Leah bent down, but she was ready to jump back, coz maybe it was a trick. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know what the rules are round your way,’ whispered the wicked witch, ‘but in my world, if you play nice, I play nice. So. Let’s try again, shall we?’
Chapter 37
Acts of kindness: the waybread of pilgrims. When the road is rough and steep (or for my more Catholic readers, when the night is dark, and you are far from home) the kindness of fellow travellers may keep despair at bay.
But who will be kind to Bishop Paul Henderson? That I cannot tell you. He has strayed temporarily beyond the boundaries of the diocese of Lindchester, and thus outside the scope of this tale. I believe it is a very nice retreat house, comfortable if remote (no wi-fi or mobile phone signal). There’s homemade cake in the afternoon, and plenty of walks along a rugged coastline. I could tell you where the retreat house is, but then (like Martin the bishop’s chaplain), I would have to kill you.
Yes, Martin’s lips are sealed. The bishop has extended his retreat by a further five days. This has meant some juggling of the diary by Penelope, and several suave phone calls by Martin to explain the situation without explaining anything. Martin is in his element here. But he must be constantly discreet, because Penelope does not know about Paul’s imminent elevation. Thinks Martin.
You may be sure that Martin will defend his bishop’s privacy to his last breath, against vulgar curiosity and intrusions from the media (and there is increasing speculation in the run-up to the announcement). Martin is also shielding him from the clamour of diocesan affairs and ‘any nonsense from disgruntled former employees’. Those were Paul’s exact words. So the former vicar of Lindford can take a running jump. Martin enjoys being in adversarial mode and fielding the nonsense relating to the tribunal. He also enjoys (despite eczema and panics about the future) being part of the inner circle. He is important-by-proxy; he is in on the secret. It flushes his daily routines with the glow of power. He could nip to the bookies and have a flutter on who’ll be the next archbishop of York! Of course, he’d never dream of doing any such thing. But oh, the hints he could drop, if he chose to . . .
But to return to my question: who will be kind to Bishop Paul Henderson? Hang on, you say: does he actually deserve kindness after such a crass sexual lapse – not to mention his gross dereliction of pastoral duty towards a vulnerable employee? Well, that might depend on what he decides to do – though perhaps kindness ought to depend upon nothing at all, and, like the sun, dawn on the righteous and the unrighteous alike? I will leave such matters to the experts, who can explain it all to you from the pulpit in three alliterating points and one amusing illustration. I imagine that the good people who run the retreat house are being kind to the bishop. Were he to confess his sins to a spiritual director, or the archbishop of Canterbury – who I take to be his line manager – I have every confidence they would be kind to him, too. But he might decide against doing that. We will have to wait and see.
There is one person who will categorically not be kind to Paul Henderson, however – and that is Paul Henderson.
Autumn is in the air. Can you smell it? Fat wood pigeons gather in the stubble; while in other fields a haze of wheat lies already like green chiffon across the furrows. Lime seeds pop underfoot on pavements. Here and there among the tired cherry leaves there is a flash of the fire to come. Hedgerows groan with nature’s bounty: hips and haws, filberts and cobs, crab apples and rowan berries. Marrows swell rudely in allotments up and down the diocese of Lindchester, competing for prizes in local shows, or for pride of place in the harvest festival.
They still do harvest festival properly round this way. There are plenty of farms in the diocese. Agricultural imagery still resonates here, while in other places I fear that ploughs have become as quaint a notion as spinning jennies. You may walk into a church in darkest Lindfordshire and confidently expect to sing ‘We plough the fields and scatter’. There will be a big harvest loaf in the shape of a wheat sheaf, egg-glazed and gleaming. The smell of childhood harvest festivals will greet you as you walk through the door. Apples, leeks, potatoes, damsons and greengages, bunches of dahlias, chrysanths as big as footballs. Yes, ‘All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.’
In Cardingforth Primary they are rehearsing ‘Cauliflowers fluffy and cabbages green’, an atheist-friendly harvest hymn that will offend nobody with menacing talk of Final Harvests and angel reapers. It can be made offensive by ingenious little girls, however. Leah Rogers is sent to stand outside the head’s office for teaching her class to sing ‘Broad beans are sleeping in their wank-ety bed.’
