Acts and Omissions (16 page)

AUGUST

Chapter 30

Rain. Rain over the whole diocese of Lindchester. Biblical rain. Gresham's Boats is closed for business until the River Linden returns to normal levels. The Lower Town is on amber flood alert. William of Lindchester, pray for us!

        The rain came down and the floods came UP!

        The rain came down and the floods came UP!

        The rain came down and the floods came UP!

        And the house on the rock stood firm!

Some of my readers may remember that chorus from Sunday school days. Father Wendy has resurrected it for a holiday club in Cardingforth this week, because it (sort of) fits the theme – Pirates. She had an email of complaint about the holiday club (the archdeacon was copied in), because:

• Piracy in Somalia is no joke.
  
• The Church should not be promoting robbery and criminal violence at sea.
  

But shiver me timbers, Father Wendy went ahead anyway.

It's Monday, day one. The church hall is transformed with rigging and Jolly Rogers. A CD of sea shanties plays. Cap'n Wendy (Ar-harr!) and First Mate Virginia (the new curate) (Yo-ho!) have a crew of fifty-seven Key Stage 2 scurvy knaves at their command, on board the Good Ship Yacki-Hicki-Doo-La. And a team of CRB-checked adult seadogs, of course, to help quell mutinies in line with current good safeguarding practice. No child will be flogged, keelhauled or made to walk the plank without a chaperone.

By midday, there is an atmosphere of barely contained anarchy in Cardingforth church hall, which is exactly how it should be. The parents and carers are gathering in the rain to collect their kids. A rowdy chorus (pirated – rather appropriately – from an old music hall song) floats out to them as they jostle umbrellas and buggies:

        And I snap my finger HA HA HA HA!

        And I snap my other one HO HO HO HO!

        I don't care if it's rain or shine,

        I am my Lord's and my Lord is mine!

        So I shout for joy and sail away,

        No pirate could be cooler!

        And where'er I go I fear no foe

        On the good ship YACKI-HICKI-DOO-LA!

Two hours of childcare for a quid. For a whole week. Not bad, that. Say what you like about the Church, that's not bad.

Tuesday. The four-by-fours crawl round the Close at 6.45 a.m., tyres going
flippety-flippety
over the wet cobbles. Choir parents dropping off the choristers. The choir tour coach leaves for Germany at 7 a.m. The precentor explains: ‘Unfortunately, Mr May has had to pull out for personal reasons.' The lay clerks roll their eyes. Good. Giles has been praying they'll assume Freddie's just gone off on another bender, and that the real reason doesn't get out. If only Freddie has the sense to keep schtum and not blurt all over Facebook! It's obvious to Giles that the allegations are groundless – malicious, even. But he knows how the taint can linger, even when someone is exonerated. Especially if that someone is gay. The process is all stacked in favour of the alleged victim. Hard to see how it couldn't be, admittedly. And fair enough, the safeguarding officer had no alternative. But the precentor is spitting tacks. He'd cheerfully strangle Slope with his own preaching scarf. Sanctimonious twat. And Mary Poppins is about as much use as a chocolate thurible when it comes to reining in his chaplain.

The door closes. The coach pulls away. Someone draws willies on the steamed-up window. Someone lets off. Someone pipes that he knows a song that'll get on your nerves. Twenty hours of this. Christ, have mercy.

But I am toying with you, reader. You will be wondering what happened to poor Freddie. Did Jane take him in? Why, of course she did. It gave her that kick up the arse she'd needed to tidy Danny's room. Took her a mere fifty-eight minutes, change of sheets, dusting and hoovering included. It also – as you no doubt anticipated – brought about a meeting between her and the archdeacon at last.

Jane was cramming the last bin-liner of crap into the wheelie bin when her doorbell rang. She raced back, scanned the kitchen in case the archdeacon came in for a cuppa. Shit. Not that she gave a toss about archdeacons, but quickly, shove dirties into dishwasher, sweep breakfast crumbs onto floor, kick them under the fridge, dust self down. Good. She went to answer the door.

There was Freddie with his holdall, looking so woebegone she took him in her arms. ‘Aw. Poor baby. Really sorry you're having to deal with this.'

‘Thanks, Janey. Love you.'

‘Yeah, love you too. Come on in. I've put you in Danny's room.'

