The last car passes, and he trundles through the gatehouse on to the Close. He’s not looking forward to this senior staff meeting, to be honest. He fears the upshot will involve him having to take a course of action that will satisfy nobody, least of all his own conscience.
What is the issue that exercises our poor friend Bob so sorely? We will speed ahead a few days to find out. It will involve another visit to the vicarage at Gayden Magna, to call on Lindchester’s tumultuous priest. He is not willingly tumultuous. I am sure my readers know by now that Father Ed would kneel quietly throughout compline on drawing pins sooner than instigate a tumult.
It is late evening when we call. Neil has just returned from London, surfing on a successful business wave (he has just schmoozed a new and very wealthy client). It is a while before poor Ed can get a word in.
‘. . . I kid you not. I was on fire!’
‘Well done,’ says Ed yet again. ‘Um, but listen, I’m afraid I’ve had a phone call, Neil. I’ve got to discuss “the status of our relationship”.’
‘Are there any Gordal olives left? Discuss? What’s to discuss? Tell them to feck off and mind their own business. Oh, here they are. Want some?’
‘Thanks.’ He takes one. ‘But anyway, I’ve got to sort out an appointment.’
‘Oh yeah, these are the business!’ Neil eats olives with an urgent Capital City edginess. Can’t keep still. Edgy-edgy. ‘Just refuse. Make the buggers come to you. Seriously, I won’t have you summoned to the head’s office like a naughty wee schoolboy. I mean it. We’ll take the fight to them. I’ve got journalist friends. Let’s get our story out there.’
Great. Ed takes Neil by the shoulders and checks his pupils. Yes, those London edges have been pharmaceutically bevelled.
‘Oh, stop that.’ Neil bats him away and heads over to the big American refrigerator. ‘It’s just nicotine gum.’
‘Of course it is, Neil.’
Neil takes his U’Luvka vodka out of the freezer, oily cold, the way he likes it. ‘So who called you? The arch-demon?’
‘No, it was Bishop Bob’s PA.’
‘Och, Bob’s a pussy cat.’ He gestures with the snakey bottle. ‘Join me?’ Ed shakes his head. ‘Seriously, is this because of the party? How the fuck did they hear about it, anyway? It was a private party!’
‘The whole world heard about it. You swore it would be a quiet affair.’
A pause. ‘Yes, well, and why aren’t the vodka glasses in the fridge where they belong?’
Ed points to the vodka glasses in the fridge.
‘There they are! I’ll let you off.’ Neil pours himself a large shot in an icy glass. ‘And? Can I help it if things got a bit out of hand? It was the solstice.’ He takes a mouthful of vodka. Savours it. ‘Ah, that’s better. Good. Want me there for the Spanish Inquisition? For moral support?’
‘No!’
‘Oh, what? Why do you always think I’m going to pee in your pool?’
‘Because you always pee in my pool. Off the top diving board, usually.’
Neil cackles. ‘Come on, Eds, man up. You’ve got to take the bastards on some time. You’re just exercising your legal right to marry. Got that? Your legal right. We’ll take this to the European Courts if we have to. No omelettes without breaking eggs, big man.’
‘I notice it’s only my eggs that are getting broken here.’
‘Excuse me?’ The air quivers. ‘Are you sure you want to have this conversation? Because I am more than happy to have this conversation right now, about how your God-bothering has consistently fucked my life up over the last eighteen years.’
‘Yeah, and talking of fucking your life up, maybe we can have the “nicotine gum” conversation too.’
Neil narrows his eyes at Ed. Then he pours more vodka. ‘Did the buggers from the cleaning firm do a proper job with the party clear-up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me rephrase that: if I go and check, will I think they did a proper job?’
‘No. But I was answering like a normal person.’
We will leave them to their fencing match. They know all the steps these days, how to feint, how to parry the other’s thrusts; it’s well choreographed after eighteen years. The vicarage will be the fraught interface between Lindchester and London for a few more hours, until Neil once more satisfies himself he’s the boss, and Ed allows him to believe it.
