Unseen Things Above (7 page)

Bob drinks his Fair Trade instant, and admires the lovely garden. None of it is his work. He mows the lawn, that's all. But Janet is a born gardener. She's pottering now with her edging tool. One of the things he's most looking forward to about retiring is Janet having a garden of her very own. All these years she'd been pouring her resources into something that didn't belong to her. Yes, like me and the Church, thinks Bob. Good to keep that in mind.
All things come from you, and of your own do we give you.
Won't do to get too used to it. He wants to be able to hand his pastoral charge over graciously.

‘Ready when you are,' says Bob, to give Janet a chance to do the five last-minute things she always does, while he sits waiting in the car. He probably has time for another coffee, actually.

‘OK. Five minutes?' says Janet, meaning fifteen. No point hurrying. She knows from experience that she'll rush around, only to find he's gone and made himself another coffee.

What Bishop Bob does not know is that his name has appeared on the list now being circulated among the members of the CNC. When the two appointments secretaries visited the diocese to consult with the locals, several people mentioned Bob as the man they would like to see as the next Bishop of Lindchester.

Ooh! Ooh! Who else is on the list? It's a secret, I'm afraid. I need to protect the identity of the candidates, and the privacy of their families. Actually, I shouldn't even have told you Bob's name is on the list. I'm counting on your discretion here.

We leave him in his sunny garden, with the interesting thought that he might unwittingly be praying for himself.

I will not pretend to you that Father Ed is having a nice bank holiday. In a fit of righteous rage at the archdeacon, Ed had allowed the wedding camel's nose into his tent. He woke the next morning to find the camel with its feet up smoking a fat cigar, and the tent transformed into a silk-swagged marquee complete with chandeliers, champagne fountains and a forty-piece Cuban dance band in pink tuxedos.

‘Neil, I really, really do
not
want a big fancy wedding.'

‘No? Then don't marry a designer.'

They were standing on the rectory drive.

‘Neil . . .'

‘It's got to be-e-e-e-e-e—' sang Neil.

‘No! Promise me we'll keep it low key?'

‘—
per
-fect! You leave the planning to me, big man. All you have to do is turn up on the day, in the suit I choose, and do as you're told.'

‘But—'

‘Ah, ah, ah. In the car, now. Not
your
car. We've got smart venues to check out. We're not pulling up in a wee Skoda looking like vicars. Anyway, will you look at this gorgeous weather!' Neil flung his arms wide as though Gayden Magna were alive with the sound of music. ‘It would be rude not to.' He zapped the car with the remote. ‘In.'

Ed folded himself into the front seat. The roof hummed back. Neil adjusted his Ray-Bans and programmed the satnav. He was still singing the ‘Perfect' song. Ed hated perfect. Perfect meant demanding to see the manager, sending starters back, getting bespoke shirts adjusted three times. It spelled a million minor mortifications to Ed's English temperament. Excuse me? This isn't chilled. That's never eau de nil. I've been waiting fifteen minutes. Wipe that table first, young man!

‘Where are you taking me, exactly?'

‘On a voyage of mystery and adventure! Oh, stop that. It'll be fun!'

‘Right.'

They drove the first mile in silence. Then Neil sighed.

‘Eds, do you want to marry me or not? Actually
me
, just as I am, with all my endearing ways?'

‘Yes, of course, but—'

‘Low key! Do I look like a low-key person to you? I'm not having some hole-in-the-corner wedding, like we're
ashamed
. I know you: always the path of least resistance. If you could, you'd go through your whole life without upsetting anyone. Well, hello? You can't.'

‘I realize that.'

‘Good. So here's the choice: you can either upset the archdeacon – and isn't
he
a sweetheart? – or you can upset me, the love of your life. Path of least resistance? Hmm, tough call.' Neil drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Which one has more power to give you hell on a daily basis, I wonder? Wait. That would be ME. Heh, heh, heh!'

‘No question. It's just— Look. I don't want to look like we're being . . . needlessly provocative.'

‘Really? You really think that if we do smart casual and only invite three people, then somehow we can stay under Church radar and the haters will give us a free pass? Eds, they're going to be pissed whatever, so let's have us a big fat gay wedding, OK?'