It was only then that she looked at the other man on her doorstep. The big bald man. She frowned and looked past him, to the black Mini. Then back at him, standing there in his checked chef's shirt. His checked
clerical
shirt. Oho! She folded her arms and waited.

He raised both hands in surrender.

Jane battled in vain with a smile. ‘Well, hello, Mr Archdeacon. Nice to meet you. Won't you come in?'

The three of them stood for a moment in Jane's hall. ‘Right. I'll get the kettle on,' she said. ‘Tea? Coffee?'

‘Janey, I'm— OK if I go for a run first? To like clear my head?'

‘Feel free. Takeaway later?'

‘Cool.'

Freddie's footsteps thumped up the stairs. That left Jane and the archdeacon. ‘So. Tea, coffee?'

‘Tea, please.'

They sat in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘Kind of you to do this,' said the archdeacon.

‘More than happy.' She looked him over. Did battle with that smile again. Of course – he must be Dominic's Prat in the Hat. ‘So. Not a chef at all, then, eh, Matt?'

‘Nope, not a chef.'

Jane bunged a couple of teabags in mugs. ‘You lied. You said you were.'

‘No, I just failed to deny it.'

‘That's as bad as lying.'

‘I was scared.'

Jane laughed her filthy laugh. The front door banged shut. Freddie, Freddie. ‘I assume you can't discuss the allegations with me?'

The archdeacon shook his head. ‘Probably not.'

Jane made the tea and sat again. ‘So. What shall we talk about then, Matt? Oh, I know – let's start with how you got my name and email, shall we?'

He gestured. ‘Lanyard.'

‘Hah!' Bloody Poundstretcher. Completely anal about ID cards. ‘Thought you must be a chef in one of our eateries, or something. Wait, you bloody saw me on the Close in my doctoral robes, didn't you? Stalker!'

He smiled.

Not very chatty, was he? ‘Well, go on then – why stalk me? Were you coming on to me with those texts?'

‘I was.'

‘You were?' He was! Another filthy laugh. ‘And why was that?'

He smiled again. ‘Let's say, you got my attention.'

‘What, by kicking the shit out of your car?'

‘That tends to get a man's attention.'

‘Damn! And all these years I've been wearing tight skirts and high heels!'

There was a pause. The archdeacon sipped his tea.

‘And stockings,' added Jane. ‘With—'

‘Moving on,' said Matt. ‘So how do you know Freddie?'

He's on the river bank, slithering, cursing. Then the path ahead vanishes under water. Freddie vaults the fence, and the field's a quagmire too. He slips. Ah fuck. Now he's covered in it. Can nothing go right? He gets up, sploshes across the cowfield and gets back on the road, where he pounds, pounds, pounds. On and on he goes, left, then left, then left, making a big loop. Thank fuck it's raining. Hides the tears. Man, he's such a cry-baby. ‘Sticks and stones, son. It's not your fault you're gay, but it
is
your fault if you're a victim.'

Ah Jesus, but nothing hurts like words, Dad.

Why would Martin even do that? Ah fuck, what's he gonna do? Is Paul gonna believe him? Or will he take fuckwit's side? What if nobody believes him? What if they're all, Yeah, but why would a little girl make that up? You must have done
something
.

A car swishes past him. He can kiss the Barchester job goodbye, can't he? This'll be on his record like, for ever. Oh, what's the point? Janey and Matt are being sweet, but there's no point. Why even bother? When he knows he's just gonna get slapped down again? Ah God, he wishes he was dead!

‘Why not try to prove the old bastard wrong instead? Why this pattern of self-sabotage?' Mr Dorian's words go round and round his head as he runs. ‘It seems to me you've got it all. People would kill for your advantages.'

I so do
not
have it all, asshole. What do you know? Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you.

Suddenly the rain doubles. Fucking
mental
. Like someone up there's emptying baths, swimming pools. He hears the Dorian Singers: ‘What can wash away my stain?'

Then it's Allegri:
Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea
. Wash me throughly from my wickedness. And that's what the rain's doing. Literally? It's washing, washing, washing him clean. He sobs out a laugh. And then this weird thing happens? It's like someone's, y'know,
there
? Running beside him? Just for one moment, someone's there in the rain, not saying anything, just running with him.

