Unseen Things Above

by Catherine Fox

  Rain drips from the yews. Ed walks under the lichgate – the corpse gate – and along the gravel path to the west door. In the distance he can hear footsteps on the road, someone out jogging. Tick tick tick of trainers on tarmac. The feet turn and enter the churchyard. The lichgate clatters. Ed can hear panting now. The runner passes him and jogs into the church porch and grabs the handle, like a fugitive claiming sanctuary. Ed hurries to catch up. Young man, black running skins, green beanie. He’s bent over, hands on knees, panting.

  ‘Did you want to go in?’ Ed feels in his pockets.

  The figure straightens up. Then he flinches. Tugs the hat down lower, looks away. ‘Nah, I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a problem. I’m the vicar.’ Ed fumbles in another pocket. ‘Damn. Actually, I’m really sorry, I seem to have come out without my keys.’

  ‘Hey. No worries.’ He turns to leave. Ed glimpses a strand of blond hair, gets a whiff of sweat. And Le Male.

  ‘Freddie May.’ The runner freezes.

  ‘Yeah. Um. Hi.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Silence.

  Suddenly it falls into place. Ah, Jesus! He’s still seeing him? ‘Waiting to meet someone?’

  ‘Wha’? No! God, no!’ He reaches, touches Ed’s arm. Ed shakes him off. ‘Listen, ah nuts, it’s just . . . Man, this is gonna sound really lame. So I sing in the cathedral choir? I’m like the lay clerk of Gayden Parva, or I will be, if . . . yeah. Um, so the other day, yeah, in evensong? I was suddenly: you know what, I have never even been to Gayden Parva? And just now I’m like, why not? Why not swing by and see the church? That’s all. Swear?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Gah. You don’t believe me? This blows. I honestly, honestly— there’s nothing— Listen, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just leave. Please.’

  Ed knees buckle. He sits on the stone ledge in the porch, head bowed. The lichgate clatters again. The footsteps fade, tick tick tick, off along the lane. Rain drips. He raises his head and stares at the notices. The Harvest Supper and Beetle Drive poster is still there. He should take that down. But he just sits. How long before he hears the sound of the Porsche approaching? Is he just going to wait here till Neil arrives?

  Somewhere a robin sings, tender and heartbroken.

  Neil frets as he drives. Maybe he should phone ahead? I mean, what if he’s out, or it’s not convenient? He should ring. But no, he’s too chicken, he wants the option of baling if he finds he can’t quite get his nerve up to knock on the door. He should definitely take something, though. Flowers. Is there a decent florist in Martonbury? Not like you can give a bishop a bunch of turquoise feckin’ chrysanths from the garage forecourt.

  There! Roadside stall. He squeals to a stop. Reverses. Nobody about. Just a table in the rain. Free range eggs. Plums. Bunches of dahlias tied with baler twine. Random assortments just grabbed and bundled together. He gets out of the car and examines the bouquets. Tight little pom-poms, great shaggy globes, like footballs a Rottweiler’s got hold of. Neil picks through. Autumn rusts, and purples. White, cream. Shocking scarlet and then a single acid yellow bloom shoved in. Total mishmash thrown together by a visual illiterate. He considers untying them and making a proper coherent bouquet; then again, maybe they’re charming just as they are? In an unforced retro way? Like a symbol of something. Humanity? Eds would know, he’d put it in a sermon. Eds, Eds.

  Och! Ssh, Ferguson, you big jessie. He sniffs, wipes his eyes, then gets out his wallet and leaves a tenner in exchange for a dripping bundle of dahlias.

  ‘Obviously, I don’t believe any of it. No offence, Bishop. Mind you, I was sent to Sunday School. My auntie packed me off every week, just to get me out of her hair, coz I was a wee shite— sorry. And Boys’ Brigade. And that meant church parade once a month on top of Sunday School. You weren’t meant to turn up for BB if you’d not been to Sunday School or church parade. “Sure and stedfast” was the motto. Aye. We used to sing the BB song, “Will your anchor hold”. I can still sing it. Never forget stuff you learn as a child, eh? “Will your anchor hold in the storms of life! When the clouds unfold their wings of strife?” Ha ha, I’ll spare you. And Scripture exams! The memory verse. John 3.16. For God so loved the world. And sword drill! Bible under your arm! And temperance exams! Temperance! Can you credit it? Anyway, as I say, I’m not a believer, Bishop.’

