In homage to our
esteemed forerunner, we commence this ecclesiastical tale with the question:
Who will be the new bishop?
Back
in the year of 185— when this same puzzle absorbed the good folk of Barchester,
appointing a new bishop appears to have been a pretty straightforward affair. To be sure, there was some Oxbridge High
Table-style manoeuvring behind the scenes.
There were raised and dashed hopes, with the press confidently (and, for
the most part, wrongly) naming names; and then the prime minister made his
choice. Dr Proudie, we read, was bishop
elect ‘a month after the demise of the late bishop.’ A month!
I fear, by contrast, we will still
be asking ‘Who will be the new bishop?’ for many months to come, while the
Crown Nominations Commission ruminates.
Ruminates? Dare I apply so bovine a metaphor to this
august body—evoking as it does an image of a herd regurgitating and re-chewing
what has already been swallowed and partially digested? Do I wish my reader to picture
jaws rolling, rolling, strands of saliva swinging, heads turning ponderously
this way and that as the process of discernment toils on? And how—if we pursue this alimentary metaphor
to its logical conclusion—are we to characterize its outcome?
No,
we had better eschew rumination.
And
anyway, they are not an august body.
They are just a bunch of ordinary Anglicans operating as best they can
in this awkward limbo that C of E senior appointments currently occupy (somewhere
between 185— and the real world). These
days it takes a very long time to appoint a new bishop. It feels especially protracted for those
caught up in the process and zipped by oaths into the body bag of
confidentiality.
So
who will be the new bishop of Lindchester?
I have no idea. If you’re keen to
know early, your best bet is to keep an eye on Twitter. It is possible that someone will award
themselves a smiley sticker on the wall chart of self-aggrandisement by being
the first to blab what others have appropriately kept under wraps.
We re-join our Lindcastrian
friends just before Low Sunday, that is, the first Sunday after Easter. In parishes across the Diocese of Lindchester
this collect may be said:
Risen Christ,
for whom no door is locked, no entrance barred:
open the doors of our hearts,
that we may seek the good of others
and walk the joyful road of sacrifice and peace,
to the praise of God the Father.
It
may be said; but it is not, of
course, compulsory. Gone is the golden age
of Book of Common Prayer uniformity, the days of ‘Here’s a digestive biscuit,
take it or leave it.’ Gone, too, are the
late unlamented days of the Alternative Service Book (‘Here’s a choice: digestive,
Lincoln, rich tea or garibaldi.’) We now
inhabit the age of the biscuit assortment.
(‘Here, have a rummage.’) Heck,
we are pretty much in the age of the liturgical bake-off. Provided some
of the right ingredients are used, frankly you can go ahead and make your
own. Fresh biscuits, messy biscuits, biscuits
to play with in a godly manner, old-fashioned traditional biscuits like granny
used to bake. Anything, provided there
are biscuits to feed the hungry people of the UK! For heaven’s sake, tempt them in with smell
of baking!
Like the risen Christ
himself, this narrative will find locked doors no obstacle. The hearts and homes of our characters stand
ajar to us. We may slip in and snoop
around. But let us always seek the good
of others, the bishops, priests and people of our tale. As our earlier volume has already shown
(alas!) they are quite capable of cocking things up without the mischievous
intervention of your author. We set out
now to walk the joyful road of sacrifice and peace in their company as far as
Advent. Advent, the church’s New
Year. New Year at the end of November? Yes, there it is again, that strange tension
between the two realms we inhabit: the church and the world, with ever and anon
the tug of homesickness for the home we have never seen.
