Unseen Things Above (31 page)

BOOM! A firework went off right outside the church. Geoff leapt out of his skin.

Slowly he moved the mouse –

Click –

And logged off Veronica's account. The last shutter came clattering down outside. Silence. He stared at the screen. What had he come into the office to do? He couldn't remember. Oh yes, the order of service for All Saints. And the street pastors' rota. But he continued to stare, as stray fireworks shook the dusk.

What?
you cry. Does vengeance not belong to the godlike narrator? Could you not have compelled Geoff to dob Veronica in? Of course I could. But then he would no longer be Geoff. I'm very sorry about that. I know that you have been longing for Veronica to get her comeuppance. Geoff acted in accordance with a lifelong habit of trying to do the right thing, to steer his little canoe by the Pole star, however lost and far from home he might feel. He thinks he's a coward, of course. But the same habit of integrity will later make him challenge Veronica about what he saw, and require an explanation from her about her email correspondence with Roderick Fallon. He will not relish that encounter, but he will do it nonetheless. No, he's not a coward. Bravery consists in overcoming fear, not in being fearless.

It is early evening on Wednesday. There's singing in the vicarage at Gayden Magna. Ed pauses to listen. Neil has a surprisingly nice voice, bold and tuneful, if untrained. With an extensive pop diva repertoire at his fingertips, he's never bashful in a karaoke session. But Ed has recently discovered – to his vast amusement – that Neil also has a secret stash of Sunday School choruses hidden away in his memory banks. Ed is saying nothing. He doesn't want Neil to get self-conscious and stop.

I met Jesus at the crossroads,

Where the two ways meet!

Satan too was standing there and he said come this way!

Ed stifles a laugh.

Lots and lots of pleasures I can give to you today!

But I said ‘No!' . . .

Ed shakes his head and goes back to composing his Rector's Letter for the church magazine. Sometimes it feels as though Neil has a more full-on relationship with his non-existent God than Ed has with the maker of heaven and earth, whose existence he daily affirms.

. . . There's Jesus here, just look what he offers me . . .

Neil's footsteps approach the study. ‘What d'you think, big man? Does this tie work better?'

‘I've told you, it's informal, Neil.'

‘And are you wearing your dog collar? I rest my case.' He stands on tiptoe and checks his reflection in Ed's little mirror above the filing cabinet. ‘Down here my sins forgiven, up there a home in heaven! Praise God, that's the way for me! Well?' He wheels round. ‘This one, or the other one? Come on, focus!'

‘That one. Definitely.' He watches Neil's face for a clue. ‘Or maybe the other one. Yes, the other one.'

Neil folds his arms. ‘Uh-huh. Describe the other one.'

‘Well, it was different. In some important aesthetic way, it was subtly different.' Ed flings his hands up in defeat. ‘I honestly have no idea, Neil. Wear what you like. I'm guessing the Hootys' good opinion is based less on your snappy dress sense than on the fact that you saved his life.'

‘Och, don't start that again.'

‘Besides, you're hot whatever you're wearing, darling.'

‘And?' Neil rolls his hand. ‘Keep going.'

‘You are hotter than a hot thing. You're smoking hot.' Hand roll. ‘Piping hot. God, Neil, you are hotter than Satan's crumpets at high tea in hell! Argh, my retinas just melted! I can't—'

‘OK, fuck off now. You've spoilt it.' He consults the mirror once more. ‘Well, I'll wear this one, then. Oh, and I've ironed your black shirt, by the way. That's seriously your best shirt? How old is it? Twenty years?! You need some new ones. Yes, you do. The collar's worn out.'

‘I'll touch it up with a black marker pen. It'll be fine.'

‘Marker pen?!' utters Neil in Bracknellian tones. ‘I'm buying you some new ones. Pssht. Don't argue. Now, go and get changed. Chop chop.'

It's still a good hour until they need to set off for supper at the bishop's, but Ed discerns it's no use arguing.

All Saints Day, and the cathedral choir are still on vacation. On Sunday a visiting choir does the honours. They tick that most important of boxes: they are in tune. They are also audible, and they don't come a cropper by over-reaching themselves. (O visiting choirs, I charge you, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels.)

