Acts and Omissions (17 page)

Chapter 32

August. Ragwort and rosebay willowherb crowd the verges and riverbanks and railway embankments of Lindfordshire. Thistledown idles by on the humid air. The first lime seeds helicopter down from the trees. Summer has rolled over and turned to face autumn. The shops all trumpet the same message: BACK TO SCHOOL! New uniform! Ring-binders! Pencil cases! Schoolbags! Tantrums in Clark's shoe shop! ‘Too soon,' wail children and teachers. ‘Not soon enough!' think frazzled parents, and people whose houses back on to parks or wasteland, where bored kids clamber on roofs, invade gardens, set fire to stuff.

A-level results on Thursday. University clearing week. Dr Jane Rossiter is on the hotline this year. Having weaselled out of this duty for the last decade, Confirmation and Clearing is a mystery, shrouded in a dense fog of acronyms. ABB HEFCE SCN-exempt. SCN countable home/EU CI or CF. WTF? But Dr Elspeth Quisling was in charge of the rota this year. She put her nemesis on duty at the crack of dawn on Thursday, when the calls were expected to come thick and fast. But wait – Jane has a hospital appointment on Thursday! She has already booked a day of annual leave. Dr Quisling may check that, if she wishes. Dr Quisling does indeed check. She would gladly check with the hospital too, but this is not possible; so she gnashes her teeth and puts Jane down for Friday morning instead, by which time the calls will have slowed to a mere trickle.

I'm sure my readers are not concerned about the state of Jane's health. They are more troubled – quite rightly – by her habits of mendacity. She has no hospital appointment. But as we shall see, the fates have decreed that she will nonetheless spend half of Thursday in hospital.

It's Thursday morning. Ulrika Littlechild, wife of the precentor, has driven Lukas up to school so he can get his A-level results. They already know he has not got the three A grades he needs for Durham, because his offer was not confirmed late last night when they checked on the UCAS website.
Ach Gott!
The question now is exactly how disastrously he's done.

She parks in a side street a tactful distance from the school and watches him amble away. Doesn't he care? Is this her fault for sending him to the local comp, rather than packing him off to a Harrow or Hogwarts or wherever the bloody hell, where bright but lazy boys are flogged till they work? Bad mother!

In her mind, good mothers sit at the table each night (not drinking wine) overseeing their children's homework, while Mozart plays in the background to make them brainy. Good mothers make their sons learn the piano or the violin, they make them practise an hour a day and take their grades, they do not let them just teach themselves jazz piano or bass guitar. If she had her time again, she would do it all differently!

No, she wouldn't. She knows she is a totally crep mother. Second time round she would still think, hey, lazy bums, I finished my Abitur back in 1984! I will not sodding well be doing your work for you! They have to learn to be independent. I can't be always there. They will have to learn to motivate themselves without Mutti or teacher standing over them cracking the whip.

High above the bank of lime trees there is a buzzard circling on the thermals. She hears its call.
Keee-keee!
And suddenly a rush of tears surprises her. He's leaving me. They will both be flying the nest in the next couple of years. I can't keep them for ever. All I want is to see them flying free.
Ach Gott
, don't let those results be too awful! How will my babies ever manage to be grown-ups? Oh, let them fly high and free as that bird!

She pulls out her mobile and glares at it. Come on! Text me, you little shit! Tell me what you got.

The minutes creep by. The buzzard wheels round above the restless limes.
Keee-keee!

‘Well,' says the diocesan safeguarding officer. ‘I think we're in agreement, Matt.'

‘I think we are, Helene.'

‘We've followed procedure.'

‘Yes, indeedy!'

Helene looks sharply at the archdeacon. He beams at her. ‘It remains for us to feed back to the parties concerned. Perhaps if I contact Martin, and you contact Frederick? Does that sound like a sensible course of action to you, Matt?'

‘It does, Helene.'

There is a long silence. ‘I'm sorry, Matt, but just occasionally I get the impression you're poking fun at me. Would that be fair to say?'

Matt considers making a note of this allegation on a pad of paper. Instead he bows his head. ‘You could well be right there. Sorry.'

There is another silence. Is she about to send him on a professional development course to re-educate compulsive piss-takers?

She closes her file. ‘Well, as I said, Matt, if you could contact Frederick as soon as possible?'

‘Will do.'

Matt walks back to his office.

