Unseen Things Above (36 page)

Look at you! You big, funny, kind man. You'll make some lucky gal very happy. Or guy? Probably gal. Flashback to Christmas before last – the icy heart-stopper of surprising Danny under the palace mistletoe with young tarty-pants. A game of ‘gay chicken', it turned out. Lovely. And did you not clock that Freddie's probably going to win that one, son? Yes, but The Dare, mother! The Dare is sacred! Oh, the strange Samurai mentality of teen boys. And the hetero-normative knee-jerk reaction of even the most liberal of mothers . . .

Jane kisses his sleeping brow and gets to her feet. No, she'll bully Dom into shopping with her instead. His line's engaged, so she leaves a message.

Poor old Father Dominic. In the midst of dry-mopping his pale oak laminate kitchen floor, he finds himself in a
Groundhog Day
moment:

‘Oh! Omigod! You're finally, finally getting hitched! About time too! That is
so
exciting! Oh Ed, I'm so happy for you!'

‘Thank you, Father.'

‘Can I give you away? Can I be your matron of honour? Or shall I just sit and cry happy tears?'

‘We'd like you to be a witness, but please cry. I'm counting on you to cry, in the absence of any mothers of the groom.'

‘Oh, I won't fail you. Buckets of happy tears guaranteed, Father. I'm so excited! But I thought you were planning on getting married, not civil partnering?'

‘Yes, well, this is a staging post on the way to marriage. A holding position. While we wait for some change of heart in the House of Bishops.'

‘Really? But I thought . . . Neil . . . ?'

‘Ours is not to reason why, Father. Mr Ferguson has decided.'

‘I see. Well, goody-good.'

Pause.

‘Look, I'm not hen-pecked, Dom.'

‘Of course not! Neil's not a hen. He
can
be a bit of a—'

‘Yes, I see where you're going with the poultry imagery, there. Moving on. It's just a low-key private thing. The big fat gay wedding is deferred till further notice.'

‘Well, that will give Neil lots of time to plan everything properly, won't it?'

‘Jesu mercy! I mean, yes, yes, it will. So, Lindford register office, this Friday at eleven o'clock. OK?'

‘OK. Wait!
This
Friday?'

‘You're shrieking in my ear, Father.'

‘Omigod, omigod! This Friday, as in the twenty-eighth?'

‘Yes. It's the only slot they had left this side of Christmas. Is that a problem?'

‘No! It's— Eek! Short notice, that's all. Eleven, you said? No, no, that's absolutely fine. I'll be there, ha ha ha! So! What's the dress code?'

‘The dress code is: “Tell him not to dress like a wee nellie vicar”.'

‘Oh, thanks a bunch! I've actually just bought a very suave new suit, I'll have you know.'

‘That sounds perfect.'

‘And just for the record, your fiancé's a cock.'

Ed laughs. ‘That's never been in any doubt.'

Poor Father Dominic hangs up and has a little weep. Then he wipes his eyes, picks up his fluffy dust mop, and waltzes round his kitchen doing his best Lily Morris impression. ‘Why am I always the witness, never the blushing bride?'

Oh, oh, oh! How ghastly – but how hilarious! Ed and Neil following hot on the heels of Jane and the archdeacon! In the same register office! Oh, Lord – the bridal parties are going to tangle in the foyer, aren't they? He pictures old Janey, emerging with a face like thunder – having endured the patriarchal bollocks of marriage – and bumping into Ed and Neil, as they arrive to make do with the staging post of civil partnership. The scene unfolds like a Whitehall farce in Dominic's imagination. Because – help! – Janey has invited the blond mantrap to come and sing during the signing of the register. Oh no, oh no! Is it Dominic's place to say something? He knows Ed can't stand the sight of Freddie (no explanation necessary
there
, Dom has known Neil for years).

No. Stop fretting. Not my responsibility. We'll muddle through. That's all we can ever do, thinks Dominic. Live generously, muddle through. Keep on walking towards the light, beckoned on by little glimpses of glory, until finally we arrive home. And then the meaning will burst in on us. Oh, it was you, it was you all along! No more marrying and giving in marriage. Everything will be scooped up, everything will marry up. Everything in heaven and on earth. And no one will be left outside weeping any more.

