Unseen Things Above (3 page)

Oh, God. Just to make the morning perfect, here comes the bouncing bomb in her dungarees and dog collar. Jane is a sitting duck by the Security window, while Mike searches ponderously for the spare keys to FA 609. She whips out her phone and pretends to check her emails.

But Veronica gets her phone out too! Maybe she hates me back? She can hear Veronica approaching the revolving doors, talking away. Either it's a genuine call, or she's making good use of her drama workshop skills. In comes Veronica.

‘Well, anon for now!'

Jane directs her sneer at an imaginary email. This is the crucial moment. She can feel Veronica's gaze like a loopy searchlight sweeping the foyer for pastoral possibilities. But it passes her by. When Jane next sneaks a glance, Veronica is heading towards the student cafeteria.

The cafeteria has been redesigned, and is currently waiting for a new name. Suggestions have been sought, but as far as Jane knows, people aren't getting behind her own idea: the ‘Give us lecturers a fucking pay rise instead of tarting up the cafeteria' Café.

As Jane is signing for the spare key, it crosses her mind that she's locked out of her house as well. Who can she blame now?

The archdeacon. Why hadn't he accepted that spare set of house keys when she offered them, eh? Sanctimonious nob. All this was his fault.

We will don our Anglican seven-league boots and stride over the intervening days until we arrive at Saturday evening. Where normal mortals are opening their second bottle of wine, clergy who have sermons to finish for the morrow are being more abstemious.

Father Dominic, for example, is being very abstemious indeed. He normally favours something of an extempore style of preaching, but he finds himself required to prepare notes so that the gist of his sermon at tomorrow's Eucharist can be translated in advance into Farsi. He is looking now at the passage about the Road to Emmaus, and forbidding himself to open that nice bottle of Chablis until he's finished his preparation.

Let me explain. Quite without any growth strategy or effort on his part, the congregation at Lindford Parish Church has grown. Three months ago some asylum-seekers were housed in the Abernathy estate, which is in Dominic's patch. Four of them arrived at church and asked to be baptized. Cynics might suppose that this was a ruse to strengthen their claim to asylum. And maybe he was being taken for a ride; but Father Dominic had more sympathy with homeless refugees than with middle-class parents strategically attending church in order to wangle little Oscar into the nice C of E primary school.

And the group of four has grown to nearly twenty! He's scrambling each week to prepare Enquirers' sessions. If it carries on like this, he'll end up running an Alpha course! He reaches out instinctively for his non-existent wine glass.

Focus. Dominic rereads tomorrow's Gospel. He's always loved this story. He thinks of the Caravaggio painting, that moment of stunned recognition as Christ blesses the bread. This is what it's like, he thinks. The truth bursting in. And then the thought,
I knew it!
Did not our hearts burn within us as he talked to us along the way? It was him all along.

He starts making notes, but then his phone rings. He checks. Jane. Goody-good! This will be the dates for the civil union! And about time, too!

‘How's tricks, you old tart?'

‘Not so good, Dom.'

‘Oh, no! What's wrong, darling?' There was a silence. ‘Janey?'

‘I think Matt's gone off the idea.'

‘No! Really? Have you tried asking him?'

‘Yes. He says he hasn't.'

‘Well then.'

‘Well then, it's probably all in my head. I lost my keys earlier. Do you know where they were? In the fridge. I'm at an interesting age. Do you find me interesting?'

‘Darling,
endlessly
. Do you need wine and a shoulder to cry on? Is it urgent, or can I quickly finish my sermon?'

‘I'll help. What's it on?'

He tells her.

‘The disciples didn't recognize him because he had no beard,' she says. ‘Check out the Caravaggio. There will be no beards in heaven. So unless you shave yours off, you're stuffed.'

‘I
could
score a cheap point about facial hair here,' says Dominic. ‘But I'm too mature. Listen, give me an hour, and I'll be round with a bottle of Chablis. All right? Byesy-bye, darling.'

He hangs up. Oh, Lord. Please let this be OK. Dominic sighs, and gets back to his sermon notes so that poor old Ahmad has something to go on tomorrow.

