Acts and Omissions (19 page)

Chapter 36

A new year has started at Lindchester Choristers' School. Choral term began on Sunday with the 10.30 Eucharist (Howells,
Missa Collegium Regale
, for those interested in such things). Every morning and evening you may see the crocodile of choristers in their blazers and cherry-red caps again, as they file across the Close to the Song School. The four new spotty choral scholars (two altos, tenor, bass) moved into the squalory next to Vicars' Hall over a week ago.

Uh-oh. You know what this means, don't you? Freddie May has cocked things up already. Somehow he forgot the start of term date when he let Jane book his flights. Well, forgot, as in, didn't actually let himself think about it? Like, la la la, that would make it not be happening? His voicemail was
mental
with ‘where-the-fuck-are-you?' messages when he turned his phone back on. He had to ring his new boss in Barchester the minute he got through customs. (Man, it would be good just once to walk straight through, but apparently he has this, like, massive ‘Hey Guys, I'm a Drugs Mule!' sign over his head?) But finally they were done, so he could ring and grovel. Gah. Nice going. Established his ‘I'm-a-useless-twat' credentials really early there.

The train hurtles towards Lindchester. Miss B will be there at the station to meet him. Grab his stuff from the palace, and he's out of here. Thank God, Paul's gonna be away. But Suze. Na-a-w. Let her be out. Oh man. Even thinking about Suze is like he just ran over Bambi? Please don't let Paul have done anything dumb – like telling her? He feels really bad about all this,
really
bad. Been shutting it out for a fortnight, coz he knows he semi-seduced him? Or
semi
-semi. And they're good people, Paul and Suze. Took him in. Gave him a job. Looked after him.

Freddie bumps his forehead on the train window. Why,
why
is he such a tart? Ga-a-a-ah. Will Paul be OK? Hard man to read, Paul. For a while back there things got pretty intense and he was, ah cock,
please
not the whole, ‘I love you, let's run away into the sunset' crap? But no, so it's most likely all gone quiet. Probably Paul's sorted his head out by now. Poor guy. Kind of mean to pressure him, but he couldn't stop himself being just a little bit, hey, time to rethink your position on equal marriage, Paul? And he was all, ‘I need to rethink my position on
everything
, Freddie.' So yeah, maybe some good will come out of it?

Probably he should delete the photos, though. Yeh, probably he should get on to that. Paul would totally freak if he knew.

Miss B gets into her little red car and sets off for the station. Oh, drat. Amadeus, the cathedral cat, is strolling along the high wall by the Song School with another goldfinch in his mouth. She raps on the car window at him. Bad puss.

‘Oh! I'm going to miss that boy!' Penelope, the bishop's PA, blows her nose and sits down at her desk after waving Freddie off. ‘I hope he does all right in Barchester. They'd better look after him properly, or I'll have a thing or two to say about it!'

Martin, at his desk, stays quiet. He knows that if he punches the air Penelope will probably come over and punch him.

For some reason – on this yearned-for day of the little shite's departure – he finds himself remembering the school coach park. The Lord of the Flies nightmare of it after the grammar school day. He can still taste the sick dread. Dave Felton and the others from his class. The Girls' High girls with their cellos and hockey sticks. ‘Watch where you're going, you wally!' Feral packs of comprehensive kids, smoking, shrieking, shoving. Legs, love bites. ‘What are
you
staring at, four-eyes?' Mud and trampled grass, juicy fruit, Lynx sprayed through shirt armpits after PE. ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!' His desperate prayers to stay invisible on that ten-mile journey home. Worst of all, knowing that he was locked into this hell for seven years.

But there was one glorious day – he was fourteen – when a bus ran over Dave Felton's foot and he screamed, and the driver had to carry him on to the playing field. The driver was a bandy-legged Scot, tiny, but he carried Dave Felton – like a huge, screaming bride – on to the field. And everyone saw.

Penelope blows her nose again and says, ‘Oh well.'

He hears her go and put the kettle on.

‘There are some stem ginger cookies from Susanna to cheer us up,' she calls.

