Acts and Omissions

by Catherine Fox

  Go ye out to meet him and say:

  And the choir responds:

  Tell us, art thou he that should come to reign over thy people Israel?

  Father Dominic’s eyes strain to the east, where the faint glow of the floodlights is just visible through the great rose window. In the dark he hears the voices weave in and out of one another. It is as though they are reweaving the fabric of his yearning soul.

  Chapter 48

  Lulu, Father Wendy’s faithful old Labrador, is housebound now. At some point, a month or so ago, they had their very last totter along the banks of the Linden. To her shame, it slipped by without Father Wendy even noticing it. Like so many last moments. How we would have treasured them, if we’d only known.

  Wendy sits now on the kitchen floor stroking Lulu’s head. A day like any other day. That’s what the end of the world is always like. Eating, drinking, marrying, giving in marriage. And the flood came and took them all away. I must decide, she thinks. I can’t let her linger on any more like this. Saturday? Yes.

  Saturday is Father Wendy’s day off. She will ring the vet. Yes, she knows she must.

  Oh, Lulu.

  Lulu is too tired now to lift her head. But she cries softly for Wendy’s pain.

  Susanna is lightening the ship. Endless trips to the charity shop, to the municipal dump. How can they have so much stuff? What are they going to do with it all? They can’t possibly transport all this to South Africa. Well, they’ll just have to put it all in storage.

  But why? When they retire, what will they do with all the stuff they have stored? The bolt-hole is already bursting at the seams. They don’t need it, do they? Why is she hanging on to it? Because she’s loved these things so much. They symbolize the home she’s made. Now she’s dismantling it all and putting it in the metaphorical loft, because she can’t bear to let go of it completely. Isn’t that what she’s doing? Like the girls’ soft toys. They are still there in the actual loft, in a plastic crate. Big Ted and little Ted. Panda bear. The knitted crib set from a church bazaar.

  It’s ludicrous. Suddenly she sees how ludicrous it is. Storage, indeed! Think of the cost of storing it all for years and years, when she’s never going to need any of it again! She might as well pile it all on the lawn and set fire to it, for all the good these things will do her.

  But my antique French storage jars! The grandfather clock!

  Maybe one of the girls will want them?

  Oh dear, oh dear. The pagoda, the plants. The garden tools. The tubs and planters. Whatever am I going to do? Something in her whispers: ‘Give it away, cast it off, be free!’ But she can’t, she just can’t.

  One by one the little windows are opened and the chocolate is scoffed. Dean Marion has a homemade Advent calendar. It was lovingly constructed by her husband Gene. It features an innocent woodland nativity scene with furry creatures kneeling in homage among much glitter. There is no chocolate, but each little window opens upon a different aspect of Gene’s naked person. The dean believes she can already guess what lies behind the big window; but she must wait, as must we all, for the 24th. Don’t forget to hide the calendar when the choristers come to the deanery for their Christmas party, Mrs Dean!

  Wander with me through the Cathedral Close on Wednesday night, and you will hear the strains (I use that word advisedly) of Handel’s Messiah being rehearsed, ready for the big performance this Saturday. Timothy Gladwin, the director of music, is doing his best to coax out/rein in the talents of the Cathedral Community Choir. Bless them. Let no stout soprano fall off the stage on The Night! Let there be no rogue extra ‘Ha—’ from the tenor section in the closing bars of the Hallelujah Chorus! And, O Lord, O Lord! Please let the bass soloist not be totally up himself and a complete nightmare to work with this time!

  And so the year draws to a close. Where has the time gone? It seems only a minute since I was wafting you on the eagle wings of Anglicanism in the twilight of 2012, over the oxbow lake towards Renfold! Let us retrace our journey now.

  Yes, the Christmas lights of Renfold are up again. Blue icicles dangle from eaves, Santas clamber over rooftops once more like thieves in the night. St John’s vicarage stands vacant now. Father Dominic’s cassock and biretta no longer hang on the peg in the hall. However shall we manage without you, Father Dominic? But they have managed, the doughty parishioners of St John’s Renfold. Never underestimate the power of lay people to manage without clergy. Or the amount of money that the diocese will save on stipends during an interregnum.