Ed’s parishioners adore Neil, by the way. ‘Ooh, you’re so naughty!’ they tell him. They view him as a flamboyant and rather wicked parrot, and long for him to squawk Fuck off! during a big service, so they can be scandalized all over again. As interested onlookers, they believe they have a pretty clear idea who wears the trousers in the vicarage. Poor old parrot-pecked Father Ed, they think.
The truth, of course, is much more interesting. It usually is. Personally, I am not a big fan of trouser-based reductionism as a basis for understanding human partnerships. Perhaps in a simpler age – when one stout pair of leather britches was handed down, father to son, for fourteen generations – we might profitably have asked who wore them. But is it still that simple? Well, some argue that it is, rooting their theology of trousers in creation (it being clear from Genesis that Adam wore them, Eve didn’t, and there was no such thing as Steve). All the same, I find it hard to avoid the impression that even in traditional circles, trouser-wearing in twenty-first century relationships is a complex and nuanced thing. We might as well ask, who wears the buskins in Shangri-La? Oh, slippery-slopery thin-end-of-wedgery! We’ll have donkeys in kilts before you know it!
Then again, we are all just people; and people are not so very weird and frightening once we get to know them. The same rules apply as ever did, and they have already been summarized for us by that noted theologian, Freddie May: Thou shalt not be mean to people.
Helene, head of HR for Lindchester Diocese, comes into the archdeacon’s office and parks her bum cheekily on the edge of his desk while he’s on the phone. He finishes his conversation and hangs up.
‘Your bum’s invading my personal space,’ he says. ‘That’s sexual harassment in the workplace. I’m reporting you to my HR lady.’
She taps her pen on her clipboard and waits.
‘Woman. I meant HR woman.’ He smiles disarmingly.
‘How long have you known me, Matt?’
‘Just over a year now, Helene.’
‘And you still haven’t noticed I don’t find you amusing?’
‘You don’t?’ She shakes her head. ‘Dang.’
‘Re Bishop Bob: I want to flag up my concern. How does he seem to you?’
‘Well, I’ll be honest with you: he’s looking a bit under the weather,’ says Matt. ‘Had a quiet word at the staff meeting, as a matter of fact. He tells me he and Janet have got three weeks’ holiday in Brittany lined up. Says he can hang on till August.’
‘Hmm. I’m not happy.’ Helene taps her pen some more. ‘He’s not taken any annual leave since Christmas.’
‘Not sure you’re right there, Helene. He had a bit of a break after Easter.’
‘No, Matt, I’m not talking about that. I mean, he hasn’t taken any leave over and above the inside of the week after Easter, which he’s entitled to anyway.’
‘Mmm.’ Matt is not on firm ground himself here. But then, Helene doesn’t quite get the whole stipend/salary distinction.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ says Helene, ‘but essentially, Bob’s acting CEO of a medium to large organization, with all the extra time commitments and responsibilities that entails. But without the appropriate support and admin structures you’d normally get in an organization this size.’
‘Fair point. But it’s temporary. That’s the way it goes in an interregnum, I’m afraid. We’ll all be spread a bit thin for the foreseeable.’
‘Both,’ she says. ‘Not all, both.’
Matt remembers in time that he isn’t amusing. So he doesn’t tell her his strength is as the strength of ten because his heart is pure.
&
nbsp; ‘Basically, you and Bob are trying to keep on top of the portfolios of four full-time members of staff. Two bishops, two archdeacons. Yes? Yes. It’s not sustainable, Matt. How many hours did you work last week?’
‘Ooh. Forty-ish?’ Give or take fifty. ‘Point taken. Why don’t I have another word with Bob? Suggest he takes a bit of time off next week, once the ordinations are out of the way?’
‘Good. I’ll email his PA, and cc Martin and Penelope in the bishop’s office. Oh, one more thing: I don’t seem to have a record of your annual leave on file, Matt.’
‘You don’t? Hmm.’ He frowns as if this is a bit of a conundrum.
Helene leans forward and raps him smartly on his bald head with her clipboard. ‘The new rules apply to all diocesan employees,’ she says. ‘Understood? Good. Just to keep you in the loop, I’m intending to contact the archbishop. He needs to second some staff to this diocese to provide cover.’