It's Saturday evening. Father Dominic is standing in his study rehearsing what he's going to say. He's got it all written out, but it's not going well. So far he's got no further than ‘I have an important announcement to make' before crumpling. He cried when he broke the news to his churchwardens yesterday. His mood tonight was not helped by an encounter in Waitrose with the family of the poor woman whose funeral he forgot. Ran slap into them in the cereal aisle. Made himself say hello and ask how they were doing, but they snubbed him comprehensively.
O clemens, O pia
. Pray for me. This failure will always be a sword through his heart. But on with life:

Ahem. ‘I have an important announcement . . .' Deep breath. You can do this. ‘I have—'

His phone rings. Aargh! The Prat in the Hat. ‘Archdeacon! Hello!'

‘Hello, father. All set for tomorrow? The churchwardens in Lindford are poised to make the announcement at their 10.30, so Thunderbirds are go, basically.'

‘That's good.'

‘All OK at your end?'

‘Oh God, I don't know. Yes. No. I'm rehearsing my speech and it sounds like a Dear John letter! I know I'm going to burst into tears.'

‘And does that matter?'

‘What if I get the first sentence out, then stand there like an idiot, howling? They'll all think I've got terminal cancer, or I've been defrocked, or something!'

And that is why, on Sunday morning, the archdeacon of Lindchester attended the 10.30 Eucharist at St John the Evangelist, Renfold. After the service, before the final hymn, he stood beside the weeping Dominic, put a hand on his shoulder, and made his announcement for him.

A murmur of shock went through the church. Going? No! Father Dominic was going? But . . . but . . .

The archdeacon beamed at the congregation.

‘Now, Dominic here is looking out at a bunch of people and he thinks he's letting them down and abandoning them. But I'm looking out at a bunch of people who know that he's loved them, worked with them and prayed for them faithfully for the last eleven years. In my role I get to see a lot of priests. The good, the bad and the ugly. And this is one of the good ones, people – as you know. So if you could all tell him that during his last weeks here, that would be peachy.' Spontaneous applause broke out. ‘All righty, then. Let's sing the last hymn: “All my hope on God is founded”.'

Dominic was still crying as he walked down the aisle, past the sea of smiling faces, through the hands reaching out to pat him, offer him wads of tissue, grasp him. They loved him, they really did. He was carried along on a groundswell of love.

        Christ doth call

        One and all:

        Ye who follow shall not fall.

Chapter 31

Not much gets past the Venerable Matt Tyler. All the same, he's not infallible. When he dropped Freddie off in Cardingforth, Matt clocked that Sunningdale Drive rang a bell for some reason; but, distracted by the revelation that Freddie's Janey was the very Dr Jane Rossiter he had been textually flirting with for the past few months, he failed to chase it up later on.

Perhaps he might have remembered the following morning, had the thought not been driven from his mind by demon priest (formerly of Lindford Parish) lawyering up and taking him and the bishop to an employment tribunal for unfair dismissal and breach of contract. So he wanted to play rough, did he? The archdeacon had been ready for this for some time. Had a big old file. Pics of the vandalized vicarage, screenshots of defamatory rants on Facebook, list of witnesses to summon. Demon priest was going to discover that they don't settle out of court here in the diocese of Lindchester.

Please don't get the impression that our friend the archdeacon is normally a vengeful man. But it's true to say that he's still smarting from being suckered four years ago, by the person who threw this particular dead cat over the wall. Back when he was a rookie archdeacon. ‘Why didn't you warn us the guy was a serial suer?' Matt demanded. His oppo, the archdeacon in Another Diocese (which will remain nameless), purred: ‘But my dear archdeacon! You didn't ask.'

Moral of the tale: always ask. Ask: ‘Is there anything which, two years from now, I'll be glad I asked?'

With all this caper going on, Matt failed to warn Freddie about who was living four doors down from Jane. Freddie discovered for himself about a week later.

He was on his way back from the corner shop with milk. The sun was out for once. Maybe, just maybe it would all be OK?

‘Freddie! Freddie! Mummy, it's Freddie!'

He whirled round. Jessica. With her mum, on the front lawn. No! Don't say this was their house!

‘Hey, sweetie!' He waved and tried to keep walking, but she came running after him.

‘It was my birthday in France and I got a tent from Grandma and Grandpa!'

‘Yeah, I can see. Awesome! Happy birthday!' Get me out of here – like now? Becky was coming over to bawl him out! Little witch was nowhere in sight, thank God.

‘Freddie! What are you doing here?'

‘So yeah, I'm like, staying with a friend? Look, it's cool, I'm off, no worries.'

