Unseen Things Above (8 page)

Father Geoff prays in a Celtic manner for the names on the list. For guidance.
Christ on my right, Christ on my left.
He banishes his fears about Veronica da Silva's CV (he's informed the archdeacon, he can leave it in the archdeacon's hands). Patiently, he sets those fears outside the circle of Christ's light each time they obtrude.

I'm sorry to say that the archdeacon has not given Geoff's concerns another thought. That email is now buried. Maybe later Matt will remember with a jolt. But right now, he has something even more horrible to contemplate. It's Friday. He's just checked his phone. That texted apology to Dr R from weeks ago remains ‘undelivered'. Crap. She'll think— No-o-o! He clasps his hands behind his neck and gazes up to heaven in despair. This is a Total. Mare.

With all this on his mind, it's probably just as well he has no idea his name is on that CNC list too.

JUNE

Chapter 7

F
ly, my pretties! Fly!' whispers Gene. He gives the departing guests one last royal wave, and shuts the door.

Post-evensong Sunday tea in the deanery drawing room has just finished. The real deal: silver teapot, bone china service, linen napkins. He wheels the detritus back through to the kitchen on an antique wooden trolley.

‘So, what are the archbishop's views on our next bishop?' he asks.

‘We didn't discuss the CNC,' says Marion. ‘This afternoon was all about Lindchester celebrating twenty years of women priests.'

‘Do you think he'd try to block Gilderoy Lockhart's appointment?'

‘His name's Guilden Hargreaves, you horrible man.'

‘I'm aware that Gilderoy's your preferred candidate.' Gene holds up a hand. ‘It's fine – no need to confirm or deny. Maybe he'll meet someone, then his boyfriend and I can run the diocesan clergy spouses programme together? At last, an end to aromatherapy awaydays! My masterplan enters its final phase – to turn the diocesan retreat house into a Texan bordello! Dame Perdy could be the Madam! Ooh, will I need to apply to the archdeacon for a faculty?'

‘You're hopeless.'

‘But I behaved myself impeccably all afternoon!'

‘You did not. You were doing your Eugène Terre'Blanche impression.'

‘Oh, phoo! Only the mild version. I doubt if anyone noticed. But go on: what do you make of our new archbishop? Quite the handsome devil, isn't he? In a faded Biggles kind of way. But is he a weeny bit starchy? He looks as though he keeps a WWJD biro clenched in his butt cheeks.'

‘
Thank
you for that image, Gene.'

‘Speaking as an unreconstructed old lecher, though, I like his wife! But tell me the truth' – Gene drops his voice – ‘do you think she had any idea
quite
how much cleavage she was blessing us with?'

A diplomatic pause. ‘Oh, I'm sure Cordelia . . . These wrap dresses can be a bit tricky to pull off.'

‘Tricky? Piece of piss. One quick tug . . . Shall I buy you one? Would you like that?'

‘You can load the dishwasher and shut up,' says Marion. ‘I'd like
that
.'

‘I'm yours to command, Deanissima.'

If Marion had asked him, Rupert Anderson might have given the following opinion. The time to object to gay bishops was
before
the ruling about celibate partnerships came into force. Now it
is
in force, like it or not, there ought to be no more nonsense. If people still have objections, they need to lobby for a rule change, not campaign to prevent legitimately appointed priests taking up senior posts.

Such is the opinion of the Most Revd Rupert Anderson. And he is right, surely? Whatever we may believe personally on the issue, he is correct as regards proper process. So far he has only voiced this in private conversation. Bishops – let alone archbishops – are reluctant to stick their necks out here, because they are nervous that wealthy Evangelical congregations (for whom celibacy is not enough, repentance is required) might take their ball home and refuse to pay their parish share. This has an inhibiting effect on episcopal candour – as does a fear (valid or not) of unleashing a wave of persecution upon Christians living under intolerant regimes. Will Rupert Anderson boldly state his opinion in public? We must wait and see.

I wonder what Paul Henderson would have said on the subject, had he become archbishop instead of Rupert? But no, we must resist the temptation to speculate about the narrative door we never opened into the rose garden. (Except to observe that Susanna Henderson would not have fallen out of her frock at a deanery tea party, thus Gene would not now be googling ‘Diana von Furstenberg wrap dress' with an eye to the dean's approaching birthday.)