‘My-mum-says-to-give-you-these-to-say-thank-you-for-starting-our-ca-a-aaar,’ droned Leah.
Jane was about to set off to Poundstretcher University. With a gusty sigh she seized the box of Celebrations and droned back, ‘Tell-your-mum-thanks-very-mu-u-uuuch-and-she-didn’t-ha-a-aaave-to.’
They glared at one another. Good grief. A reincarnation of her eight-year-old self, sent as a punishment! ‘Here.’ Jane put down her briefcase and opened the box. ‘Want one?’
The child hesitated.
‘What’s the problem? All the yucky coconut ones on the top? Have a rummage.’
‘You’re not allowed. You have to take the nearest.’
‘Says who? I always eat all the Malteser ones first before anyone else gets to them.’ She saw the girl’s eyes widen at this glimpse into her depraved moral universe. ‘Which do you like best?’
‘Caramels.’
Jane shook the box at her. Leah took one. ‘G’wan, g’wan, g’wan. Have two.’
‘You’re not allowed two the same.’
‘Really? Who’s the boss round here, I wonder? Oh, that would be me.’
Leah rooted around for another.
‘Stop that, you greedy pig!’ The girl froze. ‘Kidding.’
She gave Jane the evil eye and took a Malteser one. That’ll teach me a lesson, thought Jane. ‘So. How’s school?’
‘School sucks.’
‘Of course it does. But if you study hard, in another trillion years you can leave and go to uni. What’s your favourite subject?’
‘Hate them all.’
‘Well, duh, I know that. Because they suck. But which is the least sucky?’
The girl’s chops were now bulging with chocolate. ‘History.’
‘History, you say!’ Jane laughed her filthy laugh. Hmm. Yes, it still scared small children. ‘Read the Horrible History books?’ A nod. ‘Got them all?’
‘Most of them.’
‘Tell you what, my big boy’s left home and I’m slinging a whole bunch of crap out. Including a complete set of Horrible Histories. Why don’t I stick ’em in a box and whizz them round? Take any you want, and your mum can give the rest to a charity shop. How’s that sound?’
The girl scowled.
‘Why, don’t even mention it, child! You’re doing me a huge favour taking them off my hands. No no, not another word. Can I interest you in Murderous Maths?’
‘No way. Maths sucks.’
‘Like the hoover of the Dark Lord himself! I couldn’t agree more. But then, I would think that – I’m a history lecturer,’ said Jane. ‘I have been known to help people with their homework in my time, if I’m in a good mood. Which isn’t very often, admittedly.’
The girl looked as though she’d rather drink a cup of cold sick than ask Jane for help.
‘Oh well, back to the coal face.’ Jane picked up her case and crammed the chocolates in with her files and photocopying. ‘Cheery-bye. And tell your mum tha-a-a-anks.’
You will be wondering, reader, how the romance is going. Have Jane and Matt been on any more dates (trysts? assignations?)? Is Matt now to be considered Jane’s boyfriend (lover? OH?)? While Jane struggles to decide upon an appropriate lexis for their relationship, I will confide that she is stupidly in love with the archdeacon.
Her colleagues have noticed a change. Good God, Dr Rossiter! What b
rings you to a compulsory staff training day? Do you not have an urgent migraine to attend to? Is that a new pair of boots you are wearing? Have you culled your collection of knackered leggings at last? And are our eyes deceiving us, or have you paid for an actual haircut for once, rather than waiting to get attacked in a dark alley by a deranged sheepshearer?
Even as I write this, Jane is driving to work with most of a box of Celebrations to share out over coffee. She is singing as she drives. What is she singing? She is caterwauling, in a terrible Mockney accent, Nancy’s song from Oliver: ‘As long as ’e neeeeeds meeee!’ I’d love to tell you she’s singing it ironically and rolling her eyes like the hairy-legged feminist she is. But Dr Rossiter has bought a Venus razor (five blades, hugs every curve).
