Acts and Omissions

by Catherine Fox

  ‘This is completely tendentious!’ Mr Happy threw his biro down in disgust. ‘He’s gone out of his way to present Paul as ultra-conservative, and he’s really not.’

  ‘I’m afraid Roderick Fallon’s world is a bit binary,’ said Marion. ‘The equal marriage switch is either on or off as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘Well, let’s look on the bright side,’ suggested Philip. ‘Maybe the Daily Mail will leap to Paul’s defence?’

  ‘God, that’s all he needs,’ said Mr Happy.

  ‘Well, people, lots to get through, so shall we make a start?’ said Marion.

  We will tiptoe away now and leave them to such knotty matters as volunteer car parking spaces, should male visitors to the cathedral be asked to remove their hats, and whether there was enough money to stop the spire crashing down through the nave roof.

  So that, perhaps, goes some way towards answering my question: who will be kind to Paul Henderson? Not the liberal press, clearly. Roderick Fallon lives in London, and is therefore safe from any personal remarks I might feel inclined to make about him. Let me just say that a well-informed reader would be capable of reading between the lines and concluding that Fallon has an axe to grind. The majority, however, will simply believe that the C of E has appointed yet another brontosaurus to be archbishop – and in its walnut-sized brontosaurus brain there is but one thought: God hates fags.

  It is Wednesday, late afternoon. Tonight is Father Dominic’s big night, when he will be officially licensed as the new vicar of Lindford parish church. The service will be taken by the lovely bishop of Barcup, Bob (Can he bless it? Yes, he can!) Hooty. The archdeacon will be there too of course; as will Dominic’s old mucker, Dr Jane Rossiter. This will be the first time the three of them have been in company together, and I am rather looking forward to seeing how that goes.

  A great deal of baking is currently occurring in the parish of Lindford. It is a fact universally acknowledged that a single priest in possession of a modest stipend must be in want of approximately seven tons of pastry goods. Tonight in the parish hall, as fast as one plate is emptied on the trestle tables, another will appear in its place. In fact, it will be like the feeding of the five thousand: there will be more left over at the end than they started with, and Dominic will have ice cream cartons full of quiche and sausage rolls pressed into his hands when he tries to go home. This is how we express affection in the C of E. We do genuinely love one another, even though we find the Peace an awkward business. Ah, how much easier Holy Communion would be if the priest said, ‘Let us offer one another a piece of flan’!

  I will leave you with that consoling vision and whisk you back to the Close. There is no choral evensong on Wednesdays. The canons residentiary are saying Evening Prayer in the chapel of St Michael with a small band of the faithful. Miss Blatherwick is there, and so are a few retired priests. I wish Miss Blatherwick had bunked off for once, because then she might have been in when Freddie May hammered on her door.

  Yes, Freddie May is back. He’s read that piece by Roderick Fallon, and he’s incandescent. He hitched to Lindchester and went straight to the palace to have it out with Paul, but there was no answer. He tried the bishop’s office and found Martin.

  No, Martin could not tell him where Paul was. No, he could not pass on a message. No matter how ‘desperately urgent’ it was. Why? Because Paul was on retreat, and he had specifically said that he did not want to be bothered by ‘any nonsense from disgruntled former employees.’

  What?! What the fuck? Disgruntled former employees?

  ‘Fuck you, Martin. Seriously, fuck you. And you can tell Paul fucking Henderson— Jesus! I don’t believe this shit! Disgruntled—? Arsehole! He’s going to be so— Fuck this.’ He slammed the office door and stormed round the Close.

  Oh Jesus, un-fucking-believable!

  And now Miss B was out. Ah fuck, where was everyone? I’m losing it. Any nonsense?! Disgruntled former employees? Seriously, is that all I am? Is that it, Paul?

  Like fuck that’s it!

  Freddie flung himself on a bench by the school and pulled out his phone. His hands shook. Twitter. Search. Fallon. Yeah, that was him.

  Ah nuts, you can’t do this.

  Yeah, I can, trust me.

  But you love that guy! Freddie doubled over and began to sob. Paul, Paul, you were going to rethink that stuff. You promised me, and you lied. Why would you even do that?

  Just then a black Mini approached. Uh-oh, thought the archdeacon. What’s young tarty-pants doing back here? Clearly in a state about something. Matt glanced at the time. Meant to be meeting his lady, already running late. And to be honest, he didn’t have energy for another episode of the Freddie May soap opera right now.

