Acts and Omissions (12 page)

Chapter 22

The cherry blossom is past its best. Father Wendy smells rotting petals as she plods with Lulu along the bank of the Linden. It's like a tiny autumn. Still, the hawthorn blossom is out now instead. It clots the hedges and fills the air with a sweet whiff of corpses. Or so they say. That's why the hawthorn is thought to be an unlucky tree. The rowan, on the other hand, means good luck. Plant one by your house to keep the witches away. Wendy has no idea how she knows all this folklore. ‘How do I know all this?' she asks Lulu. Lulu turns her old head up to listen. And there: a crab apple tree in bloom! Right by their bench. They sit.

Wendy thinks she can't sing – she was poked in the back when she was six and told to mime – but there's nobody listening, so she sings anyway because her heart is singing:

        I'm weary with my former toil,

        Here I will sit and rest awhile:

        Under the shadow I will be,

        Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

A coot calls. There he is, busy with nest-making among the rushes. The fast train scythes through the fields in the distance. On the opposite bank, pounding feet: the young blond man again. Bless, bless. All the blessings of this life on him, on the folk on that train, on her parishioners, on poor old Dominic, on that funeral family, on us all.

As it happens, Paul Henderson is on the train that Wendy is busy blessing. He's off to the House of Bishops.

‘What will you be debating?' asked his chaplain as he drove him to the station.

‘Oh, stuff, as usual.'

My word, he was grumpy, wasn't he? You'd think he'd be relieved to have Martin driving him again. But no; perversely, the bishop found himself thinking that life was never dull with Freddie May at the wheel. He missed shouting at him to slow down. He missed the constant stream of lunatic suggestions. ‘A circus! Awesome! We could go to the circus! Let's get an ice cream, let's get shit-faced, why don't we skinny dip? Hey, bouncy castle! Let's climb that tree, wanna play on the swings?' At least Freddie had a sense of humour. Even though the bishop spent half his time deliberately not getting Freddie's jokes. (‘Body piercing studio – cool! You should so get yourself a PA!' ‘I already have Penelope, thank you.') If Paul were to look out of the train window, his heart might be rejoiced at the sight of apple blossom, may blossom, rowan blossom, horse chestnut blossom; oh, the whole heaven-on-earth of an English spring morning! Instead the Rt Revd Testy Henderson is reading. What is he reading? Oh, I don't know. ‘Stuff,' as usual.

Bear with me for a moment: I'm about to dump a bunch of Anglican facts on you. All bishops are in the College of Bishops, but not all are in the House of Bishops. The House of Bishops is made up of all the diocesan bishops, plus seven suffragans, four from the Province of Canterbury, three from the Province of York. The lovely bishop of Barcup (Bob the Bishop, can he bless it?) is one of those three. Together, these gentlemen constitute the House of Bishops. Oh, not forgetting the bishop of Dover (stunt double for the archbishop of Canterbury at diocesan level). But before long there will be women participants of the House of Bishops, too. Actual women. After the narrow defeat back in November of the measure to allow women bishops, ‘the House decided that eight senior women clergy, elected regionally, will participate in all meetings of the House until such time as there are six female members of the House'. Whether you shout ‘huzzah' or feel patronized by this is entirely a matter for you. And now back to the story.

The train stops at Martonbury station. Bishop Bob spots Paul in the quiet coach with empty seats around him. Oh no! But fortunately Paul is reading and hasn't seen him, so Bob abandons his reserved seat and heads to the opposite end of the train to Coach A instead. He feels bad about this, but he honestly can't face the whole journey to York making polite conversation with his diocesan.

In the quiet coach Paul steals a glance out of the window and sees Bob disappearing down the platform. Thank the Lord. He feels a bit bad about this, but he really didn't relish the thought of making polite conversation with his suffragan all the way to York.

