Unseen Things Above (22 page)

‘Ssh.' He waits till Freddie stops squirming and tugging his hair, and manages to hold his gaze. ‘Thank you. Rules of engagement. You may trust me one hundred per cent. Anything we discuss goes no further. I am not part of the “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Freddie?” task force. Ssh, don't interrupt. You can say anything, ask anything, call me any name under the sun – as indeed you already did last year. I'm unshockable. Please don't bother being winsome: I have no charm receptors in my brain. No need to impress me, I am already impressed, or I wouldn't be here. Finally, don't lie to me. I will be able to tell, and it will piss me off. So, to summarize: say what you like and I will listen. And then
you
will listen to me and do as you're told. How does that sound?'

Freddie blinked. ‘Honestly? Like you're a kind of a bell end?' Whoa. Scary silence. ‘Um, you said I could say anything?'

‘Ah! I see – you'd finished. I was waiting to be told to go fuck myself.'

‘Gah, about that? Really sorry. I just kinda lost it? Only then, later? I tried to, like, take what you said on board, and address it? And not be all, you know? Thing is, yeah? I'm, I'm like, gah, kinda everything's always all—'

He has his hand up. ‘I'm going to stop you there, Mr May, as you are no longer making sense. And we need to order.' He turns to the barista. ‘Double espresso, and a glass of mineral water, San Pellegrino, if you have it? Excellent. Freddie.'

‘Oh, um, yeah, can I get a latte?'

The waitress leaves. Freddie looks out over the town. A seagull comes in, legs dangling, to land on a roof ridge. This is
death
. No, no good. Can't handle this. Got to get out.

There's a hand on his arm. ‘Don't take fright, darling.'

Ah nuts, now he's gonna cry?

‘What's on your heart?'

‘Dude, I like, I just . . . can't do this? I'm a fuck-up, yeah? I fuck stuff up, I can't do this, this, being a grown-up thing, OK?' Are you
mad
? Shut
up
! ‘I know it's lame, but I can't handle myself, the money, running my life, the whole, gah, being responsible for shit? I'm trying to be like, organized, but . . . What?'

He laughs. ‘Nobody expects you to be organized! You're a divo. Divos have managers.' Freddie stares. ‘Be kinder to yourself. We are none of us omnicompetent. Ah, thank you.'

The waitress sets down the drinks. Freddie holds it together till she's gone. Ah, nuts. Like when he was six? Boarding for the first time, Mum's just left him? Can't stop sobbing. Dude just waits, puts a hand on his arm. Then Freddie's telling him the stuff he's never told anyone. Like he's opened that cupboard where he's been hiding junk for years and now the whole fucking lot is falling out, just falling out, falling out.

Yeah. Turns out he's pretty much unshockable.

And then, like three coffees and a million paper napkins later? ‘Oh, God. Dude, I am totally in love with you?'

‘Of course you are, Mr May. But let's agree to ignore it. Go and wash your face and I'll walk you back.'

The archdeacon is trying frantically to clear his in-box before skedaddling for a couple of days' sneaky holiday. Like painting the chuffing Severn Bridge. New emails pinging in as fast as he clears them. What's this? From the vicar of St James'. Crap. Bit of a heart-lurch there. He never did chase that up. Veronica da Silva. He gets on to it now. Spot of the old detective work. Hmm. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. He's heard of this before: ‘ordination' from some free independent ‘theological academy', then a series of denomination hops, until bingo! Fully fledged Anglican. Definitely worth a conversation when he's back from holiday. He looks at his watch. Better see if he can fix a date before he goes.

‘Hello, Veronica. Archdeacon Matt here.'

‘You're not supposed to contact me.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘While the complaints procedure is in train, you aren't supposed to discuss it with me.'

‘What?' His heart starts to pound. ‘I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘I've lodged a formal complaint about you.'

VOOM. Matt's head flames like a beacon. Blood crashes in his ears like breakers in a cave. ‘All righty. Well. I was actually calling about something else. Could we fix a time to meet? Some questions have cropped up about your CV that I'd be grateful to chat through.'

‘No. This is an attempt to pressurize me into withdrawing my complaint.'

‘Sorry? No, it's not.'

‘It is. You're trying to browbeat me. I'm making a note of this. Don't contact me again. Goodbye.'

