Everyone is curious about this incomer. Quite right. Curiosity may account for the massive turnout at the service to commemorate the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. Afterwards the cathedral floodlights, and all the old-fashioned Narnian lamps round the Close, were turned out and the congregation departed in darkness and subdued silence. The cathedral Chapter verdict was that Bishop Harry acquitted himself well; that is, he did exactly what the precentor told him. Nor did he commit that most heinous of Evangelical crimes: interlarding the liturgy with helpful little explanations.
But that is enough of Bishop Harry for the time being. He will be around for several months, so we will have ample opportunity to get to know him and scorn his taste in music and wine, and lament afresh the ghastly protestantizing of the C of E – without which, frankly, there would be no C of E, but no matter. At present all I wish to say is that Captain Harry will be at the helm of the good ship Lindchester until the new bishop arrives.
Any news on that front? Or failing that, any rumours? The CNC met back in June. Surely by now someone will have tipped a tiny wink? Someone will have said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment,’ in answer to the question, ‘Is it X?’; which any Anglican worth their salt will know is code for, ‘Yes, but you didn’t hear it from me.’
I am sorry to disappoint you. There is no news. There are rumours, of course, and these may be plotted somewhere along the spectrum between ‘informed deduction’ and ‘wild speculation’. Close to the latter end was the rumour going round a week ago that the archdeacon had got the job. He knocked that idea on the head so firmly that nobody believes it any longer – apart from those cynics who will always detect a tacit admission lurking in a categorical denial. Let them have their fun.
I can assure you it is not Matt, but further than this I cannot go. My lips are sealed; as sealed as though I were a member of the CNC. All I can tell you is that a common mind was reached and one of the candidates has been chosen. He – yes, it must be a he until the legislation has passed through parliament allowing the C of E to appoint women bishops – must now submit to a medical and obtain a fresh DBS check. His name may then go forward to Her Majesty, who is currently at Balmoral, and when in Scotland she must make like a Presbyterian, and refuse to believe in the phenomenon of bishops.
Once the Queen is back, an announcement can be made. You might think it will then be done and dusted – but not so hasty, if you please! A series of letters couched in gracious archaisms laced with medieval menace must be issued. Marion, as Dean of Lindchester, will be instructed to summon the College of Canons for the purpose of electing a new bishop to the See of Lindchester, made vacant by the resignation of our beloved in Christ, right trusty and well-beloved Paul Henderson &c &c. Hot on the heels of this epistle comes another saying: ‘Oh, and by the way, here’s who you have to elect.’ Then comes the Confirmation of Election. Once all these hoops have been jumped through in the proper stately manner by a bewigged gentleman in sparkly-buckled shoes, there can be a formal announcement of when the enthronement service will take place.
In the meantime we must watch and pray. As the announcement approaches more and more people will quietly be admitted into the knowledge of who is to be the next bishop. This will greatly enhance the possibility of the news being leaked. For now, the members of the CNC are keeping schtum. So unless somebody hacks into one of their email accounts – and who would do a thing like that? – the secret is safe.
Gene would not dream of snooping around in the dean’s inbox. He is not above trying to sneak a read over her shoulder, however. We will join them for his latest attempt, which was on Saturday night.
‘How was your Day of Rage?’
‘Oh, all right, thanks.’
‘Day of Rage! It’s never really going to be a Day of Rage in a cathedral city, is it? It’s more “A Day of Being Jolly Cross about Gaza”. How many turned up?’
‘It was in Lindford not Lindchester, actually. We were about a hundred.’
‘How thrilling! Any foreign people?’ He slid round behind her and began solicitously to massage her shoulders.
The dean sighed and closed her email. ‘There’s no point even trying, Gene.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. So what did you chant in your rage?’
‘Never mind. It all sounds silly out of context.’ She hesitated. ‘Darling, you will confine this kind of cynicism to me, won’t you?’
He bent down and kissed the top of her head. ‘It is for your ears only, Deanissima.’
‘Good. Because otherwise folk will get upset, and then I will have to defend you by revealing your heroic anti-apartheid past.’
