Oh, God. Was that the wrong call last December? Gambling everything on Matt being The One, assuming it would work out because they were both wild about each other. If I’m going to be miserable, wouldn’t it be better to be miserable in Middle Earth? No, this was cheap escapism. Let this clergy discipline thing run its course. Things may yet work out. She texts him: ‘Miss you. Jxx’
Father Ed arrives back at the vicarage to find another silver Skoda parked beside his. Even before he’s got the front door open he can hear Neil laughing in the kitchen.
‘Eds? C’mere, big man!’
Uh-oh. That’ll be the U’Luvka speaking. He goes through to the kitchen to rescue the poor guest.
‘Where’ve you been? I’m ’splaining the YES campaign to Ronnie, here. You know each other?’ Neil waves the bottle towards a woman dressed in black. ‘Ronnie, Ed, ma fiancé. Ed, Ronnie. Fuck, I’m pished.’
She bounds forward, like a tarantula pouncing. ‘Hi, Father Ed!! I’ve heard so much about you from Dommie!!’
_____________________
* It is true that pink karate kits do exist, but only when some numpty washes it with a red belt.
Chapter 21
‘McIvor,’ said Father Ed to Neil. ‘McIvor called.’
Neil froze. Went scarlet.
Ed turned to Veronica. ‘Really sorry. Bit of a crisis. Oh, dear.’ He looked helplessly at his watch. ‘Um. Sorry to do this, but if you could, ah, leave us . . . ?’
‘Oh, I todally unnerstand!’ A compassionate hand gripped Ed’s arm. ‘That’s cool. I hear you. My heart so goes out to you guys and your situation? If there’s anything I can do? I’ll come back at a better time. Neil, thanks for the drink, I’ll be in touch, darling. Anon for now.’
Darling! Ed apologized her to the door, expertly shielding himself from a deluge of future commitments with the umbrella of English uselessness. Finally the silver Skoda pulled away. His heart was pounding.
By the time he got back to the kitchen Neil had unfrozen. I’ll say! He’d passed from solid state, through liquid, and was now vaporizing.
‘Excuse me? Excuse me? Did you just safeword me?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did, Neil.’
‘What the actual fuck, Eds? That’s not what it’s for, you bawheed!’
‘Really? I thought it was for when you’re doing something I’m really not enjoying and I need you to stop now, without arguing.’
‘In bed! It’s in bed, not, not, tsh!—’ He rapped his knuckles on Ed’s forehead. ‘Not socially, it’s not an in conversation thing when there’s feckin’ company here! Christ! Do you even know how embarrassing you are, Vicar?’
‘I couldn’t think how else to shut you up. Shall I explain what’s going on?’
‘I would love that, I would love you to explain on what planet that is acceptable behaviour— McIvor? I’ll give you McIvor! Aye, and another thing, why’s Ronnie gone, eh? You threw her out? What’s that all about? She’s the one person who can help us here with, with, strategy, with the media and legal, she’s the LBGT, LG, och, the thing chaplain. And the union rep. Why aren’t you in the union, Eds, eh? Anyway.’ Neil folded his arms with laborious flamboyance. ‘Go on, then. Explain away.’
It should be noted that Neil was not at his most receptive. Ed did his best to convey that Veronica was not their friend and ally, that there was no diocesan LGBT officer, that she was not the diocesan union rep; but this was waved aside. Father Dominic was dismissed as ‘that wee nellie’ and his concerns ridiculed. No, it was pointless to argue tonight. Ed settled himself to endure. An unfocused rant against the Church followed, interspersed with what ‘Ronnie’ proposed to do to aid their cause, doubling back periodically to McIvor. Ed let it run its course. Neil’s drunken discourse resembled a mad wind-up toy that threshed hysterically round your ankles until it finally twitched into stillness – only to clatter back to life if you foolishly poked it. He’d moved on to Scottish independence now. Ed’s eyes watered from stifled yawns.
‘Don’t fall asleep on me, you bastard!’
‘Sorry, but you’re having a Braveheart moment. I lost the will to live.’
Neil punched his arm. ‘And another nother thing – yon archdeacon, he’s been suspended. For shacking up with his missis. Aye, I thought you’d be interested in that.’ And off he went again: bastard bishops, Yes campaign, Tory bastards, McIvor! Why’s Ronnie gone?
