Should auld acquaintance be forgot?
But just then: how silently, how silently! A flock of red Chinese lanterns floated up from some hidden garden and over the cathedral. Freddie watched them in wonder. They trailed wishes behind them. Prayers. Resolutions. This year everything will be different. I will be a better person. Let it be all right. Off and away they sailed into the night, carried by the wind.
And the days of Auld Lang Syne.
Then, sure-footed as Amadeus, the cathedral cat, Freddie made his way back over the bishop’s roof to the window he’d left open.
At the last second a slate slipped under him.
He clawed at air. And fell.
Chapter 2
New Year’s Day dawns meek and mild over the diocese of Lindchester. The dog-walkers are out in municipal parks and suburban streets, or squelching along the Linden’s banks, armed with biodegradable scented dog-poop bags and tennis balls. Here and there we spot hungover parents trying not to vomit as they bend wincingly to push small people along on their Christmas scooters and tractors and bikes. It gets better, we want to tell them. Your babies will learn to sleep through, they’ll grow up and leave home, and one day you will understand what all those kind old women meant when they admonished you to ‘enjoy them while they’re little’.
Father Dominic is awake. It’s such a nice morning that he’s taken his coffee and croissant out on to his rubbly patio – with 300 vicarages devouring money, the diocesan housing officer is not going to stump up for something as frivolous as a patio, unless Dominic makes a total nuisance of himself, and he won’t, because he is cursed with empathy and can imagine how horrible it must be to be a diocesan housing officer – and after he’s smoked a cheeky cigar, he will get out his iPhone and say the Morning Office, using the Common Prayer app.
The New Year is smiling upon him. Look at the sunshine on the birch twigs! And there’s a little chaffinch! Well, considering how much he drank last night, he’s got off rather lightly, he thinks; because he is still pished. He casts his mind back. Probably oughtn’t to have slagged off Paul Henderson like that. Dominic holds the office of bishop in high regard, even when he does not entirely like or esteem the individual holders of that office. He does not for one minute believe Paul is a closet queen. Oh Lord, by the age of fifty-three he really ought to have grown out of promulgating that kind of mischief. I’m afraid my readers are not impressed: a parish priest quite seriously having to make a New Year’s resolution not to tell whoppers in the coming year! We leave him with his cigar and his conscience, and see what’s been happening in Lindchester.
As dawn breaks, a little red car rumbles its way up the cobbled street and in through the gatehouse of the Close. It is driven cautiously, but well, by Miss Barbara Blatherwick – yes, that is genuinely her name – and she parks it in her designated parking space. She is seventy-eight and, pace the lusty chorus of seamen in South Pacific, she is remarkably like a dame, although in fact she only has an MBE. She reaches over to the passenger’s seat to gather up her handbag, and tuts. There is blood on the headrest. Now she will have to postpone her cup of tea and tackle the stain with upholstery cleaner straight away, or it’ll never come out. What a dratted nuisance.
Come, come, Miss Blatherwick! Don’t you know this is AB rhesus negative, very rare? The people at the donor clinic get very excited about this blood you are tutting over. Until the would-be donor starts populating the questionnaire with rather too many ‘yes’s, that is. It belongs to Freddie May.
There, you see? You take fright far too easily. A novelist does not kill off her characters before the reader has had a chance to start caring about them. Freddie did not fall very far when the slate slipped under his foot up on the palace roof, because there was another roof ten feet below. He did knock himself out and split his head open, however. You missed the heart-stopping sight of him climbing from that lower roof on to the wrought-iron fire escape. Looking at the back of the house in daylight, I honestly don’t know how he managed it. But he did: he has nine lives, that boy. Nine? He has forty-five! He is quintessence of cat! He then staggered, clutching his poor head, from the bishop’s garden across the Close to the precentor’s house, and hammered on the door.
The precentor, Giles Littlechild, was wrenched from cava-sodden sleep by the row. He wrangled a dressing gown on and cantered his long legs wildly down the stairs like a giraffe encouraged by a cattle prod.
