Acts and Omissions

by Catherine Fox

  Only one thing is clear at present: he must not panic and do what can’t be undone afterwards, just in order to assuage this terrible guilt.

  So never fear, reader. A lifelong habit of inward scrutiny will not permit the bishop to shrug this one off. As it happens, he had already planned a retreat to prepare for the next stage of his ministry. It has been in his diary for months. He will use those ten days in self-examination. He will hold that magnifying glass unflinchingly, focus the rays of truth on himself till sin and pride and self-deception are all burnt out.

  And he will not indulge in thoughts of him. Ever. Will not linger over peeled-down garments, snagged breath – ‘Oh yeah, Paul, that’s it, oh yeah, ohh yeah’ – nor consult ever again the compendium of acts committed; nor trail his finger down the inventory of sinews, of clefts, parted lips, limbs, each scar and freckle, pierced flesh and tongue, tattoos, he’ll never retrace those serpent coils—

  Eden –

  Oh God, help me, help me, I can’t— Because who’s he in bed with now?

  Whose hands, mouth—?

  Ever again.

  Old Mr Spragg, young Mr Spragg and the boy stand on Father Dominic’s drive and scratch their heads. How are they going to fit it all in? It’s a puzzle, all right.

  Dominic (in his Marigolds) watches them through the kitchen window. He despairs. He honestly despairs. How many times did he say, ‘This is the kettle. Don’t pack it, or you won’t be getting any more tea. Kettle. Not to be packed. OK?’

  ‘Ooh, right you are, your reverence.’

  And where is the kettle?

  ‘Ooh, I don’t rightly know, your reverence. Maybe we’ve packed it.’

  Take me now, Lord. I’m ready to die.

  Jane is stripping the spare bed ready for Dominic. Tomorrow she’s going to help him move into his new vicarage. They’ll make a good team. She’ll just crack on and unpack his boxes, get stuff on shelves and into cupboards, and leave him to stress over where to put his Philippe Starck lemon squeezer.

  Jane is hardly the most scrupulous of hostesses, but even she can see that fresh sheets would be polite. She flings the window wide so that poor Dominic will not be tormented by any lingering pheromones, bundles the bed linen under an arm, then scoops up the wastepaper basket with her free hand. Pair of knackered flip-flops on top, but she is not about to investigate further. She hopes to God Freddie remembered to check under the bed for any stray underpants. Et cetera.

  Outside in the alley Jane up-ends the basket into the wheelie bin. The rowan berries are red, red, red. Autumn! Boots and jumpers! Huzzah! She’s spent almost all her life locked into the rhythms of academe. September always feels like New Year, the season of fresh hopes, when her fancy turns lightly to the thought of love. And now she smiles at the thought of her big bald archdeacon, who is taking her to the pictures on Sunday evening. She’s paying her own way, of course, but he has promised to buy the popcorn.

  She goes back indoors and stuffs the sheets into the washing machine. A twinge of anxiety: they smell of Freddie. Silly mare. But in all fairness, the boy is fatally easy to love. Like a radioactive bush baby. Well, he’s off her hands now. Let his real mum do a shift in the boiler room of maternal angst.

  Jane goes upstairs and makes the bed, then squirts a spot of polish into the air to create the impression that dusting has occurred. She wipes her sleeve over the bedside cabinet to protect the impressionable Dominic from the stray skin cells of Freddie May, who by now must be halfway across Patagonia on horseback, or whatever. Well, let’s hope he finds that smoking hot retired polo player to look after him from this time forth and for evermore.

  But is anything ever going to be that simple for Freddie May? Just stay safe, you bad boy. And my own bad boy, down under, you stay safe too. Keep wearing that crash helmet. And your bad boy dad, he needs to stay safe as well. Oh, in fact, stay safe, you bad boys everywhere.

  Would you look at that? It’s almost as though she’s praying again after all these years. She rolls her eyes, and goes downstairs to stick a bottle of prosecco in the fridge for when Dom arrives.

  I’m not coping. I’m just not coping, thinks poor Becky Rogers. She has just screamed at Leah – in public, in the middle of Clark’s shoe shop in Lindford.

  ‘Right! That’s it! You’re going to school barefoot!’ And yanked her out of the shop by her arm. Past all the people staring. Smirking. Looking sympathetic.

