this cleared up before then?’
‘Well, that’s going to be problematic, Matt, with Martin away.’
The archdeacon contemplated the situation. On the one hand, the fan. On the other, the shit pile. Lovely. He was beginning to think there must be a new sub-clause to Sod’s Law: if something can go wrong, it’ll go wrong to Freddie May.
‘Look, assuming his account holds up, and we can get hold of Martin for some clarification, Freddie could presumably still go? Just thinking out loud here. Let’s get the canon precentor in the loop. If he ensures there’s another adult present at all times—’
‘No, Matt. We have to suspend him immediately. You’re asking me to bend the rules for one individual.’
The archdeacon reminded himself that shaking someone till her teeth rattled might be construed as bullying in the workplace. ‘I’m not asking you to bend the rules, I’m suggesting you stand back for a second, use a bit of common sense and interpret the rules. Let’s find a way to head this one off before it turns into a total mare.’
There was a silence. She made another note. ‘Just for the record, Matt, my job is to interpret and apply the rules. That’s what I’m doing. Protecting children is paramount.’
The archdeacon cooled his jets. ‘Yep. Absolutely. Sorry if anything I’ve said implied otherwise. I apologize.’
‘Accepted.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He got up to go. ‘Keep me posted. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
Her expression suggested the only thing he could do for her right now was go and fry his face. ‘I will. Thank you, Matt.’
The archdeacon headed back to his own office. He ran over what he’d said, saw how it sounded like he was suggesting they should sweep it under the carpet, just like the Church in the bad old days. He closed his eyes. Now he’d bollocksed things up even more comprehensively for young tarty-pants. He’d raised the stakes. Helene was going to do this by the book. To the letter. (Which was only right and proper.) And he couldn’t even contact Freddie and warn him what was coming, because that would contaminate the process. All he could do was wait. And pray.
The weather has turned. The princess is admitted to the maternity ward. At evening prayer, the precentor has everyone saying the litany for once.
That it may please thee to preserve all that travel by land or water,
all women labouring of child,
all sick persons, all young children;
and to shew thy pity on all prisoners and captives,
We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.
The princess is delivered of a baby boy. Huzzah! Huzzah! But in the distance, at the edge of things, we can hear the muttering and trampling of thunder.
It is not till Thursday that Freddie returns and bothers to present himself at Helene’s office. It’s a total mare all right. When it ends – abruptly, with Freddie hurling himself out in tears – Helene turns to the archdeacon.
‘Does someone need to be with him?’
‘I’m on it.’
It’s raining. A month’s rain in an hour. The River Linden rises. Thunder rips the sky.
From lightning and tempest,
Good Lord, deliver us.
He caught up with Freddie at the palace door.
‘It so wasn’t like that? I would never do that! He hates me, dude. He fucking hates me. Coz I’m gay? Ah, fuck. That bitch suspended me? Un-fucking-believable! Like, guilty till proven—? Oh God, fuck, what am I gonna do, Matt? Everyone will be all, hey, what’s wrong, why aren’t you in Germany, Freddie?’
From envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness,
Good Lord, deliver us.
‘Listen to me: don’t just hit the self-destruct button, Freddie. Let’s get you off the Close. Got anyone you can go and stay with? Your mum?’
‘Dude, she’s in Argentina? That’s like six, seven hundred quid?’
‘True, I’d forgotten. Your dad—’
‘No!’
‘Hey, hey. C’mere. Man hug. I know, I know. It sucks.’ He ran through a list of clergy good in this kind of crisis. Dominic Todd – older gay guy? Or a woman? Wendy Styles? Or who? ‘Think of anyone?’
‘No, I dunno, I’m— Maybe Janey? Ah, there’s no point. She’ll be on holiday. Ah shit. Why would he do that?’
‘I know. But let’s focus, OK? Let’s try your friend and take it from there.’
Jane is standing at the door of Danny’s bedroom. The light dims. Storm coming. She really should tidy the fecker. What’s the big problem? She’s acting as though he’s dead, and this is his shrine, her last link to her boy. Does she fear, at some level, that if she tidies up, he will never return? Get a grip, you daft cow.
Lightning flickers. She counts. Just like she used to with Danny when he was little. Three, four, five. A rumble shakes the windows. How far away is five? She’s never known.
No, she still can’t do it. It’ll take for ever. She knows she’ll weep over every sock, every plectrum. Because she’ll be packing away his childhood, and the whole of Project Motherhood. No. Come on, gal. Just blitz it. Bang. Done. Tidy. She needs a kick up the arse to get started, that’s all.