The young blond man reaches the old bridge, the halfway point of his long run, and crosses it. He's running for the endorphins, running to fill the horrible hours of waiting, running so he won't have to sit around with nothing to do, obsessing about tomorrow's interview. There's nothing out here but the pounding of his music, the pounding of his feet, the pounding of his heart. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

It is Monday afternoon. Reserve chief invigilator Dr Jane Rossiter is invigilating an exam because, yes, chief invigilator Dr Elspeth Quisling has a ‘migraine'. Dr Rossiter and her team of paid invigilators – who seem to know what they are doing, thank God – are invigilating not just one but five different exams simultaneously. There are 218 students in the Luscombe Sports Hall this afternoon, scrawling, staring into the distance, sniffing, swigging water. Undergraduates all swig water these days. They have to, obviously. Because climate change has transformed exam halls everywhere into the Gobi Desert, thinks Dr Rossiter.

I really hope Dr Rossiter does not get bored. I hope she doesn't sneak out her phone and follow the Commons debate on the Same Sex Marriage Bill and end up thinking: Aggressive homosexual community? What's that supposed to mean, dickbrain? The fags are arming? They're herding us into
Sound of Music
sing-alongs at gunpoint? Oh, for fuck's sake – a stepping stone to something further? Like what? The outlawing of heterosexual marriage? Compulsory queering lessons in all state schools?

I really hope Dr Rossiter is not doing this, as it would not conform to the qualities looked for in an ideal chief invigilator.

On Tuesday morning a little red car pulls out through the gatehouse of Lindchester Cathedral Close. It is driven by Miss Barbara Blatherwick. Beside her sits Freddie May, white-faced, in his newly dry-cleaned defendant's suit. So far he's held it together. He managed – just – not to go out and get off his tits last night. But he's jittery, feels sick, like he's hungover all the same. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes.

Well, wouldn't you be terrified? Isn't that your idea of a nightmare, having to stand up in front of people and sing a solo? But that's not the problem. You could stick Freddie in front of a packed Albert Hall and he'd say ‘Bring it on!' He's an adrenaline junkie. To him, performing is a rush, like bungee jumping, like black-water rafting.

Miss Blatherwick negotiates the four-by-fours heading up the hill towards the Choristers' School. Freddie keeps his eyes shut. He has suspected for a while that he's wired up backwards. He's phobic about shit normal people take in their stride. But it's just this minute dawned on him that he's even more terrified that people will spot his phobia, and despise him. Suddenly he hears his dad's voice at all those karate gradings and contests: ‘Stop being such a girl! Man up, son! Fight back!'

Yeah. Way to go, Dad. So here's your grown-up son: he can kick the shit out of anyone who starts on him, but he can't fill out a fucking job application by himself. I mean, hello? A seventy-eight-year-old woman is having to drive me to an interview! I'm still a girl, I've just learnt to hide it behind my ‘Hey, everyone, I'm a brain-fried fuck-up!' act. Shit, Dad, I
can't
man up, I just can't do this reality thing, I want someone to look after me. Please. Please.

Miss Blatherwick – once they are safely in the Lower Town – reaches over and squeezes Freddie's arm.

‘Ah nuts. Now you made me cry. Miss B, what am I going to do without you?'

Freddie doesn't know, but Miss B has been plotting. She's arranged to meet an old friend for tea in Barchester. She will confide in Christine. If Freddie gets this choral scholarship, Miss B can rest assured that there will be someone on hand who will take no nonsense, feed him homemade cake, and keep a special eye on her boy.

And what about our boy Dominic? Who is keeping a special eye on him? Why, the archdeacon, of course. He's not feeding him homemade cake, that's not really his style, but he's got a plan. It's now Thursday afternoon. The archdeacon is in his office in William House, playing Hearts in the few minutes before Dominic is due to arrive. He does not play against Pauline, Michele and Ben. The archdeacon plays against the pope, the AB of C and Dr R. Dr R is currently winning. She kicks his door panel in, she murders his Mars bar, and now she's whipping his ass at Hearts. The minx. But here's Dominic.

God
, thought Dominic as he entered.
Please
not a harlequin patterned clerical shirt! ‘Afternoon, archdeacon.'

‘Afternoon, father. Take a pew. Get you anything? Coffee? Tea?'

‘I'm fine, thanks.' Dominic sat. The archdeacon beamed. Like a bloody sunlamp. Shine, Jesus, shine! ‘Well, I took a look, like you suggested.'

‘What do you reckon?' asked the archdeacon. ‘Think it might be a fit?'

Dominic hesitated. ‘Well . . .'

‘Bearing in mind this is not a good time to leave St John's.'