‘Fie! You would destroy my reputation as a heartless sybarite? Just as well I’ve got a dozen oysters and an exceptionally good 2010 Meursault in the fridge. What say we get pissed?’
‘Nice idea. Let me finish my sermon first. But even pissed I won’t be telling you who the next bishop is.’
‘Curses!’
Our good friend Father Dominic was among those marching through Lindford. I’m afraid he allowed himself to get distracted from Rage by something less noble. He found it almost impossible to join in with the chants ‘Two, four, six, eight, Israel is an apartheid state!’ while the megaphone was being wielded by the Revd Dr Veronica da Silva.
‘Oh, Father Dominic,’ she gushed when it was over, ‘it means so much to me that you were able to join us!’
Join you? Fuck off, he told her back in its black chaplain hoodie as she got into her silver Skoda.
I’m allergic to her, he thinks when he’s back in his study. I can’t bear to be within twenty feet of her. He shakes his head. Lord have mercy.
The archdeacon was not on the march. He was spending a day with his lady. They parted with a certain coolness when he declined to spend the night over at hers. Had to ration his visits and be discreet. If she was fed up with that, she knew what she could do. He was therefore alone when he got in and flipped through his post.
Just as well. Not every day you got asked to apply for a suffragan bishop’s job at the other end of the country.
Chapter 16
It feels like autumn. It’s August, but it feels like autumn. The tail end of ex-hurricane Bertha lashes Great Britain. The Linden rises. Red triangles appear in country roads saying ‘Flood’. In the Diocese of Lindchester, clouds hide the supermoon. The Perseids shower away out of sight and the International Space Station goes by like a silent star, unseen.
I am not fond of August, personally. Lassitude is laced with dread as the new academic year looms. On the whole, not much happens in church circles. Brand-new curates bomb about their parish like bluebottles banging into windows. ‘Help! Where am I? What am I meant to be doing again?’ In time they will learn that this is normal for August. Clergy with any sense do not waste annual leave by going away now, because (ssh!) you can be semi on holiday at home. Unless you are an Evangelical, of course. The higher your doctrine of grace, the greater the drivenness of your works.
The cathedral choir is still on vacation. Visiting choirs come and go. Some of them camp out in the Choristers’ School and get in touch with their boyhood experience, though without the cod- liver oil and corporal punishment. The presiding canon thanks them each week for their ‘invaluable contribution to our worship’. Last Sunday the canon chancellor was heard thanking them ‘for leaving our worship’, but he denies this slip.
August would normally allow hours of excited speculation for anyone shortlisted for a suffragan bishop’s job. Our friend the archdeacon does not have that luxury. Acting Bishop Harry has not been here long enough to have made a significant difference to Matt’s workload. In any case, excited speculation is best shared with another person. And call Matt a coward, but he hasn’t dared broach this new development with Jane. Trying to get his own head round the implications first. Plus there’s no guarantee he’ll get the job, so no point frightening the horses at this stage. Then again, he can picture her
face when he finally has to admit he’s been keeping her in the dark for weeks. So: not fair to keep her in the dark, or not fair to worry her unnecessarily?
No need to decide yea or nay yet. He ‘updates his paperwork’. Tarts up the old CV, hones his personal statement. Sends the lot off. No time to worry about it during the day, but the minute the old head hits the pillow he can’t chuffing sleep for thinking about it. How will it play out? Does he really want the job? Is he effectively going to end up choosing between the job and his Jane?
Yes, but what if the boot was on the other foot, and she got offered a promotion in the back end of beyond? He’d want her to go for it; not be held back by the thought of him. Then he’d move heaven and earth to get a job in her neck of the woods. Course he would. But is she going to think the same way? Oh Lord, if only they could get married, how much simpler it would all feel!
Which gets his pulse up. Still not squared the old domestic situation with his conscience and the good Lord. Helene’s warning rings in his ears, if he’s honest. Do you have any enemies, Matt? It’s no way to live, is it? Wondering when you’re going to be exposed? Because essentially, he’s pretty much a hypocrite. Publicly upholding the Church line on gay priests, yet secretly living – to use the good old-fashioned phrase – ‘in sin’.