Why, then, is our friend the canon precentor in such difficulties? He stands rigid beside the dean at the altar. He maintains the
orans
position stiffly through the preface, hands lined up with nipples like the rubric states, and braces himself for the Sanctus and Benedictus with gritted teeth.

Here's why: the choir contains one of
those
sopranos. You know what I mean. Perfectly in tune, but incapable of blending in. Her reedy tones stand out the way middle C on the Song School piano would, if you were to stick a drawing pin into the hammer – as a certain chorister from hell demonstrated a dozen years ago.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,

Dominus Deus Sabaoth . . .

Probably the soprano was rather an accomplished singer in her prime. But yikes. If Giles were this choir's director he'd have her humanely put down.

Giles thinks that's what he'd do, but in reality, it's never that straightforward. There are many reasons for not getting rid of screechy sopranos. Compassion, denial, stark terror; or the choral table of kindred and affinity, which forbids the sacking of close relatives or spouses. We must not blame the singer too much. Perhaps she wonders, perhaps she even asks her fellow choir members whether she's still up to scratch. And they, being English, speedily reassure her, and continue to moan behind her back for many years to come.

Ah, the gulf that still exists between us and the kingdom. We are four Sundays from Advent. O Radix David, open wide the door to the heavenly quire! From east and west, north and south, let them come; let every voice prepare a song, ready to enter that gate and dwell in that house where there shall be no tone deafness nor virtuosity, but one equal anthem.

Eschatological visions aside, the visiting choir was a far cry from the high professional standards of the Dorian Singers. But I will admit that these are so stratospherically high that ice crystals form in your ears as you listen. Their Christmas CD,
Realms of Glory
, will zip up through the Classical charts like a Category 4 aerial shell firework and stun us all. We must expect their trademark technical wizardry, combined with an accessibility that jealous rivals will again disparage as ‘dumbing down'. Nip into any cathedral bookshop and buy a copy, if you are the sort who prefers the feel and smell of an actual CD. Otherwise download it like a normal person. In particular, do listen to the third track: ‘What wondrous love is this, oh my soul?' I'm telling you, your withers will be wrung. It's a heartbreakingly beautiful folk melody arranged for solo tenor. It's performed here by a talented young man whose light, pleasing voice seems made for English art songs. So no, we are not talking about Freddie May, (whose timbre has a distinct whiff of the night about it). Freddie was lined up to do it, but . . .

Look, I'm going to level with you, reader: Freddie does not feature at all on this CD.

Oh, Freddie, Freddie, Freddie! What have you done now? Don't tell me you were packed off home in disgrace, as you were from choir tours in your chorister days!

No, it was nothing like that, I'm relieved to say. Freddie managed to arrive sober at the right place, at very nearly the right time. The rehearsals went well. On two separate occasions Mr Dorian said, ‘Oh, very good, Mr May!', and on another, he all but smiled at him. Then, just as the sound levels were being checked prior to the recording,
whoosh!
Freddie had one of his spectacular nosebleeds. An hour later, when all the usual tricks had failed, poor Freddie was put in a taxi and sent up to the nearest A & E. I will spare you a detailed account (in any case, this all happened outside the Diocese of Lindchester) and simply report that an excruciating nasal cautery procedure put an end to any possibility of Freddie singing that week.

To say he was majorly disappointed comes nowhere near describing Freddie's feelings. He was
distraught
. But he knew that a noisy public display of wretchedness would not commend him to his mentor. To be needy, as well as a total flake? No way. Totally killed him, but he reined it in? Any case, he was shit scared that crying would trigger another nosebleed. Consultant was literally threatening him with surgery to sort out his busted septum, if the cauterizing didn't work?

So Freddie is not on the CD.

Actually, I tell a lie.

‘That's you! In your nuddy pants! Ha ha ha! What a hoot!'

‘Totty— Gah! It's not— I had my jeans on?'

‘I'll take your word for it. Aw, he's blushing! Poor angel! Hoo, hoo, hoo!'

‘Shut
up
, Totty! Listen, it's, it says something about the incarnation, OK? Power and weakness, yeah? The juxtaposition of . . . Hnn. Wait, human vulnerability, in, y'know, the shoulder blades? Plus the whole archangel . . . wing thing? What? That's totally what he said!'

‘Who?'

