Martin inhaled deeply. He rehearsed the formula he’d learned at family therapy. When you do that, it makes me feel this. ‘Well, there’s one thing. It’s just, for example, when Harry arrived, that T-shirt you wore—’
‘Gah! My bad. I should totally not have—’
‘—it makes me feel—’
‘—worn it, coz I know you don’t approve?’
They stopped talking over one another. There was a silence.
‘So yeah,’ concluded Freddie. ‘Sorry.’
Martin tried to relax his hands on the wheel. ‘It’s not that I don’t approve. It’s more, it made me feel how I felt last year, when—’
‘Na-a-w! Last year was last year, yeah? We’ve both moved on.’
‘It just makes me feel that you’re attention-seeking. Being deliberately provocative. That’s all I’m saying. Sorry. But you wanted to know if there was anything . . . Sorry.’
‘Yeah, I meant, like leaving towels on the floor?’ He slumped down in the seat and put his headphones on. ‘Jeez.’
Out of the corner of his eye Martin could see Freddie’s leg jiggling. Well, he’d misjudged that, hadn’t he? But hang on, was he responsible for Freddie’s reactions?
They drove the rest of the way in ghastly silence, apart from the music leaking from the headphones. Martin parked on the gravel drive of the palace. Freddie disentangled himself from his technology. Still not talking.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but—’ Martin stopped aghast. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m lonely.’
‘But you have lots of friends! You’re out every night!’
Freddie shook his head. Wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘Dude, I’m so fucking lonely.’
Martin felt tears rush up. ‘Freddie!’ He reached out a hand and nearly touched him. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. I’m sure it’s only temporary. People love you. You’re always so popular.’
‘Nah. Everyone’s hey, cute dog! I wanna stroke the cute dog! But nobody’s like, y’know? Wants me? Gah. Sorry.’ He sniffed. ‘Got a tissue? Thanks. ’Kay, let’s go.’ He got out of the car and crunched off across the gravel.
Martin followed. ‘Look. We could go to the fair after work. If you want.’
Freddie spun round. ‘Seriously? Aw, sweet man! We should totally do that? Yeah.’
He’s just a little boy inside, thought Martin. How can I not have seen that before?
The days are drawing in now. It’s getting dark by nine o’clock. Tonight, and for the rest of August, the floodlights will not shine on Lindchester Cathedral. Visitors to the Close will see instead a simple light installation projected on to the west front. It is red. It looks almost like a smiley face with only one eye. It’s an Arabic letter ‘N’ for Nazarene. Sprayed on Christian doorways in northern Iraq, so that the angel of death will stop here, not pass over.
In windows all around the darkened Close, in vicarages and churches, in Christian homes across the diocese, across the nation, there are black posters with the same symbol. One by one the Twitter avatars are dimmed and replaced. We are all Ns. The cathedral shop sells candles with the N symbol. Pray. Pray. Pray. Give. Give. Give. The money saved by switching the floodlights off (£30 an hour) will be donated to relief work for fleeing Christians and other persecuted minorities.
The lamps are going out across the Levant, thinks Marion. It is nearly two in the morning and she can’t sleep. She stands alone in the dark gazing at the symbol. A red brand of anguish. Jesu, mercy. The clouds part. A few stars glint. Somewhere a car alarm goes off. The cathedral clock chimes two.
Do they feel our prayers? Marion shivers. There’s an autumn chill tonight. The clouds cover the few faint stars again. Is there a communion of saints, a web of souls? Are we all one? Is there a heaven? Is it right there, a hand’s width away, a breath away, a parallel universe in another dimension? Are those terrified martyrs bursting through, even now, as the blade butchers them? Are they stumbling through and plunging into glory? Oh, catch them, please catch them all.
Footsteps in the distance. A figure passes under the shadowy lime trees. Another restless soul? Ah, it’s Gene. He must have heard her leave the house.
He doesn’t say anything, just comes and drapes a coat round her. She leans her head on his shoulder. He wraps her in his arms and they sway together, back and forth, gently, very gently, as she sobs bitterly in the dark.
