It is the best of times, it is the worst of times,
it is the season of Light, it is the season of Darkness,
it is the spring of hope, it is the winter of despair,
we are all going direct to Heaven, we are all going direct the other way.
Welcome to Lindchester. Are you
sitting comfortably? If so, then I
assume you are at home, rather than in a pew—or (Lord have mercy!) stuck on one
of those beastly plastic stacking chairs knowing you will leave a sweaty bum print whenever
you stand for a hymn. Pour yourself a
glass of Christmas whisky (a gift from the undertaker, perhaps, if you are
clergy). Alternatively, make yourself a
cup of that weird spiced Christmas tea out of the hamper your sister-in-law
sent. It needs using up. Comfortable?
Then I will begin.
I will tell you a Tale of Two Churches.
One is the Church in glory, like a bride adorned for her husband; the other—inhabited
by the likes of you and me—is the church incarnate here on earth, ankle deep in
the mire of the imaginary Diocese of Lindchester. But perhaps, if we catch them in Emily
Dickinson’s certain slant of light, we may glimpse a bit of glory around the
grubby edges of our characters.
What of those characters? How are they faring? More than a year has passed since we waved
them off last Advent. It is Saturday night
now. The nice Chablis has all gone. Only the coconut ones rattle round the plastic
sweet tub. The last clump of Christmas
pudding is clenched blackly under cling film like a fist preserved in a peat bog
for 6000 years. We are still telling
ourselves someone will eat it. Listen! Can you hear the tiniest tinkle—faint as
bells round the necks of nativity oxen on your mantelpiece—of pine needles
falling from Christmas trees?
Softly falling onto ghastly vicarage carpets, or nice carpets in normal
homes, falling with a beetly skittle onto laminate flooring. Falling in churches and shops and bars, too;
thickly drifted on the cathedral lawn, where the giant Norway spruce
stands. Yes, needle-fall is general
across the Diocese of Lindchester, for Christmas has been and gone. New Year has been and gone, too. We wait, lolled on sofas, remote dangling in
slack hand, for the start of term, or work, or whatever comes under the heading
of real life.
What does the year hold in this best of times, this
worst of times; this season of bake-offs and season of foodbanks; this Green
spring of muscular theological hope and Lothlórien winter of hand-wringing
theological despair? We will peep
through many a stained glass window in pursuit of answers. Once again, you will find yourself dogged at
every turn. Your narrator will stand a
little too close, breathing in your ear and commenting in the manner of an
over-zealous cathedral guide who is not content to leave visitors to wander
around looking at things by themselves. I will burst out of vestry cupboards, lurch
round pillars, and betray my sacred Jamesian office wherever possible. Is this your first visit to Lindchester? Would you like a brochure? Would your child like the animal trail
leaflet?
How are those Anglican wings? Hunt
in your loft. There they are, behind those
plastic crates of the children’s school work, the camping gear, the videos you ought
to sling. Give them a shake, and we will
mount up, as in days of old. It is dark,
but there below is the river Linden, many miles meandering with a mazy
motion. There are the water meadows—vast
lakes at the moment. Can you just make out the stands of trees, the wooded
rises, the unproductive fields not given over to maize? Give thanks for these boons, O people living
in towns further downstream. Without them
the Linden would be in your sitting room by now. As it is, the Lower Town of Lindchester has
been flooded twice this winter.
Where shall we go? To the archdeacon’s you say? Ah, but which
archdeacon? There are now two—our old
friend, The Ven. Matt Tyler, archdeacon of Lindchester; and The Ven. Bea
Whitchurch, archdeacon of Martonbury. A lady archdeacon, no less! We will save Bea till next week (pausing only
to report that those scoundrels up in the cathedral refer to her as ‘the little
teapot’). There are currently two
archdeacons in the diocese of Lindchester, but if the new bishop gets his way,
there will shortly be four. Four! The multiplication of archdeacons! A terrifying sign that we are all going to
Chelmsford in a handcart.
The town of Lindford
lies below us now. Let us bend our
joyful footsteps to the house of the archdeacon of Lindchester. Look!
There are two cars on the drive these days—the sporty black mini and the
knackered old wreck belonging to the archdeacon’s— His what?
His wife? Has Jane learned to embrace
this title? Did she shake her head and smile
indulgently as those cards dropped through the letterbox addressed to ‘The Ven
& Mrs M Tyler’?
Let us sneak in and find out. You will see at once that it is a nice house,
warm and clean. The archdeacon’s taste
has prevailed throughout. This was not
hard, as Jane’s taste is for not giving a monkey’s about homemaking. I admit it’s a bit generic, a bit like a show
house, for Matt is a pragmatist. There
are no upcycled apple crates doubling as bathroom shelves, no kitsch mini milk
bottle vases, none of that girlie clobber.
And no chuffing cushions. Like
most red-blooded Englishmen, the archdeacon can’t be doing with cushions. This is why he has to act as a cushion
himself, when his beloved needs something to prop her feet on while lying on
the sofa. Which is what she’s doing
right now.
‘Yes, but surely you’re owed a sabbatical,’ said Jane.
‘Nope,’ replied the
archdeacon. ‘We’re entitled to one every
ten years. I’ve only clocked up six.’
