‘Yes, of course that’s the real question. And we’ll do everything we can to help them. But I’m still slightly interested in the idle gossip,’ says Gene. ‘Aren’t you, deanissima? Slightly?’
The dean sighs. ‘If some very dear people are now able to stop living a lie, then in the end that will be a good thing. That’s the only part that interests me in all this.’
Gene comes close and studies her grey eyes. He sees they have tears in them. ‘You are a good woman. And I am a worm and no man. I’ll go and find them a nice Sauternes.’
‘That would be very kind.’
‘My pleasure.’ He inclines his head. ‘Am I allowed to sympathize with Paul? Hypothetically, you understand. Because it must have been hell. Hypothetical hell. Mr joy-of-man’s-desiring May oozes availability from every pore. Heavens to Betsy, I’d bum him myself, if I were even the tiniest bit gay.’ He frowns. ‘Which, oddly, I am not.’
‘I realize that, darling. You’re just ridiculously camp. It must be very confusing for you.’
‘Well, Miss Bennet, there certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men.’ Gene does a pirouette on his way to the cellar. ‘One has got all the gayness, and the other all the appearance of it. An exquisite 1989 Barsac coming up. Oh, go on then, two. I’m feeling frivolous.’
Bonfire Night. Father Dominic’s party is a riot. Sixty people turn up and eat hot dogs and cinder toffee, and watch Dominic’s feeble display of jammed Catherine wheels and widdling sprinkles called Golden Fleece, but which might better be named ‘Was that it?’ He has inflicted a whole boxful of premature ejaculations on his parishioners! What must they think of him? I can tell you, reader: they love him to bits. It was a good old-fashioned bonfire party like they remember from childhood. And they have had a good nose round the downstairs of the vicarage into the bargain.
When they’ve finally gone, he gets out his squeegee mop and cleans the muddy footprints from his kitchen floor. Janey didn’t turn up. He checks his phone. No text. Not like her. He rings and leaves a message.
Jane is standing in the dark at her bedroom window watching the fireworks. Just like she used to when Danny was small. Ooooh! Aaah! Her phone vibrates. She checks, but doesn’t answer. Wrong man. He’s not going to call. Ever. Which is why Jane has decided to spend Christmas in New Zealand.
She watches the last rocket zip across the sky and die in flowers of sparks. Ticket booked. She’ll apply for jobs when she’s over there.
It’s finished.
Chapter 45
Giles the precentor makes the first coffee of the day. ‘And next, the Dorian Singers,’ murmurs Radio 3. Oh, God. More Victorian schmaltz. Why do you persist in inflicting this maudlin tosh on us, Jacksie? Get back to Lassus and Palestrina, from whence you came!
When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Giles blows his nose. Damn. He can hear that the great Mr Dorian isn’t even being ironic for once. No smart-arse harmonies subverting the text, no camping it up.
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Well, Lord knows, enough sea billows have rolled over Andrew Jacks in his time. There have been points, frankly, when Giles was braced not to see him again this side of glory. Great Scott, man! Do you have the liver of Dorian Gray? No, this isn’t cheap happy-clappy grace he’s singing about here. Giles blows his nose again like the trump of the angel. Suddenly he decides: we must have this at Paul’s farewell service. He gets out his phone. A voice drawls: ‘C’est moi. Leave a short and coherent message after the tone.’
‘I’ll give you short and coherent, you insufferable old queen. Listen, can I have the music for “It is Well with My Soul”? Just heard it on the radio and you made me cry. Bastard. Anyway, hope it is well with you. Ciao bello.’
Typhoon Haiyan rolls in across the Philippines. What do we know of storms and sea billows? The cloud factory in Cardingforth toils on. Our high streets fill with Yuletide luxuries and tat. Treat yourself, spoil yourself. Get one free. Why not? A rising tide lifts all boats! All boats? Yes, and houses and trees and villages, towns, lives – all lifted by the rising tide of global prosperity and swept away. And while we Keep Calm and Carry On Shopping it rains on John O’Groat’s house – low-lying, poor, powerless, far across the sea.
