Unseen Things Above (12 page)

As he drives, he conjures a paler, angrier version of himself in a parallel universe: the Most Revd Paul Henderson, Archbishop of York. He knows he would have told himself that he needed a chauffeur, that Freddie needed a job, that it made sense to take him with them to Bishopsthorpe. He sees himself denying everything to the very last, even as the tidal wave of scandal broke over him. Well, at least he'd been spared – he had spared everyone – all that. Through the severe mercy of God.

Paul is still married. His marriage is tender and intimate, physically affectionate, though not sexual. He has not surrounded himself with beautiful African youths and told himself they are pastoral assistants. Suze is flourishing. Yes, yes, she is: happy and occupied with her mama bishop role, using her nursing skills once more. When he asks, she claims her needs are catered for. (But when would Suze admit otherwise?) This is as valid a marriage as many a middle-aged marriage, surely? Faithful, companionable. True, not all his needs are catered for. But nor are those of plenty of married people. And single people. Are we any less human than those fortunate enough to find sexual fulfilment? (
Is
this truly a marriage?)

Paul has not made sense of last summer yet. But he has made peace with it, or nearly. It is no longer
sins
that trouble him. A sin is a sin, get over yourself. There's provision for that. Clean water laid on for every life. What racks him is the
condition
of sinfulness, that web of finitude, of fallenness we are all tangled in, thrash and struggle though we might. A tug here sends shivers across the whole matrix. A wrong done cannot be undone; it must run its course. And wrong will come of it and go on coming of it, for generations, maybe, individual repentance and forgiveness notwithstanding. How can this growth be cut out, now it's wrapped round all our vital organs? (A white man in South Africa – how can he not wrestle with this?)

On some self-aggrandizing days he feels as though he embodies all the Church's conflict on the gay debate. The full, irreconcilable spectrum is incarnate in Paul Henderson. Save me,
Kyrie eleison
, I'm sinking! On other days he remembers John Newton. Amazing grace? But what can wash away the sins of a repentant slave trader, when his legacy is with us to this day? He thinks of Newton on his deathbed, with just these two things left: I am a great sinner, and Christ is a great saviour.

Is there provision for the sins of the whole world, not just the sins of John Newton, of Paul Henderson? Can everything be put right? It cannot be so. It must be so. Paul never hears the words of the Agnus Dei nowadays without weeping.
He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree
. The intellect balks, but here we are, all sharing the same broken bread, the same cup. Great sinner, small sinner. The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

Well, look at that – he's gone into automatic! He's driving towards Cathedral Close, not to the Lindford Travelodge. Paul slows and finds a place to turn round. He's halfway through the manoeuvre when he recognizes it: that layby. The place where he had to pull over and stop, after he'd dropped Freddie off. Heart breaking. Wind stirring bleached grass. Blond, blond.

A white carrier bag snagged on thorns inhales, exhales, as the wind passes over it. Paul waits a moment, heart fracturing all over again.
Thou best of dearest
. But the grass is green now. Roses trail. Brambles are in bloom. This might be another place entirely.

The bishop checks his mirrors and starts off again in the right direction.

‘Tell me a bit about your uni chaplain,' Dominic says to Jane on the phone.

‘Veronica da Silva! Hah!' It's Monday, and she's eating a doughnut at her desk. ‘Can't stand her. She's like a keen drama student honing her trendy chaplain role by staying in character twenty-four seven. Why?'

‘I met her in the shopping mall last Friday,' says Dominic. ‘Are you eating something?'

‘Nope.'

‘Good. Well, she was wearing a chaplain hoodie and handing out leaflets!'

There's a pause. ‘OK. Which part am I meant to be indignant about?'

‘
All
of it.
I
am chaplain to the Abernathy centre!'

‘Oh, I
see
! And did we come over a tiny bit territorial?' Jane takes another bite.

‘I fear we did. Possibly because— would you
stop
chomping in my ear? It's disgusting.
Possibly
because I feel guilty for not making more of the chaplain role. Be that as it may, there she was. In her hoodie.'

‘Never mind, sweetums, I'll buy you a chaplain hoodie of your very own.' She finishes the doughnut and wipes her fingers on her jeans. ‘Did you publicly denounce her?'

