Only four more Fridays. Leah has worked it out. Only four more Fridays-after-school spent in this office. Ever. Daddy’s new job starts in January, and from then on Mummy will drop her and Jess off at his new office in Lindford, which is a lot closer to school. Oh, it’s so convenient for everybody, Mummy doesn’t have to use so much petrol and Jess won’t get car-sick. So everyone’s a winner!
Like Leah cares. Tuh.
Last Friday Bishop Harry and Penelope were saying to Daddy, ‘We need continuity, can you give us one day a week until the next bishop gets here?’ Leah prayed with her fingers crossed: Let him say yes, say Friday! Say yes, say Friday! Right, like prayer ever works. Because they decided Wednesdays. So this is the last four Fridays left. Whatever. Like who even cares?
Leah sits at Daddy’s desk and does her maths homework. Jess is under the desk playing with lame-tastic Barbie. If you stay really quiet, grown-ups forget you’re there. They think homework uses up your entire whole brain, so there’s no brain power left over to listen to what they’re saying. Seriously, who needs an invisibility cloak? Grown-ups are so dumb.
The archdeacon is getting married next week. Massive big secret. And the woman priest who everyone hates is going to Australia, and now she’s off with stress. Massive big secret. And Bishop Bob might be going to take early retirement. Massive big secret. Do they seriously think Leah can’t hear them? Maybe they think she’s as dumb as Jess, who can’t even crack the grown-up so-called ‘code’ of leaving gaps, and going ‘hmm-hmm’, and saying ‘You Know Who’, like they are talking about Voldemort. What kind of a duh-brain do you have to be, if you can’t work out who A Certain Lay Clerk is? (Next year she is so going to get some roman candles and fire them off like a gun in the back garden.)
But today nobody is talking. It’s boring. Why does everything in her life have to be so boring? She might as well be DEAD. She gives a push and the office chair spins. Someone has put a mitre and a bra on the big pink teddy bear, which is really inappropriate and childish. The clock says 4.20. Quickly, she fills in all the gaps on the sheet with random numbers, coz who cares about stupid maths? Oh, look, I got zero out of twenty, that is very disappointing, I am very disappointed, but I tried my best, Miss, that is what counts.
It’s cold and it’s getting dark, but Leah goes outside and does kata on the palace drive. Because she’s working towards her next grade, obviously. Not because she might see the choir men going to their practice soon, or anything.
Gah! Face-palm. Friday. She’s there again, poor kid. So Freddie heads round the Close the long way. Still, come the New Year, Marty will have started the (ha ha ha!) BLO job in Lindford. Maybe Freddie will swing past the palace on the last week, do a farewell kata with her? Yeah, be good to do that. He jogs to the Song School. Totally reminds him of himself back in the day? Three Choirs, hanging around Dr Jacks, all notice me, notice me!
And it totally kills him to think: that poor kid out there going through her moves in the dark? The one who can’t see it’s never, ever gonna happen? Honestly? – that’s him.
So, that woman priest everyone hates is ‘off with stress’. Do we believe her? Do we heck. Still, from Geoff’s point of view as her clergy colleague, it is a huge relief. He will not have to stand at the altar with her, pretending that her dagger handle is not jutting between his shoulder blades. Geoff has been cited as one of the causes of her stress. To my mind, this is a bit like all of the other reindeer filing a complaint against Rudolph for bullying in the workplace. With his sensible head on, Geoff knows this: but it still distresses him out of all proportion, and though he knows it is out of proportion, this doesn’t assuage the distress. Only time will mend this one. Time, and the absence of Veronica.
Why should she be allowed to get away with this? The tendency of this narrative is to imply that ultimately, there is no getting away with things. That is why we strain our eyes to the east in Advent – with all the yearning of a mother at the arrivals gate at Heathrow, straining for the first glimpse of her great shambling ogre of a son, back from New Zealand after nearly two years of absence. We watch and wait and long for the coming judgement. Or the coming mercy. Are they one and the same? Two sides of the same coin? Two different coins as far apart as the east is from the west? But by that, do we mean sunrise and sunset, or the Greenwich meridian? Maybe justice and mercy are divided by the entire universe, yet paired; quantumly entangled in ways the non-physicist cannot comprehend, so must humbly accept?