‘Argh! What bloody man is that?’ he cried. (This is the Close. People quote under pressure.) ‘What have you done to yourself this time, May? Oh, dear Lord! Come in! Are you all right?’
And Freddie, being English, replied, ‘I’m fine,’ and threw up in the precentor’s lavender bush.
He was not fine; that much was obvious. It was also obvious that Giles was in no legal state to drive. Nor was his wife. Nor was anyone else Giles could think of. Getting hold of a taxi would be a nightmare. He ran his hands through his mad scientist hair. There was nobody.
Except Miss Blatherwick.
It was 2 a.m. Unthinkable to disturb her! But disturb her he did, knowing that Miss Blatherwick would shake off sempiternal rest and get up out of her grave if one of her boys needed her.
That’s how Miss Blatherwick came to spend a jolly night at Lindford General Hospital A&E, sitting straight-backed in tweed and frank astonishment among the caterwauling drunks and silly girls who had fallen off their stilettos. It was hours before Freddie was seen to and had his head glued up, and then they kept him in for observation because he’d been concussed.
I had better explain why Miss Blatherwick demonstrated such heroism last night. For three and a half decades she mothered the generations of boys who passed through Lindchester Cathedral Choristers’ School. She comforted the homesick ones, sat beside the bad ones in the naughty pew in evensong, accompanied them to the secret lavatory that the public did not know about when they were caught short during a service. She dished out plasters and cod liver oil and common sense, found lost socks, did battle with verrucae (this is the Close, we are pedantic here), combed out nits and straightened caps. She stood by them when the choirmaster was a brute. She was their rock, their fortress and their might; and they were her life. Freddie was in the last cohort before her retirement and she would have driven that boy to Timbuktu.
I call him a boy. He is not a boy, he’s twenty-two. But oh, he’s a Lost Boy, up on the roof with Peter Pan, stranded in Neverland. People despair of him. He has so much going for him, why is he such a disaster area? How can someone that good-looking and talented be so wilfully self-destructive? And he is good-looking and talented, believe me. Five foot eleven inches of such astounding golden beauty that your gaze flinches away embarrassed, the way it would from a disfiguring birthmark. And his voice! People who know about such things tell me he has the potential to be one of the finest tenors of his generation. He was certainly well on the way to becoming a famous boy soprano, when his voice broke catastrophically early at the age of not quite twelve. You can still buy a CD in the cathedral shop, with Freddie in his ruff on the front, looking as adorable as a blond baby duckling. His friends here are all hoping and praying that he has steadied down now; that if he cannot stay out of trouble completely, he can at least stay out of custody. Don’t ever lend him your credit card, by the way, or let him look over your shoulder when you type your computer password. He will tell you this himself. But his candour is so disarming that you will probably not heed the warning.
What more do you need to know about Freddie May? Since his release, he has lived with the Hendersons – Paul and Susanna take in waifs and strays now their girls have grown up and left home – and Freddie has an attic room with (if you are fearless) access to the roof. He likes to lie under the stars and smoke weed. This is something the bishop chooses to know nothing about. The bishop’s chaplain, whom we shall meet later, is barred from driving for twelve months (a suspected epileptic seizure, not a drunk driving charge), so Freddie makes himself useful by a
cting as the bishop’s driver when required. He also helps out in the bishop’s office. Penelope, the bishop’s PA, doesn’t let him anywhere near the PC unsupervised. Freddie does not know her password. Thinks Penelope.
What else? In common with most people his age, Freddie’s conversation is composed almost entirely of like, questions? He uses the word ‘literally’ metaphorically. He adores children and mountains. He prefers presto to largo. He is incapable of refusing a dare. He does not have Common Prayer on his iPhone. He has Grindr. But provided Freddie does not twoc the episcopal car for his jollies, this is something else the bishop (hating the sin, loving the sinner) chooses to know nothing about.
