Unseen Things Above (14 page)

Then again, we are all just people; and people are not so very weird and frightening once we get to know them. The same rules apply as ever did, and they have already been summarized for us by that noted theologian, Freddie May:
Thou shalt not be mean to people.

Helene, head of HR for Lindchester Diocese, comes into the archdeacon's office and parks her bum cheekily on the edge of his desk while he's on the phone. He finishes his conversation and hangs up.

‘Your bum's invading my personal space,' he says. ‘That's sexual harassment in the workplace. I'm reporting you to my HR lady.'

She taps her pen on her clipboard and waits.

‘Woman. I meant HR
woman
.' He smiles disarmingly.

‘How long have you known me, Matt?'

‘Just over a year now, Helene.'

‘And you still haven't noticed I don't find you amusing?'

‘You don't?' She shakes her head. ‘Dang.'

‘Re Bishop Bob: I want to flag up my concern. How does he seem to you?'

‘Well, I'll be honest with you: he's looking a bit under the weather,' says Matt. ‘Had a quiet word at the staff meeting, as a matter of fact. He tells me he and Janet have got three weeks' holiday in Brittany lined up. Says he can hang on till August.'

‘Hmm. I'm not happy.' Helene taps her pen some more. ‘He's not taken any annual leave since Christmas.'

‘Not sure you're right there, Helene. He had a bit of a break after Easter.'

‘No, Matt, I'm not talking about that. I mean, he hasn't taken any leave over and above the inside of the week after Easter, which he's entitled to anyway.'

‘Mmm.' Matt is not on firm ground himself here. But then, Helene doesn't quite get the whole stipend/salary distinction.

‘Correct me if I'm wrong,' says Helene, ‘but essentially, Bob's acting CEO of a medium to large organization, with all the extra time commitments and responsibilities that entails. But without the appropriate support and admin structures you'd normally get in an organization this size.'

‘Fair point. But it's temporary. That's the way it goes in an interregnum, I'm afraid. We'll all be spread a bit thin for the foreseeable.'

‘Both,' she says. ‘Not all,
both
.'

Matt remembers in time that he isn't amusing. So he doesn't tell her his strength is as the strength of ten because his heart is pure.

‘Basically, you and Bob are trying to keep on top of the portfolios of
four
full-time members of staff. Two bishops, two archdeacons. Yes? Yes. It's not sustainable, Matt. How many hours did you work last week?'

‘Ooh. Forty-ish?' Give or take fifty. ‘Point taken. Why don't I have another word with Bob? Suggest he takes a bit of time off next week, once the ordinations are out of the way?'

‘Good. I'll email his PA, and cc Martin and Penelope in the bishop's office. Oh, one more thing: I don't seem to have a record of your annual leave on file, Matt.'

‘You don't? Hmm.' He frowns as if this is a bit of a conundrum.

Helene leans forward and raps him smartly on his bald head with her clipboard. ‘The new rules apply to
all
diocesan employees,' she says. ‘Understood? Good. Just to keep you in the loop, I'm intending to contact the archbishop. He needs to second some staff to this diocese to provide cover.'

‘Hah, ha ha!' guffaws the archdeacon. ‘Oh. Sorry. Thought you were kidding.' He flashes her another disarming smile. ‘That was aggravated assault and battery back there, by the way.'

‘Was it now? Well, why don't you keep a log of each separate incident, and lodge a complaint with your HR lady? She'll tell you what to do with it.' Helene gets up off his desk. ‘King's Head after work some time?'

‘Oh, go on then.' He checks the diary. ‘Next Wednesday? Cheeky pint. Don't tell the missus.'

‘Not if you don't tell mine.'

The day for the ordinations comes. Too hot for those new robes! Thank goodness we've got service booklets to fan ourselves with! But by the end of the service the pristine clerical shirts will be wringing wet. Dean Marion watches Bishop Bob anxiously throughout. Twice she almost beckons the verger (poised to bring a chair), so Bob can sit as he ordains the remaining candidates. But it never quite gets that bad. The heat, he says afterwards. I'm fine. Don't worry about me, Mrs Dean.