  She’s sitting in the car in the multi-storey car park weeping. Howling.

  Leah kicks the dashboard. Sighs. Can we go now? Kick. Kick. Stop crying, you baby. Kick. Kick. But Mummy carries on crying. She’s got snot and everything.

  Then Leah has a horrible thought, icy cold. What if she never stops? What if she is having mental health issues? What if she gets out of the car and runs off and leaves Leah on her own?

  Like those nightmares she gets. The grown-ups leave her and Jess alone in the car and the car drives off by itself, and Leah doesn’t know how to make it stop because she doesn’t know how to drive. She’s only a child! How can she possibly control the car when she doesn’t know how to drive? But she has to, she has to climb into the front and steer it, or the car will crash and she and Jessie will get killed. Jessie starts screaming, ‘Stop the car, stop the car, Leah! Mummy’s gone, Daddy’s gone!’ But it speeds up and speeds up!

  This is like the dream, only she can’t make herself wake up, because it’s real.

  ‘I can’t cope, oh, I can’t cope, I can’t cope!’

  Stop saying that! You’re the grown-up, you have to cope!

  ‘I just can’t cope!’

  ‘I’ll have the stupid shoes, OK?’ she shouts. ‘I don’t care,I’ll have the shoes!’

  ‘Oh, I just can’t cope any more!’

  Leah opens the glove compartment and grabs the tissues they keep for when Jess is car sick. She shoves them at Mum. ‘Here.’ Nudges her arm. Bangs her arm. ‘Here!’

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ Mummy wipes the snot off, then blows her nose and wipes her eyes. ‘Oh God, I’m so rubbish. It doesn’t matter. We can buy the shoes on line. I’m sorry I’m such a rubbish Mum.’

  ‘You’re not rubbish.’

  Is it OK again? Is it? She tries to think of something to add. Probably she should say sorry. But she hates saying it. Teachers and Brown Owl are forever trying to make her say it. ‘Say it properly, young lady. Like you mean it.’

  Mummy starts the car up and they drive home. Leah whispers it in her head all the way. Over and over. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Each time they pass a street light she says it inside her head.

  There’s a broken feeling in her throat, like she’s fractured her voice-box. That can actually happen. It’s been scientifically proved that you can fracture your throat, she might have read it on Wiki; so you have to be really careful and conserve your voice energy. Or she’d say it out loud, probably.

  Chapter 36

  A new year has started at Lindchester Choristers’ School. Choral term began on Sunday with the 10.30 Eucharist (Howells, Missa Collegium Regale, for those interested in such things). Every morning and evening you may see the crocodile of choristers in their blazers and cherry-red caps again, as they file across the Close to the Song School. The four new spotty choral scholars (two altos, tenor, bass) moved into the squalory next to Vicars’ Hall over a week ago.

  Uh-oh. You know what this means, don’t you? Freddie May has cocked things up already. Somehow he forgot the start of term date when he let Jane book his flights. Well, forgot, as in, didn’t actually let himself think about it? Like, la la la, that would make it not be happening? His voicemail was mental with ‘where-the-fuck-are-you?’ messages when he turned his phone back on. He had to ring his new boss in Barchester the minute he got through customs. (Man, it would be good just once to walk straight through, but apparently he has this, like, massive ‘Hey Guys, I’m a Drugs Mule!’ sign over his head?) But finally they were done, so he could ring and grovel. Gah. Nice going. Established his �
�I’m-a-useless-twat’ credentials really early there.

  The train hurtles towards Lindchester. Miss B will be there at the station to meet him. Grab his stuff from the palace, and he’s out of here. Thank God, Paul’s gonna be away. But Suze. Na-a-w. Let her be out. Oh man. Even thinking about Suze is like he just ran over Bambi? Please don’t let Paul have done anything dumb – like telling her? He feels really bad about all this, really bad. Been shutting it out for a fortnight, coz he knows he semi-seduced him? Or semi-semi. And they’re good people, Paul and Suze. Took him in. Gave him a job. Looked after him.

  Freddie bumps his forehead on the train window. Why, why is he such a tart? Ga-a-a-ah. Will Paul be OK? Hard man to read, Paul. For a while back there things got pretty intense and he was, ah cock, please not the whole, ‘I love you, let’s run away into the sunset’ crap? But no, so it’s most likely all gone quiet. Probably Paul’s sorted his head out by now. Poor guy. Kind of mean to pressure him, but he couldn’t stop himself being just a little bit, hey, time to rethink your position on equal marriage, Paul? And he was all, ‘I need to rethink my position on everything, Freddie.’ So yeah, maybe some good will come out of it?