‘Neil—'

‘No. It's a no-brainer. We're doing this, we are
so
doing this.' He turned and flashed Ed a smile. ‘Hold tight, preacher man.'

With a roar the sports car leapt forward and burned off up the country road. Ed knew from experience that remonstrating just upped the ante. All he could do was hold tight, confess his sins, and pray they didn't meet anything coming the other way.

Martin, driving at a sensible 58 mph, watches his rear-view mirror in disbelief. Some
lunatic
in a black Porsche is overtaking four vehicles! Idiot! A lorry crests the hill ahead. He'll never make it! Martin slams on the brakes. The Porsche cuts in across him. Just! The truck's horn yowls as it passes them. Thank God Martin's reflexes are sharp. He leans on the horn now disaster's averted, heart thundering.

‘Wanker!' shouts little Jessica Rogers from the back of the car.

‘
What
did you say?' demands Martin.

There's a silence. The Porsche snarls off into the distance, a finger flourished aloft through the open roof.

‘That's what Mummy always says when someone's driving badly,' explains Leah. ‘She says “wanker”.'

‘I see,' says Martin. ‘Well, it's something we try not to say.'

‘Why?' asks Leah. ‘What does wanker mean?'

‘It's . . . like idiot, only ruder.'

‘Yes, but what does it
mean
?' persists Leah. ‘What's a wanker? Wanker, wanker, wanker.'

‘Wanker, wanker, wanker!' sings Jess.

‘Just – will you
stop
saying it! Both of you!' snaps Martin. ‘It's a bad word, and I don't want to hear you using it.'

‘But
Mummy
says wanker.'

‘I'm warning you, Leah.'

They are going to Chester Zoo. It is just possible that Daddy might explode –
That's it! No zoo for anybody!
– and turn the car round and drive them straight back home.

Leah mouths it at the back of Daddy's head for the next mile.

‘It means “con-tempt-ible per-son”,' reads Jessica.

‘STOP USING MY PHONE!' shouts Martin.

Dreadful silence. Leah hugs herself with glee. For once Jess is in trouble. YES!! It's even worth not going to the zoo!

‘You'll make yourself car-sick,' he adds in a calmer voice. ‘Put it away, please.'

Leah thinks about whispering to Jess, it means a boy rubbing his willy. But then Jess will tell on her and Leah will get in trouble. Daddy will be Very Disappointed.

Oh, boo-hoo, Daddy's disappointed! Who even cares?

But Leah does care. She tries to imagine that just for once Daddy says, ‘Well done, Leah.' But even thinking about that makes her nearly cry. He should
stop
being disappointed if he wants her to be good! It's
his
fault. Because sometimes when he's Very Disappointed she accidentally hears a lie coming out of her mouth before she can help herself: ‘It wasn't me, it was
her
.' ‘It was
him
.'

And then she can't stop the consequences. It's like the sorcerer's apprentice, when he casts a spell and it gets out of control. Leah can't bear to watch that bit of
Fantasia
. The bit where Mickey Mouse chops up the broomstick, and he thinks it's all over, only then the bits of broomstick all come to life and turn into
more
broomsticks. Hundreds of broomsticks all carrying buckets of water! Even though she knows the sorcerer will appear and put everything right in the end, Leah can't bear to watch it.

It's just, why does
everyone
always like Jess best? It's like Jess is the class hamster and Leah is the class stick insect, and everyone in class always wants to take Hammy out of his cage and play with him because he's so-o-o-o cute. But they're all, ew, gross! with the stick insect.

To be fair, stick insects are totally boring.

But if Freddie had been
nice
to her that time, instead of always playing with Jess and her stupid Barbie, then Leah would never've told that fib. It was Freddie's own fault. He only had himself to blame. He had to learn.

Anyway, he's moved away now so she won't ever have to see him again. Plus she never got into trouble about it. She never got found out. (Mummy doesn't count.) Daddy never said, ‘Why did you lie to me about Freddie? Why did you tell me a pack of lies, Leah? I'm Very Disappointed in you.' So it's all OK. It's not like she even cares about it any more.

