Unseen Things Above (25 page)

‘No. Don't you dare repeat that, Gene. Seriously.'

‘Oh, come on, everyone knows Guilden was tipped for the job!'

‘No, they don't
know
that. The CNC's discussions were confidential.'

‘As you wish.' He bowed. ‘And I suppose Steeeve is a married gentleman?'

‘He is. His wife's called Sonya. They're big in the New Wine network.'

‘That means nothing to me.'

‘Well, I'd describe him as Charismatic stroke Open Evangelical.'

‘I would
never
stroke an Open Evangelical.'

‘You say that now,' replied the dean with a smile, ‘but you haven't met Sonya yet.'

‘Ooh! Is she a looker? Will I like her?' He got out his phone and began googling.

‘You'll meet them both on Thursday evening.'

‘Oh, lucky, lucky me.'

‘We're hosting a welcome dinner in a private room in the Lindford Excelsior.'

‘There's glamour.'

‘Look, stop being so snooty. The idea is that Steve and Sonya get to meet the senior staff team and their spouses before the announcement on Friday morning. I hardly need say it, but this is all still embargoed, Gene.'

‘I'm as mum as a home-schooling Evangelical wife. Here we are. Well, hell-ooo, Mrs Pennington! My, my! She looks like an air hostess in a seventies porn movie. Does she bake? I'd eat her muffins any day!'

‘There. I knew I could count on you, my darling.'

‘Ooh, and get
you
, Bishop Steve! Isn't he the dapper dog! Heavens to Betsy! He almost out-Gilderoys Gilderoy in the floppy hair department, doesn't he? I
wish
I could rock the ageing
Brideshead
look. Ah well, at least his hair is gay. That's something, I suppose. Ooh, I wonder if he'll be needing a chauffeur? Or, indeed, a topless cocktail—'

‘NO!'

‘Still not funny?'

‘It will
never
be funny.' The dean frowned him into submission.

‘And now I urgently need to open a bottle of something
old
. A nineteen-eighty-four Chateau La Lagune? Yes. Because, as the Good Book says, no one after drinking old wine straightway desireth the new. New Wine! Sweet suffering middle-aged Jesus in five-oh-ones!'

‘That's right.' The dean squeezed his arm. ‘You get it all out of your system, darling, and then you can behave on Thursday night.'

Gene laid a hand on his heart. ‘You may rely upon me to do everything that is proper in a dean's husband. And afterwards I'll come home and drown a litter of kittens to balance my chakras.'

And so, dear readers, welcome to the inner circle of those who know the identity of the next bishop. I must ask you to be discreet, no matter how strongly you feel on the subject. Don't talk to the press. Don't sound off on Twitter. It is vital that the news does not get out before the official Downing Street announcement. If Steve's name is leaked, that's seven years' bad luck, and the culprit will have to go and stand in the corner wearing a label saying ‘I'm a tit'. Happily, the members of the CNC have taken their vows of confidentiality seriously. Nobody has gone home and offloaded on spouse or colleague, tempting though that will have been. They have been careful not to leave top secret emails open on their desktop. No nods, winks or hints have been issued, and nobody has prattishly gone out and had a flutter on Steve Pennington at Ladbrokes.

This, then, is the net curtain transparency of the C of E that I referred to earlier. We know who the CNC members are, and where and when they met. But we will never know what went on in those – we must imagine – anguished discussions that led to their unanimous decision to select Bishop Steve Pennington for the See of Lindchester, and dash poor Guilden's hopes, just as his mother had warned back at Easter.

The archdeacon, when he heard the news, was not altogether surprised. Probably still a tad too soon for Guilden to get the job. It would only take one member of the CNC to have grave concerns . . . And Matt knows the local ones, so he can hazard a guess. Still, it's not going to be too long before Guilden, or someone gay and out, is made bishop. Within a year or two, Matt was thinking. Unless the wind changed. Probably be in a less trad diocese than dear old Lindchester, where some folk were still needing a little lie down after getting a woman dean! No, most likely be a more hip urban diocese. Plus you had to bear in mind the pressure on the archbishops to appoint an ultra-conservative bishop ASAP, to placate the hardliners, who were feeling like a persecuted minority as well. What a mare. Here's how Matt read the situation: three on the shortlist – Guilden, Steve, and Revd Conservative. Which meant it was a no-brainer. There was only one of that line-up who could provide a focus for unity in the diocese. Shame, as he'd got a lot of time for Guilden, and it was about time we chuffing sorted ourselves out on the gay issue. That said, Steve was a good thing, easy guy to warm to. More of the common touch than Paul, had to be said. Plus he's not going to derail the diocesan growth strategy.

