Idol Bones

by D M Greenwood

  Now, on the Monday morning after his installation, he could begin work in earnest. On the desk beside the day-book lay a copy of the service sheet for his installation. The dean’s mouth tightened. There was the place to start his reforms. He would need to restore proper Catholic worship to a cathedral which could put on something as shambolic as his installation. Neither clergy nor vergers had the least idea how to comport themselves reverently on such an occasion. The dean’s verger should have stopped him going ahead too promptly. It had been a farce. He brought the face of the man into focus. He hadn’t cared for him when he’d first met him. He dressed too well and he behaved as though he had a private income. He was too familiar. He shifted uneasily in his chair. He’d bide his time and then sack him. And the other one he’d need to ease out would be Erica Millhaven. God save us. A female canon. A female residentiary canon.

  He pulled his day-book towards him. It had a worn leather cover and a single page diary which he renewed every year. Tucked into the front pocket was a manuscript. He looked again at the compliments slip fixed to it by a paper clip. It said, ‘Church History Review ed. I. Markewicz’. Then in a strong hand, ‘Would very much value your opinion on this in the not too distant future.’ Well he had made his views perfectly clear in that quarter. As for Archdeacon Gold, he would do as he was told. And the first thing he needed to be told was how to dress. Clerical dress was only fair on the laity. They needed to be able to recognise a priest. Yesterday he’d seen Gold in track suit and trainers jogging through the close.

  That, thought the dean, left the local community. The article in the Bow Examiner was so painful he could hardly bear to read it. Who on earth had written it? What on earth possessed them to publish it? He wasn’t familiar enough as yet with the local scene to know whom to approach to get this sort of thing stopped. He’d ask the suffragan and see if he knew. His eye went down the column again. ‘What is a cathedral for?’ he read. He’d teach them what a cathedral was for. Bow St Aelfric, which had towers that symbolised the division of clergy and laity and the insolence of the laity towards the clergy, would find out what a cathedral was for. That duality, that schism symbolised in the cathedral’s very architecture was an affront. It was a pity they could not pull one of the towers down but at least there would be no doubt in future about where leadership and authority lay. The only difficulty was the quality of the troops.

  He peered at the window again and this time his eye managed to penetrate the opacity and streaks of dust and rain. Below him, crossing the close, he observed the tail figure of the suffragan bishop, his ear courteously inclined to the stocky archdeacon who trotted beside him. The dean picked up the internal phone, newly installed, a symbol of his intentions. Communications, he’d learned on his first management course, are vitally important.

  ‘Mrs Perfect,’ he addressed his secretary at her desk in the cathedral office, at right angles to the Deanery, ‘contact the suffragan and the archdeacon for me and say I’d like to see them both at eleven forty-five here. And bring up my file on finance.’ Vincent Stream never said please or thank you in contexts like this. He’d been surprised initially, but had in time come to accept, how very impressed people were by an omission of these usual courtesies.

  ‘Yes, Mr Dean. Oh, Mr Dean, you’re due to see Canon Millhaven and Miss Braithwaite at twelve.’

  ‘Cancel them,’ said Vincent levelly.

  Crouched over her typewriter, Mrs Perfect pursed her lips at her colleague, Miss Current. ‘That’s what they call prioritising.’

  The taxi carrying Theodora from Bow station seemed to have lost its way. It had started off confidently in what looked the right direction for the city but had then been thrown off course by roadworks. The diversion signs had given out some time ago. It began to rain with the cold determination of March in East Anglia.