It is not really well with Susanna’s soul right now. But it is slightly better than it was. She has gone at last to talk to a counsellor. You might wonder why she didn’t do so before this – the offer was there – but that would be to admit there was a problem. It would be like getting a cleaner in because you weren’t coping with all the dusting and tidying, and Susanna has never done that, not even when she had four little girls under the age of six running her ragged. Or like bursting into tears and admitting the ironing pile is now as big as Mount Everest and even if she irons till her dying day she will never get on top of it, she must have help.
I must have help! I can longer make everything perfect. The York announcement is this week. My husband does not have a sweet tooth. I can’t bake the problem away, I can’t tidy it up, straighten it, or sing to it and cuddle it, lift those stains, or make scatter cushions and throws to disguise the fact that I have failed, and I cannot make everything lovely again.
The counsellor listens, a tender sounding board, now and then bouncing back something Susanna has just said. Failed? Perfect? Lovely? The counsellor has one question: what is Susanna afraid will happen if she does not make everything lovely and perfect again?
Susanna is not ready to answer that yet. Because all she has is a wrong answer. Susanna needs to give the right answer. She gets in her car and sets off for home. The wrong answer is: she’s afraid everyone will find out. Everyone will know that the perfect palace was never perfect, the perfect marriage was a sham all along. They will point and laugh. They will think she did it on purpose. She will get into trouble. She will get told off!
That’s the worst thing! By now Susanna is wailing as she drives. Getting told off! When all the time you were trying your very hardest to be good, leaving nothing undone, no corner undusted, trying to anticipate every possible accusation and head it off! And still getting told off! Getting crushed and humiliated and having your light snuffed out. Oh, how silly is that! When people are dying in typhoons, to be scared of getting told off! Why would God, why would anyone have any patience with her?
When she gets home Paul is out, thank goodness. But what is this on the kitchen table, propped up against a vase of pink roses? A letter! He’s leaving her! He’s telling her off! She’s in trouble; oh, please don’t let it be anything horrid. She makes herself open it.
It is a list of a hundred and one things he loves about her. In his beloved handwriting.
The one-hundred-and-first thing is this: I am a better person, after nearly forty years with you, than I could ever have been without you.
It’s official. The next archbishop of York is the current bishop of Barchester, the Rt Revd Rupert Anderson. There’s a lovely photo of him and his wife on the Church of England website. You will see that Susanna was wrong. Cordelia is not fat. She’s an M&S size 14. Which is not fat.
I hope you also noticed the announcement about the bishop of Lindchester? That’s right: he’s off to South Africa in January to help set up the new Anglican theological college. He has a strong sense of calling to this challenging and exciting post. His wife Susanna goes with him, and they are both looking forward immensely to this new stage of their ministry.
The archdeacon and the diocesan communications officer are on high alert all day. But it looks like all’s quiet on the Western Front. Fallon hasn’t crawled out of the woodwork, thank the Lord. Yep, good to avoid washing that little load of church laundry in public. Problem is, by Friday evening Matt feels like he’s been drinking the dirty water from the C of E washtub. Never b
een a big fan of cover-ups. But it was the right thing – or the least worst – on this occasion, if only to protect young tarty-pants. Poor kid is barely twenty-three! Tabloids would be wetting themselves: drop-dead good looks combined with criminal record, drugs, escort work. Not forgetting the – God help us! – ‘film career’. Nope, open that can of worms and you’d probably put the kibosh on Mr May ever straightening up and flying right.
So, is it well with the archdeacon’s soul as he drives home? Yes, deep down.
That said, things are pretty grim in the love department, to be honest. You’ve got to assume the Lord knows what he’s doing; but being a fixer himself, Matt gets frustrated when other people don’t crack on and sort stuff out. Gets the urge to tell God it’s not rocket science. Come on, we’re crazy about each other! How hard can it be?
Answer (apparently): it’s a total mare.
Paris? Daft idea. Does he really think Dr R would drop everything and come away for a non-dirty weekend? The combined lure of the Eiffel Tower and his platonic company just isn’t going to cut it. Plus there’s the real risk he won’t stay platonic longer than, say, thirty seconds. In which case, why faff around with Eurostar, why not go straight up to the Fergus Abernathy building, shoulder-barge her office door right now, do his seventeen rude things?
