Freddie picked up his glass and drank. His eyes were bright. Was he going to cry? Oh, Jesus. But she was right, wasn’t she? Yes? Argh.
‘A of all, how do you know I haven’t met him, Jane? I might’ve. And B of all, what the actual fuck? Why’s it all so left brain with you? What if maybe marriage is the house, yeah? And that’s where you live, and that’s your home, your dwelling place, and it’s all like . . . this shadow? Of . . . As in, I’m so homesick, I just wanna go home? To be with him for ever?’
Jane narrowed her eyes. Was that a will-o’-the-wisp of coherence glimmering in this wombling morass? ‘What are you proposing here, exactly?’ she asked. In her left-brainy bitch-tutor from hell kind of way. ‘Is this a plea for a more metaphorical type of discourse?’
‘Yeah!’ The radiant stoner smile. ‘God and marriage and everything all one? The New Jerusalem? It’s all, I dunno, like one awesome metaphor?’ Pause. ‘Except technically, that would be a simile?’
She stabbed a finger at his chest. ‘You, my little friend, are a whole lot brighter than you let on.’
‘Hnn? Me?’ He grinned and rattled his tongue stud round his teeth.
Yeah, you. Only you’re wired for an off-kilter brilliance that school never managed to fire up. ‘Was that it, or is there a “C of all”?’
‘Yeah – C of all, Janey, Janey, Janey.’ He stroked her arm again. ‘Don’t you wanna be with Matt?’
It was her turn to pick up her glass. Probably her eyes were bright too. ‘Yep.’
‘Then maybe just get over yourself, girlfriend? You can commit feminist hara-kiri after.’
The clocks have gone back. Dark evenings swoop at us on Halloween wings. The tail end of another hurricane lashes the country. Afterwards, in Lindford and Lindchester, Martonbury and Cardingforth, the streets are graveyards of trashed umbrellas. Spokes jut from muddy grass like pterodactyl fossils. But still it is warm. No frost has nipped leaf from twig yet. Sumachs and cherries blaze in astonishing Neverland splashes of colour. True, under the knobbled, crippled urban planes you will see yellow leaves the size of dinner plates gathered in gutters, and the sound of the leaf-blower is heard in the land. But for all these wild winds, most of the trees are still in leaf and many are still green. In this uncanny unlooked-for clemency, something overshadows the heart. Why, this is judgement, nor are we out of it.
There is movement in the palace this half term week. If we wander casually past – I know, let’s pretend we are off to the cathedral shop to buy Advent calendars – we may glimpse the bishop elect and his wife measuring up for curtains. The clerk of works and the diocesan finance officer accompany them, to salute and say, ‘New wet room? Yes, Bishop, how wet do you want it?’ (The Penningtons are old hands – they know how to get most of what they’d like without looking acquisitive or high maintenance; which is lovely, because they really aren’t grasping, difficult people.)
Let us press our faces against the dining-room window, where the ‘sold’ pictures from the Souls and Bodies exhibition were temporarily stored, and an act of greedy concupiscence was averted by a ringing phone. Bishop elect Steve is taking photos of the off-white walls and oatmeal carpet with his iPad. Mrs Bishop elect Sonya holds a trade paint palette, like a massive unwieldy fan. It is so comprehensive in its fractional tint gradation that every single Farrow and Ball colour can be perfectly matched. Mrs Pennington is minded to have a red dining room. We will permit her a red dining room (though Neil would tell her that these have had their day) because a new bishop’s wife must be allowed to put her stamp on her own home. She needs to demonstrate in a bold splash of Rectory Red (or rather, 07YR 10/489) that she is not Susanna Henderson. If she had private means she’d have the Aga replaced by a smart electric range cooker with a gas hob. The Aga has to stay, but by golly, there will be real colour in the palace in the new regime! Pale pistachio, farewell! Faded raspberry, adieu! I’m sorry to say that Sonya’s taste in interior design was forged in the furnace of the 1990s and has not evolved since then. We may look for a lot of bold Victoriana and/or adobe-style rusticity when Steve’s reign begins next year.
