Catkins! And the first clump of primroses in the hedge, nearly out. Soon there will be baby lambs in the fields. It will be all right, Jane. Your boy is fine. You have done your best.
I expect you’ve worked out that the poor mummy doing her best is Becky Rogers, wife of Martin, the bishop’s chaplain. The two girls spent half term with their dad, who took them to stay with Granny and Grandpa by the seaside. They’ve been having all kinds of treats. Of course they prefer Daddy! Mummy has turned into a wicked shouting witch.
The little girls are six and eight. They know it’s their fault for being naughty. That’s why Mummy and Daddy have split up. So they try harder. They try to be so bad that they are really, really shouted at. Then they can sob and sob and say sorry and then they’ll be forgiven and cuddled, and at last everything will be all right again. That’s why they say and do the worst things they can think of. The little one wets her bed and cuts Barbie’s hair off. The older one says, ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.’
Becky is at her wits’ end. She must learn not to think about him, must close the door on the thought of him, over and over. Because he’s not coming to her; he’s staying with his wife. He has chosen the better part, like Mary. He has chosen to sit at the Lord’s feet and listen to him. To be faithful. And here’s Becky, like Martha, at her wits’ end with nobody to help her. She should go back to her husband. For her daughters’ sake. But that Dickinsonian lightning bolt has reconfigured her brain and she can’t bear Martin. She’s allergic to him. To his presence in the room, and his bitten nails. To his rearranging of her recycling. She hates his voice, his skin, his letter knife, his shoes, his logic, the trousers that cling to him, the hair on the back of his fingers, his Swiss Army knife, his Swiss Railway watch, his being the wronged one. If she had to share a bed with him again she’d probably go into anaphylactic shock.
Father Wendy calls and Becky tells her some of this. ‘I know I shouldn’t feel these things,’ she weeps.
‘Why shouldn’t you?’ asks Wendy.
This Sunday is the Third Sunday in Lent. How is everyone doing? Some of those who have given up alcohol have discovered that they took up grumpiness at the same time. Father Dominic is one of these. It is Saturday night and he’s just looked in his diary at the week ahead and shouted, ‘Oh, God!’ and kicked his filing cabinet.
He’d completely forgotten that this Thursday he is due at the palace for an informal fork supper with the Hendersons. What possessed him to accept? He knows it will be dire. Nobody likes these get-togethers. Probably not even Susanna Henderson, with her signature chicken and broccoli bake. Paul should just divvy up his entertainment budget and send his clergy an M&S voucher each. And because it’s Lent, Dominic can’t even anaesthetize himself with alcohol. This is all the Hendersons’ wine has to commend it: its concussive properties. Marginally nicer than a blow to the head with a pulpit Bible. Informal fork supper! God! He gives the cabinet another kick. Who else was going to be there? Clergy and spouses. Clergy spice (how droll!). Maybe he should swing by Lindford Common on the way there and pick up the most disgraceful little tramp he could find. Bishop, I’d like you to meet my friend. My spice.
You will notice that in all this ranting, the thought of simply not going hasn’t crossed Dominic’s mind. This is because he is basically a good egg. He’s a turner-upper. If Dominic promises to do something, he does not consider he has the option of not doing it, simply because he doesn’t feel like it. He will go. He will take Susanna a nice bunch of flowers and be the life and soul of the party. By the end of the evening he will have identified the naughtiest clergy wife and they will retire to a corner and be as outrageous as it is possible to be in an Evangelical palace with no wine.
Tonight the Close is busy. You can hear the clopping of court shoes on the cobbles as smartly dressed middle-aged, middle-class white people flock to the cathedral. They are here to attend a performance of Bach’s St Matthew Passion, performed by the Lindchester Cathedral Community Choir. The Community Choir comprises about ninety keen amateurs who can hold a tune and read music. Or at any rate, can follow the contours of the musical landscape with a finger, provided they are standing next to someone confident. The proper placing of individual choir members falls to the conductor, Timothy. If you, Brenda, could stand next to Emma on the third row. And Roger, if you could go and stand in Lindford, or better still, Birmingham.