  There are storms again on Thursday. High winds whip away the clouds from the Cardingforth cloud factory. The Christmas lights in Lindford wag and bob above the streets as shoppers battle bravely on. And still it rains on John O’Groat’s house, far across the sea. We shut ourselves in and batten down the hatches, cuddled under blankets with a glass of wine in front of the TV, tweeting irritably, drolly, shoutily, trivially. And then we cease. We will always remember that this is where we were when we heard: his long walk to freedom is complete. RIP Nelson Mandela.

  ‘We refused to buy Cape grapes,’ said Jane.

  ‘Yeah. And we boycotted Boerclay’s Bank,’ said Spider. ‘Back in the days when students were radical. When did they last organize a sit-in at Poundstretcher?’

  They sighed and shook their heads. They were in Peggoty’s Pie and Ale Parlour in Lindford.

  ‘Bitching about their tutors on Facepalm is about as radical as they get.’

  Silence.

  ‘Can’t believe he’s gone.’

  ‘No.’

  More silence.

  Simeon the poet watched Jane through his blue-tinged glasses. ‘Everything OK, Janey?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, comfort-eat, lass. You’ve lost a shit-load of weight.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the misery diet.’ Jane prodded at her festive game and cranberry pie, then looked up. ‘It’s—’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Spider turned round to see what she was looking at. ‘What?’

  Jane focused on him and smiled. ‘So! I’m off to New Zealand on the twenty-first. See my baby boy. Get a bit of vitamin D. Watch a few whales, climb a few glaciers.’

  ‘Hunt a few orcs. Eat some man-flesh.’

  ‘That kind of thing.’ She raised her pint. ‘Nelson Mandela. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Mandela.’ Spider chinked his glass against hers. ‘“You will achieve more in this world through acts of mercy than you will through acts of retribution.”’

  ‘Acts of mercy,’ repeated Jane. ‘More of those, please. Though retribution has much to commend it.’

  He hadn’t seen her. So that was it then. She managed to eat her pie. She drank another ale. Her eyes didn’t stray, not once, to the booth where the archdeacon was sitting with another woman.

  And now it is Saturday. Father Wendy gets up and makes her way downstairs. Today is the day. Another small end of the world. She will put poor Lulu in the car one last time, and—

  But Lulu, with exquisite tact, has slipped away in the night. Father Wendy stumbles to the basket, creaks to her knees and lays a hand on the cold fur. Oh, Lulu! Good girl, well done, old girl. There, there. All done now. You made it. She closes her eyes and sobs. Oh, what will I do, what will I do without you? Then she sees, clear as a video clip, Lulu bounding ahead of her along the river bank, young again, away, off into the distance, where a tiny figure is waiting to greet her. Laura? Oh, let it be so! Wait for me? Because one day I’ll be joining you, my darlings. Not long now.

  A silver Aston Martin DB9 purrs on to the precentor’s drive. The bass soloist gets out. He retrieves his bespoke tail suit and overnight bag from the boot, then saunters to Giles’s front door. Does he look totally up himself to you? Yes, I’d say that’s a fair description. But he is resolved to behave and not to be a compete nightmare to work with. Provided they’ve remembered his San Pellegrino water.

  The bishop has been insanely busy. He is busy in the
office and around the diocese; he is busy when he gets home, where he is called upon to make urgent decisions about carnival glass bowls and Lloyd Loom linen baskets. I am glad about this. Paul is too prone to bouts of lacerating introspection. He can hide from the thought of Freddie May in the exigencies of his diary and domestic decision-making. Space does not permit us to anatomize episcopal affairs. Let us content ourselves with the vague idea that handing over the reins of a busy diocese is a vexed and time-consuming business. His trusty chaplain is on hand at every turn with things to sign, lists of bullet points to action, people to thank, practicalities to redirect to the suffragan bishop of Barcup or the archdeacon.

  How is Martin faring? you ask. Martin is still barbecuing himself on the brazier of conscience. He has not yet found a way to make peace with Freddie. He drafts and redrafts emails in his head. He rehearses phone conversations. He googles the route to Barchester. But he is too busy to do anything about it. Far too busy. He has a new job to look for now as well, remember. He hides from the thought of Freddie May behind the Church Times classifieds.