Very, very slowly Matt replaces the receiver. As though one knock might cause his whole world to shiver into tiny fragments.

As though this has not already happened.

Chapter 20

‘M
att. Can you pull over? Here.'

‘What, Lindford Common?'

‘Yes.'

‘All righty.' He turned into the car park. ‘Everything OK, Janey?'

‘Come on. I want to show you something.'

They got out and he followed her down the track. Pretty torn up underfoot. Spot of illegal quad biking been going on by the looks of it. Used condoms. Knotted dog-poo bags swinging in the branches. Nice. Never could understand that. Why pick it up at all, if you're only going to wang it into the trees?

They were headed for the little lake. He could see it ahead of them, glinting through the trunks. Eerily still today. You could even hear the acorns dropping. But was he going to be able to unwind when they got to the Lakes, with all this crap hanging over his head? Yep, he'd got the mother of all dog-poo bags dangling over him, like the sword of whatsisname.

Jane stopped by the lake and pointed. Matt looked at the white sign nailed to the tree: ‘WARNING Thin ice.' He managed a smile.

‘I used to bring Danny here,' she said. ‘We always found that funny.'

‘Hmm. A tad overcautious in the summer months.'

‘Except that's how I feel, Matt. Like I'm on thin ice. The whole time.'

Oh, Lord. He said nothing.

‘Well? Are you going to tell me what's going on? Something's happened since I last saw you, and I need to know if it's to do with me, or if I'm just being a silly moo. Because unless you talk to me, I'm not going to enjoy this break.'

Matt rubbed his face and sighed. ‘Okey-doke. Yep, something's cropped up. I wasn't going to mention it, because it may come to nothing. Right. Someone's whacked in a formal complaint about my . . . lifestyle.'

‘What? You've got to be kidding me! Because of
us
?'

He winced. ‘Afraid so. Look, no point getting too het up at this stage. Bishop may decide there's no grounds to proceed.'

‘Of course there aren't any!' She saw his face. ‘Oh, crap. There are?'

He looked away. Stared at the water. Oak leaves and feathers rested on the surface, motionless. ‘To be honest, Jane, if a situation like this came to my attention as archdeacon, I'd probably need to look into it.'

‘Oh, my God! I thought we were in the clear!' She was standing there, hands spread in disbelief. ‘What were you
thinking
, Matt? Were you just hoping we wouldn't get caught? What happens now? You get defrocked?'

‘Don't be daft. Worst-case scenario: a formal rebuke.'

‘Yes, but after that? We won't be able to carry on as we are, will we?'

‘Well, I'd have a spot of thinking to do, for sure. But let's not jump the—'

‘Jesus! It's bad enough never being able to live together! This is an
unbelievable
intrusion—
Stop
fucking sighing at me like
I'm
being unreasonable! What right has the Church got to police my sex life? We're consenting adults, we're committed to each other, we're harming no one!'

‘I know. I'm sorry. But it's honestly too soon to be fretting, OK? Let's try and put it from our minds while—'

‘Who was it? Come on. Which small-minded fuckwit thinks it's their business to go running to the bishop?'

‘Um. Probably not a good idea for you to know.'

‘Tell me right now!' She grabbed his arm. ‘It's someone I know, isn't it?'

‘It's not Dominic, if that's what—'

‘Of course it's not Dom! Who else knows? Who have you told?'

‘Look, you tend to make a fair few enemies in the old archdeaconing trade. Goes with the territory.' He began outlining the complaints process for her, preliminary scrutiny of evidence, possibility of case being dismissed, failing that, his right to respond . . .

Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘It's Veronica, isn't it?'

‘Jane, look—'

‘Oh, my God! How the hell does she know? Has she been
stalking
us? Right. Leave this to me.'

‘Jane, no. You absolutely need to keep out of this.'

‘I'm already
in
this! Matt, she's a loony from La-La Land! She needs to be stopped. Don't worry, I'll go through university channels. I'll contact HR and we'll soon see if her CV holds up.'

‘No!' He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Didn't mean to shout.' She was staring at him. Tears in those lovely dark eyes. He was a bastard. Owed her a better explanation. So he told her about that little phone call he'd just had. Told her everything.

