Unseen Things Above

by Catherine Fox

  ‘Indeed I do! Why, I even have my trusty Pevsner guide here in my handbag! I shall stay unwaveringly in role.’

  ‘Look! They’re leaving. No, no, they really are this time. See? My man thing is rewarded.’

  ‘I retire abashed.’

  They wait as the car reverses out of the space.

  ‘Darling, aren’t you worried someone will recognize you, and guess why you’re snooping around?’

  He laughs. ‘They will be far too busy recognizing you and wanting autographs, Dame Perdita!’

  ‘So I am your decoy. Cunning!’

  ‘No, no! You adore cathedral cities, remember.’

  ‘That I do – to the point of dangerous obsession!’ She places a hand on his arm. ‘My darling boy, as you know, nothing would thrill me more than to see you in gaiters. Think of the scope for actress and bishop jokes at clan reunions. But . . . oh, oh, oh. You aren’t going to get dreadfully hurt, are you? The Church is still so beastly about gay people.’

  ‘Well, perhaps the tide is turning?’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so! Hey! Well, I like that! He’s pinching your space! Barefaced piracy!’

  ‘I know – what about that multi-storey car park? I can’t think why you didn’t suggest it earlier, Mother,’ says the Principal of Barchester Theological College.

  Chapter 4

  Today is Vocations Sunday. Clergy in their pulpits strive to impress upon their congregations that all the baptized have a vocation. Lay people ought not to regard ordained ministry as special, or as the only ‘real’ vocation. No, their own vocation to be God’s people in their homes, their workplaces, their communities, is equally important, in some ways more important! Whether congregations fully believe this message I leave for my readers to imagine; coming as it does from the mouth of someone carefully selected and trained, in receipt of a stipend, living in tied accommodation, addressed by an honorific title, and clad in the distinctive garb of their non-special vocation.

  In the cathedral, the diocesan director of ordinands preaches. She reiterates this message. All the baptized have a vocation (‘Christ has no hands but yours’). Then she adds that perhaps some of you here this morning are wondering whether God is calling you to explore a vocation to the ordained ministry?

  We will leave the cathedral folk to mull this over during the offertory hymn (‘Is it I, Lord?’) and pay a visit to Lindford Parish Church, where Father Dominic has invited an old friend to preach about vocation.

  Father Ed is a vicar over on the other side of the diocese. He looks after a group of rural parishes, including the Gaydens, both Magna and Parva, and the wonderfully named Itchington Episcopi. Ed and Dominic go way back. They were at theological college together. In fact, there may once have been a bit of a thing between them, but that’s really none of our business. I will just mention that Ed was the other bearded man in the infamous snogging incident on Latimer Hall lawn that shocked Jane so much (even though she didn’t actually witness it).

  The service is over now, and they are back at the vicarage. The lamb is roasting, the Pinot Noir is open. Ed and Dominic are wandering in the back garden in the sunshine drinking Prosecco. Dominic’s lawn is large, mown every fortnight by the firm who come in to do the churchyard. It is shaded by mature trees which screen off the tower blocks of the Abernathy estate, but between which the spire of the parish church is visible. Hardy vicarage garden perennials – cranesbill, Canterbury bells, columbine – flourish in overgrown beds. Rambling roses riot unchecked. The air is sweet with their scent. Birds sing. A cabbage white flutters by. This is truly a classic of the vicarage garden genre: charming at this season of year, but requiring more time, money and horticultural passion than most clergy have at their disposal.

  The two friends look faintly comic, I confess, rather like an animated Spy Cartoon, as they stroll in their clerical black. In a bygone era their hands would have been clasped behind their frock-coated backs, and Father Ed’s hunter would have been in the stable, rather than his silver Skoda Fabia on the drive. Father Ed is tall and slender, beardless these days. He inclines his head as he converses with his shorter, stouter companion. Dominic will shortly be re-entering the final phase of his three-year dieting cycle, I fear.

  ‘I told Jane one o’clock,’ said Dominic. ‘You remember Jane Rossiter? Trained at Latimer, but jacked it in.’

  ‘Tall? Played rugby? A bit scary?’

  ‘That’s Jane. She’s a history lecturer at Linden Uni now.’

  Ed stared. ‘Did you just say “uni”?’