There will be other changes when the Penningtons arrive. Oh, Penelope! Your boss-to-be looks like a smooth outward-facing high-tech networking operator, doesn’t he? More so than Paul Henderson, even; and heaven knows, Paul’s mitre appeared above the diocesan waves like the first laser shark in a dot matrix sea. And although you know the ins and outs, the quirks and oddities of the diocese like nobody else, Penelope, you are part of a bygone era. In short, you are a lovely, lovely, old style bishop’s PA. I’m afraid that a little conversation will happen soon after Bishop Steve is installed. He will sit down with you and wonder aloud whether this is really working? Whether you’d be happier in another role?
I wouldn’t like my readers to think that the new bishop is a monster. He is a really nice guy. But he is slick. Not too slick, not quite. He has a slickness rating of 6.2 (on a scale where 7 starts to curl toes, 8 deserves a smack, 9 is Tony Blair, and 10, the antichrist). So you will understand that Steve is going to need the right kind of PA. In fact, he might even need a EA, an executive assistant; which is like a PA, only you mustn’t call them that to their face. Nobody likes sacking lovely people. But Steve has learned that sometimes it has to be done. And if it’s got to be done, it’s worth grasping the nettle right at the start.
Oh, dear. I fear the reader is now predisposed to hate the next Bishop of Lindchester. Perhaps it would help if I told you that there is one person who would wholeheartedly endorse his trenchancy on the matter of PAs. A surprising person! It is our good friend the dean. Yes, if Marion could have her time over, she’d get rid of her inherited PA right at the start. Honestly, how can you have a dean’s PA who exudes the impression that she’d be able to do her job so much better if the dean didn’t keep coming in and making demands on her time!
Poor Marion is still under a lot of pressure. Let us rejoice with her, then, that the cathedral’s bid for a chunk of the £20 million First World War commemoration pot has been successful. That £270,000 will knock a bit off the £7.8 million needed to prevent the steeple toppling. She does rejoice, of course she does; but there’s been another flurry of unhelpful speculation about Who Will Be The First Woman Bishop, after the passage of the bill through the Commons. Inevitably, the CNC debacle was raked over again, and the suggestion lingers that Marion is either a closet homophobe, or a lily-livered liberal who gives way to bullying conservatives. It will pass. Marion tries to school her soul into accepting that there may be no closure, she may never learn the truth. How foolish to let her sense of self become defined by this! And yet the process lingers in her mind like a play missing the last act, a jumper pulled off the needles without being properly cast off.
I’m pleased to say that there are people looking out for Marion. Bishop Harry is a steady confidant; he soothes her with his unflappable good humour, his eye for the big and lovely picture of grace. And her Chapter colleagues support her in every way they can. They do their own jobs well, they eschew all moaning of a non-essential kind, and viciously impersonate any member of the cathedral, diocese or Close community who steps out of line. Miss Blatherwick, spotting the culinary chasm left by the departed Susanna, bakes Marion a batch of parkin. And that sweet dozy Freddie May always asks Mrs Dean how she’s doing after evensong. But these good folk are only an ad hoc company of foot soldiers. Where is the general, with his maps and fiendish acumen?
O-ho, Gene is on the case, don’t you worry. He rightly identifies the lack of closure as the thing that most torments his beloved deanissima. He concedes that while it would undeniably be fun, it is sadly not possible for him to make a little late-night call on each member of the CNC in turn, with his ice hockey mask and electric drill. So he focuses his ingenuity elsewhere, and books a table for four in a swanky Michelin-starred restaurant – the sort of place where you are served an amuse-bouche of snail foam on clam fudge – midway between Lindchester and Barchester. He sets
up a meeting. Happy are those called to that banquet!
I would love to book the table next to theirs and eavesdrop – and pretend in a genteel English way not to have recognized Perdita Hargreaves – but there are narrative rules, reader. We must adhere to them, or I would end up having to mediate between you and the entire Anglican Communion worldwide. One small diocese is doing my head in, frankly. And besides, I can’t afford to eat in places like that. As a small concession, we will join Marion and Gene on the way home, as their car approaches Lindchester the following day.
