Unseen Things Above (6 page)

God, I can't stand this! There's nobody around, so she just lets the tears fall. Love and marriage! Horse and carriage! If we're going to be together, one of us is going to have to give way. But why does it have to be me? What if I'm already too late? Over two weeks since he walked out, and nothing. Maybe I should make the first move? No,
he's
the one who behaved badly! Oh God, Matt. Is it really over? Because I'd run all the way to Lindford in high heels and a strapless wedding frock and marry you right now, you bastard, you total and utter bastard, I love you so much.

For Jane's sake, we will pretend we didn't hear that momentary lapse from feminist orthodoxy. She will finish her run, have a shower, and knuckle down to her marking like a sensible person. Tonight she will ring Dominic and repeat her rant about what an obdurate shite the archdeacon is; then hang up rudely when Dominic points out that she would not be interested in a bloke she could shove around, she prefers obdurate shites.

The obdurate shite is not aware that he has dumped Dr R. All he's aware of is how badly he has behaved towards her. Stringing her along all these months. Losing his rag and swearing at her. Storming out. Days later, he was still too livid to apologize. Eventually, he calmed down and texted: ‘Sorry for getting mad, any chance of a chat? Xx'

And he's had zip in return. Unsurprisingly.

Basically, he's completely stymied. He's already offered to jack his job in – and had that flung back in his face. What more can he do? Found himself googling ‘100 red roses' on Interflora last week. But £349.99 is a lot to shell out for the privilege of getting a luxury hand-tied bouquet shoved up your jacksie.

Meanwhile, he's having to keep the diocesan plates all spinning, with no fellow archdeacon to share the load. Employment tribunal looming, which means hauling Paul all the way back from flipping South Africa. Keeping the in-box down to under 200 emails is a daily challenge. Archbishop of York due in a couple of weeks. Ordinations looming. Rogue priest apparently not been declaring his funeral fees for yonks – there's twelve grand the diocese can kiss goodbye. CNC. Question mark over whatsername, uni chaplain's, CV,
must
get on to that. Choristers' School scandal brewing. Something's bound to go belly up at some point.

Now it's Thursday morning. Matt is standing in the churchyard of St Michael's, Gayden Parva. With him are a churchwarden and the rector, Father Ed. Matt is here for a spot of gentle chivvying. The PCC has been dragging its feet, and it needs to deal with the dangerous monuments before a stone angel flattens some youth as he innocently vandalizes the graveyard.

‘'Fraid you can't just do that,' said Matt. ‘You need to rope the area off and stick up a waterproof notice.'

‘Yes, I meant to—' began Father Ed.

‘Notice affixed to the gates, Mr Archdeacon,' interrupted Duncan. ‘As per instructions.'

Tricky pause.

‘Must've missed that.' Matt didn't catch Ed's eye. ‘Well, let's take a quick shufty, then.'

Duncan led the way along the mowed path – Matt was betting this had been speedily done for his benefit, too – past toppled monuments and drunken crosses, to the wrought-iron gates at the far side. Sure enough, there was a handwritten notice taped there, in a suspiciously pristine document holder: DUE TO AGE AND DETERIORATION, SOME HEADSTONES HAVE BECOME UNSAFE. THE PCC HAS TAKEN ACTION BY LAYING FLAT IN THE CHURCHYARD.

The archdeacon banished a surreal image from his mind. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed Father Ed quiver with stifled laughter. ‘Okey-doke. Well, next step is to get some rope up.'

‘All in hand, Mr Archdeacon.'

‘Public liability insurance all in order too? Good. You're probably aware that laying them flat is only a temporary solution. Basically, we need to draw up a proper plan of campaign for repairs. Good. I'll whizz the latest guidelines over to you.' He got his iPad out. ‘Got an email address?'

‘I'm sorry to say I don't, Archdeacon. I'm a bit of a Luddite.' Duncan laughed proudly. ‘You'll have to write me an old-fashioned letter.'

‘Luddite! Like my dad,' said Matt as he and Father Ed walked back to their cars. ‘Bought him a mobile phone two years back, showed him how to use it. Total waste of time. Never switches it on.'

Ed laughed. ‘Well, it's for emergencies. He's conserving the battery, isn't he?'

