‘Oh yes, it will,’ he agreed. ‘In the end.’
In the end, yes. But what comfort is that now, when it is still night?
Since the Referendum results Father Wendy has gone back and re-read that Tolkien story. ‘Things might have been different, but they could not have been better.’ She can see now. This kind of comfort can only blossom between two old enemies whose sin has been purged away and who can finally say, ‘We have lived and worked together now.’ It must never be offered from a position of privilege and security to a brother or sister who is still suffering, thinks Wendy. Bless them all, those well-meaning folk who had tried to explain Laura’s death to her with talk of God’s timing, or tapestry seen from the other side in glory.
She watches the willow fluff take its complex routes along the unseen paths of the wind. The way the vote breaks down along class lines has given Wendy pause. Here in her little rural pocket of England, she’d sensed which way the wind was blowing. But that the same current was passing unseen through so many communities! She stops and looks out across the ripening wheat towards the concrete skirts of the cooling towers rising vast, silent on the horizon.
‘What if this is judgement?’ she says to Pedro. ‘What if we have sinned? What if Brexit is Magnificat?’
I sense your impatience, reader. Enough theologizing! Did Freddie send that text? He did. We will loop back to where we left him on the battlements, and find out what happened next.
Gah! Had it sent? He double-checked. What if Brose was still mad at him? What if—
But Freddie had barely got the wind in his what-if sails of catastrophe when the answer came.
Look round.
What the? Freddie turned. And there was Ambrose. They proper did the whole running into one another’s arms laughing thing? Here it was, the hug he’d been aching for?
‘You’re here! Why— Were you—? Oh God!’
‘I was coming to find you, yes,’ said Ambrose. He wrapped his arms tighter. ‘I saw you at the bishop’s.’
‘That. Yeah, I was like, saying sorry? Coz . . .’ He saw from Ambrose’s face he know coz why. Duh, this was the Close. Everyone knew everything. (Plus the Twitter rants, obviously.) ‘He’s kind of an OK guy and I don’t want to hate him, so.’
‘I like him,’ said Ambrose. ‘You know he actually rang the ward, when I was in hospital? Just to find out how I was doing?’
‘He did?’ La la la. ‘Awesome.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. So, you’re recovered again?’
‘Pretty much, thanks.’
‘You’re not . . . Are we cool?’
‘I hope so. Sorry I was a shit. Can we forget it?’
‘’K.’
Freddie heard the swifts round the cathedral, shwee, shwee, shwee. Clock chimed three-quarters. So the hug was still going on, and in a moment it was gonna get awkward, only not yet? Freddie breathed in. Ah! The actual air was sweet? Bees in the lime blossom – he could hear them, G, G sharp? – all off their bee faces with the sweetness?
Now would be a good time to say it. About the frog prince? G’wan, say it. Felt himself starting to tremble.
‘Uh, so, wanna go to your place? Or?’
Ambrose smiled. ‘I want to do a lot of things, Freddie.’
‘Good to know.’ He dialled the slutaciousness up a notch. ‘Like what?’
‘Things you’ve never done before.’
‘Well, good luck with that one.’ A-a-and dial it back down. Please don’t be getting all judge-y on me? ‘Give it your best shot, dude.’
‘OK.’ He thought a bit. ‘I’m going to make you . . .’ He put his lips to Freddie’s ear.
‘Ooh. You got me. What’s that?’
He whispered it again.
‘Nope. French? I got the mouth part.’
‘Um, maybe google it?’ suggested Ambrose.
‘Aw, too shy? That’s so sweet!’ Freddie got out his phone. ‘How’d you spell it?’
Ambrose told him.
‘Croquembouche? Ha ha ha! I don’t think so, dude. “A French dessert consisting of choux pastry balls”?’
‘That’s the one!’ he said. ‘Croquembouche. I’m going to make it for your birthday.’
By now Freddie was literally crying? ‘Can you even cook anything? Dude, look at this bad boy – this isn’t just a cake, this is like a cake Dracula castle! And you’re seriously gonna make me one?’
‘Sure.’
‘You are so full of shit.’ Freddie wiped his eyes. ‘Na ah, this is your close-up magic again. Croquembouche! No way.’
‘Well, I bet I can learn.’
