Unseen Things Above (33 page)

Man, that's what
everyone
asked. Like, the precentor, the police, literally everyone? That's what they always ask, and know something? He can never answer. It's not like he's all, hey, here's a really dumb thing, ooh, shall I do this really dumb thing? Whoa, let's run this one by the frontal cortex first, guys? No, it's
boom
. Ri-i-i-ght. Yeah, that was pretty dumb.

Oh man, he should totally stop doing this? He's gotta move his life on, it's like he's stuck in some permanent dumb-fuck loop at fifteen years old.

So write the fucking letter, OK? Dude, it's not that big of a deal. He picks the pen up again. Seriously, you do not want Dr Jacks pissed at you.

Or wait. Does he? Maybe he kind of does want that? Coz that way, at least he'll have his attention. Hhnnh.

‘How's that letter going, Freddie bear?' asks Totty.

Freddie jumps. ‘I'm all over it.'

Perhaps the reader's thoughts have turned to another character now, who unlike the luckless Freddie May has so far been too clever to get caught. I refer, of course, to the Revd Dr Veronica da Silva. She escaped justice when Geoff proved himself to be too noble to read another person's private emails, even though that person had almost certainly read his, and used the contents selectively and tendentiously to cause mischief and mayhem in the Diocese of Lindchester and beyond.

It is fortunate for Veronica that the archdeacon and Jane currently have other, more interesting things than retribution to absorb their energies. Perhaps she thinks she has neutralized them by winding up the clergy discipline measure and pointing it in their direction? That would be foolish. She made herself a couple of heavyweight enemies there, and like crocodiles they may yet slip into the water, though they are currently basking on the bank in the sunshine of their imminent nuptials (even if it's not a big deal).

She certainly has nothing to fear from her vicar Geoff. Geoff is no crocodile. If we were obliged to select one of the animals featured on Geoff's Noah's Ark stole to stand as a metaphor for him, we'd probably fix on the giraffe, generously eating only the topmost leaves the other animals can't reach. But this gentle herbivorous vicar must invite Veronica (whom we will characterize as a dangerous rhino) into the parish office and confront her about that email exchange with Roderick Fallon (a hyena, definitely). Oh, dear! My heart is starting to pound as though I'm watching a nature documentary. This cannot go well.

Unless there's a ranger with a tranquillizer gun in the corner.

‘Hello, Veronica. Thanks for coming. This is Helene, the diocesan HR manager. I've invited her to sit in on our meeting today as an observer.'

‘Hello, Veronica.'

Ah, Helene, you are magnificent! How the light of justice glints off your metaphorical weaponry! Veronica sees it, and blinks. There is a pause while the goalposts are swiftly disassembled and replaced with a basketball hoop.

‘Hello, Helene!! I'm real glad you're here today! Geoff, this is really sweet of you to fix this meeting up! Because it'll save us all time, and hey, I know just how busy you are right now! Helene, I was gonna email you to ask about giving notice? The ins and outs, the legalities. Because, long story short, I've been offered a new post, and I've accepted. I start in January.'

‘Well,' says Geoff. ‘That's rather sudden. Um.' The landscape reconfigures around him. For a moment he cannot get any bearings. ‘Will you need me to give you a reference? Because there are a couple of things—'

‘No, they've already taken up my references, but that's real sweet of you to ask. No, it's all in train. Just a few loose ends to tie up at the uni end of things.'

‘Yes, but – um. I still need to ask you something, please. I was in the office, working on this computer. You'd left your email open, and a message arrived from Roderick—'

‘Geoff, if I can just break in.' Veronica laid a hand on his arm. ‘Are you accusing me of something? Because I'm feeling harassed here. If you wanna make accusations, then I'm not prepared to have this conversation unless I can have my union rep and legal advisor here.'

‘What?' Geoff pulled his arm away. ‘Look, we've got the diocesan HR manager here! Surely that's—'

‘Oh, Geoff, Geoff! Don't let's do this, OK? We've worked real well together, don't let's end on a bitter note, OK? Let's just get through these last weeks as friends and co-workers in the gospel. Bless you, now.'

Helene and Geoff stare at the door as it swings shut.

So Veronica is off. In general we have little reason to place confidence in what she says, but on this occasion, she is telling the truth: she has a new job. And I dare say she has judged rightly, and Geoff won't bother pursuing the matter of the emails.