‘Yep, that's what he says. OK if I email you the bumf to pass on? Cheers.' Matt scanned round. Clocked the mature trees. Couple of big ashes, but no sign of dieback so far. Rape fields beyond. Pretty idyllic, really. ‘Lovely spot, but these old churchyards are a right mare.'

‘That's for sure. Nobody told us about
this
in theological college. Sorry I've not got on top of it,' said Ed. ‘We're trying to chase up the relatives, and see if we can pass the buck to them.'

‘Good luck with that. How's tricks otherwise?'

‘Oh, you know. Ticking over.'

‘How's Neil?'

‘He's fine.'

Great. Matt always tried to ask after the family. But Ed had closed down, bam, like this was the chuffing Canterbury Inquisition. They walked on in silence for a moment. Here we go again. The old balancing act between pastoral support and toeing the party line. Did his head in, sometimes, but you had to at least try.

‘Look. Ed. I've been doing a spot of thinking in recent months. About what's asked of you folks by the Church. Completely sympathize with your situation.'

Ed's colour rose.

Matt hesitated, then decided he may as well keep shovelling. ‘We've got our knickers in the mother of all twists on this issue. In an ideal world, we'd spend another twenty years finding a way forward, try and take as many with us as possible. But we haven't got that luxury. It's a PR disaster. Missionally speaking, it's a disaster. I'm a pragmatist: let's get this sorted ASAP. My sense is that you folks won't have too long to wait, is what I'm saying. That's the way the wind's blowing. My impression. For what it's worth. So hang on in there.'

They passed a stone cross standing in relief against a yew:
God is Love
. Nettles sprang up at its foot.

‘It would help,' said Ed, barely able to get the words out, ‘if you didn't frame everything in terms of “we” and “you folks”. Like I'm somehow not part of the Church.'

The archdeacon did a quick recap. Good going, Matt. ‘Fair enough. I hear you. Apologies.'

Ed tilted his head but made no reply.

Oh, Lord. Couldn't get anything right at the moment, could he? Maybe he'd better go and lay flat in the churchyard with the PCC, see if that helped.

Ed held the lichgate open for him and they went out.

‘Well, I'll email those guidelines,' said Matt. ‘So yes. Well, thanks for all your hard work out here in the sticks. Much appreciated.'

‘Oh, that's . . . Thanks for making the time.'

They dithered a moment. Handshake? No.

‘Well.' Matt made a vague salute with his iPad and got into his car. ‘Bye for now.'

‘Bye.'

‘Thanks again. Bye.' I'm not the enemy, I'm really not. I'm just a bit of a tit sometimes. Couldn't really say that.

He drove all the way back to the office wishing he had, though.

Let us follow the archdeacon's Mini through the lanes and fields of rural Lindfordshire. You will spot that someone has added a moustache to the giant UKIP poster, using little strips of black electrical tape. A timely reminder. People of England, don't forget to get off your backsides and vote, if you want to head off the nutters.

Posters of a different flavour deck the historic city of Lindchester.
Souls and Bodies
: a major art exhibition opening in the cathedral in a fortnight's time. This is the culmination of over a year's hard work by the canon chancellor. Hours well spent, if he has seen off for ever the local art clubs with their watercolours of cats and teapots, and terrifying portraits of Princess Diana. But he desperately needs this ambitious project to go well, so he will be vindicated.

Until last month, everything was on track. He met the artist, a tall, frightening woman with zero small talk. He has seen JPEGs of all the canvases and cleared a couple of nudes with his clergy colleagues (the exhibition is now referred to informally as ‘Cocks in the Cathedral'). The publicity material looks stunning. But there are delays with the specially commissioned new display boards. If they don't arrive in time, what the hell's he going to do? Bang picture hooks into the medieval masonry?

The canon precentor is also stressed. Shortlisting for the post of tenor lay clerk has taken place. They are down to four. Three appointable candidates with appropriate experience and solid references. And one Freddie May.

After evensong Giles invites Timothy, the director of music, along with Nigel, the senior lay clerk (a sort of shop steward cum supergrass figure) back for a glass of Mosel and a little conflab.

‘Nigel, tell me candidly and completely off the record: can you bear the thought of Mr May standing next to you at every evensong for as long you both shall live?'

