Acts and Omissions (23 page)

NOVEMBER

Chapter 44

‘I just want to get my best dressmaking shears and snip it to ribbons!'

‘Do it.'

Susanna gasps. ‘Paul! I couldn't possibly! It's a brand new dress.'

‘If it'll make you feel better, snip it up.'

‘But it was really expensive!'

‘So?'

‘No, no, I couldn't. I was just being silly. I'll give it to a charity shop.'

They fall silent.

‘I haven't dusted in here for ages,' she says. ‘There's a cobweb up there.'

That strand still rises and falls above his bookshelves.

All your precious ruddy books, she thinks. ‘I suppose you'll be taking them to South Africa?'

‘Yes.'

The work she'll have to do. Getting rid of stuff. Thanks to you! Her gaze scorches round. ‘You need a haircut. And another thing: your eyebrows need trimming again.'

He flushes.

Freddie May!
He
trimmed them! I'd been offering for ten years, but no! ‘Well! Would you like me to do it?'

‘No. To be quite frank, I'm not sure I trust you with a pair of scissors at the moment.'

‘Oh!' She tries to laugh the sob off. ‘I wouldn't do anything really.'

‘Well, I'd rather the dress gets it than me.'

‘Don't be silly!' She wipes her eyes. ‘So the announcement's this week. Do we know who it is yet?'

‘Yes. Unofficially. It's Rupert Anderson.'

‘Oh! Rupert and Cordelia. Well, they're lovely people. They'll be very good,' she wails. ‘Oh dear.'

‘Come here.' He takes her in his arms. ‘My poor old Suze.' He rocks her, rests his cheek on the top of her head. ‘You could always send the dress to Cordelia.'

She wants to thump him, but her arms are trapped. ‘She's not my size! She's actually quite
fat
!'

‘Have you decided about South Africa? Please come. I'll be lonely without you. And the girls won't understand if you stay here. Nobody will.'

‘Then why don't you
explain
to everyone? Get yourself a boyfriend if you're so lonely!' She can't stop these dreadful things bursting out! ‘Tell them you're gay all of a sudden. They'll understand that!'

‘I'm married to you. I can't get a boyfriend any more than I could keep a mistress.'

‘What if I divorced you?'

There's a long silence.

‘Is that what you want?'

‘I don't know what I want!' She weeps into his shirt.

‘Then why not come with me to South Africa? At least to start with? See how it goes?'

‘No. Oh, oh, all
right
.'

‘Truly? You will?' He tries to check her face to see if she means it, but she won't oblige. ‘Ah, they'll be so pleased. They love Mama Bishop.' He hugs her tight.

‘I'm sorry I was mean just now. I know you can't help being . . . gay,' she tells his shirt. ‘But even so, Paul, I'm sorry, but part of me can't help feeling that you've behaved like a complete
shit
.'

(You must forgive her: she's very new to swearing. She pronounces it in italics.)

She feels him quiver with laughter. It infects her. They laugh till they cry.

In the end she gasps, ‘Oh dear! Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘Yes, please,' he whimpers. ‘Shall I make it?'

‘That would be lovely. There's chocolate tiffin in the green spotty tin.'

‘Um, I don't know how to tell you this, Suze, but I really don't have a sweet tooth.'

‘What?' She pulls away, astounded. ‘But I only make all that stuff for you!'

‘I know you do.'

‘All these years! Why didn't you say something?'

‘Well, you kept on baking things, and I didn't want to hurt your feelings.'

‘Oh dear!' They leave the study. ‘Cheese straws? I could make you—'

‘No! Suze, look, you don't have to do anything for me. Just— Just love me. If you still can?'

‘Of course I can,' she sobs. ‘Oh, must we tell the girls tonight?'

‘You know we must, darling. Before the press release.'

‘Let's not say you're . . . gay. Can we not say that? Oh, is that cowardly?'

‘I don't think we need to tell anyone that yet.'

They go down the grand palace stairs, holding on to one another like strangers who have survived a shipwreck.