  Ah, Handel’s Messiah! If you are au fait with matters choral you will know to despise it. The rest of us can have a jolly good time. Our souls will travel that great narrative arc of salvation which is Jennens’s libretto. The bishop and his wife, sitting on the front row with the chain gang, will hear those familiar words – ‘Comfort ye, comfort ye my people’ – and they will be comforted. They will get to their feet in the Hallelujah Chorus and once again be wafted to heaven’s throne room. Even the snooty bass will stand, in acknowledgement of a majesty exceeding his own. ‘King of kings, and Lord of lords!’ Higher, higher climb the valiant voices of the Community Choir. Light winks off sequins, sweat glints on bald heads. ‘For ever, and ever, hallelujah!’ In that beat of silence (there is no stray ‘Ha—’) before the last ‘Hallelujah’, the world holds its breath.

  There was mulled wine and mince pies at the deanery afterwards, it goes without saying. The precentor approached the bass and handed him a bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass of ice (made with mineral, not tap water).

  ‘I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for not killing anyone.’

  ‘I am all docility these days, Giles. That said, there were some priceless tenor moments going on behind me.’ The soloist scanned the throng. ‘Mr May not here?’

  ‘He’s left us. Our loss is Barchester’s gain. Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s not often I’m told to go fuck myself. I found it rather energizing.’

  ‘Very happy to oblige in his absence.’

  ‘Thoughtful.’

  ‘Seriously, what’s your interest in Freddie?’

  The bass turned his arctic stare upon Giles. ‘Professional. Of course.’

  ‘Of course! But you do realize you look frighteningly like the child-catcher off Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in that coat?’

  Mr Dorian (for it was he) left before he started drinking, or killing people, or both, and walked back across the Close to the precentor’s house alone. Funnily enough, his motives in this instance were pure. He’d been praying for Freddie May on and off for over ten years. Ever since that little flamer came to his attention at a North-West Three Choirs Festival, and he saw something of himself in the brilliant and desperately unhappy child.

  Chapter 49

  There is no category of person upon whom we lavish more care and forward sartorial planning than an ex. Even a clandestine lover comes a poor second. New haircut, new frock, new shoes, new hosiery, accessories, perfume, a manicure – all these are needed to demonstrate unambiguously that we have not wasted a moment’s thought on him since the break-up.

  Jane has surveyed her wardrobe and spotted a gap. She does not own an ‘I am so over you, you bastard!’ dress. It is now crucial that she acquires one before the Hendersons’ farewell service next week. She sits in her kitchen swearing and googling like a woman possessed.

  Don’t even bother raising the possibility with Jane that Matt might have been out with a work colleague. Because she saw him place a hand on the small of her back and laugh down into her upturned adoring cow face as they disappeared into their secret lover booth.

  That’s it! The Dress. Yes, yes, yes! It is red, it is stretchy, it will flatter an (ahem) hourglass figure! It is knee-length, it has tactful ruching over the stomach region, it plunges just enough. And – ladies of a certain age will sigh in understanding here – it has sleeves. Jane leaps up from her desk and hunts the house for a tape measure to check her new misery diet vital statistics. Not being of a dressmaking bent, all she can find is a retractable steel one (cold! shriek!). She calculates that, in terms of the frock website, she is . . . Large?! Pah. Overlooking this piece of unpardonable rudeness, she orders the dress.

  Take that, Mr Archdeacon.

  The precentor of Lindchester Cathedral eschews the habit of singing Christmas carols in Advent. But ever at our backs we hear bankruptcy’s chariot drawing near, so he bows to the inevitable. From now till Christmas it will be two or three carol services a day. Schools, voluntary organizations, civic groups, charities, hospitals, hospices, police, fire service – they all want their own carol concert, and such a brisk revenue stream may not be sacrificed upon the altar of liturgical purity. So the verger team arranges chairs this way, that way, erects stages, dismantles them again. The flower guild spritz holly and ivy on the Advent ring. The Holy Dusters chisel spilled wax from floors. Stewards polish their badges and smiles. (You can’t sit there, it’s reserved. Don’t forget to use the Gift Aid envelope.) Cathedral Chapter clergy take it in turns to climb up into the pulpit and say a few words of welcome and allude to Christ.

