Acts and Omissions (4 page)

Chapter 6

Jane is out running. Running? Towing a dead elephant out of the swamp with a tractor, more like. But at least she is out there. Oh, that it has come to this, the consoling mantra of the middle-aged jogger. Time was when she could crank out six, eight, even ten miles without thinking about it. It's muddy on the river bank. Jane is not going far. Just a mile-and-a-half loop to ease herself back into it. The cooling towers rear up to her right, vast cathedrals of climate change. Yeah. Like she doesn't use electricity. In the distance now is the old bridge, lovely as a Cotman painting. The halfway point. She will cross it and plough home along the opposite bank. Come on, old girl, old carcass, you can do it. Blue sky today. Mild. Black hedges, blond fields. Rushes sshh gently beside her and the sheep as they graze are all haloed with light. Somewhere nearby a thrush dusts off his spring repertoire.
Toodle-oo, toodle-oo!
he carols.
Chewie-chewie-chewie! Chewie-chewie-chewie! Free kick, free kick!
(Jane is fluent in
turdus
.) The Linden races by, full and joyous. Spring. It will come. No woe of hers can hold it back.

There's a pounding behind her on the opposite bank. Another runner, gaining fast. They will reach the bridge at the same time. She flicks a glance. Young man. Black running skins, green beanie. Jane knows she's invisible to young men (unless she falls and breaks a hip), but pride forces her to pick up her feet and power jauntily towards the bridge. They'll cross in the middle. Here he comes, mirror shades, white iPod wires trailing. Tssh! Tssh! Tshh! of his music.

‘Morning!'

‘Hey, Janey!'

‘Freddie!'

They swap a couple more nothings over their shoulders, then return to their private running worlds. The moment it's safe, Jane stops and leans on the parapet. Beetroot-faced, lungs exploding. Stitch. Freddie dwindles rapidly along the opposite bank. They are nine miles from Lindchester. One of those insane punishing runs of his. Freddie, Freddie. What will become of him? Not her worry, however. She can't fret over all the feckless young men on the face of the earth. Freddie has a mother of his own, presumably, somewhere. And he certainly has Susanna, fretting away like a busy bee. Jane peels herself off the bridge. There's a slagheap of marking waiting for her back at home. On with life!

The Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove has preached his farewell sermon in York. I presume his goods and chattels have been swaddled in purple lambswool and suavely conveyed to Lambeth or Canterbury. Early next week an arcane ritual will be enacted in St Paul's Cathedral, after which we will have a legally constituted new archbishop of Canterbury. We wish you luck in the name of the Lord, Dr Palgrove! And in His hands we must leave you, obeying our self-imposed unity of place by not venturing beyond the boundaries of the diocese of Lindchester.

Candlemas approaches: the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. Here we turn our backs on Christmas and set our faces towards Jerusalem. On Sunday the crib figures must go back into bubble-wrapped hibernation till December. It all feels a long time ago now: the parties, the carol services, that last-minute supermarket dash for goose fat. Here and there evicted Christmas trees still lie beside wheelie bins. MORE FURTHER REDUCTION'S says a sign in the Lower Town.

I'm about to take you on a short cut through the Luscombe Centre, Lindchester's 1960s shopping precinct. I will require you to gaze upon vistas of bleak concrete where neat Victorian terraces once stood (themselves replacing medieval squalor). Who can say now what was in the town planners' minds? I expect someone somewhere was making a mint. Lindford fared worse, of course, yet the blight seems more appalling here, here in Historic Lindchester, where the cathedral spire is visible over the brutal multi-storey car park; aloof, in a different world. A gull circles in the blue. Down here we must hurry past betting shops, charity shops, pound shops, amusements, a mad person muttering on a mobility scooter, a clipboarded bouncy person: ‘Can I borrow you for a minute? No? Have a nice day!' Oh dear, vomit – don't slip! Chip wrappings blown into corners; the massively fat, the huddled homeless; a
Big Issue
seller. Remember to make eye contact and smile kindly as you say, ‘No thanks.' At least you haven't pretended she doesn't exist.