I'm sorry, Helene, but occasionally I get the impression you think I'm the HR office boy, not the chuffing archdeacon of Lindchester.

He sits at his desk, composes himself, then picks up the phone to ring tarty-pants. Tarty-pants is not answering. Uh-oh. Please don't say he's gone AWOL again.

Freddie has not gone AWOL. He's been having a horrible time, though. Janey is a star, but he feels bad for leeching off her like this. She's all, ‘Don't be stupid'; but it's the ‘Oh, Freddie, Freddie, Freddie!' thing again. Poor Freddie, he's so hopeless, so vulnerable, he's such a drama queen, he can't cope on his own. Same old. Gah, his whole existence is parasitic! Plus he, like, trades on his cuteness? He totally admits that. If he wasn't so fucking cute, people wouldn't be all, ‘Aw, poor puppy, come and live with us, we'll look after you!' So what's gonna happen when he's not cute any more? He's gonna end up some fat lonely old queen, isn't he, hanging around the pretty young guys, asking to be loved?

Oh,
stop
that. Jesus.

It's this investigation hanging over him, freaking him out? He needs something to occupy him – but what? He stands at Danny's window looking out. Maybe sort out Janey's garden for her? He should totally do that. It is a fucking jungle out there. Literally?

So that's what he does. He rips out the brambles, hacks back the shrubs, gets Janey to drive him to the garden centre so they can hire a big bad boy petrol strimmer and reclaim the lawn.

Jane is more than happy with this scheme, incidentally. She gets her garden overhauled for free, she gets to glance up from the first draft of her Josephine Luscombe book and contemplate a gorgeous young man stripped to the waist, working his butt off. What, as the young people say, is not to like?

Once he's finished digging the beds over, they are going to go back to the garden centre and stock up on plants. He's thinking maybe potentillas? Lavender? Stuff even Janey can't kill. That's the plan for this afternoon. Freddie is just forking over the last bed when his phone rings. He stops, drives the fork into the earth. And clean through his right foot.

You will appreciate now why the archdeacon's call went unanswered.

The irony of spending four hours in A&E was not lost on Dr Rossiter. She whiled away some of the time wondering if she'd rather be on the clearing hotline after all; but no, another ride on the Freddie May rollercoaster just had the edge. She had a book, she had sandwiches (years of rugby had taught her never to enter a waiting room underprepared), she had company.

Freddie had been assessed, his wound had been irrigated, he'd been given a tetanus jab. Happily, the fork tine had missed the bone. They were now waiting for a doctor to stitch him up. Jane had been asked twice if she was his mum. Oh, for fuck's sake. How likely is that? Look at him. Yes, I'm his mother – and his dad was a golden meteor shower!

Freddie's phone rang. ‘Hey, Matt.'

Jane's heart did a thump. Then Freddie reached out and gripped her hand. Oh shit – this must be the outcome of the investigation. She gripped him back. Tried to assess from his face if this was good or bad news. He was fighting off tears, but that could mean anything.

‘Yeah. Uh-huh. K.'

Concerns . . . after discussion
. Freddie was nearly breaking her fingers.

‘So, like, no case to answer? That's it?'

That's it. All concerns allayed after discussion
. Jane caught it that time. Well, thank God for that. She squeezed Freddie's hand again.

‘I can come back?'

Of course. Whenever you like. The Hendersons are expecting you. Need a lift? Where are you now?

‘O-o-ohh. So yeah, I'm up in casualty? I like stuck a garden fork through my foot?'

What? You numpty! Is Jane there looking after you?

‘Yeah, she's right here.'

Excellent. Catch you later, tarty-pants. Take care now.

She heard him ring off.

‘Good news?' Freddie nodded. ‘So you're not a sleazy old nonce, after all then?'

There was a silence. Damn. Misjudged that one.

‘Yeah, listen, could you please not joke about it, Janey?'

‘Of course. Sorry.'

‘No worries.'

A nurse called his name. Jane watched as he limped off to the cubicle where the doctor was waiting. He'd forgiven her, but argh. Bad woman, all the same.

Oh dear, oh dear! That poor boy is so accident-prone!

