by Kate Charles
The Feast of St Anne, the church’s annual Patronal Festival. It had always been the highlight of Emily’s year, as long as she could remember. As a small girl growing up in this church she’d loved the sights, the sounds, the smells of this day – the cloth-of-gold, the choir, the incense. She loved the banner carried in procession, the one with St Anne, mother of Our Lady, teaching the young Mary to read. That banner, weakened by age, was now only brought out once a year, on this feast day.
She drew in her breath in anticipation as the doors at the north-east of the nave opened and the procession entered. Sebastian, making his first appearance as boat boy, walked solemnly beside the thurifer. He’d been looking forward to this day for a long time. Emily felt Viola tense beside her, and gave her shoulder a little squeeze of sympathy.
The thurifer swung the heavy silver thurible straight in front of him, releasing an aromatic cloud of smoke. By the time the choir entered, behind the crucifer and acolytes, it was becoming difficult to see. But there it was – the banner. And there, just ahead of the Bishop, resplendent in cloth-of-gold, was Gabriel.
Beautiful Gabriel. That first time, ten years ago it was, she hadn’t even seen him at first, so entranced she’d been with the banner. But once she’d seen him she hadn’t taken her eyes off him for the rest of the service. Gabriel had been thirty then, but looked younger. His was the heartbreaking androgynous beauty of a Burne-Jones angel: tall and slender, luminous pale skin, high cheekbones, long straight nose, deep-set eyes, startling in their blueness and fringed with dark thick lashes, lips that were soft and rounded without being full. His hair was auburn, wavy and worn a fraction longer than the current fashion, but it suited him so completely that it never occurred to anyone to criticise it. And now, after ten years, he was little changed, his hair perhaps shorter but without a touch of grey, his face smooth and unlined, his figure slim as ever. As he passed by, Emily smiled at him with love.
Involved in his own observations, Gabriel missed her smile. The church looked splendid, he thought – full marks to Daphne, who was chiefly responsible, and to all the ladies who’d worked so hard cleaning and polishing. He’d have to remember to thank them. The procession passed under the rood screen; each person moved smoothly to his appointed place. The servers were doing uncommonly well – he’d have a word with Tony later to compliment him. Now he smiled at Tony as he brought the book forward for the collect; the young man returned his smile discreetly. Sebastian, clutching the silver incense boat, was behaving beautifully, conscientiously following the thurifer’s every move. It was a shame that Viola had taken it so hard, but she had to understand that there were still certain things that girls couldn’t do.
As the choir began the Gloria and he settled into his seat, Gabriel’s eyes moved over the congregation. His thoughts, so carefully under control until now, moved back inexorably to that piece of paper. He finally articulated to himself the terrifying question: who had sent it? Who had crept up to his door early this morning and slipped the envelope through the letter-box? Who could hate him that much? And most frightening of all, who could possibly know about that terrible time in Brighton, so long ago?
He collected himself during the readings, concentrating very hard on the words, and prepared himself for the sermon. The choir chanted the psalm set for the day; its words reinforced his calm.
Blessed are all they that fear the Lord: and walk in his ways.
For thou shalt eat the labours of thine hands:
O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be.
Thy wife shall be the fruitful vine: upon the walls of thine house.
Thy children like the olive-branches: round about thy table.
Lo, thus shall the man be blessed: that feareth the Lord.
The Lord from out of Sion shall so bless thee: that thou shalt see Jerusalem in prosperity all thy life long.
Yea, that thou shalt see thy children’s children: and peace upon Israel.
As he stepped into the pulpit, Gabriel was well in control. The congregation settled back with a collective sigh for one of his famous sermons. He was justly famed, for he was a spellbinding speaker. Although he was a scholar of some note, with an impressive intellect, his sermons were never dry exercises in scholarship. He had a gift for making the most abstract and esoteric concept understandable, and in a way that made his listeners feel that they not only understood it, but had known it all along. With his compelling beauty and his eloquent and charismatic delivery, it was said that no one had ever slept through one of Father Gabriel Neville’s sermons. Today he spoke movingly on the subject of Grace, the literal translation of the Hebrew name Anne.