Have no fear, dear reader. Jane’s choice of song is not my way of dropping a dark hint that in some future episode the archdeacon will viciously murder her. Apart from his thick-set calves and a certain fondness for ale, he is nothing like Bill Sikes. True, he features as the villain in some circles. He is, after all, the archdeacon; and if an archdeacon is beloved wherever he or she goes, you may be sure that we are not in the C of E any more, Toto.
And what of the archdeacon? Is he stupidly in love with Jane? Yep. Drove his sporty little Mini straight into a bollard in the car park of William House yesterday, because he was wondering about taking her to Paris. What better proof could you require?
We are now going to pay a long-overdue visit to Carding-le-Willow, where the new curate, Virginia, lives. How is she getting on? Her summer was a strange one. After a packed theological college course, followed by the chaos of moving house and the thrill/terror of ordination, those first weeks in the parish seemed a bit empty. She struggled to fill them, in fact, and felt a bit guilty because she didn’t feel she was working hard enough.
(We will now pause and allow all the ordained people reading this to laugh like hyenas, because they know that come Christmas Virginia will look back on this slack period and decide she must have dreamt it.)
Things are beginning to crank up now. We are in the third week of September. So far Virginia has taken her first funeral, preached her first sermon, started her first confirmation class, attended her first deanery synod, and been snubbed for the first time on gender grounds by both a high- and a low-church colleague. The C of E – an equal bigotry employer! It is Thursday evening. Virginia is getting ahead of the game and preparing next Wednesday’s primary school assembly. As this will be her first attempt, she’s pouring a lot of effort into it. She’s got out her marker pens and is busy making a ginormous party invitation, with the intention of tying this in with Back to Church Sunday, the week after next. (This coming Sunday ought probably to be ‘Sit in a Different Pew’ Sunday, so that the regulars don’t get flustered by newcomers taking their seat.)
Well, we will leave Virginia to get a bit squiffy on marker pen fumes, happily planning what she will say to the boys and girls of Cardingforth Primary. We will shield her from the knowledge that she will be pre-empted by some smart-arse saying, ‘At Jeee-sus’s party everyone’s invited.’
There. She’s finished her visual aid. We will allow her a glass of Day Off Eve merlot in front of a boxed set of something, then pack her off to bed, where she will sleep all unwittingly beneath Freddie May’s whopping painted-over boner. Sweet dreams, Virginia!
And sweet dreams, Paul Henderson, wherever you are. I’m really sorry, but it looks as though someone on the Crown Nominations Commission has broken ranks. Yes, your name has been leaked to the press, and right now, in far-off London Town, a journalist is writing a big feature on you, the ex-public school Conservative Evangelical anti-gay next archbishop of York.
Chapter 38
The bookies have shortened their odds on Paul Henderson. The diocesan communications officer is fielding calls left, right and centre from journalists and producers. Colleagues on the Close have been approached for their reactions. Former curates and parishioners have been interviewed. Paul Henderson’s past has been ransacked. What a good thing he sowed no wild oats as a young man.
You must be wondering how Susanna is faring in this ordeal. She has been all alone in the palace while Paul’s been off on retreat, remember. Goodness, she misses Freddie! It’s true, he could be a very naughty boy. (She’s pretty sure that was cannabis she could smell when she came to clean his empty room. And she found a condom wrapper under his bed, despite their ‘no overnight guests’ rule!) But oh, it was such fun having him around the place. She longs to hear him leaping down the stairs again and vaulting over the banisters. To hear his incredible singing voice echoing in the hallway.
Not that she’d have been able to say anything to him about Paul’s new job, of course. It’s just that the palace feels so empty without him! She senses that deep down even Paul was sad to see him go; though he made a point of saying (quite fiercely, she thought!) that they’d have to make sure they never take in any more waifs unless he’s met them personally beforehand.
Oh, it will be such a blessed relief when the waiting is over and she can talk freely to people. She’s rather cross that someone leaked the news early, because it’s actually been jolly hard for her not being able to confide in her daughters or her closest friends, even. Paul got a letter from Downing Street several weeks after he’d been told he’d got the job, which stressed how hush-hush it was. ‘You may, of course, discuss this with your wife,’ was the only concession. Honestly! As though Paul would keep a secret of that scale from her!
