Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3)

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Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3) Page 1

by Catherine Fox




  Catherine Fox is an established and popular author. Her debut novel, Angels and Men (reissued in 2014) was a Sunday Times Pick of the Year. Her other books include The Benefits of Passion and Love for the Lost (reissued in 2015), Acts and Omissions, which was chosen as a Book of 2014 by The Guardian, and its sequel, Unseen Things Above (2015). Catherine lectures at Manchester Metropolitan University.

  First published in Great Britain in 2017

  Marylebone House

  36 Causton Street

  London SW1P 4ST

  www.marylebonehousebooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Catherine Fox 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Extracts from The Book of Common Prayer, the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced by permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press

  Extracts from the Authorized Version of the Bible (The King James Bible), the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced by permission of the Crown’s ­Patentee, Cambridge University Press.

  Extracts from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible are copyright © 1946, 1952 and 1971 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Common Worship: Pastoral Services copyright © The Archbishops’ Council, 2000, and reproduced by permission. All rights reserved.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978–1–910674–21–5

  eBook ISBN 978–1–910674–22–2

  Typeset by Lapiz Digital Services, India

  Manufacture managed by Jellyfish

  First printed in Great Britain by CPI

  Subsequently digitally printed in Great Britain

  eBook by Lapiz Digital Services, India

  Produced on paper from sustainable forests

  For

  Kate and Vicki

  Love, love, love, love, love

  Dramatis personae

  Bishops

  Steve Pennington

  Bishop of Lindchester

  Vacancy

  Bishop of Barcup

  Rupert Anderson

  Archbishop of York

  Priests and deacons

  Cathedral clergy

  Marion Randall

  Dean of Lindchester (the boss)

  Giles Littlechild

  Cathedral Canon Precentor (music & worship)

  Mark Lawson

  Cathedral Canon Chancellor, ‘Mr Happy’ (outreach & matters scholarly)

  Philip Voysey-Scott

  Cathedral Canon Treasurer (money)

  Lindchester clergy

  Matt Tyler

  Archdeacon of Lindchester

  Bea Whitchurch

  Archdeacon of Martonbury

  Martin Rogers

  Borough (and Churches) Liaison Officer

  Dominic Todd

  Rector of Lindford parish church

  Wendy Styles

  ‘Father Wendy’, Vicar of Renfold, Carding-le-Willow, Cardingforth

  Virginia Coleman

  Curate to Wendy Styles

  Ed Bailey

  Rector of Gayden Parva, Gayden Magna, Itchington Episcopi, etc.

  Laurie

  Vicar of Risley Hill

  Kay Redfern

  Vicar of St Andrew’s Barcup, partner of Helene

  People

  Cathedral Close

  Gene

  Husband of the dean

  Timothy Gladwin

  Cathedral director of music

  Laurence

  Cathedral organist

  Iona

  Assistant organist

  Sonya Pennington

  Wife of Bishop Steve

  Nigel Bennet

  Senior lay clerk

  Freddie May

  Tenor, lay vicar of Gayden Parva

  Ambrose Hardman

  Alto, lay vicar of Gayden Magna

  Miss Barbara Blatherwick

  Cathedral Close resident, former school matron

  Philippa Voysey-Scott

  ‘Totty’, wife of the canon treasurer

  Ulrika Littlechild

  Precentor’s wife, voice coach

  Helene Carter

  Diocesan safeguarding and HR officer, partner of Kay

  Kat

  Bishop Steve’s EA

  Miriam Lawson

  Wife of canon chancellor

  Chad William Lawson

  Son of canon chancellor

  Tabitha Lawson

  Daughter of canon chancellor

  Beyond the Close

  Dr Jane Rossiter

  Lecturer at Linden University, married to Matt Tyler

  Neil Ferguson

  Father Ed’s partner

  Andrew Jacks

  Director of the Dorian Singers

  Becky Rogers

  Ex-wife of Martin, mother of Leah and Jessica

  Leah Rogers

  Older daughter

  Jessica Rogers

  Younger daughter

  Mrs Todd

  Father Dominic’s mother

  Lydia Redfern

  Kay’s daughter

  Chloe Garner

  Street pastor, lawyer, lay member of General Synod, cousin of Ambrose Hardman

  Madge

  Retired midwife, Cardingforth

  All Creatures Great and Small

  Cosmo

  Chloe’s labradoodle

  Pedro

  Father Wendy’s rescue greyhound

  Dora

  Kay Redfern’s golden retriever

  Amadeus

  Cathedral cat

  Boris I

  Choristers’ hamster

  Boris II

  Choristers’ hamster

  Contents

  JANUARY 2016

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  FEBRUARY

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  MARCH

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  APRIL

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  MAY

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  JUNE

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  JULY

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  AUGUST

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  SEPTEMBER

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  OCTOBER

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  NOVEMBER

  Chapter 43

  Cha
pter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  DECEMBER

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  JANUARY 2016

  Chapter 1

  It is the best of times, it is the worst of times,

  it is the season of Light, it is the season of Darkness,

  it is the spring of hope, it is the winter of despair,

  we are all going direct to Heaven, we are all going direct the other way.

