Unseen Things Above (15 page)

Matt pauses at the gatehouse to get his breath back. For a wild moment he longs for a fag – and Matt has never smoked. That tells you how hassled he is! He takes a big lungful of lime blossom scent instead. Better cool his jets before the vigil.

Right, so fair enough, it's
possible
he's left himself a tad open here. But conduct unbecoming? No way! He and Janey are consenting adults, they're not married to anyone else, both are seriously committed to the other. Plus they're discreet. Not like there's an open scandal here. Not like she stands on his porch in a marabou trim dressing gown every morning smoking a cheroot, is it? Conduct unbecoming would be a pretty hostile interpretation to place on his domestic life!

‘Methinks the archdeacon doth protest too much,' was what Ms B. Boots from HR replied. ‘Does anyone bear a grudge against you, Matt?'

Ha! Do they ever! How do you want the list: chronologically, alphabetically, or in degree of toxicity?

He turns into the Close. Ron the constable sticks his head out of the lodge. Matt spots that someone has kindly tacked a bell rope sally to the low stone lintel, the one he's forever cracking his skull on.

‘All right, Mr Archdeacon?'

‘Fine thanks, Ron. You?'

‘Ooh, not so bad, thanks.'

Matt crosses the cobbles past the entrance to Vicars' Court. He catches himself wondering whether there was something a tad knowing in Ron's manner.
All right, Mr Archdeacon, getting your end away, are you?
No, don't be daft. Ron's always like that.

Isn't he?

Great. Getting paranoid now. Thanks for that, Helene.

Suddenly Matt thwacks his archidiaconal thigh. OK, let's stop being a big girl's blouse, shall we? Helene's a force for good. Truth is, she's right: he's in a bit of a bind here. He daren't raise it with Janey. Doesn't want to rock the little boat of happiness they have both managed to clamber back into. In his own mind he's settled it. He's as good as married. There's no other gal for him. He'd rather have Jane in his life on her terms, than not at all. He grimaces. Ah, if only he could put his hand on his heart and say he's 100 per cent squared the situation with the good Lord! Sorry, sorry, sorry. He needs to get down and have a good pray about this.

He pushes open the cathedral north door. Takes another deep breath. About eight centuries' worth of prayer greets him, and his blood pressure drops. Yes, the good Lord has been pretty patient with him over the years. He heads for the William Chapel, far end, behind the main altar, where the vigil is due to happen. A flock of little lights flickers at the shrine. He scans the congregation with an expert eye. Situation normal: more than he feared, fewer than he hoped. 'Twas ever thus. Cathedral Chapter clergy. Scattering of good-egg vicar types have made the effort: Dominic, Ed, Wendy, Geoff (of course, both on the CNC).

Matt tunnels into the robes he's just been handed. Having ticked Bishop Bob off, and made him take a couple of days' leave, Matt's ended up holding the baby. Not that onerous, no preach, just a question of leading. Good, here's the precentor now, with the order of service booklet (
Vigil for the Appointment of the New Bishop of Lindchester, Followed by Night Prayer
).

‘Everything under control, Giles?'

Everything was not quite under control, as it turned out. But the archdeacon was in no mood to listen patiently to yet another bossy woman demanding that half of the vigil be given over to praying for the upcoming debate about women bishops in General Synod. Organize your own vigil, lady (he managed not to say). This is the cathedral. We've already printed the liturgy. The precentor can't do spontaneity at this kind of notice.

Instead, he fobbed her off with a polite suggestion that a further hour of vigil might be added after compline, if she cleared it with the precentor. No, sadly, he himself would not be able to stay and demonstrate his solidarity. Important though this issue undoubtedly was. She turned and stalked off. There you go. No such thing as strangers, Matt, just enemies you haven't made yet. Who the chuff was she? Chaplain of something, going by the hoodie. Uni? Now why was that ringing a faint alarm bell?

But by now the precentor was twitching and looking at his watch, so Matt let it go.

After the vigil was over, our weary friend got in his Mini and drove off to his lady, to spend (tell it not in Gath!) the night over at hers. He had a lot on his mind; but all the same, you'd think a former police officer would have clocked that he was being tailed all the way there by a silver Skoda Fabia.