  Theodora looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock. She was due to meet Canon Millhaven at eleven thirty and the Dean at twelve. She didn’t care to be late, ever, and especially not when meeting senior clergy for the first time. She leaned forward to make contact with the driver. She had framed, ‘How much further?’ when she noticed the deaf aid in his ear. She sank back defeated. The roadworks continued. Mechanical diggers pitted themselves against piles of rubble. Pumps sucked and excreted turbid water from one flooded trench to another. Huge fissures in the tarmac gave the impression that the whole area had suffered some convulsion and was sinking into the abyss. Perhaps being built on a fen meant a continuous battle to keep above water. Perhaps she was doomed to continue for eternity being driven between mounds of bitter-smelling earth and deracinated paving stones by a deaf driver with the rain pounding on the roof of the car. Perhaps the end of the world was at hand. At that moment, the cab rounded a cluster of JCBs, the rain ceased and the Cathedral of Bow St Aelfric rose up before her.

  The oddity of the double towers, monuments to the hostility of clergy and laity, was apparent. The cathedral had not in fact been built in the nineteenth century but it looked as though it had. The Victorian restoration of the entire building by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott at the height of his powers overbore anything which the thirteenth-century craftsmen had originally intended. The band of saints and prophets who strode round the west front at clerestory level had had their robes tidied up and recut and their facial expressions etherialised by masons who knew what men of God ought to look like.

  The building rose out of a sea of traffic. A carefully thought out one-way system ensured that articulated lorries ground in low gear past the west front day and night. The north side was buttressed by a solid phalanx of cars in the car park serving the magistrates’ courts. Not very often could the bells of the cathedral be heard through the roar of engines.

  Before Theodora could further contemplate the setting, the taxi swung under an archway to the south of the cathedral. The roar of traffic vanished as though switched off. The contrast with the street outside was absolute. Theodora took in a wide stretch of grass enclosed on three sides by domestic buildings and on the fourth by the cathedral’s south side. Only a nifty piece of real estate dealing by the last archdeacon but one had preserved the close from the machinations of planners. ‘People expect a bit of tranquillity in the middle of all this chaos,’ he had remarked, surveying the moderate traffic of the mid-1930s. Later generations had had cause for gratitude.

  ‘Where to?’ The deaf driver jerked his head in interrogation. ‘This’ll do very nicely,’ said Theodora.

  ‘What?’

  Theodora followed the notices marked ‘Cathedral Office’ into a building

  which parodied the cathedral, all pointed windows and Victorian Gothic turrets, at right angles to the handsome eighteenth-century stone building which she remarked on the other side of the close. A moment or two later, as she passed from office to archway, Theodora glanced up. She caught sight of a tall figure framed in the window of the room over the arch. Canon Millhaven, Theodora conjectured and ascended the narrow wooden staircase which would take her into her presence.

  In her office over the Archgate Canon Erica Millhaven wrestled with the sash window. It gave in suddenly in the manner of the recalcitrant and flew up, catching Canon Millhaven off balance. The rain had stopped and a hesitant sun was breaking through the grey scudding clouds. She pushed the lower half of the casement open to its fullest extent, positioned herself in front of it and breathed in deeply and slowly. Standing in the open doorway Theodora gazed with interest at the various bits of Canon Millhaven’s anatomy which threatened to be displayed by this exercise. She felt a moment’s apprehension lest she should be forced to see parts of the canon which would be better covered. Erica Millhaven relied, Theodora feared, too much on safety pins.

  Canon Millhaven was a rare breed in the Anglican Church. There were one or two female honorary canons in various advanced dioceses but residentiary ones, responsible for the worship and ministry of cathedrals, members of chapters and with stalls in the choir, these were still few and far between
. Recent legislation had only just made it possible for women in deacon’s orders to be appointed to such a position. Her preferment had made the national press, or any way, the Church Times, which, in its liberal way, had welcomed it.

  That had been a year ago. Canon Millhaven was into her sixties and within striking distance of retirement. Age had not much dimmed her energy, that wide-ranging and frightening vigour, that enthusiasm for work on what she called in her penetrating voice, the frontiers of the Church’s ministry. There were a fair number of people who simply could not stand Canon Millhaven. Others felt she was well worth the gate money.

  Canon Millhaven dabbed her finger in the puddles on the outside windowledge.

