Please be patient with the nice assistants in the cathedral shop. You will encounter them, pecking at the till as though playing some terrifying retail version of Russian roulette that might trigger an explosion at any moment. These good folk are volunteers of retirement age, gamely battling with modern technology. Bite your tongue as they scan the bar codes with in-fin-ite care. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, what am I doing wrong? It doesn’t seem to be working!’ They will proceed to check the scanner by turning it towards their face, momentarily blinding themselves with a scribble of red light. Don’t smirk. My friend, you too will be old one day, and baffled by technology. And ask yourself: is your time really so precious that you cannot afford to spend five companionable minutes while someone attempts to Sellotape your Lindchester Cathedral glass paperweight into a piece of bubble wrap that is nearly, but not quite, big enough for the job? Get over yourself! Listen to the nice music playing. It’s Lindchester Cathedral Choir’s latest CD. Why not buy a copy? (Oh, fair enough, you don’t want to trigger the whole agonizing routine all over again.) Order it online. It’s rather good.
Across the diocese of Lindchester yellow leaves (or none, or few) are all that remain on most of the trees now. Silver birches still offer a splash of gold. Beeches glow russet. The leaves may have gone from the rowans, but the berries blaze red. Here and there the tips of the Lombardy poplars sport foliage, like paintbrushes dipped in phthalo or viridian green. Sunshine comes and goes between the rain clouds, and yes, there are rainbows. There is sprung up a light for the righteous, if they know where to look for it.
And light, light at the end of the long tunnel of sex inequality! Synod takes the next step towards women bishops. Proposals voted through 378 to eight, with twenty-five abstentions. Maybe next year the legislation will be passed? And which will be the lucky diocese to appoint the first ever woman bishop in England? Quickly, who’s due to retire at exactly the right moment? Heads are scratched in dioceses that already have vacancies. Are they out of the running, or can they word the diocesan Statement of Need judiciously? The new bishop must be a year off retirement and/or have a dicky ticker?
We are far on in the night. Day is at hand. The Christmas lights are up in Lindchester and Lindford. Schmaltz oozes from speakers in high street shops. ‘I wish it could be Christmas every da-a-a-ay.’ (Words you are unlikely to hear cathedral clergy singing.) Go and search diligently, and you may yet find an Advent calendar ‘with a religious theme’. But it’s mostly Christmas Countdown calendars these days, which, by the time of our Lord’s Nativity, will be ransacked of their chocolate and cast aside. Do today’s children know the thrill of opening the big window on Christmas Eve? Or the furious calculating that goes on in families of three children, to work out whether you need to go first, second or third, in order to bag the 24th?
Synod has completed its business. The Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove has made his speech thanking those bishops who are retiring. There were no amusing or telling anecdotes about Paul Henderson. This is not because nothing amusing or telling occurred during his time at Lindchester. It is more that the person best placed to supply such anecdotes had not found it funny that time Paul substituted the parish for the candidate’s name and said ‘Confirm, O Lord, your servant Little Slapton, with your Holy Spirit.’ Or put his mitre on backwards so that the lappets dangled in front of his face. No, Martin tended to treat such incidents as undermining his bishop’s dignity, and best forgotten.
How is Martin faring? Is he still praying for Freddie May? He is! He began by firing vindictive little prayer arrows, only to find that they all rebounded. His poor conscience is now pin-cushioned like St Sebastian! He writhes and squirms, skewered upon the memory of that email he sent to the cathedral safeguarding officer. He’s peppered by his own bullet points! Ah, deep down he knew at the time it was fuelled by spite and rage, though he would have died before admitting it. And then there was the last time he saw Freddie, and turned him away when he was in such distress! Oh, the appalling damage he almost did there, the scandal he so nearly unleashed!
Every Eucharist is a torment. Jesus said, ‘Before you offer your gift, go and be reconciled.’ As sisters and brothers in God’s family, we come together to ask our Father for forgiveness . . .