  elcome to Lindchester. Are you sitting comfortably? If so, then I assume you are at home, rather than in a pew – or (Lord have mercy!) stuck on one of those beastly plastic stacking chairs, knowing you will leave a sweaty bum print whenever you stand for a hymn. Pour yourself a glass of Christmas whisky (a gift from the undertaker, perhaps, if you are clergy). Alternatively, make yourself a cup of that weird spiced Christmas tea out of the hamper your sister-in-law sent. It needs using up. Comfortable?

  Then I will begin. I will tell you a Tale of Two Churches. One is the Church in glory, like a bride adorned for her husband; the other – inhabited by the likes of you and me – is the Church incarnate here on earth, ankle deep in the mire of the imaginary diocese of Lindchester. But perhaps, if we catch them in Emily Dickinson’s certain slant of light, we may glimpse a bit of glory around the grubby edges of our characters.

  What of those characters? How are they faring? More than a year has passed since we waved them off last Advent. It is Saturday night now. The nice Chablis has all gone. Only the yucky coconut ones rattle round the plastic sweet tub. The last clump of Christmas pudding is clenched blackly under cling film like a fist preserved in a peat bog for 6,000 years. We are still telling ourselves someone will eat it. Listen! Can you hear the tiniest tinkle – faint as bells round the necks of nativity oxen on your mantelpiece – of pine needles falling from Christmas trees? Yes, needle-fall is general across the diocese of Lindchester, for Christmas has been and gone. New Year has been and gone, too. We wait, lolled on sofas, remote dangling in slack hand, for the start of term, or work, or whatever comes under the heading of Real Life.

  What does the year hold in this best of times, this worst of times; this season of bake-offs and season of foodbanks; this Green spring of muscular theological hope and Lothlórien winter of hand-wringing theological despair? We will peep through many a stained-glass window in pursuit of answers. Once again, you will find yourself dogged at every turn. Your narrator will stand a little too close, breathing in your ear and commenting in the manner of an overzealous cathedral guide who is not content to leave visitors to wander around looking at things by themselves. I will burst out of vestry cupboards and through the fourth wall right into your face. I will betray my sacred Jamesian office wherever possible. Is this your first visit to Lindchester? Would you like a brochure?

  How are your Anglican wings? Give them a shake, and we will mount up, as in days of old. It is dark, but there below is the River Linden, many miles meandering with a mazy motion. There are the water meadows – vast lakes at the moment. Can you just make out the stands of trees, the wooded rises? Give thanks for these boons, O people living in towns further downstream. Without them, the Linden would be in your sitting room by now. As it is, the Lower Town of Lindchester has been flooded twice this ­winter.

  Where shall we go? To the archdeacon’s you say? Ah, but which archdeacon? There are two – our old friend, the Venerable Matt Tyler, archdeacon of Lindchester, and the Venerable Bea Whitchurch, archdeacon of Martonbury. A lady archdeacon, no less! We will save Bea till later (pausing only to report that those scoundrels in the cathedral refer to her as ‘the little teapot’). Historically, there have been two archdeaconries in the diocese of Lindchester, but if the new bishop gets his way, there will be four. Four! The multiplication of archdeacons! A terrifying sign that we are all going to Chelmsford in a handcart.

  The town of Lindford lies below us now. Let us bend our joyful footsteps to the house of the archdeacon of Lindchester. There are two cars on the drive these days – the sporty black Mini and the knackered old wreck belonging to the archdeacon’s—His what? His wife? Has Jane learned to embrace this title? Did she shake her head and smile indulgently as those cards dropped through the letterbox addressed to ‘The Venerable & Mrs M. Tyler’?

