Unseen Things Above (4 page)

May Day bank holiday never was Christian, though. It smacks faintly of communism and was only foisted on us in 1978. We have yet to settle into it properly. Can't we switch it to St George's Day – yes! How come we don't commemorate the day of our national patron saint (whenever that is)? The campaign comes and goes, and in the meantime we must make the best of it. Here in Lindchester the city council has gone down the Merrie England path. Perhaps we can cement it into our tradition if we trowel on enough mirth of a maypole and madrigal type? And where better to attempt this than under the shadow of a medieval cathedral?

We will do a quick fly-past. Red, white and blue bunting is strung from tree to tree. I believe it was left over from the Jubilee. As Dean Marion is whisked away from all this foolishness by her shuddering husband, little stalls go up. Soap stalls, local honey stalls, pottery stalls. A splat-the-rat stall (run by the choristers). A splat-the-chorister stall (run in the precentor's imagination). Morris dancers arrive with fiddles and accordions, ready to clack a stick and jingle a leg. A hog roast lorry toils up the steep cobbled road. The falconer unloads hawks and owls. A maypole stands proud, right smack in the middle of the cathedral lawn. Coloured ribbons trail in the grass.

A maypole? Oliver Cromwell would turn headless in his grave! But we are all staunch Royalists here in Lindchester. The Royalists were the good guys: they didn't try to close the theatres and ban Christmas. Down with the tyrannical Parliamentarians, imposing their Puritan political-correctness-gone-mad! Huzzah for King Charles I, gentle martyr, who never imposed anything on anyone, apart from illegal taxation, ship money, the divine right of kings and eleven years of personal rule without calling a parliament! Give Britain its voice back! And another thing, the Cavaliers had nicer hats.

The flag ripples and snaps on the cathedral flagpole, and carried on the wind – like rumours from outlying villages – comes the smell of rape fields. The sky is blue. Will it stay blue? Let it stay blue! People consult their weather apps to see if it's worth packing the kids into the car and heading to Lindchester. And if they don't like the forecast, they consult another app, and another, until they find one that promises fair weather this May Day bank holiday.

Jane no longer cares about the weather. They were going to plant roses today. Book the flights. Go for a walk in the bluebell woods at Gayden Parva. But let it rain. She sits in her kitchen weeping and eating too many croissants. The archdeacon drives to the Peak District so he can climb a very high hill. He will climb it, stand there and look out at the view. Get a bit of perspective. Sort his head out. And try not to cry like a big girl's blouse.

It's now ten o'clock. Back in the city of Lindchester, another couple is quarrelling this May morning. Shall we listen in?

‘Well, my darling, I think it's safe to say this car park is full. But by all means carry on with your man thing, and drive round three more times looking for a space.'

‘Look! They're leaving.'

‘No, they're just putting something in the boot. I hesitate to mention this for the
fifth
time, but that multi-storey we passed . . . ?'

‘And for the
fifth
time I reply, it's a bit of a hike up to the cathedral from there, Mother.'

‘I am not as frail as you think, my young whippersnapper. By the way, isn't this the place where there was all that nonsense about the bishop? Didn't he leave under something of a cloud?'

‘He left, certainly.'

There is a silence. ‘Darling, we're not having a little snoop around
with a view
, as it were?'

‘Of course not! I am taking my dearly beloved mother to visit the historic cathedral city of Lindchester. Because she adores that kind of thing!'

‘Indeed I do! Why, I even have my trusty Pevsner guide here in my handbag! I shall stay unwaveringly in role.'

‘Look! They're leaving. No, no, they really are this time. See? My man thing is rewarded.'

‘I retire abashed.'

They wait as the car reverses out of the space.

‘Darling, aren't you worried someone will recognize you, and guess why you're snooping around?'

He laughs. ‘They will be far too busy recognizing
you
and wanting autographs, Dame Perdita!'

‘So I am your decoy. Cunning!'

‘No, no! You adore cathedral cities, remember.'

‘That I do – to the point of dangerous obsession!' She places a hand on his arm. ‘My darling boy, as you know, nothing would thrill me more than to see you in gaiters. Think of the scope for actress and bishop jokes at clan reunions. But . . . oh, oh, oh. You aren't going to get dreadfully hurt, are you? The Church is still so beastly about gay people.'