Go and be reconciled, Martin. Go and be reconciled to your brother. Go. Go! But what’s he meant to do? Email him? Phone him up? Drive to Barchester and find him? Oh, I can’t, I just can’t! He’ll spit in my face, he’ll . . . he’ll taunt me! Ask something else of me, Lord!
Oh, Martin. What you have failed to realize is that Freddie is actually about as vindictive as a big bag of marshmallows. Go and find him, for goodness sake! I bet you will barely manage to blurt out the first sentence of your rehearsed apology before he falls on your neck and weeps for your misery. No? Very well. Then I fear you must wallow in that misery for a little longer.
I’m afraid that Matt and Janey are still wallowing too. Both of them keep nearly texting the other (‘Come with me to Paris!’ ‘Come with me to New Zealand!’), then deciding it wouldn’t be fair. Jane no longer parks on the archdeacon’s drive, preferring to trawl the streets of Lindford for free spots, and relieving her feelings by getting into slanging matches with local residents. She will be taking strike action next week, with her fellow union members. I really would not want to cross any picket line with Dr R on it right now.
The music lists are done. The first orders of service have been printed. The precentor has spotted a missing apostrophe on page three of the Advent Carols booklet. But he bravely lets it go. Well done, Giles. He has, however, taken his eye off the ball slightly with regard to Paul’s farewell service, and so far forgotten himself as to delegate partial control to the director of music. The result is this: Timothy has taken a look at Mr Dorian’s four-part harmony score of ‘It is Well with My Soul’ and thought how lovely and fitting it would be to get Mr May back to sing the tenor part. He knows how fond the Hendersons are of Freddie.
__________________
* Cathedral-speak for ‘Fuck off!’
DECEMBER
Chapter 47
The bishop of Lindchester wakes. All is silent, but for the wind mourning in the ruined cedar. Then the cathedral clock chimes three. Paul remembers when they arrived in the Close, how he heard every blessed quarter that first night. Impossible to believe that he would ever grow accustomed to it! Yet before long he slept through, and when he did wake, found the chimes reassuring, like a patient nightwatchman calling the hours. Three o’clock and all is well.
Is all well? No.
A fox barks. Susanna sighs in her sleep. He reaches out and strokes her hair. But it will be well. It is almost Advent, the season of Hope. For now is our salvation nearer than when we first believed. He will miss the chimes when he wakes unmoored, untethered, in a strange African night. Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing. Does he perceive it? Nearly. Sometimes he glimpses it in the distance. This new thing that lies on the far side of the deep waters, of this hell-fire he is having to walk through.
Past three o’clock,
And a cold frosty morning!
Past three o’clock;
Good morrow, masters all!
Freddie. Singing that carol on the way back from last year’s Midnight. His voice carrying clear across the Close. Hours go by now in which Paul does not have to fend off the thought of him. The hours will become whole mornings, afternoons, evenings. And then days, weeks. How badly I treated you, sweet boy. Forgive, forgive me. If I had hated you, I could not have behaved worse. Because I hate that part of myself? Hated? Still hate?
Born is a baby,
Gentle as may be,
Son of the eternal
Father supernal.
What possessed me? You’re younger than my youngest daughter! I could have held you as a baby! Baptized you. Paced the room, rocked you to sleep on my chest. Suddenly Paul thinks: I could have held the Christ-child, too. Rocked the
Supernal to sleep, cradled his tender head to my heartbeat. Hush, hush. Daddy’s here. All is well. Sleep, my darling. Paul could weep now for that babe, knowing what lay ahead of it: the hatred, the cross, the grave. How strange and giddying the incarnation is – to console the Creator!
Ah, but he would like to see him just once more before he leaves. To say goodbye properly. Apologize, make amends. But no. He is consulting his own need yet again, not Freddie’s. Still wanting to offload this vast slurry-tank of remorse. Does Freddie waste a moment’s thought on him now? Paul doubts it. ‘Dude, you’re a sweet guy, but lighten up.’