Martin curls his lip (cheer us up!) and continues to work through the bishop's inbox, fielding emails for him while he's on retreat. There's a broadside defending the sacked vicar of Lindford (‘How can you call yourself a Christian, you hypocrite, when you've robbed a man of his livelihood?'). Huh, rallying support for the tribunal. Martin pastes a reply (cc-ing the archdeacon): ‘The bishop has asked me to thank you for your concern, which has been noted.' He has no case! The idiot has no case! It's pure malice! How can anyone be so blinded by prejudice? But doubtless this will make the national press when it finally gets to court, whatever the outcome. He can see it now: Archbishop ‘robbed man of livelihood', claims tribunal.

Martin tries once again to bask in the reflected glory of his bishop's elevation, to enjoy being in the inner circle of those who already know. But his eczema has flared up. It takes all his self-control not to scratch himself raw. Because what's he going to do? He'll have to find a new job. Everything is being taken from him. Wife, children, job, health! Sometimes he feels like giving up. Sitting in his life's ash heap, and scraping himself with potsherds like Job.

Penelope puts a mug of coffee and a biscuit on his mousemat. He winces and moves the mug onto a coaster, puts the biscuit onto a postcard, and sweeps the crumbs into his bin. ‘Thank you.'

You try so hard to be a good man, a good husband, father, priest. Then it all gets flung back in your face. Suddenly Martin hears how he must sound. No wonder nobody likes him. Oh, he doesn't want to be this way any more! Let me hear joy and gladness, Lord. Let the bones that you have broken dance. How can I begin again? What must I do, Lord?

He waits. And something like a gracious question mark begins to hover in the margin of his mind. Against the little-shite section.

Oh, I can't. I just can't. Anyway, it's too late now. He's gone.

Apart
from that, what must I do?

‘Martin, will you please stop scratching?' cries Penelope. ‘You'll only make it worse.'

At his desk in William House on the other side of the Close, the archdeacon sprays coffee over his iPad once again. To the best of his knowledge, the bishop of Lindchester has never called himself ‘a Christina'. Either Martin has not spotted the typo, or (more likely) does not find it amusing. The archdeacon knows someone who will appreciate it, however.

Dr Rossiter – locked in a departmental training day – startles everyone with her filthy laugh during a colleague's PowerPoint presentation on electronic marking.

Sloes stud the hedgerows like blue beads. Strands of bryony berries trail over elder and hawthorn. Fairies' necklaces, that's what we used to call them, thinks Father Wendy. She's walking along the river bank, and yes, there's Lulu, still hobbling beside her. How much longer can this be borne? Oh, a little longer, please say a little bit longer? Until the pain of watching her suffer outweighs the pain of her letting go. Is this just selfishness? Cruelty? Is it? Lulu lifts her old head and cries. Oh, darling! Not long now, not long. Here's our bench.

On the opposite bank a heron waits. Will the blond young man run past today? It's been a while since they've seen him. Perhaps he's starting uni somewhere? Wendy watches a green dragonfly dart and zoom. Laura would have been twenty-two this summer. She'd be a graduate. Starting work. A new bride, even! I would be having to learn how to let her go, whatever, by now.

Wendy reaches down and strokes Lulu's head. Memories race like time-lapse photography – that mad puppy, all huge scrambling paws; the years of naughty food-raids and running off; then the steadying down. And now, old age and pain and weariness. A whole lifetime in those thirteen years since Laura was killed. Not filling Laura's place, of course not filling her place. But offering loyal companionship along this stretch of life, day in, day out. Well done, Lulu, good and faithful servant.

Will dogs go to heaven? Father Wendy does not know the answer. But she believes in a kingdom where not a single sparrow falls unnoticed, where no cup of water is given in vain. Where, against all the odds, the last word is kindness.

Who will be kind to Leah Rogers, though? The little madam who told whoppers about poor Freddie and who bullies her little sister so spitefully, and drives parents and teachers to distraction. Who will find it in their heart to be kind to her, when she so clearly deserves a slap?

I confess to a soft spot for Leah, having occasionally been a spiteful little fibber myself. I think the poor child is terrified. Terrified by the power she can wield. She wants to be stopped. Somewhere, somewhere there must be a big policeman figure to blow a whistle and say, ‘It ends here, young lady. You're nicked.' And then the world might feel safe again.