Has she escaped scot-free? I leave that for the reader to determine. Her new post is in the Diocese of Sydney.

Chapter 29

P
oppy petals fall like red snow. Listen, as they whisper down on to the crowds in front of Lindford Town Hall. They brush the upturned faces, the berets, epaulettes, vestments, snagging on medals, perching on hat brims. Down, still they whisper down, until they come to rest on the road. Red confetti. Blood running down gutters. A hundred years since the outbreak of the First World War.

The crowd stands motionless. Shoppers pause to stare. Of course, Remembrance Day. They hush their children and tiptoe by. Christmas trees wait in sockets on shop walls. Unlit lights hang poised across mall and street.

As soon as thou scatterest them they are even as a sleep, and fade away suddenly like the grass.
All our sons, borne away on the ever-rolling stream. Long ago. A century ago. But a hundred years in thy sight are but as yesterday gone.
O Lord, thou has been our refuge from one generation to another
.

Eleven a.m. The Last Post sounds in Lindford. It sounds in Lindchester Cathedral, in Renfold, Cardingforth and Martonbury. A young cadet, shaking with nerves, puts bugle to flaky lips in the churchyard of Gayden Parva. The small crowd bears him through it in a tight-knotted net of good will. They stand there among the roped-off dangerous monuments, the poleaxed angels and headstones lying flat. Gayden Parva, where the names of dead sons line the pretty lichgate (so photogenic for weddings), the corpse gate. Those village sons, no older than this boy bugler, gave their today that tomorrow's lads might face no worse an ordeal than this – the one he's bungling his way through now.

And the final broken note fades. The cadet gasps in a desperate lungful. Silence. Well done, it's over now, lad.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them. Rest in peace, Jack and William, sleep, sleep, all you Johns, and Henrys, mown down like Normandy grass, all the Thomases, Herberts and Walters of Gayden Parva. You shall not grow old. Rest in peace, and rise in glory.

In the silence – in the sorrow and the remembering and the waiting for the Reveille – a flutter of wings. A robin lands on the stone cross by the ancient yew, and sings.

This is where we all stand, between Last Post and Reveille, between All Saints and Advent, first and second coming. We are in the tail-end of the church year now, the home straight. Our eyes turn east and hunt a black sky for that first gleam of tender compassion, of the promised dayspring.

In the darkness of this age that is passing away

may the light of your presence which the saints enjoy

surround our steps as we journey on.

In these weeks great swathes of apocalyptic weirdness are read in public worship. Beasts and dragons, horns and eyes, angels, scrolls, plagues, fire, blood and horsemen. And always, at every turn in the road: a choice. To do justly, or not. To be faithful unto death, or not. Wise virgin, foolish virgin. The bridegroom is coming. Stay awake, therefore. And that Great Day – is it light, like lightning coming from the east? Or dark, very dark with no brightness in it? Judgement or mercy: which? Or is the mercy of God a kind of judgement? Might judgement be merciful? Can anyone escape judgement? And those who escape, will they ever know mercy?

I wonder. I wonder about Veronica. I know my readers think that by skedaddling to Australia she has evaded the comeuppance she so justly deserved. But if we were to study Veronica's CV – as Helene is doing even as I write this – it would betray that she is a woman on the run. All her adult life, every year, two years, or at best three, she has moved on and reinvented herself. She can never rest. She must always run before the truth catches up with her.

I admit: justice has not been done. But I would call escape a merciless process all the same.

Freddie May, by contrast, whose strategy is flagrantly to court retribution, has perhaps fared a little better. That apology he was writing to his mentor last week went from one degree of garble to another, till in the end he tore it up and bolted from the kitchen table and out from under Totty's stern gaze. He crossed the dark Close and sat shivering on a bench – the very bench from which he once tweeted Roderick Fallon in a fit of rage. He got out his phone this time too, cursed himself, wept a few tears, then screwed his courage to the sticking point.

With how sad steps the full moon climbed up above the palace roof opposite!

‘Mr May. How lovely. Are you well? How's that deviated septum?'

‘Yeah, it's fine, thanks. I'm good.' Pause. ‘Actually? No. Not good. Really not. I fucked up majorly?' Silence. Oh, God. Please say something?

‘On a scale of one to six – where six is “you've brought about the end of Western civilization as we know it” – how major is this?'

