Acts and Omissions (7 page)

Chapter 12

The cardinals are in conclave. Tempting though it is, we mustn't loiter with the crowds in the piazza, nor yearn with them for a glimpse of white smoke. Our business lies with the diocese of Lindchester. We are on the brink of Passiontide. On Sunday our focus will shift from the Wilderness to Jerusalem. But today is Tuesday. At 9.17 a.m. a little local train (this train is made up of two carriages) rattles out of Cardingforth towards Lindford. Let's follow it.

The Linden flows beside the track among rush and willow. To our left the cooling towers serenely manufacture clouds. Look away. A solitary crow lollops over a field greened with winter wheat, and here and there along the hedges we can make out a sly haze of hawthorn leaf, a frosting of blackthorn blossom. The train clatters on,
knackerty-tack, knackerty-tack
. Allotments, houses, a square-towered church in a huddle of yews. We will shortly be arriving into Carding-le-Willow. If you are leaving the train, please ensure you have all your luggage and personal belongings with you. Carding-le-Willow, our next station stop.

Personal belongings? As opposed to what? Impersonal belongings? Arriving
into
? Station
stop
? What, to distinguish it from the other places where we stop for no apparent reason, which are not stations?

That is correct: Dr Jane Rossiter is on this train. Her car is being serviced, and she is on her way to work. Today she's wearing a black beret because she still hasn't been to the hairdresser. It looks rather good on her. When Danny was growing up, public hat-wearing was among her most heinous maternal crimes. Nowadays she could sport a ten-gallon diamanté-studded Stetson with impunity. Nobody cares. Was Jane remembered on Mothering Sunday? She was. Danny and Mickey Skyped her and performed the haka. Thanks, boys.

Before long Jane is looking down on back gardens. White conservatories, blue-edged trampolines. A Union Jack. Two swans on a canal. The sports stadium over the rooftops. Lindford, our next station stop. Jane takes care when alighting, and walks to the campus.

There it is: the Fergus Abernathy building, with all the glamour of a multi-storey car park. Doors closing. Sixth floor. Ding! At least her office (sweet FA 609) has a nice view. In that it's physically impossible to see the Fergus Abernathy building from its own windows. Jane dumps her bag, sits at her desk and turns on her computer, resolving to delete unread any email with an acronym in its title.

There's a little tap at the door. It's Dr Elspeth Quilter. That is her name. She is not called Dr Elspeth Quisling.

‘Hi, Jane. Hope you've recovered. Sorry you had another migraine so soon after the last one.'

Jane bares her fangs in a smile. ‘I'm much better now, thanks.'

‘As you weren't at the departmental meeting, can I trouble you for your—'

Jane's mobile rings. She checks who's calling. ‘Sorry, Elspeth, do you mind? It's my agent. New book contract.'

Elspeth retreats and closes the door.

‘I dined at the palace last week,' says Jane's agent (who is called Dominic and is not in fact Jane's agent at all; and while we're at it, nor does Jane have a new book contract). ‘You knew, and yet you didn't warn me!'

Jane laughs. She has a filthy laugh. People turn and stare when Jane Rossiter laughs.

‘Well?' prompts Dominic. ‘Yonder trollop, who is he, where and what his dwelling?'

Jane tells him all about Freddie. She fingers her chin as she talks. One of those annoying bristles, too short to tweeze out.

‘So he's another Henderson rescue dog,' says Dominic. ‘Well, that's very commendable, I suppose.'

‘Yeah, right,' says Jane. ‘Or very strategic.
Vis-à-vis
“the gay issue”. Paul can't be written off as a frothing homophobe if he takes queers in and employs them, can he?'

‘Ooh, cynical!'

‘Meanwhile, Freddie's on the lookout for a silver fox with a convertible, to take care of him for ever. He told me.'

‘My car has a sunroof. Does that count?'

Jane laughs again. Filthily. ‘Your car's a Honda! Buy an Audi. But you are very, very foxy, my darling. And getting quite silvery too.'

‘Meow.'

I don't want you to get the wrong impression here. Dominic did not ring to gossip. He was checking up on his good friend Jane. Well, all right then; maybe he was a
tiny
bit curious about that incarnation of sluttiness made manifest in the episcopal drawing room. However, his main object was to see how Jane was doing. He's reassured. She's laughing again. Goody-good.

