Unseen Things Above (10 page)

How this year has flashed past! Virginia cannot believe that it's less than a week till her priesting. Her ordination retreat starts tomorrow, led by the Principal of Barchester Theological College, and then the service itself will be taken on Saturday evening by Bishop Bob. A year! How is this possible? And a year from now she'll be starting to look for a parish of her own.

‘Come along, Pedro.'

Father Wendy is away at Bishopsthorpe for the first meeting of the Lindchester CNC, so Virginia is looking after the dog. Virginia is not really a dog person, but she's doing her best. They make their way along the bank of the Linden. Pedro knows things aren't quite right. Virginia is a city girl, and she does not tell him that the elder is in flower, or point out the ox-eye daisies, or urge him to smell the wild roses that mass in the hedges.

Rushes hiss softly beside them. This season's new growth has almost overtaken the old now. Only the dead feathery heads nod above the green blades. Virginia and Pedro pass under a huge willow. Fluff from the seeds drifts on the wind. Somewhere high up a willow warbler drips a silver trickle of song. It is one of those grace-filled June days of sunshine and cloud, when rain threatens, but at this moment,
this
moment, it is not raining, and even the white plastic ice-cream wrapper spindling on the breeze is lit up and lovely.

Something of this seeps into Virginia's soul, and she leaves off her lists of bullet points she must action. It's actually quite warm. She struggles out of her raincoat – not easy, when you're trying to hold a dog lead – and even contemplates flinging the coat on to that bench and collecting it on the way back. Except someone might pinch it. Although there's nobody about. But no, it
is
Gore-Tex.

She casts her mind back over the last year. Odd to be looking back on something that for years had loomed so large. A portal large as marriage – as death, nearly! – that she had to pass through. And now ordained ministry is just my life. Just . . . normal, she thinks. A Bible verse pops into her head:
I am going ahead of you to prepare a place for you.
Or is it two Bible verses merged together? Virginia looks along the bank towards the distant bridge, as though she might glimpse a figure glancing back and waiting for her. Calling: ‘Come along, Ginny, it's fine!' And hadn't it always turned out to be fine? Even when things hadn't gone according to plan – like ending up as Wendy's curate. She can barely remember how dismayed she was, or how wonderful she had pictured the alternative at Risley Hill parish being.

Yes. She looks down at Pedro, bobbing along with a curious grace on his three legs. ‘It's actually all right, isn't it?' she says. ‘This life?'

We cannot join Father Wendy and the rest of the CNC as they deliberate in secret, I'm afraid. But for the purposes of our tale, I will confide that one of the men on the shortlist will be Guilden Hargreaves, the Principal of Barchester Theological College.

By the end of the priests' ordination retreat, he will have been informed of this. He accepted the invitation to lead the retreat over a year ago, without the faintest notion that there might be a vacancy at Lindchester. And now look! I bet he will survey the cathedral with keen interest this Saturday. He may even glance out of the corner of his eye at the huge throne. And I am prepared to guess that his famous mother, Dame Perdy, will suddenly decide that she would like to attend the ordination service after all. She will, of course, drive ve-e-e-ry slowly past the palace to refresh her memory – nice, oh
nice
! – as she heads round the Close to park. An extra place will be set for her in the deanery dining room, and the meal will be conducted without reference to the elephant in a pink mitre in the room (although Gene will smirk with glee). But all this understandable excitement and speculation must be reined in by the knowledge that Guilden's undisguised orientation will be a stumbling block to some of the good folk of the Diocese of Lindchester.

Who else is on the shortlist? Don't ask. It's confidential. They are simply three clergy who have been on the preferment list for quite a while.

Hold it: the preferment list? What preferment list? I didn't know there was a preferment list! cries the reader. Aha, that's because
this
is confidential, too. Or semi-confidential. I believe it's been rebranded the ‘Senior Appointments' list. Just think of it as a holy head-hunter list.

