‘Anyone? I’m easy.’
‘Yes, try not be. And when are you planning on moving up here?’
‘Um. End of term?’
‘In a fortnight?! Were you just going to turn up with a suitcase and see who took you in?’
‘Yeah. Pretty much. Hnhnn. Not good? Yeah. Probably should’ve planned that a bit better?’
‘You are a prize wazzock, sometimes, Mr May.’ Giles sighs. ‘I’ll ask around.’
‘Can’t I crash at yours till I get sorted?’
‘If all else fails, yes,’ says Giles, resolving to move heaven and earth.
He rings off and gazes through his study window to the front garden where two different colours of bunting vie. From his bedroom window hangs a Germany flag the size of a tablecloth. It is half obscured by a Brazil flag the size of a tennis court, which hangs from the attic.
He goes through to the kitchen where his wife and second son are bickering.
No booze on school nights, no booze on school nights! he recites.
Giles opens the fridge. Unless you’ve just been talking to Freddie May? No, that is not sufficient reason. Anyway, look, there’s some delicious lemongrass and ginger cordial. Right there. Beside the open bottle of Chablis . . .
‘No, hear me out, Mother.’ Felix has his hand raised. ‘Hear me out, please. For every goal Germany scores—’
‘You will tidy your room, empty the dishwasher and take the recycling out for a month! Which, notice, ARE YOUR CHORES ANYWAY!’
He presents his middle finger. ‘And for every goal Brazil scores, you are not allowed to say anything at one banquet or annual dinner. Instead—’
‘Pscha!’
‘No, hear me out. You can only make noises. But they have to be based on . . . wait for it . . . farts you have previously made. OK? Like, the questioning fart’ – he demonstrates – ‘Hmmm? Or the total disagreement: Pah!’
‘Hey, I like your thinking!’ says the precentor’s wife. ‘These banquets are full of old farts anyway.’
A brief exchange of conversational flatulence ensues.
‘You disgust me, the pair of you!’ Giles grabs the Chablis (it needs finishing) and a glass and escapes back to his study. They say you get the children you deserve. Unfortunately, he appears to have the children his wife deserves.
There are tears after evensong on Tuesday. Timothy has announced which boys will be head chorister and deputy next year. Even if all have done well, not all can be awarded this special prize. Hence the tears. It is not always the boy with the finest voice who is given the role. The head chorister must also be a good leader and set a proper example to the other choristers. Freddie May was not head chorister.
Miss Barbara Blatherwick dealt with those disappointed tears in her day. And other tears besides. Oh dear me, yes! She is a sensible woman. She knows that times have changed. One cannot simplistically judge the past by the standards of today. But all the same, her hand trembles as she pours her second cup of English breakfast tea. Ought she to have done more?
I can tell you, reader, that Miss Blatherwick has no need to accuse herself. It was she who blew the whistle and released those little boys from their nightmare – and probably prevented many others from suffering the same fate. At the time she was young and the newly appointed matron at the Choristers’ School. But she realized what was going on and did not turn a blind eye. She was not held back by fear of being rude, or of causing trouble for important men who were respected and loved, or of bringing a venerable institution into disrepute.
She sits at her kitchen table now, with no appetite for her porridge. Outside in her yard the goldfinches flutter at the feeder. Amadeus the cathedral cat won’t be far away. It feels to her, with the advantage of hindsight, that she was part of the cover-up; that she colluded with the system that allowed men like that to move on and repeat their pattern of offending elsewhere. How could she have been party to that?
The parents. Yes, that’s what decided it. They were adamant: no police. Their sons had suffered enough. How could one argue with that?
Oh dear, what a mess we make of things, even when we act with the best of motives. Miss Blatherwick blows her nose on her pocket handkerchief, then gets on and eats her porridge like a sensible woman.
It is early on Wednesday evening. The archdeacon leaves the King’s Head and sets off back up the steep hill towards the cathedral. He stomps past the little shops selling their posh tat; wooden seagulls, driftwood mirror frames, cushions like faded deckchairs – as though Lindchester was a chuffing seaside resort. We’ll have chuffing winkle stalls next.