What a godforsaken spot this is – assuming God forsakes the poor and hopeless – but we're out now. And here's the river, just a few yards away, down these steps. It's looking pretty turbulent right now. All that snow and rain, I suppose. (William of Lindchester, pray for us!) This is Gresham's Boats we are passing. In the summer you can hire a little rowing boat or a punt and tack with hilarious incompetence from bank to bank up and down the Linden, and then picnic under the venerable willows. In a moment – if we have timed this right – Freddie will appear, mud-spattered, sweat-slicked, at the end of his eighteen-mile run. He will force himself to run up that steep flight of steps you can see on your left. Three precipitous zigzags up the wooded bank to a narrow passage: a secret back way on to the Close when the main gatehouse doors are closed and locked at 10.30 p.m.

Here he comes now. Ah, it would console Jane to see this, to hear him whooping for breath. She'd be able to keep pace with him easily now as he stumbles up the steps. He gets two-thirds of the way before he collapses. Sits, head between juddering knees. Oh, shit. Man. Like, total running whitey? He retches. Lies down. Dark closes in. Stars. Then it clears. He's on his back looking up at trees, sky. Except he's not looking up, he's looking down. Stuck like a fly to the world's ceiling, looking down on the abyss of space. Whoa, paradigm shift?
What is man, that thou art mindful of him?
Then it flips back to normal. That was mental! Totally – fucking –
mental
. He lies there a few minutes longer, laughing, then hauls himself to his feet. Slowly, slowly, fumbling the handrail, he climbs the last flight to the narrow gate at the top.

5.29 p.m. The late bell chimes. Here comes the chancellor, sprinting in a magpie flurry of cassock and surplice towards the west door. It is the last day of January and look! Are we right to say it is not wholly dark at the beginning of evensong? From inside the cathedral the windows are grey, not black, surely? Yes, the year's corner has been turned and before long we will be cantering towards light evenings again. The choir is already assembled in the vestibule. Mr Happy pants in, just as Giles is testily consulting his watch. The lay clerks exchange smirks; the director of music presses the magic button. Upstairs in the loft the sub-organist wends her improvisation to a seemly close. The precentor says a prayer. A lay clerk strikes himself on the head with a tuning fork, listens, then begins to sing. The room fills with music. It radiates out, like the glow of a fire, until it fills the whole cathedral. The small congregation waits in the quire. Candles burn in their glass columns. Yes, the old familiar service, like sleep, always knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.

Marion the dean draws a deep breath and exhales. At last the employment tribunal is over. A whole year it's been hanging over her: endlessly deferred, adjourned, rescheduled. It has meandered through so many baroque twists that her clergy colleagues call it Jarndyce versus Jarndyce. Despite her best prayerful efforts it blighted Advent and Christmas for her. And today it ended. She's been fully vindicated in court. But already the next most menacing card has risen to the top of the deck: the cathedral budget deficit. Under that lies the south side restoration appeal, and the Choristers' School . . . She shakes her head at herself. Sufficient unto this day is the tribunal thereof. The antiphon ends, the procession begins to move. She drops into place behind the head verger and brings up the rear. This is the kingdom: the first shall be last and the last first.

Over in the deanery Gene is putting out champagne flutes. There are six bottles of something rather special in the fridge, along with something
divine
from his favourite smokery. Sound the trumpet: John the Bastard has been vanquished! Marion will not crow; she is far too decent a human being. By tacit agreement she outsources her venom to Gene, who is more than happy with the arrangement. John the Bastard has wasted a year of Gene's life by proxy; so a select little surprise gathering of a celebratory nature has been convened. Mr Happy has undertaken to detain Marion with some interminable rant about the medieval library, while the others scurry on ahead to the deanery. Mary Poppins and Pollyanna have not been invited. Gene cannot abide the Hendersons. For Marion's sake he is prepared to be courteous. His courtesy does not, however, extend to wasting his 1996 Dom Ruinart Blanc de Blancs on Evangelicals.

‘I took some flowers and a card round to Marion,' Susanna told Paul that evening. ‘I hope that's all right.' It was unfair of Jane to describe Susanna as fretting like a busy bee. Susanna had a whole busy hive of bees fretting away. ‘It's not too, too, oh, triumphalist, is it?'