  ‘Yes. I’m down wiv da yoof.’

  ‘Oh, stop embarrassing yourself, Father.’

  They walked in silence for a while. Before long Dominic’s pastoral antennae sensed the approach of an important conversation. The antennae passed the message on immediately to conscience. Conscience did a quick scan and issued the all-clear – along with a brusque memo that everything wasn’t always about Dominic Todd.

  ‘Can I run something past you before Jane gets here, Dom?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Neil and I are thinking of getting married.’

  Silence. A blackbird sang, gloriously unconcerned. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘We’ve been together nearly eighteen years.’

  ‘Eighteen years! Gosh! Can I be chief bridesmaid?’

  Ed looked down at him over his glasses. ‘Are you still a maid, Father?’

  ‘Oh! You can’t ask me that! I’ve “embraced a vocation to celibacy”! You aren’t allowed to ask prurient questions about my “friend” prancing about the rectory in his cowboy chaps!’

  Ed laughed and shook his head.

  They took another turn about the lawn. Then Ed stopped. They faced one another.

  ‘Look, Dom, I know you can’t really approve. That’s OK, I don’t expect you to.’

  ‘We-ell. Personally I’d find it hard to square with my oath of canonical obedience, but it’s not me, it’s you, and that’s fine. I mean . . . Oh, Ed, I thought you’d got your civil partnership all lined up for the autumn!’

  ‘We had, but look, “all things lawful and honest”. Is it lawful – to forbid us to marry, when the law of the land says we can? More people have got to stick their necks out and challenge the status quo, or it’ll just be allowed to carry on.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Dominic believed he could discern the influence of a short grumpy Scottish atheist hovering here. ‘Is this your idea, or Neil’s?’

  Ed did not reply.

  Dominic let the silence do its work.

  ‘God, I hate this so much!’ Ed burst out. ‘I’ve never been a campaigner. I just want to be left alone to get on with being a priest. I’ve always tried to accept the discipline of the Church, even when the bishops treat us like . . . Oh God, am I just being a coward?’

  ‘No, of course you’re not!’

  ‘I am. I’m a total coward. I don’t want to end up in the press as a cause célèbre.’

  ‘OK, well, what about the timing?’ asked Dominic. ‘Is an interregnum a good time? Who’ll end up having to discipline you? Poor old Bobby Barcup?’

  ‘I know, I know! I can’t bear the thought of dragging him into the crossfire. Paul Henderson, mind you—! But anyway, he’s gone.’

  ‘So you’ll wait till we’ve got a new bishop?’ asked Dominic.

  ‘I don’t know. Is it fair to spring it on him the moment it’s announced? Neil— He’s got nothing invested in the Church, as you know. It’s not tangled up with actual people for him.’

  ‘Yes, well, Neil’s an actual person too, though. And so are you.’

  They walked again in silence.

  ‘What am I going to do, Dominic? Obviously I want to marry the man I love. The law says I can. I think the Church should be able to bless that. I used to think civil partnership was enough, but . . . I genuinely don’t know what’s right here.’

  ‘Mull it over a bit longer, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah. Probably.’

  ‘After all, Fathe
r, marriage is not something to be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly, is it?’

  ‘Or to satisfy men’s carnal lusts or appetites, Father. So no more cowboy chaps for you.’

  ‘If only!’ Dominic sighed. ‘Oh, well. I wonder if the archdeacon will be witch-finder general during the vacancy?’

  ‘Yes, Evangelicals certainly have a special talent there.’

  ‘Now, now! He’s an open Evangelical, remember.’

  ‘Open! To what?’

  ‘To the idea of being nicer than God,’ said Dominic. ‘They’d be in favour of equal marriage if only God wasn’t a nasty old bigot. But sadly, the Bible says . . . Actually, I have a lot of time for Matt. He got me this parish.’

  ‘It was all part of his evil-gelical master plan! If you’d stayed in Renfold, you’d be on the CNC. You’d have influence!’

  ‘I know I would!’ wailed Dominic. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t mention the archdeacon when Jane gets here. Slightly a sore point. He’s just dumped her.’

  ‘No! They were an item? Seriously? No!’

  We must leave them now to finish their Prosecco and gossip in their cattily catholic way, while we attend to important matters of process.