As he preached, he made eye contact with the congregation, one after another, though their presence barely registered with him. Emily, near the front, gazing at him with rapt love, with Viola beside her. The churchwardens, flanking the aisles. Lady Constance, in her customary pew on the left. Daphne at the back. The Dawsons, their usual disapproving looks softened by his rhetoric.
One of his gifts as a preacher was knowing when to stop, and he sat down leaving his listeners wanting more. The choir sang the Credo, the Intercessions were made, the Prayers of Penitence said, and the Bishop stepped forward for the Absolution.
Forgive us all that is past . . .
The Mass. The Bishop was celebrating, so Gabriel could stand to the side and let the familiar words of the Prayer of Consecration slip through his mind like rosary beads through his fingers. With angels and archangels . . .
The Agnus Dei soared high into the polychromed roof as Gabriel took the silver chalice and moved to the rail. His mind was numb, the twin questions beating a painful tattoo in his head: Who hates me? Who knows?
They came forward and knelt one by one, and he looked searchingly at each one as he proffered the chalice. The servers knelt first. Ahead of Gabriel, Sebastian gazed up suitably awe-struck as the Bishop’s hand rested momentarily in blessing on his dark head. Old Percy ‘Venerable’ Bead. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who knows? The two youngsters, Johnnie and Chris. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who hates me? Tony Kent. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who knows? Lady Constance the next to receive communion from the Bishop, as was her due. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who hates me? Miles Taylor, down from his perch in the organ loft. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Emily. The Dawsons, two little grey people, together as always. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who knows? Daphne Elford, solid and comfortable. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who hates me? The churchwardens at the end, Wing Commander Cyril Fitzjames and Mavis Conwell. ‘The blood of Christ.’ Who knows? Who hates me? Who knows? Who knows?
CHAPTER 2
Thou shalt hide them privily by thine own presence from the provoking of all men: thou shalt keep them secretly in thy tabernacle from the strife of tongues.
Psalm 31.22
The Bishop had managed to arrive and robe with a minimum of fuss, but after the service he found himself the object of Percy Bead’s hovering ministrations. ‘Right Reverend Father, let me take your mitre. If I may say so, it’s a lovely one.’ Percy’s short fingers lingered over the rich gold embroidery. ‘May I help you with your cope? We have to take particular care with this gold set.’
‘It’s a beautiful Mass set – one of the finest I’ve seen in a long while. You’re very lucky to have it.’
Percy, characteristically, took that as a personal compliment and beamed. ‘Yes. It was a gift from Lady Constance Oliver, just after her husband died, so that goes back a long way. We’d never be able to replace it today. You just can’t get materials like that any more.’ He grew confidential. ‘There aren’t many left in the church who remember back that far. I’m one of the old ones, you see. Me, Lady Constance, Cyril Fitzjames.’
Percy Bead, known to all as ‘Venerable’, was possessed of strongly held opinions about everything, and he never hesitated to share them. The Bishop, who had only recently become Area Bishop, realised that this could be a valuable asset on his periodic visits to St Anne’s, Kensington
Gardens. He measured up the old man, squat in his black cassock. ‘I suppose you’ve seen quite a few Vicars come and go.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen them all. We had a grand tradition here in the old days. Mind you, we manage to keep things up a lot better than they do most places nowadays.’ His disapproving sniff conveyed a great deal. ‘You’ve got to hand it to Father Gabriel – he does insist on maintaining standards.’ A crafty look crossed his face. ‘Of course, he might not be here that much longer. With the Archdeacon retiring . . . some people think he’s about due for a promotion.’
The Bishop smiled non-committally. He’d been right – there was speculation in the church. They’d be looking for an announcement soon. How would the news be received? Ten years was long enough for a priest to stay in a parish. Would Gabriel Neville’s departure be mourned?
