"You feel guilty about that?"
"Now that he's dead? No. Why should I?"
"Right," he said without much conviction. "You gave him a wonderful send-off."
"I couldn't have done it without your support, Otis."
He blinked at the mention of his name. "It raised a few eyebrows among the clergy, but they know me by now. And so what? There was reverence in what we did. I think the Lord approved, even if the Lord Bishops didn't."
"Did you get into trouble over it?"
"No, thanks to good timing. We don't have a bish until the new one is enthroned. Marcus Glastonbury wouldn't have been too thrilled, I have to say."
She smiled. "You mean he wasn't a jazz man?"
He grinned back, avoiding the cheap quip about the kind of man the bishop was. "Still, you must be pleased that Gary got to New Orleans."
"Yes-and it wasn't a letdown, as it could easily have been. They had a; terrific time. Met lots of other! jazz fanatics." She paused, pacing the conversation, fascinated to see how he would react to the next statement. "Wasn't that strange about the Canadian Otis Joy who was training to be a priest?"
He said quite smoothly, "Curious, yes. I've got some sympathy for anyone else with a name like mine who goes in for the Church."
"This man must have been about your age, too."
"Is that so?" He was trying to sound casual about it.
"I wondered if he could have been you-if you were ordained in Canada."
He shook his head. "Boring old Church of England, I'm afraid. I spent some time in Canada, but my college was in Brighton."
"There's nothing boring about you," she told him. "You don't mind me asking? I'd love to know more about you, where you were born, that kind of thing."
He took a moment to butter the second half of his scone, spreading it evenly. "Well, it wasn't Canada. I'm from Norfolk originally."
"And your parents died?"
"Did I tell you about that? A car crash. 1 was seven at the time."
"That's terrible."
"I'm over it now."
"But losing your parents at that age …"
"I survived. No thanks to the nuns. They were Catholics, my parents, so I was sent to Ireland, to this orphanage run by the Sisters of Mercy. Not well named. The scripture was beaten into us. And I went to a Jesuit school where the principal teacher was the strap."
"Poor Otis. You've had more than your share of hardship."
"Slings and arrows," he said dismissively. "We all face them at some time in our lives. Some poor beggars take more hits than others. No sense in complaining. They gave me a wonderful grounding in the Bible. I can argue theology with anyone."
Something in his tone made her say, "But there's more to life than theology."
"It was a narrow education, yes. Knowing the Beatitudes by heart wasn't going to make me into a brain surgeon. After quitting school I found it very hard settling to anything."
"Then you went to that wedding you told me about?"
"Right, and turned my back on the Church of Rome."
"Revenge?"
He laughed. "These days I get along fine with the good Fathers."
"Losing your parents like that must have traumatised you."
"Kids are resilient. It helps me understand how my parishioners feel when they lose someone."
"You've been there, done that, yes?"
"Got the T-shirt."
"Read the book, seen the video."
"As the Reverend Sydney Smith once put it, 'I have, alas, only one illusion left, and that is the Archbishop of Canterbury.'"
"How do you remember all these wicked quotes?"
"Self-preservation. Clergymen shouldn't take themselves too seriously."
"But you're brilliant at the job. You may be the Archbishop yourself one day. You deserve to be. You're doing so much for the church in this village."
"Running a parish is all I want, Rachel. It's a great high. You wouldn't believe the buzz I get from it. I don't want to be a bishop."
"But you must have some ambition to rise in the Church."
"I'm there," he told her with a conviction in his eyes and voice that she couldn't mistake for anything but the truth. "I've made it. I've moved mountains to get where I am, and nothing is going to shift me. Nobody had better try. This is all I could desire from life-or nearly all."
"What else?"
"I'd like to travel one day."
She'd hoped he would say he wanted to marry again, or start a family. Just a hint that he was of the same mind as she was. Was that too much to ask?
The missionary zeal had shifted from his face and all his attention was on her, and her hopes flickered again. "There's something I want to ask you, Rachel. I don't know if this is too soon to mention it."
"Yes?"
"Are you happy to carry on doing the parish accounts?"
Sixteen
John Neary, washing his car outside the house on Saturday afternoon, was surprised to see Burton Sands coming across the street as if to speak. They knew each other from the confirmation classes, and never usually exchanged a word outside. Neary had only to look at Burton in his flat cap and anorak to want to turn the other way. No doubt about it: the village bore was making a beeline for him.
"Did you hear? They've picked the new bishop," Burton said as if it was as vital to the nation as the choice of England striker.
"Have they?"
"He's from Radstock."
"Is he?" Neary carried on hosing his hub caps in the expectation that the man would soon go away.
"When I say 'they,' I mean the Dean and Chapter. They'll shortly announce a date for the Consecration." Sands was one of those irritating church-goers who took pride in knowing all the ecclesiastical terminology. "Then he'll be enthroned at Glastonbury and take possession of his see."
John Neary didn't even look up.
Burton wasn't discouraged. "It should be early next year. So things will soon be back to normal."
Neary couldn't think of any way his life had been made abnormal by the church politics at Glastonbury. He didn't care what was happening there.
Burton came to the point. "The new bishop will be able to confirm us. We'll all be going back to the rectory to brush up on the service. The rector promised us one more meeting."
"See you there, then," said Neary, spotting a chance to end the dialogue.
"Yes. Early January, I expect, if he remembers. Do you think we ought to remind him?"
Neary was beginning to think the only way to get rid of Burton Sands was to turn the hose on him.
"Someone should," continued Burton. "He'll have plenty on his plate over Christmas."
"Mm."
"And I'm not talking about turkey."
Neary lifted an eyebrow. Had he heard right? Was Sands making a joke?
Still he lingered.
"The bees hibernate at this time of year, do they?"
"What?" Neary was wholly thrown by this new avenue of conversation.
"Your bees. You still keep bees, don't you?"
The five hives in the back garden meant more to Neary than the garden itself, his house, his car, or-it has to be said-his confirmation. He pulled the hose from the car and let the water gush downwards in a stream that spread quickly along the street. When people mentioned his bees, it was usually to complain. Two of the hives had swarmed at the end of the summer. "What have my bees got to do with the new bishop?"
"Nothing," said Burton.
"How do you know about them?"
"The honey's got your label. I get it sometimes in the shop. It's good. Really good."
A rapid reassessment took place. Neary decided he may have misjudged Burton. If the man was a satisfied customer, he wasn't such a pain after all. "Last summer's crop was better than usual. We had some good dry spells."
"The bees don't like the damp?"