Helene watched the bishop too. Not good. The archdeacon can laugh, but she's definitely contacting the archbishop about this.

You might be wondering why Helene was at the ordination service. Her missus, Kay, is a priest in the diocese. Kay is a member of the Cathedral College of Canons. She and Helene fly below the radar, but Matt is aware of the situation.

And Helene is aware of the archdeacon's situation. This is why she has suggested a drink after work, to drop a hint. Yes, the gossip mills are churning out rumours about the archdeacon's steamy affair. If Matt wants to brush it off, that's fine by her. But Helene has familiarized herself with the details of the Clergy Discipline Measure 2003 (as amended by the Clergy Discipline (Amendment) Measure 2013). She can see that it's not beyond the realms of possibility that someone with an axe to grind might file a letter of complaint against the archdeacon for ‘engaging in conduct that is unbecoming or inappropriate to the office and work of the clergy'.

JULY

Chapter 12

M
arion listens to the news over breakfast. Lord have mercy. Where's this going to end? Will every celebrity from her youth end up being arrested?

The early 1970s creep into the deanery kitchen, as though the radio were dispensing clouds of Aquamanda. ‘Well, just keep out of his way then, dear.' Back then it was funny, it was ‘wandering hand syndrome'. Only an uptight prude complained. Sometimes it was friends of your parents, the ones you were meant to call ‘uncle'. Arm crawling round your waist, gathering you too close. ‘Well, hello! Where have you been hiding? What about a kiss for uncle?' Whisky breath in your face as you tried to shrink away without looking rude.

Rude! Marion wonders now how many women her age ended up in genuine danger by obeying the ‘don't be rude' rule. It was
rude
not to accept unwanted dances, kisses, drinks, lifts. What a pity that the confidence to deal with dirty old men is only gained in proportion to our lack of need, she thinks. These days, now that pestering is rare, Marion can wither a pervert with a single look. She'd love to parcel up this power and bestow it on her helpless fourteen- year-old self. She really hopes that the young women of today aren't expected to put up with it. She hopes nobody tells them it's rude to demand respect.

Enough. She turns the radio off. A peach-coloured rose nods outside the kitchen window. Gene potters at the stove. She hears the cathedral clock chime quarter to eight. She reminds herself:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases . . .

Oh, but all those children! She can't banish them from her mind. Those poor preyed-upon children. How many more are out there, adults who have kept silent and felt dirty for decades? Yes, and how many men in their eighties live every day in dread? Waiting for that knock on the door that is surely coming; tomorrow, next week, next year. Do they sit rehearsing their statement?
Utterly refute. Witch hunt. Completely without foundation
. Do they protest that the rules have changed? Ask why are they being hunted down and punished for the slap-and-tickle of yesteryear? They had no idea it was wrong! Everyone was doing it!

Perhaps they genuinely think like that? Marion wonders whether she ought to feel pity for these frightened old men. These bewildered grandfathers crying out that things were different back then. Hmm. Maybe she's taking her habit of empathy too far. Except, how far ought mercy to extend? Is it wide, like the wideness of the sea?
Thy knowledge is the only line to sound so vast a deep!
Ah, but nobody can survive the terrible pressure of the ocean's deepest depths. So could mercy and judgement be the same thing in the end?

She shakes her head. And now her thoughts turn closer to home, and the investigations into the Choristers' School in the 1970s. What can she say? Was there a big cover-up? Was the Church just looking after its own, avoiding scandal? Marion doubts it was that cynical. She can picture the clergy Chapter meeting. Yes, what those individuals did was deplorable; but surely this did not negate (so the argument would have gone) all their
other
contributions, their long years of faithful ministry? And let us not forget that we are all frail and sinful human beings. (Article XXVI of the 39 Articles:
Of the Unworthiness of the
Ministers, which hinders not the effect of the Sacrament
.) Nobody's interests would be served by pursuing this any further. Yes, Marion's fairly sure it would have gone something like that. The men should be confronted, but given a fresh chance. Wasn't that the heart of the gospel? Of course, there had to be an understanding that in future they would never be appointed to any post with responsibility for children . . .

