‘Stop. You’re panicking, sweetheart. I’ll ring for you. What’s his surname?’
‘Uh, Hardman?’
‘Ah! Always good to find, as Mae West so sapiently remarked. Which hospital?’
‘Lindford General? But no way will they tell you. Dude, it’s not like you’re his next of kin, or anything. Why—’
‘Oh, I’m very persuasive. I’ll ring you back. In the meantime, I want you to go and find Mr Bennet and take him up on his kind offer. Hush, manchild; do as you’re told.’
‘Oh God, Andrew – what if he dies?’
‘What if he doesn’t?’ Silence. ‘Why not focus your thoughts there instead? I’ll ring you back. So, to recap: what are you going to do next?’
‘Uh, find Nigel and Alan, I guess?’
‘Good. And what am I going to do?’
‘Ring the hospital?’
‘I am. Then I will ring you with some proper information, and we can take it from there. Ciao, bello.’
It is June now. The wind strokes a hand over the silky barley fields. Bracken fronds have unfurled into ostrich plumes. The early hay has been mown. Nettles fire off puffs of pollen in the sunshine. The elderflower is out. It smells the way wren song sounds – sharp, clear. Essence of a June day. Bottle it, save it, hoard it while you can.
In the south people turn their heating on and moan. Rain lashes Europe. Paris floods. But here in the Midlands the warm weather holds. Tar bubbles on country lanes and the careless get sunburnt. There are elms in leaf, dropping their hoppy seedpods on woodland paths. They are the offspring of giants felled in the seventies, suckers from long-gone stumps, but they too will succumb to disease before they reach maturity.
So May has gone. We may never live to see another.
But I am sporting with your patience, dear reader. Like Freddie, you are anxious to know the facts of poor Ambrose’s condition. You have already discerned, I’m sure, that this is no Game of Thrones narrative. We do not repeatedly lure the reader into caring about someone, just in time to see them killed off. Occasionally we hurl characters off rooftops, but there is something there to break their fall.
This is unrealistic, of course. In the real world, nobody is safe. Bad things happen to good people. In the real world, the Divine Author does not intervene and put stuff right, even when to do so is clearly a no-brainer. Escapist Anglican nonsense? Perhaps. But like travellers on a train who see the sun bouncing off puddles and distant windscreens, readers may get a glancing reflection of some bright truth from the lies that fiction tells.
*
Freddie passed under the lime trees on his way to Vicars’ Court. The blackbirds whistled heartlessly. Someone was barbecuing. Life went on, the way life does.
Suddenly he remembered the hymn he sang at Bishop Paul’s farewell service: ‘It is well with my soul.’ Back then, he’d googled it and discovered the heartbreak that lay behind the words. And he’d known he could never do that, never say it was well with his soul, when blatantly, it wasn’t? But now, as he walked, something crept up on him. Like an arm round his shoulders? Like when the plane was going down – Brace! Brace! Brace! – but a voice in him was going, It’s OK. I’ve got you. And weirdly? He kinda knew this would be OK too, whatever happened. Somehow Ambrose was safe? ‘Even so, it is well with my soul.’
When his phone rang, he was almost calm. And yes, Ambrose was safe. Not a stroke. He’d suffered a sudden attack of labyrinthitis – infection of the inner ear – that had knocked him flat as a drunken sailor in a force ten gale. He was likely to be kept in for several days, and was currently on a drip to prevent dehydration, and off his face on benzodiazepine. Freddie could visit – though he mustn’t expect to get much sense out of him.
‘Whoa, persuasive or what? How come they told you all that?’
‘A mystery! Perhaps they thought I was the bishop of Lindchester?’ said Andrew.
‘You lied? Dude!’
‘Merely a precaution. I feared my own name might not prove a ticket to Mr Hardman’s good will. Imagine that.’ He sighed. ‘Still, as I suspected, he was happy for the ward clerk to update the bishop.’
The bishop of Lindchester, little knowing that his name had been taken in vain, is having a moan to his EA during their diary session (shoehorned into Tuesday morning, because of the Bank Holiday).
‘Well, judging by the number of delegations and handbaggings and angry emails I’ve had,’ he says, ‘I am simultaneously taking the diocese down an evangelical route, and a worryingly liberal one.’