  So the archdeacon drove past.

  Freddie sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. And tweeted fifty-five characters to @Roderick_Fallon: ‘I can tell you a whole bunch of stuff re Paul Henderson.’

  __________________

  * ‘Bless him!’ is Evangelical for ‘Bastard!’

  ** Bless them!

  OCTOBER

  Chapter 39

  Shock as Bishop of Lindchester Resigns Over Gay Sex Scandal

  Archbishop Elect’s Nights of Gay Shame: Exclusive Pictures

  Exposed: Criminal Past of Bishop’s Rent Boy Chauffeur Lover

  That is so nearly what happened. I’m convinced that if the archdeacon had not sighed a weary sigh and reversed his black Mini back round the Close to the bench where Freddie was sitting, these are the kind of headlines we would all have been reading.

  ‘Hop in, blondie. What’s the problem this time?’

  Freddie got in the car. ‘Matt. Oh God. It’s— Oh fuck. Oh God. I’ve got to talk to him but he, he, he’s—’

  O-o-okay. Looked like that cheeky pint with Jane was off. Matt gave Freddie’s knee a squeeze and a pat. ‘All righty. Let’s get off the Close and talk.’

  The archdeacon headed out of Lindchester with Freddie weeping beside him in great wrenching sobs. They stopped at the first convenient place, an empty car park in a trading estate. Matt texted Jane his apologies.

  ‘OK, then. Let’s have it.’

  ‘I’m, oh God. I’m, listen, it’s—’

  Matt leant close. ‘Sorry, what?’

  Freddie whispered it again: ‘Paul.’

  ‘What about Paul?’

  More choking sobs. ‘He’s going to be the next arch— arch— Oh, God— total betrayal? You know? In, in the, in the, paper? Fuck. Why would he say—? Like he hates me?’

  ‘Course he doesn’t, you numpty. Look, Fallon dug those quotes out of an interview Paul gave back in the early 90s. I don’t recognize the Paul I know in Fallon’s piece.’

  ‘Yeah, no, yeah, but he’s against equal marriage! He totally is, Matt!’

  ‘For sure. But you’ve always known that.’ The archdeacon waited. Nothing. ‘Why the big drama all of a sudden?’

  Freddie was white. Hands up his sleeves. Shuddering.

  ‘What’s the problem? Talk to me. C’mon, sweet man, talk to me. Talk to Uncle Matt.’

  ‘Gonna puke.’ Freddie got the door open and staggered off.

  Oh no.

  Matt climbed out too. Oh, no no no. Not that. But it was, though, wasn’t it? Had to be. And now part of Matt felt like he’d known all along. He went over and rubbed Freddie’s back as he retched onto the tarmac.

  After a moment Freddie straightened up. ‘Gah. Sorry ’bout that.’

  ‘Water?’ Matt handed him a bottle.

  ‘Cheers.’ He drank.

  It was beginning to get dark. Somewhere a lorry beeped as it reversed. Crows were swirling and gathering in a distant clump of trees.

  ‘Matt . . . Ah nuts. I shouldn’t . . . Look, thing is, right before I left – while Suze was away? Me and Paul, we . . . yeah.’

  Matt closed his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, OK? I’m really sorry. Don’t be mad at me, Matt.’

  ‘I’m not mad at you. You’
re saying that you and Paul had sex?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Freddie stood chewing his lip, tugging at his hair. ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell?’

  ‘We’re way past worrying about that.’

  So Freddie told him. Told him the lot. Showed him pictures no archdeacon wants to see of his diocesan bishop.

  ‘OK, Freddie, what’s the plan? Going to sell these to the tabloids?’

  ‘Wha-a-a’? No! Omigod, Matt, why would you even think that?’

  ‘So you took them, why, exactly?’

  ‘Like, oh, to remember? You know? Coz he’s a sweet guy and I dunno, maybe kind of love him?’

  ‘Well, seeing as he’s a sweet guy and you love him, how about deleting them?’

  ‘Yeah, probably I should do that?’

  ‘How about doing it now?’ Matt held the phone out. ‘Before you lose this, or someone nicks it.’

  ‘Hnn. Good thought.’ He went to work with his thumbs. ‘Done.’

  ‘Show me? What about this one? And this?’