AUGUST
Chapter 30
Rain. Rain over the whole diocese of Lindchester. Biblical rain. Gresham’s Boats is closed for business until the River Linden returns to normal levels. The Lower Town is on amber flood alert. William of Lindchester, pray for us!
The rain came down and the floods came UP!
The rain came down and the floods came UP!
The rain came down and the floods came UP!
And the house on the rock stood firm!
Some of my readers may remember that chorus from Sunday school days. Father Wendy has resurrected it for a holiday club in Cardingforth this week, because it (sort of) fits the theme – Pirates. She had an email of complaint about the holiday club (the archdeacon was copied in), because:
Piracy in Somalia is no joke.
The Church should not be promoting robbery and criminal violence at sea.
But shiver me timbers, Father Wendy went ahead anyway.
It’s Monday, day one. The church hall is transformed with rigging and Jolly Rogers. A CD of sea shanties plays. Cap’n Wendy (Ar-harr!) and First Mate Virginia (the new curate) (Yo-ho!) have a crew of fifty-seven Key Stage 2 scurvy knaves at their command, on board the Good Ship Yacki-Hicki-Doo-La. And a team of CRB-checked adult seadogs, of course, to help quell mutinies in line with current good safeguarding practice. No child will be flogged, keelhauled or made to walk the plank without a chaperone.
By midday, there is an atmosphere of barely contained anarchy in Cardingforth church hall, which is exactly how it should be. The parents and carers are gathering in the rain to collect their kids. A rowdy chorus (pirated – rather appropriately – from an old music hall song) floats out to them as they jostle umbrellas and buggies:
And I snap my finger HA HA HA HA!
And I snap my other one HO HO HO HO!
I don’t care if it’s rain or shine,
I am my Lord’s and my Lord is mine!
So I shout for joy and sail away,
No pirate could be cooler!
And where’er I go I fear no foe
On the good ship YACKI-HICKI-DOO-LA!
Two hours of childcare for a quid. For a whole week. Not bad, that. Say what you like about the Church, that’s not bad.
Tuesday. The four-by-fours crawl round the Close at 6.45 a.m., tyres going flippety-flippety over the wet cobbles. Choir parents dropping off the choristers. The choir tour coach leaves for Germany at 7 a.m. The precentor explains: ‘Unfortunately, Mr May has had to pull out for personal reasons.’ The lay clerks roll their eyes. Good. Giles has been praying they’ll assume Freddie’s just gone off on another bender, and that the real reason doesn’t get out. If only Freddie has the sense to keep schtum and not blurt all over Facebook! It’s obvious to Giles that the allegations are groundless – malicious, even. But he knows how the taint can linger, even when someone is exonerated. Especially if that someone is gay. The process is all stacked in favour of the alleged victim. Hard to see how it couldn’t be, admittedly. And fair enough, the safeguarding officer had no alternative. But the precentor is spitting tacks. He’d cheerfully strangle Slope with his own preaching scarf. Sanctimonious twat. And Mary Poppins is about as much use as a chocolate thurible when it comes to reining in his chaplain.
The door closes. The coach pulls away. Someone draws willies on the steamed-up window. Someone lets off. Someone pipes that he knows a song that’ll get on your nerves. Twenty hours of this. Christ, have mercy.
But I am toying with you, reader. You will be wondering what happened to poor Freddie. Did Jane take him in? Why, of course she did. It gave her that kick up the arse she’d needed to tidy Danny’s room. Took her a mere fifty-eight minutes, change of sheets, dusting and hoovering included. It also – as you no doubt anticipated – brought about a meeting between her and the archdeacon at last.
Jane was cramming the last bin-liner of crap into the wheelie bin when her doorbell rang. She raced back, scanned the kitchen in case the archdeacon came in for a cuppa. Shit. Not that she gave a toss about archdeacons, but quickly, shove dirties into dishwasher, sweep breakfast crumbs onto floor, kick them under the fridge, dust self down. Good. She went to answer the door.
There was Freddie with his holdall, looking so woebegone she took him in her arms. ‘Aw. Poor baby. Really sorry you’re having to deal with this.’
‘Thanks, Janey. Love you.’
‘Yeah, love you too. Come on in. I’ve put you in Danny’s room.’
It was only then that she looked at the other man on her doorstep. The big bald man. She frowned and looked past him, to the black Mini. Then back at him, standing there in his checked chef’s shirt. His checked clerical shirt. Oho! She folded her arms and waited.
He raised both hands in surrender.
Jane battled in vain with a smile. ‘Well, hello, Mr Archdeacon. Nice to meet you. Won’t you come in?’
The three of them stood for a moment in Jane’s hall. ‘Right. I’ll get the kettle on,’ she said. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Janey, I’m— OK if I go for a run first? To like clear my head?’