I will abandon this argument. Because right now, in the vicarage of Gayden Magna, a less metaphysical conundrum is being teased out, as Ed and Neil try to hang the six newly framed sketches in the dining room without killing one another.
‘I’m telling you, that looks fine to me, Neil.’
‘It’s not straight. No way is that straight.’
‘Well, it’s straight enough. Oh, for God’s sake, Neil!’
‘I’m downloading a spirit level app.’ He hums while he waits. Another old Sunday School chorus. ‘Mercy there was great and grace was free. Here we go. Ha! See there? See? I was right. Move that end up a bit. Not that end, you tool! Hey! Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Call me when you’re done, Neil, and I’ll come and admire it.’
‘Hello? We were supposed to be doing this together. As a couple? And another thing!’
Ed sighs. ‘What?’
‘Listen, I want Bishop Bob to marry us.’
‘Neil, he isn’t allowed to, and we can’t ask him. It’s not fair on him—’
‘I know that! What, do I look stupid? Do you think I want to give him another heart attack? If I’m honest, I’m thinking with hindsight you were wrong to drag him out here to meet us. I mean, you weren’t to know, obviously.’
Ed gawps in disbelief. ‘That was you! You insisted on it!’
‘Well, we’ll not argue. I’m thinking he’s not long off retiring, is he? Can he maybe marry us when he’s retired?’
‘No! Get it into your head: C of E clergy are barred from conducting same-sex marriages. If you insist on Bob doing it, you’ll have to wait till the legislation changes.’
‘Och, well. Maybe we should get civil partnered while we wait? Then we’d be something. I hate all this . . . this no proper status thing, Eds. Think about it? I know you’re dead set against it, but will you at least consider it?’
‘What? What are you on about? I’m not dead set against it. That was you, remember? You’re the one pushing for—’
‘Well, you’re wrong, but we’ll not argue. Psht! Stop arguing. Just promise you’ll think it over?’
‘I don’t need to think it over! I’d do it now, Neil.’
‘Aye, you say that, but I mean, do it soon. ASAP. Before—’
‘You’re not listening!’
‘I am listening! Ssh! – before Christmas. Coz we could, our notice is still valid. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘And I’m saying Yes. Idiot! YES, let’s do it! Shall I ring the register office now?’
‘Och, no need. Way ahead of you.’ Neil grins. ‘Wanna get hitched next Friday, big man?’
Chapter 31
Wake, O wake! with tidings thrilling
The watchmen all the air are filling,
Arise, Jerusalem, arise!
Jane watches her sleeping son. He lies on the sofa under a nice cuddly red throw. Jane bought the throw when it became clear that no amount of brute force was sufficient to cram the sofa cushions back into their shrunken covers. Danny lies like a felled pylon, face down, snoring. Jane remembers how you lose sleep at university, then spend the rest of your life trying to catch up. And if you go on to become a mother, that second tsunami of sleep deprivation means your infrastructure never fully recovers. And this is why I am such a grumpy old cow, my darling boy. I blame you. She strokes the mane of black curls back from his face. He doesn’t stir.
Bookends. Those choo-choo train bookends. Where did they get to? Jane can picture them. Handmade, wooden, brightl
y painted. A gift from Paul and Susanna Henderson, the closest Danny had to godparents. Bookends and an illustrated Children’s Bible. Packed off to the charity shop in some purge or other, probably that time she humanely culled the menagerie of soft toys. Oh dear, and that Mother’s Day necklace, wooden beads from a car-seat cover, strung on an orange bootlace. Should’ve kept that. I could’ve worn it to my – argh! Deep breath and say it – WEDDING.
This is a bookend moment. The close bracket round Danny’s childhood. There was a life before Project Motherhood, and there will be life beyond. Two decades ago – straight out of hospital – she’d sat by his cot (reeling, schnockered with exhaustion!) and watched her little curled-up dab of a thing, burrowed face down into the sheet, black wisps on his head, bum in the air. This is it; from now on, the wheels on the motherhood bus go round and round. I’ve got to drive safely, keep you alive and drop you off in adulthood in one piece. Brahms’ ‘Lullaby’ tinkling in the background. Garish yellow activity bear clamped to the cot bars.