  I have been remiss, dear reader. I have made casual reference to the CNC (Crown Nominations Commission, rather than Civil Nuclear Constabulary) without clarifying what it gets up to. Briefly, it is the body that chooses new bishops.

  So what does their work involve? How are bishops chosen these days?

  If you are the kind of person who likes to curl up with a mug of cocoa and a bunch of standing orders, then I refer you to the Church of England website, where you may consult a vast document called Briefing for Members of Vacancy in See Committees. For ordinary mortals, here’s what you need to know about the process at this point in our tale:

  (1) Bishop retires/resigns/moves/falls under a bus: there is a ‘Vacancy in See’ (see = diocese). (2) A ‘Vacancy in See Committee’ is formed in the diocese, of lay and ordained people. (3) The Vacancy in See Committee has two tasks: to draw up a ‘Statement of Needs’ (what we want from the new bishop) and to elect six of its members on to the Crown Nominations Commission. (4) The two ‘appointments secretaries’ (one for the prime minister, one for the archbishops) visit the diocese for two days and consult widely with local civic and church figures. (5) CNC meets twice, to draw up a shortlist, then to interview the candidates (21–22 July).

  Compared with Trollope’s day, this is – as Wikipedia notes – ‘a somewhat convoluted process’. The first meeting of the CNC for Lindchester will happen in Bishopsthorpe (home of the Archbishop of York) on 11 June.

  This information conveys little of what it feels like in a diocese when a vacancy occurs. You are probably already skimming ahead to find the next interesting bit. As the interesting bits generally involve people not processes, I will tell you instead who some of the members of the CNC are.

  Dean Marion is one. This means (paragraph 5b: ‘not more than one of the members elected shall be a member of the bishop’s senior staff’) that the archdeacon is not a member of the CNC. Matt, therefore, has no finger in the biggest pie currently on the church table. He’s not happy, I can tell you, but he bowed to the inevitable.

  If we do the ecclesiastical maths (‘not less than half of the members elected shall be lay members of the Committee’) this leaves only two places for clergy of the diocese. As Father Ed pointed out, if only Dominic hadn’t just moved from the parish of Renfold, he would doubtless have been on the CNC as the longest-serving area dean in the diocese. He would have been able to influence the choice of new bishop. He might even have formed a little alliance with the dean, and tried to ensure Guilden Hargreaves was appointed.

  This is sad indeed, but I hope my readers will be cheered to know that one of the other clergy members is our good friend Father Wendy.

  Right now Father Wendy has more pressing things to think about than the CNC. She’s at Cardingforth primary school.

  ‘Gooood mooorning, Mist-er Crowth-er. Gooood mooorning, teach-uz. Gooood mooorning, Revrun-Dwendy.’

  ‘Good morning, boys and girls. It’s lovely to be here with you again. I’ve brought a friend along with me today. His name’s Pedro. Here, boy! That’s right. Come and say hello. This is Pedro.’

  ‘It’s a dog!’

  ‘Cool! It’s a dog!’

  ‘Miss, Miss! Revrun Dwendy, why’s he only got three legs?’

  ‘Why’s he got that cage over his face?’

  ‘He’s soooo-oo cute!’

  ‘Why’s he shivering like that? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Miss, Revrun Dwendy, Miss! Can I stroke him? Oh, pleeeee-ease?’

  Mr Crowther stands up. ‘All right, simmer down, children. Jack, sit down, please. I’m sure Reverend Wendy is going to tell you all about him. QUIET!’ Pedro flinches. ‘Now then. I want to hear a pin drop.’

  Somebody says, ‘Boing!’ Mr Crowther eyeballs the individual concerned, but lets it go. When the hall is approximately silent, he sits down again.

  Wendy tells the children all about Pedro. Poor Pedro, he used to be a champion racer, he could run like the wind. Who here likes running races? Good! Pedro loved racing too, but he got cancer on his leg, and they were going to put him down. Does everyone know what that means? That’s right, he was going to have an injection that would put him to sleep, so he would die peacefully without suffering. But he was rescued by a greyhound charity. He had to have an operation, and sadly his leg could not be saved. But he’s learned to run on three legs, haven’t you, boy? For a while nobody wanted to adopt him, but then Wendy came along.

