‘All OK at your end?’
‘Oh God, I don’t know. Yes. No. I’m rehearsing my speech and it sounds like a Dear John letter! I know I’m going to burst into tears.’
‘And does that matter?’
‘What if I get the first sentence out, then stand there like an idiot, howling? They’ll all think I’ve got terminal cancer, or I’ve been defrocked, or something!’
And that is why, on Sunday morning, the archdeacon of Lindchester attended the 10.30 Eucharist at St John the Evangelist, Renfold. After the service, before the final hymn, he stood beside the weeping Dominic, put a hand on his shoulder, and made his announcement for him.
A murmur of shock went through the church. Going? No! Father Dominic was going? But . . . but . . .
The archdeacon beamed at the congregation.
‘Now, Dominic here is looking out at a bunch of people and he thinks he’s letting them down and abandoning them. But I’m looking out at a bunch of people who know that he’s loved them, worked with them and prayed for them faithfully for the last eleven years. In my role I get to see a lot of priests. The good, the bad and the ugly. And this is one of the good ones, people – as you know. So if you could all tell him that during his last weeks here, that would be peachy.’ Spontaneous applause broke out. ‘All righty, then. Let’s sing the last hymn: “All my hope on God is founded”.’
Dominic was still crying as he walked down the aisle, past the sea of smiling faces, through the hands reaching out to pat him, offer him wads of tissue, grasp him. They loved him, they really did. He was carried along on a groundswell of love.
Christ doth call
One and all:
Ye who follow shall not fall.
Chapter 31
Not much gets past the Venerable Matt Tyler. All the same, he’s not infallible. When he dropped Freddie off in Cardingforth, Matt clocked that Sunningdale Drive rang a bell for some reason; but, distracted by the revelation that Freddie’s Janey was the very Dr Jane Rossiter he had been textually flirting with for the past few months, he failed to chase it up later on.
Perhaps he might have remembered the following morning, had the thought not been driven from his mind by demon priest (formerly of Lindford Parish) lawyering up and taking him and the bishop to an employment tribunal for unfair dismissal and breach of contract. So he wanted to play rough, did he? The archdeacon had been ready for this for some time. Had a big old file. Pics of the vandalized vicarage, screenshots of defamatory rants on Facebook, list of witnesses to summon. Demon priest was going to discover that they don’t settle out of court here in the diocese of Lindchester.
Please don’t get the impression that our friend the archdeacon is normally a vengeful man. But it’s true to say that he’s still smarting from being suckered four years ago, by the person who threw this particular dead cat over the wall. Back when he was a rookie archdeacon. ‘Why didn’t you warn us the guy was a serial suer?’ Matt demanded. His oppo, the archdeacon in Another Diocese (which will remain nameless), purred: ‘But my dear archdeacon! You didn’t ask.’
Moral of the tale: always ask. Ask: ‘Is there anything which, two years from now, I’ll be glad I asked?’
With all this caper going on, Matt failed to warn Freddie about who was living four doors down from Jane. Freddie discovered for himself about a week later.
He was on his way back from the corner shop with milk. The sun was out for once. Maybe, just maybe it would all be OK?
‘Freddie! Freddie! Mummy, it’s Freddie!’
He whirled round. Jessica. With her mum, on the front lawn. No! Don’t say this was their house!
‘Hey, sweetie!’ He waved and tried to keep walking, but she came running after him.
‘It was my birthday in France and I got a tent from Grandma and Grandpa!’
‘Yeah, I can see. Awesome! Happy birthday!’ Get me out of here – like now? Becky was coming over to bawl him out! Little witch was nowhere in sight, thank God.
‘Freddie! What are you doing here?’
‘So yeah, I’m like, staying with a friend? Look, it’s cool, I’m off, no worries.’
‘Come and see my tent!’ Jessie was tugging at his shorts leg now. ‘It’s a princess castle tent!’
‘Aw. Maybe later? I’ve got to take the milk back so my friend can have her coffee?’
‘I’ve got a new Barbie, too! I’ll get her!’ Jessie ran back to the tent.
‘It’s OK, Becks.’ He started walking. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’
‘Wait!’ Why was she looking at him like that? ‘What’s wrong?’
Gah, he can’t believe this. ‘Nobody’s told you?’