‘Of course it's not,' said Paul. ‘We're all relieved for her. I'm glad the cathedral was so fully exonerated.' He did not add that he hoped he'd be as lucky when a serially litigious priest in the diocese finally got his day in court. Paul could do without being branded the Bullying Bishop of Lindchester, frankly. ‘So how was your day?' (This, before Susanna's bees scented the pollen of dread and became agitated.)

It is not the business of this novel to intrude into clerical bedrooms and delineate marital relations; but I should probably mention that the Hendersons were tucked up in bed. It was gone ten, after all. Susanna told the bishop about her day. He listened to the sleepy murmur of the hive while he processed his own day's business and then moved on to speculate about England's chances against Scotland on Saturday. (Women are wrong when they say men can't multi-task.)

‘Paul? Um—'

Um! The very word was like a bell, to toll him back from line-outs to his sole self!

‘No. Absolutely not!' Then he smiled. ‘I'm teasing. What is it? Go on, darling.'

‘Well. Um—'

‘Unless it's something about Freddie May, and can we let him stay a bit longer until he's got himself sorted out.'

‘Well—'

‘Look, I'm very happy to have a conversation about this, Susanna, but not now. I've had a long day, tomorrow's my day off, and I don't want to fall asleep thinking about work.'

‘Sorry. Of course.' She kissed his forehead. The Hendersons had a pact not to talk about nasty worrying things after ten at night. Uneasy lies the head that wears the mitre.

I'm sorry to tell you that the bishop was woken at one in the morning by a group of revellers weaving home past the palace and caterwauling, ‘It's a jolly holiday with Mary!' The poor man then lay awake for over an hour, wondering how the game of musical bishoprics – triggered by the empty chair at York – would play out. In the end, to put a stop to this vanity of vanities, he went downstairs to make a cup of tea.

We will leave him there in his dressing gown in the perfect kitchen: a mug of tea, a book of verses (Shakespeare's Sonnets – his New Year's resolution was to read more poetry). His Thou is not beside him singing in the wilderness, admittedly. But it is paradise enow. Life is good. He is thankful.

FEBRUARY

Chapter 7

Jane gets in from work and turns on her radio. Whoopee-doo. Access to an institution that has been oppressing women for centuries!

It's true: despite the leftie liberal blood pumping through her veins, Jane is thoroughly pissed off by the whole equal marriage thing. You may have spotted by now that she's a bit counter-suggestible? The hashtagification of the debate has pushed her ‘don't fucking tell
me
what I've got to believe!' button. How many #equalmarriage campaigners does it take to change a light bulb? Homophobe! She contemplates ringing Dominic to share this thought. But then she chickens out. She doesn't feel up to being shouted at right now. And neither, when it comes down to it, does she want to be mean. Why rain on his parade? She has no theological axe to grind, after all; so surely she could find it in her heart to be glad the bill has made it through the Commons? She gets out her phone and sends him a nice text: ‘Two bearded men snogging AT THE ALTAR! Yay!'

I should probably explain that this is an old joke. It dates back to the Federation of Theological Colleges Summer Ball of 1985, when Jenny ‘That's Not Funny' Bannister – in a burgundy taffeta bridesmaid's dress – turned her shiny face to Jane in the marquee and shouted above the music, ‘I really don't see why we should have to look at
that
!'

‘At what?' Jane shouted back.

‘Two bearded men snogging!'

Jane scanned the theological throng as it bopped, in a miasma of trampled grass and Opium, to ‘You Can't Hurry Love'. Later it emerged that Dominic had been one of the bearded men; completely,
shamefully
pissed, and indulging in a bit of naughty Lightfoot Evangelical-baiting on the hallowed lawns of Latimer. A minute later she saw Paul Henderson leave the ball early, shepherding Susanna away from all that, face rigid with disgust. She never did admit to Dominic how shocked she was herself, even though she hadn't seen anything.

Her text prompts a phone call. Shall we be nosy and listen in? Go on then.

‘
Oh!
' (shrieked the dowager) ‘Two
bearded
men
snogging
! God, I haven't snogged a bearded man in
years
.'

‘Sail on, Silver Boy!' yodelled Jane.