  Two hundred and eighty-eight children stare, rapt, devouring every word. Or rather, two hundred and eighty-seven. One child rolls her eyes. She provides a little commentary of her own, which is just audible to those sitting nearby:

  ‘But in Jeee-zuz’ race you don’t have to be fast, everyone can take part. Jeee-zuz wants to rescue everybody, because everybody’s special! Everyone can be a winner, even if they’ve got no legs!’

  I’m afraid this rather pre-empts Father Wendy’s moral.

  Mrs Fry, seated at the piano, sees a bout of giggling taking a grip in the Year 5 section. She leans forward and hisses: ‘Leah Rogers, go and stand outside Mr Crowther’s office.’

  Leah is still standing outside Mr Crowther’s office when the school scrambles to its feet to sing ‘One more step along the world I go’. Mr Crowther will come any minute and tell her he is Very Disappointed. Apologize to Revrun Dwendy for being silly and rude. Sorreeee, Revrun Dwendeeee.

  But Wendy comes along the corridor without Mr Crowther. Pedro bobs along beside her on his three legs. Leah pretends she hasn’t seen them. She stares at the Year 3 ‘Healthy Eating’ wall display, which is so lame, with lame drawings of fruit stuck on paper plates.

  ‘Hello, Leah! What are you doing here all by yourself?’

  Yeah. Like you don’t know. ‘Mrs Fry sent me out.’

  Wendy laughs. ‘Oh, dear! What for?’

  Leah doesn’t answer. Eat your Five a Day!

  ‘Oh, I was always getting sent to the head for talking!’ says Wendy. ‘And once because someone put a plastic dog poo on Mrs Curzon’s chair.’

  Leah turns and stares in surprise at Father Wendy’s round, beaming face. There are little tiny veins all over her cheeks. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘No. It was Colin Beasely. But it was my plastic dog poo, so nobody believed me.’ Wendy laughs. ‘I still feel outraged after all these years.’

  Leah spots her chance: ‘Well, life isn’t fair.’

  ‘No,’ said Wendy. ‘No, it’s not, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But Jeee-zuz makes everything fair.’

  ‘Not in my experience.’

  Leah blinks, then looks away, shocked.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better be off. Goodbye, Leah. Come along, Pedro.’

  Leah carries on staring at the crappy lame Healthy Eating display, so she won’t ha
ve to watch Pedro limping away on his three legs, or think about how they were going to throw him on the rubbish heap because he couldn’t win any more races.

  Now the assembly’s out of the way Wendy can turn her thoughts to the CNC, and pray for the next bishop of Lindchester – whoever it turns out to be – in fact, she can surround the whole process in prayer. They’ll be getting the long longlist soon. Who will be on it? Guilden Hargreaves! She laughs. ‘Oh dear, Pedro! I still can’t believe we nicked Dame Perdy Hargreaves’ parking space! It was an accident – Doug didn’t realize they were waiting. Do you suppose she’s forgiven us yet?’

  Pedro makes no reply.

  And now it’s Saturday evening. We will pay a visit to the third clergy member of the CNC. We glimpsed him once before. Perhaps the tenor of this narrative seemed a little disparaging of Geoff, Vicar of St James’ Lindford, when he appeared in his Noah’s Ark stole? I wish to clarify that we have nothing but respect for him. He is in his study, staring at his computer screen. Please admire the painted cross on his wall. It’s from South America.

  Right now, the Revd Geoff Morley is questioning his fitness to be part of the CNC. His style is collaborative, he values unanimity. He instinctively plays down his own role, seeks to abstain from personal prejudice. But the ground has just shifted under his feet.

  He clutches an old prayer in panic: Be a bright flame before me, O God.

  He ought to have spoken up. But there was nothing he could put his finger on. And apart from him, it was unanimous. Veronica’s paperwork was stellar. Her performance at interview blew the other candidates out of the water. So he hesitated, doubted, and remained silent. After all, it was a university chaplaincy appointment, really.

  What’s he going to do now?

  A guiding star above me.

  ‘We have no record of a student of this name on our files.’

  If he carries on checking, what else is he going to uncover?

  A smooth path beneath me.

  What if she’s a complete fantasist? What if everything on her CV is fake?