Oh, Lord. And now it was clear they'd gone on abusing for years. We knew what they were; we could have stopped it, and we didn't – through ignorance, through weakness, if not through our own deliberate fault. What now? Two of the men are now dead. The third, the former chaplain, is in his eighties. He has been arrested but released on bail. Lindchester Cathedral was to blame, yes. We failed to safeguard those boys. Better that it comes to court at last, so the victims feel listened to, so they see justice done—

‘Oh!' Marion stares at the plate Gene has just put in front of her. ‘Thank you. What's this?'

‘French toast. Made by your chef, with fresh orange zest and the merest dash of
triple sec
and dusted with cinnamon. Crème fraiche drizzled with maple syrup. Sliced banana, and raspberries from the deanery garden,' says Gene. ‘Two of your five a day.' He leers.

‘Er, you do know that refers to fruit and veg, don't you?' She starts eating. ‘Delicious. Thank you, darling.' Gene pours her some more coffee. ‘Do you think they had any idea? Back then.' She waves at the radio. ‘Those men, I mean?'

‘Oh, yes. They knew, all right,' says Gene. ‘We know the difference between welcome and unwelcome. The question is whether you think you can get away with it.' He puts a foot up on her chair rung and angles his groin at her. ‘Now, about your five a day, you minxy little minx, fnurr fnurr . . .'

Marion grinds a raspberry slowly and viciously with her fork. The juice oozes. She stares up at Gene. ‘Yes?'

He removes his foot. ‘Oh, nothing.'

It's Monday evening, and Giles is on the phone to the lay clerk elect of Gayden Parva, trying to firm up his accommodation for next year.

‘No, of course you don't
have
to live in Vicars' Court, Freddie. But why wouldn't you? The rent's subsidized, it's handy.'

‘Meh.'

‘So where
are
you going to live?'

‘Oohhh. I'm like, y'know?'

‘No, Freddie, that doesn't actually convey anything.' Giles considers running headlong into a tree trunk for a bit of light relief. In the memorable phrase of the sub-organist, this is like trying to stir pigshit with two short planks. ‘Tell me your plans.'

‘Yeah, no, it's fine, only it's kinda like . . . Aah . . . It's all the stuff, y'know?'

Giles bites his own hand. ‘Once again, Freddie, I have
no idea
.'

‘Aw. It's just . . . Me? Yeah?'

A flash of inspiration: ‘Is it something you might find helpful to discuss with your mentor?'

‘NO! No way. Dude, he scary!'

‘Then concentrate, and tell me your plans. Or I'll get Dr Jacks to ring you. Where—' Giles breaks off. ‘Did you just scream?'

Freddie clears his throat. ‘Yep, wa-a-ay up in my falsetto range for a second there.
Man!
So listen, all I'm saying is, I'm not sure I can cope with the whole living by myself . . . thang, OK? The bills, the rent, yeah, the whole being responsible for shit?
Man
, that's so lame. Gah. Don't make him ring me. Begging you?'

‘All right.' Interesting! Mr Dorian as crowd control. Must make a note of that. ‘Good. And for the third time I ask: what are your plans?'

‘Ooohhh. Um. Maybe lodge with someone? Like I did with the Hendersons?'

Well, not
quite
like that, preferably, thinks Giles. ‘With whom?'

‘Anyone? I'm easy.'

‘Yes, try not be. And when are you planning on moving up here?'

‘Um. End of term?'

‘In a
fortnight
?! Were you just going to turn up with a suitcase and see who took you in?'

‘Yeah. Pretty much. Hnhnn. Not good? Yeah. Probably should've planned that a bit better?'

‘You are a prize wazzock, sometimes, Mr May.' Giles sighs. ‘I'll ask around.'

‘Can't I crash at yours till I get sorted?'

‘If all else fails, yes,' says Giles, resolving to move heaven and earth.

He rings off and gazes through his study window to the front garden where two different colours of bunting vie. From his bedroom window hangs a Germany flag the size of a tablecloth. It is half obscured by a Brazil flag the size of a tennis court, which hangs from the attic.

He goes through to the kitchen where his wife and second son are bickering.