‘I'd rather that than have him dep for me,' says Nigel. ‘My cassock was impregnated with weed and Le Male for
weeks
after he'd worn it.'

‘Olfactory objections aside, you'd be happy?' says Giles.

‘Of course. He's a major talent. We did all the hard graft when he was the chorister from hell. Are we seriously going to let someone else poach him now?'

‘Yes, but let's be frank: he's a liability. Potentially.'

‘Never fear, Mr Precentor. We'll make sure he lives a godly, righteous and sober life.'

‘Of course you will, Mr Bennet. The gentlemen of the choir are famed for their godly sobriety. Timothy, what do you think? You'd be his line manager.'

Timothy hesitates. ‘I wonder whether we could identify someone to mentor him?'

‘Don't look at
me
,' says Nigel.

‘Unless you're offering to pay me extra?' suggest Giles.

‘Are you?'

‘No.'

‘Well then.'

‘I was thinking we need someone completely outside Lindchester circles,' continues Timothy. ‘Someone he'd look up to, respect, who's au fait with the choral tradition. Who could offer him support. And the occasional . . . er, steer, when necessary.'

Mr Dorian? wonders Giles. Or would that be like making Vlad the Impaler school javelin monitor? ‘We're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's see if he manages to turn up for the interview clothed and in his right mind first. We can worry about mentors later.'

*

It's day off eve. Away on the far side of the diocese, in the rectory of Gayden Magna, Father Ed puts a bottle of champagne in the fridge.

Hang on in there
. Ed got the message all right. That little pep talk was a ‘friendly' warning not to break ranks and get married, wasn't it? There are no words for how deeply, bitterly, Ed resents the archdeacon's patronizing interference.

His heart judders like stumbling feet.

When Neil gets in from London, he's going to tell him, ‘Yes.'

Chapter 6

A
nother bank holiday. Our good friend Bishop Bob is sitting in his back garden with a cup of coffee this morning, enjoying the fine weather and a rare break from the burdens of office. It is upon his shoulders that the pastoral weight of the diocese currently rests. He is praying for the CNC, and for the next bishop of Lindchester, whoever that might be. Poor Bob is horrendously busy, and this lends his prayers a real poignancy. I won't say urgency, as that suggests a directness that is not characteristic of Bob's spiritual style. He is not one to request parking spaces of the Almighty. Nor is his wife, Janet. But this is because she's afraid that the Almighty might grant her one, and then she won't be able to manoeuvre into it. Blunt though her prayers usually are, it seems a bit cheeky to pray for fifty yards of clear kerb just because you are rubbish at parallel parking.

Later, when Bob has finished his meditations, they will go house-hunting. Bob is only two years off retirement. He could stay in office until he's seventy, but being a bishop isn't that much fun these days. Far too much work, and not enough executive power. He can't move his clergy about the diocese like chess pieces, or foster favourites and give them plum livings. Nor can he spend his days harmlessly fly-fishing and writing learned monographs, and leave the running of things to his chaplain. He does not even have a chaplain. He has an inefficient but well-meaning PA inherited from his predecessor and who he didn't have the heart to sack. So Bob will retire at sixty-five.

Where will they settle? Somewhere very ordinary. They hope to find a bungalow. Walking distance to shops, library, bank, GP's surgery. On a bus route to the hospital. He and Janet don't intend to move again after this. They've observed too many people retiring – hale and hearty in their sixties – to gorgeous properties up steep village streets and precipitous steps, with no downstairs bathroom; then having to relocate in their eighties when they can no longer cope, to an area where they don't know anyone. Where they are just old, lonely people, whose history and achievements nobody cares about, driving their poor children frantic with worry. The Hootys don't want to be a pest if they can help it.

We must shortly wave them off, since their search today will take them beyond the borders of the diocese. Bob has no desire to lurk in the region and haunt the scenes of his former glory. That would be terribly bad form. There's an unspoken rule in church circles that you shove off and leave room for your successor, and never allow yourself to become an alternative focus of power for the disaffected. Bob isn't in the least bit tempted to find another cathedral city to settle in, either. This is unusual, for cathedral cities attract retired bishops. They are like purple moths around a flame. What are they to do? Can't help it.