But how do you get on The List? Your diocesan bishop is the one who will nominate you. So don't fall out with your diocesan bishop. There are those who get on The List, and for several giddy months they believe they have been given a significant nod and wink. And then nothing ever comes of it. Off you go, back to parochial obscurity. God speed! Whether this system is any better than the old one, where you simply got a phone call from the prime minister out of the blue, asking if she/he can suggest your name to the Queen, I leave for the reader to decide.

Tomorrow is Pentecost Sunday. Our good friend Father Dominic is hurriedly finishing off his homily so that he can email it to his ever-patient Farsi translator. This will mean that his Iranian parishioners can sort of follow what he's saying when he gets into the pulpit. I'm afraid Dominic tends to stray from his prepared script with off-the-cuff anecdotes. The rest of the congregation laughs, and this leaves the Iranians studying their photocopied sheets in perplexity. But they love Father Dominic. Five more of them will be baptized this Sunday, and then all eleven will be confirmed by Bishop Bob immediately afterwards. How high the stakes are for them. Dominic thinks about the pregnant woman sentenced to death for converting to Christianity. Jesu mercy. And people call it persecution if they aren't allowed to turn gay couples away from their B&B!

He looks at his watch. Jane will be here in an hour, then they're off out for a meal. Better crack on.

Jane parks outside Matt's house. Come on, you silly mare, you know he's not in, he's at the ordination service. But all the same, her heart pounds as she scurries up his drive and slips a card through his letterbox. Aargh! It's like playing knocky-nine-doors! She runs back down the drive, leaps into her car and drives away, heart still thumping.

It's evening. Back in the cathedral, the vergers shift chairs ready for tomorrow's Pentecost service. The Flower Guild has been busy. Do admire the fiery red floral displays on the pillars.

Up in her loft, Iona launches into tomorrow's volley (Kyrie:
Gott, heiliger Geist
, Bach). Laurence has gone down with a bug, so she will be on duty instead. The precentor has just challenged her, and she categorically denied it. No, she did
not
include a phrase from the Harry Potter theme tune in the fanfare as Guilden Hargreaves mounted the pulpit steps.

Giles stomps back down from the organ loft. Unless he wants to get locked in a did-didn't-did-didn't argument, there's nothing he can do.

Bloody organists.

But apart from that, the ordination went smoothly. The mystery Chaplain of Women didn't rock up, anyway. Giles heads back home for a well-earned glass of wine. As he approaches his drive, he spots flags protruding from his car roof. How unspeakably vulgar. Both English
and
German flags. Once again he will have to be neutral – Switzerland, as it were – for the duration of the World Cup, while his wife and son slug it out.

Just then, his phone rings. He checks. And about time too. ‘Well hello, queenie.'

‘You called?' drawls a voice.

‘I did, actually, Andrew. Repeatedly. How lovely of you to take time out of your busy schedule. Did you manage to catch a word with Mr May at the private view?'

‘Yes.'

‘And? Is he happy to be your mentee?'

‘He is – I quote – totally happy, fuck yes, to be my anything, literally, in a heartbeat.'

‘Mmm. Yes, I'll talk to him about boundaries. Are you going to be OK with this?'

‘Well, it should be interesting. I've never had an ingénue of my very own to torment before.'

‘I'm not sure you've
quite
grasped what mentoring entails. Be nice to him.'

‘Nice
is
my middle name, as you know. Was that everything? Good. Ciao, ciao.'

Ought he to feel bad about inflicting Freddie on his oldest friend? Or vice versa? Giles really cannot decide.

The archdeacon gets home from the ordination to find a card on his doormat. He recognizes the bold black italics on the envelope and his poor heart cartwheels.
Hi Matt. I think this is about when that employment tribunal is due to take place. Just wanted to wish you good luck. Hope all's well with you. J x

Our big, strong, fearless archdeacon sits down on his stairs and cries like a little boy.

Chapter 9

J
ane was correct. This is the time when the employment tribunal is due to take place. The former Bishop of Lindchester will fly back from South Africa next week. It's been a right old headache keeping up to speed of the whole legal malarkey; liaising with the diocesan bods, barristers and whatnot, on top of everything else. And for nothing, in all probability. Matt has a gut instinct that the sewer (Dr R's word for the litigious priest) knows he has no case. Having failed to intimidate them into settling out of court, he is now just maximizing the amount of hassle and expense he can cause, by withdrawing at the last possible moment. True, it would have been cheaper for the diocese to settle, but Matt was damned if he was going to roll over for this pillock, and leave everyone with the impression the Church had behaved badly. You might cost us a packet, but it's game over for you, matey Joe. You won't be pulling this stunt again.