The members of the CNC have done their work. For better or worse, they have made their choice. Geoff returns to the parish office after the asylum-seekers' drop-in session. He is still coming to terms with the decision. Had they played it too safe, and valued unity over the prophetic? Is there ever a good moment to turn over the tables in the temple? Ought he to have pressed the point? He'd vowed after Veronica's appointment he'd always voice the unpopular view. No, this was different. He heard no alarm bells over Steve. But Veronica! It's like living in a permanent fire drill. If only he could see an end to it! How much is now just paranoia? He can no longer tell. He's lost track of how many times he's changed his computer password. And he has no real reason to think she's ever snooped.

All across the diocese Michaelmas daisies are in flower. Railway sidings and embankments and derelict sites are a haze of mauve, as if the waste places of Lindfordshire have broken forth into purple to herald the advent of the new bishop this Friday. And still the landscape seems to hold its breath. The driest September since records began. Silence. Like the silence in heaven when the dragon fought with the archangel.

There are clouds of incense at solemn evensong in Lindchester Cathedral for Michael and All Angels. And Freddie May, though his wings are tucked under his cassock, still sings like an angel (
Dum committeret bellum draco cum Michaele Archangelo
. . .), little knowing that tomorrow after evensong he will be hauled up in front of the director of music and the canon precentor and challenged about his use of social media. And all hell will break loose.

The door crashed shut. They waited till the footsteps had pounded off into the distance.

‘Well, I think that went off rather well!' said the precentor brightly.

The director of music had his head in his hands. ‘Oh, God. He's going to go AWOL now, isn't he? Well, at least tomorrow's dumb day.'

‘Which Mr May will doubtless keep in his customary manner, by doing something spectacularly dumb. I'd better text Philip and Pippa to alert them.' Giles got his phone out: ‘Tart crisis. Stand to!' He stacked his papers and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, this is why I thought we'd better brace him today. There's at least a chance he'll have cooled down by Thursday.'
No booze on school nights. No booze on school nights . . .
‘Well, we should both write up an account of this for HR.'

‘Yes, will do. Honestly, though, I really think his mentor might step in here. Isn't this exactly the sort of reason we set that up?'

‘I tried! I
begged
him to join us for this meeting. But Dr Jacks is a law unto himself, I fear.'
No booze on school nights.
‘Wine?'

‘God, yes. Thought you'd never offer.'

Freddie May is incandescent. Fuck this. He is totally heading off to London
right now.
Well, after dinner. Rude not to turn up, coz Totty's expecting him.

He flings himself on his bed. Giles and Tim have no right to judge his private life! This is nothing to do with the choir! Why does this
always
happen? This
so
wouldn't happen if he was straight! Just when things are starting to go right, why does someone always have to get on his case and totally judge his lifestyle like this?

‘Yoo-hoo! Freddie?'

Ah cock, now Totty's calling him? He blots his eyes on his hoodie sleeve. Please let him keep it together till after the meal? He heads downstairs. Turns the landing corner, and—

No! I don't
believe
this, they've only called his fucking mentor in to carpet him as well? For one dumbass moment Freddie nearly turns and sprints back upstairs. What – like he's gonna jump out of the back window and escape? Fucksake.

Dr Jacks beckons like a ref about to give a red card? Yeah, so much for not fucking discussing me with anyone, asshole! Freddie storms on down.

‘Mr May. I was hoping to catch a word in private.'

‘Yeah, I
know
why you're here—'

‘In private, Mr May.'

And he only gets him by the arm and steers him to the sitting room – un-fucking-believable! So Freddie kicks the door shut and goes into Total. Fucking. Meltdown. Judge me, you douchebag? Total betrayal, running to Giles, two-faced, I
trusted
you, man! Told you everything? Behind my back? You slut-shaming, arrogant, up yourself— And all the time Jacks just stands there, bored, like this is some aircraft fucking safety announcement he's doing here!