‘Must mean you’re getting it about right, then,’ says Kat. ‘Looking ahead—’
‘To what can I compare this diocese?’ Steve flings his arms wide. ‘We played Hillsongs to you, and you did not dance! We held a Service of Benediction, and you did not genuflect!’
Kat stares at him steadily. ‘Right. So looking ahead. Next week, couple of things. Shared conversation guys and synod reps, meeting at the palace. I’ve got it down for a finger buffet. Do you want me to book the caterers?’
‘No, no. I think Sonya’s happy to do that.’
‘Really?’ Kat makes a note. ‘OK. You’re the boss.’
The bishop swallows the implied insult to his wife’s culinary skills. Or is it thoughtfulness, relieving her load? He chooses to believe the latter. ‘Actually, you know what – book the caterers. Then Sonya can go to Zumba after all.’
‘Sure?’ Bright smile. ‘OK.’
Half-term comes to an end. Holidaymakers inch home along motorways towards Lindfordshire behind self-aggrandizing caravans. The Excite-Me Buccaneer Pro-Glide Plus. The Mutual-Climax Marauder. The 4x4s head up the pilgrim way and deliver choristers back to the school. Virginia proofreads her application for the post of Diocesan Social Welfare Officer one last time, then hits send.
Miss Blatherwick takes her cup of peppermint tea (soothing for the digestion) into her little garden, to enjoy the nice tidy beds and pray for Freddie and Ambrose. Oh, if only she’d been here! But no, Freddie was fine. He doesn’t need matroning.
Ambrose is discharged from hospital to his cousin’s house. Apparently, Freddie had visited, but Ambrose must have been well out of it. He’s lost weight, feels horrible. He’s still cornering on two wheels. But he lasts the journey and makes it up the stairs to Chloe’s spare room without vomming.
Swirly-whirly-whirly.
It will pass. He’s an ox. Tells himself it’s a hammock, lazy day, drifting. He remembers the nurse saying, ‘Is this your playing card? It was under the pillow.’ He smiles. He’d known without looking: two of hearts.
Chapter 23
n? Out? The EU referendum hokey-cokey is hotting up in Lindfordshire. The bishop of Lindchester – without, of course, telling people how to vote – urges everyone to take this seriously, inform themselves, make prayerful decisions and exercise their democratic duty. It has to be said that the posters in windows and on wayside hoardings across the diocese mostly have a #Brexity flavour. The joint debating society of Queen Mary’s Girls’ and Queen Mary’s Boys’ Grammar Schools in Lindford proposes that ‘This House believes Britain is better out than in the EU’ – and the sons and daughters of Lindcastrian yeomen carry the motion.
On Wednesday evening, Lindchester Cathedral hosts a referendum debate, with an august panel, including the local MP (leave) and Lindford University’s vice chancellor (remain). The dean (remain, but scrupulously neutral throughout proceedings) will be chairing the discussion. Serious-minded people from all over the region will attend. Dr Jane Rossiter – will she be there?
What? You think Jane is going to waste an hour and a half of her life listening to doom-mongering Murdoctrinated members of the public, while they spout – under the guise of asking a question – a bunch of ‘facts’ about immigration, or quote some fictitious percentage of the EU budget squandered on admin; and otherwise spill great vats of toxic slurry dredged up from the collective unconscious of England, my England?
She would rather snort wasabi. On
the grounds that even if her brain exploded out through her ears, at least it would be over quickly.
Hell, she would even rather sit through a three-hour pre-board meeting in an un-air-conditioned room, listening to colleagues arguing about marks and in-year reassessment. Indeed, this is exactly what she has just been doing. But she must still drive up to the Close rather than go home for a shower and a beer, because Matt’s Mini is in for a service, and the man needs a lift home. This does not mean – however much Mister Archdeacon has hinted that she might like to join him for the debate – that Jane is going to subject herself to the xenophobic rhetoric of a bunch of rubicund spunk-trumpets. No siree, Bob. She’s going to park at William House, then go to the King’s Head for an IPA, to underline her stance against the invidious mission creep of Matt’s vocation.
