Acts and Omissions

by Catherine Fox

  Lulu is buried in the back garden. Well done, good and faithful servant. Come the spring Wendy will plant a laburnum over her. Silly word association: Labrador, laburnum. But she’ll enjoy the cheerful blossom each year, the sweet scent on the breeze. A sunshine tree. That’s what Laura called them. What was the Song of the Laburnum Fairy? Something something yellow flowers, hanging thick in happy showers? And then in the summer, maybe, maybe it will be right to start thinking about another dog? A rescue dog this time. Yes. Or a retired greyhound. She turns to call, ‘Here, girl!’

  Ah, it takes time. Father Wendy knows to be kind to herself. And to others. Being kind to others helps a bit. She starts plodding again in her floral wellies, praying for friends, family, parishioners, Virginia her curate, refugees, the debt-ridden, those close to death, women in labour, the homeless.

  A kingfisher darts past – oh! And the dark December world flushes with joy.

  The big Christmas tree is up, lit and duly blessed in front of the cathedral. Fairy lights twinkle in round and square and arched windows all about the Close. If you wander past the deanery this evening, you will hear the racket of sixteen overexcited choristers as they play team games (can versus dec) involving balloons. They are not as hyper as last year, much to matron’s relief. June – unlike her predecessor, Miss Blatherwick – is not a member of the Freddie May fan club. Thank God he’s not here instigating belching contests and luge races down the deanery stairs in bin-liners, or teaching them dirty limericks – to cite three specimen charges. So far, the naughtiest thing anyone has done is arrange his chipolata sausage and cherry tomatoes in a rude and amusing way on his plate.

  Before long they will gather in the drawing room and sit on the carpet by the Christmas tree while the dean reads them a Christmas story. Welcome back to the 1950s, ladies and gentlemen. This is the cue for Gene to excuse himself and slip off upstairs to change, scooping up (oops!) the forgotten Advent calendar as he goes. Hope none of the little cherubs saw that, or he’ll have dykey Dora from diocesan house safeguarding the bejasus out of him. Timely reminder – be careful to wear the right Santa outfit, not the slinky one with the saucy cut-outs. Ho ho ho! Me-rry Christmas, little boys! Look what Santa’s got for you!

  ‘Mrs Dean, Mrs Dean,’ pipes Ollie Bowerman, ‘every year Mr Dean has to go to the toilet and he misses Santa!’

  The older boys snort with hilarity.

  ‘I know, Ollie, it’s a real shame. But we can tell him all about it afterwards,’ says Marion. ‘Now then, settle down boys. Thomas, will you stop being silly, please.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Dean. But Harry Bianchi just snotted everywhere.’

  ‘Eurgh! Gross! Eurgh! Gross!’ squeal the choristers antiphonally.

  ‘I dare say. No! Use a tissue, Harry! Oh, thank you, June. Sssh! Simmer down, boys. One cold winter night, many years ago . . .’

  We will leave poor Marion trapped in a Joyce Grenfell sketch and tiptoe across the Close to the palace, where Susanna is sitting in despair on the grand staircase. The stuff. She just wants to get rid of it all. But she can’t. What will Paul say? And the girls – these things are their childhood!

  Paul is in his study trying to write his farewell sermon. He turns his thoughts towards South Africa. That beloved country looms like a place of exile. Almost as though the Church had decreed him not worthy to be archbishop of York, and packed him off to minister to the natives instead, where it wouldn’t matter. The implied racism—

  Stop, stop this! He knows it’s not like this; he is responding to a genuine call. But Paul is trapped in the diver’s helmet of his own consciousness. He just cannot get out of his head.

  Then a memory breaks the surface: that time he got hopelessly lost trying to find a church in a black township. Night coming. White man, hired car. No map. Driving, desperately driving. Finding himself going down a dead end. Men appear and block his escape. They gather round and bang on the car roof – his heart hammers even now as he remembers! – then faces at the window, beaming at him. ‘Welcome, bishop! Welcome, brother! Come, we are waiting for you.’ And they lead him into the church where they are singing and rejoicing.

  This son of mine was lost and is found.

  Paul has his sermon.

  The two little Rogers girls are writing letters to Santa. Jessie writes hers in sparkly gel pen and decorates it with stickers.