Totally verboten, allowing your babe to sleep face down, but no matter how dutifully I put you on your back, you ended up on your front. Ha, my first insight into your sweet stubbornness. And now I’m watching you again, fast asleep, aged nearly twenty. Knowing full well that there’s no way you’re going to come clothes shopping with me today. No, sadly, I can no longer chop you in the back of the knees, fold you into your buggy and strap you firmly in place.
Look at you! You big, funny, kind man. You’ll make some lucky gal very happy. Or guy? Probably gal. Flashback to Christmas before last – the icy heart-stopper of surprising Danny under the palace mistletoe with young tarty-pants. A game of ‘gay chicken’, it turned out. Lovely. And did you not clock that Freddie’s probably going to win that one, son? Yes, but The Dare, mother! The Dare is sacred! Oh, the strange Samurai mentality of teen boys. And the hetero-normative knee-jerk reaction of even the most liberal of mothers . . .
Jane kisses his sleeping brow and gets to her feet. No, she’ll bully Dom into shopping with her instead. His line’s engaged, so she leaves a message.
Poor old Father Dominic. In the midst of dry-mopping his pale oak laminate kitchen floor, he finds himself in a Groundhog Day moment:
‘Oh! Omigod! You’re finally, finally getting hitched! About time too! That is so exciting! Oh Ed, I’m so happy for you!’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Can I give you away? Can I be your matron of honour? Or shall I just sit and cry happy tears?’
‘We’d like you to be a witness, but please cry. I’m counting on you to cry, in the absence of any mothers of the groom.’
‘Oh, I won’t fail you. Buckets of happy tears guaranteed, Father. I’m so excited! But I thought you were planning on getting married, not civil partnering?’
‘Yes, well, this is a staging post on the way to marriage. A holding position. While we wait for some change of heart in the House of Bishops.’
‘Really? But I thought . . . Neil . . . ?’
‘Ours is not to reason why, Father. Mr Ferguson has decided.’
‘I see. Well, goody-good.’
Pause.
‘Look, I’m not hen-pecked, Dom.’
‘Of course not! Neil’s not a hen. He can be a bit of a—’
‘Yes, I see where you’re going with the poultry imagery, there. Moving on. It’s just a low-key private thing. The big fat gay wedding is deferred till further notice.’
‘Well, that will give Neil lots of time to plan everything properly, won’t it?’
‘Jesu mercy! I mean, yes, yes, it will. So, Lindford register office, this Friday at eleven o’clock. OK?’
‘OK. Wait! This Friday?’
‘You’re shrieking in my ear, Father.’
‘Omigod, omigod! This Friday, as in the twenty-eighth?’
‘Yes. It’s the only slot they had left this side of Christmas. Is that a problem?’
‘No! It’s— Eek! Short notice, that’s all. Eleven, you said? No, no, that’s absolutely fine. I’ll be there, ha ha ha! So! What’s the dress code?’
‘The dress code is: “Tell him not to dress like a wee nellie vicar”.’
‘Oh, thanks a bunch! I’ve actually just bought a very suave new suit, I’ll have you know.’
‘That sounds perfect.’
‘And just for the record, your fiancé’s a cock.’
Ed laughs. ‘That’s never been in any doubt.’
Poor Father Dominic hangs up and has a little weep. Then he wipes his eyes, picks up his fluffy dust mop, and waltzes round his kitchen doing his best Lily Morris impression. ‘Why am I always the witness, never the blushing bride?’
Oh, oh, oh! How ghastly – but how hilarious! Ed and Neil following hot on the heels of Jane and the archdeacon! In the same register office! Oh, Lord – the bridal parties are going to tangle in the foyer, aren’t they? He pictures old Janey, emerging with a face like thunder – having endured the patriarchal bollocks of marriage – and bumping into Ed and Neil, as they arrive to make do with the staging post of civil partnership. The scene unfolds like a Whitehall farce in Dominic’s imagination. Because – help! – Janey has invited the blond mantrap to come and sing during the signing of the register. Oh no, oh no! Is it Dominic’s place to say something? He knows Ed can’t stand the sight of Freddie (no explanation necessary there, Dom has known Neil for years).