‘I went over and introduced myself.'

‘In all your queenly splendour.'

‘Flouncing
may
have occurred, yes. But we soon cleared up the silly misunderstanding.
Uni
chaplain, not mall chaplain! “Oh, Father Todd, I've heard
all
about you!” Eurgh! She's one of those women who
adores
gay men. Because we're endlessly available to listen to their man troubles and help them choose curtains.'

‘A fag hag like me!' Jane stands up and brushes sugar off her front.

‘You? You're a rubbish fag hag! And she
prefers
the term “ally”. She told me she's an LGBTQIA
ally
.'

‘Did you say you self-identify as a big ponce, and it's LGBTQIA
BP
these days?'

‘See? You're rubbish. Why can't you adore me properly, you cisgendered old trout?'

‘Adore, adore, adore. There. So what were these leaflets about, poncykins?'

‘Oh, the food bank. She's on the staff of St James', which I'd forgotten. Is she American, by the way?'

‘God knows.'

‘She sounds vaguely transatlantic. Apparently she trained at some American seminary or bible college I'd never heard of. Slight sense the goalposts kept shifting when I tried to home in on the facts, though.'

‘Ooh, interesting! PhD from the University of Narnia, you think? Internet ordination?'

‘We-e-ll. The thought hovers.'

‘Poundstretcher will have chased up her references and asked to see her degree certificates,' says Jane. ‘So she's unlikely to be bogus.'

‘True. But I'm telling the vice chancellor you call it Poundstretcher.'

Jane laughs. ‘Bring it.'

‘My, aren't
you
chirpy today!'

‘Ha ha! That's because I'm getting some hot archidiaconal action.'

‘Ew!' cries Dominic. ‘I'm very happy for you, darling, but ew. I take it you have birthday plans, then? You won't want to come with me to this engagement party on Saturday, after all?'

‘Sorry, no. It's the solstice. We'll be frolicking naked in the woods, wearing antlers . . .'

But Dominic has already hung up.

Late that afternoon, Dean Marion stands with Gene in the deanery garden by the high sunny wall. A clump of bees droops there. Thousands, tens of thousands of honey bees, a mass of seething amber, like an enchanted velvet pouch. Earlier the air was peppered with them, as though the deanery had been struck by a freak black blizzard; but they've clotted round their queen now. Marion watches. The world is dizzy with their thrumming.

A local beekeeper has been summoned.

‘Tell him he owes you a silver spoon,' says Gene. ‘That's the traditional worth of a June swarm, I believe.'

‘I wish there was a way we could keep them. Lindchester ought to have its own hives,' says Marion. ‘Why not? Other cathedrals do. Even Southwark has bees. If they can keep them in central London, we can keep them here.'

‘Ooh! We could sell Lindchester Cathedral honey! And beeswax candles!'

‘We could!'

‘What a shame you slaughtered all those poor innocent masonry bees,' mourns Gene.

‘Thank you for the reminder.'

‘Did you know that during her mating flight, the queen is serviced by seven to ten drones?'

‘Strange to say, I didn't know that, Gene.'

‘It's true. After ejaculation, the drone pulls away from her and his tiny bee member is r-r-ripped from his body. He dies, his function fulfilled. Sometimes you can even hear the little
pop!
on a quiet sunny day.' Gene sighs a wistful sigh, as if of golden summers remembered.

‘Well, that sounds like a sensible system to me,' remarks Marion.

He bows. ‘Just a little thought to cherish at General Synod next month, during the debate about women bishops.'

It's Wednesday. Martin is nervous. He shouldn't feel nervous. Paul isn't his line manager any more. They are just going to have a pub lunch together. Martin had tried suggesting that Penelope joined them, so it wouldn't feel like a PDR. But it turned out that Paul had already arranged to meet up with his former PA for afternoon tea.

If only the employment tribunal was still going ahead! Then Paul wouldn't have all this spare time on his hands to catch up with old colleagues. But the ex-vicar of Lindford (not wishing to judge, but a truly horrible human being, in Martin's humble opinion) withdrew his case on the very morning the tribunal was due to start. Hadn't Martin been saying all along this would happen? But nobody listened. The diocese has wasted thousands on legal costs. Martin rather questions the archdeacon's judgement here. On the other hand, there
is
a principle at stake.

