Unseen Things Above (32 page)

Hah, you maudlin old bag. If you told Danny any of that, he'd probably wedge
you
in a laundry basket with a manky cushion, just to prove he was a grown-up. He's going to come back for three weeks, then he'll be off again. You've got to move your life on, gal. Get over yourself, girlfriend.

It's Friday. It's meant to be Matt's day off, but he's at his desk trying to keep on top of the old email in-box. If he can get it down to under seventy, maybe he'll ring Janey and— His phone bursts into ‘Lady in Red'. He smiles.

‘Hello, Janey.'

‘Where are you?'

‘At home.'

‘In your study?'

‘Yep. Um, are you mad at me, Jane?'

‘No.'

‘All righty. Only you sound a bit mad.'

‘That's as maybe. Have you got a utility bill to hand?'

‘Probably. Why?

‘Find one. Passport?'

‘What's going on, Janey?'

‘HAVE YOU GOT YOUR PASSPORT?'

‘Flip! Yes, I've got it here somewhere.'

‘Find it.'

Pause. ‘OK. Got it. Now what?'

‘Pick them both up and come out of the front door. I'm in my car on the drive. Bring your wallet with your driving licence.'

‘Ooo-ka-a-ay. Are you going to tell me what's—?' He stares at the phone for a moment, as though an explanation is going to appear on the screen. He scans his inner world to check which metaphorical loo seat he's left up this time. Working too hard? Ignoring her? Yep, that would be it. Unless . . . Oh Lord, was this showdown time? She was never expecting him to put a deposit on a house with her?

He pulls the door shut. There she is. He gets into the passenger seat. Looks at her face. Yep, it's judgement day, all right. ‘Janey, where are we going?'

She takes a deep breath. ‘You are only allowed to say one thing, and that is “Thank you, Jane”. We're going to the register office to give notice.'

He stares. ‘I'm sorry, what?'

‘Of our intention to marry, dickwad!' she shouts.

Like the rising of the sun in the east, like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, like a strong man rejoicing to run a race, that is how the smile appears on the archdeacon's face. ‘Thank you, Jane.'

NOVEMBER

Chapter 28

B
onfire Night! Smoke broods in strata above the Diocese of Lindchester, and everywhere, in parish and deanery, in back garden and public park – fireworks. BOOM! Far off, near. Ah! Look at the fire blossoms, how they melt to smoky dandelion clocks in the night sky. Then comes a fierce crackling, like the flash frying of recusants. Listen to those screaming fireworks. Don't they put you in mind of the squalls of live cats in burning effigies of the pope? But perhaps you didn't know they did that, our forebears? I believe it amused them. But then, the public hanging, drawing and quartering of traitors counted as a fun day out, too. Yes, yes, but the cats, though, the poor cats! Fighting and screaming in terror as they burn! Odd how that detail has the power to trouble an English temperament inured to the fate of Guy Fawkes.

How can it be a whole year? thinks Father Dominic. He mops the muddy footprints from the vicarage kitchen floor after the last guests have gone. Lord! What larks, trying to explain to his Farsi-speaking congregation what Bonfire Night is all about. Until this year, Dominic has stubbornly contemplated gunpowder, treason and plot through the nostalgic haze of childhood bonfires. It has always smacked of toffee apples and sparklers for him. But now he's viewing it through the lens of current events. Terrorism. Political instability. Beheadings. Islamophobia. War. Maybe he ought to be glad that Guy Fawkes' night is being edged out by the commercialized mission creep of Halloween?

He squeeges the mop and tips the dirty water away. All his kitchen surfaces are cluttered with leftovers from the bonfire feast. Cold sossies for lunch tomorrow. Goody-good. Project Clingfilm is under way when his doorbell rings. It's Jane. With a bottle of posh Prosecco. Ooh, Lord! There go the good intentions. Well, never mind; Wednesday is day off eve eve. And it falls within the octave of last week's day off, doesn't it? Not forgetting that Prosecco goes very nicely with cinder toffee.

‘Well, chin chin, fatty,' says Dominic. ‘What's the occasion?'

Jane scowls. ‘There's no occasion. Why does there have to be an occasion? Oh, I know – what about, because it's Guy Fawkes' night? Yes, let's drink to the hideously protracted torture and death of papists and other traitors to the Crown. That's the occasion. Or because I haven't seen you properly for ages. In fact, what's not to celebrate? Apart from Ebola and UKIP, obviously. And ISIS, global warming, welfare cuts—'

‘You're blethering, darling.'

‘True. Cheers.' They clink glasses.

Silence.

Dominic gives good pastoral silence. He knows perfectly well Jane is working up to something. A horrid thought assails him: never say she's emigrating to New Zealand? No! You can't abandon me! He arranges his expression into selfless sympathy.