The press release is prepared. It is timed to coincide with the announcement at York, to be eclipsed by it. With luck it will tidy up that lingering question mark about the bishop of Lindchester. Yes, what was all that about? Oh, I see – he's off to South Africa to head up a new theological college. The press release will talk of a strong sense of calling, Paul's historic links with that region, a desire to serve where the need is great. Good-hearted folk will conclude that Paul has humbly renounced flight path A to church glory, and they will respect him for it. Others will think there's something fishy going on. If they dare, they will pump the dean, the archdeacon, the suffragan, the bishop's chaplain, anyone, for information. In far-off London Town Roderick Fallon will curl his lip. Strong sense of calling? Pah! But it looks like this is one scoop that got away. He will just have to vent his spleen by viciously contesting that parking ticket he got on Lindchester Cathedral Close.

Out of professional courtesy, the bishop informs his senior staff a few days before the press release. He receives their congratulations and good wishes. Giles promises to scramble together a cracking farewell service, with all the choral bells and whistles. (Argh! when, though? When? Advent is almost upon them! The cathedral diary is already a nightmare!) The senior staff will all sing from the same hymn-sheet when the pumpers come to pump them. In private the pumpees may scratch their heads and turn the hymn-sheet over and over to see if they've missed some crucial explanation tucked away in a footnote. But in public they will sing in sweet unison.

The burden of running the diocese for the next year will descend upon the shoulders of our kind and gracious friend the bishop of Barcup. Does Bob Hooty not deserve to be taken into Paul's confidence? It would never occur to him to think that. And Marion, the dean – surely Paul owes it to her to be a little more candid? How can he carry on pretending? Isn't this hypocrisy? And what about the gay clergy in his diocese? What about Father Dominic? In fact, what about gay people the world over – he's betraying them! Doesn't he have some sort of responsibility to out himself, tell the truth, recant his earlier homophobia, and stand alongside the outcast? Come along, bishop, has that hilltop epiphany faded so fast?

Ah, you think Paul hasn't been asking himself all these questions? Of course he has. These and many others. Yes, the Transfiguration on the mountain! But the exodus passes through Gethsemane and Golgotha all the same. Questions, anguished questions, but no answers. So he remains silent. Having kept the secret from himself for forty-odd years, keeping it from his daughters and close colleagues isn't hard.

He regrets those two words he blurted out to his chaplain. ‘I'm gay.' Isn't that too simplistic? Do four days of homosexual activity make you gay? Why? Why don't forty years of heterosexual activity make you straight? Who's to say his bedrock is gay, with a thin straight topsoil, rather than the other way round? True, he does find men attractive; but in his time he has found women not unattractive, too. Hasn't he? Until all this, was his marriage not committed, tender, genuine? Ought he not rather describe himself as bisexual?

The truth is, he's probably nothing at all. He's asexual. He's been a cold fish all his life.

Cold? Cold? When he burns like this? He
burns
for men, past all reason! Of course he's gay!

        Perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,

        Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust.

Except, no. No no no, not true. It's not
men
, it's one man. Just one.

        My love is as a fever, longing still

        For that which longer nurseth the disease . . .

Ah, he's
ill
with Freddie May: demented, queer in his head, in his bones and marrow! But he cannot see that this excuses him from his marriage vows.

Even if he could excuse himself, there's no future here. It would be a suicide pact, not a relationship. All accelerator, no brake. Crash and burn. He knows this. But if Freddie walked in now and smiled that smile, he'd probably toss him the keys anyway. O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death? Please. Please let this pass. It will pass. It must. He's going to a place where this self-absorbed agonizing will look like a luxury. He will cast it off like a cashmere smoking jacket, and take the form of a servant. He looks again, and again, and yet again to Jesus, the author and finisher of his faith, correcting his course every moment by that unwavering North. It will pass.

Meanwhile, Martin obediently takes his soul into the carpenter's workshop every day and gives it another whirl on the lathe of intercession. Little by little it is becoming clear to him that he has probably not behaved entirely well. That safeguarding business? Sawdust flies. Yes, but. I mean. Oh, come on! He catalogues Freddie's manifold sins and wickedness. And gets John 21.22b in reply: ‘What is that to you? Follow me.'

‘So, has the bishop been bumming the lovely Mr May all this time?' asks Gene. ‘That's the real question.'

‘No, Gene, that's not the real question.'

‘Well, it's
a
question.'

‘No, it's idle gossip,' says the dean. ‘The real question, regardless of what may or may not have happened, is: how can we help the Hendersons to leave well?'

‘Yes, of course that's the real question. And we'll do everything we can to help them. But I'm still slightly interested in the idle gossip,' says Gene. ‘Aren't you, deanissima? Slightly?'