He enters the village and makes for the canal-side pub. His heart does a little panicky flip. Paul's bound to make friendly enquiries. How are you doing? How's the job hunt going? And Martin's going to have to find a positive way of dressing up the bleak truth: I keep applying for incumbents' jobs and being rejected. I was even interviewed for one post, but then I didn't get it.

Horrible though this topic is, Martin would rather discuss his failure than stray into other more awkward avenues of conversation. The ghastliness of last summer will hover all the time, he knows it will. He won't be able to banish the thought of Paul's wrecked career. Worse, Paul might confide toe-curling things about his newly discovered orientation. His
boyfriend . . .
Not that Martin's homophobic. It's just that nobody wants to have to imagine other people's relationships.

Here's the pub. Martin pulls into the car park. Obviously it would be inappropriate to discuss the CNC and Paul's successor. But Martin can ask about theological formation in South Africa and how Susanna is faring, can't he? He can enquire after Paul's daughters and grandchildren. Yes, so long as they steer clear of Freddie May, everything will be fine.

It's now mid-afternoon. Jane is back in her office trying to sort out next year's units and she's thinking about coffee and cake. There's a knock at her office door. Oh, good, she thinks. That will be Spider, coming to rescue me from MOODLE hell.

It is not Jane's poet friend. It is the uni chaplain. I regret to say, we are about to witness Jane at her worst. Or possibly her best? I leave it for the reader to determine. Part of me thrills with admiration, I confess. Jane violates the first rule of being English, which states we must suck up any amount of inconvenience, pain and insult rather than be rude to someone we neither know nor care about.

‘Come in.' Well, if it wasn't the fag hag. In her half done-up dungarees (bib and one strap dangling) and rainbow clerical shirt. How old? Thirties? No, early forties, but dressed too young.

‘Hi!!! Janey!? I'm Veronica Da Silva!? A colleague of Father Dominic!? He's a friend of yours, right!? Hi!'

Good grief. ‘Hi.'

‘Am I innerrupting?'

‘You are, actually.' Jane gestured at her desk.

‘No worries. I can come back. When's a good time?'

‘For what?'

‘I was thinking we should grab a coffee and chat? Being as we both work here and we have a friend in common and all? Dom said to look you up. So, coffee?'

‘No, thanks.' Dominic Todd, I'm going to kill you.

The woman blinked. ‘Cool. That's cool. Work/life balance. I get it. You've set your personal boundaries. I totally respect that.'

Jane tilted her head.

‘Well, it's so GREAT to meet you at last!!! I've heard so much about you from Dom! And I've seen you round the campus? I was always, who is that striking woman with the awesome haircut? She looks so awesome, who
is
she?'

Jane tilted her head awesomely.

‘Hey, and I've just been reading some of your work on gender and the Victorians?' Another head tilt. ‘I am in
awe
of your scholarship and publications?' The chaplain's awe unfurled into several paragraphs.

Fuck this head-tilting shit. Get out of my office.

‘A-a-anyhoo. I was gonna ask, would it be OK if I sat in on your lectures this semester?'

‘That won't be possible. For pedagogical reasons.' Plus this is starting to feel a bit
All About Eve
. Jane waved at her desk again. ‘Sorry, I need to press on.'

‘Cool. Oh, can I get you a coffee? I'm heading to the bistro, maybe I can bring you one back up, save you going all the way down? Man, it's a long, long way, isn't it, especially when the elevators aren't working. So what can I get you? You normally drink double espresso, right?'

Jane felt a chill creep up the back of her neck.
I'd like a martini, very dry . . .

‘Nothing for me, thanks.' She turned to her computer and started tackling her in-box. ‘Bye.' Eventually the burbling ceased with a cheery ‘Anon for now!' and her office door closed.

Jane grabbed her phone and left an almighty bollocking on Dominic's voicemail.

The England football flags have vanished from the precentor's car. Brazil flags now flutter beside the Germany ones. The precentor's son switched allegiance once England were knocked out, to wind his mother up. ‘You're
half
German
!' shouts Ulli. ‘Doesn't that count for anything? Why don't you support Germany? You can't support sodding Brazil, for God's sake!'