‘Told me what?’
‘Look! Look, Freddie! This is my new hairtastic Barbie, so I can style her hair!’
‘Whoa! Love that purple streak!’ He squatted down. ‘Listen, can you and Barbie do me a massive favour? Can you, um . . . pick me some flowers from your garden, so I can give them to the lady I’m staying with? Yeah? Awesome!’
He stood up. Becky was looking totally freaked now.
‘Told me what?’
‘Oh, man. I shouldn’t— Listen, it’s just, Martin made these, yeah, allegations? About when I looked after the girls that time?’
‘What?! What allegations? Why haven’t I been told?’
‘Dude, I’m sorry, I have no idea why.’
‘What’s he been saying? Tell me now!’
‘Probably I shouldn’t do that? I’ve been suspended. There’s like, this investigation process?’
‘Investigation? I’m their mother!’ Man, she was going mental here. ‘I have a right to know!’
But now Jessie was back with her bunch of flowers. ‘Hey, thanks! These are totally the best!’ Jessie beamed up at him. ‘Listen, you couldn’t make, like, a card to go with them? You could? Yeah!’
‘I’m going to use my Hello Kitty craft kit that I got from Aunty Helen!’
They watched her skip back to her tent. Ah nuts. Please don’t let me start crying.
Becky put her hand on his arm. ‘Freddie! I can’t believe this! You’re so sweet with her. What’s the children’s father been saying?’
So Freddie told her. ‘I have no idea why Leah would say that? Coz I honestly did not tell them that, it was her? And I’m all, hey, out of order!’
‘Of course you were! She must’ve heard it at school, then she was scared she’d get told off, so she fibbed.’ She was grinding her teeth now, literally? ‘He escalated it, stupid man. He is so heavy-handed! Oh, Freddie! Leah . . . Leah isn’t a happy little girl at the moment, with . . . everything.’
With all due respect, lady, do not ask me to feel bad for your daughter, not right now.
Must’ve shown on his face. ‘Well. I’m sorry. Look, she’s at a friend’s on a sleepover, so I can quietly get Jessica’s version of what happened, without . . . I’ll make sure this is cleared up as soon as possible, Freddie. I have no doubts about you. None.’
Uh-huh, right. Flashback to her face, when he said he’d look after them. ‘Thanks.’
‘I know what he’s trying to do: he’s trying to make out I’m an unfit mother. Well, it won’t work!’
Ah cock. This isn’t even about me, is it? It’s all about them, fighting. Was she going to screw things up even worse by wading in on his side? But here came Jessie, waving a piece of pink paper. He bent down to look. ‘Aw, that is so amazing?’
‘It’s a Hello Kitty mandala.’
‘It is? Whoa! My friend’s gonna love this.’
You will have inferred from this that Martin is now home. He has been contacted by the archdeacon, but he stands by his allegations. Is the archdeacon suggesting Leah’s lying? No, he absolutely will not question either of his daughters further. They have suffered enough.
The bishop and his wife are home too. Obviously, the bishop has been informed that there is a safeguarding issue with Freddie. His opinion has been sought. The bishop would gladly have kept all t
his from Susanna (he routinely spares her the horrid stuff), but Susanna needed some explanation for Freddie’s absence from the palace. Oh dear, oh dear! A spasm of baking occurred.
Marion, the dean, had to be brought into the picture, and she confided her frustration to her husband Gene. Bishop Bob Hooty has been informed, too. So, how many people now know? Let’s see: the diocesan safeguarding officer, the cathedral safeguarding officer (back from holiday), the cathedral administrator (of course), the diocesan communications officer (just in case), the archdeacon, the precentor (and his wife), the bishop of Lindchester (and his wife), the dean (and her husband), the suffragan bishop of Barcup (who’s told nobody), Dr Jane Rossiter (likewise), Becky Rogers (who sounded off to her mum). Not forgetting Martin Rogers’ parents, sister and brother-in-law, because he needed someone outside the situation to tell him he’d done exactly right, and join him in lamenting Becky’s poor judgement in leaving the girls in the care of an aggressive proselytizing homosexual. I make that nineteen. But they are all utterly discreet, and they have only told other people who are equally trustworthy.