It's Friday morning and Susanna is in her kitchen whipping up a batch of millionaire shortbread, because she knows it's Freddie's favourite. She'll pop it round to him once the chocolate has set. It makes sense for Freddie to stay at Jane's a few more days, so he won't have to contend with four flights of palace stairs. Jane. Oh dear, Susanna hasn't had a proper chat with Jane for ages, and it's been on her conscience. How is she coping without Danny? It's been months since she last asked that. Susanna castigates herself as she spreads the caramel on the warm shortbread. This can be for Freddie, and she'll take Jane one of the little jars of Greek honey and nuts they brought back from Corfu. And a bunch of roses from the garden.

Oh, Freddie! Thank heavens Jane was around to look after him during the investigation. What a sad, sad business. Oh, Martin! Becky! The girls! Oh, Paul! Paul! So much on his plate, poor love! This dreadful waiting and secrecy. Still, next week he'll be telling his close colleagues on the senior staff team. That will be a relief for him, to have their support and prayers at last, not to have to pretend any more. She pops the tray into the fridge to cool it down.

Is there enough in the freezer for when she nips down to Bristol after the baby's born? Maybe she should stick a couple more lasagnes in, especially if Freddie's back – that boy eats like a horse! Claire's baby is already a week overdue. (Oh, let everything be all right!) She starts snapping the chocolate in pieces. She knows it's a bit naughty of her to use real Belgian chocolate, but it tastes so much nicer.

The archbishop elect (ssh!) is having his Quiet Time. R. S. Thomas's grumpiness is contagious. This is (O sternest of Evangelical disapprobations!) Not Helpful. The bishop has taken to reviving himself with Vesuvian nips of Emily Dickinson, like a dowager with a brandy bottle in her glove drawer:

        Come slowly – Eden!

        Lips unused to Thee –

        Bashful – sip thy Jessamines –

        As the fainting Bee –

But today his mind wanders. Freddie's latest mishap has merely postponed a tricky confrontation. Martin is furious about the safeguarding outcome. He is refusing to work in the office if Freddie is there. So Paul will have to ask Freddie to stay away. He can't afford a messy public rupture with his chaplain at this stage. But pragmatism always leaves a bad taste in Paul's mouth. He knows Freddie will have (in a phrase never applied to angry straight men) a monumental hissy fit. Oh, Lord.

        As the fainting Bee –

Come along, Henderson. Concentrate!

        Reaching late his flower,

        Round her chamber hums –

        Counts his nectars –

        Enters – and is lost in Balms.

Chapter 33

Bob Hooty gazes through his study window in Martonbury. The first swallows gather on the telegraph wires. This afternoon he and Janet are going out blackberrying along the canal towpath. There is a whiff of September in the air now. New beginnings everywhere. Students, like those swallows there, about to take flight for other worlds. And now his colleague, off to York.

This preferment of Paul's has unsettled our good friend Bob, I'm afraid. It has overturned a stone in his psyche and all manner of stuff is scuttling for cover. Little earwigs of resentment, woodlice of indignation. He tries simply to observe them, not judge. Well, this is interesting, he tells himself. I seem to be angry. I seem to feel sidelined and overlooked. I seem to be saying, ‘How come my younger brother gets the biggest piece?' I wonder why – when I've never had any ambition to be archbishop of York, and retirement is beckoning? Abruptly, a centipede breaks cover: ‘I have never liked the man!' Aha, interesting! Bob leans forward to get a proper look. He's known all along about this little fellow, but this is the first time it has come out of hiding and shown itself properly. You don't like Bishop Paul, you say? ‘No! I
hate
him!' The centipede stamps a hundred tiny feet. But Paul's always been very pleasant to us, hasn't he? Kind, professional, prayerful. Why do you hate him? ‘
Because he's a hypocrite!
' shouts the centipede.

The bishop of Barcup contemplates this accusation for a long time. He watches the swallows as they natter on the wires outside his window. Lord knows, we are all hypocrites. The inside seldom matches the outside. Why, Bob himself does not parade his menagerie of creepy-crawlies before the world. But there is something more than usually . . . closed-off about Paul. Maybe that's it? A deep reticence beneath his surface amiability, that makes you feel you will never really know the man. You get the feeling that although he plays his hand fairly, he's probably got a knave up his sleeve. In short, he's the calculating type, and Bob is not. So maybe, he suggests, Paul's just a strategist, rather than a hypocrite? But the centipede has gone to ground.

