Unseen Things Above (27 page)

On the other bank a white-haired woman walks in her floral wellies, with a three-legged greyhound on a lead. The leak has been weighing heavily on Father Wendy's mind too. I dare say the reader is anxious to be reassured that she kept her oath of confidentiality, and has spoken to nobody about the deliberations of the CNC. Alas, I can offer no such consolation. Wendy has blabbed everything. There is nothing that Pedro doesn't know about the affair.

‘Oh, Pedro, Pedro, Pedro! What a mess this is. Poor Marion! I'm trying my hardest not to think unkind thoughts about whoever talked to the press. Why do you suppose they did it? Oh, you're right, it must feel like a life-and-death matter, mustn't it? It
is
a life-and-death matter! We only have to look at what's happening to gays and lesbians in other parts of the world. Oh dear, Pedro! If only Guilden had interviewed better! But he just
doesn't
find the diocesan growth strategy congenial, does he? With the best will in the world, he
wasn't
going to be able to take Lindchester forward. Whereas Steve . . . Yes. He'll do the job, won't he? Yes?'

But Pedro has seen something. Moorhen? Moorhen! There, emerging from the rushes on the path ahead. He tugs on his harness. Wendy laughs. ‘Not yet, darling, I'm sorry. We'll take you back to Northumberland in half term, I promise. And you can chase seagulls to your heart's content.'

So who did blab? Was it Geoff? No. But a chill crossed his heart when the news broke and the angry emails exploded in his in-box. He
felt
to blame. Why? He hadn't spoken to anyone, he'd taken no phone calls in anyone's hearing, he'd never left important emails open and unattended.

But had he been sufficiently careful? He can't prove anything. Can't even ask, because that would unleash a tidal wave of toxic counter-accusation. He tries to imagine going to Marion and saying, ‘I think it may have been my colleague checking my private emails without permission.' No, he can't, he just can't.

And now Fallon expertly re-stokes the fire with another feature, this time upending a vat of scorn on the House of Bishops and their deliberations on ‘Facilitated Conversations'. He expatiates on hypocrisy and double standards. He alludes to cases where senior church figures are sitting in judgement on gay priests who want to marry, while they themselves are subject to disciplinary procedures for conduct that is unbecoming or inappropriate to the office and work of the clergy . . .

The communications officer gives the archdeacon the heads up. Matt reads the piece in his office. Ooo-kay. Looks as though Fallon's got him in his sights. No prizes for guessing who his source is. Matt drums his fingers on his desk. He has not yet sent off his respondent's reply. He's playing the waiting game because he's a bloody-minded sod when his chain is yanked. And it's been well and truly yanked now. You bet your rainbow laces it has.

Father Ed doesn't see Fallon's article till that evening. He's just finished reading it when he hears Neil's key in the door. Neil (still in disgrace for his overcompetitive behaviour at the Harvest Beetle Drive) sweeps in with a blast of London. Kiss, kiss, c'mon, let's eat out, big man.

Ed taps the page. ‘I don't suppose you know anything about this, Neil?'

‘Me? No. Not read it.'

Ed stares into those wide, honest-as-the-day baby blues.

‘Oh, what?' Neil gets his U'Luvka out of the freezer. ‘Och, it's just Roddy doing his thing.'

‘I thought you hadn't read it,' says Ed. ‘Please tell me you didn't put him up to this?'

Neil pours a shot. ‘Yes, well, and
why
hasn't the recycling been taken out?'

Chapter 24

I
t's Friday. Ed sits in his study and emails his spiritual director:

Dear Father Malcolm,

Can I arrange to see you very soon, please? I find I'm not coping. If it isn't possible to meet this week, please pray for me. Briefly, the things I need to talk over concern Neil. I am finding his behaviour impossible to deal with. I can't seem to get him to understand how deeply what he's doing distresses me, and how talking to journalists impacts on my role as priest in the diocese. Sometimes I cannot see a way forward for us at all.

If you can make time this week, I'd be most grateful.

Ed

In the next room, Neil drafts a letter to Bishop Bob:

Dear
Bob Bishop Robert Right Reverend Sir Lord
Bishop,

You probably won't remember me Just a note to say
, I hope you are
recuperating
on the mend now.
Ed and I are
I was wondering whether you are
up for
feeling well enough yet to receive visitors, as I would
very much
really
appreciate value
appreciate the opportunity to
visit
come and see you some time
to talk through some issues just to say ‘Hi' just to introduce myself and
FUCK WANK.