Eesh. Put like that? ‘Ah . . . um, maybe like . . . one point eight?' More silence. ‘Or one point seven?'

‘You didn't burn down the cathedral, or take someone's eye out?'

Shit! Giles phoned him! ‘No, but—'

‘So in fact, you really only fucked up
minorly
.'

‘Yeah, but no, yeah, listen, here's the thing, my installation's been postponed? And I know you, like, rearranged stuff and everything, to be here? So yeah, sorry to mess you around.' Silence. ‘Oh and yeah, you should probably know I'm on totally my last warning now? Giles and Timothy? They've like, extended my probation for another three months, but if I, like, fuck up again, that is literally it, game over? Coz the dean—'

‘Thank you. I get the picture. Would you like my advice?'

‘Mngn – kinda? Yeah.'

‘I suggest you avoid another fuck-up.'

Freddie waited. That was it? Jesus. ‘Ri-i-ight. Thanks.'

‘You're welcome. Was that everything?'

‘Um. Nearly. So just to give you the heads up, I got a police caution, and—'

‘Yes. I know. How do I know? Because once again the precentor rang to complain about you. Can I be candid? I'm finding you rather tedious, Mr May.'

‘Sorry, sir— Gah!
Keep
saying that. I'm really sorry, Dr Jacks?'

‘Let's skip the breast-beating. The only thing that interests me here is whether you've learned anything. Anything at all.' Silence. ‘Well? Come along. Don't play with fireworks? Never get caught?'

Freddie bit his knuckle. Forced himself. ‘Yeah, OK, I'm probably gonna start crying here, but whatever, here goes? So I'm thinking part of me, like, does this on purpose? Fucks up, just when everything's on track? Coz then, you'll have to pay me some attention?'

‘Aha! Now you're interesting me. Go on.'

‘Right, so it's like, if I get my shit together, then everyone will be all, finally! Freddie's got it together, he doesn't need help any more, and then I'll be like, on my . . . gah, all on my own? Ah, nuts. Told you I'd— God.'

‘Freddie, I'm not about to abandon you, never fear.'

‘Oh, God. Sorry. Thanks, Dr Jacks.'

‘Would it reassure you to know you already have my attention? Remember the mentoring ground rules? No need to impress me. I've been interested in your progress for years. Ever since you were a brilliant boy soprano hanging around me at the Three Choirs Festival.'

‘Omigod! No way! You actually remember that?'

‘Oh, I remember.'

‘Whoa! I'm— Seriously? Um, but can you remember what you . . . said?'

‘Piss off, kid?'

‘Ha ha, no. You were all . . .' Freddie's voice went tiny. He tugged his hair. ‘You said, “Come and find me when you're grown-up”?'

Semiquaver rest. ‘And I still very much look forward to that.'

‘Na-a-aw!' Face-palm. Laid yourself wi-i-ide open to that one.

He laughed. ‘Well, Freddie, you've done some hard thinking, and this sounds to me like progress. Anything else to report? No more nosebleeds?'

‘Nah.'

‘Then keep up the good work. I have every confidence in you. Ciao, ciao, darling.' He hung up.

Freddie pressed the phone to his pounding heart. Please. Please. Let him . . . ? Oh, please?

The moon looked down. How silently, and with how wan a face!

The precentor's wife, Ulli, is kneeling in the utility room sorting laundry. Her son Felix is nearly eighteen, and that's far too old to believe in the Magic Washing Machine. Yet he still drops his dirty clothes in front of it, and lo! They still reappear in his bedroom clean and ironed. It is a maternal truth universally acknowledged that last-born sons get away with murder.

Ulli checks all pockets for plectrums, thumb picks, Rizlas, crumpled A-level notes, mobile phones, cash, school ID cards, tissues (bastard sodding things) and Bic lighters. She makes a pile on the machine top. Any cash she finds is hers. That is the rule of the Magic Washing Machine. She stuffs the clothes in the drum. Stops. Examines a black hoodie. Is that a hole? A hole burned through the sleeve?

Was hat sich hier ereignet?
She sniffs. No! That stupid firework battle last week! She slaps the washing machine hard. What had Felix said, exactly, when Giles confronted him? Something like: I can't believe you're even asking me this! Do I look like I want to get my head blown off? Yeah, thanks for displaying your trust in me there, Dad!