‘Well, perhaps the tide is turning?'

‘Oh, I do hope so! Hey! Well, I like that! He's pinching your space! Barefaced piracy!'

‘I know – what about that multi-storey car park? I can't
think
why you didn't suggest it earlier, Mother,' says the Principal of Barchester Theological College.

Chapter 4

T
oday is Vocations Sunday. Clergy in their pulpits strive to impress upon their congregations that
all
the baptized have a vocation. Lay people ought not to regard ordained ministry as special, or as the only ‘real' vocation. No, their
own
vocation to be God's people in their homes, their workplaces, their communities, is equally important, in some ways
more
important! Whether congregations fully believe this message I leave for my readers to imagine; coming as it does from the mouth of someone carefully selected and trained, in receipt of a stipend, living in tied accommodation, addressed by an honorific title, and clad in the distinctive garb of their non-special vocation.

In the cathedral, the diocesan director of ordinands preaches. She reiterates this message. All the baptized have a vocation (‘Christ has no hands but yours'). Then she adds that perhaps some of you here this morning are wondering whether God is calling
you
to explore a vocation to the ordained ministry?

We will leave the cathedral folk to mull this over during the offertory hymn (‘Is it I, Lord?') and pay a visit to Lindford Parish Church, where Father Dominic has invited an old friend to preach about vocation.

Father Ed is a vicar over on the other side of the diocese. He looks after a group of rural parishes, including the Gaydens, both Magna and Parva, and the wonderfully named Itchington Episcopi. Ed and Dominic go way back. They were at theological college together. In fact, there may once have been a bit of a thing between them, but that's really none of our business. I will just mention that Ed was the other bearded man in the infamous snogging incident on Latimer Hall lawn that shocked Jane so much (even though she didn't actually witness it).

The service is over now, and they are back at the vicarage. The lamb is roasting, the Pinot Noir is open. Ed and Dominic are wandering in the back garden in the sunshine drinking Prosecco. Dominic's lawn is large, mown every fortnight by the firm who come in to do the churchyard. It is shaded by mature trees which screen off the tower blocks of the Abernathy estate, but between which the spire of the parish church is visible. Hardy vicarage garden perennials – cranesbill, Canterbury bells, columbine – flourish in overgrown beds. Rambling roses riot unchecked. The air is sweet with their scent. Birds sing. A cabbage white flutters by. This is truly a classic of the vicarage garden genre: charming at this season of year, but requiring more time, money and horticultural passion than most clergy have at their disposal.

The two friends look faintly comic, I confess, rather like an animated Spy Cartoon, as they stroll in their clerical black. In a bygone era their hands would have been clasped behind their frock-coated backs, and Father Ed's hunter would have been in the stable, rather than his silver Skoda Fabia on the drive. Father Ed is tall and slender, beardless these days. He inclines his head as he converses with his shorter, stouter companion. Dominic will shortly be re-entering the final phase of his three-year dieting cycle, I fear.

‘I told Jane one o'clock,' said Dominic. ‘You remember Jane Rossiter? Trained at Latimer, but jacked it in.'

‘Tall? Played rugby? A bit scary?'

‘That's Jane. She's a history lecturer at Linden Uni now.'

Ed stared. ‘Did you just say “uni”?'

‘Yes. I'm down wiv da yoof.'

‘Oh, stop embarrassing yourself, Father.'

They walked in silence for a while. Before long Dominic's pastoral antennae sensed the approach of an important conversation. The antennae passed the message on immediately to conscience. Conscience did a quick scan and issued the all-clear – along with a brusque memo that everything wasn't always about Dominic Todd.

‘Can I run something past you before Jane gets here, Dom?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Neil and I are thinking of getting married.'

Silence. A blackbird sang, gloriously unconcerned. ‘Congratulations!'

‘We've been together nearly eighteen years.'

‘Eighteen years! Gosh! Can I be chief bridesmaid?'

Ed looked down at him over his glasses. ‘Are you still a maid, Father?'

‘Oh! You can't ask me that! I've “embraced a vocation to celibacy”! You aren't allowed to ask prurient questions about my “friend” prancing about the rectory in his cowboy chaps!'

Ed laughed and shook his head.

They took another turn about the lawn. Then Ed stopped. They faced one another.