Oh, dear. Our hero is not happy. If a thought bubble like a helium balloon bobbed along over his bald head, I fear it would say Bloody bossy women! His life is overrun with bossy women! As a good modern archdeacon he cannot permit himself to articulate this thought; so he takes it out on the knick-knack shops instead. For chuff’s sake! All this girly clobber. All this retro bollocks. Fancy jam-pot covers and flipping peg bags taking over the entire world!
Matt is mad because he’s in the wrong and he knows it; but there isn’t time to process this before the next thing, which is prayer vigil in the cathedral for the new bishop of Lindchester. Bloody Helene. Interfering again. Are HR managers this proactive in other dioceses? He bets they bloody aren’t! Should’ve bloody blocked her appointment when he was on the interview panel. Of course I’m aware what the Clergy Discipline Measure says! I’m the chuffing archdeacon!
Matt pauses at the gatehouse to get his breath back. For a wild moment he longs for a fag – and Matt has never smoked. That tells you how hassled he is! He takes a big lungful of lime blossom scent instead. Better cool his jets before the vigil.
Right, so fair enough, it’s possible he’s left himself a tad open here. But conduct unbecoming? No way! He and Janey are consenting adults, they’re not married to anyone else, both are seriously committed to the other. Plus they’re discreet. Not like there’s an open scandal here. Not like she stands on his porch in a marabou trim dressing gown every morning smoking a cheroot, is it? Conduct unbecoming would be a pretty hostile interpretation to place on his domestic life!
‘Methinks the archdeacon doth protest too much,’ was what Ms B. Boots from HR replied. ‘Does anyone bear a grudge against you, Matt?’
Ha! Do they ever! How do you want the list: chronologically, alphabetically, or in degree of toxicity?
He turns into the Close. Ron the constable sticks his head out of the lodge. Matt spots that someone has kindly tacked a bell rope sally to the low stone lintel, the one he’s forever cracking his skull on.
‘All right, Mr Archdeacon?’
‘Fine thanks, Ron. You?’
‘Ooh, not so bad, thanks.’
Matt crosses the cobbles past the entrance to Vicars’ Court. He catches himself wondering whether there was something a tad knowing in Ron’s manner. All right, Mr Archdeacon, getting your end away, are you? No, don’t be daft. Ron’s always like that.
Isn’t he?
Great. Getting paranoid now. Thanks for that, Helene.
Suddenly Matt thwacks his archidiaconal thigh. OK, let’s stop being a big girl’s blouse, shall we? Helene’s a force for good. Truth is, she’s right: he’s in a bit of a bind here. He daren’t raise it with Janey. Doesn’t want to rock the little boat of happiness they have both managed to clamber back into. In his own mind he’s settled it. He’s as good as married. There’s no other gal for him. He’d rather have Jane in his life on her terms, than not at all. He grimaces. Ah, if only he could put his hand on his heart and say he’s 100 per cent squared the situation with the good Lord! Sorry, sorry, sorry. He needs to get down and have a good pray about this.
He pushes open the cathedral north door. Takes another deep breath. About eight centuries’ worth of prayer greets him, and his blood pressure drops. Yes, the good Lord has been pretty patient with him over the years. He heads for the William Chapel, far end, behind the main altar, where the vigil is
due to happen. A flock of little lights flickers at the shrine. He scans the congregation with an expert eye. Situation normal: more than he feared, fewer than he hoped. ’Twas ever thus. Cathedral Chapter clergy. Scattering of good-egg vicar types have made the effort: Dominic, Ed, Wendy, Geoff (of course, both on the CNC).
Matt tunnels into the robes he’s just been handed. Having ticked Bishop Bob off, and made him take a couple of days’ leave, Matt’s ended up holding the baby. Not that onerous, no preach, just a question of leading. Good, here’s the precentor now, with the order of service booklet (Vigil for the Appointment of the New Bishop of Lindchester, Followed by Night Prayer).
‘Everything under control, Giles?’
Everything was not quite under control, as it turned out. But the archdeacon was in no mood to listen patiently to yet another bossy woman demanding that half of the vigil be given over to praying for the upcoming debate about women bishops in General Synod. Organize your own vigil, lady (he managed not to say). This is the cathedral. We’ve already printed the liturgy. The precentor can’t do spontaneity at this kind of notice.