Chapter 17
Goldenrod droops in the unkempt vicarage gardens of Lindchester Diocese. Water cascades over clogged vicarage gutters. Oh, well. The diocesan housing officer’s probably on holiday. And anyway, not much point him sending someone to clear the gutters now, when before long all the leaves will fall and it will need doing again. For the most part, clergy just shrug and put up with it. They know the diocese is strapped for cash, that there are probably more urgent repairs to attend to elsewhere. And so the old wooden fences wag and knock in their concrete posts when the wind blows. The kitchen sink doesn’t drain properly. Cables snake from five- gang extension leads because there aren’t enough sockets. But vicarage families live with it. One day their turn may come for a new kitchen, or sealed double-glazing units, and that will eat up the budget for three normal vicarages. So for now, water crashes from the blocked gutter. It’s not as though they own the house, is it? No, or they’d make sure the job got done properly, rather than put up with the cowboys the diocese sends because their quote came in cheapest.
The gutters are not blocked in the vicarage at Gayden Magna, no siree. Neil gets them cleared twice a year and sends the bill to the diocese. The housing officer coughs up without a murmur. Please pretend I didn’t tell you that, and hold fast to the belief that work done on Lindchester vicarages is governed by a strict and fair schedule of repairs, rather than a league table of how big a nightmare the clergy spouse is. But the squeaky wheel gets the grease even in the Church, I fear.
The Gayden Magna wedding is now officially postponed until the New Year. Neil can’t bear the thought of distressing poor old Bishop Bob any further. No, not a word please. Bishop Bob is off limits. But the new bishop? Hah! The new bishop is going to get it with both great big gay barrels.
‘Yes, but what if the new bishop’s a nice guy too?’ asks Ed. ‘What if it’s Guilden Hargreaves?’
‘Who?’
‘Guilden Hargreaves. You know. Principal of Barchester Theological College.’
‘What, him with the big hair? Wait! Isn’t his mother Perdy Hargreaves? Oh my God! Dame Perdy? So he’s the new bishop! Does that mean you won’t get defrocked for marrying, like the others?’
‘Nobody’s been defrocked. They’ve been disciplined, or had their permission to officiate revoked.’
‘Whatever.’ Neil swats this casuistry away. ‘But Guilden will back you up, so excellent, about time! Let’s invite him to the wedding.’
‘Hold on, hold on, it’s just a rumour. Rupert Anderson’ – he pauses while Neil delivers an opinion on the archbishop – ‘has just gone on record saying there’s no reason why a gay priest—’
‘Pff! We’ve heard that before.’
‘Yes, but why would he emphasize it again now, if it’s not a signal?’
‘You know what, Eds? I have no idea. I have no idea what goes on in their heads. He’s probably got some Brazilian boyfriend stashed away somewhere. Half of them have. The last guy was a closet queen.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Oh, really? Talk to Roddy Fallon some time,’ says Neil. ‘Last summer he was that close to breaking the story, but then the fecking church Gestapo moved in and his source went to ground. Fine, don’t believe me then. You carry on thinking if we all just pray and wring our hands the haters will go away.’ He does his annoying knuckle-rap on Ed’s forehead. ‘Hello? You’ve got to campaign if you want anything to change. Roddy would do a feature on us in a heartbeat. Yeah, yeah, fine, I understand, Mr Nice Vicar. But for my money, it’s time to stop being nice. Let’s out tho
se hypocrites who keep voting against equal marriage, I say.’
Ed sighs. ‘I’ve got a funeral to take. Can you rant at me later?’
‘What about that replacement bishop you’ve got?’ Neil calls after him. ‘Where does he stand?’
‘Later.’
‘Fine.’
*
Where does the replacement bishop stand? He’s currently staying by himself in the vacant house in Vicars’ Court (the one Freddie turned down). His teenage daughters are off at some dangerous charismatic festival, the damaging effects of which will manifest themselves later in extreme helpfulness round the house. There’s no sign of a Brazilian boyfriend, but Harry Preece is a bit camp. We all know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Camp doesn’t equal gay. Freddie May is totally in love with him. Which doesn’t mean anything either. Freddie May would fall for a saltwater crocodile if it smiled at him sweetly.