By now Miss Blatherwick has done battle with the bloodstains, so we will administer a well-earned cup of English Breakfast and a bowl of porridge. I expect she will have a nap, while keeping an ear open in case Freddie texts to say he needs picking up. A text? On a mobile phone? I thought you said she was seventy-eight? Oh, ageist reader! Miss Blatherwick is perfectly up to speed with modern gadgetry. Does it matter that her text messages are infested with rogue cedillas and umlauts? They are perfectly cogent. We will repose her on the sofa, set aside her glasses, and spread a plaid blanket over her legs. Sweet dreams, Miss Blatherwick! You are a good woman and Freddie is lucky to have you in his life.
The year is off to a faltering start. New Year’s Day is Tuesday. Everyone’s asking if it’s worth going back to work for three days. Normal life won’t really be resumed until next Monday. We are left inhabiting a rather listless Saturnalia, restrained from excess by resolution, yet assailed by all the tempting leftover food and drink. Many clergy people, whose work/rest boundaries are at best porous, are sort of taking holiday, not exactly working, just catching up on emails and filing, and preparing for Sunday, which is Epiphany, of course. The four-by-fours are converging on the Close as parents return their children to the Choristers’ School. Curates all over the diocese are racking their brains for myrrh-based all-age worship or Messy Church activities (flash paper? Any way I can use flash paper?); while in Quires and Places where they sing, they are rehearsing ‘Three Kings from Persian lands afar’, or perhaps ‘Lo, star-led chiefs!’, music by Crotch. Smirk. (Will we ever grow up on the Close?)
Epiphany: time for the wise to come seeking. If you are a stickler, only now will the magi make their way into your crib scene (which may remain on display until Candlemas). But it’s the twelfth day of Christmas, so take down your decorations, please. Put your tree out by the bins and rediscover the universal law that there will always be one decoration left on it that you’ve missed. Have you remembered the wreath on the front door?
There. Christmas is back in the loft. We can now raise our eyes and look out across the vistas of the coming year. What does it hold for my characters, I wonder? Before long there will be an archiepiscopal vacancy in York. If you are bishop of the historic See of Lindchester, well, who knows what dizzy elevation this year might bring?
Chapter 3
Even the most unchurched of my readers will be aware that we have a new archbishop elect, the Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove. His translation from York is what will create the vacancy I mentioned. He is not that far off retirement age, and the papers have dubbed him a ‘nightwatchman’ archbishop; little more than a safe pair of hands while the rising generation of more stylish bishops gain enough experience to take over the helm. Whether this is fair, I leave for others to decide. My concern in this tale is with bishops, not archbishops.
Let me introduce you to the bishop of Lindchester. At this moment he’s at Lindford station boarding the London train. He’s heading for the House of Lords, where he will do what bishops do; thwarting this, defending that: being a force for good or a bunch of barking bigots, depending on which paper you read. Bishops sit in the Lords for historic constitutional reasons. But do we want unelected clerics in government, a constitutional idiosyncrasy we share solely with Iran? Oh dear, perhaps we ought to clamour for an elected Upper House and sever at last the ties between church and state? Yet to what impoverishment of our national life will that lead? Our towering elms, never truly valued till they are gone, all gone!
Anyway, for now Bishop Paul is going to London. He is situated towards the rear of the train in standard class accommodation. He only travels first class when Penelope, his PA, books him a first class ticket because it is cheaper than standard class – and even then he does so unostentatiously, not in a parade of prelatical entitlement. To the untrained eye he does not even look like a bishop. Where are his gaiters? (Do they still wear them, come to think of it? I have never seen gaiters adorning an episcopal calf – and I always check.) Why is he wearing a black shirt? Because he detests the symbolism of purple, with its connotations of imperial Rome. Insiders will infer the struggle entailed here: Paul is an Evangelical. Black is for Catholics. (Or funerals.) He has solved this to some extent by the type of dog collar he wears. Slip-in (‘tunnel style’) collars tend to be evangelical; full collars (‘neckband style’) are favoured by the catholic wing. I refer you to the website of J. Wippell & Co. Ltd, Clerical Outfitters & Church Furnishings since 1789. What Wippell’s will not tell you, however, is that slip-in collars have one huge advantage: they may be improvised at short notice from strips of postcard or folded copier paper.
