The first part of the morning ritual completed, Mrs Gwynether took her teacup and saucer (she felt mugs were common) to the electric kettle stationed on the smaller of the two filing cabinets. There she arranged the wherewithal for brewing the first of four teas of the day. While she waited she switched on the computer, first with foot and then with hand, and looked through the pile of envelopes Trace had left on her desk as Canon Clutch’s share of the morning post. She had done the same thing every day for twelve years. She liked to feel the place coming alive around her bit by bit. It was like being present at creation; part was added to part until finally the whole place was connected together as a world, a harmonious whole, and she was in touch with it all. The computer system she’d taken to as though it had always lurked somewhere in her consciousness. ‘Ami Pro plus Microsoft Three keeps you ahead of the game is what I always say,’ she always said to the temps who rapidly succeeded each other in the general office. People had been surprised by how quickly she’d mastered the new technology, but really it wasn’t so far removed from macramé when you came to think of it. You could play games on it. And she liked the different typefaces. You could get even boring memoranda looking lovely if you took the trouble. If people were occasionally disconcerted to find three different typefaces on a single side of A4, she was unaware of it; what were they there for if not to be used to cheer us all up? She was learning the graphics bit at the moment and had planned something really fancy for the documents due out around Christmas time.
She wasn’t pleased to have the internal telephone ring before nine fifteen. Canon Clutch wasn’t due in for another hour and those familiar with her working practices should have known she wasn’t to be disturbed yet. However, ‘I need your help, Myfannwy,’ was a good beginning. She liked Tom Logg who, she surmised, might not last long given Canon Clutch’s feelings about him. He was too keen on modern methods, was Tom. Computers were one thing, that was a matter of control and that was fine, someone had to control things. But you didn’t want people stepping out of their proper places. Tom seemed to think things ought to work. He kept on wanting to review what was done and do it better, which meant different, which Mrs Gwynether didn’t hold with. And she reckoned she had Canon Clutch on her side in that one. Change was not what he was for. So either Tom would learn or Tom would leave.
‘If you want to pop down now, Tom, I can give you just a few minutes. I’m rushed off my feet at the moment.’ She poured the boiling kettle into the cup with a steady right hand and held the phone in her left, reviewing the patience cards coming up on the computer screen with a practised eye.
Tom had given some thought to his tale. ‘It’s a time and motion study,’ he told her.
Mrs Gwynether didn’t bother to conceal her scepticism. ‘Bit old hat, isn’t it?’
This threw Tom. ‘It’s had a resurgence. The latest thing,’ he assured her.
‘Well, go on then. I’ll have a go. And if you want to put that cup down, don’t put it on the wood. It makes a nasty mark. There’s a mat to your left.’
Tom, squeezed into the little cell and seated on a collapsible chair kept for visitors, brought out his organiser. ‘The thing is, the arrangements for the Archimandrite weren’t, would you say, smooth?’
Mrs Gwynether reserved her judgement until she was sure who was going to be blamed. That’s what she had against reviewing things that were over and done with. Someone always got to be blamed – or that, anyhow, was how the clergy always interpreted it.
‘And we do have a lot of public occasions. I mean important people, celebrities, photocalls, TV, national newspapers. We need to get it right.’ It was Tom’s motto.
Mrs Gwynether responded selectively. ‘Celebrities, I wouldn’t say. Not showbusiness and that lot. Important people, some of the highest in the land, yes.’ She reverted to older categories.
‘Right. So we need to get a set of systems in place.’
Mrs Gwynether sighed.
‘Systems,’ Tom pursued, ‘which mean we all know how to handle every eventuality.’ Tom did not say that even he was doubtful about how they would ever get in place systems which would dispose of the corpses of visiting dignitaries.
‘What had you in mind, then?’ Mrs Gwynether saw he would have to have his say.
‘I think it would help if we knew who did what when. Then we can study the movement and see if there’s duplication and time overlap. For example, if we start with Canon Clutch. When did he get in on Monday morning?’
