“Those wretched parishes, with pathetic congregations, all clamouring to get my attention,” began the bishop, turning his mind to visit to The Fens.
He began to share, as he already had with his wife and staff, the story of his painful progress across the flat lands, calling on isolated churches with small gatherings of frozen parishioners. He had promised rashly that no church would ever close and equally rashly proclaimed that God would reward their heroic efforts with a revival, in good time. In each parish he tentatively suggested a new family might move into the village, or a legacy be left for the upkeep of the building, or a new young vicar appointed who would draw in the children and their parents. There was always hope, however false it might be. It was not the bishop's job to trade in crude reality, which sees things as they are, but rather in splendid faith, which sees things as they might be. With faith, all things were possible, perpetuating a blindness both endearing and convenient.
Once he had finished – and Richard knew had to judge these things – they moved on to the more urgent matter.
“Well, I see,” mused the bishop as he read a copy of the engaging email. “So someone has seen James coming out of the cinema with another man, and they were obviously together, whatever that might mean, although I hope it doesn't mean what they are inferring.”
“I think it is more to do with what the film was about,” added Richard, carefully placing his mug of tea on a souvenir coaster from the last Lambeth Conference. “It’s that one about the cowboys who, you know, get on rather too well.”
The bishop looked up from the piece of paper, a sense of disgust ripping across his face. He quietly said, “I see.” A moment later, in a more forceful way he added: “Stamp on it. Get at him and read him the riot act. That usually works. The man is not a bad worker and I don’t think we want to lose him, but we can’t afford another scandal, . . . not after the one we had at the Cathedral.”
A decade before, but still fresh in the episcopal memory, the papers had been full of the alleged activities of a previous dean. He had been accused of meddling with one of the congregation. At first it was just standing too close during the services, or placing his hand on her knee once when they sat in the cloister. Then one night he called round at her house with a bottle of wine, which he later said was for the Communion service. He could not deny he had asked her into his study when all he wore were his tight running shorts and a revealing sleeveless top. The case had lingered in the ecclesiastical courts for far too long, where every piece of evidence was gobbled up by the scandal-hungry papers. The story hit the national press mainly, for the local papers had a sense of duty to their local cathedral and realised every damaging headline was a body blow to its very structure. The scandal rumbled on for three years and only faded away when the protagonists had been persuaded, with financial inducements, to retire and leave the district. The real victim was the church itself, revealed as a body that has all the apparatus to deal with scandal, but none of the wisdom. There was an eagerness to cover up and deny, and a profound unwillingness to deal with deep-seated issues.
Scandal was the greatest fear that troubled the episcopal mind. Churches might be empty, parishes broke, and clergy sitting idly in their studies, but nothing was thought more dangerous than saucy newspaper headlines. It brought the wrong kind of publicity, revealing the church's fallen humanity, drawing aspersions on everyone’s motives. Above all, the church had to be seen as sexless; the place where any blatant personal sexual immorality had to be dealt with vehemence, without compromise. The church had lost its influence in so much of society, no longer an economic force nor a social setter, but in one area, personal morality, it retained an unassailable and unique role. Not so much the conscience of the nation, but the bulwark of traditional values, unaffected by nuances of personal circumstances, scientific ideas or acceptance of human frailty. The metaphor of the aged aunty suited it well: old, revered, dependable and stoical. You might ask her about a recipe for scones or how to plant sweet peas, even what life was like in the war, but to attempt a discussion about sex would cause apoplexy.
“What is more, how can I go and meet my fellow bishops at the Lambeth Conference with an exposed, gay clergyman in my headquarters? I would be ridiculed,” said the bishop, with a growing sense of annoyance. “And another thing: he is married, with those lovely children. You have a word with him. Tell him what the implications are. I am sure he will see sense.”
The bishop had a reputation of being a kind, thoughtful man, with a liberal approach to issues. He had written a book entitled ‘How to be a Relaxed Christian’ with the subtitle ‘and still win souls for Christ’, and this had endeared him to both the modernizers and the traditionalists in the church. It appeared to give him a balance of understanding; an ability to hold to the past and at the same time push on into the future. It made him just the kind of man the diocese needed, and when the book had been read by the right people who sat on the right committees, it paved the way for his appointment to his present job, straight from a fashionable London parish. Yet having gained this reputation for being liberal he had made himself vulnerable, open to attack from his more conservative episcopal colleagues, who were always on the lookout for any breaking of the rules. So, perversely, he had to be less tolerant than other bishops, careful about scandal, and stricter in applying the sanctions against wayward clergy. He might permit them to believe anything and indeed to preach anything, that God was an amorphous indefinable mass and that we are all drifting aimlessly in a ‘sea of faith’. But one step beyond acceptable personal morality, or one hint of a compromising domestic arrangement that could get into the papers, was totally unacceptable. The forthcoming Lambeth Conference, with its focus on wayward sex, was to make this doubly so.
“What leverage do we have? He doesn’t live in one of our houses, and I don’t think we ever gave him a job contract to sign,” asked Richard.