No booze on school nights, no booze on school nights! he recites.

Giles opens the fridge. Unless you've just been talking to Freddie May? No, that is
not
sufficient reason. Anyway, look, there's some delicious lemongrass and ginger cordial. Right there. Beside the open bottle of Chablis . . .

‘No, hear me out, Mother.' Felix has his hand raised. ‘Hear me out, please. For every goal Germany scores—'

‘You will tidy your room, empty the dishwasher and take the recycling out for a month! Which, notice, ARE YOUR CHORES ANYWAY!'

He presents his middle finger. ‘And for every goal Brazil scores, you are not allowed to say anything at one banquet or annual dinner. Instead—'

‘Pscha!'

‘No, hear me out. You can only make noises. But they have to be based on . . . wait for it . . . farts you have previously made. OK? Like, the questioning fart' – he demonstrates – ‘
Hmmm?
Or the total disagreement:
Pah!
'

‘Hey, I like your thinking!' says the precentor's wife. ‘These banquets are full of old farts anyway.'

A brief exchange of conversational flatulence ensues.

‘You
disgust
me, the pair of you!' Giles grabs the Chablis (it needs finishing) and a glass and escapes back to his study. They say you get the children you deserve. Unfortunately, he appears to have the children his wife deserves.

There are tears after evensong on Tuesday. Timothy has announced which boys will be head chorister and deputy next year. Even if all have done well, not all can be awarded this special prize. Hence the tears. It is not always the boy with the finest voice who is given the role. The head chorister must also be a good leader and set a proper example to the other choristers. Freddie May was not head chorister.

Miss Barbara Blatherwick dealt with those disappointed tears in her day. And other tears besides. Oh dear me, yes! She is a sensible woman. She knows that times have changed. One cannot simplistically judge the past by the standards of today. But all the same, her hand trembles as she pours her second cup of English breakfast tea. Ought she to have done more?

I can tell you, reader, that Miss Blatherwick has no need to accuse herself. It was she who blew the whistle and released those little boys from their nightmare – and probably prevented many others from suffering the same fate. At the time she was young and the newly appointed matron at the Choristers' School. But she realized what was going on and did not turn a blind eye. She was not held back by fear of being rude, or of causing trouble for important men who were respected and loved, or of bringing a venerable institution into disrepute.

She sits at her kitchen table now, with no appetite for her porridge. Outside in her yard the goldfinches flutter at the feeder. Amadeus the cathedral cat won't be far away. It feels to her, with the advantage of hindsight, that she was part of the cover-up; that she colluded with the system that allowed men like that to move on and repeat their pattern of offending elsewhere. How could she have been party to that?

The parents. Yes, that's what decided it. They were adamant: no police. Their sons had suffered enough. How could one argue with that?

Oh dear, what a mess we make of things, even when we act with the best of motives. Miss Blatherwick blows her nose on her pocket handkerchief, then gets on and eats her porridge like a sensible woman.

It is early on Wednesday evening. The archdeacon leaves the King's Head and sets off back up the steep hill towards the cathedral. He stomps past the little shops selling their posh tat; wooden seagulls, driftwood mirror frames, cushions like faded deckchairs – as though Lindchester was a chuffing seaside resort. We'll have chuffing winkle stalls next.

Oh, dear. Our hero is not happy. If a thought bubble like a helium balloon bobbed along over his bald head, I fear it would say
Bloody
bossy women!
His life is overrun with bossy women! As a good modern archdeacon he cannot permit himself to articulate this thought; so he takes it out on the knick-knack shops instead. For chuff's sake! All this girly clobber. All this retro bollocks. Fancy jam-pot covers and flipping peg bags taking over the entire world!

Matt is mad because he's in the wrong and he knows it; but there isn't time to process this before the next thing, which is prayer vigil in the cathedral for the new bishop of Lindchester. Bloody Helene. Interfering again. Are HR managers this proactive in other dioceses? He bets they bloody aren't! Should've bloody blocked her appointment when he was on the interview panel.
Of course
I'm aware what the Clergy Discipline Measure says! I'm the chuffing
archdeacon
!