‘Well, thank you, darling. That’s set my mind at rest. He’s such a lovely man, isn’t he? I knew I was being daft imagining that he blamed me.’
‘Has he bounced back, or has he got something else lined up, do you think?’ says Gene.
‘We-e-ll, I did wonder.’
‘Ooh! Where? Which other sees are vacant at the moment?’
‘The answer is a Google search away, darling.’
‘You know, but you aren’t telling me!’
‘I don’t know anything. Like you, I’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘Talking of vacancies, how goes the lady bishops’ race?’
Marion sighs. ‘It’s not a race.’
‘I like to think of it as a race. Tits first to the palace. I’d back you to win any time.’
Marion leans forward and turns the radio on. Some beautiful piece of Elizabethan polyphony pours out of the speakers. She leans forward again and turns it off.
‘Yes, a bit of a busman’s holiday,’ says Gene. ‘Shall I sing to you instead? I do a fine Peter Pears impression.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Marion closes her eyes and laughs, while he warbles his way decorously through an unspeakably filthy English and Afrikaans rugby song recital. It lasts till they are safely back in the Close. Yes, she thinks she can probably let the CNC go now, closure or no closure.
The Vicar of St James’ Lindford peers into the church office. Thank God, Veronica is not there. He unclenches a little and crosses to the computer. It’s turned on. He moves the mouse. Oh, Lord! She’s forgotten to log off. Doosh, doosh. Geoff’s pulse sloshes in his ears. He could check everything. All her files, her emails, her browsing history. He looks round in panic. Listens. Silence, apart from the traffic, and the sound of metal shutters dropping in shops nearby.
Do it! He grips the mouse. Quickly!
No, I can’t. Can’t stoop to this.
As he dithers, ping! a new email arrives. The small box appears in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Then fades.
Roderick Fallon
RE: Some More Information – Thanks for this, Veronica, I’ll . . .
Chapter 27
What would you do if you found yourself in Geoff’s position? Would you open the email and devour the entire thread in a welter of righteous indignation? And then would you swiftly forward it to yourself, CC-ing the archdeacon, the dean, the acting bishop, the Archbishop of York . . .
His hand hovered. Go, Geoff, go! Use a bit of worldly nous for once. Surely this opportunity has appeared, gift-wrapped, an answer to your prayers? Seriously, Geoff, you are innocent here. She left her account open – perhaps at some level she wants to be caught out? You have a responsibility to do this: to your fellow CNC members, to Guilden! Now’s your chance to set the record straight, right a few wrongs.
And to get rid of her . . .
BOOM! A firework went off right outside the church. Geoff leapt out of his skin.
Slowly he moved the mouse –
Click –
And logged off Veronica’s account. The last shutter came clattering down outside. Silence. He stared at the screen. What had he come into the office to do? He couldn’t remember. Oh yes, the order of service for All Saints. And the street pastors’ rota. But he continued to stare, as stray fireworks shook the dusk.
What? you cry. Does vengeance not belong to the godlike narrator? Could you not have compelled Geoff to dob Veronica in? Of course I could. But then he would no longer be Geoff. I’m very sorry about that. I know that you have been longing for Veronica to get her comeuppance. Geoff acted in accordance with a lifelong habit of trying to do the right thing, to steer his little canoe by the Pole star, however lost and far from home he might feel. He thinks he’s a coward, of course. But the same habit of integrity will later make him challenge Veronica about what he saw, and require an explanation from her about her email correspondence with Roderick Fallon. He will not relish that encounter, but he will do it nonetheless. No, he’s not a coward. Bravery consists in overcoming fear, not in being fearless.
It is early evening on Wednesday. There’s singing in the vicarage at Gayden Magna. Ed pauses to listen. Neil has a surprisingly nice voice, bold and tuneful, if untrained. With an extensive pop diva repertoire at his fingertips, he’s never bashful in a karaoke session. But Ed has recently discovered – to his vast amusement – that Neil also has a secret stash of Sunday School choruses hidden away in his memory banks. Ed is saying nothing. He doesn’t want Neil to get self-conscious and stop.
I met Jesus at the crossroads,
Where the two ways meet!