Her mother Becky is nearly aware of this. In the wake of the great school shoes meltdown, she consulted her Clergy Spouses' Handbook, and got in touch with the diocesan pastoral care and counselling officer. A session has been arranged for Becky and Leah to talk to someone together on Saturday morning. Just a gentle exploratory chat with a nice middle-aged woman counsellor. Well, good luck with that. I'm of the opinion that Leah will make mincemeat of any nice middle-aged woman who crosses her path.

Not all middle-aged women are nice, however.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid car not starting. Stupid Mummy leaving the lights on. Stupid lady they were meant to be going to chat to. Who cared if they couldn't go? Oh, boo hoo, we don't get to chat to the
lady
.

Leah kicked open the gate – clang! – and stormed up the path of number 16. There was tape stuck over the stupid doorbell, so she banged the knocker: BAM, BAM, BAM. Come on, you big stupid. Answer your stupid door.

Someone was coming. Leah could see through the pebbly glass. The door opened. A giant woman with short grey-y hair stood there eating toast.

‘Yep?'

‘My mum says can you bring your car round to ours at number 10 so she can jumpstart it.'

But the woman narrowed her eyes like a wicked witch and carried on munching her stupid toast. Like she was stupid. Or DEAF.

‘I
said
, MY MUM SAYS CAN YOU—'

‘I HEARD YOU.'

Typical. What's the magic word, nyeah nyeah nyeah. ‘Ple-e-eease.'

‘Meh.' The old witch wiped her fingers on her T-shirt. ‘Can't be arsed. Bye.'

And she shut the door!

Now what was she meant to do? The old witch was just standing there. Leah could see her through the glass! She hesitated. Now Mum would come and ask herself, and she'd tell on her. I
hate
you, you stupid old witch! Leah jigged from one foot to the other. I'm
not
saying
sorry
to
you
! Up the street, Mum was still trying to get the car bonnet to stay lifted up, and going, ‘Oh God, oh God!' Leah looked back at the door.

The weird woman was kneeling now and staring through the letter box at her! ‘Psst!'

Leah bent down, but she was ready to jump back, coz maybe it was a trick. ‘What?'

‘I don't know what the rules are round your way,' whispered the wicked witch, ‘but in my world, if you play nice, I play nice. So. Let's try again, shall we?'

Chapter 37

Acts of kindness: the waybread of pilgrims. When the road is rough and steep (or for my more Catholic readers, when the night is dark, and you are far from home) the kindness of fellow travellers may keep despair at bay.

But who will be kind to Bishop Paul Henderson? That I cannot tell you. He has strayed temporarily beyond the boundaries of the diocese of Lindchester, and thus outside the scope of this tale. I believe it is a very nice retreat house, comfortable if remote (no wi-fi or mobile phone signal). There's homemade cake in the afternoon, and plenty of walks along a rugged coastline. I could tell you where the retreat house is, but then (like Martin the bishop's chaplain), I would have to kill you.

Yes, Martin's lips are sealed. The bishop has extended his retreat by a further five days. This has meant some juggling of the diary by Penelope, and several suave phone calls by Martin to explain the situation without explaining anything. Martin is in his element here. But he must be constantly discreet, because Penelope does not know about Paul's imminent elevation. Thinks Martin.

You may be sure that Martin will defend his bishop's privacy to his last breath, against vulgar curiosity and intrusions from the media (and there is increasing speculation in the run-up to the announcement). Martin is also shielding him from the clamour of diocesan affairs and ‘any nonsense from disgruntled former employees'. Those were Paul's exact words. So the former vicar of Lindford can take a running jump. Martin enjoys being in adversarial mode and fielding the nonsense relating to the tribunal. He also enjoys (despite eczema and panics about the future) being part of the inner circle. He is important-by-proxy; he is in on the secret. It flushes his daily routines with the glow of power. He could nip to the bookies and have a flutter on who'll be the next archbishop of York! Of course, he'd never dream of doing any such thing. But oh, the hints he could drop, if he chose to . . .

