Unseen Things Above (23 page)

But the tree-shakers are in the orchard, like it or not. We hear their feet tramping down below as we cling on up here in the sunshine. What are they about, these madmen? Visigoths and vandals! Or – impossible thought – are they sent by the Lord of the Harvest? How are we to read the signs of the times? If we knew for sure that this was a slave trader and not the ark of salvation, then of course we would give our blessing to the boat-rockers! We wouldn't stand on this deck singing ‘Amazing Grace' if we were sure it was the stench of injustice, not the unfashionable scent of scriptural truth that filled our nostrils.

On the wires the swallows gather, and wait for the signal to leave.

The Rogers girls walk to school with Mummy. Little Jessie skips. A new pink Barbie bag jounces on her back. Inside this is a new pink Barbie lunchbox, because that's what little girls are made of, made of. There is a pink aisle and a blue aisle in this world. A princess cupcake pony aisle of lipstick and tiaras, and an adventure pirate dragon aisle of farts and weapons. The divide is policed by the children themselves.

Hur, hur, Leah Rogers is wearing BOYS' TRAINERS!

Leah Rogers is indeed wearing boys' trainers, because there are no
children's
trainers at Clark's (and it must be Clark's, or how is Leah to thank her mother when she's forty and still has nice feet?). As you enter the mystic shopping portal to happiness, childhood bifurcates. You must choose: Girls or Boys. Poor Leah just wanted black trainers. Is that too much to ask? But black trainers for Girls all have purple or jade or pink embellishments. This is important. Should gender confusion strike during PE, a girl needs to be able to glance at her feet and reassure herself that all is well. Look: it is possible to be sporty
and
pretty! I'm still a real girl! Yay!

Leah's Boy trainers are black and white. No good will come of this! She will never grow up to be a happy, well-adjusted adult consumer if she can't decide which aisle she shops in. Oh, and it gets worse! Her new karate backpack is black and white too! Is it a
boy
bag or a
girl
bag? Her karate kit is white,
^*
and one day she will get a black belt and be as awesome as F— M—, whose name she cannot even whisper in her head, in case anyone suspects, and says, ‘Hur, hur, you fancy him, you've gone all red!' Which is so not true, she doesn't
fancy
him, she
respects
him, which is totally different, but the pink princesses at school don't get this, because they are IDIOTS, always squealing and texting the entire whole time and going, ‘OMIGOD, don't look, he totally looked at me just now!' Plus they think everything is about sex, like who even
cares
about sex? They are so immature.

Leah is now in the top year of juniors. This time next year it will be Big School. And
puberty
.

Shut up,
shut up, SHUT UP
!

As she walks to school she practises her blocks and snap punches, because she's got her next grade in three weeks. The poor girl respects F.M. so much she aches. Just
aches
to see him again. She has stopped moaning about boring, boring Fridays, when they have to wait in the office after school for Daddy to finish work. Oh,
why
did Daddy have to go and get that stupid new job? Because after Christmas they won't need to come to the office and wait ever again! There are only four months left!

Every Friday Leah does
pinan nidan
and
pinan shodan
on the palace drive. Over and over. All the grown-ups are impressed. ‘Goodness, she takes her karate seriously, doesn't she?' they say to Mummy or Daddy. ‘Duh,
obviously
. Coz I want to get my black belt,' she tells them. That's the reason. The reason is not in case
he
comes and joins in again on his way to choir practice and says, ‘Hey, you rock, girlfriend!' Tuh! That would be lame.

And anyway, he never comes.

Honestly, this is the last straw! To come in late from a meeting to
this
. Father Dominic screws the letter up, drops it, stamps on it. He rings Janey. No reply. He checks his watch. It's getting late, but he rings Ed. ‘Hello, Father.'

‘Father! Hello! How are you? How was France?'

‘Lovely, thanks. Listen, Ed, is now a good time?'

‘It's a perfect time. I'm walking home along a country lane from a harvest supper planning meeting. We're going to hold a beetle drive. A beetle drive!'

‘Oh, you country parsons!
We're
having a global food banquet for Back to Church Sunday. Because we're all urban and edgy, so there. Look, can I pick you brain for a moment?'

‘Of course.'

‘Thanks. Listen, have you been approached to take part in any “shared conversation” thingies?'

‘Oh, God. Those. I had a letter, but it wasn't from the diocese, so I binned it.'