‘Oh, stop doing your “Trust me, I'm a priest” thing,' she snaps. ‘Yes, you are – you're tilting your head. You look like Susanna bloody Henderson.'

‘Eek!' Dominic straightens up. ‘Come on then. Out with it, you old tart.'

‘Very well.' Jane takes a dignified sip of Prosecco. ‘Now, I'm going to ask you a question, and you're to answer calmly and sensibly, without screaming. Because it's really not a big deal. OK? Good. What are you doing on Friday the twenty-eighth of November, at ten a.m.?'

‘Well, nothing as far as I know. It's my day off— OH! Omigod!' he screams. ‘You're getting hitched! You're—'

‘I
said
, no screaming! It's not a big deal.'

‘Omigod, omigod, omigod! You're actually getting married! This so is a big deal! Oh, congratulations, darling! Mwa, mwa! Let me see the ring. What?! Why haven't you got a ring? Can I be your flower girl? Oh, please? All right, can I give you away, then?'

‘NO! Just shut up, you big ponce. Listen. No, listen to me! Matt and I are entering into a legal contract. That's all. A legalized partnership. No rings, no flowers, none of that oppressive patriarchal bollocks.'

‘Yes, yes, but what are you going to wear?'

Jane hesitates.

‘Why don't you turn up in your fat bloke trackie bottoms and rugby shirt?' he asks. ‘If it's just a legal contract.'

‘Fuck off.'

‘You fuck off. Oh, this is so exciting! More Prosecco?'

‘Yes, please.'

‘What about that red dress?'

‘No! I can't possibly wear that. I wore it to Danny's dad's civil union, for God's sake.'

‘Oh, and I thought this wasn't a big deal. Silly me.'

‘You're being very tiresome, Dommie.'

He seizes her face in both hands and plants a smacker on her lips. ‘Oh, this is wonderful, Jane! I'm really, really thrilled for you both. Oh no, I'm welling up!' He fans the tears back into their ducts. ‘So, it's at Lindford register office? Do I have a role, or shall I just sit and cry happy tears?'

‘We'd like you to be a witness. But it's a very small low-key private thing, so don't tell anyone.'

‘Of course not, darling. Do you want me to suit up?'

‘Wear what you like. I really don't care. But if you show up in a vicar jumper, I'll kill you.'

The question of what to wear is a daily dilemma at the moment. All around the Diocese of Lindchester people come up with different solutions. Some consult the temperature and go about in sandals and summer tops. Others cling to the notion that this is November, and don their boots and scarves. You will see both these extremes – and every possible expression of the sartorial
via media
– represented on the streets of Lindfordshire's towns. You will also encounter the full spectrum of explanation, too: from ‘the overwhelming scientific consensus for human-induced global warming' to ‘that volcano in Iceland'. I mean, can't we just enjoy the lovely weather without all this doom-mongering? Live in the moment. That's all we have. Don't waste the precious moment worrying, what if by some perverse twist of fate the 97 per cent of serious scientists turn out to be right after all? What if, on some cosmic November 6th, our planet orbits silently on without us, and we are just charred sticks and empty cardboard after our brilliance has burnt out to nothing?

Still, autumn slowly advances across the landscape. Father Wendy notes its progress on Thursday, as she walks towards the Linden with Pedro. Leaves are finally starting to go now. Her floral wellies scrunch through all the toffee shades: tablet, butterscotch, treacle, liquorice. She raises her eyes. Bare trees on the rim of the field there, with dark clots of magpie nests; although the poplars are still silver-topped and the beeches gold.

They reach the bank. Moorhens flick their tails and scurry to the river. Among the neglected coppicing to her left she sees a stretch of bright rippled water, like sunshine through a 1960s bathroom window. There's an alder full of goldfinches tara-diddling softly among themselves. Is anything so green as English grass in the low winter sun, with strands of gossamer criss-crossing from blade to blade? The leaves have all gone from the hawthorn, but every bush is stippled over with wine-coloured berries. She passes under the echoing arch of a bridge where a lane crosses the Linden and a cutter munches its way along the hedge.

Out on the other side lapwings lollop and pheasants wander in stubble. Pedro leans on his harness.

‘Sorry, boy. Can't let you run here.'

On they go, past pigs in humpback corrugated iron sties against the backdrop of cooling towers. Behind her she can hear a runner approaching. There's a blue tractor parked in a field of green; then newly ploughed acres, all blackish brown like moleskin. In the distance a flock of starlings hurls itself up into the sky. It lassoes out, comes sifting, sifting down, then flicks back in like a fish tail.