  Probably he should delete the photos, though. Yeh, probably he should get on to that. Paul would totally freak if he knew.

  Miss B gets into her little red car and sets off for the station. Oh, drat. Amadeus, the cathedral cat, is strolling along the high wall by the Song School with another goldfinch in his mouth. She raps on the car window at him. Bad puss.

  ‘Oh! I’m going to miss that boy!’ Penelope, the bishop’s PA, blows her nose and sits down at her desk after waving Freddie off. ‘I hope he does all right in Barchester. They’d better look after him properly, or I’ll have a thing or two to say about it!’

  Martin, at his desk, stays quiet. He knows that if he punches the air Penelope will probably come over and punch him.

  For some reason – on this yearned-for day of the little shite’s departure – he finds himself remembering the school coach park. The Lord of the Flies nightmare of it after the grammar school day. He can still taste the sick dread. Dave Felton and the others from his class. The Girls’ High girls with their cellos and hockey sticks. ‘Watch where you’re going, you wally!’ Feral packs of comprehensive kids, smoking, shrieking, shoving. Legs, love bites. ‘What are you staring at, four-eyes?’ Mud and trampled grass, juicy fruit, Lynx sprayed through shirt armpits after PE. ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ His desperate prayers to stay invisible on that ten-mile journey home. Worst of all, knowing that he was locked into this hell for seven years.

  But there was one glorious day – he was fourteen – when a bus ran over Dave Felton’s foot and he screamed, and the driver had to carry him on to the playing field. The driver was a bandy-legged Scot, tiny, but he carried Dave Felton – like a huge, screaming bride – on to the field. And everyone saw.

  Penelope blows her nose again and says, ‘Oh well.’

  He hears her go and put the kettle on.

  ‘There are some stem ginger cookies from Susanna to cheer us up,’ she calls.

  Martin curls his lip (cheer us up!) and continues to work through the bishop’s inbox, fielding emails for him while he’s on retreat. There’s a broadside defending the sacked vicar of Lindford (‘How can you call yourself a Christian, you hypocrite, when you’ve robbed a man of his livelihood?’). Huh, rallying support for the tribunal. Martin pastes a reply (cc-ing the archdeacon): ‘The bishop has asked me to thank you for your concern, which has been noted.’ He has no case! The idiot has no case! It’s pure malice! How can anyone be so blinded by prejudice? But doubtless this will make the national press when it finally gets to court, whatever the outcome. He can see it now: Archbishop ‘robbed man of livelihood’, claims tribunal.

  Martin tries once again to bask in the reflected glory of his bishop’s elevation, to enjoy being in the inner circle of those who already know. But his eczema has flared up. It takes all his self-control not to scratch himself raw. Because what’s he going to do? He’ll have to find a new job. Everything is being taken from him. Wife, children, job, health! Sometimes he feels like giving up. Sitting in his life’s ash heap, and scraping himself with potsherds like Job.

  Penelope puts a mug of coffee and a biscuit on his mousemat. He winces and moves the mug onto a coaster, puts the biscuit onto a postcard, and sweeps the crumbs into his bin. ‘Thank you.’

  You try so hard to be a good man, a good husband, father, priest. Then it all gets flung back in your face. Suddenly Martin hears how he must sound. No wonder nobody likes him. Oh, he doesn’t want to be this way any more! Let me hear joy and gladness, Lord. Let the bones that you have broken dance. How can I begin again? What must I do, Lord?

  He waits. And something like a gracious question mark begins to hover in the margin of his mind. Against the little-shite section.

  Oh, I can’t. I just can’t. Anyway, it’s too late now. He’s gone.

  Apart from that, what must I do?

  ‘Martin, will you please stop scratching?’ cries Penelope. ‘You’ll only make it worse.’

  At his desk in William House on the other side of the Close, the archdeacon sprays coffee over his iPad once again. To the best of his knowledge, the bishop of Lindchester has never called himself ‘a Christina’. Either Martin has not spotted the typo, or (more likely) does not find it amusing. The archdeacon knows someone who will appreciate it, however.