  ‘I’m putting Barbie Mariposa and the Fairy Princess castle playset, a Hello Kitty duvet set, and a Hello Kitty onesie.’

  ‘That’s so lame. I want an iPad, and a karate suit. You’ve spelt Mariposa wrong. What’s that last thing? Get your arm off it, I want to see.’

  ‘It’s a secret! No! Mu-u-um!’

  ‘Girls, be nice!’ calls Becky from the kitchen.

  ‘Huh!’ Leah flings the letter back. ‘Anyway, I was going to put that. I thought of it first.’

  ‘Did not! Mu-u-um, she’s copying me!’

  ‘Girls!’

  Well, ha ha! It won’t happen, because there’s no such thing as Santa, you big baby. Leah only thinks this, because you mustn’t be mean when it’s nearly Christmas. She shields her letter with a crooked arm and adds another wish. It’s not copying. Because she thought of it first.

  Please can we have Christmas with Mummy and Daddy and be a family again.

  Paul finds Susanna on the stairs. He sits beside her.

  ‘Is it all getting on top of you, darling?’

  She smiles bravely. ‘A bit.’

  Let’s get rid of it all, he wants to say. But he can’t. It would belittle a lifetime of homemaking.

  ‘Oh, Paul! I know it’s silly, but let’s get rid of it all. We don’t need it. Let’s just . . . just sell it and, I don’t know, give the money away!’

  The bishop’s heart soars. Extraordinary! It takes to the sky like a Chinese lantern, up, and away. He feels it go. For the first time in months he laughs. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes!’

  Chapter 50

  It’s half past midnight. Jane’s phone rings. Mickey. Danny’s dead.

  ‘Danny’s fine! Danny’s fine! Danny’s fine! Hey, babe. How are you?’

  ‘I’m having a fucking heart attack, you moron! I was asleep! It’s half past fucking midnight!’

  ‘Hey, no fair! I said he’s fine! First thing I said, like you told me to, eh. Danny’s fine.’

  ‘Hi, Mum, I’m fine,’ calls Danny in the background.

  ‘Sorry, thought you’d be up. Happy Christmas, Janey. Peace and good will?’

  ‘Yes, all right, happy Christmas, you nob. What do you want? Don’t ever do this to me again. This had better be important.’

  ‘We-e-ll, kinda. Me and Sal are making honest people of each other while you’re over here, and Danny says you’ll kill me if I don’t warn you. I know, let’s blame Danny, eh. It’s Danny’s fault.’

  ‘Whoa whoa whoa – you’re getting married?’

  ‘Nah, nah, just a civil union. No suits, no hats, very low key. Just a quickie ceremony followed by a barbie.’

  ‘Well, God, listen, this is great, Mickey. Congratulations! I’m disappointed you won’t be in a white tux, though.’

  ‘With a white sombrero?’

  ‘Exactly. And white cowboy boots.’

  ‘Sweet. I’ll run that by the committee, but my guess is it’ll be a no.’

  They banter for a bit longer and rang off.

  Civil union? Wait. Could foreign nationals—? Stop that, you silly mare. Matt’s found someone else, remember.

  Jane turns the light out. Slowly her heart rate returns to normal. The wind whines in the telegraph wires. Rain batters her window. Danny is fine. Mickey and Sal are getting hitched, but Jane already has a killer ‘I will survive!’ red dress she can wear. It’s all fine. Fine, fine, fine. These are tears of joy.

  All across the diocese of Lindchester the hedgerows are decked for Christmas. Old man’s beard drapes its silvery swathes over red-studded hawthorn. Here and there you’ll see apple trees, their leafless boughs d
ecked with gold baubles. The holly and the ivy (both full-grown), trim gardens and graveyards. Snowberries, pink spindleberries, yellow and orange pyracanthas, red dogwood shoots light up the municipal embankments. And look – there on the River Linden – seven swans a-swimming! The shopping mall hath not anything to show more fair.

