Unseen Things Above

by Catherine Fox

  Such is the opinion of the Most Revd Rupert Anderson. And he is right, surely? Whatever we may believe personally on the issue, he is correct as regards proper process. So far he has only voiced this in private conversation. Bishops – let alone archbishops – are reluctant to stick their necks out here, because they are nervous that wealthy Evangelical congregations (for whom celibacy is not enough, repentance is required) might take their ball home and refuse to pay their parish share. This has an inhibiting effect on episcopal candour – as does a fear (valid or not) of unleashing a wave of persecution upon Christians living under intolerant regimes. Will Rupert Anderson boldly state his opinion in public? We must wait and see.

  I wonder what Paul Henderson would have said on the subject, had he become archbishop instead of Rupert? But no, we must resist the temptation to speculate about the narrative door we never opened into the rose garden. (Except to observe that Susanna Henderson would not have fallen out of her frock at a deanery tea party, thus Gene would not now be googling ‘Diana von Furstenberg wrap dress’ with an eye to the dean’s approaching birthday.)

  Marion is pondering neither gay bishops nor wardrobe malfunctions at this moment. She’s thinking about the Chaplain of Women. ‘Well, I imagine she must be a real asset to the diocese.’ That’s what the archbishop said, a question mark hovering. In a moment of blank panic, and not wanting to look like an idiot, Marion made a noise that implied assent. Rather than saying: ‘What? But I thought she was with you!’

  Marion frowns. Better ask the precentor and see if he can clear this mystery up. Because who the hell was she? Late thirties, dark, tallish, possibly an American accent? Sweeping in with the archbishop’s party, robing up, joining the procession, networking afterwards in a high-powered way. Chaplain of Women! There’s no such thing in the Diocese of Lindchester. Or is there? The archdeacon will know.

  We have reason to believe there are limits to the archdeacon’s omniscience. He still does not know his name was on the CNC’s long longlist. And he will never know, unless someone blabs. Neither he nor Bishop Bob made it on to the whittled-down list agreed by the Lindchester CNC when they met a few days ago. After discussion and prayer, it was felt that Bob and Matt had been nominated out of strong local prejudice: ‘better the devil you know’. The list of ten names fixed on consists of deans (including Guilden ‘Magical Me’ Hargreaves) and assorted area bishops from around the country. The Lindchester CNC will horse-trade with the national CNC members on 11 June and come up with a shortlist.

  So relax, O readers worried about how Jane might fare as a bishop’s wife! You are getting way ahead of yourselves. Why, he and Jane have yet to speak after their big bust-up! They both think that the other would have got in touch by now if there was any future for their relationship. They are both sunk in despair. Honestly, I am tempted to wash my hands of them sometimes.

  It is Friday and it’s all happening at once on Cathedral Close. Tonight is the private view of Souls and Bodies. Those who love the canon chancellor will rejoice with him that the new display boards arrived. There was a tense couple of hours yesterday afternoon when the artist paced the south aisle grinding her teeth and excoriating the poor chancellor with her pale, mad stare. I will shield you from the details, and assure you that the boards did eventually arrive and all is now well. The artist has brooded over which pieces to hang where, so that the exhibition coheres. She is now overseeing the proper fixing of canvases to display boards (screws and mirror plates, for insurance reasons).

  This is also interview day for the post of tenor lay clerk. Three candidates have already been auditioned. It is now 3.28, and the interviewers are waiting in the Song School for the final candidate to present himself for his three o’clock audition. The panel consists of the director of music, Timothy; the canon precentor; Nigel, the senior lay clerk; and the cathedral organist, Laurence. Also present is Iona, the sub-organist. She is here to accompany the audition pieces and facilitate the aural tests, but visibly wishing she were elsewhere.

  We join them as they grow restive, and lapse somewhat from the impeccably professional standards we expect from Lindchester choral foundation.

  Giles checked his phone again. Nothing. Maybe Freddie had got the wrong day.

  Iona played an angry chord. ‘Can I go now, please?’

  ‘Shall we give him till quarter to?’ asked Timothy. ‘I’m feeling a bit unenthusiastic about the three we’ve heard so far.’

  ‘Although, notice how they managed to get themselves here on time,’ muttered Iona.