The other servers, awed by the Bishop’s presence, stayed out of the sacristy, so their conversation had been conducted in some privacy. But at that moment Mavis Conwell, one of the churchwardens, bustled in and hurried up to the Bishop. ‘Your Worship, it’s so wonderful to have you here today!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Come along and have some sherry – I’m sure there are people you’d like to meet.’
She walked with him to the church hall. ‘Actually,’ she said confidingly, ‘I’m glad to have a chance to have a word with you. Did you see the News of the World last week?’
The Bishop permitted himself an ironic smile. ‘No, I’m not a regular reader of that publication. But I’ve heard about the fuss.’ Indeed, it would have been difficult for anyone to have been unaware of the ‘Pervie Precentor of Plymouth’ scandal, rocking the Church of England for the past week.
Mavis, impervious to the irony, went on, ‘Well, of course I don’t read the News of the World, either, but I know people who do. And I think it’s just disgusting.’
‘What’s disgusting, Mrs . . . er, Conwell?’
‘That people like that are allowed to remain in the Church. Honestly! That’s what’s wrong with the Church today – there’s not enough plain talk about what’s right and what’s wrong. And for a man of the cloth – a man of God – to tell a journalist that he has fantasies about choirboys – well! I know what I’d do with people like that!’
The Bishop replied mildly, ‘And what would you do, Mrs Conwell?’
‘Why, kick them out of the Church, of course! Just think about our young people, and the example that’s being set for them. They’re being corrupted and led astray by all these . . . people, and the Church is making it easy.’
Attempting to change the subject, the Bishop asked, ‘Do you have children?’
A look of pride transfigured her plain face. ‘I have a son, a good boy.’ She frowned. ‘But if I ever thought that anyone . . . well, their life wouldn’t be worth living.’ She was not easily diverted. ‘What I really wanted to say was that we’re very lucky here at St Anne’s. Father Gabriel may not always speak out as frankly as I’d like about these things, but he’s a good family man himself – not like so many of these priests you hear about.’ Here she stopped in her tracks, faced him, and lowered her voice confidingly, fixing him with her gimlet eyes. ‘There are rumours . . . well, everyone says that he may be made Archdeacon soon. And I just want you to know that I for one think it’s very important that our new priest, when we get one, should be a family man.’
Taken aback, the Bishop replied, ‘You know, don’t you, Mrs Conwell, that I don’t have the patronage for this appointment?’ His natural discretion asserted itself. ‘Even if there were going to be a vacancy, and certainly no announcement has been made about that, the gift of the living belongs to Lady Constance Oliver.’
Mavis Conwell was undeterred. ‘Yes, but surely you have some influence. I’m sure that Lady Constance would listen to you. She knows how I feel, but if she were to hear it from someone like the Bishop . . .’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ he replied non-committally, resuming his progress towards the church hall.
Most of the congregation had already gathered there, and were standing about in small groups, sipping sherry and dissecting the service according to their own particular interests.
In one corner, Miles Taylor, the organist, was holding forth to Wing Commander Cyril Fitzjames. ‘You just have no idea what I have to put up with,’ he asserted earnestly. ‘You churchwardens just have to parade round with your staffs – or is it staves? – and look dignified. I have to hold the entire service together. And cope with priests who can’t sing. We don’t realise how lucky we are with Gabriel – he has a beautiful voice. But did you hear the Bishop? Sheer agony!’
Cyril Fitzjames made the appropriate noises of sympathy, though his attention was elsewhere. No one actually listened to Miles Taylor any longer. He’d been organist at St Anne’s for several years now, but had run out of original conversational topics within the first few days. It must be said that he was a man of considerable musical talent, and had raised the standards at St Anne’s noticeably. And he was not without charm, after an eccentric fashion. Many of the elderly ladies at St Anne’s had been captivated by this young man’s manner – they, of course, thought of him as a young man, though he must be over thirty. Tall, lanky and sandy-haired, he seemed to be all arms as he gesticulated wildly through every conversation.
