Idol Bones

by D M Greenwood

‘But what did you find? Anything?’

  They stood together surveying the gobbling fowls.

  ‘They haven’t a clue what they’ve got. Not a clue.’

  ‘Well, what have they got?’

  ‘I told you. A pile of bones and rams’ skulls and a Janus.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Roman god of gateways. Gates are holy places. Beginnings and ends. Alphas and Omegas. Potent. You need to pray for a safe journey at the start and give thanks for a safe return. Don’t you?’ He turned to look at her.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Stella quickly. ‘Journeys are dangerous.’ She had cause to know.

  ‘They look both ways. Januses.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The head has two faces back to back.’ He swung himself back to back with her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh.’ Her imagination caught his delight. ‘Outwards and inwards.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And what will happen to it, him? Can we see him?’

  ‘We shored him upright on some scaffold planks, Jack McGrath from the fire brigade and me. It looks,’ he paused, ‘marvellous. He’s well nigh perfect. He looks,’ he smiled down at her and fingered his curly beard, ‘like me.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shrove Tuesday

  Theodora awoke in the clerical bed in her clerical flat and remembered where she was. Her eye followed the flock wallpaper upwards and met the picture rail. Not many of those about nowadays, she thought happily. She had begun to be extremely fond of the flat. She was cheered by the solidity of mahogany, turkey carpets, chairs so heavy that you hurt yourself if you bumped into them and a table which was rock solid. The bed was long enough to sustain her six foot one and broad enough for her arms not to reach the edges if she stretched out.

  The place was full of unexpected luxuries. The living room had an open fire place. She had returned about seven the previous evening, cold and sodden from the events in the close and a brief foray round a supermarket and found it laid with wood and coal. Her lunchtime plate and cup had been washed up and put away. There was fresh milk in the fridge and a bottle of sherry on the sideboard. The bedroom window was open three inches and the bed had been turned down. She was at a loss to know to whom she owed these courteous attentions but determined to enjoy them. On the mantel shelf, she found an invitation to the dean’s Shrove Tuesday party in the Deanery the following evening. She lit the fire, used a pair of bellows for the first time in her life, poured the sherry and rang Geoffrey.

  ‘What’s it like?’ he’d inquired, genuinely solicitous.

  ‘Full of incident.’ She’d filled him in.

  ‘You sound happy,’ he’d said. Was it surprise or resentment, she

  wondered.

  ‘Well, the Janus is rather jolly. And my boss is the first female residentiary

  canon in England and she looks engagingly mad.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Didn’t want to raise your hopes. What’s your new dean like?’ ‘I’ve only heard him bullying an autodidact so far. We haven’t been

  introduced.’

  ‘Who was the autodidact?’

  ‘The archaeologist who dusted off the Janus. Old scores, I should

  think. Also, there’s some sort of feuding going on with the local press who

  don’t like the church or anyway cathedral clergy. I haven’t quite worked it

  out yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad it all sounds so promising.’ No mistaking the warmth of

  tone this time. ‘I’ve got adult confirmation at the door. I must rush. Keep

  me in the picture. Bye then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  She had grilled her lamb chops, tossed broad beans from colander to

  plate, propped open Pedersen’s Israel, the chapter on ‘The sacrifice and

  its effects’ and surrendered to the sheer bliss of solitude and an early

  night.

  Now, the following morning, she stretched luxuriously. Light

  strengthened and the room began to take shape. The ancient central

  heating gurgled like some accommodating digestive system. She

  reviewed with pleasure the day before her. Eight o’clock Eucharist in the

  cathedral, then a round of visiting names in adult education with Canon

  Millhaven. In the evening the dean’s Shrove Tuesday party. The cathedral

  bell struck seven. Time to get underway.

  Outside in the close, the air was cold but dry, the clouds high. It was

  possible to feel if not quite spring at least the lessening of winter. The

  crater had been cordoned off with soft red ropes, presumably snatched

  in haste from the cathedral. It made a royal enclosure for the object. The

  Janus on its scaffold planks was suspended over the abyss from which it

  had risen. It was about four foot tall in black bronze. The body was roughly

  worked. It was not so much that the arms were missing as that they did

  not appear ever to have existed. It was nothing more than a head and

  torso. That head was, however, magnificent. It was enormous and, of

  course, two-faced. One face looked towards the cathedral, the other

  towards the city and the fens beyond. The hair and curling beard were

  styled in rope-like clusters. The mouths were slightly open and the lips

  were full and prominent. Its eyes were large and staring with, Theodora

  bent closer, holes where the pupils would be. The face was human in

  feature, to be sure, but its expression suggested a traveller from another

  world. The god had the air of surveying and possessing his surroundings. ‘It’s quite big, isn’t it?’ said a voice at Theodora’s elbow. She looked

  down and recognised the boy she had pulled from the hole yesterday.

  ‘It’s rather,’ he sought for his word, ‘strong,’ he completed.

  ‘Formidable?’ Theodora offered.

  ‘Yes. The dean doesn’t like it. Nor does the daddy. He called it a pagan

  horror.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s any threat to the dean and chapter,’ Theodora said

  reassuringly.