  Dr Rossiter – locked in a departmental training day – startles everyone with her filthy laugh during a colleague’s PowerPoint presentation on electronic marking.

  Sloes stud the hedgerows like blue beads. Strands of bryony berries trail over elder and hawthorn. Fairies’ necklaces, that’s what we used to call them, thinks Father Wendy. She’s walking along the river bank, and yes, there’s Lulu, still hobbling beside her. How much longer can this be borne? Oh, a little longer, please say a little bit longer? Until the pain of watching her suffer outweighs the pain of her letting go. Is this just selfishness? Cruelty? Is it? Lulu lifts her old head and cries. Oh, darling! Not long now, not long. Here’s our bench.

  On the opposite bank a heron waits. Will the blond young man run past today? It’s been a while since they’ve seen him. Perhaps he’s starting uni somewhere? Wendy watches a green dragonfly dart and zoom. Laura would have been twenty-two this summer. She’d be a graduate. Starting work. A new bride, even! I would be having to learn how to let her go, whatever, by now.

  Wendy reaches down and strokes Lulu’s head. Memories race like time-lapse photography – that mad puppy, all huge scrambling paws; the years of naughty food-raids and running off; then the steadying down. And now, old age and pain and weariness. A whole lifetime in those thirteen years since Laura was killed. Not filling Laura’s place, of course not filling her place. But offering loyal companionship along this stretch of life, day in, day out. Well done, Lulu, good and faithful servant.

  Will dogs go to heaven? Father Wendy does not know the answer. But she believes in a kingdom where not a single sparrow falls unnoticed, where no cup of water is given in vain. Where, against all the odds, the last word is kindness.

  Who will be kind to Leah Rogers, though? The little madam who told whoppers about poor Freddie and who bullies her little sister so spitefully, and drives parents and teachers to distraction. Who will find it in their heart to be kind to her, when she so clearly deserves a slap?

  I confess to a soft spot for Leah, having occasionally been a spiteful little fibber myself. I think the poor child is terrified. Terrified by the power she can wield. She wants to be stopped. Somewhere, somewhere there must be a big policeman figure to blow a whistle and say, ‘It ends here, young lady. You’re nicked.’ And then the world might feel safe again.

  Her mother Becky is nearly aware of this. In the wake of the great school shoes meltdown, she consulted her Clergy Spouses’ Handbook, and got in touch with the diocesan pastoral care and counselling officer. A session has been arr
anged for Becky and Leah to talk to someone together on Saturday morning. Just a gentle exploratory chat with a nice middle-aged woman counsellor. Well, good luck with that. I’m of the opinion that Leah will make mincemeat of any nice middle-aged woman who crosses her path.

  Not all middle-aged women are nice, however.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid car not starting. Stupid Mummy leaving the lights on. Stupid lady they were meant to be going to chat to. Who cared if they couldn’t go? Oh, boo hoo, we don’t get to chat to the lady.

  Leah kicked open the gate – clang! – and stormed up the path of number 16. There was tape stuck over the stupid doorbell, so she banged the knocker: BAM, BAM, BAM. Come on, you big stupid. Answer your stupid door.

  Someone was coming. Leah could see through the pebbly glass. The door opened. A giant woman with short grey-y hair stood there eating toast.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘My mum says can you bring your car round to ours at number 10 so she can jumpstart it.’

  But the woman narrowed her eyes like a wicked witch and carried on munching her stupid toast. Like she was stupid. Or DEAF.

  ‘I said, MY MUM SAYS CAN YOU—’

  ‘I HEARD YOU.’

  Typical. What’s the magic word, nyeah nyeah nyeah. ‘Ple-e-eease.’

  ‘Meh.’ The old witch wiped her fingers on her T-shirt. ‘Can’t be arsed. Bye.’

  And she shut the door!

  Now what was she meant to do? The old witch was just standing there. Leah could see her through the glass! She hesitated. Now Mum would come and ask herself, and she’d tell on her. I hate you, you stupid old witch! Leah jigged from one foot to the other. I’m not saying sorry to you! Up the street, Mum was still trying to get the car bonnet to stay lifted up, and going, ‘Oh God, oh God!’ Leah looked back at the door.

  The weird woman was kneeling now and staring through the letter box at her! ‘Psst!’