So, Harry Preece remains a bit of a puzzle. We need to solve the puzzle. Because how can we possibly know how to behave towards someone unless we know what they are? Are you male or female, posh or common, gay or straight, saved, not saved, one of us, not one of us? And in Anglican circles, we would also like to know where to place you on the churchmanship spectrum, so that we know whether we agree with you. Harry is from an Evangelical stable, but is he an Open Evangelical? If so, how open? Flung wide (Accepting Evangelical)? Or simply ajar (OK with civil partnerships provided there’s no mincing)? We will not quite relax until we know where the bishop stands.
He does not on his dignity, anyway. Unlike Bishop Paul, Harry leaves the office door open. Every time Penelope or Martin tactfully close it for him, Harry opens it again. They have been forced to conclude that he wants it left that way.
It’s Wednesday morning. Martin has just made a big cafetière of Fair Trade coffee and is checking on his Swiss Railway watch to see if it’s ready to plunge. Uh-oh. Freddie has just popped in to scrounge a coffee and smoulder at the bishop. He’s taking a break from painting radiators at the school. He sits on Penelope’s desk in his undone painty overalls, swinging his feet in his undone work boots. Straps trailing, laces trailing, pheromones trailing. He looks (in Iona the sub-organist’s memorable words) as if he’s just had a swift shag in a broom cupboard. There’s a fresh tattoo on his inner forearm – a rainbow ichthus – still covered in clingfilm.
We will sneak in and eavesdrop.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Someone will be here to help you. Bye bye.’ Penelope put the phone down and stuck her tongue out at it. ‘Honestly, there’s no pleasing some people! Freddie, a gentleman’s coming this afternoon to collect the pictures he bought from Souls and Bodies. I don’t know where you put everything.’
‘Hnnh? Oh, it’s all in the palace dining room with labels on, Mish Moneypenny.’
‘Well, can you show me? He’s been a pain in the bottom about artwork being stored in an empty house,’ fretted Penelope. ‘The temperature and humidity, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Want me to deal with him?’
‘Would you? Oh, thank you, lovely boy.’
‘No worries. Text me when he comes.’
The bishop appeared in the doorway. ‘I smell coffee. Is it elevenses?’
Martin checked his watch again and carefully plunged the cafetière. ‘May I pour you a coffee too, Bishop?’
‘Yes, please!’ He beamed round at them all. Then his gaze focused on the prize Freddie had won at the fairground rifle range. ‘Why is that large pink bear wearing my mitre?’
‘Coz he’s a bishop? Gotta love a right reverend bear.’ Freddie swung his feet and lolled his tongue out.
Penelope swatted him.
‘That bear’s an imposter!’ cried Harry. ‘He’s never taken holy orders in his life! Where did he train?’
Martin pursed his lips. He crossed the office, removed the mitre and handed it to Harry.
‘Thank you, Martin. Now, about tonight, Penelope,’ said the bishop. ‘I notice I’m down to bless a window out in the sticks somewhere. Hmm. “Bless this window to our use and us in your service, amen.” That should cover it. Could you print me off some directions?’
‘Certainly. But aren’t you taking Martin?’
‘Should I?’
‘Well, he is the bishop’s chaplain,’ said Penelope.
‘Gosh, I’ve never had a chaplain,’ Harry said wistfully. ‘No, don’t worry. Seems a bit daft for two of us to trek out there.’
‘More than happy to come with you,’ said Martin.
‘Hey, lemme drive you?’ said Freddie. ‘I totally know this entire diocese coz I was Paul’s chauffeur back in the day?’
‘I think you’ll find you’re no longer insured,’ muttered Martin.
‘And? Not like I’ve forgotten how to drive.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Yeah? Screw you, Marty.’
‘Please don’t fight over me, darlings,’ said the bishop. ‘You’re both very kind, but why don’t you take the evening off? Penelope, if you could print off those directions, I’m sure I can manage. Thanks for the coffee.’ He took it back to his office.
Martin returned to his computer.
There was a silence.
Then Freddie yawned massively, stretched and rumpled his hair. ‘Laters, guys.’ He slouched off like a rough beast, towing laces and paint fumes and Le Male in his wake.
The holiday season speeds to its close. After the bank holiday we will no longer be able to pretend there’s anything left of the summer. Once again there will be meltdowns in Clark’s shoe shop. Good mothers will sew Cash’s nametapes into new uniforms. Bad mothers will scrawl their child’s name on the labels in Biro. Academics will ask themselves how the vacation has fled with so little writing getting done. School leavers prepare for uni by rewatching the entire Harry Potter oeuvre. Apples ripen and fall un-scrumped.