Come,
reader, and dust off the wings of your imagination. Fly with me once again to the green and
pleasant Diocese of Lindchester. Ah,
Lindfordshire, from you we have been absent in the spring! Even now, as the
month draws to its close, proud-pied April is still dressed in all his trim. Look down now as we glide upon polite Anglican
wings, and see how every road edge is blessed with silver and gold. Daisies and dandelions—no mower blade can
keep them down. The spirit of youth is
in everything! See where eddies of
cherry blossom, pink, white, swirl in suburban gutters. Glide with me above parks and gardens, admire
the fresh unfurlings of copper beech, the colour of old brick walls; gasp at
the implausible lime of the limes! The
horse chestnut candles are in bloom, and the may, here and there in the hedgerows,
authorizes the casting of clouts. Sheep
and cattle graze in old striped fields. Listen! The first cuckoo dimples the air, and for a heartbeat,
everything stands still. The waters have
receded, but signs of flooding are everywhere across the landscape. Even now, the distant cathedral seems perched
like the ark on Ararat, as rainbows come and go behind the cooling towers of
Cardingforth.
Let
us head now to the cathedral. I’m
pleased to inform you that the spire has not crashed through the nave roof in
our absence. The historic glass of the
Lady Chapel has not slipped from its crumbled tracery and smashed to
smithereens. Fear not! Heritage Lottery funding is on its way to
prevent so ruinous an end to the work of long dead glaziers. Restoration work continues on the cathedral’s south
side, where a vast colony of masonry bees has been ruthlessly exterminated. Dean and chapter (how can they call
themselves Christian?) were in receipt of letters from single-issue bee
fanatics. A reply drafted by the canon
chancellor, referring them to Our Lord’s brusque treatment of swine, was never
sent.
It
is Saturday afternoon. Gavin, the deputy verger, is mowing the palace lawn before the rain starts. All downhill now till Advent, he thinks. The triumph of the Easter brazier still
blazes in his mind. New paschal candle
lit first go. Cut-off 2 litre coke
bottle, that was the secret. Stopped it
blowing out. Up and down goes
Gavin. Keeping things under control
lawn-wise during the interregnum. Tidy-up
and big bonfire at the end of summer—there was that to look forward to. Then advent, 600 candles. Gavin smiles as he mows his nice straight
lines.
Ah,
but the garden misses Susanna’s touch. Bleeding
heart plants nod in untended borders. Roses
shoot unpruned. The laburnum walk is unforbidden,
poised to rain its deadly Zeus-like showers on nobody at all. Everything waits for the new bishop, whoever
he may be.
As
you may have seen in the press, there was a brief outbreak of squawking in the
ecclesiastical henhouse back in February, when it was (wrongly) rumoured that
the Church Commissioners had decided to sell the palace and stick the next
bishop of Lindchester in a poky little seven bedroomed house in suburban Renfold. Indignant petitions were worded. SAVE LINDCHESTER PALACE! The Bishops of Lindchester had always lived there, since…
It
emerged that the bishop of Lindchester had, in fact, only lived in this
particular house since 1863, when a vigorous and godly Evangelical bishop sold
off the other two palaces. The Rt Revd
William Emrys Brownlow used the money to clear the city’s slums, provide clean
water and good housing for the impoverished leather workers, build a hospital,
schools and a theological college. Prior
to that, no bishop of Lindchester had ever lived in the Close in such proximity
to his clergy and people. It would have
been tactless to do so, since they could not have afforded to ape his gracious
lifestyle. No, far kinder to retreat to
Bishop’s Ingregham and eat quails in aspic with a clear conscience.
Shall
we pause to lament the passing of those glorious historic palaces from the
church? Ingregham palace is particularly
lovely, with its mellow sandstone walls, its acres of Capability Brown
landscaping, the deer park, the lake and historic oak tree that Robin Hood, Mary Queen of Scots and Charles
the Second hid up and Shakespeare himself no doubt stubbed his fag out on. I daresay petitions were got up in 1860. What was bishop Brownlow thinking of, selling off the family silver
like that? These treasures are not ours
to dispose of—we are but custodians! Our
duty is look after them and hand on intact to the next generation! Yes, there are issues facing the church, but
selling off property is only a short-term solution! It’s just throwing money at the problem!
As
is so often the case when the problem is ‘lack of money’, the throwing of money
at it turns out to be the solution. A
great many runty little leatherworkers’ children failed to die of cholera. Many were educated. Scores of earnest young Evangelicals were
trained and sent to work in places of great danger and deprivation across the
Empire.