‘Dude, stop with the frog thing? Seriously, now.’ Freddie shook him. ‘So’s we’re clear, I’m talking about sex, OK?’
‘Oh! Right.’ Ambrose frowned. ‘Something you’ve never done before . . .’
‘Why does it have to be something—’
‘Because I want to be your first.’
‘Are you for real?’ He was! Ah, come on. What happened to, I don’t want to change you, Freddie? ‘Look. Unless you’ve got some kind of magic re-virginating machine, it’s not gonna happen.’
‘Yeah, but can I still try, though?’
Ah, fuck this. Why had he thought this could ever work? ‘Hey. Knock yourself out.’
‘OK. Sort of by word association – from croquembouche, I mean.’ Ambrose cleared his throat. ‘Have you ever been French kissed?’
‘What?’ Freddie stared. ‘French—? What is with you? Yeah, guess what, I have – and then some! Only like a bazillion times, with maybe a bazillion different guys?’
‘Yes, but was that ever with a guy who was ridiculously in love with you?’
Silence. The swifts calling.
‘Naw. See, now look, you’ve made me cry— Whoa, um, OK . . .’
Yeah, that would be a first. Never felt like this before. Oh, man. What if? What if everything could be a first from now on; what if everything could be new?
Bees. Bees. Bees. In the lime blossom all round. Humming in G. And inside of him, humming, and his heart buckling under the weight of all this sweetness?
What if? What if what’s done could be undone? The unkind word unspoken, the box unticked, the bullet sucked out, the car bomb unexploded? Rewind, rewind – the war undeclared, Iraq un-invaded, Saddam untoppled, the cities un-razed to the ground? The twin towers rising, hurling the planes back out. How far back must we go to untangle it all? All the way back, until the apple is unpicked and we walk with God in the garden in the cool of the evening, naked and unashamed?
Miss Blatherwick carries a bucket of water out into her garden and pours it round the roots of her apple tree. My poor Lindchester pippin, she thinks. Much diminished, but standing up again. The water pools in the trough dug by the tree surgeon. Will it survive its trauma? She watches as the water sinks into the earth and vanishes. Then she looks up at the pruned branches. The leaves hang limp. Will it recover? She carries the bucket back and refills it at her sink.
My poor country, she thinks. Things torn up by the roots, toppled, broken. Goodness knows what will happen to the Labour Party she has voted for all her life. Conservatives in disarray. The pound plummeting. It will take years for this to play out. She knows she won’t live to see the outcome. What can she do?
She heaves the bucket out of the sink and lugs it to the tree. What can one do but pour out one’s hope and prayers like water?
Across the land suitcases are packed, and people travel to York for General Synod. Marion is no longer a member. She stood down, worn out, after the women bishops vote was finally carried. We, too, must pour out our hopes and prayers from a distance, as the #SharedConversations about human sexuality enter their synodical stage.
It is Sunday evening in the deanery garden. The sun is out, briefly.
‘Is there hope for the C of E, deanissima?’ Gene serves strawberries and champagne to celebrate Wimbledon (and her escape from synod). ‘What do you think will happen?’
<
br /> ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It will probably be like it was with women bishops. You think you’ve arrived at a costly agreement, then people go back to their separate bunkers and get talked into changing their minds.’
‘And yet here we are, with lady bishops.’
‘Here we are, indeed.’ She eats a strawberry. It is a perfect English strawberry, like the strawberries of childhood. ‘I hope folk manage to listen. I always think of Cromwell’s words to the Church of Scotland: “I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible that you might be mistaken.”’
‘Why, yes – before going on to stomp the bejasus shit out of them in the Battle of Dunbar.’
‘Oh shut up,’ says the dean.
Gene inclines his head. ‘But it is a happy sentiment, nonetheless. Ah, there go our lovebirds!’
They both wave to Freddie and Ambrose as they pass the deanery gates hand in hand.
‘How long do you give it before Mr May self-destructs and wrecks it all?’ whispers Gene. ‘Six months? Three?’
She shakes her head and closes her eyes. The air is full of humming. The bees, her bees. For now they are lost in sweetness.
Ah, Freddie! He is overcome by sweetness, lost, all undone by love. It is always love that undoes us, undoes it all, unravels our snarled-up knot of hate and fear, all the way back to its source.