‘Come and see my tent!' Jessie was tugging at his shorts leg now. ‘It's a princess castle tent!'

‘Aw. Maybe later? I've got to take the milk back so my friend can have her coffee?'

‘I've got a new Barbie, too! I'll get her!' Jessie ran back to the tent.

‘It's OK, Becks.' He started walking. ‘You don't have to say anything.'

‘Wait!' Why was she looking at him like that? ‘What's wrong?'

Gah, he can't
believe
this. ‘Nobody's told you?'

‘Told me what?'

‘Look! Look, Freddie! This is my new hairtastic Barbie, so I can style her hair!'

‘Whoa! Love that purple streak!' He squatted down. ‘Listen, can you and Barbie do me a massive favour? Can you, um . . . pick me some flowers from your garden, so I can give them to the lady I'm staying with? Yeah? Awesome!'

He stood up. Becky was looking totally freaked now.

‘Told me what?'

‘Oh, man. I shouldn't— Listen, it's just, Martin made these, yeah, allegations? About when I looked after the girls that time?'

‘What?! What allegations? Why haven't I been told?'

‘Dude, I'm sorry, I have no idea why.'

‘What's he been saying? Tell me
now
!'

‘Probably I shouldn't do that? I've been suspended. There's like, this investigation process?'

‘Investigation? I'm their mother!' Man, she was going mental here. ‘I have a right to know!'

But now Jessie was back with her bunch of flowers. ‘Hey, thanks! These are totally the best!' Jessie beamed up at him. ‘Listen, you couldn't make, like, a card to go with them? You could? Yeah!'

‘I'm going to use my Hello Kitty craft kit that I got from Aunty Helen!'

They watched her skip back to her tent. Ah nuts. Please don't let me start crying.

Becky put her hand on his arm. ‘Freddie! I can't believe this! You're so sweet with her. What's the children's father been saying?'

So Freddie told her. ‘I have no idea why Leah would say that? Coz I honestly did not tell them that, it was her? And I'm all, hey, out of order!'

‘Of course you were! She must've heard it at school, then she was scared she'd get told off, so she fibbed.' She was grinding her teeth now, literally? ‘He escalated it, stupid man. He is so heavy-handed! Oh, Freddie! Leah . . . Leah isn't a happy little girl at the moment, with . . . everything.'

With all due respect, lady, do
not
ask me to feel bad for your daughter, not right now.

Must've shown on his face. ‘Well. I'm sorry. Look, she's at a friend's on a sleepover, so I can quietly get Jessica's version of what happened, without . . . I'll make sure this is cleared up as soon as possible, Freddie. I have no doubts about you. None.'

Uh-huh, right. Flashback to her face, when he said he'd look after them. ‘Thanks.'

‘I know what he's trying to do: he's trying to make out I'm an unfit mother. Well, it won't work!'

Ah cock. This isn't even about me, is it? It's all about them, fighting. Was she going to screw things up even worse by wading in on his side? But here came Jessie, waving a piece of pink paper. He bent down to look. ‘Aw, that is so amazing?'

‘It's a Hello Kitty mandala.'

‘It is? Whoa! My friend's gonna love this.'

You will have inferred from this that Martin is now home. He has been contacted by the archdeacon, but he stands by his allegations. Is the archdeacon suggesting Leah's lying? No, he absolutely will
not
question either of his daughters further. They have suffered enough.

The bishop and his wife are home too. Obviously, the bishop has been informed that there is a safeguarding issue with Freddie. His opinion has been sought. The bishop would gladly have kept all this from Susanna (he routinely spares her the horrid stuff), but Susanna needed some explanation for Freddie's absence from the palace. Oh dear, oh dear! A spasm of baking occurred.

Marion, the dean, had to be brought into the picture, and she confided her frustration to her husband Gene. Bishop Bob Hooty has been informed, too. So, how many people now know? Let's see: the diocesan safeguarding officer, the cathedral safeguarding officer (back from holiday), the cathedral administrator (of course), the diocesan communications officer (just in case), the archdeacon, the precentor (and his wife), the bishop of Lindchester (and his wife), the dean (and her husband), the suffragan bishop of Barcup (who's told nobody), Dr Jane Rossiter (likewise), Becky Rogers (who sounded off to her mum). Not forgetting Martin Rogers' parents, sister and brother-in-law, because he needed someone outside the situation to tell him he'd done exactly right, and join him in lamenting Becky's poor judgement in leaving the girls in the care of an aggressive proselytizing homosexual. I make that nineteen. But they are all utterly discreet, and they have only told other people who are equally trustworthy.