  ‘It comes from God,’ she exclaimed, gesturing to the remains of the weather and moving towards her desk.

  Theodora agreed.

  ‘It bloweth where it listeth, the Holy Spirit,’ she went on emphatically as though the weather and the Holy Spirit might be connected.

  Theodora agreed.

  Canon Millhaven tapped a newspaper on her desk. ‘We are not loved, and while we resist the Spirit we should not expect to be.’

  Theodora had no idea what she was talking about. ‘We cannot and should not attempt to predict its operancy,’ Canon Millhaven went on.

  Theodora resisted the temptation to agree. She waited.

  Canon Millhaven swung round to eye her. ‘That is the commonest mistake of the Church at this present hour,’ she said severely.

  ‘Perhaps, indeed, at any time,’ Theodora advanced mildly. She had no objection to discussing theology with anyone but felt it should always be informed by an historical perspective. Aware, however, that Canon Millhaven was thirty years older than she and doubtless familiar with the biblical evidence for her unexceptional point of view, she held her tongue.

  ‘Now is the day of salvation,’ said Canon Millhaven as though someone had contradicted her.

  Theodora wondered how much longer she was going to be exposed to this barrage of theological clichés.

  As though aware of her unspoken thought, Miss Millhaven gathered her billowing shawl about her shoulders and moved to the far side of her desk. She was a tall, well-formed woman, her hair, thick and nearly white was cut to ear length. Her eyes, light grey and rather prominent, were set wide apart above a strongly modelled nose and jaw. Her complexion and demeanour radiated health. She sat down, bent her head for a moment as though about to say a grace, raised it again to meet Theodora’s own level gaze, and smiled. Then she began to be detailed, exact and efficient about the training of laymen in the diocese of St Aelfric. It was as though there were two different people present in one body. Theodora in her turn ceased to be a spectator and became involved and responsive.

  They were both so immersed that the sound of the cathedral clock striking twelve noon took them by surprise. Canon Millhaven stopped in mid-sentence, raised her head and, like the Queen of the Willis at the crack of dawn, almost visibly cocked her ear.

  ‘We are due at the dean’s,’ she said rising. At that moment the telephone shrilled. Canon Millhaven regarded it for a second as though uncertain what its purpose might be. Then, raising the head-piece to her ear, she said in a surprisingly high voice, ‘Yes?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then, ‘And did he offer an alternative time? … I see. Thank you, Mrs Perfect.’

  She turned to Theodora. ‘The dean has cancelled. I regret the discourtesy.’

  Theodora murmured deprecatingly.

  ‘We need new blood here, Miss Braithwaite. We decay, we grow rancid. New blood, I say.’ Canon Millhaven went on. ‘But whether as transfusion or sacrifice, I do not pretend to know.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Theophany

  In the cathedral close, Rebecca Riddable bounced the ball expertly against the green and white painted notice which said ‘No Ball Games’. The sign was an impressive one. It resembled a triple, Lorraine cross. The top piece bore the interdict on ball games. Beneath that was a second, longer arm which said, ‘Keep Off The Grass’. Below that was another short one which said ‘No Dogs’. Beneath this last had been added in small, very neat italic script, ‘What shall we do to be saved?’ The ‘shall’ had been underlined. In the watery sunlight the three children had been bouncing the ball at the notice for twenty minutes. There were neat, round mud marks between each of the words.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ Mrs Perfect inquired of the young Riddables as she crossed the close on her return from lunch.

  ‘We’ve had mumps,’ said Rebecca smugly. She expected to be able to quell people and was evolving, for a twelve year old, a good armoury of weapons for this purpose. Her mother’s daughter, she knew that making people feel guilty was a sure way of asserting superiority. Mumps meant being ill. Being ill meant suffering. Those who suffered were blessed. It said so in the Bible, one Peter three fourteen.

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t let your father catch you,’ said Mrs Perfect, unwilling to be bested and reckoning she was on to a good move.