Yes, why don’t you lighten up, dude? It’s that curse of Evangelical egocentricity again, with its furtive delusions of grandeur: ‘There is therefore now no condemnation!’ (Footnote: except for me!) What a huge portentous meal he makes of his sinfulness. As though it were a surprise and a shock to the Almighty. As though Paul Henderson alone required some extra atoning provision.
Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you.
Hush, hush, my darling. All is well. For a moment it is as if Paul can feel the babe in his arms, its weight on his chest. He could almost lay his cheek on the tiny pulsing skull. All the babes he has ever cradled. His own soul, cradled. And underneath are the everlasting arms.
The clock chimes again. Past three o’clock. Paul, strangely consoled, drifts back to sleep.
But what of poor Janey and the archdeacon? Is all well with them? Not yet, I’m afraid. The bishop of Barcup’s wife – who saw Matt looking pretty woebegone at a licensing last week – rattles off another prayer. A prayer for that unknown gal (she assumes it’s a gal) who, for whatever reason, is evidently giving Voldemort a hard time.
The gal has just got back from a day at Poundstretcher University. She scoops up the post from her doormat. Ha, the first Christmas card of the year! Aunty Brenda wins again. Bills, pizza flyers. And something from the diocese of Lindchester. Her heart does a barrel roll. She rips the envelope open. Not from him. OK, deep breath, wasn’t really expecting it to be.
It’s an invitation to Bishop Paul’s farewell service. And to farewell mulled wine and mince pies in the palace afterwards. Shit. Can’t not go to this, can she? But there will be no avoiding Matt. He’ll be poncing down the aisle in solemn procession, won’t he, and he’s bound to be at the bash afterwards. Oh God. Can she beg off? Invent a prior engagement? The thought of Susanna’s wounded face makes this impossible. Jane knows she has always been more special to Susanna than she deserves, more cherished, more valued as an old friend. God alone knows what’s been going on in the Close in recent months – the York fiasco, the sudden announcement about South Africa. Jane, reading between unwritten lines, could hazard a guess that the lovely Frederick is not wholly unconnected with the mystery.
Argh. What a crap friend she’s been to the Hendersons. Not even to get in touch, send flowers, anything. After all their years of patient, forgiving support! No, you’re going to that service, you evil cow, so let’s hear no more whingeing on the subject. She fires up her cranky old computer and RSVPs. Her thoughts stray to what she might wear. Buy a new frock? Red? She yanks them savagely back.
The following morning Penelope updates the list of acceptances to the Hendersons’ farewell. She copies it to the archdeacon, because he has asked to be kept in the loop. The archdeacon is in a safeguarding meeting. He really oughtn’t to check his emails in meetings.
Whoa! Dr R will be there! Matt shifted in his chair. Rubbed a hand over his bald head. Blushed scarlet.
‘Forgive me, Matt,’ said Helene, ‘but I’m not sure I have your full attention.’
‘Ah um. Yep. Nope. Sorry. Wandered off for a moment there. You were saying?’
When the meeting was finally over, Matt retreated to his office with a mug of coffee and tried to deal with the fact that he was going to be in the same room as his lady in a couple of weeks. Cool your jets. Plenty of time to get your act together, plan how to play this. Corner her and get a quiet word? Leave it to her to make the first move? Drop her an email in advance?
A tap at the door. Helene. Oh Lord. He got the choke chain on his temper.
‘Helene! Come in, park yourself.’
She sat. ‘Matt, I couldn’t help noting your demeanour in our meeting back there.’
He raised his hands. ‘You got me. Bad habit of mine, checking emails in meetings. Sorry.’
‘I think this calls for some ——.’
Très what? French now? Latest HR jargon? But Helene had an open biscuit tin and was offering him something.
‘Would you like some ——?’ she repeated.
‘Oh! Tray bake! Um, well, cheers.’ He took a piece.
‘Is everything all right, Matt? Only in recent weeks you’ve seemed . . . not quite yourself.’