  This year sees a huge regional gathering in Lindchester of Townswomen’s Guilds. The Close bustles with grey-haired women in court shoes and jolly red winter coats. Some cock-up with the rota means that both the canon treasurer and the canon chancellor turn up for the concert. It is Mr Happy’s first ever brush with the Cowboy Carol, can you believe it? (Pink-a-pink pang pong!) He is completely incapacitated by fou rire when the choir of septuagenarians gets to its feet and warbles, ‘Yoi, yippee!’ and vows to climb up to the saddle and ride the trail. Every time he masters his mirth, the treasurer on the opposite side of the aisle leans out from behind a floral display, catches his eye, and deliberately sets him off again. (Those of you who were there and wondering, that is why you glimpsed one canon beating another about the head with a service booklet afterwards.)

  ‘This is my favourite moment of the church year,’ said Giles. ‘We are now at the farthest possible point from another performance of Messiah. You survived the malevolent Dorian stare, Timothy?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t really see him, the way the staging was set up. But I could sense him there, in my peripheral vision.’

  ‘Yet your baton never wavered!’ Giles gripped the director of music’s shoulders and gave him a shake. ‘Stout work, my man. I’ll see you get a bravery award. Everything in hand for Paul’s farewell service?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Giles.

  ‘Freddie’s confirmed he can sing, so we’re—’

  ‘What? You’ve asked Freddie May back?!’ Giles suddenly recollected, strangled the explosion, tried to relaunch it as delight. ‘What a lovely idea!’

  Timothy retreated a pace. ‘Um. Well, that’s what I thought. To sing, “It is Well with My Soul”. But if it’s a problem . . . ?’

  ‘Not at all!’ Aaargh! ‘It will be lovely to see him again! But warn him from me: if he rocks up here off his face, I’ll have his balls for christingles.’

  ‘He is? That’s nice,’ says the archdeacon. ‘Sorry? No, no, I’m sure the Hendersons will be really touched. No probs. Okey-doke. Cheers, Giles.’

  Holy crap, Batman. He dials tarty-pants.

  ‘Well, hell-ooo, Daddy! How’s it going?’

  ‘You’re coming to Paul’s farewell.’

  ‘Huh? O-ohh. Yeah. They asked me to sing?�
�

  ‘Freddie, think for just one moment. Is this a good idea?’

  ‘Wha-a? Listen, Timothy’s like, will you come, it would be really nice, and I’m, hey, you bet? Fucksake. What am I gonna say – ooh, sorry, dude, it’s complicated? Paul and me have history?’

  ‘It didn’t cross your dozy mind to say you were busy that night?’

  ‘Yeah, no. Actually, it didn’t. Know why? Coz it’s not that big of a deal!’

  ‘Not for you, maybe.’

  Silence.

  ‘What, he’s still . . . ?’ More silence. ‘Ah nuts. Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. Engage brain, Freddie. How’s he going to feel?’

  ‘No-o-oo. Aw, c’mon, Matt, please don’t make me bail now? I’m trying so hard not to be flaky, you know? And Timothy, he’ll be all, typical Freddie May!’

  ‘You may have to suck that one up, my friend.’

  ‘No, yeah, it’s just, I’ve got this new thing going? If I like commit to something, I actually do it? That make sense? Someone, ah, he kind of called me on this a while back, on the whole self-sabotage thing, and I’m, yeah. Trying to address that?’

  Matt rubs his face. Oh, Lord. ‘Well, that’s good to hear, Freddie. I don’t want to stomp all over your good intentions, but . . .’

  Silence. ‘Yeah. But probably I should get laryngitis?’

  Why, thinks the archdeacon suddenly, is it all about Paul’s feelings? What about Freddie? Who’s looking out for him in all this mess? ‘Actually, no, you come. We’ll deal with it.’

  ‘Seriously? Cool! Can I stay at yours?’

  ‘Yes. Just don’t crawl into my bed at 3 a.m.’

  ‘But I get lonely!’

  ‘Too bad. I’m pushing the chest of drawers over the door.’

  ‘Man, you are so-o-ooo strict with me!’

  ‘Somebody needs to be.’

  ‘They do. They so do. How’s Janey?’

  ‘Bye, Freddie.’

  Father Wendy walks along the banks of the Linden alone. She hunts for a hanky and discovers she still has poop bags in her coat pocket! Tears roll down her cheeks. Lulu, Lulu. Oh dear. The reed heads bow and shush in the wind. On the opposite bank the big woman is out jogging again. Has she lost weight? And where’s the young blond man? She’s not seen him in months. Well, bless them, bless them.