He starts making notes, but then his phone rings. He checks. Jane. Goody-good! This will be the dates for the civil union! And about time, too!
‘How’s tricks, you old tart?’
‘Not so good, Dom.’
‘Oh, no! What’s wrong, darling?’ There was a silence. ‘Janey?’
‘I think Matt’s gone off the idea.’
‘No! Really? Have you tried asking him?’
‘Yes. He says he hasn’t.’
‘Well then.’
‘Well then, it’s probably all in my head. I lost my keys earlier. Do you know where they were? In the fridge. I’m at an interesting age. Do you find me interesting?’
‘Darling, endlessly. Do you need wine and a shoulder to cry on? Is it urgent, or can I quickly finish my sermon?’
‘I’ll help. What’s it on?’
He tells her.
‘The disciples didn’t recognize him because he had no beard,’ she says. ‘Check out the Caravaggio. There will be no beards in heaven. So unless you shave yours off, you’re stuffed.’
‘I could score a cheap point about facial hair here,’ says Dominic. ‘But I’m too mature. Listen, give me an hour, and I’ll be round with a bottle of Chablis. All right? Byesy-bye, darling.’
He hangs up. Oh, Lord. Please let this be OK. Dominic sighs, and gets back to his sermon notes so that poor old Ahmad has something to go on tomorrow.
At another desk in another part of the diocese another clergyman is sighing. It is the archdeacon. He’s a bastard. He should tell her. More than happy to zip off down under for the old civil union. But what about when they get home? He can’t see a way round it. If the Church requires gay clergy in civil partnerships to be celibate, the same applies to him.
MAY
Chapter 3
Marion the dean wakes with a jolt an hour before dawn. There’s some payment she wrongly authorized years ago. Money has been going out of her account ever since. A vast debt has built up. Thousands, millions! For a few terrible moments she nearly remembers what it is. Slowly reason regains its grip: no, nothing’s amiss. It’s just a dream. She waits for the panic to recede. Beside her Gene snores. The cathedral clock chimes. Quarter past four. Well, that’s all hope of sleep gone for the night.
Five minutes later she’s out walking in the deanery garden, wellies on, coat over her pyjamas. On the far side of the Close a lone blackbird whistles in the dark. Bank holiday Monday. It has rained in the night. She can smell the wet lilac, the dirty sweetness of rowan blossom. All is still.
From the deanery rooftop, another blackbird tunes up. For ten minutes he duels with his rival on the opposite side. Like the can and dec sides of the cathedral choir, thinks Marion. The sky is lightening now. A great tit calls, teacher, teacher! Then three quacking ducks fly over in a line, like Beswick wall ornaments. The last bats flitter home just as the first rooks start to caw from the cathedral spire. With each passing moment the sky gets lighter and more birds join the chorus. Robins, wrens, wood pigeons, thrushes.
Marion walks round and round the lawn, leaving dark footprints in the dew. Colour seeps back into the flower beds. Bluebells, red roses, tints in a sepia photo. Then an old gospel song plays in her mind:
I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
Extraordinary! How on earth does she know this? She can even hear a tinkling piano accompaniment. It must have been those holidays with Granny, being taken to the chapel. ‘Women’s Bright Hour’, that’s what it was called! All those ladies in Sunday hats, who she was to call ‘auntie’. It was Auntie Ivy who used to warble the solo. Dreadful saccharine stuff, but sung with total heartfelt seriousness.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
Mary Magdalene, presumably, on that first and best of mornings, coming to the sepulchre while it was still dark. Hearing the beloved voice saying her name. Mary. Marion feels tears rise, as though she’d just heard her own name called. This story never fails to move her. Mary Magdalene, chosen to be the first witness of the resurrection, the first one to see the risen Lord. Commissioned by him, apostle to the apostles. Marion half laughs. And here we are, over two thousand years later, still arguing about whether women can be bishops.