‘Leah, will you
stop
kicking the back of my seat, please. It's very distracting when I'm driving.'

Martin is not enjoying his bank holiday, either. He has enough on his plate, frankly, without having the girls dumped on him at two hours' notice by their mother. He's still technically ‘the bishop's chaplain' during the interregnum, but the next bishop will naturally want to make his own appointment. Martin has an important interview tomorrow, and he ought to be preparing his PowerPoint, not going to the zoo. He's trying not to take his frustration out on the girls,
but
. Clearly the girls' mother is incapable of setting them proper boundaries.

It's Wednesday. Dr Rossiter is invigilating an exam. 11.02. Rain drums on the roof of the Luscombe sports hall. Most of the desks are empty. Just the two exams, history and politics. After a brief spike of panic, when 9.25 came and the entire politics cohort had failed to appear for their 9.30 exam (discovered outside, smoking), the morning has passed without incident. They're in the home straight now. The other invigilators prowl the rows. She suspects them of playing Pac-Man.

11.03. Jane yawns. She'd sneak her phone out and read the news, but it's all too depressing. French far right. English far right. The Resistible Rise of Nigel Farage. Forty years from now, will they be setting exam questions on him? God, I hope not. She decides to while away the last 27 minutes pretending she's casting director for a
Lord of the Rings
remake. She divides the students into orcs, hobbits and elves. She will take the role of Gandalf herself. Then she can shout, ‘YOU! SHALL! NOT! PASS!' into the microphone at the end of the exam. This may well prove true of the ones who left an hour early.

She looks at the electronic clock again. 11.06. Through a slice of reinforced window she can see someone running on a treadmill in the gym. Someone else does press-ups. Other worlds. Still 11.06. Will this never end? She stares at the green swags of net hanging from ceiling to floor. The rain rains. She thinks of all the exam halls she has sat in. School, university. The grinding tedium of revision, the cliff falls of dread. And then the final day of Finals. Walking out and thinking: That's it. I will never sit another exam again, ever. From now on, freedom!

Yeah, right.

11.07.

Ring him, you idiot. Today. The minute you get out of here, just ring him and say
Yes
. Don't waste the rest of your life. You know now that the whole New Zealand thing was just a pipe dream. Not legally valid back in the UK. (Text from Dom: ‘Woman's Hour, now. Civil Unions.') At least we didn't waste the airfare, eh?

But he hasn't been in touch. Is he trying to outwait her? Or was it actually over? Final. Him walking out and thinking, I will never see her again, ever. From now on, freedom from the nightmare of Jane Rossiter and her fucking feminist conscience.

No, she can't ring him. Wouldn't he have been in touch by now if he was still interested?

Thursday is Ascension Day. But it is half term. There are no overexcited choristers up on the tower first thing. No wafts of incense or choral praises sung seraphic-wise; just said services. Elsewhere in secular Lindfordshire, who would even know to hail this festival day? It comes and goes in Britain like Labour Day, Waitangi Day. At dawn in the silent cathedral a robin sings. A pair got in through a tiny broken pane last month and built a nest behind the high altar. Sometimes the male perches on the marble pinnacle of the altar screen and carols with the choristers, adds his ornamentations to the Tallis setting. This Ascension morn, rain at the windows, and his sweet thread of song echoes round pillar and vault. The world sleeps, but God is gone up with a merry noise.

All week long the local members of the CNC brood over the
long
longlist. They will meet soon to whittle it down to the names they want to see mandated on to the long list, from which a shortlist of three or four names will be chosen for interview. Who should they choose from this list? Marion wonders. The archdeacon (astute strategist that he is) pointed out to her that if the Lindchester half of the CNC vote en bloc, they can pretty much ensure the outcome. But that feels too hard-nosed for Marion. Although the Principal of Barchester Theological College's name is there . . . And Marion knows that neither Father Wendy nor Father Geoff would be hostile to Guilden Hargreaves as bishop. But what about the lay members of the CNC – would they be averse?

Father Wendy chats it all over with Pedro as they walk along the banks of the Linden.