So far you have only glimpsed Timothy Gladwin (the cathedral director of music) in the distance. I will now introduce him properly. He has not been in post very long, a mere four years. He took over from an illustrious predecessor. The illustrious predecessor was in post for twenty-one years, and still bobs up from time to time like Banquo’s ghost. The Illustrious One is Gregory Laird – I’m sorry, Sir Gregory Laird – who, as you probably know, set up the North-West Three Choirs Festival (Chester, Lindchester and Lichfield). Laird is that much-loved thing in church and Oxbridge circles: a character. He still haunts Lindchester Cathedral Close in his swirling cape and broad-brimmed fedora, booming fruitily through his Pavarotti beard like an RSC ac-torrr; either because he is actually making one of his visits, or more often because the canon treasurer is impersonating him. Laird was an old-style cathedral organist and master of choristers. When the music department was restructured on his retirement and Timothy took over, the choristers scented a weakness and ran him ragged. But Timothy’s in control now, ruling with kindness rather than whimsical tyranny.
There, you see? I’ve done it myself: I’ve talked more about Gregory Laird than poor old Timothy. Briefly, then: Timothy is almost as tall and thin as Giles Littlechild. He is thirty-nine, and has short red hair that curls when it gets damp. It will curl tonight. Conducting is warm work, but he has a white silk handkerchief with musical staves printed on which he will use.
Let’s sneak into the cathedral now and see what’s going on. You’ll see at once that it’s packed. The front row is reserved for the chain gang (the civic bigwigs, Mayor This, Lady Mayoress That), the Lord Lieutenant, the high sheriff, the chapter clergy and spouses – spice! how droll! – and the bishop and his wife. They are seated right in front of the stage block where the row of soloists’ chairs is waiting, empty. They are close enough to be spat on, close enough to see the tonsillectomy scars. Some of the gentlemen have consulted their programme, and are rather looking forward to glimpsing the lissom and glamorous soprano. This is because, in their innocence, they are unaware of the convention that soloists’ publicity photos are always fifteen years out of date.
Here come the orchestra. The cathedral organist, Laurence, is playing continuo on the chamber organ. Tuning-up commences. Mr Happy, the canon chancellor, comes in apologizing. He takes his place on the front row, where he will sit reading a theological journal throughout, hiding it inside his programme. If we glance up we will see the ripieno choir of choristers already stationed high in the triforium. And now the Community Choir file in, dressed in black. Tenors and basses, first sopranos, second sopranos, altos, each to their allotted seat in the raked rows that the vergers have erected. A lot of extra work for the vergers, these concerts. Let’s hope the dean remembers to thank them when she comes to the microphone to welcome the audience, and apologize that the nearest loos are approximately a hundred miles away. Yes, she remembers. Well done, Marion.
When the dean is seated, the principal first violinist enters. Applause. Then the soloists are applauded on to their stage block. The gentlemen check their programme in surprise. Swizz!
There’s Freddie May. He’s been selling programmes. Timothy begged him – begged him! – to sing tonight, because they are woefully short of decent tenors. But Freddie suffers from perfect pitch, and sorry, dude, he’d rather piss on an electric fence than stand within ten feet of Roger. Freddie is lounging against a pillar where he can command a good view of the hot principal first violinist. He looks like Amadeus the cat contemplating goldfinches.
The bishop on the front row commands a good view of Fr
eddie May. He looks like Miss Blatherwick when she spots Amadeus loitering by her birdfeeder.
Another burst of applause propels Timothy up the clanking steps on to his podium. Look, his socks have musical staves on, too! He bows to the audience with a shy smile. Then turns. He gestures the choir to its feet. Light spangles off many a sequinned bosom. Timothy raises his baton. The two buttons on the back of his tailcoat glint.
Silence settles. The silence of eight hundred souls. It has a velvety texture, night-time in a giant roost, tiny shiftings, folding of wings. There will be another silence later tonight, a moment of cosmic desolation. It will come after the Evangelist sings the words, ‘But Jesus, having cried again aloud, yielded up the ghost.’
But for now, the passion lies in the future, and the silence is charged with expectation.