Marion is pondering neither gay bishops nor wardrobe malfunctions at this moment. She's thinking about the Chaplain of Women. ‘Well, I imagine she must be a real asset to the diocese.' That's what the archbishop said, a question mark hovering. In a moment of blank panic, and not wanting to look like an idiot, Marion made a noise that implied assent. Rather than saying: ‘What? But I thought she was with you!'

Marion frowns. Better ask the precentor and see if he can clear this mystery up. Because who the hell
was
she? Late thirties, dark, tallish, possibly an American accent? Sweeping in with the archbishop's party, robing up, joining the procession, networking afterwards in a high-powered way. Chaplain of Women! There's no such thing in the Diocese of Lindchester. Or is there? The archdeacon will know.

We have reason to believe there are limits to the archdeacon's omniscience. He still does not know his name was on the CNC's long longlist. And he will never know, unless someone blabs. Neither he nor Bishop Bob made it on to the whittled-down list agreed by the Lindchester CNC when they met a few days ago. After discussion and prayer, it was felt that Bob and Matt had been nominated out of strong local prejudice: ‘better the devil you know'. The list of ten names fixed on consists of deans (including Guilden ‘Magical Me' Hargreaves) and assorted area bishops from around the country. The Lindchester CNC will horse-trade with the national CNC members on 11 June and come up with a shortlist.

So relax, O readers worried about how Jane might fare as a bishop's wife! You are getting way ahead of yourselves. Why, he and Jane have yet to speak after their big bust-up! They both think that the other would have got in touch by now if there was any future for their relationship. They are both sunk in despair. Honestly, I am tempted to wash my hands of them sometimes.

It is Friday and it's all happening at once on Cathedral Close. Tonight is the private view of
Souls and Bodies
. Those who love the canon chancellor will rejoice with him that the new display boards arrived. There was a tense couple of hours yesterday afternoon when the artist paced the south aisle grinding her teeth and excoriating the poor chancellor with her pale, mad stare. I will shield you from the details, and assure you that the boards did eventually arrive and all is now well. The artist has brooded over which pieces to hang where, so that the exhibition coheres. She is now overseeing the proper fixing of canvases to display boards (screws and mirror plates, for insurance reasons).

This is also interview day for the post of tenor lay clerk. Three candidates have already been auditioned. It is now 3.28, and the interviewers are waiting in the Song School for the final candidate to present himself for his three o'clock audition. The panel consists of the director of music, Timothy; the canon precentor; Nigel, the senior lay clerk; and the cathedral organist, Laurence. Also present is Iona, the sub-organist. She is here to accompany the audition pieces and facilitate the aural tests, but visibly wishing she were elsewhere.

We join them as they grow restive, and lapse somewhat from the impeccably professional standards we expect from Lindchester choral foundation.

Giles checked his phone again. Nothing. Maybe Freddie had got the wrong day.

Iona played an angry chord. ‘Can I go now, please?'

‘Shall we give him till quarter to?' asked Timothy. ‘I'm feeling a bit unenthusiastic about the three we've heard so far.'

‘Although, notice how they managed to get themselves here on time,' muttered Iona.

‘I vote for waiting,' said Laurence. ‘We all know Freddie has “time management issues”, but we also know how gifted he is. I'm told he was called “the boy tuning fork” when he was a chorister.'

‘Really?' said Nigel. ‘I seem to remember we had other names for him.'

‘Like freak?' suggested Iona.

‘Well, tart, mainly,' said Nigel.

‘He has a freaky memory,' said Iona. ‘He's got entire operas and oratorios down, all the parts, everything. But when you try and have an actual conversation with him—' she crossed her eyes. ‘Hello? Anybody home?'

‘Oh, Mr May is by no means as thick as he'd have us all believe,' said Giles.

‘Right.' Iona played another grumpy riff. ‘He's a musical idiot savant.'

‘Is that a thing?' asked Nigel.

‘I don't know if it's a
thing
. It's what he is,' said Iona.

‘Wait!' Giles cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Do I hear the scamper of tiny feet? Positions, everybody.'

The door burst open.

‘Oh, my God, sorry, sorry. Phone's dead. Missed my connection? Totally ran. All the way. Up here? Shit. Sweating like—' He peeled off his suit jacket, tossed it aside.