‘Hah, ha ha!’ guffaws the archdeacon. ‘Oh. Sorry. Thought you were kidding.’ He flashes her another disarming smile. ‘That was aggravated assault and battery back there, by the way.’
‘Was it now? Well, why don’t you keep a log of each separate incident, and lodge a complaint with your HR lady? She’ll tell you what to do with it.’ Helene gets up off his desk. ‘King’s Head after work some time?’
‘Oh, go on then.’ He checks the diary. ‘Next Wednesday? Cheeky pint. Don’t tell the missus.’
‘Not if you don’t tell mine.’
The day for the ordinations comes. Too hot for those new robes! Thank goodness we’ve got service booklets to fan ourselves with! But by the end of the service the pristine clerical shirts will be wringing wet. Dean Marion watches Bishop Bob anxiously throughout. Twice she almost beckons the verger (poised to bring a chair), so Bob can sit as he ordains the remaining candidates. But it never quite gets that bad. The heat, he says afterwards. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, Mrs Dean.
Helene watched the bishop too. Not good. The archdeacon can laugh, but she’s definitely contacting the archbishop about this.
You might be wondering why Helene was at the ordination service. Her missus, Kay, is a priest in the diocese. Kay is a member of the Cathedral College of Canons. She and Helene fly below the radar, but Matt is aware of the situation.
And Helene is aware of the archdeacon’s situation. This is why she has suggested a drink after work, to drop a hint. Yes, the gossip mills are churning out rumours about the archdeacon’s steamy affair. If Matt wants to brush it off, that’s fine by her. But Helene has familiarized herself with the details of the Clergy Discipline Measure 2003 (as amended by the Clergy Discipline (Amendment) Measure 2013). She can see that it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that someone with an axe to grind might file a letter of complaint against the archdeacon for ‘engaging in conduct that is unbecoming or inappropriate to the office and work of the clergy’.
JULY
Chapter 12
Marion listens to the news over breakfast. Lord have mercy. Where’s this going to end? Will every celebrity from her youth end up being arrested?
The early 1970s creep into the deanery kitchen, as though the radio were dispensing clouds of Aquamanda. ‘Well, just keep out of his way then, dear.’ Back then it was funny, it was ‘wandering hand syndrome’. Only an uptight prude complained. Sometimes it was friends of your parents, the ones you were meant to call ‘uncle’. Arm crawling round your waist, gathering you too close. ‘Well, hello! Where have you been hiding? What about a kiss for uncle?’ Whisky breath in your face as you tried to shrink away without looking rude.
Rude! Marion wonders now how many women her age ended up in genuine danger by obeying the ‘don’t be rude’ rule. It was rude not to accept unwanted dances, kisses, drinks, lifts. What a pity that the confidence to deal with dirty old men is only gained in proportion to our lack of need, she thinks. These days, now that pestering is rare, Marion can wither a pervert with a single look. She’d love to parcel up this power and bestow it on her helpless fourteen- year-old self. She really hopes that the young women of today aren’t expected to put up with it. She hopes nobody tells them it’s rude to demand respect.
Enough. She turns the radio off. A peach-coloured rose nods outside the kitchen window. Gene potters at the stove. She hears the cathedral clock chime quarter to eight. She reminds herself: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases . . .
Oh, but all those children! She can’t banish them from her mind. Those poor preyed-upon children. How many more are out there, adults who have kept silent and felt dirty for decades? Yes, and how many men in their eighties live every day in dread? Waiting for that knock on the door that is surely coming; tomorrow, next week, next year. Do they sit rehearsing their statement? Utterly refute. Witch hunt. Completely without foundation. Do they protest that the rules have changed? Ask why are they being hunted down and punished for the slap-and-tickle of yesteryear? They had no idea it was wrong! Everyone was doing it!
Perhaps they genuinely think like that? Marion wonders whether she ought to feel pity for these frightened old men. These bewildered grandfathers crying out that things were different back then. Hmm. Maybe she’s taking her habit of empathy too far. Except, how far ought mercy to extend? Is it wide, like the wideness of the sea? Thy knowledge is the only line to sound so vast a deep! Ah, but nobody can survive the terrible pressure of the ocean’s deepest depths. So could mercy and judgement be the same thing in the end?