And then resign, with immediate effect.
Nope. Still not a goer. He keeps trying that possibility on for size and it’s just not right. He’s a round peg in a round hole in this ordained ministry malarkey.
And he respects her views. Not fair to pressure her, when he isn’t prepared to shift ground himself. He’ll pay her the compliment of taking her seriously. Not let himself bombard her with red roses. Or even send a plaintive little text: ‘Remind me again why you’re so dead set against marriage?’
‘My mum says to say is it OK if I ask you about the Second World Wa-a-ar.’
‘And are you remotely interested in the Second World Wa-a-ar?’
‘No. But we’ve got ho-o-omework. We have to ask people about the Second World Wa-a-ar.’
‘Excuse me?’ Jane put her hands on her hips. ‘Listen, Missy Muldoon, I can remember my son Danny doing this topic. You’re supposed to ask your grandparents about their memories of the war! I’m not that old, thank you very much.’
‘Yeah, but they live in Hemel Hempstead and Brighton and I don’t know any other old people round here, do I, so how am I meant to do my stupid homework? Plus you said you’re a history lecturer.’
In the nick of time Jane remembered she was a grown-up and ought to set a good example. ‘Oh, all right. Come in.’
They went through to the kitchen. Leah held her nose.
‘Now what?’
‘Your house stinks.’
‘Yeah? I’ll tell you why. Because I was cooking coley last night. Know what that is?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Fish. Cheap fish. They ate coley in the war because it was cheaper than cod or haddock. So what else did they eat?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Who cares?’
‘They ate meat three times a day. Sprinkled with sugar from a golden spoon. With a side order of sweets and tropical fruit.’
‘No, they didn’t.’
‘Prove it.’
‘There was rationing, durr-brain.’
Jane sneered. ‘Sez you.’ The good example thing was going nicely. ‘Would you like a drink? Orange juice? Flat cola? A flagon of mead?’
‘Has the orange got bits in?’
‘No.’
‘OK, orange.’ Eye roll. ‘Pleeeeeease. I suppose your dad fought in the war.’
‘You suppose wrong.’ She handed her a glass of juice. ‘My dad was born in 1937. Do the maths. My granddad didn’t fight, and nor did my great-uncles, because they were all coal miners and shipbuilders. “Reserved Occupations”. Google it. Biscuit?’
‘What sort?’
‘Digestive.’
‘Meh. Got any chocolate ones?’
‘Actually, these were chocolate digestives, only I sucked the chocolate off. Want one?’
‘You think you’re funny and you’re so not.’
‘Wow! That’s spooky! Danny always told me that as well.’
‘Is that him there?’
Jane swivelled round and looked at the picture on the fridge. ‘Yep, that handsome devil is my son. What do you think?’
‘He’s weird. Why’s his face tattooed?’
‘Moko. Traditional Maori tattoos. His dad’s part-Maori. But it’s not real, he just Photoshopped it to wind me up.’
‘Why’s he pulling that face?’
‘It’s a Maori warrior thing. Meant to be scary.’
‘Well, it looks stupid.’
‘Hah! I wouldn’t tell that to the All Blacks.’
‘You’re not allowed to say that. It’s racialist.’
‘Since when? The All Blacks are the New Zealand rugby team. You into rugby? You’re not?’ Jane shook her head in sorrow. ‘I understand. Girls these days! It’s all My Sparkly Little Pony, and baking princess kitten cupcakes in your tiara and ballet pumps, isn’t it? And boyfriends. Have you got a boyfriend?’
Leah poked her fingers down her throat.
‘Attagirl!’
An hour later, Jane watched her sprint home along Sunningdale Drive. Not a great deal better informed about the Second World Wa-a-ar, but she could at least perform a creditable haka now. My work here is done, thought Jane.
She shut the door and went back into her fishy kitchen and stared at Danny’s face on the fridge. The picture wavered. Silly mare. Coming to see you soon, baby boy. Just wish I could invite that sweet man along and introduce the two of you. Reckon you’d get on.
Could I invite him?