Well, well, it's early Advent. Each year he longs for it more. The New Year. A chance to recalibrate the heart's instruments, get his bearings, and set out once again on the right path. Dominic abandons his beloved music hall repertoire in favour of
Wachet auf
and – like a virgin wise – finishes mopping his floor:

The Bridegroom comes in sight,

Raise high your torches bright!

Alleluya! The wedding song swells loud and strong:

Go forth and join the festal throng!

*

Bookends. I fear that before many more years have passed they will become an oddity. Like paperweights and blotters, they will join the paraphernalia of period drama. Discarded bookends will clutter up charity shop shelves among the ashtrays and videos. But for now, a set of bookends still has enough resonance for me to venture upon an extended metaphor. We began this narrative with a question: who will be the new bishop? And now, as neatly as the other bookend, our tale ends with the answer: on Monday, in York, the Confirmation of Election took place of the Rt Revd Stephen Henry Pennington as Bishop of Lindchester.

Although our rules forbid us to join the select throng gathered in the Minster, I can assure the reader that everything was done correctly. A confirmation of election is essentially the medieval equivalent of an ID check. Is this the real Steve Pennington? Prove it! The process is no longer conducted in Latin behind closed doors, but it retains a medieval theatricality. Anyone blundering in might wonder whether they've interrupted a D'Oyly Carte rehearsal. There's a pleasing amount of poncing about in wigs, with apparitors, letters patent, advocates submitting that ‘all the matters set forth in these exhibits respectively were and are true and were done as therein described', and proctors stating, ‘I porrect a definitive Sentence or Final Decree in writing which I pray to be read and declared.' After a great deal of quasi-medieval frolicking, the definitive Sentence or Final Decree is read, declared and signed and – phew! – Steve Pennington is now officially Bishop of Lindchester.

Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah! My days, that took long enough, didn't it? Of course, Steve and his fragrant wife won't actually move into the palace yet. Goodness me, no! Quite apart from the fact that the new wet room isn't finished, nor the oatmeal carpets banished and every trace of the last regime purged, we haven't had the service of installation yet. And although that won't take quite as long to plan and get perfect as a big fat gay wedding, we are unlikely to receive our invitations till next year. If Dean and Chapter get a move on, the new bishop might be installed by Easter.

In the meantime, Bishop Harry will continue holding the fort. After Christmas our good friend Bishop Bob will be back at work full time. He is easing himself in now, taking it steady, aware every hour, every minute, of his patient, faithful heart; still beating (still beating!), conscious all the time how he carries it in the crib of his chest, carefully, carefully, like a newborn, not jolting it (hush, it will be all right). And how it carries him.

The archdeacon has survived his stag do. He was taken paintballing by his stepson-to-be and young tarty-pants. Jane's fear that the two of them would gang up on her beloved was not misplaced. But Matt proved the truth of the adage that age and treachery always overcome youth and skill. He also underlined a piece of ancient church lore: Never piss off an archdeacon.

Nobody dared suggest a hen do.

And so The Day arrived. Black Friday – that bacchanalia of acquisitiveness. The scope for mordant humour was not lost on Jane. She battled through shoppers and arrived at Lindford Town Hall in her long knock-out sexy red frock and black velvet opera coat. Yes, carrying a fecking bouquet, because Dom had bought her one, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. And anyway, it gave her something to do with her hands, other than box people's ears or strangle herself. Long-stemmed red roses, a mere thirty this time, trailing black organza ribbons. Pah.

There was Dom in his new suit and pointy shoes. Danny in a new shirt and clean jeans to be a credit to his mum and to adorn the office of witness. Freddie in tight black with almost as much cleavage going on as the bride.

Up the steps. In through the doors. Jesus. I can't believe I agreed to this.

And there was Matt. New suit, charcoal grey. Red rose in his buttonhole. Accessorized by a smile wide, wide as the ocean. Don't bloody smile at me like that, you bastard, I'm not happy. I'm not. Ha, all right then, I am. Oh, I am so happy!

Well, it all went swimmingly. In the absence of real clergy, the registrar adopted such a portentously Anglican intonation as would not have disgraced a trained actor playing the rector in a costume drama. The bride's voice was squeaky with tears, the groom blotted his eyes, one witness sobbed happily, the other witness rolled his eyes, and Freddie May sang like an angel. ‘The Lark in the Clear Air' (Matt's choice) and ‘Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White' (Jane's choice).

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost, be lost in me . . .