  Let us sneak in and find out. You will see at once that it is a nice house, warm and clean. The archdeacon’s taste has prevailed throughout. This was not hard, as Jane’s taste is for not giving a monkey’s about homemaking. I admit it’s a bit generic, a bit like a show house, for Matt is a pragmatist. There’s none of that girlie clobber. And no chuffing cushions. Like most red-blooded Englishmen, the archdeacon can’t be doing with cushions. This is why he has to act as a cushion himself, when his beloved needs something to prop her feet on while lying on the sofa. Which is what she’s doing right now.

  ‘Yes, but surely you’re owed a sabbatical,’ said Jane.

  ‘Nope,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘We’re entitled to one every ten years. I’ve only clocked up six.’

  ‘Can’t you wangle something? I want to apply for study leave next year.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Yes, but I want to spend it in New Zealand. With you. I’ll tell the bishop our marriage depends on it. Come along, now. Do it for me. Remember the Penningtons’ lovely Biblical Bonking book? Quality time. Acts of service.’

  The archdeacon sighed. Pity the bishop’s wife had given that copy of their co-authored book to Jane, not him. No chance to deflect it. At least Janey had tired of reading him excerpts every bedtime.

  ‘Can I get you a top-up?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She handed over her glass. ‘And then you can come straight back and carry on the sabbatical conversation.’

  ‘The rules is the rules, I’m afraid. Ten years.’

  ‘Pah. You could at least ask him.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll ask him.’ Matt hauled himself up off the sofa. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, though.’

  He padded through to the kitchen in his Christmas socks and got the last of the Prosecco. He closed the fridge and rested his forehead against it. Oh, Lord. Vexed though the sabbatical question was proving, it was going to look like a cracker joke by this time next week. Which was when he’d probably have to float the suffragan bishop of Barcup possibility . . .

  You will infer from this that our good friend Bob Hooty has retired. The big detached Tudorbethan house in Martonbury is vacant. I fear that once again I must trouble the reader with the question of who will be the next bishop. It won’t be as convoluted as the appointment of the bishop of Lindchester, I promise, since suffragan bishoprics are not Crown appointments. That said, gone are the days when a ­diocesan bishop could simply have a conversation in his club with an old chum from theological college, and appoint him. There will be an advert. I believe the archbishop’s appointments secretary will have names to commend. Then there will be a shortlist and interviews conducted by a panel. Is the new bishop of Lindchester powerless here? By no means. He will get the person he wants, I dare say. It would be deeply inappropriate of him to take that person to one side and confide his intentions. But once Bob’s farewell service was out of the way, it was not out of order for him to enquire, in passing, if he was right in thinking that the archdeacon’s paperwork was up to date . . . ?

  Bishop Steve has not been idle in our absence. He has made changes. He plans more changes still. One of his earliest moves was to let the lovely PA Penelope go, and appoint an executive assistant. This was a deeply unpopular move on the Close. Even inanimate objects in the bishop’s office seemed to cry out at the injustice. There was a stage when the office computer inexplicably autocorrected ‘bishop’ to ‘wanker’ whenever the new EA tried to send an email. Goodness. How did that happen? The bishop also chose not to appoint a new chaplain, on the grounds that he didn’t really need one. This sent ripples of fear throughout the Slope Society nationally.
Honestly, if he wasn’t such a nice bloke, everyone would hate Bishop Steve.

  Of course, there are those who, unmoved by considerations of personal charm, hate him in adherence to long-held principle.

  ‘I hate him, for he is an Evangelical!’ declaimed Gene in his Royal Shakespeare Company voice. ‘But more for that in low simplicity, he is trying to merge cathedral and diocesan structures like they’ve done in bloody Liverpool!’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ The dean did not bother looking up from her book.

  ‘On the specious grounds that it makes sense and would save money!’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘What a wanker.’ Pause. ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘No, darling.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Marion is still dean of Lindchester. No change there. She was not the first woman bishop in the Church of England. Nor the second, third, fourth or fifth. Indeed, we are losing track of how many women bishops we now have. Why has she been passed over? I cannot say. Deep in unfathomable mines, the Crown Nominations Commission treasures up its bright designs.

  There have been choral changes on the back row of dec. We have a new alto lay clerk. He arrived last autumn, accompanied by what the gallant elderly gents in the congregation designated (in the unreconstructed privacy of their hearts) a jolly attractive oriental dolly bird. Mr May has somehow managed not to get himself booted out of the choir. He skipped the whole carol concert season re-cuperating from nose surgery, and is off visiting his mother in Argentina at the moment. Actually, I tell a lie, he should be on his way home by now. Tomorrow the loyal Miss Blatherwick will drive to the airport to collect him.

 

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