Chapter 28
verything’s shit. Everything’s changing. Why can’t everything stay like it was?
Leah is hiding in her secret den. Even the secret den isn’t going to be here much longer, because the plot at the back of theirs has been sold, and soon some moron builder will build a stupid house on it.
It’s raining. When she was young she used to pretend she was a mouse or a hamster, hiding in a tin can. Now she’s eleven she pretends it’s bullets ricocheting and she’s an orphan in a war zone. But now everything’s shit, that’s not a good game. Actual scary things could happen, they literally could. In England! All the grown-ups are scared, and moaning, What’s happening? Honestly, you can’t even go for a wee without something else happening!
It’s history. Happening IRL, not in a Horrible History book. It’s all the fault of Brexit, which wasn’t supposed to happen, according to the grown-ups. So why did you LET it happen, IDIOTS? But whenever Leah tries to ask what’s going to happen now, they immediately go, Oh, it’ll be fine. Don’t worry. If it’s going to be fine, why don’t you all SHUT (THE F) UP about how shit and scary everything is? If only Jane hadn’t moved away, Leah could’ve gone to ask her.
Plus her lame parents won’t buy her a proper phone! Not even for a ‘leaving Junior School and going to Big School’ present. So Leah is having to pretend she couldn’t care less about Pokémon GO.
She hugs her skinny arms round herself. The rain eases. Drops ping on the roof from the trees. She can smell the plant-y smell coming in, from the smushed-down weeds. Raindrops drip, like white flashes, in the open doorway.
If only she could be Arya in Game of Thrones. Not like a regular girl. A girl who can look after herself, who can swordfight and have her own sword, Needle.
Oh, why couldn’t she have stayed ten? Ten is the best age for a girl, ever. You can do everything the boys can do when you were ten – and be better, ha ha! But now! At break Leah seriously heard one of the lame pink girls go, all super-excited, ‘I literally can’t wait till I’m like a C cup!’ Like that would be awesome. Yeah, well, she doesn’t do karate, none of them do, they don’t ever get hit in the chest – which literally KILLS. Leah can tell you what would be awesome – if she was growing knives out of her chest instead, like Boadicea had sticking out of her chariot wheels. Magic knives, so when the boys nudge and stare they’ll get their stupid eyes gouged out.
She hates boys so much. Thank GOD QM is girls-only. Maybe she’s a lesbian? Except she hates girls too, frankly, especially Kerryn Barrymore. So probably she’s just a misanthropist who hates everybody.
Nearly everybody. Ssh.
Here in the secret den she can get the thought out and look at it, like something really expensive she’s shoplifted and can never show anyone, ever. She shuts her eyes and hugs herself tighter.
‘“Po-karekare ana . . .”’ She can hear him. The whole cathedral was packed with Lindfordshire schools for the Leavers’ service and everyone was hyper. He was there with a microphone, leading the singing. Everyone knew the song from Sing Up! All the girls were squealing, ‘OMG!’
No way would he notice her, no way— Her heart bumped, he was coming over, smiling!
‘Hey, Leah. How’s the karate? Fourth kyu? Way to go! High five? Yeah! You rock.’ Ha ha ha! Kerryn Barrymore’s face!
‘“Ka mate ahau i te aroha e.”’ I could die of love for you.
The soft rain tingles on the roof and her fingers tingle, and everything is bulging out or pressing in till she wants to groan, like something big might happen (why, why won’t something happen?), only she can’t tell what.
What would Jane say, I wonder, if poor Leah went to her for comfort? Perhaps it’s as well that Jane has moved away from Cardingforth, because I’m afraid it would only be Hopkins’s carrion comfort, despair, on offer right now.
Monday, late afternoon. She was out running in Lindford arboretum. Holiday in Wales weather, like jogging through a cloud. The puddles under the lime trees brimmed with violent green.
Jane was still surprised at the depth of her Brexit grief, and at a loss to understand it. Presumably she was trudging through the various predictable stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression. Yep, depression. Stuck there, for now. Acceptance was still some way off.