Instead, he fobbed her off with a polite suggestion that a further hour of vigil might be added after compline, if she cleared it with the precentor. No, sadly, he himself would not be able to stay and demonstrate his solidarity. Important though this issue undoubtedly was. She turned and stalked off. There you go. No such thing as strangers, Matt, just enemies you haven’t made yet. Who the chuff was she? Chaplain of something, going by the hoodie. Uni? Now why was that ringing a faint alarm bell?
But by now the precentor was twitching and looking at his watch, so Matt let it go.
After the vigil was over, our weary friend got in his Mini and drove off to his lady, to spend (tell it not in Gath!) the night over at hers. He had a lot on his mind; but all the same, you’d think a former police officer would have clocked that he was being tailed all the way there by a silver Skoda Fabia.
Chapter 13
‘No, you should definitely apply for the BLO job,’ says Penelope. ‘You’d be ideal.’
Martin – uncharacteristically – finds himself in some difficulty here. We join our two friends in the bishop’s office. PA Penelope no longer has a bishop to manage, so she is making do with managing Martin. He composes his features. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, Penelope. But there’s another parish job I’m weighing up, too. Look.’ He passes her last week’s Church Times with an ad circled.
‘But that’s in the Chester Diocese! You’d have to move. You don’t want to move away from your girls, do you? No, no, you should definitely go for the BLO job. You’d enjoy it!’
A spasm crosses Martin’s face again. ‘Yes, but look,’ he taps the advert with an Ecclesiastical Insurance pen, ‘it’s only just over the border, so the girls could still spend every weekend with me. If I took Friday as my day off, I could pick them up from school.’
‘Yes, well, maybe.’ She still hasn’t really looked at the advert: A prayerful and energetic priest with a passion for the gospel, who enjoys being visible and engaged. ‘Bishop Paul thinks you’d be perfect for the Borough Liaison post. Oh, he told you that, did he? Well, there you are! You know the agencies and funding bodies, you have links with the churches. Talk to the archdeacon. Matt’s desperate for you to get the BLO job!’
This time it’s too much. Martin snorts.
‘What?’
‘It’s just, you keep saying . . . Um.’ Martin purses his lips and regains control. ‘I wish they’d called it the Borough and Churches Liaison Officer job, that’s all.’
There’s a long silence. Penelope frowns. Then she suddenly leans over and paffs him over the head with the Church Times. ‘Oh, honestly, Martin!’
‘Sorry!’ No, he’s lost it. The bishop’s chaplain slides down in his chair and laughs till it hurts. When did he last laugh like this? He can’t remember. Oh, let it stop! Let it go on for ever!
Now he’s infected Penelope. They sit in the bishop’s office rocking with laughter. They are still whimpering when the precentor appears in the doorway.
‘Knock, knock!’ Giles enters. ‘Oh, dear. Been raiding the diocesan whippits supply again, have we?’
‘It’s Martin!’ weeps Penelope. ‘He’s being very silly. Tell him, Martin!’
Martin can only wave his hands in despairing apology.
The precentor surveys them for a long moment. ‘A-a-nyway. I just popped in with a request. Mr May’s looking for digs. Just over the summer, in the first instance; but long-term from the autumn. So if you could put out feelers, I’d be grateful.’
Penelope sits up straight and wipes her eyes. ‘But I thought – stop it, Martin! – I thought accommodation was part of the deal? Isn’t there a sweet little house in Vicars’ Court?’
‘There is indeed. But Mr May’ – Giles strikes a fey pose, back of hand to forehead – ‘will have none of it. He prefers to lodge with someone.’
‘Honestly! That boy,’ says Penelope. ‘He just wants someone to run around after him and do his laundry. Susanna completely spoiled him when he lived at the palace. Well, we’ll put our heads together, won’t we, Martin?’
‘Thank you,’ says Giles. ‘He intends to bestow his lovely presence on his new landlord in around two weeks’ time. Yes, I know! But this is Freddie we’re talking about here – who thinks that remembering to get dressed in the morning constitutes being organized. Well, bless you, my dears.’ He sketches a cross. ‘Please enjoy your nitrous oxide responsibly.’
The office door closes.
‘Oh, dear!’ Penelope wipes her eyes once more. ‘Whatever must he think of us?’