‘Can’t you wangle
something? I want to apply for study
leave next year.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Yes, but I want to spend it in New Zealand. With you.
Invent something. Ministerial
formation in the Church of New Zealand—bet you need to study that. I’ll tell the bishop our marriage depends on
it. Come along, now. Do it for me.
Remember the Pennington’s lovely Biblical Bonking book? Quality
time. Acts of service.’
The archdeacon sighed. Pity the bishop’s wife had given a copy of their
co-authored book to Jane not him. No chance to deflect it tactfully. At least Janey had tired of reading him excerpts
every bedtime.
‘Can I get you a top-up?’
he asked.
‘Yes.’ She handed over her glass. ‘And then you can come straight back and
carry on the sabbatical conversation.’
‘The rules is the rules,
I’m afraid. Ten years.’
‘Pah. I bet there’s some flexibility. You could at least ask him.’
‘Fine. I’ll ask him.’ Matt hauled himself up off the sofa. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath though.’
He padded through to the
kitchen in his Christmas socks and got the last of the prosecco. He closed the fridge and rested his forehead
against it. Oh Lord. Vexed though the sabbatical question was proving,
it was going to look like a cracker joke by this time next week. Which was when he’d probably have to float
the suffragan bishop of Barcup possibility…
You will infer from this that our good friend Bob Hooty has retired. The big detached tudorbethan house in
Martonbury is vacant. I fear that once
again I must trouble the reader with the question of who will be the next
bishop. It won’t be as convoluted as the
appointment of the bishop of Lindchester, I promise, since suffragan bishoprics
are not Crown appointments. That said, gone
are the days when a diocesan bishop could simply have a conversation in his
club with an old chum from theological college, and appoint him. There will be an advert. I believe the archbishop’s appointments
secretary will have names to commend.
Then there will be a shortlist and interviews conducted by a panel. Is the new bishop of Lindchester powerless
here? By no means. He will get the person he wants, in all probability. It would be deeply inappropriate of him to
take that person to one side and confide his intentions. But once Bob’s farewell service was out of
the way, it was not out of order for him to enquire, in passing, if he was
right in thinking that the archdeacon’s paperwork was up to date…?
Bishop Steve has not
been idle in our absence. He has made
changes, he plans more changes still.
One of his earliest moves was to let the lovely PA Penelope go, and appoint
an executive assistant. This was a
deeply unpopular move on the Close. Even
inanimate objects in the bishop’s office seemed to cry out at the injustice. There was a stage when the office computer inexplicably
corrected ‘bishop’ to ‘wanker’ whenever the new EA tried to send an email. Goodness.
How did that happen? The bishop also chose not to appoint a new
chaplain, on the grounds that he didn’t really need one. This sent ripples of fear throughout the
Slope Society nationally. Honestly, if
he wasn’t such a nice bloke, everyone would hate Bishop Steve.
Of course, there are
those who, unmoved by considerations of personal charm, hate him in adherence
to long-held principle.
‘I hate him, for he is an Evangelical!’ declaimed Gene in his Royal
Shakespeare Company voice. ‘But more for
that in low simplicity, he is trying to merge cathedral and diocesan structures
like they’ve done in bloody Liverpool!’
‘Yes, darling.’ The dean did not bother looking up from her
book.
‘On the specious grounds
that it makes sense and would save money!’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘What a wanker.’ Pause.
‘Yes darling?’
‘No, darling.’
‘Oh.’
Yes, Marion is still dean of Lindchester.
No change there. She was not the
first woman bishop in the Church of England.
Nor the second, third, fourth or fifth.
Indeed, we are losing track of how many women bishops we now have. Why has she been passed over? Oh, the changes and chances of this fleeting
world! Which of us does not long now and
then for the rest of eternal changelessness?
There have been choral changes on the back row of Dec.
Mr May still sings tenor, but we have a new alto lay clerk. Mr May still breaks hearts, but not
deliberately. He breaks them in passing,
like someone sweeping ornaments from shelves with a trailing sleeve. Omigod, I’m
so sorry! He is off visiting his mother in Argentina at
the moment. Actually, I tell a lie, he should
be on his way home by now. Tomorrow the
loyal Miss Blatherwick will drive to the airport to collect him.
The cathedral clock chimes three. Miss
Blatherwick is lying awake. She hasn’t
been sleeping too well recently. Just
can’t get comfy. Indigestion. Her hand strays to her stomach. She applies her customary self-control and doesn’t
go looking for lumps. If you look for
lumps at 3am, you will certainly find them.
She is a sensible woman. If she’s
no better by Monday, she will make a doctor’s appointment.
Downstairs her phone rings
where it is charging. A phone call at
3am! Her heart thumps. Bad news.
Or a wrong number. Probably a
wrong number. But she gets out of bed
anyway, puts on her dressing gown and goes to check.
Voice mail. Unknown number. She listens.
‘Miss B? It’s Freddie.’ She hears wailing in the background. ‘Oh God, Miss B, really sorry to do this to
you? Probably its all fine, yeah? Only we’re
making an emergency landing? So just to
say, love you, yeah? Please tell my
people, if— Oh God. OK.
Gotta give this phone back now. So
yeah, I’ll see you, OK? Love love love
love love.’