He sat back, a bit stunned. She came in peace! Tray bake, not humble pie! ‘Yep, that’s possible. I’ve been up to my axles in the whole . . . Paul’s move. And now there’s the upcoming vacancy, obviously. Plus an employment tribunal in the New Year. So it’s all been a bit of a mare, to be honest.’
‘Matt, as you know, I’m new to the Church, as an organization. But as I understand it, the bishop is your line manager?’
‘He is.’
‘And can you clarify for me: what support structures are there in place for you, if that relationship becomes complicated? Or indeed, if the bishop retires and there’s a vacancy? Who looks after you, Matt? Who do you turn to?’
‘Well, colleagues on the senior staff team. And I have a spiritual director, obviously. So, yes, that’s about it.’ Nobody, he thought. At the end of the day, when I get home, there’s nobody. Well, what do you know – he could feel tears pricking in his eyes. She’d hit a nerve there, obviously.
‘I know you and I got off on the wrong foot, Matt,’ said Helene. ‘In that I find your sense of humour occasionally marginalizing. But I’m concerned for you.’
‘Well, thanks. Much appreciated.’ He finished his pecan tray bake. ‘Mmm, this is a bit good. Did you make it?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Have another piece?’
He smiled back. Quite a nice-looking lady when she smiled. Nice dark eyes. He was a sucker for dark eyes. He took a second slice.
‘You’re entitled to support if you’re experiencing stress in the workplace.’
‘No no. Goes with the territory. It’s more . . . Ah. Look. Actually, spot of old-fashioned girl trouble, basically. So . . .’
‘Tell me about it.’
There was a pause. ‘You want me to tell you about it?’
‘No, Matt. It’s a figure of speech.’
Another pause. ‘Oh! OK, gotcha.’ He ran a quick scan to check how big a nob he’d been over the last six months. ‘Well, maybe we should go out for a cheeky pint some time and compare girl troubles?’
‘I may take you up on that, Matt.’ She got to her feet. ‘But in the meantime, if there’s anything I can do?’
‘Well, you could leave that tin behind.’
‘Sorry, Matt.’ She whisked her tray bake away. ‘I’d have to do a risk assessment first.’ The door closed behind her.
Head-desk.
Yep, small wonder they’d got off on the wrong foot. He probably represented everything that hacked her off: straight white male bastard, oozing smug privilege, acting like the rules don’t apply to him. Serious player in an institution with a pretty poor track record on women and gays. He’d probably even tried to deploy the old charm offensive on her as well. Oh, Lord.
Plus his sense of humour was occasionally marginalizing, of course.
But anyway. Other things to think about: Pilling Report to get his head round. Looked like the old working group on human sexuality had managed to piss off both extremes of the spectrum. Which probably meant they were talking calm good sense. He sighed and cracked on with it.
December. Quickly, open the first little window! What is it? Ooh. Um. A pudding, maybe? Or a very fat ro
bin – wait, a round robin! Ho ho ho!
Yes, my friends, those Christmas round robins have started arriving through the post. Pedants, mount your seasonal hobby-horse and remind us that this is not what ‘round robin’ means! Tell us, friends, O tell us of the achievements of bright and talented offspring! The foreign holidays!! How the extension is going!!!
Today is Advent Sunday. The precentor is wearing purple socks. At least this year he won’t need to install a bucket in the triforium because the person singing the O Antiphons is hungover. (Yes, thanks for that, Mr May.) Giles has drafted in a nice reliable soprano from the Cathedral Chamber Choir instead.
Father Dominic arrives at the cathedral while Wachet Auf is playing on the organ. Why isn’t he taking his own service? you ask. Why, because there is no Sunday evening service in Lindford parish church. Abolishing it was one of his predecessor’s many unpopular acts. It will be resumed in the New Year, but for now, Father Dominic is secretly glad to attend an act of worship for which he has no responsibility whatsoever.
The lights go off. Silence settles. In the distance, way down at the west end, a voice:
I look from afar: and lo, I see the power of God coming,
and a cloud covering the whole earth.
Acts and Omissions Page 30