At another desk in another part of the diocese another clergyman is sighing. It is the archdeacon. He's a bastard. He should tell her. More than happy to zip off down under for the old civil union. But what about when they get home? He can't see a way round it. If the Church requires gay clergy in civil partnerships to be celibate, the same applies to him.

MAY

Chapter 3

M
arion the dean wakes with a jolt an hour before dawn. There's some payment she wrongly authorized years ago. Money has been going out of her account ever since. A vast debt has built up. Thousands, millions! For a few terrible moments she nearly remembers what it is. Slowly reason regains its grip: no, nothing's amiss. It's just a dream. She waits for the panic to recede. Beside her Gene snores. The cathedral clock chimes. Quarter past four. Well, that's all hope of sleep gone for the night.

Five minutes later she's out walking in the deanery garden, wellies on, coat over her pyjamas. On the far side of the Close a lone blackbird whistles in the dark. Bank holiday Monday. It has rained in the night. She can smell the wet lilac, the dirty sweetness of rowan blossom. All is still.

From the deanery rooftop, another blackbird tunes up. For ten minutes he duels with his rival on the opposite side. Like the
can
and
dec
sides of the cathedral choir, thinks Marion. The sky is lightening now. A great tit calls,
teacher, teacher!
Then three quacking ducks fly over in a line, like Beswick wall ornaments. The last bats flitter home just as the first rooks start to caw from the cathedral spire. With each passing moment the sky gets lighter and more birds join the chorus. Robins, wrens, wood pigeons, thrushes.

Marion walks round and round the lawn, leaving dark footprints in the dew. Colour seeps back into the flower beds. Bluebells, red roses, tints in a sepia photo. Then an old gospel song plays in her mind:

I come to the garden alone

While the dew is still on the roses

And the voice I hear falling on my ear

The Son of God discloses.

Extraordinary! How on earth does she know this? She can even hear a tinkling piano accompaniment. It must have been those holidays with Granny, being taken to the chapel. ‘Women's Bright Hour', that's what it was called! All those ladies in Sunday hats, who she was to call ‘auntie'. It was Auntie Ivy who used to warble the solo. Dreadful saccharine stuff, but sung with total heartfelt seriousness.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,

And He tells me I am His own;

And the joy we share as we tarry there,

None other has ever known.

Mary Magdalene, presumably, on that first and best of mornings, coming to the sepulchre while it was still dark. Hearing the beloved voice saying her name.
Mary
. Marion feels tears rise, as though she'd just heard her own name called. This story never fails to move her. Mary Magdalene, chosen to be the first witness of the resurrection, the first one to see the risen Lord. Commissioned by him, apostle to the apostles. Marion half laughs. And here we are, over two thousand years later, still arguing about whether women can be bishops.

She is there a long time tarrying in the garden, walking, praying. The cathedral, the school, those poor kidnapped schoolgirls in Nigeria, her colleagues, family, Paul and Susanna Henderson in South Africa. The clock chimes five. Her thoughts turn to the new bishop of Lindchester. Well, this won't be the diocese where the stained-glass ceiling is first broken. The vacancy came up too soon. But what about the
pink
stained-glass ceiling? thinks Marion. Maybe we can be the first diocese to appoint an openly gay bishop? The Principal of Barchester Theological College's name has already cropped up several times. Can she ensure Guilden is mandated? Oh, it would be so good not to have
another
Evangelical bishop! To have someone who speaks the same language. Is she just being selfish? Historically, Lindchester has never been an Evangelical diocese. So Paul was an anomaly, really. She'll have to sound out the other members of the CNC.

And a lot will depend on the new Archbishop of York, of course. Yet another Evangelical. Marion catches herself and smiles. I'm not prejudiced: some of my best friends are Evangelicals! Oh, dear. Well, she'll be meeting him later this month, when he comes to lead their service to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of women priests. How conservative will Rupert Anderson turn out to be? Then she remembers: he used to be Bishop of Barchester. So he must know Guilden well. His mind will already be made up. And that will be that.