But to return to my question: who will be kind to Bishop Paul Henderson? Hang on, you say: does he actually deserve kindness after such a crass sexual lapse – not to mention his gross dereliction of pastoral duty towards a vulnerable employee? Well, that might depend on what he decides to do – though perhaps kindness ought to depend upon nothing at all, and, like the sun, dawn on the righteous and the unrighteous alike? I will leave such matters to the experts, who can explain it all to you from the pulpit in three alliterating points and one amusing illustration. I imagine that the good people who run the retreat house are being kind to the bishop. Were he to confess his sins to a spiritual director, or the archbishop of Canterbury – who I take to be his line manager – I have every confidence they would be kind to him, too. But he might decide against doing that. We will have to wait and see.

There is one person who will categorically not be kind to Paul Henderson, however – and that is Paul Henderson.

Autumn is in the air. Can you smell it? Fat wood pigeons gather in the stubble; while in other fields a haze of wheat lies already like green chiffon across the furrows. Lime seeds pop underfoot on pavements. Here and there among the tired cherry leaves there is a flash of the fire to come. Hedgerows groan with nature's bounty: hips and haws, filberts and cobs, crab apples and rowan berries. Marrows swell rudely in allotments up and down the diocese of Lindchester, competing for prizes in local shows, or for pride of place in the harvest festival.

They still do harvest festival properly round this way. There are plenty of farms in the diocese. Agricultural imagery still resonates here, while in other places I fear that ploughs have become as quaint a notion as spinning jennies. You may walk into a church in darkest Lindfordshire and confidently expect to sing ‘We plough the fields and scatter'. There will be a big harvest loaf in the shape of a wheat sheaf, egg-glazed and gleaming. The smell of childhood harvest festivals will greet you as you walk through the door. Apples, leeks, potatoes, damsons and greengages, bunches of dahlias, chrysanths as big as footballs. Yes, ‘All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.'

In Cardingforth Primary they are rehearsing ‘Cauliflowers fluffy and cabbages green', an atheist-friendly harvest hymn that will offend nobody with menacing talk of Final Harvests and angel reapers. It can be made offensive by ingenious little girls, however. Leah Rogers is sent to stand outside the head's office for teaching her class to sing ‘Broad beans are sleeping in their wank-ety bed.'

‘My-mum-says-to-give-you-these-to-say-thank-you-for-starting-our-ca-a-aaar,' droned Leah.

Jane was about to set off to Poundstretcher University. With a gusty sigh she seized the box of Celebrations and droned back, ‘Tell-your-mum-thanks-very-mu-u-uuuch-and-she-didn't-ha-a-aaave-to.'

They glared at one another. Good grief. A reincarnation of her eight-year-old self, sent as a punishment! ‘Here.' Jane put down her briefcase and opened the box. ‘Want one?'

The child hesitated.

‘What's the problem? All the yucky coconut ones on the top? Have a rummage.'

‘You're not allowed. You have to take the nearest.'

‘Says who? I always eat all the Malteser ones first before anyone else gets to them.' She saw the girl's eyes widen at this glimpse into her depraved moral universe. ‘Which do you like best?'

‘Caramels.'

Jane shook the box at her. Leah took one. ‘G'wan, g'wan, g'wan. Have two.'

‘You're not allowed two the same.'

‘Really? Who's the boss round here, I wonder? Oh, that would be
me
.'

Leah rooted around for another.

‘Stop that, you greedy pig!' The girl froze. ‘Kidding.'

She gave Jane the evil eye and took a Malteser one. That'll teach me a lesson, thought Jane. ‘So. How's school?'

‘School sucks.'

‘Of course it does. But if you study hard, in another trillion years you can leave and go to uni. What's your favourite subject?'

‘Hate them all.'

‘Well, duh, I know that. Because they suck. But which is the least sucky?'

The girl's chops were now bulging with chocolate. ‘History.'

‘History, you say!' Jane laughed her filthy laugh. Hmm. Yes, it still scared small children. ‘Read the
Horrible History
books?' A nod. ‘Got them all?'

‘Most of them.'

‘Tell you what, my big boy's left home and I'm slinging a whole bunch of crap out. Including a complete set of
Horrible Histories
. Why don't I stick 'em in a box and whizz them round? Take any you want, and your mum can give the rest to a charity shop. How's that sound?'

The girl scowled.

‘Why, don't even mention it, child! You're doing me a huge favour taking them off my hands. No no, not another word. Can I interest you in
Murderous Maths
?'

‘No way. Maths sucks.'