‘He wasn’t too pleased, having his own routine put out. He had to be in quite a bit earlier than usual to get on top of the job.’ Tom let this one go. ‘He got in about a quarter to ten. Then,’ Mrs Gwynether consulted the diary, a working version, not the gold-paged one on Canon Clutch’s desk, ‘he had the General Purposes at ten-thirty. Then he saw you about the arrangements for tea and the TV people. He went for lunch about twelve.’
‘He didn’t see Canon Truegrave or Canon Teape during the morning?’
‘Not so far as I know. Canon Truegrave didn’t get in till just after one. I heard him come down the corridor and look into the office for Canon Clutch but of course he’d gone for lunch by then.’
‘What time did Canon Clutch get back?’
‘Oh, he was back early. One-thirtyish. I know because I brought sarnies so as to be available if anything should crop up.’
‘How about Canon Teape? I saw him taking a late lunch, round about two-thirty. Did he come up here after that?’
‘I do keep a movement sheet for him but he’s not always that up to date. Let’s see what we can find.’ Mrs Gwynether tapped her key and nodded her head up and down from board to screen. Tom saw the file list flash up and as quickly off again to reveal what he partially already knew. Lunch 1.30 to 2.30. Archbishop arrives 3.45. Tea 4 p.m. Signing 5 to 7 p.m. And then an individual item: Institute of Archivist Annual General Meeting at Dr Williams Library at 8.30 p.m. Heavy day for Teape.
‘How about Truegrave?’
Mrs Gwynether rattled her keys again. ‘He’s very irregular. He doesn’t always give me his movements. More in weeks or even months.’ She pressed the key. Monday, 4 October. ‘It doesn’t say anything at all,’ she said triumphantly.
‘But he must have known he was due to meet the Archbishop, and the Archimandrite’s a friend of his,’ Tom objected.
‘Yes, well, there you are.’ Mrs Gwynether was philosophical. ‘That’s life for you, isn’t it, a blank screen. I think Canon Truegrave feels that since he knows where he’s going he doesn’t need to put it down for anyone else.’
‘But the whole point of a movements sheet is …’ Tom could scarcely comprehend such attitudes. ‘Where is Canon Truegrave now?’
The screen showed Wednesday, 6 October, 4.30 p.m. Azbarnahi exhibition Galaxy Gallery.
‘Who types these things in?’
‘I usually do. No. I tell a lie. I always do for Canon Clutch and Canon Teape. Canon Truegrave can type directly into this from his own terminal. Only, as I say, Canon Truegrave doesn’t see the point. And sometimes Canon Teape jots it down for me and gives it me that way. Old habits die hard, don’t they, Tom? We’re not all computer literate yet, are we? Myself, I look forward to the day of the superhighway. Cyberspace is what we need.’
Tom, who had learnt Computer Studies since he was eleven (it was the one thing his school had done well), who had typed his notes at school and university as a matter of course, could only shake his head in agreement. Though what the Church of England would do with cyberspace he boggled to think.
‘Let’s come back to Monday. Canon Clutch. Where was he between one-thirty and two-thirty? Have you any idea?’
‘He was in his room so far as I know.’ Mrs Gwynether nodded her head in the direction of the Canon’s state apartment next door.
‘You’d have heard if he’d left it?’ Tom knew the answer before she spoke. He’d made it his business to know this difficult and deceiving b
uilding.
‘Well, not really, unless he’d actually come down this way. This is the main way, of course, but he could have gone by the small staircase, though it’s not really meant for anything but the service staff. Not quite grand enough for the Canon, if you see what I mean. This door,’ she nodded to her own cubbyhole’s entrance, ‘was open all during lunch. I like to get a bit of air in over the break. He didn’t come past this way, that I am sure of, until he walked down with Canon Teape and Canon Truegrave to meet the Archbishop at about three.’
‘Clutch and, I think, Teape were coming up the centre stair soon after two-thirty,’ Tom said. ‘We’re about half an hour out.’