Stop it! A lot also depends on the Holy Spirit, Marion reminds herself. Your job is not to scheme and manoeuvre. It is to stand aside and try not to get in God's way too much.

She goes back inside, has breakfast, then comes back out with her second mug of coffee. It's light now. The clock chimes six. Cars start to arrive on the Close. She hears voices, poles clanking. The May Fayre. Gene has promised to whisk her away, unless it's all cancelled owing to an outbreak of good taste. She pauses under the cherry tree. On the grass, among the fallen pink blossom, lie half a dozen dead bumble bees. Poor things. Is it that virus? Hasn't she heard that our bees are all dying? (Another pang of guilt over the masonry bee colony.) But as she stoops in pity over the closest one, she hears a faint buzz. And then, slowly, slowly, as the sun's rays reach them, they all begin to vibrate. One by one the dead bees come to life and stagger up into the morning air. Not dead but sleeping! There they go – dazed – another, and another. She watches in wonder as they fly away.

A noise rouses her. She turns and looks up. The bedroom window opens. Gene appears on the wrought-iron balcony, stark naked. He raises his hand and bestows a pontifical blessing.

‘You're up early,' he calls. ‘Dabbling in the dew?'

‘Couldn't sleep. Bad dream.'

‘Poor you! Did you wake with a terrible jerk again?'

‘I always do, darling. Unless you're away or I'm off on the Deans' Conference.'

He bows. ‘Ba-dum-tish!'

It's now eight o'clock. Over in Cardingforth a sporty black Mini pulls up outside number 16, Sunningdale Drive. The archdeacon kills the engine, takes a deep breath. He has the breakfast kit: croissants, freshly squeezed orange, posh coffee. He has the bouquet of lilies and roses. He takes another breath. Dons his mental flak jacket. All righty. Let's get this over with.

‘Flowers!' said Jane. ‘Because I'm worth it, or because you're feeling guilty about something?'

‘Mmm. Both.'

‘Oh, Jesus.' Jane put the bouquet down on the kitchen counter. Her hands trembled. So she hadn't been imagining it. ‘Well, let's have it then. You've gone off me?'

‘No!'

There was a silence. Bonked another woman. New job in London. Terminally ill. ‘Well? What is it?'

‘OK. Look. You're going to be seriously pissed at me.'

‘
Don't
tell me how I'm going to react. Tell me what's wrong.'

Matt rubbed his hands over his face. Laced his fingers behind his neck. Looked up at the ceiling. Took another deep breath.

‘For God's sake, get on with it, Matt!'

‘OK. Here's the thing: current regs say clergy in civil partnerships have to be celibate.'

‘Is that all?' Jane laughed in relief. ‘That won't apply to us!'

‘Why won't it?'

‘You're serious?'

‘Yes. Why should there be one set of rules for gay clergy, and—'

‘There already
are
two sets of rules! Duh. The Church is institutionally homophobic.'

‘That's not fair.'

‘Of course it is! Gays are second class – they can't get married, if they want a top job they have to pretend they're celibate.' She gave his shoulder a shake. ‘Come on, don't be ridiculous! Who cares if we ignore some blitheringly stupid, totally unjust rule?'

‘
I
care. How can we ask the gay clergy of this diocese to play ball if the chuffing
archdeacon
won't?'

‘Jesus! I don't believe this! I thought we had a solution, Matt.'

‘I know. I'm really sorry.'

‘Just a second.' Jane narrowed her eyes. The archdeacon took a prudent step back. ‘When did this
scruple
first occur to you?'

There was a very long silence.

‘From the start? Excellent!'

‘I'm sorry. I'm sorry. To be honest, Jane, back in December I'd've said yes to an Elvis wedding in Vegas.'

‘Oh, and now you've got your rocks off, you've cooled down and remembered sex is
verboten
? No, get off me!'

‘But I've made you cry.'

‘So what? Get off! Listen to the words, not the tears: fuck you and your fucking Evangelical conscience! Fuck the Church of England. Oh, Jesus.' Jane grabbed the kitchen roll and tore off a strip. ‘Don't you dare say you love me, Matt.'