Flying away, they are all flying away. Lukas Littlechild (he got A, B, B for his A-levels) has decided to go and spend a gap year in Heidelberg with his Tante Birgit, improving his German, and rethinking his future. On Thursday Ulrika had a second stint of waiting in the car watching the buzzards circle, this time while Felix collected his GCSE results. A mixed bag of grades, but he passed them all. Apart from RE. Hilariously! The canon's son, failing GCSE Religious Studies! Both Littlechild boys are going off to Cornwall with a few friends this weekend, on a little beach holiday. Paddling, sandcastles, and picnics with lashings of ginger pop. Think Giles and Ulrika, without reflecting properly on the fact that it was Freddie May who recommended Polzeath.

Flying away. It took her a few months after waving Danny off through All Departures, but Jane thought she had pretty much got her head round the concept. Alas no. Turns out there was another cranking of the maternal rack in store for her. Danny has decided to stay down under and go to uni in New Zealand. Well, why wouldn't he? He has dual nationality, fees are a fraction of what he'd be paying here, and frankly, his grades are only ever going to get him into the likes of Poundstretcher if he stays in the UK. Who in their right mind wouldn't rather do their degree in Middle Earth than Thickford, Urbansprawlshire?

But fuck it. Why didn't he tell her that's what he was hoping to do? Why didn't he discuss it with her? That's what's killing her – the thought of him and Mickey cooking up their little plan and making sure it was a done deal, so Mum (bless her) didn't chuck a spanner in the works. Bastards. Is she really so unreasonable? Do they really think she'd ever stand in the way of Danny's happiness?

Which is probably why she gets on Freddie's case and rides him so hard about getting in touch with his mum. Little fecker hasn't emailed her for months. Turns out he's convinced himself he can't get an Argentine visa with a drugs conviction. For God's sake. Why get your knickers in a twist, when the answer is one click away on Google? Why this chronic inability to face stuff? Half her students are the same: failing to avail themselves of supervisions for two terms, then going into meltdown over their dissertations a week before the deadline. Your choice, my friends. I'm not going to chase you.

Freddie, however, is a different matter. Freddie she's prepared to chase mercilessly. After a bout of ‘Gah, fuck,
no
! Don't ask! Get off my back, OK?' she extorts the truth and bullies him into accepting his mum's offer of a free fortnight's holiday on the ranch. Organizes the ass off him, that's what she does. Poor kid needs to get Close politics out of his hair before setting off for Barchester.

There. My good deed for the month, thinks Jane when it's over. She looks at Freddie, sulking at the other end of her ratty corduroy sofa. I will deposit you back at the Hendersons' tomorrow, and then maybe I can stop playing Mum and try my hand at Single Gal again.

‘Yeah? What are
you
smiling at, slag-face?'

‘You'll never know, my little slut-puppy.'

Jane is smiling at the thought of a certain archdeacon.

It's Friday morning and Susanna is happy. Yes, she genuinely is! As they drive to Bristol she cautiously patrols the borders of her life for trouble, and all she can find to fret about today is whether Paul will remember to water the African violets from the bottom not the top. (Not counting Global Warming, of course.)

Oh, thank you, Lord, for all your goodness! The new grandson has arrived safely! Seven pounds four ounces, neither too big nor too small to trigger anxiety. Freddie's foot is mending nicely, he's off to see his mum, he has a job to come back to, which was mercifully not wrecked by that safeguarding process (momentary surge of panic about Martin, but Martin will no longer be a problem when Paul takes up his new job – Susanna bravely renounces all Martin-related fretting for now). Paul has been able to share his news with his senior colleagues, so the burden of secrecy has been lightened. If only the announcement could happen! But the Queen is at Balmoral; they will have to be patient a bit longer.

She reaches across and squeezes Paul's arm as he drives. He turns and smiles at her. Oh, she's so lucky to be married to him! If only he could spend the weekend with them in Bristol, rather than driving back this evening. What a good man he is, so forbearing with her when she's being silly about nothing! That little bottle! She'd finally found a moment to mention it while they were in Corfu, and he'd explained. The relief, the sheer relief of knowing it was nothing. (Freddie is so naughty!) It didn't even matter that Paul had laughed till he cried nearly, when she owned up that she'd sniffed it to find out what it was.

Well, another time she's going to remember this, she really is, and not let herself be such a catastrophizer. She'd known from the start that when Paul was in his teens he went through a phase of being attracted to other men, he'd admitted it. These schoolboy crushes are terribly common,
but they pass
– it's not PC to say that, she knows – and she's never had reason to think that's still a problem. She feels awful now for even entertaining the suspicion. When had their marriage been anything other than full and rewarding? Still romantic, even if it was not quite as . . . Well, after thirty years, things steady down a bit, don't they? Looking back, she can't believe she was so silly. To carry that dreadful load of misery for no reason!