Satan too was standing there and he said come this way!
Ed stifles a laugh.
Lots and lots of pleasures I can give to you today!
But I said ‘No!’ . . .
Ed shakes his head and goes back to composing his Rector’s Letter for the church magazine. Sometimes it feels as though Neil has a more full-on relationship with his non-existent God than Ed has with the maker of heaven and earth, whose existence he daily affirms.
. . . There’s Jesus here, just look what he offers me . . .
Neil’s footsteps approach the study. ‘What d’you think, big man? Does this tie work better?’
‘I’ve told you, it’s informal, Neil.’
‘And are you wearing your dog collar? I rest my case.’ He stands on tiptoe and checks his reflection in Ed’s little mirror above the filing cabinet. ‘Down here my sins forgiven, up there a home in heaven! Praise God, that’s the way for me! Well?’ He wheels round. ‘This one, or the other one? Come on, focus!’
‘That one. Definitely.’ He watches Neil’s face for a clue. ‘Or maybe the other one. Yes, the other one.’
Neil folds his arms. ‘Uh-huh. Describe the other one.’
‘Well, it was different. In some important aesthetic way, it was subtly different.’ Ed flings his hands up in defeat. ‘I honestly have no idea, Neil. Wear what you like. I’m guessing the Hootys’ good opinion is based less on your snappy dress sense than on the fact that you saved his life.’
‘Och, don’t start that again.’
‘Besides, you’re hot whatever you’re wearing, darling.’
‘And?’ Neil rolls his hand. ‘Keep going.’
‘You are hotter than a hot thing. You’re smoking hot.’ Hand roll. ‘Piping hot. God, Neil, you are hotter than Satan’s crumpets at high tea in hell! Argh, my retinas just melted! I can’t—’
‘OK, fuck off now. You’ve spoilt it.’ He consults the mirror once more. ‘Well, I’ll wear this one, then. Oh, and I’ve ironed your black shirt, by the way. That’s seriously your best shirt? How old is it? Twenty years?! You need some new ones. Yes, you do. The collar’s worn out.’
‘I’ll touch it up with a black marker pen. It’ll be fine.’
‘Marker pen?!’ utters Neil in Bracknellian tones. ‘I’m buying you some new ones. Pssht. Don’t argue. Now, go and get changed. Chop chop.’
It’s still a good hour until they need to set off for supper at the bishop’s, but Ed discerns it’s no use arguing.
All Saints Day, and the cathedral choir are still on vacation. On Sunday a visiting choir does the honours. They tick that most important of boxes: they are in tune. They are also audible, and they don’t come a cropper by over-reaching themselves. (O visiting choirs, I charge you, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels.)
Why, then, is our
friend the canon precentor in such difficulties? He stands rigid beside the dean at the altar. He maintains the orans position stiffly through the preface, hands lined up with nipples like the rubric states, and braces himself for the Sanctus and Benedictus with gritted teeth.
Here’s why: the choir contains one of those sopranos. You know what I mean. Perfectly in tune, but incapable of blending in. Her reedy tones stand out the way middle C on the Song School piano would, if you were to stick a drawing pin into the hammer – as a certain chorister from hell demonstrated a dozen years ago.
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,
Dominus Deus Sabaoth . . .
Probably the soprano was rather an accomplished singer in her prime. But yikes. If Giles were this choir’s director he’d have her humanely put down.
Giles thinks that’s what he’d do, but in reality, it’s never that straightforward. There are many reasons for not getting rid of screechy sopranos. Compassion, denial, stark terror; or the choral table of kindred and affinity, which forbids the sacking of close relatives or spouses. We must not blame the singer too much. Perhaps she wonders, perhaps she even asks her fellow choir members whether she’s still up to scratch. And they, being English, speedily reassure her, and continue to moan behind her back for many years to come.
Ah, the gulf that still exists between us and the kingdom. We are four Sundays from Advent. O Radix David, open wide the door to the heavenly quire! From east and west, north and south, let them come; let every voice prepare a song, ready to enter that gate and dwell in that house where there shall be no tone deafness nor virtuosity, but one equal anthem.
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