  ‘What the . . . Jesus, Matt, that’s someone else, OK? Give me that. Hey! Don’t slut-shame me, asshole! Yeah, you totally are – you’re doing your “I’m Very Disappointed” thing.’

  ‘Freddie, more than happy to have this fight later,’ said Matt. ‘But right now I need to know, are there any copies anywhere? Think. On your laptop? Albums? Photo stream? Flash drives? Facebook?’ Freddie shook his head. ‘Good. Talked to anyone else about all this?’

  ‘Um, nah.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  Freddie’s gaze wandered off to the reversing lorry. ‘Yep.’

  Excellent. So who else knew? Matt rubbed his face with both hands, then clasped them behind his head. He stood numb, like a defender who could not believe the other team had just scored. This was A. Total. Chuffing. Mare.

  ‘Well, Freddie, I think the best thing is for you and me to hop back in the car and tootle down to the retreat house. Now. Have a chat with Paul and see how he wants to play this. You OK with that?’

  ‘Oh man. Yeah, no. Do we have to? Yeah, probably we should do that.’

  ‘Okey-dokey. Let me make a few phone calls.’

  ‘Cool. Listen, sorry I started on you? Can I . . . get a hug here?’

  ‘All right. C’mon, trouble.’

  Freddie locked his arms round Matt’s neck and clung on. Matt held him tight. The blond head burrowed into his shirt. He could still feel tremors running through him. Poor kid. You poor screwed-up kid. What the hell was Paul thinking? OK, fair enough – probably thinking wasn’t uppermost.

  ‘Thanks. Love you, man.’

  ‘Back at ya.’

  ‘Only, yeah. Matt, listen. Um. Don’t be mad?’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Only . . .’ Tiny whisper.

  ‘What? You tweeted Roderick Fallon?!’

  ‘Naw, dude, you promised!’

  This was last Wednesday. The formal announcement of the next archbishop of York was scheduled for Friday. However, this date was secret and had not been formally announced. The day for announcing the announcement (Thursday) came and went. Friday came and went likewise. Of course, everyone knew unofficially that Paul Henderson was to be the next archbishop of York and that this would be officially announced on Friday. But because nobody knew anything about this officially, no formal announcement or explanation about the lack of announcement was necessary.

  I hope you followed all that.

  A great cloud of Anglican obfuscation now shrouds the matter. Naturally, it teems with gossip. What? What’s going on? I thought Paul Henderson . . . ? Wasn’t the announcement supposed to be on Friday? He’s withdrawn?! Ssh. Totally off the record. Why? Some scandal? What, squeaky clean Paul Henderson? Surely not! Maybe he’s ill? Apparently he’d been looking strained. Oh no, poor guy, let’s hope it’s not cancer. Stress? Depression? Marriage in difficulties? So who’s the next archbishop of York now?

  Good question. Behind the scenes we must suppose that the number two candidate is being scrambled through his CRB check and medical, and fed into the Anglican/Downing Street machine to be mumbled in its ponderous and marble jaws and cast up again as an archbishop. We will have to wait and see, but I reckon we can look for an announcement in around three weeks. As far as I know, the withdrawal of an archbishop elect so close to the wire is unprecedented. The church powerbrokers are probably making it up as they go along. In unseemly haste! Like a stout ermined duchess being obliged to gallop for a bus. She can do it if she has to, but she’ll be A Bit Cross, I can tell you.

  I was not privy to those anguished discussions which occurred in the retreat house, after Paul was called down from his room to find Matt and Freddie there waiting in the hallway. However, I can hazard a guess that during his stay Paul had been pacing like a groom with cold feet. The closer the wedding loomed the more urgently he needed to bail out, but the more impossible it became to contemplate. The cost! The guests! The devastating hurt! The gossip!

  Naturally, everyone now wants an explanation. None is forthcoming – other than a short press release from the diocesan communications officer stating that, contrary to recent speculation in the press, the bishop of Lindchester is not to be the next archbishop of York, and that Downing Street would be making a formal announcement regarding the vacancy in due course.

  We may safely conclude that the Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove knows what happened. The Crown Nominations Commission, well, perhaps some of them know what Paul Henderson’s ‘personal reasons’ for withdrawing were. Do the senior staff of the diocese of Lindchester know? The dean and chapter? No. Only Matt knows. And Susanna, poor Susanna. Not all the cakes in all the kitchens in all the homes in the Anglican Communion worldwide can put this one right – no, not if we baked from now till Christmas.