‘Oh, goody-good! It was from the Reverend Dr Veronica da Silva? Have you actually met her yet?'

‘Oooh, you've got your hatchet-job voice on, Father. She's Wendy's curate, isn't she?'

‘No, no! That's Virginia. Veronica is the ubiquitous self-appointed chaplain of everything. She's trying to annexe us gay men to her empire, Ed!'

‘Ha ha! I'd like to see her annexe Neil!'

‘You laugh! Seriously, I can't remember when I ever hated someone this much. I literally cannot be in the same room as her! My head feels like a computer with a great big magnet stuck on the hard drive, or something.'

Silence. ‘Hmm.'

‘I hide when she calls round, Ed. Literally hide. I screen my calls. Am I going mad? Maybe I'm going mad!'

‘I doubt it,' says Ed. ‘You poor darling! I'm really sorry to hear this. You're not obliged to have any formal dealings with her, though, are you?'

‘No, but I'm Rector of Lindford, and she bobs up
everywhere
! She's on every committee! Honestly, she's like some demon-possessed cuckoo-clock. “Cuckoo! Father Dominic!” Argh! I'm not even convinced she's ordained, frankly. Remember that guy, Wallace something, in Cambridge? Who'd been a mercenary and a diamond miner?'

‘Ooh, one of
those
! Well, in that case, though I'm not a
huge
fan, I'd say the archdeacon's your man. He'll be all over her like a rash.'

‘You'd think! But he says he's not in a position to do anything for a month or two, and to take it up with diocesan HR manager, for God's sake!'

‘Ah, la belle Helene! She's Kay's other half. You know, Kay, Vicar of St Andrew's, Barcup?'

‘No! Kay Redfern! No! Well, I never knew that.'

‘Sssh! Don't tell Veronica, or she'll annexe them as well!'

‘I'm not sure she's interested in dykes, Father. They won't adore her the way we gay men always adore straight women.'

‘So why don't
you
adore her, then? You're a closet straight, aren't you? Admit it, Father!'

‘Talk to me again about adoring her when you've met her! But thanks, Ed. Good to get that off my chest.'

‘Any time, Father. Go and open a bottle of Prosecco.'

Jane checks her phone. Missed call from Dom. Nothing from Matt. If she'd got a job in New Zealand, she'd be enjoying her mid-semester break now. Like Danny, off in Queenstown black water nude bungee-jumping, or something equally mental. She'd be approaching the home straight, not bracing herself for the start of a new year.

Oh, God. Was that the wrong call last December? Gambling everything on Matt being The One, assuming it would work out because they were both wild about each other. If I'm going to be miserable, wouldn't it be better to be miserable in Middle Earth? No, this was cheap escapism. Let this clergy discipline thing run its course. Things may yet work out. She texts him: ‘Miss you. Jxx'

Father Ed arrives back at the vicarage to find another silver Skoda parked beside his. Even before he's got the front door open he can hear Neil laughing in the kitchen.

‘Eds? C'mere, big man!'

Uh-oh. That'll be the U'Luvka speaking. He goes through to the kitchen to rescue the poor guest.

‘Where've you been? I'm 'splaining the YES campaign to Ronnie, here. You know each other?' Neil waves the bottle towards a woman dressed in black. ‘Ronnie, Ed, ma fiancé. Ed, Ronnie. Fuck, I'm pished.'

She bounds forward, like a tarantula pouncing. ‘Hi, Father Ed!! I've heard
so
much about you from Dommie!!'

_____________________

*
It is true that pink karate kits do exist, but only when some numpty washes it with a red belt.

Chapter 21

‘M
cIvor,' said Father Ed to Neil. ‘McIvor called.'

Neil froze. Went scarlet.

Ed turned to Veronica. ‘Really sorry. Bit of a crisis. Oh, dear.' He looked helplessly at his watch. ‘Um. Sorry to do this, but if you could, ah, leave us . . . ?'

‘Oh, I todally unnerstand!' A compassionate hand gripped Ed's arm. ‘That's cool. I hear you. My heart so goes
out
to you guys and your situation? If there's anything I can do? I'll come back at a better time. Neil, thanks for the drink, I'll be in touch, darling. Anon for now.'

Darling! Ed apologized her to the door, expertly shielding himself from a deluge of future commitments with the umbrella of English uselessness. Finally the silver Skoda pulled away. His heart was pounding.