Mrs Gwynether looked thoughtful. ‘The diary says,’ she flipped over the pages, ‘Archbishop arrival at three forty-five main entrance. And they did pass me to get there, as I said. But before that Canon Teape and Canon Truegrave passed me at about ten to three to go to Canon Clutch’s office.’
‘So they, Canon Clutch and Teape, must have gone the long way round the service staircase to get to the central staircase and be going up it and seen by me at just after two-thirty. Yes?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Why should they do that?’
‘How should I know?’ Mrs Gwynether was getting flustered. ‘I suppose it depends where they started from.’
‘I know where Teape started from. I saw him in the refectory.’
Mrs Gwynether had had enough. ‘If this is time and motion study, I think it’s going to use up a lot of my time. I think you’d better let me get on with some proper work for a change.’
‘Right. Thanks, Mrs G.’ Tom snapped back into his professional mode. ‘I’ve made a very careful note. You’ve been a great help. I’m sure it’ll be of use next time we have important visitors. Though we don’t want this sort of thing to happen too often, do we?’
To Theodora, minded to spend a couple of hours over lunch at Ecclesia Place library, Anona Trice’s presence was just what she could do without. Also, she resented Anona coming without an invitation. Also, she noticed, she was frightened of Anona, of the extremity of her emotions. Theodora was not without experience. In the course of her diaconate she’d coped perfectly competently with many types of human failure, wickedness or sickness. If Anona should have a fit of hysteria or epilepsy, if she should tear her hair or find herself homeless, Theodora would know exactly what to do, what to say, who to ring or, more importantly, how to listen and wait. But this was not what Anona was going to do. The demure figure seated cross-legged on Theodora’s newly sanded and polished floorboards was, somehow, more threatening, at a greater remove from the normal, explicable, predictable pattern. Anona was a wrecker, a nugget of unmanageable chaos waiting to explode in her living room.
Theodora had come back after the parish staff meeting to find Anona ensconced in her flat, thumbing through her copy of the Tablet. Theodora could see she’d have to get the front door lock mended, not just to keep her few possessions in but to keep visitors out. Theodora recognised she was failing here. She needed to reflect and work on demands which were beginning to emerge as incompatible. On the one hand she acknowledged the need for Christian hospitality. She knew many clergy who genuinely kept open house and if this was sometimes a toll on their families, it often paid off in terms of the trust and respect in which they were held in a parish. Geoffrey had started down that path before his marriage. She didn’t think Oenone intended to encourage him. On the other hand she needed, she thirsted for privacy, calmness, place and time which she could order, control as she wished. ‘The feminist ideal which sees power as a struggle for privacy,’ she quoted to herself.
So now seeing Anona invading her space, calmly browsing her way through her paper, filled her with irritation. But then, she caught herself up, what did Anona, whose wishes might be similar to her own, have for herself?
‘You see, Miss Braithwaite, Theo, if I may, Gilbert says there are correct and incorrect ways of living.’
Theodora nodded. Pretty safe that. Few would quarrel with that one.
‘And games and dreams can help to grasp those ways.’
Less good, more dangerous, Theodora thought. What had Gilbert, what had little Mrs Trice in mind?
‘Well, I have this dream, Theo, where I play a game. It’s a sort of chess game, only for healing. A transformation game, Gilbert calls it. It’s a therapy. He calls it the ludic element.’
Does he so? Theodora was cantankerous. Putting bits of oneself on to pieces and juggling them around to make new patterns, new selves; an American idea. She’d heard of it.
‘It’s safer, you see, Gilbert says.’ Anona sounded as though she could do with some reassurance on this point.
Gilbert says, Gilbert says, Theodora muttered. What was Gilbert doing to the woman? Therapy was one thing, manipulation, control another. If Gilbert wanted to experiment with fashionable gewgaws like transformation games, he should try them with personalities less precariously balanced than she judged Anona to be.
‘Only you’ve got to have the right pieces.’
‘What are the right pieces?’ It seemed the obvious question.
‘They’ve got to be powerful. Things that mean something to you.’
‘Such as?’