‘Of course the choir sounded all right – they know the Byrd four-part Mass backwards – though I can never understand why Gabriel insists on all that ancient stuff! It’s just not moving with the times! There’s so much good music being written these days that’s never performed, because of old-fashioned priests who won’t let a chap get on with his job! Now, at Selby . . .’ He lifted his arms dramatically, exuding a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. ‘If I’ve told the Vicar once –’ He broke off and looked around suddenly. ‘Where is the Vicar?’
Sensing his opportunity for escape, Cyril said quickly, ‘I’ll go and look for him,’ and shambled off. Miles, temporarily thwarted, shrugged and went outside for a cigarette.
Emily chatted with the Sacristan, Daphne Elford, her mind only half on the conversation. Just after the service, Gabriel had slipped up to her and whispered that he had a terrific headache and was going home. Poor Gabriel, the stress of the service had obviously been too much for him, though he had always enjoyed it in past years. Maybe this year was different, knowing that it was probably his last.
‘Aren’t you required in the sacristy? Putting away the vestments and the silver, and all that?’ Emily asked.
Daphne snorted. ‘You’d never know I was Sacristan, the way Venerable Bead takes over after Mass. He makes me feel like a trespasser in the sacristy, so I just stay away until after he’s gone. Especially with the Bishop – he’s acting like he’s his personal property.’
Just then Emily noted the Bishop, pinned in the corner by the earnest Mavis Conwell. ‘Oh, the poor Bishop. He’d be better off with Venerable Bead – look who’s bending his ear.’
‘No doubt telling him that the Church of England is going to the dogs. Perhaps I’d better rescue him and see that he meets a few people,’ Daphne suggested.
The Bishop was drowning in a barrage of words, now centred chiefly on the weather. ‘It’s been a dreadful summer. When Craig was younger and my husband was alive we used to have some lovely holidays at the sea, but this year – why, I was hardly out of the hotel for the whole fortnight, it rained so much. It’s got something to do with the ozone layer, I think, don’t you?’
He was saved the necessity of a reply by the welcome intervention of Daphne, bringing him a glass of sherry. Mavis hung on doggedly for several minutes, then admitted defeat and marched over to where her friend Cecily Framlingham stood with the Dawsons. Cecily, a tall, hatchet-faced woman in her early fifties, was describing the difficulties she’d encountered in finding the flowers she’d wanted for today’s service. ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you, that in the middle of summer you’d be able to get white roses? But there just aren’t any to be had this year. And I
did so want some for in front of the statue of Our Lady of Walsingham. White roses are just the thing for Our Lady. Chrysanths just aren’t the same. I told my Arthur . . .’
‘It’s the ozone layer,’ Mavis interjected. ‘I was just telling the Bishop . . .’
Roger Dawson wrung his hands. He had a perpetually disgruntled look on his face. ‘It doesn’t really matter what flowers you use, as long as Our Lady of Walsingham is stuck in that corner where no one can see her. It’s a disgrace. I shall tell the Bishop –’
‘I really think that red roses are better for Our Lady,’ interrupted Julia Dawson earnestly, her receding double chin quivering with emotion. ‘They represent her suffering – the Sacred Heart, you know.’
‘But white roses represent her purity,’ explained Cecily. ‘It’s most important. Remember that sermon that the Vicar preached last year about Our Lady? How her purity was . . .’
‘Where is the Vicar?’ queried Roger Dawson. ‘I haven’t seen him since Mass.’
‘Purity!’ announced Mavis triumphantly. ‘Now that’s a quality that’s lacking in the Church of England today! If only the Vicar would have the courage to preach about that! He should have been up there today denouncing that disgusting “Pervie Precentor” instead of talking about . . . whatever he was talking about. How can we expect proper standards to be upheld when clergy – even respectable married clergy – close ranks around their own? It’s cowardice, I say.’
Meanwhile, in their favourite corner near the drinks table, the servers were also finding the ‘Pervie Precentor’ a fascinating topic of conversation.