The dean sighs. ‘If some very dear people are now able to stop living a lie, then in the end that will be a good thing. That's the only part that interests me in all this.'

Gene comes close and studies her grey eyes. He sees they have tears in them. ‘You are a good woman. And I am a worm and no man. I'll go and find them a nice Sauternes.'

‘That would be very kind.'

‘My pleasure.' He inclines his head. ‘Am I allowed to sympathize with Paul? Hypothetically, you understand. Because it must have been hell. Hypothetical hell. Mr joy-of-man's-desiring May oozes availability from every pore. Heavens to Betsy, I'd bum him myself, if I were even the
tiniest
bit gay.' He frowns. ‘Which, oddly, I am not.'

‘I realize that, darling. You're just ridiculously camp. It must be very confusing for you.'

‘Well, Miss Bennet, there certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men.' Gene does a pirouette on his way to the cellar. ‘One has got all the gayness, and the other all the appearance of it. An exquisite 1989 Barsac coming up. Oh, go on then, two. I'm feeling frivolous.'

Bonfire Night. Father Dominic's party is a riot. Sixty people turn up and eat hot dogs and cinder toffee, and watch Dominic's feeble display of jammed Catherine wheels and widdling sprinkles called Golden Fleece, but which might better be named ‘Was that
it
?' He has inflicted a whole boxful of premature ejaculations on his parishioners! What must they think of him? I can tell you, reader: they love him to bits. It was a good old-fashioned bonfire party like they remember from childhood. And they have had a good nose round the downstairs of the vicarage into the bargain.

When they've finally gone, he gets out his squeegee mop and cleans the muddy footprints from his kitchen floor. Janey didn't turn up. He checks his phone. No text. Not like her. He rings and leaves a message.

Jane is standing in the dark at her bedroom window watching the fireworks. Just like she used to when Danny was small. Ooooh! Aaah! Her phone vibrates. She checks, but doesn't answer. Wrong man. He's not going to call. Ever. Which is why Jane has decided to spend Christmas in New Zealand.

She watches the last rocket zip across the sky and die in flowers of sparks. Ticket booked. She'll apply for jobs when she's over there.

It's finished.

Chapter 45

Giles the precentor makes the first coffee of the day. ‘And next, the Dorian Singers,' murmurs Radio 3. Oh, God. More Victorian schmaltz. Why do you persist in inflicting this maudlin tosh on us, Jacksie? Get back to Lassus and Palestrina, from whence you came!

        When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

        When sorrows like sea billows roll;

        Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know,

        It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Giles blows his nose. Damn. He can hear that the great Mr Dorian isn't even being ironic for once. No smart-arse harmonies subverting the text, no camping it up.

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Well, Lord knows, enough sea billows have rolled over Andrew Jacks in his time. There have been points, frankly, when Giles was braced not to see him again this side of glory. Great Scott, man! Do you have the liver of Dorian Gray? No, this isn't cheap happy-clappy grace he's singing about here. Giles blows his nose again like the trump of the angel. Suddenly he decides: we must have this at Paul's farewell service. He gets out his phone. A voice drawls: ‘
C'est moi
. Leave a short and coherent message after the tone.'

‘I'll give you short and coherent, you insufferable old queen. Listen, can I have the music for “It is Well with My Soul”? Just heard it on the radio and you made me cry. Bastard. Anyway, hope it is well with you.
Ciao bello
.'

Typhoon Haiyan rolls in across the Philippines. What do we know of storms and sea billows? The cloud factory in Cardingforth toils on. Our high streets fill with Yuletide luxuries and tat. Treat yourself, spoil yourself. Get one free. Why not? A rising tide lifts all boats! All boats? Yes, and houses and trees and villages, towns, lives – all lifted by the rising tide of global prosperity and swept away. And while we Keep Calm and Carry On Shopping it rains on John O'Groat's house – low-lying, poor, powerless, far across the sea.

It is not really well with Susanna's soul right now. But it is slightly better than it was. She has gone at last to talk to a counsellor. You might wonder why she didn't do so before this – the offer was there – but that would be to admit there was a problem. It would be like getting a cleaner in because you weren't coping with all the dusting and tidying, and Susanna has never done that, not even when she had four little girls under the age of six running her ragged. Or like bursting into tears and admitting the ironing pile is now as big as Mount Everest and even if she irons till her dying day she will never get on top of it, she must have help.