‘My t-i-i-me will c-o-o-me toooo shiiiine!'

Jane held the phone away from her ear. ‘I've got a confession: I never did tell you this, but I was actually a bit shocked.'

‘I know you were, darling.'

‘In fairness, it
was
pretty shocking back then.'

‘Well, we've all come on a journey.'

‘Yes, haven't we,' agreed Jane. ‘I remember the days when marriage was a heterosexual construct that shouldn't be imposed on gay men, not a human right.'

Pause. ‘And?'

Don't even
think
of parking here, read the sign. Jane wisely pulled away from the metaphorical kerb again, without enquiring what equality
she
had a right to, or observing that single people were being pushed even further to the margins. ‘So. Are you free for a drink later? Or are you off celebrating with your fellow beardies?'

‘I wish. PCC subcommittee, followed by funeral sermon. Friday?'

They fix a time and hang up. Dominic rubs his beard. Yes, he still wears a beard: a vestigial much-sculpted affair these days. To his horror the 1970s full beard is making a comeback. If he goes down that route now he'll look like a hobo! A homo hobo! People will start giving him their spare change in the street! No, he prefers to cut a suave Renaissance gentleman sort of dash. Funny old world. Here he is at fifty-three, chastely abiding by the current Statement of the House of Bishops. More by accident than design. Equal marriage?
Of course
equal marriage, you grumpy old hag! (Sometimes he hates Jane.) But not, in all probability, for him.

This is big news, as my reader is doubtless aware. Right now equal marriage is being discussed throughout the whole diocese of Lindchester, in homes and churches, in the street, in the pub.

Everyone has an opinion. Or at any rate, a gut reaction. How many Anglicans does it take to change a light bulb? Ah, if only it were that simple! What sort of bulb are you talking about? Furthermore, we need to discuss the whole concept of bulbhood – is it timeless, or can it be contextualized? Who decides, and on what basis? After decades of anguished debate the C of E is more or less OK with screw-in as well as bayonet fittings – for table lamps, that is. When it comes to overhead lights, bayonet remains less controversial; but so long as it's shining, most good-hearted folk won't insist on scrutinizing the packet it came in. In theory we can even use screw-in bulbs in chandeliers – provided the screw-in bulbs aren't ever actually screwed in. You're asking me how many Anglicans it takes to change a light bulb? Thousands. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands. Millions, maybe. And how long does it take? God only knows. In the meantime, it's night; and from the outside it seems for all the world as though the Church is dark and closed.

Come with me and we'll take a closer look. The recycling box outside the deanery is full of empty champagne bottles again. I believe there was another little celebration there yesterday. Discreet, in deference to the views held at the palace; but gleeful all the same. We will turn a blind eye and pop in on Miss Blatherwick instead. I wonder what she thinks about all this? This morning Miss Blatherwick is hanging up her bird feeder which she's just refilled with niger seed to attract the goldfinches. Unfortunately, in doing so she has also attracted Amadeus the cathedral cat. Bad puss! She claps her hands at him and shoos him away; but of course, Amadeus will just bide his time and slink back when she's not there. Nothing in this life is ever simple, that is what Miss Blatherwick thinks on the subject. One acts with the best of intentions, but there are always unforeseen repercussions. Casualties. Tears and regrets and recriminations. Doesn't she know it. However, Miss Blatherwick is of the firm opinion that this ought not to deter one from doing all the good one can. Careful on that stool, Miss Blatherwick: we need you! You're no use to the birds or anybody if you fall and break your neck!

In the perfect kitchen of the palace Susanna is baking again. The passing of this bill means that Paul is in for another round of flak. Later this morning he's giving his reactions on local radio. He will reiterate his support for the Statement of the House of Bishops, and then everyone will brand him a homophobe, just like they did poor old Michael Palgrove yesterday. Honestly! What do they expect him to say? What a way for him to start his new ministry as archbishop of Canterbury! She pauses her electric mixer – dear Lord, please be with Rosemary and the children in all this – then resumes beating the dough.

They are probably going to quiz her this afternoon at work, too. Susanna volunteers for a charity that supports young offenders on their release. This is how her path crossed with Freddie's and why she feels so responsible for the situation. (She has successfully lobbied for a three-month extension to his stay with them, by the way.)