The panel recoiled.

‘Argh!' cried Giles. ‘Is that a gunshot wound?'

‘Nah! Minute. Get my breath.' Freddie panted, hands on knees.

They watched in fascinated horror.

‘Sorry, yeah, no, this massive. Nosebleed. On the train? Whoosh. No kidding, everywhere? I mean, look.' He straightened and plucked at his white interview shirt in despair. ‘Got nothing else appropriate. Sorry. Mind if I—?' He pulled off his gory tie and dropped it on the jacket. Undid some buttons.

‘Are you in a fit state to continue?' asked Giles.

‘Sure. I'm good.' He took a couple more deep breaths. ‘It just kinda happens? Whoosh. No warning. Since I got my nose bust that time?' He swigged from his water bottle. ‘Yeah, so anyway, relax, people, at least it's not the blow, yeah? Ha ha, in case you were thinking! Not done any for like,
ages
?' He ran a sleeve over his face. ‘Awesome. Ready when you are.'

Silence.

‘What? Aw, c'mon guys! Properly ages? I mean, like it must be a year?'

They were staring, open-mouthed.

‘Not good?' Freddie tugged his hair. ‘Unnhh. Probably don't raise the drugs thing on interview, right?'

Gavin the deputy verger carefully mows the labyrinth on the cathedral lawn. Round, back again. Week five of the project, and it's coming along nicely. Foot-high purple grass heads nod. Got the idea from Freddie May, mowing a big heart on the bishop's lawn last year. Obviously, they had to get rid of that, but it got him thinking. Went on the internet. Him and the canon chancellor mapped the labyrinth out last month, cricket stump and washing line to get the circles accurate, set it all out with tent pegs. Tourists love it. Simple Chartres job, but next year, who knows? Maybe octagonal? Nine-petal vesica, even?

Leah Rogers storms out and sits on the wall in front of the palace.
If you can't be nice, go outside
. FINE. Who even
wants
to be nice? Leah scrapes the backs of her school shoes against the wall hard, to ruin them. Stupid boring Fridays, waiting after school for Daddy to finish his stupid work.

‘
God!
'

She waits, tense, in case God heard her shout his name in vain. A stupid bird sings in the big tree. The weirdo's mowing the grass.

Nothing happens. Which just
proves
there isn't a God. She opens her copy of
Northern Lights
. This is the third time she's read it. Every bone in her body yearns to be Lyra, with a daemon and an alethiometer. Because who'd be all pink-tastic like Jess, with her lame princess Barbie Hello Shitty crap, when you could be Lyra?

Whoa! Freddie hurtles down the Song School stairs and into the cathedral. Total endorphin rush?

He throws his bag and jacket down. Then turns two cartwheels and a back flip in the crossing – he actually does that! – lands, flings his arms wide like a gymnast rounding off. Ta dah! He looks high up into the vault and laughs. The pleasure of God. He totally feels it. Like he could dive up, up, right now, and bury himself in joy, in God himself? For one second he nearly launches into that aria again.

A woman stares.

He comes to with a jolt. Sees how it looks. Yeah – they'll think he's on something. Plus the shirt? It's gone kind of stiff. And he smells rank: blood, sweat. Gah! He grabs his stuff and heads down the aisle before he gets himself thrown out.

Exhibition going up. He sees the big canvases as he passes. Splashes of colour, white, grey. Abstract, except
almost
you can see stuff – archways? and pillars? Wait. No way! They're by the same artist, the one whose painting he used to stare at in the chapel in YOI! Oh man, it totally has to be the same guy. I am so going to find him and say thank you. But the shirt situation? Yeah. Clean up and change first. Maybe Penelope will let him in to use the office cloakroom?

He leaves through the west door and he's out in the sunshine. The rush wears off, he's coming down now. Ah, cock. They are
so
not gonna offer him the job. Arriving late, covered in blood? Then the PhD level self-sabotage? He smacks his forehead. No-o-oo, why does he
have
to do that? Why's he always, loaded gun – foot – wahey!

Only— It felt like when you screw up your driving test and you're all, that's it, I've failed, and then you relax and actually, you drive better? That's totally what it was like. He saw their faces and knew: OK, game over. Nothing to lose.