She gets out and slams the car door. Her clothes are sticking to her. She blots her face on her sleeve. Ah, she can already taste the hops, is mentally pressing the beer glass to her cheek and sighing in bliss! Blood pressure is returning to normal. But as she leaves the car park there’s a lean, sinuous figure loitering in her path. Someone she’s meant to recognize, judging by his demeanour.
‘My very dear Mrs Bishop-to-be of Barcup!’ He holds out a fey hand. ‘And how are we this evening?’
Jane eyes his hand but doesn’t take it. ‘We are in an advanced state of murderous ill-humour,’ she says. ‘And you are. . . ? I want to say Dick.’
‘Gene.’
She considers this. ‘Nope. Still want to say Dick.’
He laughs. ‘I love you already! I’m Mr Dean, clergy spouse and fellow-sufferer. Are you off to join the Lumpenproletariat in the cathedral—’
Jane snorts.
‘—or can I tempt you to a drink in the deanery garden?’
‘Now we’re talking. Got any beer in your fridge?’
‘Certainly not.’ He gives a dainty shiver. ‘But I do have a rather special 2011 Nuits Saint Georges Clos de L’Arlot already chilled.’
‘Oh, go on then,’ says Jane. ‘I’ve got drunk on worse.’
It is now less than six weeks till Matt is consecrated. I suddenly feel a lot better about Jane becoming a bishop’s wife.
Come, I must trouble you to fly with me once more. If you wish, you may leave red, white and blue vapour trails across the grey sky for the official celebration of Her Majesty’s ninetieth birthday. Listen! That is the sound of Walton’s ‘Crown Imperial’ being coaxed from all organs great and small. Red, white and blue flowers grace the pedestals of both town and country churches. Parry rehearsals waft from the cathedral Song School. With the Vivats! Ooh, the Vivats! Red, white and blue bunting – finally dried out from the 2012 washout of the diamond jubilee – decks streets and churchyards and vicarage gardens. Gazebos sprout up, ready for parties. People consult their weather apps. In? Out?
Wheat stands thick and motionless in campion-trimmed fields. Ah, there is so much that’s soft and gentle this June, this warm and hazy June. The bowing grass feathers, the haze of Queen Anne’s lace, the floating willow fluff, the felted moss carpets creeping over stones and paths.
Father Wendy notices all this as she walks through waist-high weeds along the riverbank. Beloved, let us love, she thinks. Let us be soft, let us be kind, forgiving, being forgiven. Let forgiveness creep like moss over all our hard rocky places.
Lest you think that Father Wendy does nothing but walk her three-legged dog along the Linden for a living, we will join her in her study, where she has just concluded Virginia’s ministerial development review thingy. Her very last one! Goodness, where have those three years gone?
‘May I say something, Wendy?’ asks Virginia.
‘Of course.’ Eek! Like all good-hearted folk, Wendy automatically assumes that the something will be something unpleasant. Virginia is quite a long way into her speech before Wendy grasps that she’s being unreservedly thanked for all she has done in her role as training incumbent.
‘And you’ve taught me not to take myself too seriously,’ says Virginia very, very seriously. ‘I’ve become much less black and white in my thinking as well. Wendy, I never told you this, but when things fell through at Risley Hill, I was bitterly disappointed.’
‘Well, of course you were,’ says Wendy.
‘I’m afraid I was ungracious to you.’
‘Well.’ Wendy scans for a way of contradicting this truthfully, and settles for a forgiving pastoral silence instead.
‘If I’d gone to Risley Hill, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have changed and grown like this, or got involved in social justice issues,’ states Virginia. ‘I doubt very much if I’d’ve stood for General Synod, either. What I’m really saying is, even if I don’t get the job next week, I’m confident this is the kind of ministry I’m called to. So I just want to thank you for . . . everything.’
‘Oh! Bless you, that’s very kind. I’m not sure what I’ve done, exactly. But thank you.’
‘You’ve modelled another way of being church,’ says Virginia. ‘And although I don’t share all your views on scripture and marriage and so on, I do respect your position. And I can accept that there’s a . . . breadth.’ Virginia conveys this breadth with a preacherly gesture. It is roughly eighteen inches wide.
‘Yes, a breadth,’ agrees Wendy. ‘I’ve always loved that John Robinson quote, myself: “The Lord hath more truth and light yet to break forth out of his holy word”.’