‘Feel free. Takeaway later?’
‘Cool.’
Freddie’s footsteps thumped up the stairs. That left Jane and the archdeacon. ‘So. Tea, coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’
They sat in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Kind of you to do this,’ said the archdeacon.
‘More than happy.’ She looked him over. Did battle with that smile again. Of course – he must be Dominic’s Prat in the Hat. ‘So. Not a chef at all, then, eh, Matt?’
‘Nope, not a chef.’
Jane bunged a couple of teabags in mugs. ‘You lied. You said you were.’
‘No, I just failed to deny it.’
‘That’s as bad as lying.’
‘I was scared.’
Jane laughed her filthy laugh. The front door banged shut. Freddie, Freddie. ‘I assume you can’t discuss the allegations with me?’
The archdeacon shook his head. ‘Probably not.’
Jane made the tea and sat again. ‘So. What shall we talk about then, Matt? Oh, I know – let’s start with how you got my name and email, shall we?’
He gestured. ‘Lanyard.’
‘Hah!’ Bloody Poundstretcher. Completely anal about ID cards. ‘Thought you must be a chef in one of our eateries, or something. Wait, you bloody saw me on the Close in my doctoral robes, didn’t you? Stalker!’
He smiled.
Not very chatty, was he? ‘Well, go on then – why stalk me? Were you coming on to me with those texts?’
‘I was.’
‘You were?’ He was! Another filthy laugh. ‘And why was that?’
He smiled again. ‘Let’s say, you got my attention.’
‘What, by kicking the shit out of your car?’
‘That tends to get a man’s attention.’
‘Damn! And all these years I’ve been wearing tight skirts and high heels!’
There was a pause. The archdeacon sipped his tea.
‘And stockings,’ added Jane. ‘With—’
‘Moving on,’ said Matt. ‘So how do you know Freddie?’
He’s on the river bank, slithering, cursing. Then the path ahead vanishes under water. Freddie vaults the fence, and the field’s a quagmire too. He slips. Ah fuck. Now he’s covered in it. Can nothing go right? He gets up, sploshes across the cowfield and gets back on the road, where he pounds, pounds, pounds. On and on he goes, left, then left, then left, making a big loop. Thank fuck it’s raining. Hides the tears. Man, he’s such a cry-baby. ‘Sticks and stones, son. It’s not your fault you’re gay, but it is your fault if you’re a victim.’
Ah Jesus, but nothing hurts like words, Dad.
Why would Martin even do that? Ah fuck, what’s he gonna do? Is Paul gonna believe him? Or will he take fuckwit’s side? What if nobody believes him? What if they’re all, Yeah, but why would a lit
tle girl make that up? You must have done something.
A car swishes past him. He can kiss the Barchester job goodbye, can’t he? This’ll be on his record like, for ever. Oh, what’s the point? Janey and Matt are being sweet, but there’s no point. Why even bother? When he knows he’s just gonna get slapped down again? Ah God, he wishes he was dead!
‘Why not try to prove the old bastard wrong instead? Why this pattern of self-sabotage?’ Mr Dorian’s words go round and round his head as he runs. ‘It seems to me you’ve got it all. People would kill for your advantages.’
I so do not have it all, asshole. What do you know? Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you.
Suddenly the rain doubles. Fucking mental. Like someone up there’s emptying baths, swimming pools. He hears the Dorian Singers: ‘What can wash away my stain?’
Then it’s Allegri: Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea. Wash me throughly from my wickedness. And that’s what the rain’s doing. Literally? It’s washing, washing, washing him clean. He sobs out a laugh. And then this weird thing happens? It’s like someone’s, y’know, there? Running beside him? Just for one moment, someone’s there in the rain, not saying anything, just running with him.
It’s Saturday evening. Father Dominic is standing in his study rehearsing what he’s going to say. He’s got it all written out, but it’s not going well. So far he’s got no further than ‘I have an important announcement to make’ before crumpling. He cried when he broke the news to his churchwardens yesterday. His mood tonight was not helped by an encounter in Waitrose with the family of the poor woman whose funeral he forgot. Ran slap into them in the cereal aisle. Made himself say hello and ask how they were doing, but they snubbed him comprehensively. O clemens, O pia. Pray for me. This failure will always be a sword through his heart. But on with life:
Ahem. ‘I have an important announcement . . .’ Deep breath. You can do this. ‘I have—’
His phone rings. Aargh! The Prat in the Hat. ‘Archdeacon! Hello!’
‘Hello, father. All set for tomorrow? The churchwardens in Lindford are poised to make the announcement at their 10.30, so Thunderbirds are go, basically.’
‘That’s good.’
Acts and Omissions Page 19