So yes – Susanna is happy!

I'll tell you someone else who's happy: our friend Father Dominic. He's spent a happy fortnight in France, he's happy and excited about his move to Lindford, and has just popped round to see his good friend Jane. That should cure him of his happiness. Let's be nosy and listen in:

‘You've just missed the divine Mr May,' said Jane.

‘What, the blond man-trap? Well, thank God for that!' He handed Jane a chilled bottle and some cheese. ‘Now
this
you must try. My new discovery: Sauternes with Roquefort.'

‘I thought Sauternes was the one that goes with Christmas pudding. When you're so pissed you might as well be drinking Buckie.'

‘Ah, but this is what the French do. Glasses, plate, cheese knife.' He clapped his hands. ‘Come along now.'

Jane obliged while Dominic drew the cork. ‘Bet it's disgusting.'

‘Well, it is a bit. But it's also
divine
.'

They sat at her kitchen table. Jane gave it a whirl. Savoured. Considered. ‘Oh my God. So wrong – and yet so right!'

‘And yet so right! Exactly!' He giggled like a schoolboy. ‘Have some more! And tell me what you've been up to.'

‘Well, you remember that chef? Mmm, salt, sweet, I love this! My admirer? I've met him.'

‘No! And?'

‘Turns out he's not a chef after all. I was misled by the fact that he wears a checked shirt.' She waited. Nothing. ‘A black and white checked shirt. Made from that kind of chef's trousers fabric. Ringing any bells? Big, bald guy, wears a black and white checked shirt? No?'

‘
No!
'

Jane did her filthy laugh. ‘Yep.'

‘No!
No!
You're boffing the archdeacon?!'

‘I am not boffing anyone. I believe the term is, we are stepping out. Or we will be,' she emended (an academic habit). ‘We are stepping out tomorrow. Literally. We are going for a walk, followed by a pub lunch.'

‘Omigod, omigod, omigod!' Dominic fanned himself in agitation. ‘Jane! I don't know what to
do
with this information!'

‘Treat it like Sauternes with Roquefort,' she suggested.

‘So wrong, and yet so . . .
wrong
! I shall forbid the banns! You can't do this to me!'

‘It's not about you, Lady Bracknell.'

‘Omigod! But seriously? You . . . like him?'

‘Well, I'm about to find out, aren't I?
Slightly
wondering why he's still single.'

‘His wife died, I think. About ten years ago.' Dominic topped his glass up.

‘Freddie assures me he's not gay.'

‘Well, Freddie would know, that's for sure.'

Freddie does not always know. Every couple of years a stealth plane gets under his gaydar. Come with me to the palace, where the bishop, back from Bristol, is in his study. There's a knock at the door.

‘Come in.'

Freddie stuck his head round the door. ‘Hey. Can we like talk?'

No, thought Paul. ‘Of course. Come in.'

‘Gah. Look. Listen. Paul, I don't want to mess you around, but I'm really not coping with this, this— So, yeah, can I just not come into the office next week? I just don't think I can stand to be around Martin? After, y'know?'

The bishop exhaled a long, long breath. Thank you, Lord. ‘If that's what you want, Freddie. Of course.'

‘You can find me like other stuff to do?'

He was tugging his hair. Looking as wretched as he had that first evening. Paul was overcome by his own uselessness. It was ending as it began. ‘That's fine, Freddie. I completely understand. I'm really sorry about all this . . . mess.'

‘Yeah, no. Paul, I'm trying to like forgive him? Because Jesus? But I— what? Why are you looking at me like that?' He broke off. ‘Ah, crap. You think I don't—? Look, I know I'm a total fuck-up, Paul, but I do believe and everything, I really love him, y'know? Man. Look, never mind.'

‘Freddie!' Paul came round from behind his desk, reached out a hand.

A pastoral gesture gone wrong.

So wrong. And yet so right. At last, at last – this is bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh!

Salt. Sweet.
Come slowly – Eden –

The bishop is like a man who leans against a wall, only to find it is a door. He plunges down, down, into the cellar he'd denied he owned. And finds it full of all the vintage wine sealed up decades before.