No, not everything. He did not tell her about the suffragan bishop's post. No point. He'd withdrawn his name. Last thing he'd done before leaving the office. Well, you pray for guidance; you shouldn't be surprised if now and then the Almighty answers with an unambiguous thunderbolt.

We must wish them well and wave them off, for their little trip took them beyond the borders of the diocese. The matter now rests with the diocesan registrar, who may ponder the case for up to twenty-eight days. Why does everything take so long in the C of E? Possibly because there's a lot of work involved in being utterly transparent, while simultaneously being fanatically confidential.

How is poor Bishop Harry coping with all this tension? Somewhere along the way I think he must have considered the lilies of the field and learned the knack of not getting stressed about stuff he has no control over. Yes, he prays for Matt and Veronica, but they don't keep him awake at night. I'm glad Captain Harry is in command right now. He radiates calm. More than that, he brings a bit of silliness and fun to the place. And that is something even his worst enemies never accused Paul Henderson of doing.

Tension is mounting. One by one key people are quietly being taken into the inner circle of those who know the identity of the next bishop. So far nobody has blabbed. Nobody needs to blab! Off the record, we all know it's the bookies' favourite, Guilden Hargreaves. Is the Church ready for this? The Archbishop of York, as we know, reiterated the official line that there is nothing to prevent a gay priest in a celibate partnership from being appointed to a bishopric. Nothing, that is, but the hostility of large wealthy evangelical congregations. Sabres have been rattled. Guilden is not sufficiently repentant of his earlier domestic arrangements. Will the archbishop be forced to back down? Those who know Rupert Anderson say he won't be bullied. Will there be blood on the vestry carpet in a couple of weeks?

So I say I'm glad that Harry will be there when the announcement is made. I dare say he will be singing his favourite trouble song again. If you went to Sunday School a generation or two ago, you might be able to join him:

Cheer up, ye saints of God, there's nothing to worry about!

Nothing to make you feel afraid, nothing to make you doubt!

‘That was before climate change, of course, Tarquin,' Harry tells the large pink bear sitting on his desk when he gets in on Monday morning. He looks at the bear gravely. ‘I see you've got a new shirt. Penelope?'

‘Yes, Bishop?'

‘I've spoken to this bear before about dressing appropriately.'

‘Oh!' Penelope rushes in. ‘That boy!' She wrestles the bear out of his ‘Sorry Girls, I suck dick!' T-shirt. ‘I'll return this to its owner. Though I've a good mind to put it in the wheelie bin! I'm
so
sorry, Bishop. He must have got hold of Martin's keys.'

‘Thank you,' says the bishop. ‘Now, if you could put Tarquin on the naughty chair and give him an improving Christian paperback to read, I'd be grateful.'

Lindchester Diocese holds its breath. The landscape itself seems to pause. The pillars climb up from the cloud factory at Cardingforth. Summer weather, yet out of kilter, aslant. Children frazzle in their new uniforms. They peel off blazers and logoed sweatshirts. They loosen ties. Teachers in corridors bark, as they have ever done, ‘Tuck your shirt in!' For as everyone knows, untucked shirts are sloppy, sloppiness leads to indiscipline, and before you know it, the entire school is going to Special Measures in a hand basket.

Blackberries gleam fat on barbed stems and the pallid elder leaves are tinged with purple, as though steeped in elderberry wine. The Linden winds slow and lazy between banks crowded with policemen's helmet and the candyfloss of willowherb seeds. Once again Virginia creeper fronds blaze scarlet on Bishop Bob's garden wall, but he is not here to admire them and think sermon-like thoughts about beauty and decay this year. The Hootys will be back next week and Janet will busy herself in the borders. If Bob takes early retirement, it will be her last autumn tending this particular garden. She will want to make sure everything is ready to hand on to the next Suffragan Bishop of Barcup and his wife. Or his celibate gay partner! Or her husband! Goodness, how things change!

Yes, change is in the air. We accelerate towards some hidden eschaton. But can we raise our eyes and greet it yet? The apples ripen. Has the time come to shake the tree? Tree-shaking is a profoundly un-Anglican pastime. If we wait long enough, surely, surely the harvest time will come of its own accord?
All is safely gathered in, free from sorrow, free from sin.
Oh, let the time of fruition come gently, let us all agree upon it, let nothing be bruised or jolted! Let's not be hasty!