But
the palace is very lovely. It’s a shame
the church no longer owns it.
We
will leave the palace in Gavin’s care and glide gracefully to earth outside the
deanery instead. Come with me, on
tiptoe, to the old scullery, where the Very Reverend Marion Randall (just back
from a post-Easter break in Lisbon) is standing amid open suitcases. She is discussing the identity of the next
bishop with her husband. Or rather, not discussing it.
‘There’s nothing to
tell. And even if there was, I wouldn’t
tell you. We take oaths, you know.’
‘Oaths! How Shakespearian. Ods bodikins!
By my lady’s nether beard!’ he declaimed. ‘Like that?’
‘Funnily
enough, Gene, nothing like that.’
‘How
dull. But can’t you drop a tiny hint? In passing.
I can infer. I’m an excellent
inferrer.’
‘Yes. And you’re also an inveterate gossip. Which is why I’m not going to tell you
anything.’
‘Aha! So you admit you do know something!’
The dean sighed and continued to
sort and toss dirty laundry into heaps.
‘Of course I know something. Look, we’re only at the consultation stage. People
have been invited to submit suggestions, that’s all. We’ll get a long list from the Washhouse,
which we’ll sift, then decide who we want to mandate.’
‘Ooh! Who’s on the long list?’
‘You’re not actually listening.’ She bent and began thrusting a lights load
into the machine. ‘Nobody yet.’
‘But who’s likely to be on it?’
‘Anyone whose name has come up.’
‘Literally anyone? What if some
bonkers old trout suggests her parish priest because he does a lovely mass?’
‘Then I suppose he’ll be on the
list. Hence the sifting process. No.’
The dean held up her hand.
‘That’s it. Shut up.’
‘At least promise me it won’t be
another swivel-eyed Evangelical pederast with a muffin-making wife.’
Silence.
‘Not
funny?’ he enquired.
‘No.’
‘But quite clever?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ Another silence. ‘Well,
let me go and choose us a homecoming wine.
I am confident I can get that
right, at any rate.’
My readers will see
from this that Gene’s character has undergone no reformation in the last few
months. He remains the same disgraceful reprobate. His mission is unchanged, too: to cherish, divert
and pamper his beloved wife, and make the task of modern deaning more fun than
it might otherwise prove, were he not on hand (at all times and in all places) with
the right wine and the wrong remark.
Marion sets the machine running,
then gazes round her. The overhead
airer, the Belfast sink, tiled floor.
This was where staff of former deans presumably toiled with their washboards
and dollies and goffering irons. She thinks about the old
servants’ bells still there high up on the deanery kitchen wall in a glass
case—BED RM
3, DRAWING RM,
TRADES. ENT—though they no longer work.
Fell prey to health and safety regs when the deanery was rewired ten
years ago. There is a button in Marion’s
and Gene’s en suite bathroom, (formerly DRESSING RM 1).
She imagines her predecessors pressing it and summoning a valet to bring up a
hip bath and pink gin. Gene, no doubt,
would recreate this scenario with enthusiasm, were she to mention it.
Dear Gene. She smiles. But the brief holiday is already retreating from her mind. The thought bailiffs shoulder their way in to
repossess the unpaid-for happiness. The
spire. The stuff coming out about the school chaplain from the 70s. The new bishop of Lindchester—would it be uncomplicated,
someone she could work with and not be forever thinking You are younger than me, less gifted, less experienced... How wearing it is, all the nuisance of being one
of those tipped to be the first woman bishop.
To know you’re being talked about.
Folk speculating: would she be suffragan somewhere, or was she holding
out to be the first diocesan? Barchester, maybe? She shakes her head. Come on, you’re still on holiday till Monday.
She casts her mind back to
Lisbon. That basilica. Was it only this morning they were
there? Muted palate of browns and
terracottas. Easter lilies, a CD of
plainsong alleluias playing. High above
in the dome, blue sky glimpsed through glass.
Peace, beauty. And then to emerge
into the big bright spring world!