  Bishop Bob bows his head in acknowledgement.

  Neil can’t stop himself. He blethers on, like he’s explaining to the bishop why he is a believer, not why he’s not. He tries to focus.

  ‘Aye, well, anyway, in the end, these Christians, they’re all hypocrites. BB Captain, och, he was the biggest hypocrite of them all! Always telling us we were sinners, on to us to invite the Lord Jesus into our hearts in case we fell under a bus and it was too late, and sinning meant swearies, and nicking stuff from the shop, smoking, and playing doctors and nurses. Or sneaking into the back of X films, saw Last Tango in Paris and The Exorcist, scared the living shit out of me, but anyway – him! He ups and leaves his wife for this wee lass, wee bit of a thing, seventeen, she was. A Salvationist. With the bonnet and the tambourine. Timbrels, is that what they called them? Aye, timbrels. With the ribbons? Seventeen! Looked more like fourteen. Like a wee mouse. In my class at school, never even knew she was there, you know the kind. So what I’m saying is, on the Last Day – which I don’t believe in, but on the Last Day – there’ll be two queues. And the Christians, the respectable folk, will be in the heaven queue, and I’ll be in the other queue, with the queers and alkies and all the other sinners. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Why? Because I don’t want to spend eternity in any heaven that’s got God in it. No offence, Bishop. Not that I believe in God, obviously.’

  Bishop Bob smiles and bows his head again.

  ‘Aye, well, so that’s a bit of background. That’s why it’s important to me to get married. To make a stand against hypocrisy. Half the bishops in the C of E are in the closet, for f— for God’s— anyway. That’s what my journalist friend tells me. Not yourself, Bishop, I don’t mean. Some of the bishops. I mean, hasn’t there been this “love letter”? Urging them to come out? I keep telling Eds, unless we’re prepared to stand up and be counted, the status quo will just continue. C’mon! The law of the land says we can marry! Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s hard, God knows, I’m not saying it’s easy coming out – mind you, it’s not as hard as it was. To be gay? Nu-uh. That was not an option in my mind when I was growing up. Not even an option. I was the opposite of gay. Proving myself. Being gay was the worst thing, the worst thing that could ever happen to me, until finally, I had to admit, OK, this is what I am, and you know what? It’s not actually the end of the world. So don’t get me wrong, I can sympathize. Or I could sympathize, if they didn’t keep voting against equal marriage! Sorry. Running ma gob again. Motormouth, always was a motormouth.’

  Bob nods. There is a silence. Outside a different robin sings the same sad sweet song. ‘Thank you for explaining.’ More silence. ‘Can I just go back a bit? You say you don’t want to be in any heaven that has God in it?’

  Neil’s throat tightens. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Because I’m not sure God feels the same,’ says Bob. ‘I’m not sure he’d think heaven is quite complete without his Neil.’

  And Neil, big jessie that he is, bursts into tears.

  Freddie May fights back tears as he heads to Lindchester. Oh God, gonna have to get a grip before evensong. Guy hates me. Literally? Oh God, what had Neil told him? Had he actually confessed, or had Ed just worked out they’d got it on that time? Kinda got it on. Oh shit, what if Ed hadn’t actually known anything, and Freddie accidentally confirmed his suspicions back there, by acting guilty? Gah, I am so dumb! No, don’t start crying, you’ll trash your voice. Ah nuts, what am I gonna do?

  Yes, there have been a lot of tears in the Diocese of Lindchester recently, I’m afraid. My readers may be wondering about Jane. I have not forgotten
her. She has been exercising considerable restraint in these first weeks of term. She has done her best to keep out of Veronica’s way. But Veronica has done her best to cross Jane’s path. She appeared on the back row of one of Jane’s lectures, and Jane very publicly ejected her. Veronica very publicly confronted Jane about this in the bistro later, and Jane very publicly ignored her, despite Veronica pursuing her through the crowded atrium to the lifts, still loudly haranguing her for her unprofessional and non-collegial attitude. Ignoring the bejesus out of someone is very much part of Jane’s skill set; but Jane has a range of other transferable skills from rugby days she was just longing to deploy. Yes, she has exercised considerable restraint.