Neil starts again: ‘Dear Bishop,
I was wondering if
WANK!!!!!'

Neil gets in his car and drives to Martonbury. Ed hears the Porsche snarl off into the distance. Where is Neil going now? Ed never asks any more. It is either something perfectly innocent (so why check?) or Neil will lie (so why check?).

The email is sent. There's nothing he can do now but wait. Father Malcolm might be busy, he might be away for a few days, on holiday for two weeks. Ah, God! What is Ed going to do with himself? What is the point of bothering to take a day off any more, if he and Neil can't seem to be in the same room without fighting?

So Ed gets out of the vicarage and walks for miles in the rain. From Gayden Magna to Gayden Parva. From Gayden Parva to Itchington Episcopi. I am the vicar here. And here. And here. I am a priest, a clerk in holy orders and prebendary of Gayden Parva. This is what I am. From Itchington Episcopi to Turlham. He walks and walks. As if this is Rogationtide and he's beating the bounds, beseeching, begging for mercy. Help me, help me. From Turlham back across more prebendal acres to Gayden Parva again. Along lanes where, since Anglo-Saxon times, priests innumerable have trudged, trudged, ridden their horses, driven their carriages, their Austins, Fords, Skodas. Under Midlands skies, in Lindfordshire rain and Lindfordshire mud. Loving the people, hating the people, blessing them, baptizing them, marrying and burying them.

I really don't matter, thinks Ed. I am just passing through. He pictures his name on the long, long list of incumbents, from Walter de This, Henry de la That, through plain English names, John Wyatt, Richard Graves, down the list, down past Reformation, Protectorate, Restoration, through plague, famine and war, and again war. And today the vicar is Father Edward Bailey. And after him, what? A handful more? Are these the twilight years of the parish system that has shaped our inner and outer landscape all these centuries? He looks up at the spire of Gayden Parva church. Will its significance one day be as obscure as stone circles?

Rain drips from the yews. Ed walks under the lichgate – the corpse gate – and along the gravel path to the west door. In the distance he can hear footsteps on the road, someone out jogging.
Tick tick tick
of trainers on tarmac. The feet turn and enter the churchyard. The lichgate clatters. Ed can hear panting now. The runner passes him and jogs into the church porch and grabs the handle, like a fugitive claiming sanctuary. Ed hurries to catch up. Young man, black running skins, green beanie. He's bent over, hands on knees, panting.

‘Did you want to go in?' Ed feels in his pockets.

The figure straightens up. Then he flinches. Tugs the hat down lower, looks away. ‘Nah, I'm good, thanks.'

‘Don't worry, it's not a problem. I'm the vicar.' Ed fumbles in another pocket. ‘Damn. Actually, I'm really sorry, I seem to have come out without my keys.'

‘Hey. No worries.' He turns to leave. Ed glimpses a strand of blond hair, gets a whiff of sweat. And Le Male.

‘Freddie May.' The runner freezes.

‘Yeah. Um. Hi.'

‘What are you doing here?'

Silence.

Suddenly it falls into place. Ah, Jesus! He's
still
seeing him? ‘Waiting to meet someone?'

‘Wha'? No! God, no!' He reaches, touches Ed's arm. Ed shakes him off. ‘Listen, ah nuts, it's just . . . Man, this is gonna sound really lame. So I sing in the cathedral choir? I'm like the lay clerk of Gayden Parva, or I will be, if . . . yeah. Um, so the other day, yeah, in evensong? I was suddenly: you know what, I have never even
been
to Gayden Parva? And just now I'm like, why not? Why not swing by and see the church? That's all. Swear?'

‘Right.'

‘Gah. You don't believe me? This blows. I honestly, honestly— there's nothing— Listen, I'm sorry.'

‘Just leave. Please.'

Ed knees buckle. He sits on the stone ledge in the porch, head bowed. The lichgate clatters again. The footsteps fade,
tick tick tick
, off along the lane. Rain drips. He raises his head and stares at the notices. The Harvest Supper and Beetle Drive poster is still there. He should take that down. But he just sits. How long before he hears the sound of the Porsche approaching? Is he just going to wait here till Neil arrives?

Somewhere a robin sings, tender and heartbroken.