I must have help! I can longer make everything perfect. The York announcement is this week. My husband does not have a sweet tooth. I can't bake the problem away, I can't tidy it up, straighten it, or sing to it and cuddle it, lift those stains, or make scatter cushions and throws to disguise the fact that I have failed, and I cannot make everything lovely again.

The counsellor listens, a tender sounding board, now and then bouncing back something Susanna has just said. Failed? Perfect? Lovely? The counsellor has one question: what is Susanna afraid will happen if she does not make everything lovely and perfect again?

Susanna is not ready to answer that yet. Because all she has is a wrong answer. Susanna needs to give the right answer. She gets in her car and sets off for home. The wrong answer is: she's afraid everyone will find out. Everyone will know that the perfect palace was never perfect, the perfect marriage was a sham all along. They will point and laugh. They will think she did it on purpose. She will get into trouble. She will get told off!

That's
the worst thing! By now Susanna is wailing as she drives. Getting told off! When all the time you were trying your very hardest to be good, leaving nothing undone, no corner undusted, trying to anticipate every possible accusation and head it off! And still getting told off! Getting crushed and humiliated and having your light snuffed out. Oh, how silly is that! When people are dying in typhoons, to be scared of getting told off! Why would God, why would anyone have any patience with her?

When she gets home Paul is out, thank goodness. But what is this on the kitchen table, propped up against a vase of pink roses? A letter! He's leaving her! He's telling her off! She's in trouble; oh, please don't let it be anything horrid. She makes herself open it.

It is a list of a hundred and one things he loves about her. In his beloved handwriting.

The one-hundred-and-first thing is this:
I am a better person, after nearly forty years with you, than I could ever have been without you.

It's official. The next archbishop of York is the current bishop of Barchester, the Rt Revd Rupert Anderson. There's a lovely photo of him and his wife on the Church of England website. You will see that Susanna was wrong. Cordelia is not fat. She's an M&S size 14. Which is not fat.

I hope you also noticed the announcement about the bishop of Lindchester? That's right: he's off to South Africa in January to help set up the new Anglican theological college. He has a strong sense of calling to this challenging and exciting post. His wife Susanna goes with him, and they are both looking forward immensely to this new stage of their ministry.

The archdeacon and the diocesan communications officer are on high alert all day. But it looks like all's quiet on the Western Front. Fallon hasn't crawled out of the woodwork, thank the Lord. Yep, good to avoid washing
that
little load of church laundry in public. Problem is, by Friday evening Matt feels like he's been drinking the dirty water from the C of E washtub. Never been a big fan of cover-ups. But it was the right thing – or the least worst – on this occasion, if only to protect young tarty-pants. Poor kid is barely twenty-three! Tabloids would be wetting themselves: drop-dead good looks combined with criminal record, drugs, escort work. Not forgetting the – God help us! – ‘film career'. Nope, open that can of worms and you'd probably put the kibosh on Mr May ever straightening up and flying right.

So, is it well with the archdeacon's soul as he drives home? Yes, deep down.

That said, things are pretty grim in the love department, to be honest. You've got to assume the Lord knows what he's doing; but being a fixer himself, Matt gets frustrated when other people don't crack on and sort stuff out. Gets the urge to tell God it's not rocket science. Come on, we're crazy about each other! How hard can it be?

Answer (apparently): it's a total mare.

Paris? Daft idea. Does he really think Dr R would drop everything and come away for a non-dirty weekend? The combined lure of the Eiffel Tower and his platonic company just isn't going to cut it. Plus there's the real risk he won't stay platonic longer than, say, thirty seconds. In which case, why faff around with Eurostar, why not go straight up to the Fergus Abernathy building, shoulder-barge her office door right now, do his seventeen rude things?

And then resign, with immediate effect.

Nope. Still not a goer. He keeps trying that possibility on for size and it's just not right. He's a round peg in a round hole in this ordained ministry malarkey.

And he respects her views. Not fair to pressure her, when he isn't prepared to shift ground himself. He'll pay her the compliment of taking her seriously. Not let himself bombard her with red roses. Or even send a plaintive little text: ‘Remind me again why you're so dead set against marriage?'

‘My mum says to say is it OK if I ask you about the Second World Wa-a-ar.'