  The Hendersons are spending a few days in their little bolt-hole in the Peak District. Good people of Lindchester, let’s not discuss them. That is the kindest thing we can do for Paul and Susanna right now. When our friends are called to pass through the deep waters, surely the kindest thing we can do is not talk about them? For however compassionately, however prayerfully, forgivingly, sensitively, scrupulously we discuss their situation – in what hushed tones, with what tears in our eyes! – our talking can never match the simple elegance of shutting up.

  How true. And yet how irresistible the urge to talk! How else can we make sense of the baffling actions of our fellow human beings?

  We ought to spare a thought for Matt. Long years of confidence-keeping mean that silence goes without saying here. But there are times when he feels like a landfill site for everyone else’s crap. Be nice to take a holiday, get the stink out of his nose, take a break from beating off gannets the whole chuffing time. Or, once in a blue moon, offload on to someone else. Not been able to do that since Jen died, really. Bit soon to start dumping work stuff on Dr R. He owed her a drink, mind you. Gotta love a gal who doesn’t give you grief when you stand her up. Take her somewhere a bit special, then. And our archdeacon is a bit of an expert on the local watering holes.

  ‘So what’s this place, exactly?’ asked Jane. ‘A prohibition bar?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘This can’t be right. It’s derelict. It’s boarded up.’

  The archdeacon pushed open the black door. A thread of blues wound out. And there it was: a secret speakeasy! In Lindford! Narrow and dimly lit, with a mahogany bar and a piano. Smaller than Jane’s seminar room in the Fergus Abernathy building.

  ‘I’ve worked here years and I had no idea!’

  Matt installed his lady in a snug corner and bought them both whisky sours.

  ‘How’s the world of archdeaconing?’ she asked.

  ‘Right now? It’s a mare.’

  ‘Paul?’

  The archdeacon paused, whisky halfway to lips. Shit. Freddie? Susanna? Or Paul himself even? He felt her hand on his thigh.

  ‘Don’t worry. Shot in the dar
k. I’ve heard nothing.’

  But she’d guessed, hadn’t she? ‘Right. Well. How’s the world of lecturing?’

  ‘Meh.’

  He felt her hand slide higher. ‘Um. You might want to stop doing that, Jane.’ And higher.

  ‘I say, Mr Archdeacon! I hope you’ve got a faculty for that.’

  ‘No need. It’s not permanent. Mmmargh. Please, Jane!’

  ‘Ooh! Unexpected item in bagging area!’

  Well, we will leave our archdeacon to be felt up in a speakeasy like the naughty man he is, and turn our attention politely elsewhere.

  The reader will not have forgotten Roderick Fallon, I dare say. Did he get Freddie’s tweet? Indeed he did. In far-off London Town he studied the trashy blond avatar and he scented major scandal. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. He tweeted @choirslut90 back: ‘Interested! Tell me more?’ But because Fallon was on an urgent deadline for another piece, he didn’t keep an eye on his timeline. You may picture his disappointment when several hours later he found the following: ‘Soz, ignore that!! My mate got hold of phone lol :)’. He checked. @choirslut90 had locked his Twitter account.

  Hoorah for the archdeacon!

  But a day or two later, when his unnamed source murmured to Roderick Fallon that Paul Henderson had withdrawn for undisclosed ‘personal reasons’, Fallon smiled. He smiled like a crocodile on the banks of the Zambezi who hears the distant wildebeest approaching. Yeah, come to Daddy, @choirslut90.

  Chapter 40

  In the palace garden in Lindchester the apples and pears ripen, then fall. They rot in the grass, thrumming with the last drunken wasps of summer. Gavin the verger mows them to mush. He keeps it nice and straight, up and down, up and down. Straight lines now, where Freddie May once mowed his big heart. This year in Susanna’s pantry the rows of Kilner jars stand empty. The palace stands empty. The Hendersons are still away.

  ‘Oh, all these crab apples, just going to waste!’ she says. ‘And the blackberries! Why didn’t I bring a basket? Stupid, stupid! I ought to come back and pick them and make blackberry and apple jelly!’

  He takes her hand as they walk down the country lane and says, ‘Darling, you don’t have to. It’s all right.’