Neil frets as he drives. Maybe he should phone ahead? I mean, what if he's out, or it's not convenient? He should ring. But no, he's too chicken, he wants the option of baling if he finds he can't quite get his nerve up to knock on the door. He should definitely take something, though. Flowers. Is there a decent florist in Martonbury? Not like you can give a bishop a bunch of turquoise feckin' chrysanths from the garage forecourt.

There! Roadside stall. He squeals to a stop. Reverses. Nobody about. Just a table in the rain. Free range eggs. Plums. Bunches of dahlias tied with baler twine. Random assortments just grabbed and bundled together. He gets out of the car and examines the bouquets. Tight little pom-poms, great shaggy globes, like footballs a Rottweiler's got hold of. Neil picks through. Autumn rusts, and purples. White, cream. Shocking scarlet and then a single acid yellow bloom shoved in. Total mishmash thrown together by a visual illiterate. He considers untying them and making a proper coherent bouquet; then again, maybe they're charming just as they are? In an unforced retro way? Like a symbol of something. Humanity? Eds would know, he'd put it in a sermon. Eds, Eds.

Och! Ssh, Ferguson, you big jessie. He sniffs, wipes his eyes, then gets out his wallet and leaves a tenner in exchange for a dripping bundle of dahlias.

‘Obviously, I don't believe any of it. No offence, Bishop. Mind you, I was sent to Sunday School. My auntie packed me off every week, just to get me out of her hair, coz I was a wee shite— sorry. And Boys' Brigade. And that meant church parade once a month on top of Sunday School. You weren't meant to turn up for BB if you'd not been to Sunday School or church parade. “Sure and stedfast” was the motto. Aye. We used to sing the BB song, “Will your anchor hold”. I can still sing it. Never forget stuff you learn as a child, eh? “Will your anchor hold in the storms of life! When the clouds unfold their wings of strife?” Ha ha, I'll spare you. And Scripture exams! The memory verse. John 3.16.
For God so loved the world.
And sword drill! Bible under your arm! And temperance exams! Temperance! Can you credit it? Anyway, as I say, I'm not a believer, Bishop.'

Bishop Bob bows his head in acknowledgement.

Neil can't stop himself. He blethers on, like he's explaining to the bishop why he
is
a believer, not why he's not. He tries to focus.

‘Aye, well, anyway, in the end, these Christians, they're all hypocrites. BB Captain, och, he was the biggest hypocrite of them all! Always telling us we were sinners, on to us to invite the Lord Jesus into our hearts in case we fell under a bus and it was too late, and sinning meant swearies, and nicking stuff from the shop, smoking, and playing doctors and nurses. Or sneaking into the back of X films, saw
Last Tango in Paris
and
The Exorcist
, scared the living shit out of me, but anyway – him!
He
ups and leaves his wife for this wee lass, wee bit of a thing, seventeen, she was. A Salvationist. With the bonnet and the tambourine. Timbrels, is that what they called them? Aye, timbrels. With the ribbons? Seventeen! Looked more like fourteen. Like a wee mouse. In my class at school, never even knew she was there, you know the kind. So what I'm saying is, on the Last Day – which I don't believe in, but on the Last Day – there'll be two queues. And the Christians, the respectable folk, will be in the heaven queue, and I'll be in the other queue, with the queers and alkies and all the other sinners. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Why? Because I don't want to spend eternity in any heaven that's got God in it. No offence, Bishop. Not that I believe in God, obviously.'

Bishop Bob smiles and bows his head again.

‘Aye, well, so that's a bit of background. That's why it's important to me to get married. To make a stand against hypocrisy. Half the bishops in the C of E are in the closet, for f— for God's— anyway. That's what my journalist friend tells me. Not yourself, Bishop, I don't mean.
Some
of the bishops. I mean, hasn't there been this “love letter”? Urging them to come out? I keep
telling
Eds, unless we're prepared to stand up and be counted, the status quo will just continue. C'mon! The law of the land says we can marry! Don't get me wrong, I know it's hard, God knows, I'm not saying it's easy coming out – mind you, it's not as hard as it was. To be
gay
? Nu-uh. That was
not
an option in my mind when I was growing up. Not even an option. I was the
opposite
of gay. Proving myself. Being gay was the worst thing,
the
worst thing that could ever happen to me, until finally, I had to admit, OK, this is what I am, and you know what? It's not actually the end of the world. So don't get me wrong, I can sympathize. Or I
could
sympathize, if they didn't keep voting against equal marriage! Sorry. Running ma gob again. Motormouth, always was a motormouth.'