‘Well,
fuck
this mentoring shit, I'm through with it.'

Silence.

It goes on wa-a-ay too long.

Oh, man. The psycho stare? Like he's wondering what you'd look like without skin?

‘Thank you for your candour, Mr May. All very instructive, but that's not why I'm here, actually.'

‘Yeah, right. Like Giles hasn't—'

‘Ssh. I swung by to drop off a tail suit, because you told me last time that you don't own one. You may thank me once, and once only, then I want to hear no more about it.'

‘Wha-a-a'?' Nooo! Freddie wraps his arms round his head and shuts his eyes. Kill me now. ‘Gah! Seriously? You're not here about . . . ? Oh, man. Listen, I am so-o-o sorry? Only—'

Jacks has his hand to his ear, waiting.

‘Oh! Ah, thanks. But . . . yeah, no, listen, that's really nice of you, but you can't just like
give
me stuff?'

‘I'm not. It's called “paying it forward”. You're familiar with the concept? Good, because I expect my mentees to do the same. And this is all about you creating a professional impression. Being nice is not my forte.'

‘Yeah, but no, listen, sir— Gah! I just called you sir! I totally did that! Dr . . . what am I meant to call you?'

‘“Sir” is fine.'

Freddie hesitates. ‘You're . . . kidding, right?'

‘Oh yes, I'm a real kidder.' He glances at his watch. ‘May I raise one quick thing, Mr May? I tried to make it clear from the outset that I never discuss my mentees. Sadly, this hasn't prevented Giles from ringing me up to complain about you. So if
anything
occurs to you that might prevent this happening in future, I'd be grateful.'

‘Gah, I get that you're totally pissed at me? I am so,
so
sorry?'

Dr Jacks inclines his head. ‘Thank you. Then I'll be on my way.' He pauses. The icy eyes do another nad-shrivelling scan. ‘Unless, of course, you'd value someone older and wiser telling you what to do?'

Freddie tugs his hair. Hugs himself and shivers. ‘Oh, God. Yeah, no, yeah. Probably you should do that?'

‘Excellent. Then let me just ask: do you nurse any ambition at all to be taken seriously as a musician? Because on the strength of your online presence – speaking here as a choral director of some standing – I certainly wouldn't hire you.' He leans close and whispers: ‘You have a very nice bum, Mr May, but I believe the whole world has now seen it. You can safely delete the pictures.'

‘Nng.'

He pats Freddie's face like some scary Mafia boss. ‘Sort it out, Choirslut-Ninety. Ciao, ciao.'

Dr Jacks cuts across the Close to pop in on his old friend Bishop Harry, before shooting off up to The Sage. Sir! He shakes his head. Idiot child. Finally he permits himself a smile. Yes. It is true to say that a nobler man would not be enjoying this quite so much.

*

Preparations are under way for the welcome dinner. Penelope has booked the top secret private room at the Excelsior and issued everyone on the guest list with top secret directions. Poor old Steve and Sonya. Pity them just a little, dear reader, as they approach this ordeal. Everyone will behave well, and give them a warm Lindchester welcome, but there is inevitably a tiny undertow of antagonism when a new bishop is presented, as a
fait accompli
, to close colleagues who have had no say in his appointment. When we find ourselves powerless in important matters, all that remains is to sweat the small stuff.

Thus the dean weighs the merits of clerical garb against Diana von Furstenberg wrap dress. Gene goes to London and buys the most viciously purple shirt ever encountered outside the pages of a vestments catalogue. Martin books Freddie May to babysit his girls (they will have a mammoth pillow fight throughout the entire house that Martin will never find out about, and Leah will secretly break her heart all over again). Ah, and lovely Bishop Bob is coming to the meal – his first official outing since his heart op – though he and Janet may slip away early if he gets too tired. Bishop Harry's wife Isobel sends her apologies. The precentor's wife, having seen a photo of the new bishop's wife, has been out to buy a new posh frock. Not that it's a competition, of course. Totty will fling on pearls and LBD at the last minute. The poor chancellor's wife will try to locate
something
that still fits and doesn't have historic puke on the shoulder.