She is there a long time tarrying in the garden, walking, praying. The cathedral, the school, those poor kidnapped schoolgirls in Nigeria, her colleagues, family, Paul and Susanna Henderson in South Africa. The clock chimes five. Her thoughts turn to the new bishop of Lindchester. Well, this won’t be the diocese where the stained-glass ceiling is first broken. The vacancy came up too soon. But what about the pink stained-glass ceiling? thinks Marion. Maybe we can be the first diocese to appoint an openly gay bishop? The Principal of Barchester Theological College’s name has already cropped up several times. Can she ensure Guilden is mandated? Oh, it would be so good not to have another Evangelical bishop! To have someone who speaks the same language. Is she just being selfish? Historically, Lindchester has never been an Evangelical diocese. So Paul was an anomaly, really. She’ll have to sound out the other members of the CNC.
And a lot will depend on the new Archbishop of York, of course. Yet another Evangelical. Marion catches herself and smiles. I’m not prejudiced: some of my best friends are Evangelicals! Oh, dear. Well, she’ll be meeting him later this month, when he comes to lead their service to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of women priests. How conservative will Rupert Anderson turn out to be? Then she remembers: he used to be Bishop of Barchester. So he must know Guilden well. His mind will already be made up. And that will be that.
Stop it! A lot also depends on the Holy Spirit, Marion reminds herself. Your job is not to scheme and manoeuvre. It is to stand aside and try not to get in God’s way too much.
She goes back inside, has breakfast, then comes back out with her second mug of coffee. It’s light now. The clock chimes six. Cars start to arrive on the Close. She hears voices, poles clanking. The May Fayre. Gene has promised to whisk her away, unless it’s all cancelled owing to an outbreak of good taste. She pauses under the cherry tree. On the grass, among the fallen pink blossom, lie half a dozen dead bumble bees. Poor things. Is it that virus? Hasn’t she heard that our bees are all dying? (Another pang of guilt over the masonry bee colony.) But as she stoops in pity over the closest one, she hears a faint buzz. And then, slowly, slowly, as the sun’s rays reach them, they all begin to vibrate. One by one the dead bees come to life and stagger up into the morning air. Not dead but sleeping! There they go – dazed – another, and another. She watches in wonder as they fly away.
A noise rouses her. She turns and looks up. The bedroom window opens. Gene appears on the wrought-iron balcony, stark naked. He raises his hand and bestows a pontifical blessing.
‘You’re up early,’ he calls. ‘Dabbling in the dew?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. Bad dream.’
‘Poor you! Did you wake with a terrible jerk again?’
‘I always do, darling. Unless you’re away or I’m off on the Deans’ Conference.’
He bows. ‘Ba-dum-tish!’
It’s now eight o’clock. Over in Cardingforth a sporty black Mini pulls up outside number 16, Sunningdale Drive. The archdeacon kills the engine, takes a deep breath. He has the breakfast kit: croissants, freshly squeezed orange, posh coffee. He has the bouquet of lilies and roses. He takes another breath. Dons his mental flak jacket. All righty. Let’s get this over with.
‘Flowers!’ said Jane. ‘Because I’m worth it, or because you’re feeling guilty about something?’
‘Mmm. Both.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Jane put the bouquet down on the kitchen counter. Her hands trembled. So she hadn’t been imagining it. ‘Well, let’s have it then. You’ve gone off
me?’
‘No!’
There was a silence. Bonked another woman. New job in London. Terminally ill. ‘Well? What is it?’
‘OK. Look. You’re going to be seriously pissed at me.’
‘Don’t tell me how I’m going to react. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Matt rubbed his hands over his face. Laced his fingers behind his neck. Looked up at the ceiling. Took another deep breath.
‘For God’s sake, get on with it, Matt!’
‘OK. Here’s the thing: current regs say clergy in civil partnerships have to be celibate.’
‘Is that all?’ Jane laughed in relief. ‘That won’t apply to us!’
‘Why won’t it?’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes. Why should there be one set of rules for gay clergy, and—’
‘There already are two sets of rules! Duh. The Church is institutionally homophobic.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Of course it is! Gays are second class – they can’t get married, if they want a top job they have to pretend they’re celibate.’ She gave his shoulder a shake. ‘Come on, don’t be ridiculous! Who cares if we ignore some blitheringly stupid, totally unjust rule?’