‘Nng.'

‘Ha ha! The great man himself! A bit rich after all his lectures! Next minute he turns round and says, “I know, let's put a hot bod on the CD cover and sell shed-loads of copies!”'

‘Hey! Out of order! It's my shoulders, not my ass! I'm so not talking to you, Totty. Gimme that.' Totty held the CD out of reach. ‘You're making out it's inappropriate?'

‘Let me look properly.' She popped her reading glasses on and studied the black and white image. A figure – radiant, bleached- out – in a stone archway. It might almost be an image from the
Souls and Bodies
exhibition. ‘All right, Freddie-bear, it's very tasteful and arty. Not porny at all. And you can't actually tell it's you.'

‘Mm, they kinda like photoshopped it to death?'

‘So how did Mr Dorian know about the tattoos, hmm? Or should I not enquire . . . ?'

‘I wish! So I had this massive nosebleed? Had to change? Well, hey girl, never pass up a chance to get your shirt off in public. That's totally my motto.'

‘Hoo, hoo, hoo! Bad bear!'

*

Talking of bad bears, the large pink teddy in the bishop's office is currently sitting in the window, looking out across the car park. He's wearing the archdeacon's pork pie hat. Matt left it behind last time he had a meeting with Bishop Harry. Such are Matt's levels of distraction, he hasn't had time to work out where he last saw it. In fact, he's barely registered his hatlessness.

The battle with Veronica is now in the endgame of Phase One. The complainant has exercised her right ‘to request the President of Tribunals in writing to review a dismissal under section 11(3) of the Measure'. Well, he'd seen that one coming. It's a time-wasting resource-wasting bit of bloody-mindedness. Harry's decision can only be overturned if the president believes that the bishop was flat out wrong. It will drag on for another month, six weeks, max.

And after that, Phase Two. When the archdeacon will be calling the shots. He has all his ducks in a row. A spot of digging around in the Revd Dr da Silva's CV has thrown up a whole bunch of inconsistencies. A couple of trips to previous workplaces and a few off-the-record chats with former colleagues proved, shall we say, enlightening? He's been in conversation with the legal team who steered him through the employment tribunal malarkey.

And then what, Matt? whispers his conscience. Is there a Phase Three? What about the big picture? What about Janey?

Fair enough, fair enough. He'll get to that. Right now he's focused on the short term. He'll sit tight in his bunker for the next few weeks, then he'll be strapping on the archiepiscopal gun belt and adjusting his Stetson.

Talking of which, where the chuff has his hat got to?

Halloween has been and gone. Father Dominic doled out sweeties and Bonfire Party invitations once again to callers at the vicarage. It was ‘Blended Learning Week' at Poundstretcher, and young female undergraduates, had they been willing to learn from Dr Jane Rossiter, might have interrogated the messages about women underlying the choice of fancy dress on offer. Slutty nurse, slutty vampire, slutty witch, slutty cat. Oh, for fuck's sake. Maybe if I publish enough and my funding bids are all successful, one day I'll be a slutty professor! And think: we can even have slutty bishops now! Yay equality!

Uh-oh. Looks like I haven't managed to blend my learning with a sense of humour, thought Jane. She was holed up again, not answering her door to the stream of trick-or-treaters. I just don't get that it's
ironic
, do I? Just because my boobs are saggy, obviously I'm jealous of young attractive women who want to have fun getting their tits out for the boys. Why don't I go and hire a slutty feminist outfit, instead of judging other people's lifestyles?
Stop ringing my doorbell, you slutty sluts, or I'll show you empowerment!

Was it possible she'd drunk a wee bit too much Malbec? Yeah, that was just about possible, given the bottle was empty. Oh Lordy, drinking by yourself, Rossiter. What's the world coming to? I've been doing too much of everything by myself. Still, Danny will be home in three weeks.

Jane hugged one of her manky cushions so tight it was . . . whatever. Tight. Like her. Oh Danny, I remember when I used to sit you in the laundry basket and wedge you upright with these very cushions! I used to let you suck bunches of keys and eat file paper, just so I'd get half an article read. I was demented with boredom all the time you were little. But now I'm sobbing into a filthy tartan cushion, hugging it and wishing I had my baby boy in my arms just one more time.