Dominic stared.

‘It's never a good time to leave. Not if you're doing your job properly.'

‘I'm not sure I am,' said Dominic.

‘Aha, that funeral. Yep. Had a cracking green ink letter about that.' An even broader beam. ‘Want to see my reply?'

‘No!'

‘Sure? I was very supportive.' He stretched his long legs and crossed his ankles.

Dominic spotted he was wearing black and white bloody harlequin socks to match his shirt.

The archdeacon noted him spotting this, and laughed. ‘Look, friend, I may be a prat, but I know the difference between a good parish priest and a bad one. The folk at Lindford have just had first-hand experience of a real baddie. I'll fill you in on that some time. Now, Bishop Paul's been wanting a lively Evangelical Charismatic church— Wait,' the archdeacon raised a hand. ‘I know you aren't. Paul's been wanting a Charismatic presence in Lindford for some time now. It's daft that there isn't one in a university town. But after this, nope. These folk just need someone to love them. Love them to bits. You da man, Dominic.'

‘I . . .' Dominic felt tears surge up again. ‘That's what the bishop wants?'

‘That is indeed what the bishop wants,' said the archdeacon. ‘Though it's possible the bishop is unaware of it.'

Trinity Sunday. Another arcane jolly on Planet Church. Consubstantial co-eternal. Who can we get to preach? Who gets the short straw? Can we use flash paper again? No, you can't. This week you must use water, ice and steam to illustrate the mystery of the Three-in-One. You may also catch your congregation out with the hymn ‘I bind unto myself today', which changes tune halfway through without warning.

It is now late on Sunday evening. The bishop (still unaware of what he wants) is unwinding with a well-earned glass of wine. House of Bishops: over. Trinity Sunday sermon: over. Catching up on admin: over. Freddie May problem: over. (He got the choral scholarship – thank you, Lord!) The bishop's mobile rings. Local number, unknown caller. He very nearly doesn't answer.

‘Is that the bishop of Lindchester? Sorry to bother you, sir. It's the police. We have a Freddie May here.'

Chapter 23

The journey home from Lindford Police Station went like this.

‘Listen, I'm sorry, Paul. I'm sorry, OK? I'm really sorry.'

‘Freddie, for the last time, you have nothing to be sorry about. I know it wasn't your fault.'

‘Was literally a hate crime, man. They fucking . . . Yeah. Hey, faggot – bam! They fucking did that.'

‘I know, Freddie.'

‘Telling you, hate crime. You're not mad at me?'

‘Of course I'm not mad at you.'

‘I love you, man. Fucking love you.'

‘Yes, we established that. Are you sure we shouldn't go to A and E?'

‘Nah, 'sjust a broken nose.'

‘I'm more worried about concussion.'

‘No, look, listen, it's— Listen. Thing is, I'm kinda wasted?'

I'll say, thought the bishop.

‘Ow. My fucking nose really
hurts
.'

Pause.

‘So they're like, hey, faggot. And I'm like— Hunh. Can't re'mber the, the, ah nuts.'

Pause.

‘So yeah. Wossname. Busted his knee. Other guy, he goes to hit me, and I'm, block, turn,
boom
! With, with, with, yeah. Only,
jodan
, na mean?'

‘What? Sorry, are you talking about karate?'

‘Fucking hate crime. Hey, faggot – bam!'

‘Yes, but are you telling me you retaliated? Freddie?'

‘Fucking love you, Paul. Seriously. Do anything for you.'

The bishop pulled the car over and turned on the light. ‘That was
not
in your statement, Frederick. You said one of them punched you, then you managed to run off! Come on, this is serious. Look at me.'

But Freddie's eyes were tracking an invisible tennis lob in ultra-slow motion. ‘Wha-a-a'?'

‘Tell me what you just said. About this guy, whose knee you “busted”.'

‘I busted his knee? Awesome!' Pause. ‘Why've we stopped? You wanna fuck? Whoa. Prolly we shouldn't do that, Paul? Seriously, whoa.'

Give me strength! The bishop snapped off the light and wrenched the car into first.

‘What I do? Hey! Do not lay your passive-aggressive shit on me, Paul! I do not enjoy that shit.'