Becky Rogers has a gentle little chat with Jessica about that afternoon.
‘Mummy, Leah was being very, very mean to Freddie, ackshully, she said we weren’t going to talk to him coz we hate him, but I don’t hate him, Freddie’s my friend, he let me style his hair coz Barbie’s hair was all cut off. Leah said I wasn’t allowed. And then Leah said he was gay coz he’s got ear rings in his chest, and she said I’m stupid and a baby, and then she said a bad thing about gay and Freddie was upset and I was crying. Then he got us all a white Magnum. Then Daddy came.’
She can’t say the bad thing, Daddy says she has to forget it, coz Leah shouldn’t’ve told it to her.
Mummy says she won’t be cross, promise, and she won’t tell Leah. Or Daddy.
Jessie is allowed to put Mummy’s scarf over her face. Mummy shuts her eyes and promises not to look. So Jessie whispers it: Sex. Willies. Bums.
‘Good girl, I know that was difficult to say. Nobody’s cross with you. And now, let’s make chocolate crispy cakes!’
‘Yay! Chocolate crispy cakes! We can have a picnic in the tent! Can we invite Freddie? Please? Oh, ple-e-ease?’
‘Another time, darling.’
The aggressive proselytizing homosexual is now having kittens. Literally? Gah. He should never have told Becky all that. Should have just walked away. Ah nuts, he’s probably broken like a thousand rules here! But why the hell had nobody told her? Man, what’s he gonna do?
Ring the archdeacon, of course.
Matt puts the phone down and indulges in a brief fantasy of seizing the bishop’s chaplain by the ears and head-butting him. He distinctly remembers saying to Martin, ‘Becky needs to be informed. Is that something you feel able to do, or shall I contact her?’ And Martin replied, ‘You can leave that with me, archdeacon. I’m sure the girls’ mother will contact you, if she has anything to add.’ And that – as Dr Rossiter herself would say – is as bad as lying. The games people play. Matt drums his fingers on his desk. Gets out the paperwork. Yep, got a note of that conversation. All righty. He picks up the phone and rings Becky Rogers to get her version before the Spanish Inquisition meets.
Bishop Paul is not happy. Those restorative two weeks in Corfu have vanished like burnt flash paper. He’s in his study, praying for everyone concerned. He casts his mind back to the bright, eager young man he appointed as his chaplain. A bit earnest, yes. A bit lacking in humour; but highly organized, generous, motivated, dependable, loyal. And what’s left? A boiled-down distillation of Martin essence. A quivering wire of rage. How serious is this latest development? Was Martin simply reacting in panic and horror, the way any father might, blindly protecting his daughters? (Except, hah! The bishop has four daughters of his own, and knows that little angels are capable of telling the most astounding whoppers.) Or was this a calculated piece of vindictiveness?
Or – he must entertain this possibility – was Freddie so far lost to reason, so driven by his gay rights agenda, that he’d think it appropriate to speak that frankly to children about gay sex?
Freddie, Freddie.
Yet again the bishop finds himself caught between the pair of them. Whatever the outcome of the investigation, the emotional fallout will be ghastly. Is this his own fault? Ought he to have dealt decisively with their mutual antagonism much, much earlier?
Yes, he’s failed them both.
But he sees how he let it come about: on any given occasion he’d judged it was not quite worth the hassle. Always so many more important and urgent things clamouring to be dealt with, and besides, Freddie was always about to leave. As he is now: about to go off to Barchester. In a matter of weeks. If he weren’t going, it would be worth getting a mediator in, and sit the two of them down and make them listen to one another, properly. Make them understand each other.
Paul sighs. Yes, Freddie will soon be gone. He’ll just have to keep him out of Martin’s way for a couple more weeks. Maybe with Freddie out of the picture Martin will relax, become bearable again. And it won’t be for long.
(Don’t breathe a word, but it looks as though Paul will have a new job this autumn.)
He picks up his volume of R. S. Thomas poems, and reminds himself that the meaning is in the waiting.
Susanna (baking a batch of fairy cakes with pink sprinkles to take to Becky) is the only one who thinks: That poor little girl. That poor, angry, unhappy little girl! Is anyone really looking after her?