Dominic swigs his last mouthful of coffee. Holy Week services all planned. Daphne stroked back into contentment about the Easter lilies. Fair Trade mini eggs sourced for the children's Easter egg hunt. Kindling for the Easter fire. Mustn't forget kindling. The lead thieves' ladder is still in his garden, but he's calmed down, and is no longer vowing to chop it up for firewood.

Right. Off to Lindford General Hospital. It's outside official visiting hours, but a dog collar opens many doors. One of his churchwardens has just had a chap's plumbing op. Dominic is very much hoping not to be told the details. Or shown any tubing, catheters, stitches, cannulas, dressings, mesh, needles, wounds, seepage, or anything latex. There can be a parent–child dynamic to bedside visits. Forty-nine stitches, father, look! Look, father, it's still oozing! Look, Dad, watch me, Dad! Even after a quarter of a century in Holy Orders poor Dominic remains squeamish. Dead bodies: not a problem. Suppurating ulcers: good Lord, deliver us. He gets into his trusty Honda and sets off.

Audi, Schmaudi.

Wednesday. White smoke! A new pope, and we Anglicans are still waiting to enthrone the next archbishop of Canterbury. The mills of Anglicanism grind slower than those of Rome.

Thursday, late afternoon. Dean Marion looks at her watch. Just time for a quick cup of tea before evensong. She's been in a senior staff meeting. As usual, she feels like Switzerland. (Hmm. Come to think of it, I will not pursue that metaphor any further. I foresee a risk of characterizing the bishop as a Nazi.) As usual, Marion feels like an embodiment of Anglicanism: a
via media
between the warring forces of change and conservatism.

The bishop has a Growth Strategy. (Lindchester: A Missionary Diocese!) Everything must be strategically lined up behind mission: all the systems, the finances, the processes, every parish, every appointment. And the cathedral must become a missionary cathedral. I will now permit you a fastidious shudder, followed by a short interlude of hand-wringing. Ready? Off you go:

Ew! Oh, my dear, how crass! How vulgarly McDonaldizingly Evangelical! As if the mission of the Church can be reduced to evangelism, and success to numbers, and the priesthood to
doing
, not being! Anyway, we tried a Decade of Evangelism and it didn't work.

And . . . stop.

The bishop has powerful allies in his corner. The Church Commissioners have sunk a not inconsiderable sum into promoting this shift towards missional thinking. But cathedrals are bastions of conservatism. Hence Marion's dilemma. She has been won over by the bishop's proposals (while remaining temperamentally allergic to them); but she knows many of her flock – to say nothing of colleagues and staff – will fight them tooth and nail. She must bring folk to look at tables and figures, at incontrovertible evidence demonstrating that growth is possible, that the relentless decline in numbers can be reversed. She must commend strategies that have already been proven effective elsewhere in the Anglican Communion. And folk will dig their heels in.

Meanwhile, the safeguarding issue at the Choristers' School rumbles on. And Linda, Marion's high-maintenance PA (inherited from the previous dean), is off with stress again. Stress (with a whiff of litigation) is Linda's default mode when asked to change her working methods. Does Marion have the heart for another employment tribunal? John the Bastard was vanquished before Christmas, and since then – coincidentally? – someone has been sending Marion little turd offerings in padded envelopes. The police are involved. There is talk of CCTV for the deanery porch.

Oh, and the south side of the cathedral is falling down. They've just finished propping up the north side, and the laws of stonemasonry – nay, of physics itself! – dictate that the pressure now exerted by the restored side must push the crumbly side over, unless 4.6 million pounds' worth of work is undertaken, let's say, now-ish.

Marion has not given anything up for Lent. She doesn't need to.

She lets herself in. A pile of post waits for her in the deanery hallway on the round mahogany table. Gene appears. He sees her poor weary face. ‘Would like me to cook Coquilles St Jacques for you, in the nude with a red rose clamped between my teeth?'

‘You know what, Gene? Just a cup of Earl Grey. That would be lovely. But thank you for the offer.'

‘It's because you're worth it,' he says.

Saturday. Tomorrow is Passion Sunday. It is also St Patrick's Day. This will be celebrated in Lindford the age-old way, by Englishmen who cannot confidently tell you the date of St George's Day getting bladdered on Guinness. The origins of this custom are lost in the mists of the late 1990s.

Susanna is out. The bishop is off duty. He's watching the rugby in the family sitting room on the palace's first floor, all alone. It's half time. Wales are winning, but he's not despondent. So far it's been pretty close. We just need to run the ball a bit more, get a couple of tries. It's only half time, and it could still go either way.