‘Look at that, Pedro!'

But Pedro has seen another pheasant. He darts—

It happens in a flash. Pedro yelps, the runner goes headlong.

‘Fuck!'

‘Pedro! Oh, I'm so sorry!'

The runner rolls like a ninja, and he's on his feet. ‘Oh God, I'm—' he gasps for breath.

‘Are you—'

‘Sorry – is your dog—'

‘—OK?'

‘—OK?'

The runner stands there panting. He grins. ‘Whoa! That was mental. Muscle memory?'

‘Are you sure you're all right? I'm so sorry.'

‘No worries, I know how to fall.' Then he squats by Pedro. ‘Hey boy, c'mere. It's OK, c'mere, dude. Yeah, that's it.'

She watches, jittery with shock. Then the penny drops. ‘Oh, it's you!'

‘Huh?'

‘I've seen you out running lots of times. I'm the local vicar.'

‘Oh wait, you're Wendy? Hey, Wendy. Awesome!' He smiles up at her. How radiant he is, how beautiful! ‘I helped paint the curate's house that time? Matt, like, sent me? Last summer?'

‘Oh, that was you!'

‘Yeah, that was me.'

He's
that naughty boy who drove Marge mad! But there's something else, some problem, a smear of rumour – what is it? His smile dims. He drops his eyes. Fondles Pedro's ears. ‘Hey, boy. Hey, it's OK.'

‘I always pray for you,' she hears herself say.

A quiver crosses his face. The long lashes flutter. Trouble. He's in trouble.

‘Cool. Hey. Catch you later, Wendy?'

He's on his feet and away before she can say anything. She watches till he's out of sight. Her prayers follow, follow after.

Father Wendy's pastoral antennae were correct. Freddie is in trouble. He has his hands up his sleeves, playing air guitar on that fretboard of scars on his upper arms.

Helene, the diocesan HR manager, turns over another sheet on his file.

Gah, here it comes.

‘Well, Frederick, given that you admit the offence, and that there's probably enough evidence for a realistic chance of a conviction, I think you'd do well to accept the police caution.'

‘Cool. Yeah. Totally. Probably I should do that?'

‘I think that would be wise.'

‘But it's totally not a conviction? It won't go on my record?'

‘No, it's not a conviction. But it will form part of your criminal record, for the purposes of any DBS check. For six years.'

‘Ah, nuts!' He bites his lips. ‘'Kay. Thanks, Helene.'

‘You're welcome.' She closes the file. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?'

‘Yeah, no, um, oh God, can they like fire me for this? Gah, I was so close to the end of my probationary period! I was gonna be installed in, like, two weeks? Man, I'm such a numbnuts.'

‘Far be it from me to disagree with you, Deanissima,' said Gene the following day, ‘but a police caution for flouting the Firework Code seems a little draconian to me.'

‘Gene, he was firing roman candles at people.'

‘Tush, pish and nonsense! They all were! It was a game, an upmarket snowball fight. You make it sound as though he was gunning down innocent passers-by.'

‘It was stupid and really dangerous. It's a mercy nobody was hurt. I can't let this one slide. What kind of role model is he for the choristers?'

‘Is this the end for the lovely Mr May?'

The dean scowled. ‘No. Giles and Timothy are going to extend his probationary period for another three months. But I don't care how brilliant his voice is, this is absolutely his last chance.'

Gene inclined his head. ‘You are both wise and merciful, O queen. One more small question and then I'm done. I saw at least half a dozen young scallywags out there. Why is poor Freddie the only one being punished?'

‘Because poor Freddie was the only one up on the cathedral roof!' exclaimed the dean. ‘And as usual, poor Freddie was the only one stupid enough to get caught!'

‘Ah, but poor Freddie wants to get caught, surely?' said Gene. ‘If you're never caught, you can never be forgiven. I offer you that little theological insight from the vast storehouse of my intellect. And I see you are not impressed, so I offer you the wealth of my wine cellar instead.'

I think Gene is right. And I think that Freddie himself is closing in on this idea. He sits at the kitchen table writhing under Totty's watchful eye as he tries to compose a letter to his mentor, explaining why his installation as lay clerk of Gayden Parva has been deferred. He absolutely must write this letter now, before Giles gets on the phone and complains about him again. Or worse, Dr Jacks – having condescended to rearrange his diary in order to attend the service – arrives to finds it's not happening, hunts Freddie down, and turns the mentorly stare from stun to kill.

Oh God, oh God.

Dear Dr Jacks. I'm an idiot, I fucked up.
No, can't put that.

He tosses down the pen and grips his hair in both hands.

What were you thinking?

I seriously don't know, Mrs Dean, I'm so, so sorry?