Chapter 13

‘N
o, you should definitely apply for the BLO job,' says Penelope. ‘You'd be ideal.'

Martin – uncharacteristically – finds himself in some difficulty here. We join our two friends in the bishop's office. PA Penelope no longer has a bishop to manage, so she is making do with managing Martin. He composes his features. ‘Well, that's very kind of you, Penelope. But there's another parish job I'm weighing up, too. Look.' He passes her last week's
Church Times
with an ad circled.

‘But that's in the Chester Diocese! You'd have to move. You don't want to move away from your girls, do you? No, no, you should definitely go for the BLO job. You'd enjoy it!'

A spasm crosses Martin's face again. ‘Yes, but look,' he taps the advert with an Ecclesiastical Insurance pen, ‘it's only just over the border, so the girls could still spend every weekend with me. If I took Friday as my day off, I could pick them up from school.'

‘Yes, well, maybe.' She still hasn't really looked at the advert:
A prayer
ful and energetic priest with a passion for the gospel, who enjoys being visible
and engaged
. ‘Bishop Paul thinks you'd be perfect for the Borough Liaison post. Oh, he told you that, did he? Well, there you are! You know the agencies and funding bodies, you have links with the churches. Talk to the archdeacon. Matt's desperate for you to get the BLO job!'

This time it's too much. Martin snorts.

‘What?'

‘It's just, you keep saying . . . Um.' Martin purses his lips and regains control. ‘I wish they'd called it the Borough
and Churches
Liaison Officer job, that's all.'

There's a long silence. Penelope frowns. Then she suddenly leans over and paffs him over the head with the
Church Times
. ‘Oh, honestly, Martin!'

‘Sorry!' No, he's lost it. The bishop's chaplain slides down in his chair and laughs till it hurts. When did he last laugh like this? He can't remember. Oh, let it stop! Let it go on for ever!

Now he's infected Penelope. They sit in the bishop's office rocking with laughter. They are still whimpering when the precentor appears in the doorway.

‘Knock, knock!' Giles enters. ‘Oh, dear. Been raiding the diocesan whippits supply again, have we?'

‘It's Martin!' weeps Penelope. ‘He's being very silly. Tell him, Martin!'

Martin can only wave his hands in despairing apology.

The precentor surveys them for a long moment. ‘A-a-nyway. I just popped in with a request. Mr May's looking for digs. Just over the summer, in the first instance; but long-term from the autumn. So if you could put out feelers, I'd be grateful.'

Penelope sits up straight and wipes her eyes. ‘But I thought –
stop
it, Martin! – I thought accommodation was part of the deal? Isn't there a sweet little house in Vicars' Court?'

‘There is indeed. But Mr May' – Giles strikes a fey pose, back of hand to forehead – ‘will have none of it. He prefers to lodge with someone.'

‘Honestly! That boy,' says Penelope. ‘He just wants someone to run around after him and do his laundry. Susanna
completely
spoiled him when he lived at the palace. Well, we'll put our heads together, won't we, Martin?'

‘Thank you,' says Giles. ‘He intends to bestow his lovely presence on his new landlord in around two weeks' time. Yes, I know! But this is Freddie we're talking about here – who thinks that remembering to get dressed in the morning constitutes being organized. Well, bless you, my dears.' He sketches a cross. ‘Please enjoy your nitrous oxide responsibly.'

The office door closes.

‘Oh, dear!' Penelope wipes her eyes once more. ‘Whatever must he think of us?'

‘I think I'd better get a breath of fresh air,' says Martin.

The air outside is not fresh today. We are due a thunderstorm, I think. Martin's new light blue clerical shirt clings to his back. He aches as if he's been doing stomach crunches.

Laughter aside, he's pretty offended, actually. Nobody seems to rate his pastoral abilities. Maybe they're right? Maybe he'd be a disaster as a parish priest these days? There's clearly something about his personal statement that's putting people off. Probably his failed marriage. He's going to carry the blame for that for the rest of his life! He catches himself, and tries not to think this is unfair. Paul's voice comes back to him, something he said at their pub lunch a few weeks back:
In the end, you can only live as you can, not as you can't.