Trust me – you'd enjoy my aggressive-aggressive shit even less, thought the bishop.

Normal bank holiday weather has been resumed. A glorious Trinity Sunday, true, but as half term commences we are back to our customary misery. The cathedral choir is on holiday. The Choristers' School is closed. It will be evensaid, not evensong this week. Dean and Chapter have taken advantage of the traffic lull on the Close: scaffolding will be going up on the south side of the cathedral on Wednesday. Where is the money coming from for the restoration work? I'm glad you asked that question. Just to set it in its context, we have been working very hard with our various partners on a wide-ranging ambitious five-year development plan, which includes education and missional projects, the redevelopment of our visitors' centre, investment in the choral foundation, urgent fabric repairs, along with a range of exciting new enterprise and outreach initiatives, with various funding bodies coming together, including we hope HLF, to—

‘Don't bullshit me, Deanissima,' says Gene, ‘the money's coming out of the endowment funds.'

‘Only in the short term,' says Marion. ‘It's all above board. We've got permission from the Church Commissioners.'

‘Because the bastard thing's about to fall down.'

‘Not on my watch, it's not.'

‘You go, girl! But – just to clarify, if I may – the bastard thing could now go bankrupt on your watch instead.'

‘Thanks for that cheery thought, Gene.'

‘Well, let's not worry about it. You'll have a few years' leeway before it goes tits up, and who knows? You could even be bishop of somewhere by then, so it'll be the next dean's problem.'

‘I'm glad I have you in my life. You are always such a support.'

‘You're welcome. I also dance exceptionally well. Would you like me to show you my dance moves?'

‘I've not heard it called that before,' says the dean.

June, it's nearly June. Danny's nearly halfway through his gap year, thinks Jane, and I still haven't cleared the bugger's room. Probably teeming with rats and roaches by now. This time last year I was on his case about revision. And then it was the Jubilee, whoopee-doo, pissing with rain, and we—

Jane calls herself to order. You can Skype him tonight and gloat about the cricket. This is not getting these suckers marked. (Marking! What a way to spend your bank holiday.) She picks up the first script: ‘There were many causes for the Enlightenment, such as the influence of philosophers and cultural and intellectual influences as well as the political environment.' Should she read to the end? Or just drink bleach now?

Her phone buzzes. Well, well. A text from ‘wazzock chef'. (Which reminds her: she still hasn't tracked down where he works.) The text contains a picture of two foaming beer glasses, and it's followed by a question mark. I'm afraid Jane then wastes rather a lot of valuable marking time on Google images, searching for a riposte.

‘In this essay I will show that the impact of the scientific revolution also impacted on the Age of Enlightenment as well, when many new discoveries challenged traditional concepts of nature and man, such as for example deism.' Jane's forehead makes contact with her desk. That beer is starting to seem very tempting indeed.

The archdeacon of Lindchester – sitting in Costa in Lindford – snorts coffee all over his iPad. He'll take that as a no, then. He wipes down Lara Croft with his sleeve as she flips him the bird.

Susanna is optimistic about getting the bloodstains out of Freddie's clothes. The trick is a long soak in cold water first, followed by a forty-degree wash with Vanish. She secretly prides herself on her stain-removal skills. She even got that red wine stain out of the oatmeal carpet, though she'd despaired at one stage, thinking Jane had actually managed to set it in her desperate efforts at removal. Blot, not scrub. Never scrub. She hasn't told Jane that, of course. But Freddie's shirt and jeans won't be a problem. She still can't believe that Paul didn't wake her last night! Poor, poor Freddie! Oh dear, oh dear! Oh, let the police catch the brutes who did this!

‘Do you think CCTV footage would show anything?' she asks Freddie. ‘Have the police checked? Did they say anything about CCTV? Maybe they'll be able to identify them.'

‘Could be, Suze, could be.' Fuck, his head hurts. He swigs down the painkillers she is handing him. Ow, fuck, his nose hurts. Fuck.

‘Well, let's hope so.'

Or not, thinks Freddie.