‘I love you.'

‘You thought I'd come round, didn't you? You thought you could wear me down!'

‘I hoped I could, yes.'

‘You total shite! So now what? What happens now? You seriously think I'm signing up for celibacy? What kind of relationship is that?' She blew her nose. ‘Oh, don't you start crying too, you big girl's blouse.'

They stood helpless. Jane blew her nose again. ‘Well. I'll bung the croissants in the oven.'

‘I'll do it.'

‘I'LL DO IT!'

‘OK.' He retreated, hands up. ‘Look, I'm not giving up on this, Jane. If I have to, I'll jack in the job.'

‘Oh, fuck off.' Jane slammed the oven door. ‘Get off the moral high ground. Ooh, look at me, prepared to give up my job, while you're not even prepared to re-examine your views on marriage!'

The archdeacon flushed. He had a long fuse, but Jane had lit it now. ‘That is
not
what I'm saying. But now you mention it, I've spent the past six months re-examining my views from every conceivable angle. Would it kill you to do the same?'

‘Oh, so you think I haven't?'

‘OK, then let's google it right now, shall we?' He grabbed his iPad. ‘You talk me through the registry office marriage vows and explain exactly what your problem is. I've got them right here.'

‘My “problem”, you twat, my “problem” is that it's
marriage
!'

‘No, it's a legal contract. Here. Look. Will you just chuffing
look
, Jane!'

‘I
am
looking! It says “Your MARRIAGE Vows” in big fucking letters.'

‘Here!' He stabbed at the screen. ‘
Declaratory
words,
contracting
words. “Are you free lawfully to marry Matthew John Tyler?” “I am.” “I take you, Matthew John Tyler, to be my wedded husband.” That's it. No rings. No white frocks. Nobody giving you away. Just two adults entering a legal contract. Sorted. Is that so impossible for you?'

‘Yes! Because it's still
marriage
, you moron! And marriage institutionalizes female subordination! Everything about it, all the symbolism—'

He snapped his iPad cover closed. ‘Fuck you and your fucking feminist conscience.'

She stared in shock.

‘I'm off.'

And he went.

I am afraid we too must leave Jane, and wend our way back to Lindchester. We will calm our nerves by taking the scenic route across green and pleasant prebendal lands, the historic rights and appurtenances whereof belong to the cathedral prebends. The village names are carved on the canonical stalls in the quire: Bishop's Ingregham, Cardingforth, Gayden Parva, Gayden Magna, Carding-le-Willow. Glide with me over fields of rape, and railway woodlands, where silver birches stand like ghost trees in a green gloom, and a haze of bluebells ravishes the eye. We pass a meadow, which last month was a shimmering lake. White geese graze. One beats its wings, then refolds them. Below us now lies the Linden. Grown-up ducklings, their yellow down browned over, tack upriver in groups. A woman walks with a three-legged greyhound. Green regrowth now reaches halfway up last year's dead rushes. There's the cathedral on its mount. For a while some tricksy optical illusion makes it seem to grow smaller as we approach.

Off to our right, roads meander between hedges. Trees and lamp posts bear placards. Local elections loom. Every so often a vast UKIP poster assails the motorist round some bend in a country lane, promising to ‘give Britain its voice back'. What, had it been taken away? Not round here. The voice of Little England is generally audible in Lindfordshire without too much straining. ‘I'm not racist, but.' ‘Run by Brussels.' ‘Supposed to be a Christian country!' Cathedral clergy hear it at annual dinners. And when they do, they have to choose between schmoozing that wealthy patron and living with themselves afterwards.

Are we still a Christian country? Maybe our sword has slept in our hand! The church year no longer governs the national calendar, that's for sure. In 1971 parliament cut the ‘late May bank holiday' loose from its Whitsuntide moorings and fixed it in the last week of the month. But Easter is still a movable feast. It was late this year, which is why this bank holiday follows so hard on its heels. Historic Christian outcrops remain, like stubborn features in the landscape that the new motorway must go round.