And there was guilt in the mix somewhere. Snarled up in her roots, probably (argh, the white stilettos Mum spent too much on, mouldering in some landfill). Her Marxist forebears – miners, shipbuilders, self-taught WEA members – what would they make of all this malarkey? What would they make of her? First of her family to go to university – Oxford scholarship, no less! Not bad, our Jackie, not bad at all. Her people had been proud of her, and she’d come away with a degree in how to be ashamed of her background. Who had she been trying to pass muster with? The very dickheads who were now trashing the country – the way they trashed restaurants back when they were students.
Thank God term was over, anyway. The history department had become a perfect political microcosm, with micro-factions trolling one another on social media. Tomorrow they were all going to rock up to the cathedral for the Faculty of Farts and Inhumanities graduations, don their robes, and sit together on the platform smiling like saltwater crocodiles.
Jane plodged on through the puddles. A century from now would ‘Labour’ have the same fusty ring as ‘Whig’? Don’t say this was the end of broad church Labour – or the end of Labour, full stop. Hah! General Synod was happening, wasn’t it? For once, the press wouldn’t be rolling its eyes at the in-fighting, and predicting a split. In fact, the good old C of E with its ‘shared conversations’ was looking like a grown-up outfit for once. Modelling a different way of handling conflict, was Matt’s view.
Yes, it was a consolation, of sorts, for someone who was about to become Mrs Bishop. Next week at York . . . Argh! Maybe she should buy herself a new pair of white stilettos, and wear them with pride?
The days roll by, all unconcerned. Herds of cumulonimbus graze across the Lindfordshire sky. There is willow herb and convolvulus; and in the evening honeysuckle pours out its scent for night-time moths. Along trampled mud paths, patient cows come home to be milked.
Are things steadying down a little? Can we unclench yet? We are a nation stuck at the airport with all flights cancelled. Surely someone will arrange something? We can’t stay here for ever. The new Prime Minister – will she sort it out? But oh, what if in five years’ time, we look back on this as a golden era? Lord, have mercy. April Fool-type appointments must be believed in. ‘You couldn’t make it up’ has become the new normal.
Miss Blatherwick waters her wounded apple
tree. The end of the choral year approaches. The gorse is in blossom, and kissing’s very much in fashion. Yeah, no, only, kissing’s fine and all, but du-u-u-ude? Around five minutes from eye contact to kit off, is more what Freddie’s used to? A week, and still no action? Really? God, don’t say he’s just not into me?
On Tuesday morning, Freddie decides to swing by the bishop’s office, catch a word with Kat. Quick update, tell her how things stand with Ambrose? (How do things stand, exactly?)
‘Hey, girl. How’s things?’
‘Hello, Freddie.’ Doesn’t look round from her computer. ‘What can I do for you?’
He pauses in mid-action, reaching for a chair. O-ka-a-ay. He’s in the doghouse, why? Gah. Last time, storming past her and busting in on Steve? He slaps his forehead.
‘Ah, nuts. So Imma go out, and come back in – this time with flowers, maybe . . . ?’
‘You do that.’
Still typing. Jeez. Checks his boys, yep, both still there. ‘’K. Laters.’
Five minutes, and he’s back with a bunch of sweet peas from the treasurer’s garden? Kat looks at them for maybe thirty seconds.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Get a vase.’
He obeys. Fills it at the tap, sticks the sweet peas in, comes and puts them on her desk.
‘So I’m a tool,’ he says.
‘You certainly are.’
‘Sorry.’
She stops typing, spins her chair round. ‘Sit.’
He sits. ‘Are you gonna lecture me? Naw! Babe. C’mon, Kat, I’m sorry. Can’t we just—’
‘You can hear me out, or you can leave. Up to you.’
He slouches down. ‘Fine.’
She leans forward. ‘Here’s what I said to Steve at the time: you think you’re being erased? You should try being a gay black woman.’
Freddie blinks. ‘Right.’
‘See?’ Kat laughs. ‘I told you to get that gaydar in for an MOT.’
‘What? Yeah, but no, it’s a guy thing, not—’
‘Why’s it a guy thing?’ she demands. ‘Don’t gay women count?’
‘Yeah, no, but, but, listen, all I’m saying is, gaydar’s guys checking out guys. Course gay women count!’
Realms of Glory: (Lindchester Chronicles 3) Page 18