Because there's this blurry line? Where self-defence stops being self-defence and starts being, yeah, kind of more stomping the shit out of your attackers? No-o-o-oh. What has he done? It happened so quick! Ah c'mon, it was totally self-defence – there were two of them, they started on him for no reason. It was a hate crime. He's got the right to defend himself against homophobes, no? It's not like he set out to injure them. It was pure reflex. Muscle memory? Except when you're that blitzed, there's no control, is there, no knowing how hard you're going in. What if—? Ah shit. But no. Police would be after him by now if it was serious.

Wouldn't they?

‘Can I make you some breakfast, Freddie?'

‘No. Really, no.'

The bishop is not a happy bishop. Freddie May is devouring ten times his fair share of the episcopal emotional energy right now. It's nearly lunchtime on bank holiday Monday, and Paul has promised to take Suze to hell's amusement arcade, the Outlet Village, to browse the bargain Le Creuset. He's offered this because he knows he's been too busy. He's been grumpy and neglecting her, his poor old endlessly forgiving Suze. He is trying to have his Quiet Time first, so he won't ‘lay his passive-aggressive shit' on her for the duration of her retailing treat.

He reads his Bible. He prays. He tries to hold his soul still under the patient searchlight of grace. Why is nothing
ever
straightforward with Freddie May? Paul re-experiences that visceral shock from last night, when he saw him covered in blood. Then the rage, the
rage
that seized him. How dare they do this to my— My what? My employee? Friend? House guest? My something-not-covered-by-any-of-those-categories. Paul has no word for what Freddie May is to him. My boy? The word trembles. He tests an unacceptable idea: that Freddie is the son he and Suze didn't manage to have? He has never let himself articulate the thought that his daughters are not enough. Is this it? He wants a son. Even now his heart flinches from it. Could this be why he stonewalls Freddie's desperate need to be fathered? Because it's inadmissible?

Next, he climbs back on the anxiety treadmill that kept him awake last night. He prays for wisdom. He can hear himself saying, ‘I want this flagged as a hate crime. And I'd value your reassurance that you'll do everything you can to bring his attackers to justice.' Standing on the dignity of his office, for once.

But now – because this is Freddie bloody May – everything's got complicated! Should he march Freddie back to the station to emend his statement, or leave well alone? Is it his business? It's not! Yet he can't do nothing and hope it goes away. But the Le Creuset! Come on, think. Why can't he think clearly? Right now he simply does not have the time or the mental space to deal with this. His diary for the coming month is a nightmare. There's the Lords' debate coming up, not to mention the York thing hanging over him. So he does what he probably should have done last night: he rings the archdeacon. He feels a fool, but Matt has the knack he's never mastered – of dealing with Freddie.

Then he resumes his Quiet Time. Oh dear. He is still making heavy weather of Shakespeare's Sonnets, I'm afraid.

        What's new to speak, what now to register,

        That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

        Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

        I must each day say o'er the very same . . .

No. This really isn't helping, is it, bishop? But it will be over soon. Freddie's off to Barchester, and there are only another forty-six sonnets to go.

Hmm, thinks the archdeacon. He rings off and asks himself the obvious question (which the reader has doubtless been asking for a while): is Paul gay? The archdeacon does not know. He's inclined to think not. But for whatever reason, Paul's got a pretty big bee in his mitre about the lovely Mr May. So, looks like a little trip to the police station is in order. See what he can glean about last night, and how much trouble the Close tart's in this time. Probably none. Sounds to Matt like reasonable force in response to an assault-query-hate crime. And they're talking ABH, if he's had his nose bust. But good to check it out all the same, because if the bishop ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. And then he should probably track down young tarty-pants and get his version. See how he's coping.

The archdeacon orders another flat white. He mulls the conversation over again. Hmm.

May draws to a close. Lilacs drip in suburban gardens. Insomniacs hear blackbirds belting out their repertoire at 2.30 a.m. Half term flits by, too fast, too fast!

Unless you are a single mum at your wits' end, that is, and trying to be civilized to ‘the children's father'. Especially when the children's father is being as difficult as he possibly can be without ceding the moral high ground. Poor Becky Rogers! And poor Martin, too. Theirs was one of those marriages where both partners are secretly convinced that they are the only one who ever empties the bin. Habits of resentment take some unlearning.

Thursday is Corpus Christi. Father Dominic burns his thumb on the thurible because he's not concentrating. He's thinking:
This could be my last Corpus Christi in Renfold . . .