Is that what I'm trying to do? wonders Martin. To be something that is impossible for me to be? But what room does Paul's maxim leave for the transforming power of God? Surely we are called to live
better
lives than we can, assisted by the Spirit?

Bees drone above his head in the lime trees. The whole Close is giddy with scent today. He passes the school. It's playtime. There's the usual racket of screams and shouts. A football comes sailing over the high wall.

‘Bianchi, you dickhead!'

Martin catches the ball awkwardly on the second bounce and lobs it back.

‘Oh, thanks!' pipe several treble voices in surprise.

Martin's pulse races a little. He still gets flustered by hurtling balls.
Hurr hurr, Rogers throws like a girl!
But nobody saw. He dusts his hands together and walks on. The cathedral clock chimes. On cue, an old-fashioned school bell is rung vigorously:
Ker-dang! Ker-dang! Ker-dang!
The screams and shouts are doused as though someone has clapped a mute over the playground.

‘
What
does the bell mean, Harry Bianchi?' demands a voice in the silence.

‘Sorry, sir!'

Martin continues on his circuit of the Close. He passes William House, and slips into the alley that leads to the narrow way off the Close. There should be a breeze there. Yes. He unsticks his shirt and stands looking out from his dizzy perch across the lower town. From up here you get a real sense of the old medieval fortifications. He brought Leah here recently, to help bring her
Horrible Histories
to life. That hadn't gone well. He can't seem to get anything right with that girl! He's tried cracking down on her rudeness, he's tried ignoring it.

He certainly ignored her comment last weekend about his trousers! He's a bit self-conscious about them. Linen. A new venture, and with Becky gone, there's no authority to give him a ruling: ‘Definitely yes' or ‘Definitely no'. Penelope hasn't commented. He fears this means ‘
Definitely
no!' Are they an inch too short? (
Dad's got jack-ups!
) Maybe he should have opted for the longer length, and then tried to find a seamstress to turn them up? He tuts impatiently at this endless loop of fretting. So what? Does anyone even care about your trousers? (Ah, if there were someone to care!)

There's the Linden down there among willows. He can just hear the kerfuffle of incompetent punters. His gaze follows the river's meanders out to the ancient water meadows, then further off, to where the cooling towers of Cardingforth plume out steam columns like Old Testament pillars of cloud. He thinks of the relentless bombing of Gaza. Place names escaping – bang! – from Bible pages into headlines.
How long, O Lord?
Will the conflict never end? How can it ever end, after so many centuries of tangled wrongdoing and blame and hate?

The wind flutters the lime leaves. Somewhere behind him he can hear a clarinet. Martin is not musical, but even he recognizes this: Mozart's Clarinet Concerto. The slow movement. His sister learned to play it for one of her grades. And here comes the bit she never quite mastered, a downward squiggle of notes that launches back up into another slow, soaring phrase. He holds his breath . . . a-a-and the unseen player nails it. Martin leans both hands on the wall and bows his head.

It's back again, isn't it, that quiet question mark?

Oh, please don't ask me to do this!

A whole-body flush creeps over him. How he burned with hatred this time last year! Martin has not yet taught himself that he's forgiven for his treatment of Freddie May. Forgiven by the good Lord, forgiven by Freddie himself. And now, as if by some stealthy plan, along comes an opportunity – like treasure stumbled upon in a field – for Martin to make amends. He could offer Freddie a home for the summer. Couldn't he? The question shimmers on the edge of his vision, like the first warning of a migraine. As if divine prompting were one long nagging headache!

Martin can see how neat it would be: a year on, to invite into his home the very man he had maliciously dumped into a safeguarding case. To say loud and clear, ‘I trust you with my daughters.' His heart thumps. I should do it.

I
could
do it, couldn't I?

I
will
do it! And then, like a little tumble of dominoes, come two more decisions. He will agree to those sessions of Family Therapy the children's mother has suggested, and he will apply for the BLO job after all.

(Mirth cramps his stomach again. If he gets the job, his first act will be to adjust the title, that's for sure.)

Yes. He grips the wall top. He will action these three points. Good. He turns and heads back towards the palace, completing his lap of the Close. He passes under the high window where the clarinettist is still practising. The phrases spool out with an effortlessness that floats on years and years of diligent practice.