Dazzled by full sunlight, buffeted by the wind, the whirl of life, the
vast dome of the sky above. If the
inside was the only thing you knew, how could you guess at all this? And yet it made perfect sense. Of course, of course! Would it be like
this—resurrection?
She goes through to the kitchen and
puts the kettle on.
Gene emerges through the cellar door. With a fey flourish, he presents the
wine. ‘1996 Chateau Latour.’
‘Lovely.’
He
sees from her face that his magic words have conveyed nothing. ‘Bless you, my darling, I know you love that vinho
verde.’ He gives a dainty shudder. ‘But some of it was so young, drinking it was a safeguarding
issue.’
And now it is Low Sunday. Where shall I take you today, dear
reader? I know that you are eager for
news of our various friends. How is
Father Dominic faring in his new parish, for example? And what of our lovely bishop Bob,
shouldering the weight of the whole diocese during the interregnum? To say nothing of our stout hero, the
archdeacon, last seen haring off to New Zealand in pursuit of his lady!
You must be patient. I am going to introduce you to a new
character, one I fear you may not find it in your heart to love, but Veronica
plays an important part in our tale.
There are times when we must stoically eat our plate of school liver (horrid
tubes visible) before we are allowed out to play.
Come with me now to a church in
Lindford. Not the parish church (where Fr
Dominic now serves), but one nearby with a gothic revival building of the
type that looks as though it might soon be cut loose by the evil archdeacon, Matt the
Knife, and turned into a supermarket.
No, more likely a nightclub called Holy Crap, or something similarly witty. It is in the clubbing district, such as it
is, of Lindford. Beside the church is
that narrow alley where last year—you may remember the incident—two men picked on
the wrong faggot. A CCTV camera now
keeps watch. Every Friday and Saturday
night the church pitches its gazebo in the little yard behind the railings, and
from here and the street pastors operate, dispensing love, hot chocolate and
flip-flops to the lost souls of Lindford.
We will pop in now and see what’s
going on in St James’s church this Low Sunday morning. The first thing you will spot is the lack of
pews. The Victorian Society took a
tonking here, all right. There are
cheerful banners. Someone plays thoughtful
music on an electric piano. Can this be
another Evangelical stronghold? By no
means! This is an inclusive church, my
friends, where God is mother and father of all, in the commonwealth not the
kingdom of heaven. It is bishop Bob’s
kind of a place. Change from the bottom
up not the top down. They do good work
here in their rainbowy way.
Veronica wears a simple cassock alb
and Peruvian stole in bright colours.
Lent is now over, so she has laid aside her equal marriage campaigning rainbow
dog collar. She is not the incumbent,
she’s a university chaplain. Here comes
Geoff the vicar now. It’s a baptism, so
he’s wearing the stole with Noah’s ark animals on. I believe somebody made it from upholstery
fabric. It would cover a nursery chair
very nicely. The baptism will move seamlessly
into the Annual Parochial Church Meeting (getting in before the end of April)
and be followed by a simple agape meal and shared lunch.
I don’t suppose you want to stay for
a church AGM, do you? No. Let us risk the hostile stare, and tiptoe
back out as the congregation stand to sing ‘Will you come and follow me if I
but call your name?’ (tune: Kelvingrove).
A glimpse of Veronica is all I
vouchsafe you this week, dear reader. Instead,
I will whisk you back to the Close and into the study of the Revd Giles
Littlechild, the canon precentor. The
Littlechilds have just returned from holiday in Heidelberg, visiting in laws
and older son (Gap Ya). Giles has read
somewhere that you should do one thing each day that scares you. Opening his work emails surely qualifies!
He scrolls through, delicately, like
a bomb disposal expert. Excellent. Nothing too dire. But then a new email pings in.
Oh God. A last minute application for the post of
tenor lay clerk. They can’t not interview him, can they? And then they’ll have to appoint him, because
he’ll be the best.
Lord have mercy! Frankly, Giles would rather have a
tone deaf moose on the back row of dec
than Freddie prima donna May.
That's it, folks. You'll have to wait until July now to read the whole thing when SPCK publish it in book form (and as an eBook).