But then, just to complicate things, Freddie appears, bearing four bottles of Peroni.

‘Hey. What's the score?'

‘Nine three to Wales.'

‘Sh-i-i-t.' Freddie came in and leant over the sofa. ‘You doing OK? Want some company?'

There was a short pause. ‘Yes, why not?'

‘Cool.' Freddie sat. ‘Wanna beer?'

Again, why not? ‘Well, thanks.' Paul took one. ‘Bottle opener?'

‘Ah, crap.'

‘
No!
' Paul stuck out a hand. ‘You'll crack your teeth, darling. Go and get an opener.'

Freddie blinked. Scrambled to his feet. ‘Yep. Sure. An opener. I'm on it.'

‘Second drawer down,' Paul called after him.

Gah! Freddie stood in the kitchen. His heart thumped. He stared at the kitchen drawers, began opening and shutting them at random. His mind was all, What the—? He—? Say
what
? Darling?
Darling?!
Aw, c'mon, what's
with
you? Some guy who you
know
totally judges your whole lifestyle . . . And what? What kind of weird fucked-up shit
is
this? You need him to, like,
validate
you?
Love
you?

Meanwhile, upstairs on the sofa, the bishop was also processing the data. Oh dear. Was this a problem? Normally a term he reserved for close family, distressed children, and babies who cried when he was baptizing them. Home/work boundaries. Blurred. Perhaps he'd better—

No, he was refining on it too much.

But Paul's multi-processer insisted on crunching the emotional numbers. His feelings for Freddie: seventy per cent affection, fifteen per cent concern and ten per cent exasperation. That didn't add up, did it? His feelings for Freddie May didn't add up. What was the other five per cent? He really didn't want it to be . . . revulsion? Homophobia? But it probably was. And now he'd have to sit through the whole second half with Freddie beside him on the sofa.

Reader, we must leave them now. Paul is still discombobulated by his slip. (Yes, but suppose it were a twenty-two-year-old blonde
woman
lolling on his sofa beside him, rattling tongue stud on bottle neck, clogging the air with pheromones, flashing an acre of knicker elastic whenever she leant forward? Would that not make him equally uncomfortable? Of course it would!)

(Then again, Paul would know never to allow that situation to arise.)

The second half kicks off.

It's going to be a rout.

Chapter 13

Monday smiles, mild and sunny, over the diocese of Lindchester. Everywhere you look, your eye is gladdened by the jocund company of daffodils. Bend down and sniff. Isn't that the quintessential smell of childhood Easters? All Peter and Jane and new Clark's sandals, and cards made from sugar paper and Gloy gum!

        At Easter time the lilies fair

        And lovely flowers bloom everywhere.

        At Easter time, at Easter time!

        How glad the world at Easter time!

You half-remember that song from Infants?

But enough of this cosiness. Cast off your (retro crocheted) comfort blanket and venture with me into the hurly-burly of a modern primary school. Shall I take you into St John's C of E in Renfold to watch Dominic take an assembly? No, he sets a very bad example, I'm afraid. The head is forever having to stand up at the end and say, ‘Now, boys and girls, I know we just saw Father Dominic sticking pencils in his ears/playing a recorder with his nose, but I don't want to see any of
you
trying it.' We'd better make for Cardingforth instead, where Father Wendy is doing an assembly at the village primary.

‘Gooood
mooor
ning, Mis-ter Crow-ther. Gooood
mooor
ning, teach-uz. Gooood
mooor
ning, Revrun-Dwendy.' (Oh. Looks like nothing has changed after all.)

Wendy smiles at the children sitting cross-legged on the hall floor in their red sweatshirts. The teachers are in a row at the back, on chairs, keeping a beady eye out for mobile phones and farters. Wendy has something to show them. Does anyone know what it is? That's right, it's a daffodil bulb. And what's this? A daffodil. You'd never guess, would you children, looking at this bulb . . .

Death, new life, et cetera. You can imagine the kind of thing Wendy says. Wendy is never going to set the Linden on fire. Mr Crowther will not have to say, ‘Boys and girls, I know we just saw Reverend Wendy eating a daffodil . . .' All the same, there's something so, well, just plain
good
, so kind, in the way Wendy says these rather trite things. It bypasses the cerebral cortex to land, thud! on target, right in your yearning heart. The way the smell of daffodils dumps you straight into your childhood garden.