  In Lindford and Lindchester, in Cardingforth and Renfold, in Martonbury and Barcup, the lights are up, the trees are decorated. The good folk of Lindfordshire make their house fair as they are able. Schools and colleges squeeze out their last week of term, wrung from the dregs of teacher-energy. At Poundstretcher University the staff lecture to half-empty theatres, counting down the days till they can compose their out-of-office auto replies. Students slump across desks, crushed beneath the twin tyrannies of deadlines and partying. What a long term this one has seemed. There are mince pies at the final history department meeting of the year. Staff are urged to wear Christmas jumpers. Dr Elspeth Quilter wears one that plays a little festive medley when pressed. The reindeer’s eyes light up red as if demon-possessed. I dare say it is fortunate that Dr Rossiter gets another of her migraines and has to send apologies.

  This is the week of the Amazon box. Small, large, flat, square, they flock to Lindfordshire. You could build a cardboard city with the Amazon boxes of the diocese. Off to the lofts and secret cupboards with them, before small children come a-poking. Women of a certain age, I admonish you to make a list of what you’ve bought, and where you have hidden it all, and thus avoid a last-minute panic dash to the roiling hell of the high street to find something for someone it turns out you’ve already bought for. (Ah, how motherhood and menopause lay waste to the memory!) And be careful with that one-click buying, or you will end up with two of everything.

  Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat! Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat! Or, in these modern times of ours, make a donation to your local food bank. Here in the blue-swathed Tory heartland of Lindfordshire we rather reject the notion that benefit cuts are in any way linked to the rise in food bank use. It is simply a coincidence, a blip, like climate change. Nonetheless, the good folk of the region are moved to donate tins and packets on their way out of the supermarket, where once they donated cat food. Because they can’t bear the thought of other people being cold and hungry and miserable over Christmas. It’s not on, is it? Not at Christmas.

  If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do. If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you. Can there really be people without a ha’penny nowadays? People with literally no money, not just no money in the current account? No! Seriously? MPs snigger in the food bank debate.

  Father Dominic works a shift at the food bank in his new parish. He pops in and encourages the debt advisors. He organizes hampers for asylum-seekers, and notes that the poorest of his parishioners on the Abernathy estate have come up with toys and sweets to add to the collection. Virginia, Father Wendy’s curate, supports her parishioners when they have appointments at the benefits office. She’s like the importunate widow of the parable. Except the staff there are not really like the unjust judge. They are doing their best. Even so, there will be parents not eating this week, so that they can buy a present for the children. There will be cold houses, where they can’t afford both heating and a frozen turkey crown. There are even people who’d be glad of our Amazon boxes, glad of our ha’pennies. In John O’Groat’s invisible house, in a parallel universe sealed off from our own, right next door.

  Help! Christmas is next week! What have you forgotten? Goose fat, present for the postman, pudding wine? Chocolate coins for the children’s stockings? Sprouts still on a stick in the currently fashionable manner (yeah, that’ll be less work on Christmas morning). Extra tin of Quality Street for the person who springs an unexpected present on you? Where did you put the roll of turkey foil last December? Have you missed the last posting date for second class? (What would happen if you sent no cards this year? No! No! Don’t even think that.) Who the hell are Derek and Christine? Derek and Christine? Oh, wait, was this meant for next door? What are Phil and Vicky Hollings’s sons called, darling? Oh never mind. Phil and Vicky and the boys.

  In the cathedral chancellor’s house Mr Happy snarls his way through his Christmas card list.

  ‘Honestly, Mark, why don’t you use the new address list I’ve done?’ asks his wife. ‘I can print the address labels for you.’

  ‘I prefer my old address book. It has more dead people in it.’

  And while we are on the Close, dear reader, let us tiptoe to the palace and see how they are faring. The tasteful wreath (made of real twigs and berries and cinnamon sticks) adorns the big front door like a posh Christmas card, as ever it did. Perhaps all is well within?

  Perhaps. Susanna, that world champion of the Perfect Christmas, is doing things differently this year. They are having their big family meal early – tomorrow, in fact. All the girls are coming with husbands and children. The palace will be full of Hendersons one last time. A big festive lunch, and then Bishop Paul’s farewell service in the evening. It will be their girls’ chance to choose the pieces of furniture they would like, the vases and jugs and clocks and much-loved books and pictures of their childhood, before the firm of auctioneers comes on Thursday to take everything else away.