Chapter 32
August. Ragwort and rosebay willowherb crowd the verges and riverbanks and railway embankments of Lindfordshire. Thistledown idles by on the humid air. The first lime seeds helicopter down from the trees. Summer has rolled over and turned to face autumn. The shops all trumpet the same message: BACK TO SCHOOL! New uniform! Ring-binders! Pencil cases! Schoolbags! Tantrums in Clark’s shoe shop! ‘Too soon,’ wail children and teachers. ‘Not soon enough!’ think frazzled parents, and people whose houses back on to parks or wasteland, where bored kids clamber on roofs, invade gardens, set fire to stuff.
A-level results on Thursday. University clearing week. Dr Jane Rossiter is on the hotline this year. Having weaselled out of this duty for the last decade, Confirmation and Clearing is a mystery, shrouded in a dense fog of acronyms. ABB HEFCE SCN-exempt. SCN countable home/EU CI or CF. WTF? But Dr Elspeth Quisling was in charge of the rota this year. She put her nemesis on duty at the crack of dawn on Thursday, when the calls were expected to come thick and fast. But wait – Jane has a hospital appointment on Thursday! She has already booked a day of annual leave. Dr Quisling may check that, if she wishes. Dr Quisling does indeed check. She would gladly check with the hospital too, but this is not possible; so she gnashes her teeth and puts Jane down for Friday morning instead, by which time the calls will have slowed to a mere trickle.
I’m sure my readers are not concerned about the state of Jane’s health. They are more troubled – quite rightly – by her habits of mendacity. She has no hospital appointment. But as we shall see, the fates have decreed that she will nonetheless spend half of Thursday in hospital.
It’s Thursday morning. Ulrika Littlechild, wife of the precentor, has driven Lukas up to school so he can get his A-level results. They already know he has not got the three A grades he needs for Durham, because his offer was not confirmed late last night when they checked on the UCAS website. Ach Gott! The question now is exactly how disastrously he’s done.
She parks in a side street a tactful distance from the school and watches him amble away. Doesn’t he care? Is this her fault for sending him to the local comp, rather than packing him off to a Harrow or Hogwarts or wherever the bloody hell, where bright but lazy boys are flogged till they work? Bad mother!
In her mind, good mothers sit at the table each night (not drinking wine) overseeing their children’s homework, while Mozart plays in the background to make them brainy. Good mothers make their sons learn the piano or the violin, the
y make them practise an hour a day and take their grades, they do not let them just teach themselves jazz piano or bass guitar. If she had her time again, she would do it all differently!
No, she wouldn’t. She knows she is a totally crep mother. Second time round she would still think, hey, lazy bums, I finished my Abitur back in 1984! I will not sodding well be doing your work for you! They have to learn to be independent. I can’t be always there. They will have to learn to motivate themselves without Mutti or teacher standing over them cracking the whip.
High above the bank of lime trees there is a buzzard circling on the thermals. She hears its call. Keee-keee! And suddenly a rush of tears surprises her. He’s leaving me. They will both be flying the nest in the next couple of years. I can’t keep them for ever. All I want is to see them flying free. Ach Gott, don’t let those results be too awful! How will my babies ever manage to be grown-ups? Oh, let them fly high and free as that bird!
She pulls out her mobile and glares at it. Come on! Text me, you little shit! Tell me what you got.
The minutes creep by. The buzzard wheels round above the restless limes. Keee-keee!
‘Well,’ says the diocesan safeguarding officer. ‘I think we’re in agreement, Matt.’
‘I think we are, Helene.’
‘We’ve followed procedure.’
‘Yes, indeedy!’
Helene looks sharply at the archdeacon. He beams at her. ‘It remains for us to feed back to the parties concerned. Perhaps if I contact Martin, and you contact Frederick? Does that sound like a sensible course of action to you, Matt?’
‘It does, Helene.’
There is a long silence. ‘I’m sorry, Matt, but just occasionally I get the impression you’re poking fun at me. Would that be fair to say?’
Matt considers making a note of this allegation on a pad of paper. Instead he bows his head. ‘You could well be right there. Sorry.’
There is another silence. Is she about to send him on a professional development course to re-educate compulsive piss-takers?
She closes her file. ‘Well, as I said, Matt, if you could contact Frederick as soon as possible?’
Acts and Omissions Page 20