On the back row Mrs Fry is in difficulty. Her mum died last month. But Wendy's little talk is over now, and she's inviting the whole school to Cardingforth parish church on Sunday, because there will be an extra special guest coming! Does anyone know who will be coming? Yes?

‘
Jeeesus
is coming on a
donkey
coz it's Palm
Sunday
.'

The voice drips such sarcasm that this can only possibly be a child of the vicarage speaking. Yes, it's little Leah Rogers, elder daughter of the bishop's chaplain. She eyeballs Wendy, a look of withering scorn on her face. Dominic would probably reply, ‘Ha! that's exactly where you're wrong, young lady! Bananaman is coming on his Banana-scooter because it's National Banana Day. What? It isn't? Curses!' But Wendy recognizes Leah. She understands where this hatred is coming from.

‘Yes, well done,' she says. ‘It's Palm Sunday. And everyone is welcome.'

Mr Crowther activates the data projector, Mrs Fry goes to the electronic keyboard, and the school scrambles to its feet. They sing ‘1 2 3 it's good to be me'. The 288 young voices of Cardingforth Primary stoutly declare: ‘I'm a special person and there's only one of me, and no one else is prouder of the person that is me.' Or rather, 287 young voices declare it. Leah Rogers has her arms folded, her eyes narrowed and her mouth clamped firmly shut. She's making a wish that on Palm Sunday the stupid donkey will do A GREAT BIG GIANT POO right in the middle of CHURCH.

Meanwhile, special person Freddie May (there's only one of him!) was in the bishop's office, helping PA Penelope stuff envelopes. This time it was a lovely, lovely letter and a leaflet from Susanna, inviting clergy spice to a quiet day with aromatherapy at the Diocesan Retreat House.

I regret to tell you that Freddie was – how to phrase this? – dealing with some surfeit-related low self-esteem issues. He was not proud of the person that was him. He was currently in possession of a wodge of cash liberated from drunken wallets, and a hangover the size of Wales. Everything that could hurt was hurting. If only he knew the ‘1 2 3' song! But the ‘1 2 3' song would not begin to scratch where Freddie May was itching that Monday morning. Hard-core stuff, that's what he needed. The bad boys. The Psalms. Behold, I was shapen in wickedness! Against thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight. Turn thy face from my sins! Cast me not away, cast me not away!

O-o-oh God. Oh God, oh God.

‘Are you feeling all right, Freddie?' asked Penelope.

‘Yep, I'm— No.' He bolted out.

The bishop and his chaplain were next door in the bishop's study, looking ahead in the diary at Holy Week.

They paused. Glanced out of the window.

‘Ah!' said the bishop. ‘My driver, “emptying himself of all but love” again.' He noticed Martin's teeth clench. ‘What is it, Martin?'

‘Forgive me, Paul, but is this really a joking matter?' Even Martin's nostrils were rigid. ‘He behaves like a spoilt brat and everyone always indulges him! What's he
paid
for? I mean, how can he be your driver when he's never in a fit state to drive? With all due respect, you sometimes appear to have a blind spot where he's concerned.'

The bishop deployed his formidable eyebrows. ‘You can leave
me
to deal with this, brother.'

‘I beg your pardon.' Martin coloured, dog collar to buzz-cut, and returned to the diary. ‘Maundy Thursday, Chrism Eucharist. You're preaching, the dean's presiding.'

‘Excellent! I'll use Freddie as a sermon illustration of kenosis.'

He shouldn't have said that.

But honestly, could Martin really not hear how he came across? Like the prodigal's older brother! It was beyond Paul how anyone could have been in ordained ministry this long without developing some mechanism for dealing with personality clashes. It was basic stuff! Why should Paul be called upon to umpire the whole time?

Nor did the bishop take kindly to being told he had a blind spot by a man completely oblivious to his own foibles, thank you very much!

But of course, Martin was not in a good place right now. After a brief inward tussle, Paul apologized to the Lord and got back down off his high horse.

‘Well, hang on in there,' he said. ‘He'll be gone in a few months.'

‘He was supposed to be gone by Easter!' Martin burst out. Then bit his lip.

The bishop sat back. Ah. Right. ‘Um, Martin, is this more complicated than I've realized? Do you want to put me in the picture?'

Tell him, Martin! Tell him the little shite makes your life a misery with his hot breath in your ear, his smut, his blatant pocket billiards when the bishop's not looking.