‘Of course.’ Provided it’s the right kind of light and truth, Virginia appears to be thinking.
‘Well, I’ll be praying for you on Tuesday. What time’s the interview?’
‘I’m on at eleven.’
After Virginia has left, Wendy turns and nearly says, Oh, Lulu! But Lulu has been gone a long time. Now there is Pedro. So she talks to Pedro instead.
‘Oh, Pedro. I was a very poor second best for Virginia, wasn’t I? But it seems to have worked out all right.’
A quotation comes to her. Tolkien. She’s wrestled with it over the years. ‘Things might have been different, but they could not have been better.’ ‘Is that true, Pedro?’
Would this be what she really thought, at the very last, when she looked back on it all? That despite the deaths, the grief and woe, it could not have been better?
Personally, I’m fairly clear things would not have been better for Virginia at Risley Hill. All is not well in that church. Archdeacon Bea was a bit perturbed by her visitation, you will remember. She had a word with her colleague, Matt, and got the history. She now knows about the rector’s close friendship with another man’s wife a few years back. Just a friendship. A miscommunication. A nothing. But a nothing which nonetheless spelt the end of Becky and Martin Rogers’ marriage.
We have noted Laurie, the rector, standing a little too close to his intern, and bathing her in his sincere approval. What’s his game? Does he have one? Is this the tip of an iceberg, or is it just a little free-floating chunk of ice? It’s probably nothing at all. Another nothing.
But I’m glad Virginia ended up as Father Wendy’s curate.
Sonya got home from Zumba on Thursday to find the bishop loading the dishwasher.
‘How did it go?’
‘It went.’
‘—went. Oh dear! Was it awful?’
‘Pretty awful. I could cheerfully strangle m’friend Roland. He won’t listen. And with the best will in the world, nobody can have a shared conversation with a foghorn.’
‘—horn. What did he say?’
‘Abomination!’ Steve scraped the remains of the caterers’ finger buffet into the bin. ‘The myth of the fixed gay identity!’
‘—titty. Yes, but don’t we think it’s a myth, too? I thought we did.’
Steve slammed the dishwasher shut. All the wine glasses jangled. ‘How was Zumba?’
‘Oh, fine. Did that nice guy from the choir come? You know, thingy? The one who’s been so? Him?’
‘Ambrose? No. He’s still signed off. But his cousin Chloe was there.’
Steve frowned.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Look, sorry, love, I’m going for a stroll, to clear my head. Sorry to be such a grump.’
Steve had learnt over the years that you could outwalk your irritations, the way you could outwalk a cloud of midges. He headed down the steep steps off the Close, then out along the Linden. For the first half-mile, they were still whining round his head. Argh! How he hated the scheming and conniving, the manipulative rhetoric on both sides of the debate! The threats and bullying, online and off. Roland! Oh, I would not be – not quite – so sure as you! Even if you are right. Oh, poor old Sonya – he’d nearly bitten her head off back then.
I’m going to run away and teach English on some remote Pacific island! I hate you all! And you hate me back! I know you call me second-choice Steve! I know you’d prefer that hand-wringing fop from Barchester Theological College!
Oops, here came the most terrifying of the cathedral dames. He smiled and murmured a greeting as they passed one another. Please say he hadn’t been ranting out loud. He carried on striding. The midges were falling behind now. He found space for that little puzzle from earlier: Chloe thanking him for ringing the hospital to ask after Ambrose. He’d slipped into autopilot, winging it. Clearly, she was touched by his pastoral concern, so it seemed best to take the credit with a self-deprecating smile. Mystery, though. Maybe he had a doppelgänger. Good. The doppelgänger could run the diocese while Steve drank rum punch on his island.
Steve had not been ranting out loud, but he had looked sufficiently mithered to earn himself a place on Miss Blatherwick’s prayer list. By the time he reached the footbridge, his soul had returned to its rest. He caught a glimpse of himself as a gnat whining in God’s ear, and laughed. Lord, how small we all are.
Chapter 24
illow fluff hangs in the air. Moss creeps over stony paths. But where is the softness now? Here, here in our flesh. How small we are. Why do we have no tough hide, no plated shell? Why have we evolved as if for trust?
Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3) Page 15