‘I think I’d better get a breath of fresh air,’ says Martin.
The air outside is not fresh today. We are due a thunderstorm, I think. Martin’s new light blue clerical shirt clings to his back. He aches as if he’s been doing stomach crunches.
Laughter aside, he’s pretty offended, actually. Nobody seems to rate his pastoral abilities. Maybe they’re right? Maybe he’d be a disaster as a parish priest these days? There’s clearly something about his personal statement that’s putting people off. Probably his failed marriage. He’s going to carry the blame for that for the rest of his life! He catches himself, and tries not to think this is unfair. Paul’s voice comes back to him, something he said at their pub lunch a few weeks back: In the end, you can only live as you can, not as you can’t.
Is that what I’m trying to do? wonders Martin. To be something that is impossible for me to be? But what room does Paul’s maxim leave for the transforming power of God? Surely we are called to live better lives than we can, assisted by the Spirit?
Bees drone above his head in the lime trees. The whole Close is giddy with scent today. He passes the school. It’s playtime. There’s the usual racket of screams and shouts. A football comes sailing over the high wall.
‘Bianchi, you dickhead!’
Martin catches the ball awkwardly on the second bounce and lobs it back.
‘Oh, thanks!’ pipe several treble voices in surprise.
Martin’s pulse races a little. He still gets flustered by hurtling balls. Hurr hurr, Rogers throws like a girl! But nobody saw. He dusts his hands together and walks on. The cathedral clock chimes. On cue, an old-fashioned school bell is rung vigorously: Ker-dang! Ker-dang! Ker-dang! The screams and shouts are doused as though someone has clapped a mute over the playground.
‘What does the bell mean, Harry Bianchi?’ demands a voice in the silence.
‘Sorry, sir!’
Martin continues on his circuit of the Close. He passes William House, and slips into the alley that leads to the narrow way off the Close. There should be a breeze there. Yes. He unsticks his shirt and stands looking out from his dizzy perch across the lower town. From up here you get a real sense of the old medieval fortifications. He brought Leah here recently, to help bring her Horrible Histories to life. That hadn’t gone well. He can’t seem to get anything right with that girl! H
e’s tried cracking down on her rudeness, he’s tried ignoring it.
He certainly ignored her comment last weekend about his trousers! He’s a bit self-conscious about them. Linen. A new venture, and with Becky gone, there’s no authority to give him a ruling: ‘Definitely yes’ or ‘Definitely no’. Penelope hasn’t commented. He fears this means ‘Definitely no!’ Are they an inch too short? (Dad’s got jack-ups!) Maybe he should have opted for the longer length, and then tried to find a seamstress to turn them up? He tuts impatiently at this endless loop of fretting. So what? Does anyone even care about your trousers? (Ah, if there were someone to care!)
There’s the Linden down there among willows. He can just hear the kerfuffle of incompetent punters. His gaze follows the river’s meanders out to the ancient water meadows, then further off, to where the cooling towers of Cardingforth plume out steam columns like Old Testament pillars of cloud. He thinks of the relentless bombing of Gaza. Place names escaping – bang! – from Bible pages into headlines. How long, O Lord? Will the conflict never end? How can it ever end, after so many centuries of tangled wrongdoing and blame and hate?
The wind flutters the lime leaves. Somewhere behind him he can hear a clarinet. Martin is not musical, but even he recognizes this: Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. The slow movement. His sister learned to play it for one of her grades. And here comes the bit she never quite mastered, a downward squiggle of notes that launches back up into another slow, soaring phrase. He holds his breath . . . a-a-and the unseen player nails it. Martin leans both hands on the wall and bows his head.
It’s back again, isn’t it, that quiet question mark?
Oh, please don’t ask me to do this!
A whole-body flush creeps over him. How he burned with hatred this time last year! Martin has not yet taught himself that he’s forgiven for his treatment of Freddie May. Forgiven by the good Lord, forgiven by Freddie himself. And now, as if by some stealthy plan, along comes an opportunity – like treasure stumbled upon in a field – for Martin to make amends. He could offer Freddie a home for the summer. Couldn’t he? The question shimmers on the edge of his vision, like the first warning of a migraine. As if divine prompting were one long nagging headache!
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