MARCH
Chapter 11
The Supreme Governor of the Church of England is taken into hospital. Does the Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove quake? Is he wondering whether his first major state occasion as archbishop of Canterbury will be the Queen’s funeral? We will not presume to guess. But happily for us all, Her Majesty recovers. Meanwhile, the cardinals gather in Rome to select a new pope. The conclave will take place behind closed doors in the Sistine Chapel, as it has done for centuries. By contrast, the process for choosing a new archbishop of Canterbury is – shall we say – still evolving. It lurches from transparency on the one hand (nominations are welcomed, bishops are invited to toss their mitre into the ring, the names of those on the selection panel are published), to paranoid cloak-and-dagger secrecy on the other (dark-windowed taxis whisking candidates to undisclosed destinations); before finally being announced on Twitter. The C of E: a work in progress. As are we all, as are we all.
This week marks the midpoint of Lent. The Sunday coming is variously called Laetare Sunday, Refreshment Sunday or Rose Sunday. If you are spiky high, you may wear pink vestments to celebrate the Mass. For the more ordinary Anglican, this is the moment when Lenten discipline is relaxed somewhat. A glass of wine with lunch, perhaps. But for the general population next Sunday is simply Mothers’ Day. Or Mother’s Day? Oh dear. Where should that apostrophe go? Purists brush this dilemma testily aside because it’s Mothering Sunday. They would no more say Mother’s Day than they would split an infinitive or drop litter. Such people make up ninety-eight per cent of the population of the UK’s Cathedral Closes.
Lindchester Cathedral’s flower guild is all set. The daffodils have been ordered, and will be made up into hundreds of little bunches for distribution – a welcome burst of industry in the floristry lay-off of Lent. Across the diocese similar posy-making arrangements are in place. In one of Father Wendy’s villages they will be giving out heart-shaped gingerbread cookies as well. The local Fair Trade café has volunteered to bake them. Isn’t that a lovely idea? It will be controversial, though. Some members of the congregation will shake their heads and say, ‘We’ve never done that before, father.’ But if Wendy grits her teeth and weathers the storm for three more years, gingerbread hearts will become traditional, and the same people will say, ‘We’ve always had gingerbread hearts, father.’ Bless them.
Wendy is out walking Lulu on the banks of the Linden. They don’t go far these days, just to the first bench, where they have a little sit down before plodding home. One of these morning walks will be their last. Not quite yet, but soon. Wendy is feeling a bit weepy today. Mothering Sunday is always hard. She has two sons who will remember to send a card and ring for a chat. She has a ten-month-old granddaughter, Poppy, who will come to the phone and gurgle to Granny. But there will always be a Laura-shaped hole. Wendy will never be mother-of-the-bride, never see Doug walk their daughter down the aisle, never hear her daughter’s daughter gurgle on the phone.
Here’s the bench. Lulu lowers herself down with a sigh. Wendy sits and watches the Linden. Oh, how full the churches will be of absent children on Sunday. The ones who have died, the ones who never managed to be born, the far away, the out of touch. And absent mothers, too. The ones now over on the far shore, the ones who failed, who abandoned and ran. Wind hisses in the old bulrushes. Thirteen years since the police arrived on Wendy’s doorstep. Will it never pass? Lulu raises her poor old head and cries.
On the opposite bank a woman jogs slowly by. Wendy knows who she is, knows that her son has gone off to New Zealand. Be with her, dear Lord, comfort her. She watches until Jane is out of sight.
But it’s cold for sitting. ‘Come on, old girl. Up you get.’ Lulu hauls herself to her feet, and they set off back the way they came. ‘Well done. Home we go. Good girl. Not long now. Not long now.’
Mothering Sunday costs the dean a pang, too. Marion has no children of her own. Last year after the Eucharist she looked out over the congregation and thought: your mum died last week; and your mother is wandering in the wastes of dementia; and you, and you, have lost babies; your son is in prison; your daughter is anorexic; you are unhappily single; you are dealing with infertility. And there’s my Gene, whose first wife died, leaving him to mother three little boys as best he could. You should all be given daffodils today.
That’s why this year is going to be different. Everyone will be able to collect a posy when they come up for communion, for whatever private reason they might have.