  ‘I vote for waiting,’ said Laurence. ‘We all know Freddie has “time management issues”, but we also know how gifted he is. I’m told he was called “the boy tuning fork” when he was a chorister.’

  ‘Really?’ said Nigel. ‘I seem to remember we had other names for him.’

  ‘Like freak?’ suggested Iona.

  ‘Well, tart, mainly,’ said Nigel.

  ‘He has a freaky memory,’ said Iona. ‘He’s got entire operas and oratorios down, all the parts, everything. But when you try and have an actual conversation with him—’ she crossed her eyes. ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

  ‘Oh, Mr May is by no means as thick as he’d have us all believe,’ said Giles.

  ‘Right.’ Iona played another grumpy riff. ‘He’s a musical idiot savant.’

  ‘Is that a thing?’ asked Nigel.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s a thing. It’s what he is,’ said Iona.

  ‘Wait!’ Giles cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Do I hear the scamper of tiny feet? Positions, everybody.’

  The door burst open.

  ‘Oh, my God, sorry, sorry. Phone’s dead. Missed my connection? Totally ran. All the way. Up here? Shit. Sweating like—’ He peeled off his suit jacket, tossed it aside.

  The panel recoiled.

  ‘Argh!’ cried Giles. ‘Is that a gunshot wound?’

  ‘Nah! Minute. Get my breath.’ Freddie panted, hands on knees.

  They watched in fascinated horror.

  ‘Sorry, yeah, no, this massive. Nosebleed. On the train? Whoosh. No kidding, everywhere? I mean, look.’ He straightened and plucked at his white interview shirt in despair. ‘Got nothing else appropriate. Sorry. Mind if I—?’ He pulled off his gory tie and dropped it on the jacket. Undid some buttons.

  ‘Are you in a fit state to continue?’ asked Giles.

  ‘Sure. I’m good.’ He took a couple more deep breaths. ‘It just kinda happens? Whoosh. No warning. Since I got my nose bust that time?’ He swigged from his water bottle. ‘Yeah, so anyway, relax, people, at least it’s not the blow, yeah? Ha ha, in case you were thinking! Not done any for like, ages?’ He ran a sleeve over his face. ‘Awesome. Ready when you are.’

  Silence.

  ‘What? Aw, c’mon guys! Properly ages? I mean, like it must be a year?’

  They were staring, open-mouthed.

  ‘Not good?’ Freddie tugged his hair. ‘Unnhh. Probably don’t raise the drugs thing on interview, right?’

  Gavin the deputy verger carefully mows the labyrinth on the cathedral lawn. Round, back again. Week five of the project, and it’s coming along nicely. Foot-high purple grass heads nod. Got the idea from Freddie May, mowing a big heart on the bishop’s lawn last year. Obviously, they had to get rid of that, but it got him thinking. Went on the internet. Him and the canon chancellor mapped the labyrinth out last month, cricket stump and washing line to get the circles accurate, set it all out with tent pegs. Tourists love it. Simple Chartres job, but next year, who knows? Maybe octagonal? Nine-petal vesica, even?

  Leah Rogers storms out and sits on the wall in front of the palace. If you can’t be nice, go outside. FINE. Who even wants to be nice? Leah scrapes the backs of her school shoes against the wall hard, to ruin them. Stupid boring Fridays, waiting after school for Daddy to finish his stupid work.

  ‘God!’

  She waits, tense, in case God heard her shout his name in vain. A stupid bird sings in the big tree. The weirdo’s m
owing the grass.

  Nothing happens. Which just proves there isn’t a God. She opens her copy of Northern Lights. This is the third time she’s read it. Every bone in her body yearns to be Lyra, with a daemon and an alethiometer. Because who’d be all pink-tastic like Jess, with her lame princess Barbie Hello Shitty crap, when you could be Lyra?

  Whoa! Freddie hurtles down the Song School stairs and into the cathedral. Total endorphin rush?

  He throws his bag and jacket down. Then turns two cartwheels and a back flip in the crossing – he actually does that! – lands, flings his arms wide like a gymnast rounding off. Ta dah! He looks high up into the vault and laughs. The pleasure of God. He totally feels it. Like he could dive up, up, right now, and bury himself in joy, in God himself? For one second he nearly launches into that aria again.