But the thing that makes her crossest is their girls being pestered by the press. What a way for them to find out! It put her and Paul in such a horrible position. Their nearest and dearest were practically the last to know – simply because she and Paul had played it by the book. And then, lo and behold, someone else thinks the rules don’t apply to them! Their youngest had to lock her Twitter account, because journalists started following her! So naughty.
And all this time she and Paul haven’t even been allowed to go and look round Bishopthorpe! She knows it shouldn’t really matter (the foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests, and all that), but this is how Susanna always copes with having to up sticks – she focuses on making a home in the new house. So this time she’s had to content herself with little secret trips to wander round John Lewis, daydreaming. (And buying a new frock and shoes for the big unveiling. Ssh!)
But she mustn’t grumble. One nice thing about all the gossip and rumours is that people on the Close have been really lovely and supportive. Even Gene, the dean’s husband – normally a bit prickly, bless him!* – popped round with a bottle of wine.
Oh well, Paul will be home the day after tomorrow. And then they will head to York for the official Downing Street announcement on Friday morning. Finally! After all the delays with medicals and CRB clearance and then the Queen being away at Balmoral. It really will happen, Susanna tells herself. Not long to wait now. She picks up car keys and handbag and leaves the palace. She’s going to the hair salon. Goodness, she’s actually feeling quite excited at last!
Well, dear reader, we will leave Susanna to go and get her highlights done, and make our way to the deanery, where we will join the canons residentiary of Lindchester. Once again, I apologize for the language.
The canons are having canons’ coffee. They all know about Paul’s preferment, of course; though only the dean knows officially. The rest know because the precentor has just asked the dean if Paul is definitely the next archbishop of York, and Marion has replied, ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment.’
‘“Paul Henderson, 58, bishop of Lindchester, widely tipped to be the next archbishop of York . . .”’ Mr Happy, the canon chancellor, was skimming the newspaper article. ‘“Conservative Evangelical . . . links with Anglican Mainstream”** . . . Really? Urgh!’
‘Surely not!’ said Philip, the treasurer.
‘“. . . vigorous campaigner in the House of Lords against the same-sex marriage bill . . .” What! “Currently in se
clusion”?’ Mr Happy glared at his colleagues as if they were his tutorees, and guilty of sloppy research. ‘He’s on retreat! “In seclusion” means he’s fucked up and the archbishop’s about to sack him.’
‘Oh, that’s journalists for you.’ Giles was doodling on his agenda. ‘They get church terminology nearly right, but not quite.’
‘Yeah, but this guy knows his onions. It’s a deliberate slur!’
‘He knows his onions?’ repeated the treasurer. ‘Oh, surely you can render that into German for us, father, so we can take it seriously as an academic statement?’
‘Er kennt sein Zwiebeln!’ shouted Giles in a mad SS officer voice.
‘I think you’ll find the term is Zwiebelnwissenschaft, actually,’ corrected the chancellor.
‘Bitch, please!’ said Giles. ‘So who is this so-called expert?’
‘Roderick Fallon.’
‘Roderick Fallon!’ Giles threw his biro down in disgust. ‘I was at Oxford with that tosser! He’s always been a poison toad.’
There was a silence round the table. They were perilously close to closing ranks and defending Mary Poppins against poison toad attacks. Paul might be a bigot, but he was their bigot. Gene glided in with another cafetière.
‘Isn’t it a bit early for a hatchet job?’ asked Philip. ‘He’s not even in post yet.’
‘Is it ever too early for a hatchet job on a fag-hating Bible-basher?’ enquired Gene.
‘Thanks, Gene. I think that’s everything,’ said Marion.
The door closed softly behind him.
Mr Happy was still shaking his head over the profile. It was a big full-page job, with a photo of Paul on the day of his consecration as bishop fourteen years earlier. He was posing with his brand new mitre and crosier on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral, with the then archbishop of Canterbury. Some trick of the camera gave him a slightly louche matinée-idol look, as though he might be about to pat a pretty bottom. Which was no doubt why this picture had been chosen from the files.
Acts and Omissions Page 24