She shakes her head. And now her thoughts turn closer to home, and the investigations into the Choristers’ School in the 1970s. What can she say? Was there a big cover-up? Was the Church just looking after its own, avoiding scandal? Marion doubts it was that cynical. She can picture the clergy Chapter meeting. Yes, what those individuals did was deplorable; but surely this did not negate (so the argument would have gone) all their other contributions, their long years of faithful ministry? And let us not forget that we are all frail and sinful human beings. (Article XXVI of the 39 Articles: Of the Unworthiness of the Ministers, which hinders not the effect of the Sacrament.) Nobody’s interests would be served by pursuing this any further. Yes, Marion’s fairly sure it would have gone something like that. The men should be confronted, but given a fresh chance. Wasn’t that the heart of the gospel? Of course, there had to be an understanding that in future they would never be appointed to any post with responsibility for children . . .
Oh, Lord. And now it was clear they’d gone on abusing for years. We knew what they were; we could have stopped it, and we didn’t – through ignorance, through weakness, if not through our own deliberate fault. What now? Two of the men are now dead. The third, the former chaplain, is in his eighties. He has been arrested but released on bail. Lindchester Cathedral was to blame, yes. We failed to safeguard those boys. Better that it comes to court at last, so the victims feel listened to, so they see justice done—
‘Oh!’ Marion stares at the plate Gene has just put in front of her. ‘Thank you. What’s this?’
‘French toast. Made by your chef, with fresh orange zest and the merest dash of triple sec and dusted with cinnamon. Crème fraiche drizzled with maple syrup. Sliced banana, and raspberries from the deanery garden,’ says Gene. ‘Two of your five a day.’ He leers.
‘Er, you do know that refers to fruit and veg, don’t you?’ She starts eating. ‘Delicious. Thank you, darling.’ Gene pours her some more coffee. ‘Do you think they had any idea? Back then.’ She waves at the radio. ‘Those men, I mean?’
‘Oh, yes. They knew, all right,’ says Gene. ‘We know the difference between welcome and unwelcome. The question is whether you think you can get away with it.’ He puts a foot up on her chair rung and angles his groin at her. ‘Now, about your five a day, you minxy little minx, fnurr fnurr . . .’
Marion grinds a raspberry slowly and viciously with her fork. The juice oozes. She stares up at Gene. ‘Yes?’
He removes his foot. ‘Oh, nothing.’
I
t’s Monday evening, and Giles is on the phone to the lay clerk elect of Gayden Parva, trying to firm up his accommodation for next year.
‘No, of course you don’t have to live in Vicars’ Court, Freddie. But why wouldn’t you? The rent’s subsidized, it’s handy.’
‘Meh.’
‘So where are you going to live?’
‘Oohhh. I’m like, y’know?’
‘No, Freddie, that doesn’t actually convey anything.’ Giles considers running headlong into a tree trunk for a bit of light relief. In the memorable phrase of the sub-organist, this is like trying to stir pigshit with two short planks. ‘Tell me your plans.’
‘Yeah, no, it’s fine, only it’s kinda like . . . Aah . . . It’s all the stuff, y’know?’
Giles bites his own hand. ‘Once again, Freddie, I have no idea.’
‘Aw. It’s just . . . Me? Yeah?’
A flash of inspiration: ‘Is it something you might find helpful to discuss with your mentor?’
‘NO! No way. Dude, he scary!’
‘Then concentrate, and tell me your plans. Or I’ll get Dr Jacks to ring you. Where—’ Giles breaks off. ‘Did you just scream?’
Freddie clears his throat. ‘Yep, wa-a-ay up in my falsetto range for a second there. Man! So listen, all I’m saying is, I’m not sure I can cope with the whole living by myself . . . thang, OK? The bills, the rent, yeah, the whole being responsible for shit? Man, that’s so lame. Gah. Don’t make him ring me. Begging you?’
‘All right.’ Interesting! Mr Dorian as crowd control. Must make a note of that. ‘Good. And for the third time I ask: what are your plans?’
‘Ooohhh. Um. Maybe lodge with someone? Like I did with the Hendersons?’
Well, not quite like that, preferably, thinks Giles. ‘With whom?’
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