  And now this is taking its toll. Unlike Matt, she is ill suited to playing the long game. It’s Friday afternoon. The evil timetabling genius of her nemesis Dr Elspeth Quilter has foisted a 4 p.m. lecture slot on her. Jane didn’t complain about this; she would not dream of giving the Quisling that satisfaction. And it has to be said that the current warfare with La-La Loony makes the decade-long spat with Elspeth seem like a squabble over who gets to draw the hopscotch grid on the playground.

  Jane opens her window on Floor 6 of the Fergus Abernathy building. It doesn’t open far. Traffic noise rises like fumes. Student voices. A train coming in to Lindford station. It’s stopped raining now. Matt is sending off his respondent’s reply today. Jane has cast her eye over it. The tone is pared down, non-defensive and factual. Nonetheless, it sticks in the craw that Verruca will be copied in, and will shortly be able to read all about Jane and Matt’s relationship.

  Her office faces south. Oh, for the wings of a dove. South, that’s the direction she’d be heading in. To the other side of the globe! Where summer is approaching, not winter. The bishop will read Matt’s reply, and decide what action to take. Probably no action, Matt thinks. And then, just for the sheer hell of it, Verruca will appeal against the bishop’s decision. Yeah, and once again flap her big gob to Roderick Fallon, no doubt. Fallon! Pah, Jane remembers him from Oxford days, though Fallon would not remember anyone as insignificant as a big lumpen comprehensive school Christian Union girl from the illiterate wastes of The North. And to think, she could have clubbed him over the head with an oar and dumped him in the Isis in 1982 and spared the world all his toxic waste.

  And baby’s coming home in just over a month. The whole of Lindford swims. Stop it, not now, you silly mare. Jane sniffs back the tears. She’s been kidding herself she’d got used to the idea of not having Danny around. But oh. Later. We’ll wallow later.

  But this woe is just the antechamber to more woes! Slam the door, we have a lecture to deliver. Matt, what am I going to do about you? How can I go on expecting you to damage your reputation, violate your conscience, bollocks your career prospects? He hasn’t said it, but Jane fears he will resign from his post rather than end their relationship. Because they clearly can’t carry on with this rubbish compromise that has set tongues wagging.

  Face it, you grumpy old tart, your view of marriage is outmoded.

  She swats Dominic’s voice away. Mentally hangs up on him again, like she literally did when he told her that last week. How she misses those old-fashioned receivers you could crash down into the cradle to make your point!

  If marriage is inherently unequal and repressive, why the hell do you suppose we are campaigning so hard to be allowed to get married?

  Shut up, shut up. She leans her forehead against the glass. Is it time to rethink, though? Is there any room for manoeuvre here?

  Somewhere in the mayhem down below, in some tree she can’t even see, a robin starts to sing.

  Ed gets back to the empty vicarage. He checks his emails to see if Fr Malcolm has got back to him. He finds this message waiting in his inbox:

  Dear Ed,

  Really sorry, but autofill has sent this to me. I’m afraid I didn’t spot it in time, and read on. I will now delete your email and will treat it as forgotten. But if there’s anything I can do to support you, do get in touch.

  Blessings,

  Matt

  No! No! This is a paper cut to the heart. But before he can even begin to process his anguish and rage, Ed hears the Porsche arrive. And now they must have one more horrible confrontation. The last one. For surely this has to be the last betrayal he can stand? Even Neil must see that. He goes to the door to meet him.

  In far-off London town, Roderick Fallon belatedly acts on a tip-off. He gets on Twitter and searches once again for @choirslut90. Nada.

  But wait a moment! @FreddieMayTenor. O-ho. Cleaned our act up, have we, Mr Lay Clerk at Lindchester Cathedral? Fallon enlarges the photo. Yep, it’s him all right. Nice try, choirslut. I think another trip to choral evensong is in order. Thank you, Neil Ferguson!

  Chapter 25

  Once, when he was six years old, Ed visited a farm with his parents, and was charged by a billy goat. It butted him smack in the chest and knocked him flat. He remembered this when he opened the vicarage door and Neil hurled himself into his arms with a howl.

  Oh, great. Once again Ed’s pain was eclipsed. Like an actor about to open his lips to deliver a soliloquy, when a blood-stained tenor in full aria bursts on stage from the wings.

  ‘Eds! Eds!’

  ‘Just stop it!’ Ed tried to peel himself away. ‘You went to see him, didn’t you?’