My readers may be relieved to learn that the archdeacon has not, in fact, been suspended. I will seize the opportunity offered by Neil’s disquisition to bring you up to date. The diocesan registrar has done whatever registrars do in the privacy of their chambers under the heading ‘Preliminary Scrutiny’ – pondered and stroked his chin? turned cartwheels in his twinkly shoes? we may never know – and has submitted his report to the bishop. Briefly: there is sufficient substance to the complaint to justify proceeding with it. Just as Bishop Harry predicted.
Those of you who are interested in the minutiae of such processes may download the document entitled Clergy Discipline Measure 2003 Code of Practice, and consult it at your leisure. It is available on the C of E website, because it is our joy to be transparent. Admittedly, the C of E is occasionally transparent in the manner of a net curtain: you can see out perfectly well. Seeing in may be altogether more baffling.
Bishop Harry, were he Bishop of Lindchester and not merely a retired acting bishop, would have dismissed the complaint as ‘probably not grave enough to merit a formal rebuke under the Measure’. But there we are. Matt has been officially informed and sent a copy of the registrar’s report and the original complaint. He now has twenty-one days to provide a written reply.
Ah, what a dull document to scoop up so much human suffering! Here is the first port of call for complaints about everything from cocking up the interment of ashes, via snogging your youth worker, through to systematically abusing choirboys. The process seeks to deal fairly, kindly and consistently with all: the victims, the wrongdoers, the innocent, the misunderstood, the weak and hapless, and the criminal. Let nothing be swept under the vestry carpet ever again! Unfortunately, the Clergy Discipline Measure also presents itself as a handy tool for malcontents. If you don’t like the cut of your vicar’s jib, if you take agin a member of the senior staff, here’s a way of making life difficult for him or her. The Measure is not designed to deal with ‘minor complaints and grievances’; but hey, it’s worth a shot. In a previous era all you could do was rattle off a green ink snorter to the bishop. Now you have Form 1a.
But to return to our friend the archdeacon: he has not been suspended. Suspension is not automatic when a complaint is being investigated. It’s up to the bishop to decide. So where did Neil get hold of that idea, I wonder? Perhaps the complainant herself is circulating the rumour? For some people, the border between wishing something to be the case, and it actually being the case, is not properly policed. In their inner landscape no armed guards patrol the barbed-wire edge of truth and demand to see visas. Such people wander from fact to fantasy as unconsciously as we (currently) cross from England to Scotland on a hike in the Borders.
We will rejoin our friends in the vicarage at Gayden Magna, where Neil is now striving to articulate to Ed how much he really, really loves him. He has not, for example, tweeted, emailed, texted or in any way contacted yon wee slag in the choir, Eds can check his phone.
‘Seriously, I’m serious, check, check it now.’
‘I don’t need to, Neil. Look, it’s late. Let’s go to bed.’
‘Lis’n, he’s hot, fair enough. But it’s you I love, big man. It’s just, och, he came on to me, Eds?’
‘So you said.’
‘Seriously. Before I could . . . I tried, but there he was, snogging the gob off me.’
‘Yeah, thanks. You said.’
‘Got this tongue stud?’
‘Thanks, Neil.’
‘Yeah, only then his feckin’ phone rings, and pff! It’s all, “Du-u-ude, your fiancé!” Ooh. Nearly smacked him.
’Kin tease. Telling you, so close to smacking him.’ There was a silence. Neil frowned. ‘Said that, did I?’
More silence. ‘No. No, you didn’t, actually.’
‘No? Oh, yeah.’ Neil knuckled his temples. ‘Wasn’t gonna tell you, was I? Ah, shite. I’m so dumb. Are you mad at me? Please, don’t be mad at me, Eds.’
‘Come on. Let’s go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.’
And in the morning you’ll deny you ever said it, thought Ed. Neil was now snoring beside him. I knew there was something you weren’t telling me! I should be mad at you; but no, I’m not, you twat. It was almost funny, actually. Phone ringing. Hah. Far easier to believe this version of events, than that you suddenly remembered our engagement and came to your senses. Ed sighed. Well, he’d got the whole shabby truth at last. Curiously, it felt reassuring.
But it was going to tarnish the unambiguous pleasure of hating that tramp Freddie May.
How is that tramp getting on, you may be wondering? At this precise moment he’s peeling his shirt off for Totty.