Aw, bless. Bless them one and all.

They will be coming out soon. We will mount up like feral pigeons, and perch wherever we can, wherever the town council has failed to put spikes, and watch greedily, hoping that rice will be thrown. Here they are! But no rice; red rose petals swirl in the breeze. They settle on the steps where, only a few weeks before, the poppy petals whispered down. In the distance a band oom-pahs some carols, and the world's worst violinist scrawks out ‘Jingle Bells'.

A black Porsche pulls up and parks on double yellows. It's the next couple arriving. Out they get. We stay aloof, up here among the hostile spikes, and watch as the tall woman hurls her bouquet. It flies as if she's hoofed a high Garryowen, up, up, then down, like a pimped warhead trailing black streamers. The receiver stands firm in his kilt, calls his mark. Catches it, thorns and all.

‘Oh, ye-e-e-e-ah!' He strikes a
Braveheart
pose, bouquet-broadsword in hand. Then he and his man mount the steps as the last handfuls of red petals swirl, laughing as they go.

And so, Jack shall have Jill, and Jack shall have Jack. I cannot promise you that naught shall go ill, dear reader. But I believe we can say that this Black Friday was not all darkness and gloom, with no brightness in it.

Dean Marion is in her garden on Saturday. She is admiring her new beehive, bought for her by her husband, tireless in his pursuit of deanissima's happiness. She will not be the first woman bishop in the C of E. No, a whisper about this has reached her, and of course it's a relief! She needs no consolation prizes.

O, reason not the need! He has bought her a beehive anyway.

‘But I know nothing about beekeeping, Gene!'

‘I shall be your keeper.'

‘Thank you. Do we buy bees? How does it work?'

‘Oh, we lure them in, Deanissima. With sweet aromas. Or we steal them from other hives. I see it as a paradigm of the Diocesan Growth Agenda.'

The little white wooden house stands in the lavender border. ‘Maybe they will just come. Out of the blue, one June day. Like they did this year. Maybe they will just appear, Gene.'

‘And this time we will have a home waiting for them.'

‘Yes, I hope they come. Like a gift of grace. “Drop down, ye heavens, from above”,' she quotes.

‘“And let the skies pour down righteousness”,' he warbles in his Peter Pears voice. ‘Did you know that in the winter the worker bees all huddle around the queen, and shiver in order to keep her warm? She will be quite safe until her hour comes.'

‘Thank you, darling.'

‘Come, let's go and find a last-wine-before-Advent treat.'

They go back to the deanery and close out the November dusk.

Advent Sunday. Darkness into Light. The cathedral is a hive of liturgical activity. The choir rehearse. The early birds have already arrived to bag the best seats. They show their Teutonic roots by putting coats on empty seats as flagrantly as any lounger-bagging German by a hotel pool. Stewards stand on chairs and gouge old wax out of candle sockets with screwdrivers. We will look away and not ask about risk assessment. The candles are all pre-lit, then snuffed, to ensure that they will light first time and darkness proceeds into light with military precision. The tapers are ready. We still shudder in Lindchester when we recall the Bic lighter fiasco of 2007, when the nave resounded to a tattoo of frenzied clicking.

Up in the organ loft the organists practise
Wachet auf
and make sure they are ready to train their cockpit camera on the sleepiest person in the quire, so they can wet themselves laughing when an unexpected crescendo in one of the carols jolts some sleeper awake.

Evening services across the diocese will be sparsely attended tonight. Lo, from the north they come! From east and west and south! This is one of the highlights of the liturgical year. Here is our lovely friend Father Wendy. Ah, and our good friend Geoff. Let's hope the service knits up the ravelled sleeve of Veronica-related care for him. Here is Dominic. Goodness, is that Jane with him? It is! She is being a clergy wife for the very first time! Golly, I hope the sign in her reserved seat doesn't say ‘Mrs M. Tyler'!

The reliable soprano with a straight voice climbs up the stairs to the triforium, to sing the O Antiphons again. Our two lovely bishop friends, Harry and Bob, gently quarrel over who must have the place of honour at the back of the procession. See how determinedly they strive to out-defer one another, until the precentor appears, knocks their mitres together, and orders them to walk side by side. The choristers are demented with excitement. Candles! Darkness! Fingers crossed they don't set fire to themselves. Lay clerks in their red cassocks flit about on errands.