  Neil nodded against Ed’s chest. ‘I had to, Eds.’

  ‘Had to!’ Ed wrenched free. ‘After everything you said! OK. That’s it. I can’t take any more, Neil!’

  ‘I’m sorry! It was unfinished business. Eds, please!’

  ‘No. Get off me!’

  ‘Listen, he’s a sweet guy—’

  ‘Shut up! How’s that supposed to make me feel? Why do you have to torture me like this? What do you want? You want to force me to say I hate you? Is that it? Shall I say it? Shall I? Then you can tell me you knew all along! You’re mad, Neil! I won’t do this any more!’

  ‘No, no, you can’t be like this!’ He got hold of Ed’s shirt front with both hands. ‘He’s invited us for a meal!’

  ‘A meal?! Fuck off!’

  ‘Yes! A meal. With Janet.’

  A gap, like sudden deafness, like the roaring seabed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Janet! His wife. They’ve invited us for a meal. Eds, c’mon.’ He gave him a shake. ‘Please?’

  Ed could see the words. Each one. They hung like beads in the air. But strung together they made no kind of sense. ‘Janet.’

  ‘Yes, Janet!’ Neil shook him again. ‘I’m telling you. The Hootys. They’ve asked us to dinner. Hello?’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Ed’s hands flew to his head, as if to check everything was still intact. ‘You . . . went to see the bishop?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to get through to you!’

  Ed sat down on the hall chair and put his head between his knees. ‘Oh, my God.’ He began trembling. He felt Neil rubbing his back.

  ‘What’s wrong? No! You thought I’d gone sneaking back to blondie from the choir? You didn’t! Och, Eds!’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, but he was there. Today. At the church. Gayden Parva church. He turned up.’

  ‘And you thought—? C’mon! Are you daft? Shagging in the kirk? With Mr Jesus watching?’

  Ed laughs. Then weeps. ‘He said he’s lay clerk of Gayden Parva and he just wanted to see the church.’

  ‘Eds, you weren’t mean to him, were you? Och, Eds!’

  ‘I just asked him to leave,’ protested Ed. ‘I don’t think that’s unreasonable, given the history. Mean! And, frankly, I didn’t believe him. It sounded so dumb.’

  ‘Aye, well, he’s a few sandwiches short. That’s the wacky baccy for you.’ Neil tutted like a maiden aunt who’d warned you not to run with scissors. ‘Screws adolescent brain development, they say.’

  Ed straightened up. ‘You’re unbelievable. Can you actually hear yourself, Neil?’

  ‘Oh, what?’ Neil knelt in front of him. Raised bot
h hands, showed the empty palms. ‘Didn’t I promise? No meds, no boys, no nothing. Just you, big man. Swear to God.’

  Ed stared into the maniacal blue depths. ‘OK. I believe you. Sorry.’ He closed his eyes and waited. Neil would rap on his forehead, knock the fact of his innocence in like a nail. Cheating? Me? As if!

  ‘Och, well,’ Neil muttered. ‘Given my track record, I’d suspect me.’

  Ed opened his eyes. Neil was scowling at his fingernails. The admission was a frail thing. A breath would blow it away.

  ‘God, I need a manicure.’

  ‘So how was Bob?’ Shrug. ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing. Never you mind.’ The scowl deepened. ‘My feckin’ hands look old! I’ve got crone hands. Do they look like crone hands to you? And another thing: I do not torture you.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Neil.’

  ‘Huh. Yes, well. Maybe it’s because I can’t torture God. Did you ever think of that? Because the bastard doesn’t exist! Anyway, they’ve invited us— You big jessie, Ferguson.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘So. Are we saying yes to dinner, or what? And it’s not like I enjoy it, Eds! I hate myself, I don’t want to hurt you, but I just can’t stop doing it. That’s why I went to see Bob, OK? When we’re married, maybe I’ll feel safe and, I don’t know, maybe I can stop treating you like shit? Och, never mind. So, I’ll email him and suggest some dates, shall I?’

  ‘If that’s what you’d like.’

  ‘I would.’ He hesitated, then gathered up both Ed’s hands. ‘Listen. Are we OK?’

  Ed sobbed. One sob, like a stray hiccup. Were they? He felt like a man who’d steeled himself for execution, and then the firing squad had produced bananas and shouted ‘Bang!’ instead.