Martin’s daughters will be home tomorrow from their fortnight in Portugal. Jane and Dominic will shortly return from France, having eaten and drunk not wisely but too well. The archdeacon will collect them from the airport at some ungodly hour. Father Wendy is back from two weeks in Northumberland, where Pedro has run free on miles of sand.
He sits at her feet now in her study, as she talks to her curate Virginia. They have just done a belated end of first year review thingy. Not entirely a comfortable experience, because Virginia kept having to put her vicar right on points of process; but there, it’s done, and they are now eating cake. Gluten- and lactose-free cake, which Wendy has made specially, because she’s so lovely.
‘So, is there anything else?’ asks Wendy. Oh, no. Eek. There’s something horrid.
‘It’s awkward. Please don’t think I’m trying to angle for information about the new bishop. But there’s a rumour that it’s Guilden Hargreaves.’
‘Mmm,’ says Wendy.
‘Personally, I have no problem with that. But there are a lot of people in this diocese who aren’t happy with the way the Church seems to be going on the gay issue,’ says Virginia. ‘So if the rumours are right, there’s going to be a lot of protest and opposition. Including in our own congregations, Wendy. I know he’s single now, but he used to have a partner. People just aren’t comfortable with that. Do we have a statement prepared?’
‘Um, not as such, no. I think we can play it by ear, can’t we?’
Virginia frowns. ‘We need to be proactive. As a member of the CNC who made the appointment, I’m worried you’ll be a target, and—’
‘Oh, let’s just trust that God can work through it all.’ She puts a hand on Virginia’s arm. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded very preachy! I wish I could tell you everything, but—’
‘Of course you can’t!’ Virginia looks shocked at the very suggestion.
‘Anyway, we should have an announcement in September some time, so it’s not too long to wait. There’s no point fretting until then.’
‘She’s right, though, Pedro,’ says Wendy after her curate has gone. ‘A lot of folk a
re going to be very unhappy. Oh, dear.’
But Pedro is off in dreamland, chasing gulls on an endless Northumbrian shore.
A new choral year looms. Timothy, the director of music, is in the Song School library with a group of helpers, trying to impose order on decades of chaos. The windows are flung wide. Laurence, the cathedral organist, sits quietly in the corner with a rubber, erasing historic pencil marks from a dog-eared set of Stanford in G. Miss Barbara Blatherwick was here yesterday, but is off seeing the consultant about her pesky hip today. In her absence lewd lyrics for ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ are being improvised.
‘A young lay clerk with a bar in his scrote heard . . .’ sings Iona.
‘Lay-ee-odl-ay-ee!’ yodel the others responsorially.
‘Apropos of nothing,’ says Nigel, the senior lay clerk, ‘what’s happening with Mr May? Is he locked in his bromance with the bishop’s chaplain, or is he moving on to the Close?’
‘Giles says the canon treasurer has agreed to take him in,’ says Timothy from the top of a ladder. ‘God! This dust must be an inch thick!’ He brandishes his ostrich feather duster.
‘You can’t touch those cobwebs, Mr Director!’ cries Nigel. ‘They have a preservation order on them!’
‘Look, we never sing matins any more,’ says Iona, ‘so I vote we chuck this whole lot into the skip.’
There is an outcry at this dangerous heresy. It is tantamount to burning books, and only Nazis burn books. And so the venites, the benedicites, all the beloved settings of yesteryear, are allowed to crumble until some dim future when choirs carry smart tablets and paper is no more.
The funeral is over. Father Ed leaves the graveyard at Gayden Parva. The tumbled monuments are properly roped off now. A stone angel lies flat in the long grass. Ed pauses near the cross by the ancient yew. God is Love. Someone has strimmed the nettles at its foot down to stumps.
In my dying moments, what will still matter to me? he wonders. Will proving my point feel important? Or will love be all that remains of us? All I want to do is pledge myself to you, Neil. For better, for worse, richer, poorer, until it ends – as it surely must – here. At the grave. That is the only point I want to make by marrying you. It should be about you and me, not bishops and archbishops.
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