‘It's just—' Martin took off his glasses and breathed on them as though he intended to gnash a lens. He polished them savagely with his fleece. ‘He gets away with murder, Paul. And he's taking advantage of your generosity, in my humble opinion.'

‘Well, that's Susanna's and my worry, I think,' said Paul. He waited. But Martin had the lid clamped back on the crucible. ‘So. Where had we got to?'

Martin put his glasses on and looked at the computer screen. ‘The Triduum. I assume you're going to that?'

‘Of course.'

‘I can't believe chapter still haven't invited you to lead it. You've been here seven years!'

‘I wouldn't do it properly,' said Paul. ‘I'm an ignorant Evangelical bumpkin.'

‘You're the diocesan bishop! It's your cathedral!'

Paul will never have to stand on his dignity. He has a man to do that for him.

Outside, the sun still smiles mildly, and crocuses bejewel the palace lawn: purple, mauve, gold, white. There is even a charm of goldfinches tinkling in the silver birch, but the little shite is still in a far country, feeding swine. There he is, bent over, hands on knees, shivering on the drive.

Gah! It's no good, he's going to have to stick the lot in the collection plate.

Why? Jesus,
why
? Why's he like, ‘Hey guys, I don't even
like
you, but I'm all yours, do whatever the fuck you want, seriously, I don't care, be my guest?' Why can't he find some nice guy for a change? Who actually maybe
cares
about him?

But Freddie knows he can't be trusted with the nice ones who care. He has to trash their niceness, he
wants
to, he
has
to fuck stuff up, so that the outside matches the inside in his fucked-up miserable life.

He dry-retches till his eyeballs nearly drop out of their sockets onto the gravel.

No, right now it's not good to be Freddie May. Not one little bit.

Thursday. At last! The Most Revd Dr Michael Palgrove is enthroned as archbishop of Canterbury. The thoughts of many a senior bishop quietly stray to York, and the vacancy there. Even the good bishop of Lindchester cannot entirely keep his imagination reined in. The sun goes down red. An angry smear hovers above one of the cooling towers in Cardingforth, as though it's belching fire. Shepherd's delight. But when Friday comes, what is this? Blossom from the ornamental plums, wafting on the zephyrs of spring? Sorry. The shepherds were lying. We're dreaming of a white Easter.

Oh, what's happening to our English weather? We don't like it. It never used to be like this, did it? Why's everything so muddled? Why can't it be like the good old days, when we had proper seasons, and Peter helped Daddy with the car, while Mummy cooked with Jane? Please don't worry. It's not happening, and if it is, it's just part of the normal cycle of variation. It's only a blip. An atypically large blip. The largest blip ever. Anyway, we aren't responsible. Well, maybe we are, but it doesn't matter, the implications are always wildly overestimated by scaremongering killjoys with wind farm shares. It'll be fine. Keep calm and carry on shopping. (New word: la la la!)

Palm Sunday. The farmer has brought Nigel the donkey to Cardingforth parish church in a horsebox, which we trust is not too confusing for Nigel. She leads Nigel down the ramp and through the snow to the lichgate. The disciples and the crowd line the church path. Our Lord mounts, and the strains of ‘Ride on, ride on in majesty' come from within the building. An awkward English ‘Hosanna!' goes up. Nobody is keen to take off their cloak and throw it down in this weather, but they do it anyway. Nigel clops his way towards the church porch over stripy bedsheets and curtains. He's an old hand, is Nigel. Been doing this for years. In he goes. Clop, clop on the old stone, crunch, crunch on the palms. Oops! Messy Church. Little Leah's prayer is answered. Nigel brings his peculiar donkey honour to the king. But Wendy, unsurprised, is ready with a shovel.

And what of the rest of Lindchester diocese this snowy Palm Sunday? There are all-age activities: paper palm fronds are waved to ‘We have a King who rides a donkey!' (tune: The Drunken Sailor). There are palm crosses, which small boys use as swords to stab one another at the communion rails. There are processions both short and long. There are Gospel readings both short and long, too. Very long, in the case of Lindchester Cathedral, where great swathes of the Passion narrative are intoned, and people are kept standing for an unconscionably long time; though admittedly, nowhere near as long as Jesus was inconvenienced upon the cross.

The clergy of the diocese gird up their loins. The last and fiercest strife is nigh. We draw a deep breath and prepare to enter the carpenter's shop once again, and put our souls to the lathe.