Nope. No good. Matt gets up and plays a few games of Spider Solitaire to unwind. Then seeing as he’s up, he may as well whizz through a few work emails. Next time he looks it’s 3 a.m. and he really should get some sleep! But now his head’s buzzing with naughty priests and dangerous tombstones and all that malarkey. Which is why he finds himself doing his tax at 4 a.m. Horrible. He’d drive over to Janey’s and blurt out the whole sorry business. Except she’s off in France with Father Dominic. Got fed up with kicking her heels waiting around for him to clear a bit of holiday space.
And who can blame her?
Can he wangle a couple of days when she’s back? Surely! He looks again at his diary. Chocka. The archdeacon sinks his head into his hands. Lord, get Her Maj back from Balmoral, and let’s crack on with the appointment of the new bishop, pronto.
If he weren’t such a big tough bloke, he’d be saying, I’m not really coping here, am I?
Our archdeacon is not the only one battling with dread. If we could invent an anxiety-detecting device, and fly by night across the Diocese of Lindchester on our fictional wings, we would pick up hotspots in every second household. See those splashes of fiery red throbbing in bedrooms on the third Wednesday of August? School children waiting for A and AS level results. They believe their futures hang in the balance. And those blotches nearby are the anguish of their ever-loving parents. By tomorrow evening the worst will be over until the following week, when our device will register spikes of GCSE dread blipping across the region.
Ulli, the precentor’s wife, makes her penultimate grim trip to school on results day (parking at the required distance for embarrassing parents). Felix is collecting his AS level results. They will be terrible, because he has farted about all year, and Ulli has yet again failed to beat him about the head with a spätzle-maker and force him do his coursework properly, like a good mother. For someone so bossy, it’s amazing how lax she has been. Sometimes she just doesn’t understand herself.
Here he comes now. With a long face. Ach Gott! He really has failed them all! He climbs in and pulls his hood up and hides. She snatches the sheets of paper. Scheisse! Her eyes hunt through. Different exams, different exam boards.
Then he laughs. ‘Fooled ya!’
The grades spring into focus: A, A*, A, A.
A perverse rage seizes her. She swats him with the crumpled-up pages. ‘If you only worked, you’d get straight A stars! You’d get into Cambridge, even!’
‘What?! First off, Mother, fuck Cambridge, I’m going to drama school, and secondly, hello? What happened to “well done, Felix”?’
She claps a hand to her mouth. ‘Well done, darling! Brilliant! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean – forget I said that, ja?’
Get in! he thinks. She’ll probably pay for my trip to Ibiza now, ha ha!
Ah, das wohltemperierte Mutterklavier! Played here with the virtuosic skill only a last-born son can master.
Exams are not even a wrinkle on the brow of Mr Happy junior. It is a long time since we last glimpsed him, a squalling scrap draped over his dad’s shoulder. Reader, I have been remiss. He is now mobile. Has been for ages. Oh yes, indeed. After many an important agenda and Bible commentary was annotated in yogurt, the chancellor finally worked out a formula for calculating how high a toddler can reach: X plus six inches (where X equals how far you think they can reach).
We join them now on the cathedral lawn, where Master Happy is toddling round the labyrinth that Gavin the verger mowed earlier in the year. There are those who are inclined to disparage the Lindchester Cathedral labyrinth as ‘a complete disgrace’. True, the unmown parts are now tall and shaggy. When it rains, the purple seed heads lie prostrate like an infinity of despairing bishops. The Chartres beauty of the maze is difficult to discern, except (sermon illustration klaxon!) from high above on the tower, when the incomprehensible mess emerges into perfect sense. Emails of complaint have been sent to the dean. I will not trouble the reader with Gene’s drafted reply.
Master Happy remains a stout labyrinth fan. He insists on visiting it every day. Come and watch him now, as he trundles round its curves, cornering occasionally on two wheels. The chancellor looks on. Anyone watching the Revd Canon Dr Mark Lawson’s face at this moment would be puzzled to explain his reputation for irascibility. See how he melts in a syrup of paternal doting? He’s on childcare duty so that his poor wife Miriam gets a rest. Yes, she’s expecting again. Argh! Just when they were all emerging into post-partum normality, and Junior is showing signs of becoming an interesting conversation partner. Oh, well.