‘I care. How can we ask the gay clergy of this diocese to play ball if the chuffing archdeacon won’t?’
‘Jesus! I don’t believe this! I thought we had a solution, Matt.’
‘I know. I’m really sorry.’
‘Just a second.’ Jane narrowed her eyes. The archdeacon took a prudent step back. ‘When did this scruple first occur to you?’
There was a very long silence.
‘From the start? Excellent!’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. To be honest, Jane, back in December I’d’ve said yes to an Elvis wedding in Vegas.’
‘Oh, and now you’ve got your rocks off, you’ve cooled down and remembered sex is verboten? No, get off me!’
‘But I’ve made you cry.’
‘So what? Get off! Listen to the words, not the tears: fuck you and your fucking Evangelical conscience! Fuck the Church of England. Oh, Jesus.’ Jane grabbed the kitchen roll and tore off a strip. ‘Don’t you dare say you love me, Matt.’
‘I love you.’
‘You thought I’d come round, didn’t you? You thought you could wear me down!’
‘I hoped I could, yes.’
‘You total shite! So now what? What happens now? You seriously think I’m signing up for celibacy? What kind of relationship is that?’ She blew her nose. ‘Oh, don’t you start crying too, you big girl’s blouse.’
They stood helpless. Jane blew her nose again. ‘Well. I’ll bung the croissants in the oven.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘I’LL DO IT!’
‘OK.’ He retreated, hands up. ‘Look, I’m not giving up on this, Jane. If I have to, I’ll jack in the job.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’ Jane slammed the oven door. ‘Get off the moral high ground. Ooh, look at me, prepared to give up my job, while you’re not even prepared to re-examine your views on marriage!’
The archdeacon flushed. He had a long fuse, but Jane had lit it now. ‘That is not what I’m saying. But now you mention it, I’ve spent the past six months re-examining my views from every conceivable angle. Would it kill you to do the same?’
‘Oh, so you think I haven’t?’
‘OK, then let’s google it right now, shall we?’ He grabbed his iPad. ‘You talk me through the registry office marriage vows and explain exactly what your problem is. I’ve got them right here.’
‘My “problem”, you twat, my “problem” is that it’s marriage!’
‘No, it’s a legal contract. Here. Look. Will you just chuffing look, Jane!’
‘I am looking! It says “Your MARRIAGE Vows” in big fucking letters.’
‘Here!’ He stabbed at the screen. ‘Declaratory words, contracting words. “Are you free lawfully to marry Matthew John Tyler?” “I am.” “I take you, Matthew John Tyler, to be my wedded husband.” That’s it. No rings. No white frocks. Nobody giving you away. Just two adults entering a legal contract. Sorted. Is that so impossible for you?’
‘Yes! Because it’s still marriage, you moron! And marriage institutionalizes female subordination! Everything about it, all the symbolism—’
He snapped his iPad cover closed. ‘Fuck you and your fucking feminist conscience.’
She stared in shock.
‘I’m off.’
And he went.
I am afraid we too must leave Jane, and wend our way back to Lindchester. We will calm our nerves by taking the scenic route across green and pleasant prebendal lands, the historic rights and appurtenances whereof belong to the cathedral prebends. The village names are carved on the canonical stalls in the quire: Bishop’s Ingregham, Cardingforth, Gayden Parva, Gayden Magna, Carding-le-Willow. Glide with me over fields of rape, and railway woodlands, where silver birches stand like ghost trees in a green gloom, and a haze of bluebells ravishes the eye. We pass a meadow, which last month was a shimmering lake. White geese graze. One beats its wings, then refolds them. Below us now lies the Linden. Grown-up ducklings, their yellow down browned over, tack upriver in groups. A woman walks with a three-legged greyhound. Green regrowth now reaches halfway up last year’s dead rushes. There’s the cathedral on its mount. For a while some tricksy optical illusion makes it seem to grow smaller as we approach.