‘Ooh, you’ll get pissy emails!’ Gene says. ‘“I was saddened and disappointed to learn of the totally unnecessary changes you have seen fit to make to the daffodil distribution.”’
Marion tries to look stern.
‘“I always say, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. Yours, more in sorrow than in anger.”’
‘Well, it is broke,’ replies Marion. ‘And I’m fixing it.’
‘Shall I compose your reply? “I am The Dean, so swivel on it, little people.”’
‘You’re a bad man.’
He smiles. ‘That’s how you like me.’
They have been married for twelve years now, and Marion still needs reminding that Gene doesn’t care if he makes enemies. Genuinely does not care. He makes them by accident, he makes them on purpose. It’s rather exhilarating.
Freddie is washing Miss Blatherwick’s car for her when he remembers.
Gah! Mothers’ Day. Fuck. He’s missed the last posting date. He’ll have to email, and he’s still not replied to her last email inviting him for Easter, offering to buy his ticket. Shit. Two weeks on the ranch? Of course he’d love to go! But his passport needs renewing and he’s left it too late probably. Plus there’s his record: I mean, does it impact on the Argentine visa situation?
His hands are shaking now as he wrings out the chamois.
Yeah, she’d pay the passport fee too, but that would mean admitting he’s got no money. None. He gets paid whenever he deps for one of the tenor lay clerks, he gets board-and-lodging and pocket money from the Hendersons, who think his dad pays something into his account each month, which is kind of not true, he just cleared his credit cards that time. Man, he hates asking Dad for help? He’s twenty-two, he can’t keep leeching off people the whole time. He should get a part-time job, except they’d be all, ‘Any criminal convictions? Ri-i-ight, we’ll get back to you.’
That’s the car done. He stands back, checks himself out in the driver’s window. Hey. Looking hench.
Don’t think it.
But he’s thought it. He’s thought, aw c’mon, it’s like busking, no? Like getting paid for your hobby? Just to tide you over, for the passport? No. No! He is so not getting into all that again. Plus Paul would go mental if he found out. Literally? Freddie’s not forgotten the Lindford Common thing, when he hadn’t even done anything, it’s just the police insisted on following him back to check his story? He hates when Paul’s mad at him.
Freddie, Freddie, Freddie. What are we going to do with you? I’m so glad you have Miss Blatherwick in your life. When you’ve finished polishing her car, she’s going to feed you homemade cake, quash your protests and pay you £20. Then she’s going to get out her Ch
urch Times and sit you down till she’s satisfied that you’ve looked directly at the choral scholar and lay clerk ads she’s circled, and made a sensible decision about whether to apply for anything. You will probably cry and feel horrible, but never mind. Miss Blatherwick loves you. She has a long memory. She remembers how acrimoniously your parents fought over you when they split up, and how neither of them ever bothered to pay you any real attention.
It’s Thursday evening. The palace smells of good things. Susanna was up at the crack of dawn making chicken and broccoli bake for thirty (aubergine for the vegetarians), before setting off for work. Choice of puddings: apple crumble, chocolate truffle torte (Delia’s recipe) and fruit salad. Oh dear, were there any vegans? Coeliac sufferers? People with lactose intolerance, nut allergies? Paul’s PA has enquired of all the guests, but still Susanna frets. The chicken was cooked right through, wasn’t it? Yes, of course it was. She has never yet given her guests salmonella, she’s just being silly. When she gets in from work, will there be enough time to get changed, pop things in the oven, set the chairs out, glasses, forks, napkins? Fret, fret, fret. The anxious hive is a-hum all day long.
She’s back now. Everything’s under control, naturally. She bustles happily. Freddie slinks into the kitchen, purrs his way round her – ooh, she looks stunning, anything he can do to help? – and filches some garlic bread.
‘Oh, that’s very sweet of you. Are you sure?’ (head tilt) ‘Well, maybe you could look after the drinks?’
Paul has just come in, and hears this. Oh dear, is that all right? He’s frowning.
Freddie sucks the grease off his thumb and gives the bishop a big slutty smile. ‘Hey. Promise I won’t get shit-faced.’
Acts and Omissions Page 7