  ‘Well, it will make a difference, won’t it?’

  ‘Difference?’

  ‘It’s changed things, don’t you think? People will see there are

  alternatives.’

  Theodora looked again at the far-seeing face and wondered if this

  precocious child might not be right. The bell for Eucharist began to toll.

  Timothy moved off towards the Precentory.Theodora turned in the direction

  of the cathedral. She could have sworn that there was a faint smell of

  fried bacon proceeding from the south porch door.

  Later in the morning, things hotted up round the cathedral. The world caught on to the fact that there was some new thing to run after. There was a steady stream of people tramping through the close to stop and stare up at the new god. The media hastened to satisfy those who could not come in person.

  ‘I can’t tell you any more.’ Mrs Perfect looked helplessly into the phone. ‘I only know it was a Janus.’

  ‘Yes. I got that,’ said the voice at the other end soothingly. I’ve spelt it GENOUS. Right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Mrs Perfect and set him right. ‘Look, I’m sorry I really can’t help you any further. We’ve been told not to say anything to the press or the media.’

  The voice expressed incredulity.

  ‘Well, if you want any more information, I suggest you ring the dean on 4673140.’ She replaced the receiver before it could make any more demands on her. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock and they had already had two nationals on the line, as well as the Examiner and Bow Broadcasting. Pagan religion, it seemed, was news.

  The dean clasped the phone rigidly. ‘No, I will not be
photographed with the Janus. Nor, I think, will the rest of the chapter. You appear to have no understanding of what you are asking and I deeply resent your suggestion that we are, as you put it, all in the same trade. I find your frivolity most offensive.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No, I have no desire to be interviewed by you. I may say your paper’s last effort at ecclesiastical reporting in the matter of my installation as dean was a totally irresponsible piece of writing. I don’t know who does these things for you but you’d do well to sack him. Or her,’ he added as an afterthought. The dean had never scrupled to tell other people their business.

  He turned back to the memorandum he was composing. ‘Dear Bishop,’ he wrote, first to the diocesan then to the suffragan. His small neat writing covered the page. The internal post went at 11 a.m. The content was the same as the one he had already penned to the precentor and the archdeacon. Only the tone was different. To Canon Erica Millhaven he hardly thought it worth writing.

  The suffragan bishop in his pleasant house out at Quecourt, a village some ten miles north of Bow, looked at the morning edition of the Examiner. The headline ran:

  Religious Revival!

  A strange new god has emerged from a pit in the cathedral close. Last night the eminent local archaeologist Oliver Fresh, 44, the Hollow, happened to be present when a water main burst in the cathedral close. Borne on the flood was an object which Mr Fresh rapidly recognised as a statue of the Roman god Janous. The god, who is four foot high and has two heads, has lain asleep under the cathedral close for sixteen hundred years. He was probably buried when the Romans left the city hurriedly after Rome fell and withdrew her forces from England in AD 400. ‘So he’s due for a bit of an airing. A resurrection, you might say,’ said Mr Fresh last night.

  The suffragan did not care for the tone of this. He reached for his pen and began a note to the dean. ‘Dear Dean, I wonder if you share my unease at the way in which the media are covering the find of the Janus. While I can fully appreciate the importance for classical studies of a find of this nature, I wonder if the statue is not being used in some subtle way to undermine the Christian faith …’

  When he had finished with the letter to the dean, he thought of the previous article in the Examiner, ‘A View from a Pew’. Would they be from the same source, he wondered. The dean, he knew, shared his outrage at it. He’d mentioned it yesterday when they had had their meeting with the archdeacon. The dean had wondered if there was any pressure which could be brought to bear on the paper. The archdeacon had had to explain to the dean that the reason for the Examiner’s hostility stemmed from their opposition to the development of the land on which the Hollowmen had settled. Ever since the chapter had applied for planning permission there had been nothing but criticism from the local press. It seemed most unlikely that the editorial policy would be changed to suit the cathedral clergy. A more hopeful approach, the suffragan had suggested, would be to find out who was writing the offending articles and see if they could be dissuaded. The suffragan cast round in his mind for possible allies in the fray. He glanced at his diary. A note in it said, ‘Remember T. Braithwaite.’ He remembered not Theodora, whom he had not met, but her father whom he had known and trusted. He reflected for a moment. Perhaps the dean’s do this evening, which she would surely attend, would provide a suitable opportunity.

  Archdeacon Archibald Gold moved the miniature of the 1925 Silver Ghost from the left-hand side of his desk to the right, ran the end of his goldplated biro across his teeth twice and finally bent his shoulders almost level with the desk. ‘Dear Vince’, he wrote, ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas about our Roman friend. How about an exhibition of cathedral treasures with him as star turn? Or what about starting a permanent heritage centre with him in it? Alternatively we could tour him round. On the other hand we might raise a bit if we sold him off. Either way I think he could be a good little earner for the cathedral in these hard times. Could we discuss?’

  Before eleven o’clock Canon Riddable had written to the dean. ‘Dear Dean, Re Idol: I suggest you get rid of this offensive piece of pagan paraphernalia as soon as maybe. I hardly think I need to point out to a man of your experience the sort of trouble it could cause the chapter. May I draw your attention to Leviticus 19. 4.’