Hmm. I need to back up a little here. Let us (in a metaphorical and scriptural manner) run and never be weary all the way from Gayden Magna, through the days and miles, to the house of the canon treasurer, Philip Voysey-Scott, on Lindchester Cathedral Close. I will fill you in as we go.
Freddie has been lodging with the Voysey-Scotts for a month now. To start with – owing to a silly misunderstanding – he was acutely lonely and miserable. The Voysey-Scotts, you see, had assumed Freddie valued his privacy and independence and that he’d prefer to make his own eating arrangements. Freddie assumed the Voysey-Scotts hated him. It was Pippa Voysey-Scott who took him by the scruff of the neck and shook some sense into him. They now eat together after evensong every night, and Freddie is as utterly devoted to Lady Totty as a newly hatched duckling that has accidentally imprinted on a Range Rover. (Freddie is right: she does sound exactly like Lady Campanula Tottington off Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.) Pippa/Totty is a physiotherapist, and she has just ordered Freddie to remove his shirt so she can take a proper look at his shoulder, which is troubling him. We will creep into the sitting room and spy on them.
‘Wings! Hoo, hoo, hoo! What a hoot! You’ve got wings! Pip, darling, come and look! Little Freddie’s grown wings!’
‘Gah!’ Freddie hid his face in his hands. ‘You’re embarrassing me, Totty!’
The canon treasurer stuck his head round the door. ‘Great Scott, man!’ he cried (in the voice of the canon precentor). ‘Those tattoos are a liturgical nightmah! It’s not the Feast of Michael and All Angels till the end of the month!’ He vanished back to his study.
‘Well, you’re bonkers, darling,’ said Lady Totty, ‘but I suppose they’re rather sweet if you like that kind of thing. OK, give me your hand. Relax.’ She began putting Freddie’s right arm through some gentle physiotherapy paces. ‘Hurts when you lie on it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you raise it above your head?’
‘Yeah – ow!’
‘Do you play squash?’
‘Nah.’
‘Tennis? No? What about weights?’
‘Well, duh, girlfriend? Hafta work out to look this hot.’
‘You’re overdeveloping those pecs.’ She flicked a nipple ring.
‘Get off!’
‘Common cause of shoulder trouble in gym bunnies. You need to stretch your chest out properly afterwards. I’ll show you some doorframe exercises. And you need to make sure you’re developing your upper back as well, or you’ll end up round-shouldered. More pull-ups, young man.’
‘Hnhh. I’m thinking it was maybe painting ceilings? In the school that time?’
‘Ah! That when it started? Yah, it can be caused by adopting some unaccustomed posture.’ She paused and peered into his face. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Hoo, hoo, ha ha ha! Freddie’s blushing! Had your arms up over your head for a prolonged period, hmm?’
‘No, yeah, painting! I was painting! Shut up!’
‘Diagnosis: BDSM-related subacromial bursitis! Hoo, hoo, hoo! What a scream!’
‘No! Listen, it was the— Oh, I’m not talking to you. God, you’re so mean to me.’
‘Sorry. I’ve stopped. Aw, poor angel! OK, sit yourself down. Come on. Let’s have a bash at untangling those feathers for you.’ She went to work on his neck and shoulders. ‘Seriously though, yah? You should find yourself a nice man to look after you properly, Freddie.’
‘Like I’m not looking? Mmmm. Oh, that’s good. Oh, God. That’s so good. Oh yeah, Totty!’
‘Are you two having sex in there?’ called the canon treasurer.
So yes, apart from a sore shoulder, all is well with Freddie May. He has attended services and rehearsals punctually and in a godly, righteous and sober manner. He has sung beautifully and conducted himself reverently in the cathedral church of Lindchester. He has been polite to all in authority and helpful about the house for Totty. Above all, he has never worn brown shoes with his cassock. All this indicates – to those who know Freddie well – that a major act of self-sabotage cannot be far off.
And indeed, trouble is a-brewing. The canon precentor discusses it with the director of music after evensong on Thursday.
‘As his line manager, Timothy, I think you are the right person to raise it with him,’ Giles is saying as he opens a bottle of Riesling. The ‘no booze on school nights’ rule has given way to the ‘I try to get through to Thursday’ rule; as it so often does on a Thursday. Especially when Freddie May is doing the precentorial head in again.