  A woman stares.

  He comes to with a jolt. Sees how it looks. Yeah – they’ll think he’s on something. Plus the shirt? It’s gone kind of stiff. And he smells rank: blood, sweat. Gah! He grabs his stuff and heads down the aisle before he gets himself thrown out.

  Exhibition going up. He sees the big canvases as he passes. Splashes of colour, white, grey. Abstract, except almost you can see stuff – archways? and pillars? Wait. No way! They’re by the same artist, the one whose painting he used to stare at in the chapel in YOI! Oh man, it totally has to be the same guy. I am so going to find him and say thank you. But the shirt situation? Yeah. Clean up and change first. Maybe Penelope will let him in to use the office cloakroom?

  He leaves through the west door and he’s out in the sunshine. The rush wears off, he’s coming down now. Ah, cock. They are so not gonna offer him the job. Arriving late, covered in blood? Then the PhD level self-sabotage? He smacks his forehead. No-o-oo, why does he have to do that? Why’s he always, loaded gun – foot – wahey!

  Only— It felt like when you screw up your driving test and you’re all, that’s it, I’ve failed, and then you relax and actually, you drive better? That’s totally what it was like. He saw their faces and knew: OK, game over. Nothing to lose.

  May as well crash and burn in style, no?

  The artist closes her eyes. She waits motionless in the crossing until she’s sure the image is burnt on to her memory. That glimpse of quivering communion. Coiled tension in his every muscle. He is edged with light. She thinks: prey, waiting for his god to seize him. Ganymede. Then she pulls out a pad. Her pen scratches in the silence. But no. She gives up in disgust. It’s gone, the ecstatic martyred moment.

  Leah heard the footsteps and looked up from her book.

  Him!

  Her heart bumped like she was about to start a race. He’s not supposed to be here! There was blood all down his front. He stopped right in front of her.

  ‘Go away!’

  He stared. Mad scary eyes. Then slowly, slowly, he raised his hand and aimed two fingers like a gun.

  She started to shake. ‘I’m telling my dad!’ But the gun came down level with her forehead. ‘I mean it. He’s watching. He’s just in there.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Freddie tilted his head. ‘Nah. I forgive you.’ Then he grinned, dropped his arm.

  ‘You psycho! I’m still telling.’ Her voice came out squeaky. ‘You’re gross, you’ve got all blood on you.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ He turned and walked off.

  ‘I hope someone punched you. I hope it hurt!’ she called after him.

  He stopped, turned round again and came back. ‘Really?’ His eyes had gone scary again. ‘That’s really what you hope? Well, guess what? Last year two guys started on me. Broke my nose. I still get nosebleeds. Know why they did it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Coz I’m gay.’

  She blushed. ‘Well, you should fight back, shouldn’t you? I would. I do karate. I’m a yellow belt. With two stripes. You should take up karate.’

  That made him smile. ‘Did a bit of that, back in the day. Show me Pinan nidan?’

  She hesitated. ‘What, like . . . now?’

  ‘Yeah! C’mon.’ He dropped his bag. ‘Let’s do it!’

  She jumped off the wall, and they did that whole kata together on the palace drive. She remembered every move. Well, sometimes she had to sneak a look and copy him: blocks, strikes, turns. She tried to do her kiai in all the right places.

  ‘Hey! Nice one.’ He bowed, stuck out a hand. She shook it. ‘You rock, girlfriend.’

  ‘Huh.’ Her face went bright red, so she picked her book up and pretended to look at that. ‘What belt are you?’

  ‘So I got my second dan?’

  ‘You’re a black belt? Why didn’t you hit them back, then? I would if I was a black belt. I’d totally make them sorry for starting on me. You should teach them a lesson.’

  ‘Ya think?’ He picked up his bag. ‘Well, catch you later.’

  ‘You should make people be sorry!’ She could feel herself crying with rage. ‘You can’t let them just get away with it. They’ve got to learn!’ She watched him walk off towards the office door. He was about to go in. ‘Sorry!’ she yelled at his back. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’

  He turned and smiled. ‘Hey. All forgotten, babe.’

  Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night . . .

  Timothy raises his hand discreetly as Giles intones the third collect. Three fingers, final amen, in case the lay clerks haven’t been concentrating. Men’s voices only tonight. Plainsong, Victoria. There’s a new face on the back row of dec. Well, an old face. Freddie May, on a try-out. This is his chance to prove he’s a team player as well as a total flaming divo. (That aria – good grief!)

  Giles announces the anthem: ‘“If ye love me, keep my commandments”. Music by Thomas Tallis.’ He sits.

  In the moment of silence before the first chord, the robin flits down the length of the quire and lands on the altar screen. Giles sees Freddie’s gaze following it, his face alight with joy. Concentrate, you little tyke! Don’t make me come over there!

  Oh, Lord. Are we mad to take him on? If ye love me . . .

  Giles waits – please, no showboating – focused on the tenor line. And I will pray the father . . .

  Ah, he’s blending in perfectly, thank God.

  No, we’d be mad to let him get away. Three months’ probation period. Mentor. What could possibly go wrong? Provided the dozy sod doesn’t get himself arrested, or fall into a threshing machine.

  Leah is crying in bed. Because she’s a bad person. Someone should punch her and break her nose. She can’t stop crying.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling? Can you tell me what’s wrong?’

  She stays hidden under the duvet. Daddy sits on the bed. She kicks him, but he doesn’t go away.

  ‘Is it something to do with Freddie?’

  Leah tries to shout, Go away! But it comes out all strangled.

  ‘Look, you’ll feel better if you tell me about it. Is there something you need to own up about, sweetheart? You can tell me.’

  She flings back the duvet and shouts, ‘I said sorry! And he – he—’ The words were jammed in a clump of hiccups.

  ‘I know, Leah.’ He reached out and hugged her. ‘Freddie told me it’s all forgiven and forgotten. It’s all OK now.’

  ‘I said sorry!’

  ‘I know.’ He hugged her tighter. ‘It’s sometimes a very hard thing to do. Well done, Leah. Well done.’

  Chapter 8

  It’s all kicking off in Lindchester Cathedral. There was a whole string of complaints about the nudes in the Souls and Bodies exhibition. By ‘whole string’, I mean two. But one of them was in the form of an email to the local paper, and I’m afraid somebody there was unable to resist a naughty item on the website about ‘Bare Faced Cheek in the Cathedral’. The church press and one of the national papers got hold of the story and little storm in church tea urn was brewed up. The dean defended the exhibition. ‘This is a major new exhibition by an artist of national st
anding. We are privileged to host it.’ The Archbishop of York, who attended the private view, granted his imprimatur: ‘Nonsense. This is serious art.’

  The clergy of Lindchester Cathedral addressed this in their customary thoughtful way at canons’ breakfast while they waited for the dean to arrive.

  ‘Mr Chancellor, people should be able to attend a place of worship without having male genitalia shoved down their throat!’ boomed the treasurer.

  ‘Won’t somebody PLEASE think of the children?’ warbled the precentor.

  ‘Obviously, we love our graphic life-sized models of somebody being brutally tortured to death, but we cannot allow small children to see naked men!’

  ‘You’d think it was Gilbert and bloody George!’ The chancellor had not yet been coaxed into finding the whole thing hilarious. ‘I can’t believe we’re even discussing this!’

  ‘But here we all are!’ said the treasurer brightly.

  ‘The dean’s asked me to put up a warning notice at the entrance,’ said the chancellor. ‘But I’m not prepared to insult the artist by even considering anything further.’

  ‘“Warning: this Major Exhibition of Serious Art contains willies”,’ said the treasurer.

  ‘You said willies!’ giggled the precentor. They nudged each other and snorted like schoolboys.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, you two!’ But the chancellor was weakening.

  Seeing a smile lurking, the precentor burst into a rousing rendition of the Monty Python penis song and the treasurer joined him. The chancellor had never heard this before and in a moment he was weeping with helpless laughter. Mainly because his colleagues hadn’t noticed the dean enter the room and stand behind them, arms folded.

  The song finished. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  ‘It’s the House of Bishops’ school song,’ explained Giles. ‘We were teaching it to the chancellor.’