Hello, Matt, would you like to drop everything, compromise your reputation and come all the way round the world with me – at the most hideously expensive time of year – and get nothing out of it at all, because I’m not prepared to change my mind?
Or was she? She tried the idea on. Aargh! It felt like a Lady Di blouse with a piecrust collar, three sizes too small.
I’ve not come all this way – through all this, on my own! – in order to become someone’s wife. Not interested.
And I’ll tell you what: you can fuck your equal marriage campaign and try offering me equal civil partnership. Then we might be talking.
Over in Martonbury, the bishop of Barcup’s wife is thinking about Jane, though she doesn’t know it. She’s thinking about whoever it was that Voldemort was trying to email so passionately that time. Janet Hooty is a bit of a fixer herself, too. So she has no qualms. Sort it out, please, she instructs the Almighty.
Chapter 46
Yes, but what is it, exactly? I’m glad you asked that question.
‘The General Synod comprises the Convocations of Canterbury and York, joined together in a House of Bishops and a House of Clergy, to which is added a House of Laity. It meets in February in London and in July in York, and occasionally in November in London.’
This week sees one of those November occasions. You remember the storm in a tea urn last year, when the House of Laity dealt one from the bottom of the pack, and voted down the proposed legislation on women bishops? Well, Synod is back again to have another crack at it.
This will be Bishop Paul Henderson’s last General Synod. A hasty email was circulated among his senior staff requesting information for the archbishop’s farewell speech. ‘Key points and amusing or telling anecdotes’ – that’s what the Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove was seeking. We trust that such material was forthcoming and the speech goes swimmingly.
Invitations have gone out across the diocese to Bishop Paul’s farewell service. It will be in mid-December, which is – shriek! – less than four weeks away! This Sunday is Christ the King (proofread carefully, O typers of pew sheets: we are not here to celebrate ‘Chris the King’). In old money this is Stir Up Sunday, the Sunday next before Advent, named after the Prayer Book collect
, ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’ It is, of course, the day on which good Anglicans traditionally order their luxury Christmas puddings from Fortnum and Mason.
Giles the precentor is up to his ears in Advent and Christmas music lists and rotas of clergy to cover the hundred and one carol services and concerts that the cathedral will host during this season. The next big thing on his horizon is the Advent Sunday ‘Darkness into Light’ service (again, proofread carefully: this is not a Procession with Carlos), which will be attended by up to 800 people. Such occasions offer delicious scope for liturgical control freaks to exercise their special skill set. Yesterday Giles found time to send a draft order of service to the bishop and catch a brief conversation with him, in which he enquired, very courteously, whether there was anything Paul would like to include.
‘That’s kind. Thank you for asking,’ said Paul. ‘I should very much like to sing “Be thou my vision”. You know, to the modern lively setting of Slane? With Celtic drums. In four/four.’
‘Well, father,’ replied the precentor, very, very courteously, ‘it is, of course, your farewell service, but since it will be Advent, I wonder whether we might need to explore alternatives?’*
‘Ah, it will be Advent, will it? I was forgetting that.’
The precentor stared at him for a long moment. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ agreed the bishop with a smile. ‘No, the order of service looks wonderful. Thank you, Giles, for all your hard work at such short notice.’
As he walked back to his house – pausing to peer in the skip outside the school to see if it contained anything combustible – the precentor reflected that if he’d seen more of that playful side of Paul over the last seven years, he might have been able to love him a little better.
Christmas cards and Advent calendars are now on sale in the cathedral bookshop, along with pious baubles and meaningful chocolate. You will also find posh floral paper napkins, Celtic jewellery, fudge, lavender bags and the complete works of Tom Wright. The Cathedrals Measure of 1999 stipulates that all cathedral shops must stock these items. Why not get your charity Christmas cards there, too? The Friends of Lindchester Cathedral have produced a charming set of snowy views of the cathedral, taken by a local photographer. It includes an ‘aw, bless!’ shot of the snow choristers crocodiling into the cathedral. The one of the snow bishop on the cathedral rooftop was ruled out by the Friends of Lindchester Cathedral Christmas card consultation subcommittee. I fear the notion is widespread that bishops have their sense of humour cauterized at consecration.
Acts and Omissions Page 29