‘Look, Dom, I know you can't really approve. That's OK, I don't expect you to.'

‘We-ell. Personally I'd find it hard to square with my oath of canonical obedience, but it's not me, it's you, and that's fine. I mean . . . Oh, Ed, I thought you'd got your civil partnership all lined up for the autumn!'

‘We had, but look, “all things lawful and honest”.
Is
it lawful – to forbid us to marry, when the law of the land says we can? More people have got to stick their necks out and challenge the status quo, or it'll just be allowed to carry on.'

‘Mmm.' Dominic believed he could discern the influence of a short grumpy Scottish atheist hovering here. ‘Is this your idea, or Neil's?'

Ed did not reply.

Dominic let the silence do its work.

‘God, I hate this so much!' Ed burst out. ‘I've never been a campaigner. I just want to be left alone to get on with being a priest. I've always tried to accept the discipline of the Church, even when the bishops treat us like . . . Oh God, am I just being a coward?'

‘No, of course you're not!'

‘I am. I'm a total coward. I don't want to end up in the press as a cause célèbre.'

‘OK, well, what about the timing?' asked Dominic. ‘Is an interregnum a good time? Who'll end up having to discipline you? Poor old Bobby Barcup?'

‘I know, I know! I can't bear the thought of dragging him into the crossfire. Paul Henderson, mind you—! But anyway, he's gone.'

‘So you'll wait till we've got a new bishop?' asked Dominic.

‘I don't know. Is it fair to spring it on him the moment it's announced? Neil— He's got nothing invested in the Church, as you know. It's not tangled up with actual people for him.'

‘Yes, well, Neil's an actual person too, though. And so are you.'

They walked again in silence.

‘What am I going to do, Dominic? Obviously I want to marry the man I love. The law says I can. I think the Church should be able to bless that. I used to think civil partnership was enough, but . . . I genuinely don't know what's right here.'

‘Mull it over a bit longer, maybe?'

‘Yeah. Probably.'

‘After all, Father, marriage is not something to be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly, is it?'

‘Or to satisfy men's carnal lusts or appetites, Father. So no more cowboy chaps for you.'

‘If only!' Dominic sighed. ‘Oh, well. I wonder if the archdeacon will be witch-finder general during the vacancy?'

‘Yes, Evangelicals certainly have a special talent
there
.'

‘Now, now! He's an
open
Evangelical, remember.'

‘Open! To what?'

‘To the idea of being nicer than God,' said Dominic. ‘They'd be in favour of equal marriage if only God wasn't a nasty old bigot. But sadly,
the Bible says . . .
Actually, I have a lot of time for Matt. He got me this parish.'

‘It was all part of his evil-gelical master plan! If you'd stayed in Renfold, you'd be on the CNC. You'd have influence!'

‘I know I would!' wailed Dominic. ‘Oh, and by the way, don't mention the archdeacon when Jane gets here. Slightly a sore point. He's just dumped her.'

‘No! They were an item? Seriously?
No!
'

We must leave them now to finish their Prosecco and gossip in their cattily catholic way, while we attend to important matters of process.

I have been remiss, dear reader. I have made casual reference to the CNC (Crown Nominations Commission, rather than Civil Nuclear Constabulary) without clarifying what it gets up to. Briefly, it is the body that chooses new bishops.

So what does their work involve? How are bishops chosen these days?

If you are the kind of person who likes to curl up with a mug of cocoa and a bunch of standing orders, then I refer you to the Church of England website, where you may consult a vast document called
Briefing for Members of Vacancy in See Committees
. For ordinary mortals, here's what you need to know about the process at this point in our tale:

(1) Bishop retires/resigns/moves/falls under a bus: there is a ‘Vacancy in See' (see = diocese). (2) A ‘Vacancy in See Committee' is formed in the diocese, of lay and ordained people. (3) The Vacancy in See Committee has two tasks: to draw up a ‘Statement of Needs' (what we want from the new bishop) and to elect six of its members on to the Crown Nominations Commission. (4) The two ‘appointments secretaries' (one for the prime minister, one for the archbishops) visit the diocese for two days and consult widely with local civic and church figures. (5) CNC meets twice, to draw up a shortlist, then to interview the candidates (21–22 July).