“Moral pressure,” pronounced the bishop. “I know that always works with this sort. They are, after all, generally godly people who just need to see their own folly. I will talk to him if need be, or get the archdeacon to have a go, if you like.”
“Perhaps not yet. The archdeacon can be a bit of a Rottweiler,” Richard hurriedly interjected, though regretting he might have used an extreme image. “I think you or I would be better. I know James is going on holiday next week, so maybe that will sort him out, give him time to think and come to his senses. We will see what he is like when he comes back.”
“Do you know the person who passed this information on to you?” asked the bishop.
“Oh yes, it’s Charles, our new Diocesan Surveyor,” replied Richard with pride because this had been one of his appointments. Richard could picture Charles sitting in his office, poised with notebook in hand; a young and inexperienced man, but pleasing to the eye. “He is always a good source of information, and with his job of inspecting parsonages, he can go anywhere. It so happens he knows this Terry as well, the one James was seen with. I never asked him how he knew him. I didn’t want to go into details.”
“Very useful,” said the bishop, pleased to be talking to someone who understood the subtleties of sensitive church matters; someone to protect aunty from anything that might distress her.
“You will remember that Charles managed to cover up that little problem we had at Easter, . . . the one with the curate and the migrant worker.”
“Ah yes, in The Fens, wasn’t it?” despaired the bishop with a shiver, suddenly remembering where he had been a few hours before.
“But we sorted it, or rather Charles managed through his contacts to get the man deported, and nothing, absolutely nothing, touched the headlines.” Richard was deeply satisfied with his efforts. He went on as if on the crest of a wave. “Tonight I have the Masons’ dinner, you know, for the Dean’s Fund, which will be a brilliant opportunity to have a quiet word with our local editor. I won’t say anything about the details, but he owes us a few favours for those stories we ga
ve him the other week.”
“This must never get further than my study.” The bishop was sensing the anger welling up inside of him. “If we have a priest, a married priest, having an affair with a man, with a gay man, in the present climate, we have got to do everything we can to make sure no one finds out. Stop it or bury it!”
“While James is away I can get Charles to visit this Terry fellow. He is good at that sort of thing, and can ask the right questions – things like, does he know James is married; does he know he will lose his job, and does he know this sort of thing never works out.”
Just then Richard’s mobile bleeped. The bishop looked annoyed, never having understood nor seen the need for such forms of communication.
“Sorry, bishop,” apologised Richard. “It’s a text message from Charles, and it might be relevant.” He read the message and his brow tightened.
“Well, what is it?” snorted the bishop, having to admit mobiles might have their uses.
“Oh Dear!” said Richard, reading off his mobile. “Apparently Charles has found out that James is preaching at the Cathedral on Sunday, at evensong. I had forgotten that. You don’t think he is going to say something in the sermon?”
“He wouldn’t dare! And if he did I would want him gone by Monday.” The bishop was looking even more unsettled, but after a thought his mood changed. “If he doesn’t know we know anything, I think we are safe. And anyway, does anyone listen to sermons in that place?”
Richard walked back through the Close. He wanted to get past the Cathedral before the evensong congregation was disgorged and so hurried across the huge but invisible West Front. The fog had settled now, blurring shape and form. He carried a worry in his mind that things were not as clear as he had led the bishop to believe. Charles was a good worker, but his contacts were quite manufactured, and depended too much upon his charm and good looks. Richard liked to have him in the office for this very reason, and although nothing had happened between them there was always a chemistry of excitement, even flirtation, when they were together. It was just as well Charles was engaged to be married so as to dispel any rumours, and his wife-to-be looked like the understanding sort. But Richard had steel enough not to let his heart get in the way of his career, and he had no sympathy whatsoever for those who did.
The important thing to Richard was image, without which the Church of England would surely collapse. As a consequence there might regretfully be hypocrisy, and certainly innuendo, but for years the church, like the rest of society, had lived with these. However, Richard feared society was changing; people were less willing to stomach discrepancy between what they believed and what they did; less willing to hide their natural desires; less willing to play a subtle game where the individual was subservient to the needs of the institution. The fact that the rules were changing was troubling.
As he reached his office the clock of the Cathedral began to strike the hour. The bell, muffled in the fog, sounded like a death knell, which ushers in a new hour, a new day and maybe a new era. It was so easy, working and living in the Close, to think history had stopped still, locked in a fantasy of choral services, flowing gowns, black polished oak, and the smell of candles. So easy, when the modern city beyond was hidden from view, to forget the teeming thousands in their ordinary existences had any relevance. What mattered to Richard was his duty to the church, to protect her at any cost; to preserve her from the encroachment of contemporary values and unprepossessing ways. He closed the door of his office and, in the need for fortification, walked towards the large bookcase to pour himself a welcoming gin and tonic.
“Good evening, Richard,” came a voice from the corner of the room. A well-presented young man, with a shot of black hair and piercing green eyes, sat relaxed in a chair. “I knew you wanted to see me, so I came straight away.”