So there sits Paul, in the quiet coach. The only thing that betrays his status is the silver chain round his neck. Look closely and you’ll see that it disappears into the breast pocket of his shirt. That’s where his plain silver pectoral cross is stowed. Are you still wondering how to picture him? He is tall, dark, and (racy thought!) if we were to peer at the label in the episcopal trousers we would see that he wears 34 long. This, perhaps, is the only thing that lends credence to Dominic’s mischievous claim – for how many straight men of fifty-eight can boast a flat stomach? We are, of course, not shallow enough to hold a ‘hottest bishop’ contest; but if we did, I think Paul might well win. You might object that the bar is set very low, but I’d retort that in any walk of life Paul would count as quite a nice-looking man – so much so, I sometimes think he looks like an actor playing a bishop. He ought to trim his eyebrows, mind you; their raffish upward quirk suggests they are plotting a career of their own as a roué.
Before long the train will cross the border into the Lichfield diocese, so we must bid him farewell. He is slogging through a tedious report of some kind, poor man. Occasionally his thoughts stray to York, but he calls them to heel. He is not personally ambitious, but like his fellow senior diocesan bishops, he cannot help wondering what the will of the Lord might be. Safe journey, Paul. Mind the gap between your hopes and the treacherous platform of church politics.
Freddie has just returned from dropping the bishop off at the station. He swings far too fast into the palace drive and parks in a shower of gravel. Boom! Look at me parking the bishop’s car. This is aimed at the bishop’s chaplain, the Revd Martin Rogers, who has made the mistake of glancing through the office window. One time, just one time, let him misjudge it and hit the wall, begs the chaplain (hating the sin, hating the sinner even more). He stabs the photocopier buttons.
I’m afraid you will write Martin off as a homophobe; but he is genuinely doing his best. He has already repented of his malediction and is shooting prayers at the implacable ceiling of heaven. Give me grace, Lord! Freddie comes crunching over the drive and presses his face against the window. Martin refuses to look. Freddie’s tongue stud rattles against the glass as he snogs the pane. The sound might be Martin’s prayer arrows clattering back to the floor unanswered.
We, too, are going to ignore Freddie, in the vain hope that he will stop doing it, and head to the palace kitchen. Here we will find the bishop’s wife, Susanna, having coffee with a dear, dear friend, Jane Rossiter.
Jane gazed round while Susanna made the Fair Trade coffee and got out the Cath Kidston china mugs. As usual the Aga-warmed kitchen looked as though it had just been styled for a Palace Beautiful photo shoot. Today a bon
e-coloured cachepot of paperwhites stood on the scrubbed farmhouse table. Sucre, Farine, said the antique French storage jars on the dresser. Everywhere Jane saw polite suggestions of colour that never quite came out with a positive statement: washed-out raspberry gingham curtains, faded pistachio stripes on the linen chair cushions. Susanna put out a plate of homemade cookies, which Jane would eat and she would not.
I had better take a moment to describe the two women. Susanna, at fifty-six, is five years older than Jane, but looks ten years younger. She has the caramel-coloured hair you would expect from a well-groomed woman of her age. She watches her weight, dresses well, and loves her Pilates class. Her large blue eyes brim with empathy. She is very lovely. Jane, on the other hand, is not. Her face in repose says, ‘Yeah, right’. If she makes the effort she still has it in her to be, as Dominic puts it, a good-looking broad. But why bother? Her frizzy dark hair currently sports a badger stripe down the parting. She has rolls round her middle. Pilates, schmilates. Jane played rugby in her youth. She’s wearing black. You don’t have to think about what goes with what if you always wear black. Her black boots need reheeling. Her black jumper is bobbly. Her black leggings are laundered to grey.
Of all this Jane was well aware as she watched Susanna potter prettily in her perfect kitchen. She felt frowzy, misplaced, and bloated with malevolence, like Shelob squeezed into a knicker shop. That morning she had roused herself to add a clutter of chunky silver jewellery, but it hadn’t really helped. So she consoled herself with the thought that she could sit on Susanna and squash her. Squash her till she heard all her tiny bird-like bones crunch.
The coffee was poured. The plate of biscuits was nudged towards Jane, who took one.
Acts and Omissions Page 2