Junior— Stop. Junior? Does he not have a name? Of course he does! This is young Chad William Lawson. He stops in his tracks. ‘Wabwin!’
‘Yes, it is a labyrinth. Clever boy.’
Chad William points up at the sky, beside himself with excitement, and shouts, ‘Am-nair!’
His dad looks. ‘Yes, there’s an aeroplane! Clever boy.’
The chancellor has been granted the interpretation of tongues. Nobody else has a clue what young Chad William is on about.
He points again, like Adam in the garden naming everything for the first time: ‘Yagy!’
The chancellor turns. Her! Fuck, she’s early! ‘Oh, hi there!’
It is the artist, come to take down the Souls and Bodies exhibition.
‘YAGY!’ insists Chad William, astounded to receive no fatherly approbation.
For a second the chancellor is torn between applauding his son and appeasing the artist, who will surely object to being called a lady.
She looks at Chad William.
He stares back solemnly. He points at her nose: ‘Zat?’ he enquires.
‘This?’ She points at her nose too. ‘Nose stud.’
‘Notud.’
A smile dawns on her face, then vanishes. Like sunshine crossing a dour Welsh hillside, or the back parts of R. S. Thomas’s absent god passing by. Her own baby is six foot four and twenty years old these days.
‘Clever boy,’ she says.
By the end of the day, the canvases are suitably cushioned in bubble wrap and stowed in the hired van. Freddie May was summoned to help carry the ‘sold’ work across to the palace where it will be stored until the purchasers collect it. Would he help? Hell, yeah! (To his disappointment the Flirty Vicar Alert proved groundless: the artist was alone.)
I dare say my readers are curious to know how Martin is getting on with his lodger. Very well, thank you. Martin was rather buoyed up by being appointed to the BLO job. This has not been announced yet, but he has a spring in his step again, I’m pleased to say. He is still a bit flinchy in Freddie’s presence, mind you. It’s as though he has invited a big cat into his home. A friendly one, but anarc
hic, like the tiger who wreaked such havoc when he came to tea, in the bedtime book Martin’s girls used to love.
The girls are on holiday in Portugal with their mother, so it’s just Martin and Freddie. They don’t see that much of one another, however. Freddie is out most evenings (Martin makes no enquiries). During the day Freddie works in the bishop’s office if he’s not off doing gardening jobs or casual labouring for the Choristers’ School maintenance team.
Out of sheer nosiness we will join them in Martin’s car on the way to the Close. The tyres splosh through puddles. There will be no gardening today.
‘Omigod, I am totally in love with Bishop Harry! Shame he’s married to death.’
No response suggested itself to Martin. For a moment, the events of a year ago tainted every possible avenue of conversation.
‘Oh, been meaning to say, Marty, I appreciate how you trust me?’
‘Well, good.’
‘Coz the Hendersons – don’t get me wrong, love those guys to bits – but the minute I arrived they were all, here’s the House Rules? Seriously, they had this actual fucking list? Yeah, whatever, guys, your house, your rules. Except, wahey! Got a rule against skateboarding in the kitchen? No? Got a rule against answering the door in my underpants? So my whole time there, The List is getting longer and longer? But in my head I’m, why are you even doing this? These totally nice people have taken you in, why do you have to be such a tool?’ He fell silent. ‘Yeah. So, basically, awesome? I totally did not think you’d be this relaxed. Thanks, man.’ He reached over and squeezed Martin’s knee.
‘You’re welcome.’ Martin’s knuckles were white on the wheel.
‘Hey, look! A fair! We could go to the fair!’
Martin drove resolutely past the fair. He could still feel a phantom hand on his knee. The car was full of Freddie. Bursting with Freddie. He knew he would be able to smell his aftershave in here for days.
‘Listen, Marty, you would like, tell me if I was doing your head in? Coz probably I won’t notice unless you say something.’
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