“Charles, you made me jump!” But Richard’s surprise had given way to a sense of delight.
The young man sat there, complacent in his power; he knew that he was both handsome and useful, an intoxicating combination.
“Let me pour you a drink and let’s see what we can do,” said Richard recovering his composure. “I’ve talked to the bishop, so now it is up to us to show him how we can deal with this. Clinch it and he will be in our debt for a long time.”
Chapter 2
James and Terry had arranged to meet at 8pm. Their usual meeting place was the West Front of the Cathedral, a huge Gothic jumble of blind arcades and stone friezes. Headless statues of forgotten celebrities stood on ledges, high up and out of the reach of the iconoclasts who came later. The present dean had instigated a five-year restoration of the figures, raising money through his contacts in business and Freemasonry. In return the grateful stonemasons have carved a replica of his head in the façade, also high up and out of reach those who might want to abuse it. At the middle of the West Front stood an enormous wooden door, hardly ever opened except for the visit of dignitaries and the induction of bishops. Then the bishop, dressed in the way only bishops can manage, bangs on the door with his crosier, and is ceremoniously let in. It marks the beginning of his ministry in the diocese, this ritual demand for entry into the largest church and perhaps the one that will give them the greatest headache. This Cathedral had lived up to such a role; over the last hundred years deans and sub-deans had conspired to make the place notorious.
Thus, it is a good place for a rendezvous. For one, the area is bustling with tourists, struck by the wonder of the architecture and captivated by the heritage, supposed or otherwise. They are told by the guides it took centuries to build, absorbing the labour of generations of men, spurred on to create something special for God. They are told prayers have been said here for nearly a thousand years, which makes it truly holy. And they are told it costs several hundred pounds a day to maintain and all donations for the upkeep are very welcome. If the tourists want to venture into the building they will have to pay anyway, the entry charge being one of the innovations of the present dean. Remarkably, he had managed to turn a loss-making monument into a viable enterprise, and was currently negotiating with some main outlets on the High Street for sponsorship of window restoration. In return, logos will be etched onto the glass. Interestingly not all outlets were approached. Waitrose and Marks and Spencer were yet to make a response; other shops were not given the opportunity. Above all, as the dean is very fond of saying, the Cathedral has to remain a place of dignity, whatever the price.
The fog of the early evening had gone, blown away by a warming wind, and the yellow floodlight picked out the relief of the statutes and arcades. James leaned against one of the huge buttresses and, in the dark recess, was hidden from the small crowd of tourists engaged on a ghost walk.
“Here,” intoned the woman dressed in a black cape lined in red, floppy hat and high- heeled thigh boots. She waited for everyone’s attention and then threw her arms out in a flamboyant gesture. “Here is where they hanged Old Jim in 1762, and they say he still lurks in the shadows of the Close to this day.” All in the small group looked around warily, apart from a young child tugging at his mother’s sleeve and wanting to chase off a group of pigeons pecking around the litter bin.
It did not matter whether Old Jim ever existed, for this was pure entertainment provided for those with a rich imagination and a poor grasp of history.
“They said he begged to be let into the Cathedral for sanctuary,” she went on as she turned to face the great West Door, “but they would not open the door!”
Perhaps it was because he wasn’t a bishop, thought James, or at least not able to pay the entry fee.
The ghost party moved off, and James stepped out from the shadow. He had arrived early, as always, a sign of his anxiety. Now it was almost on the hour, about to be unmistakably marked by resounding Cathedral bells high above him. Terry was nearly always late and James would for a minute or two wonder if this would be the day when he would not turn up. So far, in the two months of their whirlwind relationship, he always had,
at least within ten minutes of the agreed time. But on every occasion James had expected to be let down. Perhaps perversely he even wanted it. Terry meant so much to him that he sometimes felt he might be an illusion, a cruel phantom of imagination, a dream needing to end suddenly, before the reality of mundane existence deadened it.
James lent back against the front of the buttress, thinking he was alone in the Close, and glanced up to the stone frieze of God’s Judgment of the Wicked high above him. The contorted figures of the damned, carved to warn twenty generations of sinners, seemed to be having such fun. Just then the bells began to chime, filling the Close with a deafening reverberation. What followed was complete silence, as if the noise of metal on metal had absorbed all sounds and for a moment or two the world stood in deafened shock.
Suddenly a voice broke out.
“Hello, Good Evening,” spoke the dean, who had emerged from a side door without any ceremony, but dressed in a black cassock and cap. “Propping it up won’t stop it falling down, you know,” he added, his courteousness tinted with a little distain.
Without waiting for a reply he had skirted the corner of the West Front and was gone. James knew the dean through his work on the cathedral committees, and so far this had been the kind of conversations they had always had, as one-sided as ever. He was glad the dean had not stopped to ask him what he was doing, and a sense of guilt for meeting Terry swept over him like a gust of chilling wind, but it did not linger.
Gay Before God: An Awakening Love Forbidden by the Church Page 2