  Susanna bakes. She sears. She grates. She stuffs and bastes and chops. The pudding rattles and chuckles on the Aga. A CD of carols plays. ‘A great and mighty wonder, a full and holy cure.’ Is she happy at last? Now she is losing everything, will she find her soul?

  Oh, how different it will be next year! A South African Christmas. She cannot imagine how it will be. And how different from last year. Ah, last year all . . . this still lay ahead of them. Freddie May. Freddie May. Of all the young offenders we might have taken in, it had to be you.

  Then, in a sudden burst of clarity, she sees that this was her own doing. She had not tried to rescue one of the dull ones, the spotty, pasty, talentless ones with awful accents, had she? No. She’d picked the beautiful Mr May. A boy from the right kind of background. A perfect boy for the perfect palace. Isn’t that true? Oh dear, oh dear! Perhaps it is true. And yet, and yet. Hadn’t she genuinely wanted to be kind? Is this what comes of wanting to be kind? Part of her still wants to be kind to Freddie, in spite of everything. To hug him and forgive him and say goodbye properly. To leave this place not harbouring resentment. To let that all go, along with everything else.

  The antique French storage jars look down from the dresser. Goodbye, Farine, goodbye, Sucre! Well, she has enjoyed them long enough. Someone else can have pleasure from them now. She can’t take them with her, can she?

  No, we can’t take any of it with us. When we finally rest from our labours, only our deeds will follow us. Maybe those acts of kindness – grubby with compromise, ambiguous, flawed though they generally are – maybe they will be the things that make it through the fire to the other side? Like wonky Christmas gifts made by primary school children, they will be treasured up long after we have forgotten we ever made them.

  Paul is in his office polishing his sermon when he overhears the news through the half-open door: Penelope telling Martin how lovely it is that Freddie May is coming back from Barchester to sing at Paul’s farewell.

  The blood rushes to his face. Coming back! He masters his breathing. Calm down, this is what he’s been praying for – the chance to act honourably, say goodbye properly. It’s a relief, isn’t it? It would appear that Freddie has forgiven him.

  Ha, probably Freddie thinks there’s nothing to forgive. No biggie. Lighten up, dude. I was nothing to him, thinks Paul. Just another nice guy.

  Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:

  In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

  Well, he’s awake now. Yes. Yes, this is . . . doable. He tests the strength of his resolve, like St Peter stepping out of the boat. Will he sink? The wind, the waves! He can’t do this. Don’t look at the storm; look to the Lord who calls you, whispers a voi
ce. He steadies his soul once more. Look to the Lord, look to the Lord.

  And even if, like Peter, he wavers and sinks, the hand will be there to haul him up again. You of little faith, why did you doubt?

  In the office next door Martin sits in despair. So, the Lord has lost patience with his feebleness. Martin won’t go to Freddie? Very well, Freddie will be brought to him. A last opportunity. He must and will apologize. Even if Freddie slaps him down. It will probably be horrible, but, like a plateful of sprouts before pudding is allowed, he will get through it somehow. Then maybe he can enjoy Christmas.

  It’s getting dark now. Outside the bishop’s window a robin bursts into song. Sweet and yearning. The last cadence fades away, tinged with sorrow like a Chopin nocturne.

  It is Tuesday evening. Over in Martonbury the bishop of Barcup puts his crosier in the boot, along with his vestments. Then he gets in the car and waits for his wife, who is doing her customary five last-minute things that he has long since ceased to reproach her with. No matter how much warning he gives, she will always be doing five things at the last minute.

  Back in the pantry Janet is injecting her Christmas cake with another shot of brandy from a syringe. She makes a note on a chart of how many mls she’s given it today, because she’s a midwife. Then she dashes into the sitting room to turn off the fairy lights so the house doesn’t burn down. (They might get away quicker if he lent a hand instead of just sitting in the car, but she’s long since given up expecting him to grasp this fact.) Finally she kicks off her slippers in the hall and puts on a pair of court shoes because she’s in bishop’s wife mode tonight. Coat, keys, handbag, phone – phone? phone? – oh, it’s in her handbag. She sets the burglar alarm, locks the door, goes back and checks she’s locked the door, then hurries to where her husband is waiting patiently for her on the drive.