‘We-e-ell,’ says Timothy, accepting a glass for much the same reason. ‘I was wondering if it might be better coming from you, as canon precentor . . . ?’
‘No, I think not,’ says the precentor. ‘You need to remind him of the importance of discretion in conduct and behaviour. That, and the fact that he’s still on probation.’
‘Damn. He won’t take kindly to my raising it, Giles.’
‘I dare say not. But I don’t take kindly to a cathedral lay clerk selling his services as a topless cocktail waiter, frankly. Have you seen his Twitter account? Look.’ Giles hands over his phone.
Timothy looks. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Exactly. Matron caught the boys sniggering over it last night. This can’t be allowed to continue.’
‘No, clearly not.’ Timothy took a large swig of Riesling. ‘Oh, but can’t we get his mentor to do it?’ he burst out.
‘I already asked,’ admits Giles. ‘Dr Jacks wishes it to be understood that he does not discuss his mentee with anyone, or take instructions from me, and if I don’t like this, I may swivel on it.’
‘Well, that’s helpful.’
‘Yes, he always won the Helpfulness Cup at school. Look, set up a meeting with the two of us and Mr May. If he has a tantrum, we’ll get the archdeacon to read the riot act. I know Matt has no official role here, but he does have advanced tart-wrangling skills.’
‘I thought he’d been suspended?’
‘No, that’s just a rumour.’
Poor Matt. The rumour has been doing the rounds. How is he faring? Oddly enough, he is energized by the situation he finds himself in. That’s what comes of being an archdeacon. So much of your time is taken up with troubleshooting and crisis management that you become a bit of a white-knuckle junkie. It takes a right old catastrophe to make you feel fully alive. He did not waste time wishing he’d responded to Geoff’s email all those months ago, tipping him off about Veronica’s creative CV-writing. He obediently got into his black Mini and drove to see the Bishop of Another Diocese who Harry had designated to give him pastoral support. He’s now cracking on with writing his response to the complaint.
What will he say? He will confess. Yep, out of order. But he will outline the mitigating circumstances. Give due credit to Janey’s ideological objections to marriage, his respect for her conscience, their devotion to one another. It riles him no end to know that
anything he writes will be read by Veronica. He’s not going to muddy the water by suggesting that this whole complaint is basically malicious. A pre-emptive strike to head off the disciplinary procedures he was about to instigate against her. Not the time or place for that. Yet. The archdeacon is a patient man. He will be getting to that, all right. You’d better believe it.
And when all’s said and done, he is in the wrong here. His relationship with Janey is disorderly. He’s got to man up and take the consequences. Funny how it’s a bit of a relief to be caught. Said as much to the bishop. He can look God in the eye again. For a second the archdeacon almost glimpses an expression on the good Lord’s face. Come on home, Tyler, you numpty. Stop trying to hide from me. He blows his nose and carries on with the old Form 2: ‘Clergy Discipline Measure 2003, Respondent’s answer to a complaint’.
Meanwhile, Jane is doing her best to keep out of it. Induction Week is under way at Poundstretcher. She runs the gauntlet of leaflet distributers as she heads for the Fergus Abernathy building. Freshers herd round the campus with new Poundstretcher cloth bookbags. She tries to distract herself with historic departmental feuds and not go over and punch the Revd Dr Veronica da Silva as she bounces in her dungarees on the chaplaincy stall, handing out rainbow shoelaces.
‘Well, Deanissima, the Union is safe,’ said Gene on Friday morning. ‘You will not need to repatriate your left leg, or whichever quarter of your person you designate McPherson.’
Marion smiled. ‘Yes, I’m glad. Although there’s going to be a lot of heartbreak today.’
‘Let’s hope that Whitehall keeps its promises to the Scottish people!’ said Gene brightly. ‘Betrayal would be too much, following so hard on the heels of Culloden! I must say, I’m rather impressed by the SNP. A leetle naive, perhaps. They need to take a leaf out of UKIP’s book if they want to capture the true spirit of nationalism. They ought to cast their net wider. As far as I can see, they only really hate English Tories, not queers, yids, sluts, scroungers and anyone from Bongoland. Still, early days. Ooh, talking of queers – when’s the big announcement? Can you tell me yet?’
Unseen Things Above Page 20