‘What do
you
think, Susanna?' they will ask in the office. What does Susanna think? She doesn't know, she just doesn't
know
! She doesn't want anyone to be hurt and left out, so her instinct is to support gay marriage. (
Equal
marriage, Susanna!) But then there's the Bible and the worldwide Anglican Communion to think about. Oh dear, oh dear! She tips three packets of chocolate chips into the mixture. As soon as they're baked she's going to take a plate of warm cookies through to the office to cheer everyone up. Susanna is not so naive as to think that home-baking has a genuine soteriological function. She knows she cannot solve the gay issue in the C of E with her triple choc chip cookies. But she can make the world a little bit nicer, a little bit kinder. And who are we to denigrate small acts of kindness? Those who perform them will surely not go without their reward.

A bit of kindness will not go amiss in the bishop's office this morning. The diocesan communications officer is busy briefing the bishop in his study. Penelope, the bishop's PA, is fielding emails. She now has a new and closely guarded password which Freddie does not know. Thinks Penelope.

The bishop's chaplain is at his desk scowling at some paperwork. The Revd Martin Rogers is in his mid-thirties and looks like an Action Priest™ fresh out of the box: buzz-cut hair, be-zipped and multi-pocketed navy blue trousers, all-terrain hybrid trainer-shoes and a navy blue fleece over his navy clerical shirt. Armed with Bible and Swiss army knife at all times, he looks poised to mountain bike over the peaks and take the gospel to Hull. He is not actually reading his paperwork through his flexible titanium-rimmed glasses, because that little
git
Freddie May is in the room.

The little git is waiting to drive the bishop to his radio interview. He lolls in a swivel chair, with last night still gleaming over him like a smutty halo. He yawns, stretches vastly, rumples his hair, sorts the nads out, checks his phone, smirks, swivels the chair back and forth. He looks as though he might slide off at any moment. His clothes look as though they might slide off at any moment. Skin-tight, or falling off: that would just about sum up the clothes of Freddie May. He starts humming ‘I Believe in Miracles', and working his tongue stud into the gap between his front teeth. Martin can hear it.

‘Would you
stop
doing that, Freddie?' says Penelope. ‘You'll hurt yourself.'

Freddie rears up without warning: ‘Maggie-eee Thatche-e-er! Po-o-ope Benedict! Uganda-a-a! Westboro fucking Baptist Church! Martin Rogers! Can you hear me? Your boys took one hell of a beating yesterday! Your boys took one hell of a—'

Martin snatches up the staple gun on his desk and fires off a volley of staples in Freddie's direction. They fall harmlessly onto the carpet. Martin goes back to his paperwork.

‘Oooh!' Freddie pours himself out of his chair and slinks over to Martin's desk.

But here's Susanna with her plate of cookies, thank goodness. Martin will not get a tongue in his ear this morning. He will not be squeezed or tweaked or cupped. He's had to endure all these things over the past nine months. I don't want you to imagine that he makes a note of each separate incident. He is not logging a record for HR. There's no way he's going to make himself ridiculous by lodging a complaint about sexual harassment in the workplace. But that's what it is, though, isn't it? It's bullying. Martin is powerless to cope with it. Sometimes it reduces him to tears, almost. Aha, because he is seething with repressed homosexual lust! the reader concludes. Wrong: because it catapults him straight back to the misery of school – the other boys hiding his underpants after swimming, flicking him with towels in the changing room, humping him in the lunch queue, calling him a fag. I wish Martin could tell Freddie this. Freddie would be
distraught
. He would cry with remorse! He has no idea: he just plays with Martin the way Amadeus plays with a baby bird. Because he's bored and thoughtless and destructive.

I wavered there for a moment. It would be so easy for me to sit Martin and Freddie down and make them open their hearts to one another. I know this would head off a whole world of trouble later on in my tale. I'm like Susanna: I want to rustle up a batch of narrative cookies and make everything lovely for everyone. No. I must resist. Life is not a vicarage tea party. It's a pilgrimage up a steep and rugged pathway. There may be cookies along the way, but they are only food for the journey.