But anyway, who gives a monkey's? Matt is smiling as he tootles along through the country lanes of Lindfordshire.
For a tender beaming
smile
. . . Now what was that from? Oh, yes. Matt chuckles. Choir. His house sang it in the school music competition one year: ‘The Lark in the Clear Air'. Lovely piece, no doubt, when sung by the likes of young tarty-pants. Less so when it's being murdered by two hundred sweaty adolescent boys, creaking and squeaking their way through it. Matt's voice is nothing special, but he can hold a tune. Nobody listening, is there? He gives it another whirl this June morning.

Dear thoughts are in my mind

and my soul soars enchanted,

As I hear the sweet lark sing

In the clear air of the day.

The reader will have inferred from this that Matt and Jane have finally found a way of talking to one another again. That good luck card Jane slipped through his letter box did the trick. She returned from her meal with Dominic to find the archdeacon sitting on her doorstep like a waif. A very large waif, admittedly. Being a charitable woman, she invited him in for coffee. This all went off fairly smoothly, although Matt knocked a pile of books over and banged his head on a cupboard door, and at one point Jane couldn't find the kettle – simply couldn't find it at all, search though she might. (It turned up on the work surface by the toaster, of all places.) They stood tongue-tied, then blurted out simultaneously what a miserable time they'd been having of it, how they'd been convinced they'd blown their last chance, that the other would have been in touch by now if any hope had remained. Matt showed Jane the undelivered message on his phone, and they laughed at themselves, although their laughter wobbled on the edge of tears.

‘Matt, what are we going to do?'

‘I don't know. If I knew, I would've done it by now. Nearly sent you a hundred red roses.'

‘You did? What stopped you?'

‘The cost, really. Over three hundred flipping quid.'

‘Ah, you romantic devil!'

‘And obviously, I didn't want to come across as a patronizing male chauvinist. Knew you'd be insulted.'

Jane nodded. ‘Deeply. Nothing says “Get back in the kitchen, you castrating feminist harridan” like a hundred red roses.'

He smiled. ‘Oh, Janey, I can't tell you how much I've missed you.'

‘You could try.'

‘Am I allowed to show you instead?'

‘Have you brought along a visual aid?'

‘No, but I could do you my PowerPoint presentation.'

Jane laughed her filthy laugh. ‘I bet you could, Mr Archdeacon.'

This, then, is why our hero is singing happily in his car as he drives to a remote parish to take a look at their plans to remove a couple of pews from the back of the church and put a new loo in the vestry. His route lies through Gayden Magna. For a mischievous moment he contemplates popping in on Father Ed. He could stick on the old leather gloves like the archdeacon in
Rev
, put the fear of God into him over his engagement. But no. Matt's a tad on thin ice here himself (ahem). And to be honest, the way he's feeling this morning, Ed and Neil could prance up the aisle in Village People costumes and Matt would give them a blessing. Senior Staff team have discussed the situation, obviously. You can't not. They are minded to take no action during the interregnum. Keep an eye on developments in other dioceses where it's cropped up, see what they do. In any case, Father Ed hasn't actually got married yet, has he?

High above as he passes Gayden Magna a skylark sings. Below lie the rape fields, the silage fields, mown too soon, too often. The old pastures over-grazed, the acres of winter wheat too dense for nesting. Decline, decline; half our skylarks gone in less than a lifetime. Our children grow up never hearing its dare-gale poetry, that blithe spirit spilling rubbed and round pebbles of sounds, and showering music on upturned faces in the morning of no man's land.

But today a lark sings above a Lindfordshire meadow. Maybe its nest is on the ground of some neglected strip, some wilder, unprofitable spot. Or perhaps some good-hearted farmer misses that song, and has set aside both land and best interests to coax it back?