Off to our right, roads meander between hedges. Trees and lamp posts bear placards. Local elections loom. Every so often a vast UKIP poster assails the motorist round some bend in a country lane, promising to ‘give Britain its voice back’. What, had it been taken away? Not round here. The voice of Little England is generally audible in Lindfordshire without too much straining. ‘I’m not racist, but.’ ‘Run by Brussels.’ ‘Supposed to be a Christian country!’ Cathedral clergy hear it at annual dinners. And when they do, they have to choose between schmoozing that wealthy patron and living with themselves afterwards.
Are we still a Christian country? Maybe our sword has slept in our hand! The church year no longer governs the national calendar, that’s for sure. In 1971 parliament cut the ‘late May bank holiday’ loose from its Whitsuntide moorings and fixed it in the last week of the month. But Easter is still a movable feast. It was late this year, which is why this bank holiday follows so hard on its heels. Historic Christian outcrops remain, like stubborn features in the landscape that the new motorway must go round.
May Day bank holiday never was Christian, though. It smacks faintly of communism and was only foisted on us in 1978. We have yet to settle into it properly. Can’t we switch it to St George’s Day – yes! How come we don’t commemorate the day of our national patron saint (whenever that is)? The campaign comes and goes, and in the meantime we must make the best of it. Here in Lindchester the city council has gone down the Merrie England path. Perhaps we can cement it into our tradition if we trowel on enough mirth of a maypole and madrigal type? And where better to attempt this than under the shadow of a medieval cathedral?
We will do a quick fly-past. Red, white and blue bunting is strung from tree to tree. I believe it was left over from the Jubilee. As Dean Marion is whisked away from all this foolishness by her shuddering husband, little stalls go up. Soap stalls, local honey stalls, pottery stalls. A splat-the-rat stall (run by the choristers). A splat-the-chorister stall (run in the precentor’s imagination). Morris dancers arrive with fiddles and accordions, ready to clack a stick and jingle a leg. A hog roast lorry toils up the steep cobbled road. The falconer unloads hawks and owls. A maypole stands proud, right smack in the middle of the cathedral lawn. Coloured ribbons trail in the grass.
A maypole? Oliver Cromwell would turn headless in his grave! But we are all staunch Royalists here in Lindchester. The Royalists were the good guys: they didn’t try to close the theatres and ban Christmas. Down with the tyrannical Parliamentarians, imposing their Puritan political-correctness-gone-mad! Huzzah
for King Charles I, gentle martyr, who never imposed anything on anyone, apart from illegal taxation, ship money, the divine right of kings and eleven years of personal rule without calling a parliament! Give Britain its voice back! And another thing, the Cavaliers had nicer hats.
The flag ripples and snaps on the cathedral flagpole, and carried on the wind – like rumours from outlying villages – comes the smell of rape fields. The sky is blue. Will it stay blue? Let it stay blue! People consult their weather apps to see if it’s worth packing the kids into the car and heading to Lindchester. And if they don’t like the forecast, they consult another app, and another, until they find one that promises fair weather this May Day bank holiday.
Jane no longer cares about the weather. They were going to plant roses today. Book the flights. Go for a walk in the bluebell woods at Gayden Parva. But let it rain. She sits in her kitchen weeping and eating too many croissants. The archdeacon drives to the Peak District so he can climb a very high hill. He will climb it, stand there and look out at the view. Get a bit of perspective. Sort his head out. And try not to cry like a big girl’s blouse.
It’s now ten o’clock. Back in the city of Lindchester, another couple is quarrelling this May morning. Shall we listen in?
‘Well, my darling, I think it’s safe to say this car park is full. But by all means carry on with your man thing, and drive round three more times looking for a space.’
‘Look! They’re leaving.’
‘No, they’re just putting something in the boot. I hesitate to mention this for the fifth time, but that multi-storey we passed . . . ?’
‘And for the fifth time I reply, it’s a bit of a hike up to the cathedral from there, Mother.’
‘I am not as frail as you think, my young whippersnapper. By the way, isn’t this the place where there was all that nonsense about the bishop? Didn’t he leave under something of a cloud?’
‘He left, certainly.’
There is a silence. ‘Darling, we’re not having a little snoop around with a view, as it were?’
‘Of course not! I am taking my dearly beloved mother to visit the historic cathedral city of Lindchester. Because she adores that kind of thing!’
Unseen Things Above Page 3