  Erica Millhaven swung her VW Golf into a layby without signalling. There was a screech of brakes behind her and an angry flashing of lights before she finally came to rest.

  ‘A word,’ she said, turning to Theodora beside her. ‘A word in your ear.’ They had spent the day dashing nimbly round the diocese to introduce Theodora to a variety of people concerned with lay education. They had proved to be worthy people of both sexes but mostly advanced in age and comfortable in circumstance. They had greeted Canon Millhaven and herself with great kindness but Theodora found some difficulty in separating them in her mind. She contrasted it with her own parish’s ethnic mix where Greeks and Turks, Punjabis and Afro-Caribbeans jostled the remains of an indigenous London population and the vitality was tremendous.

  The relationship with Canon Millhaven had been uneasy. When dealing with business arrangements, comments on courses, suggestions about training, she’d been accurate and efficient. She gave every sign of having hands on ropes. In between meetings, however, as they careered along country lanes, in and out of farmyards and round suburban estates in the uniformly flat countryside, she’d veered from gnomic understatement to expansive intimacy. On one occasion, banking round an acute angle in the road generated by the drainage system of the area, she had exclaimed in answer to Theodora’s courteous inquiry about the duties of being a residentiary canon, ‘Well, of course chapter are all so idle and so factious, antipathy to my appointment is practically the only thing which unites them and generates any energy.’

  So when she turned into the layby and said to Theodora, ‘A word,’ Theodora did rather wonder to what further indiscretion she might be going to be treated.

  ‘This idol should wake them up,’ Canon Millhaven started. ‘How?’

  ‘Our society is deeply pagan. People will sympathise with the Janus.

  He’ll become a cult, you’ll see.’

  ‘What will they sympathise with?’Theodora was curious.‘I mean, would

  it rise above the level of adopting a mascot?’

  Canon Millhaven gazed through the rain-splashed window. ‘We don’t

  seem to know what cathedrals are for any more,’ she said, apparently at a

  tangent. ‘The chapter, or at least some of them, want to see it as a glorified

  conference centre. They seem to think it’s a place for people to be jolly in.

  The building itself becomes exhausted by the press of people traipsing

  through. The new dean wants to tart it up and put gewgaws in. The old

  dean was past caring. He liked it empty really. He was a man of prayer and

  he prayed. In his last years I doubt if he noticed anything very much.’ ‘What should the cathedral be for then?’

  Canon Millhaven turned with passion towards Theodora. ‘Oh, surely

  you know? A numinous place. A temenos, holy ground, cut off from the world, a meeting of heaven and earth. Quite, quite different from anything

  round it.’

  It had something of that, Theodora thought, recalling the sudden

  remarkable blotting out of sound which she’d first experienced as her

  taxi swung under the Archgate and into the close yesterday morning. ‘We have to find what our culture most lacks and provide it. We have

  no business aping the restless world. Those forces of spirituality and

  piety which have down the ages hallowed and sanctified the place see it

  now with no more numinosity than an airport.’ Canon Millhaven leaned

  forward across the gear stick and held Theodora’s gaze. ‘I have spoken,’

  her tone was hushed, ‘with the ancient dead of our cathedral. They are

  not pl
eased with us.’

  There were few types of eccentricity which Theodora had not met in

  the course of her ecclesiastical childhood, but, though she’d heard tell of

  it, this was the first time she had personally encountered talking with the

  dead. Of course there had been that canon of St Paul’s and doubtless

  others.

  ‘Do you think the Janus might restore the numinous?’ Theodora was

  hesitant.

  ‘In a very low level way,’ said Canon Millhaven dismissively. ‘The pagan

  gods are not, of course, important in themselves.’ She sounded like an

  old-fashioned landowner describing the tenantry. ‘Nevertheless a Janus,

  looking both ways, is by no means negligible, Miss Braithwaite. Duality,’

  she exclaimed, ‘so important in all the best religions.’

  ‘Inner and outer, dark and light, heaven and earth,’Theodora murmured

  almost to herself.‘But we can decide though,’ she went on more confidently.

  ‘We can choose how to value it, the Janus, I mean, what to let it do to us.

  Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘We shall need to be very careful, very alert and on our guard,’ Canon

  Millhaven answered briskly. ‘Beware in particular, I should say, of the

  new dean.’

  Canon Millhaven sat back in her seat and slipped the car into gear.

  ‘The only truly religious life lived round here,’ she said dismissively, ‘is

  down there.’ She waved out of the driver’s window.

  Theodora caught a glimpse, half familiar, of three Nissen huts and

  some allotments beyond the railway line.

  ‘In the Hollow,’ said Canon Millhaven as she hit the main road.

  ‘Erica Millhaven talks to the dead,’ said Theodora when she rang Geoffrey before setting out for the dean’s party. ‘You don’t surprise me,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I’ve got adult baptism at the door. I must rush. Keep me in the picture.’

  Across the close in the Deanery kitchen, Nick Squires was putting four King’s School boys through their paces as waiters before letting them loose on the dean’s guests. He’d waited at clergy parties himself when he was their age, two years ago.