‘Like the hoover of the Dark Lord himself! I couldn't agree more. But then, I would think that – I'm a history lecturer,' said Jane. ‘I
have
been known to help people with their homework in my time, if I'm in a good mood. Which isn't very often, admittedly.'

The girl looked as though she'd rather drink a cup of cold sick than ask Jane for help.

‘Oh well, back to the coal face.' Jane picked up her case and crammed the chocolates in with her files and photocopying. ‘Cheery-bye. And tell your mum tha-a-a-anks.'

You will be wondering, reader, how the romance is going. Have Jane and Matt been on any more dates (trysts? assignations?)? Is Matt now to be considered Jane's boyfriend (lover? OH?)? While Jane struggles to decide upon an appropriate lexis for their relationship, I will confide that she is stupidly in love with the archdeacon.

Her colleagues have noticed a change. Good God, Dr Rossiter! What brings you to a compulsory staff training day? Do you not have an urgent migraine to attend to? Is that a new pair of boots you are wearing? Have you culled your collection of knackered leggings at last? And are our eyes deceiving us, or have you paid for an actual haircut for once, rather than waiting to get attacked in a dark alley by a deranged sheepshearer?

Even as I write this, Jane is driving to work with most of a box of Celebrations to share out over coffee. She is singing as she drives. What is she singing? She is caterwauling, in a terrible Mockney accent, Nancy's song from
Oliver
: ‘As long as 'e neeeeeds meeee!' I'd love to tell you she's singing it ironically and rolling her eyes like the hairy-legged feminist she is. But Dr Rossiter has bought a Venus razor (five blades, hugs every curve).

Have no fear, dear reader. Jane's choice of song is not my way of dropping a dark hint that in some future episode the archdeacon will viciously murder her. Apart from his thick-set calves and a certain fondness for ale, he is nothing like Bill Sikes. True, he features as the villain in some circles. He is, after all, the archdeacon; and if an archdeacon is beloved wherever he or she goes, you may be sure that we are not in the C of E any more, Toto.

And what of the archdeacon? Is he stupidly in love with Jane? Yep. Drove his sporty little Mini straight into a bollard in the car park of William House yesterday, because he was wondering about taking her to Paris. What better proof could you require?

We are now going to pay a long-overdue visit to Carding-le-Willow, where the new curate, Virginia, lives. How is she getting on? Her summer was a strange one. After a packed theological college course, followed by the chaos of moving house and the thrill/terror of ordination, those first weeks in the parish seemed a bit empty. She struggled to fill them, in fact, and felt a bit guilty because she didn't feel she was working hard enough.

(We will now pause and allow all the ordained people reading this to laugh like hyenas, because they know that come Christmas Virginia will look back on this slack period and decide she must have dreamt it.)

Things are beginning to crank up now. We are in the third week of September. So far Virginia has taken her first funeral, preached her first sermon, started her first confirmation class, attended her first deanery synod, and been snubbed for the first time on gender grounds by both a high-
and
a low-church colleague. The C of E – an equal bigotry employer! It is Thursday evening. Virginia is getting ahead of the game and preparing next Wednesday's primary school assembly. As this will be her first attempt, she's pouring a lot of effort into it. She's got out her marker pens and is busy making a ginormous party invitation, with the intention of tying this in with Back to Church Sunday, the week after next. (This coming Sunday ought probably to be ‘Sit in a Different Pew' Sunday, so that the regulars don't get flustered by newcomers taking their seat.)

Well, we will leave Virginia to get a bit squiffy on marker pen fumes, happily planning what she will say to the boys and girls of Cardingforth Primary. We will shield her from the knowledge that she will be pre-empted by some smart-arse saying, ‘At Jeee-sus's party everyone's invited.'

There. She's finished her visual aid. We will allow her a glass of Day Off Eve merlot in front of a boxed set of something, then pack her off to bed, where she will sleep all unwittingly beneath Freddie May's whopping painted-over boner. Sweet dreams, Virginia!

And sweet dreams, Paul Henderson, wherever you are. I'm really sorry, but it looks as though someone on the Crown Nominations Commission has broken ranks. Yes, your name has been leaked to the press, and right now, in far-off London Town, a journalist is writing a big feature on you, the ex-public school Conservative Evangelical anti-gay next archbishop of York.