No. Stop fretting. Not my responsibility. We’ll muddle through. That’s all we can ever do, thinks Dominic. Live generously, muddle through. Keep on walking towards the light, beckoned on by little glimpses of glory, until finally we arrive home. And then the meaning will burst in on us. Oh, it was you, it was you all along! No more marrying and giving in marriage. Everything will be scooped up, everything will marry up. Everything in heaven and on earth. And no one will be left outside weeping any more.
Well, well, it’s early Advent. Each year he longs for it more. The New Year. A chance to recalibrate the heart’s instruments, get his bearings, and set out once again on the right path. Dominic abandons his beloved music hall repertoire in favour of Wachet auf and – like a virgin wise – finishes mopping his floor:
The Bridegroom comes in sight,
Raise high your torches bright!
Alleluya! The wedding song swells loud and strong:
Go forth and join the festal throng!
*
Bookends. I fear that before many more years have passed they will become an oddity. Like paperweights and blotters, they will join the paraphernalia of period drama. Discarded bookends will clutter up charity shop shelves among the ashtrays and videos. But for now, a set of bookends still has enough resonance for me to venture upon an extended metaphor. We began this narrative with a question: who will be the new bishop? And now, as neatly as the other bookend, our tale ends with the answer: on Monday, in York, the Confirmation of Election took place of the Rt Revd Stephen Henry Pennington as Bishop of Lindchester.
Although our rules forbid us to join the select throng gathered in the Minster, I can assure the reader that everything was done correctly. A confirmation of election is essentially the medieval equivalent of an ID check. Is this the real Steve Pennington? Prove it! The process is no longer conducted in Latin behind closed doors, but it retains a medieval theatricality. Anyone blundering in might wonder whether they’ve interrupted a D’Oyly Carte rehearsal. There’s a pleasing amount of poncing about in wigs, with apparitors, letters patent, advocates submitting that ‘all the matters set forth in these exhibits respectively were and are true and were done as therein described’, and proctors stating, ‘I porrect a definitive Sentence or Final Decree in writing which I pray to be read and declared.’ After a great deal of quasi-medieval frolicking, the definitive Sentence or Final Decree is read, declared and signed and – phew! – Steve Pennington is now officially Bishop of Lindchester.
Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah! My days, that took long enough, didn’t it? Of course, Steve and his fragrant wife won’t
actually move into the palace yet. Goodness me, no! Quite apart from the fact that the new wet room isn’t finished, nor the oatmeal carpets banished and every trace of the last regime purged, we haven’t had the service of installation yet. And although that won’t take quite as long to plan and get perfect as a big fat gay wedding, we are unlikely to receive our invitations till next year. If Dean and Chapter get a move on, the new bishop might be installed by Easter.
In the meantime, Bishop Harry will continue holding the fort. After Christmas our good friend Bishop Bob will be back at work full time. He is easing himself in now, taking it steady, aware every hour, every minute, of his patient, faithful heart; still beating (still beating!), conscious all the time how he carries it in the crib of his chest, carefully, carefully, like a newborn, not jolting it (hush, it will be all right). And how it carries him.
The archdeacon has survived his stag do. He was taken paintballing by his stepson-to-be and young tarty-pants. Jane’s fear that the two of them would gang up on her beloved was not misplaced. But Matt proved the truth of the adage that age and treachery always overcome youth and skill. He also underlined a piece of ancient church lore: Never piss off an archdeacon.
Nobody dared suggest a hen do.
And so The Day arrived. Black Friday – that bacchanalia of acquisitiveness. The scope for mordant humour was not lost on Jane. She battled through shoppers and arrived at Lindford Town Hall in her long knock-out sexy red frock and black velvet opera coat. Yes, carrying a fecking bouquet, because Dom had bought her one, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And anyway, it gave her something to do with her hands, other than box people’s ears or strangle herself. Long-stemmed red roses, a mere thirty this time, trailing black organza ribbons. Pah.
There was Dom in his new suit and pointy shoes. Danny in a new shirt and clean jeans to be a credit to his mum and to adorn the office of witness. Freddie in tight black with almost as much cleavage going on as the bride.
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