  ‘He’s not here. He’s out in the sticks chasing up an incumbent,’ said the youngest boy.

  ‘You shouldn’t say it like that, Ben,’ his sister admonished. ‘You should always say, he’s at a meeting.’

  ‘Or burying the dead,’ the middle boy chimed in. ‘Or marrying the …’ He stopped puzzled. ‘What do you marry like you bury the dead?’ A stolid ten year old, the middle one in a family of three, he liked there to be symmetry in language as in life.

  Mrs Perfect hadn’t an answer to this so she contented herself with saying, ‘Well, I expect he wouldn’t like the notice damaged,’ and dashed for the office door before they could entangle her further. She could see why people were afraid of children. Their questions seemed to want to unhinge the world, to cut it adrift from its normal moorings. They were always peering down side roads which common sense and adulthood would tell them were best left unexplored.

  A big woman, and light on her feet, she raced upstairs. The staircase gave immediately on to a large space used as a waiting room. Its function was clear from two potted plants, not in the best of health, a couple of padded chairs and a photostat machine. No one had had an office big enough to accommodate this last item, except the archdeacon or Canon Riddable. Clearly neither of those could be expected to house it, so it had been placed in this no man’s land until they could think what to do with it. At first it hadn’t been much used. The ambitions of a diocesan secretary had landed them with it. When he had gone on to higher things, there’d been a move to get rid of it. But as time went on its functions had grown on people. It became, if not a facilitator of office efficiency, at least a boost to social life. There was no common-room, so typists took their morning coffees and afternoon teas round it. Its presence provided an excuse for the overworked to snatch a brief respite from the keyboard.

  At the moment it had a client. The suffragan bishop gazed at the instrument before him. It looked to him like a cross between a fridge and a television. He could open a fridge, he knew and, also, though less often, he had been known successfully to switch off a television set. Now, however, he was flummoxed. There were, he calculated, eleven different buttons which he might press. He was spoilt for choice. Which one would render it his servant? He jabbed with no great confidence at a mediumsized square button in the middle of the row. Nothing happened. He paused to regroup. Then, greatly daring, he pushed the biggest orange coloured button. There was a whirring sound and the cassette to his left jumped from its bed and hit the floor scattering A4 over a wide area.

  Mrs Perfect moved swiftly forward. ‘May I help you, Bishop?’

  The bishop turned a smile of enormous sweetness upon her. His fineboned features, all interesting planes and points, like a Rodin bronze, radiated gratitude. His ability not merely to look helpless but actually to be so, had stood him in good stead all his professional life. The good willed, especially amongst the laity, flocked to help him. He had no pride, no shame. He knew (and the m
ore sophisticated of his rescuers knew) that he did them a kindness in allowing them scope for their charity. ‘He’s scarcely competent to open a door,’ Mrs Perfect had exclaimed to Miss Current recently as she slit open four letters he had sealed himself to check that he’d managed to match content to address. (He hadn’t.)

  ‘Bishops quite often don’t have to open doors for themselves,’ Miss Current had reflected.

  ‘They get out of practice,’ Mrs Perfect had gone on. ‘Then when he does have to struggle with one, he traps his fingers. But he’s a good man,’ she concluded. ‘Always says please and thank you.’

  Mrs Perfect gathered the scattered leaves, opened the flap and took his handwritten manuscript from his unresisting hand.‘How many copies?’ she asked soothingly.

  ‘Copies? Oh, yes. The dean, Canon Millhaven, Miss er Braithwaite. That’s er …’

  ‘Three,’ said Mrs Perfect setting the dial. The machine gave a satisfied grunting noise and out came the copies. The bishop expressed his warm gratitude.

  Mrs Perfect gathered up the copies and stowed them carefully in an envelope from the pile on the shelf. Then she looked back at the trays.

  ‘Is this one of yours, Bishop?’ she inquired.

  The bishop regarded the typescript in amazement. Did these machines produce original documents? He took it cautiously and scanned the heading.