By the time he got back to the kitchen Neil had unfrozen. I'll say! He'd passed from solid state, through liquid, and was now vaporizing.

‘Excuse me?
Excuse me?
Did you just
safeword
me?'

‘Yes. Yes, I did, Neil.'

‘What the actual fuck, Eds? That's not what it's
for
, you bawheed!'

‘Really? I thought it was for when you're doing something I'm really not enjoying and I need you to stop
now
, without arguing.'

‘
In bed!
It's in bed, not, not, tsh!—' He rapped his knuckles on Ed's forehead. ‘Not
socially
, it's not an
in conversation
thing when there's feckin' company here! Christ! Do you even know how embarrassing you are, Vicar?'

‘I couldn't think how else to shut you up. Shall I explain what's going on?'

‘I would love that, I would
love
you to explain on what planet that is acceptable behaviour— McIvor? I'll give you McIvor! Aye, and another thing, why's Ronnie gone, eh? You threw her
out
? What's that all about? She's the one person who can help us here with, with, strategy, with the media and legal, she's the LBGT, LG, och, the
thing
chaplain.
And
the union rep. Why aren't you in the union, Eds, eh? Anyway.' Neil folded his arms with laborious flamboyance. ‘Go on, then. Explain away.'

It should be noted that Neil was not at his most receptive. Ed did his best to convey that Veronica was
not
their friend and ally, that there was no diocesan LGBT officer, that she was not the diocesan union rep; but this was waved aside. Father Dominic was dismissed as ‘that wee nellie' and his concerns ridiculed. No, it was pointless to argue tonight. Ed settled himself to endure. An unfocused rant against the Church followed, interspersed with what ‘Ronnie' proposed to do to aid their cause, doubling back periodically to McIvor. Ed let it run its course. Neil's drunken discourse resembled a mad wind-up toy that threshed hysterically round your ankles until it finally twitched into stillness – only to clatter back to life if you foolishly poked it. He'd moved on to Scottish independence now. Ed's eyes watered from stifled yawns.

‘Don't fall asleep on me, you bastard!'

‘Sorry, but you're having a
Braveheart
moment. I lost the will to live.'

Neil punched his arm. ‘And
another
nother thing – yon archdeacon, he's been suspended. For shacking up with his missis. Aye, I thought you'd be interested in
that
.' And off he went again: bastard bishops, Yes campaign, Tory bastards, McIvor! Why's Ronnie gone?

My readers may be relieved to learn that the archdeacon has not, in fact, been suspended. I will seize the opportunity offered by Neil's disquisition to bring you up to date. The diocesan registrar has done whatever registrars do in the privacy of their chambers under the heading ‘Preliminary Scrutiny' – pondered and stroked his chin? turned cartwheels in his twinkly shoes? we may never know – and has submitted his report to the bishop. Briefly: there
is
sufficient substance to the complaint to justify proceeding with it. Just as Bishop Harry predicted.

Those of you who are interested in the minutiae of such processes may download the document entitled Clergy Discipline Measure 2003 Code of Practice, and consult it at your leisure. It is available on the C of E website, because it is our joy to be transparent. Admittedly, the C of E is occasionally transparent in the manner of a net curtain: you can see out perfectly well. Seeing
in
may be altogether more baffling.

Bishop Harry, were he Bishop of Lindchester and not merely a retired acting bishop, would have dismissed the complaint as ‘probably not grave enough to merit a formal rebuke under the Measure'. But there we are. Matt has been officially informed and sent a copy of the registrar's report and the original complaint. He now has twenty-one days to provide a written reply.

Ah, what a dull document to scoop up so much human suffering! Here is the first port of call for complaints about everything from cocking up the interment of ashes, via snogging your youth worker, through to systematically abusing choirboys. The process seeks to deal fairly, kindly and consistently with all: the victims, the wrongdoers, the innocent, the misunderstood, the weak and hapless, and the criminal. Let nothing be swept under the vestry carpet ever again! Unfortunately, the Clergy Discipline Measure also presents itself as a handy tool for malcontents. If you don't like the cut of your vicar's jib, if you take agin a member of the senior staff, here's a way of making life difficult for him or her. The Measure is not designed to deal with ‘minor complaints and grievances'; but hey, it's worth a shot. In a previous era all you could do was rattle off a green ink snorter to the bishop. Now you have Form 1a.