‘And are you remotely interested in the Second World Wa-a-ar?'

‘No. But we've got ho-o-omework. We have to ask people about the Second World Wa-a-ar.'

‘Excuse me?' Jane put her hands on her hips. ‘Listen, Missy Muldoon, I can remember my son Danny doing this topic. You're supposed to ask your
grandparents
about their memories of the war! I'm not that old, thank you very much.'

‘Yeah, but they live in Hemel Hempstead and Brighton and I don't know any other old people round here, do I, so how am I meant to do my stupid homework? Plus you said you're a history lecturer.'

In the nick of time Jane remembered she was a grown-up and ought to set a good example. ‘Oh, all right. Come in.'

They went through to the kitchen. Leah held her nose.

‘Now what?'

‘Your house stinks.'

‘Yeah? I'll tell you why. Because I was cooking coley last night. Know what that is?'

The girl shook her head.

‘Fish. Cheap fish. They ate coley in the war because it was cheaper than cod or haddock. So what else did they eat?'

The girl shrugged. ‘Who cares?'

‘They ate meat three times a day. Sprinkled with sugar from a golden spoon. With a side order of sweets and tropical fruit.'

‘No, they didn't.'

‘Prove it.'

‘There was rationing, durr-brain.'

Jane sneered. ‘Sez you.' The good example thing was going nicely. ‘Would you like a drink? Orange juice? Flat cola? A flagon of mead?'

‘Has the orange got bits in?'

‘No.'

‘OK, orange.' Eye roll. ‘Pleeeeeease. I suppose your dad fought in the war.'

‘You suppose wrong.' She handed her a glass of juice. ‘My dad was born in 1937. Do the maths. My granddad didn't fight, and nor did my great-uncles, because they were all coal miners and shipbuilders. “Reserved Occupations”. Google it. Biscuit?'

‘What sort?'

‘Digestive.'

‘Meh. Got any chocolate ones?'

‘Actually, these were chocolate digestives, only I sucked the chocolate off. Want one?'

‘You think you're funny and you're so not.'

‘Wow! That's spooky! Danny always told me that as well.'

‘Is that him there?'

Jane swivelled round and looked at the picture on the fridge. ‘Yep, that handsome devil is my son. What do you think?'

‘He's weird. Why's his
face
tattooed?'

‘
Moko
. Traditional Maori tattoos. His dad's part-Maori. But it's not real, he just Photoshopped it to wind me up.'

‘Why's he pulling that face?'

‘It's a Maori warrior thing. Meant to be scary.'

‘Well, it looks stupid.'

‘Hah! I wouldn't tell that to the All Blacks.'

‘You're not allowed to say that. It's racialist.'

‘Since when? The All Blacks are the New Zealand rugby team. You into rugby? You're not?' Jane shook her head in sorrow. ‘I understand. Girls these days! It's all My Sparkly Little Pony, and baking princess kitten cupcakes in your tiara and ballet pumps, isn't it? And boyfriends. Have you got a boyfriend?'

Leah poked her fingers down her throat.

‘Attagirl!'

An hour later, Jane watched her sprint home along Sunningdale Drive. Not a great deal better informed about the Second World Wa-a-ar, but she could at least perform a creditable haka now. My work here is done, thought Jane.

She shut the door and went back into her fishy kitchen and stared at Danny's face on the fridge. The picture wavered. Silly mare. Coming to see you soon, baby boy. Just wish I could invite that sweet man along and introduce the two of you. Reckon you'd get on.

Could
I invite him?

Hello, Matt, would you like to drop everything, compromise your reputation and come all the way round the world with me – at the most hideously expensive time of year – and get nothing out of it at all, because I'm not prepared to change my mind?

Or was she? She tried the idea on. Aargh! It felt like a Lady Di blouse with a piecrust collar, three sizes too small.

I've not come all this way – through all this, on my own! – in order to become someone's wife. Not interested.

And I'll tell you what: you can fuck your equal marriage campaign and try offering me equal civil partnership. Then we might be talking.

Over in Martonbury, the bishop of Barcup's wife is thinking about Jane, though she doesn't know it. She's thinking about whoever it was that Voldemort was trying to email so passionately that time. Janet Hooty is a bit of a fixer herself, too. So she has no qualms. Sort it out, please, she instructs the Almighty.