‘It’s surprising really how common these things are. Gilbert has some you can borrow. Though he says you’ve got to collect things for yourself as well, if it’s going to work.’
Hell’s teeth, thought Theodora. What diabolic little box of tricks did Gilbert keep in his top floor flat at St Sylvester’s?
‘Keys, rings, spoons, masks, anything really. Candles, cups,’ Anona chanted on.
‘And you shake a dice or play a card and move the pieces according to a convention, a board, and then read the relationship between them?’
‘That’s right and you can see what’s going to happen.’ Anona caught herself up. ‘No. That’s wrong. Gilbert says you can’t do that, you can only see what you are or might be.’
‘Then it shows you what you already know.’ Theodora tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice.
‘It shows you things you didn’t know. It frees you from …’ Anona stopped. ‘It frees you from yourself.’
‘But yourself is exactly what you have to deal with. You can’t get rid of it, only modify it a bit, push it in the right direction.’
‘But I’ve been stuck for so long. I’ve waited so long. The game does seem to give me hope of a new start. And it can influence the world. It can draw things to you or back to you.’
‘You can’t get a new start from a game. Only by patient continuance in well-doing.’
‘I thought you’d understand.’ Anona’s tone suggested it was Theodora’s fault. Theodora was aware of how often she’d found herself in this position. People wanted a cure from their ills on their own terms without any moral or religious effort on their part. They wanted, in fact, magic. It was greedy, it was unrealistic. Gilbert shouldn’t be fostering such a spirit.
‘I understand all right. I just don’t agree.’ She wondered if she should add that Anona should be careful. It really wasn’t possible to set limits to what patients would do with the toys provided by therapists. Fantasy wasn’t therapeutic.
‘Then you won’t help me?’
‘What sort of help had you in mind?’
‘I need a new piece. So I can establish proper relations again.’ Anona was near to tears.
‘What sort of new piece?’
‘I thought you’d be sure to know.’
CHAPTER TEN
The Exhibition
‘I know what I’m supposed to do and I’m doing it, see?’ Kevin Trace was talking to himself. He was rewriting a recent scene with Sergeant Ashwood. Only this time he, Kevin, was winning. It wasn’t that Kevin hadn’t met people in his life who told him what to do. His stepfather – correction, fathers – had often told him what to do with himself. Teachers, too, had told him to
do things, though after a bit they had stopped on the grounds that it was hopeless. His probation officer, at his last meeting with that gentleman, had leaned, in friendly fashion, across the table and said, ‘Kevin, old lad, let me give you a bit of advice before we part. Do to others what you would like them to do to you. See what I mean?’
Kevin had sort of seen. But there had to be a start somewhere. What he was looking for was someone doing to him what he wanted done to him. Then he could do a bit back. It was supposed to be the Church, wasn’t it? Christians were supposed to be different, weren’t they? The trouble with Christian brother Ashwood was, he didn’t give you a chance. It was as if he liked giving orders more than anything else. He built himself up at your expense.
‘We’re all under orders, see?’ Ashwood had told him. ‘I got my orders here,’ he tapped the clipboard. ‘Them lot up there,’ he nodded his head in the direction of the staircase, ‘that lot’ve got their orders too.’
‘Well, where does it all start then?’ Kevin had asked. Who gives the first lot of orders, he meant.
‘In Ecclesia Place they start with Canon Clutch,’ Ashwood had answered.
‘And who gives him them then?’ This had stumped Ashwood.
‘Nobody gives Canon Clutch orders. He’s in charge, see? Senior Officer.’
Kevin had not seen. Why should some give orders and others not? Like he said, he knew what he was doing, he could see what was needed to keep the place running. He didn’t need Ashwood or Canon Clutch telling him all the time. He didn’t feel the need to start giving orders to anyone. All this lining up and drilling was just plain stupid, more for Ashwood’s benefit than his, Kevin reckoned. Made them all feel safe. He’d considered jacking it in but there was money at the end of the week, and he couldn’t face his mother if he didn’t give this one a try.
Mortal Spoils Page 10