Becky Rogers has a gentle little chat with Jessica about that afternoon.

‘Mummy, Leah was being very, very mean to Freddie, ackshully, she said we weren't going to talk to him coz we hate him, but I don't hate him, Freddie's my friend, he let me style his hair coz Barbie's hair was all cut off. Leah said I wasn't allowed. And then Leah said he was gay coz he's got ear rings in his chest, and she said I'm stupid and a baby, and then she said a bad thing about gay and Freddie was upset and I was crying. Then he got us all a white Magnum. Then Daddy came.'

She can't say the bad thing, Daddy says she has to forget it, coz Leah shouldn't've told it to her.

Mummy says she won't be cross, promise, and she won't tell Leah. Or Daddy.

Jessie is allowed to put Mummy's scarf over her face. Mummy shuts her eyes and promises not to look. So Jessie whispers it: Sex. Willies. Bums.

‘Good girl, I know that was difficult to say. Nobody's cross with you. And now, let's make chocolate crispy cakes!'

‘Yay! Chocolate crispy cakes! We can have a picnic in the tent! Can we invite Freddie? Please? Oh, ple-e-ease?'

‘Another time, darling.'

The aggressive proselytizing homosexual is now having kittens. Literally? Gah. He should never have told Becky all that. Should have just walked away. Ah nuts, he's probably broken like a thousand rules here! But why the hell had nobody told her? Man, what's he gonna do?

Ring the archdeacon, of course.

Matt puts the phone down and indulges in a brief fantasy of seizing the bishop's chaplain by the ears and head-butting him. He distinctly remembers saying to Martin, ‘Becky needs to be informed. Is that something you feel able to do, or shall I contact her?' And Martin replied, ‘You can leave that with me, archdeacon. I'm sure the girls' mother will contact you, if she has anything to add.' And that – as Dr Rossiter herself would say – is as bad as lying. The games people play. Matt drums his fingers on his desk. Gets out the paperwork. Yep, got a note of that conversation. All righty. He picks up the phone and rings Becky Rogers to get her version before the Spanish Inquisition meets.

Bishop Paul is not happy. Those restorative two weeks in Corfu have vanished like burnt flash paper. He's in his study, praying for everyone concerned. He casts his mind back to the bright, eager young man he appointed as his chaplain. A bit earnest, yes. A bit lacking in humour; but highly organized, generous, motivated, dependable, loyal. And what's left? A boiled-down distillation of Martin essence. A quivering wire of rage. How serious is this latest development? Was Martin simply reacting in panic and horror, the way any father might, blindly protecting his daughters? (Except, hah! The bishop has four daughters of his own, and knows that little angels are capable of telling the most astounding whoppers.) Or was this a calculated piece of vindictiveness?

Or – he must entertain this possibility – was Freddie so far lost to reason, so driven by his gay rights agenda, that he'd think it appropriate to speak that frankly to children about gay sex?

Freddie, Freddie.

Yet again the bishop finds himself caught between the pair of them. Whatever the outcome of the investigation, the emotional fallout will be ghastly. Is this his own fault? Ought he to have dealt decisively with their mutual antagonism much, much earlier?

Yes, he's failed them both.

But he sees how he let it come about: on any given occasion he'd judged it was not quite worth the hassle. Always so many more important and urgent things clamouring to be dealt with, and besides, Freddie was always about to leave. As he is now: about to go off to Barchester. In a matter of weeks. If he weren't going, it would be worth getting a mediator in, and sit the two of them down and make them listen to one another, properly.
Make
them understand each other.

Paul sighs. Yes, Freddie will soon be gone. He'll just have to keep him out of Martin's way for a couple more weeks. Maybe with Freddie out of the picture Martin will relax, become bearable again. And it won't be for long.

(Don't breathe a word, but it looks as though Paul will have a new job this autumn.)

He picks up his volume of R. S. Thomas poems, and reminds himself that the meaning is in the waiting.

Susanna (baking a batch of fairy cakes with pink sprinkles to take to Becky) is the only one who thinks:
That poor little girl. That poor, angry, unhappy little girl! Is anyone really looking after her?