Acts and Omissions Read Free Page B

did battle with verrucae (this is the Close, we are pedantic here), combed out nits and straightened caps. She stood by them when the choirmaster was a brute. She was their rock, their fortress and their might; and they were her life. Freddie was in the last cohort before her retirement and she would have driven that boy to Timbuktu.
    I call him a boy. He is not a boy, he’s twenty-two. But oh, he’s a Lost Boy, up on the roof with Peter Pan, stranded in Neverland. People despair of him. He has so much going for him, why is he such a disaster area? How can someone that good-looking and talented be so wilfully self-destructive? And he is good-looking and talented, believe me. Five foot eleven inches of such astounding golden beauty that your gaze flinches away embarrassed, the way it would from a disfiguring birthmark. And his voice! People who know about such things tell me he has the potential to be one of the finest tenors of his generation. He was certainly well on the way to becoming a famous boy soprano, when his voice broke catastrophically early at the age of not quite twelve. You can still buy a CD in the cathedral shop, with Freddie in his ruff on the front, looking as adorable as a blond baby duckling. His friends here are all hoping and praying that he has steadied down now; that if he cannot stay out of trouble completely, he can at least stay out of custody. Don’t ever lend him your credit card, by the way, or let him look over your shoulder when you type your computer password. He will tell you this himself. But his candour is so disarming that you will probably not heed the warning.
    What more do you need to know about Freddie May? Since his release, he has lived with the Hendersons – Paul and Susanna take in waifs and strays now their girls have grown up and left home – and Freddie has an attic room with (if you are fearless) access to the roof. He likes to lie under the stars and smoke weed. This is something the bishop chooses to know nothing about. The bishop’s chaplain, whom we shall meet later, is barred from driving for twelve months (a suspected epileptic seizure, not a drunk driving charge), so Freddie makes himself useful by acting as the bishop’s driver when required. He also helps out in the bishop’s office. Penelope, the bishop’s PA, doesn’t let him anywhere near the PC unsupervised. Freddie does not know her password. Thinks Penelope.
    What else? In common with most people his age, Freddie’s conversation is composed almost entirely of like, questions? He uses the word ‘literally’ metaphorically. He adores children and mountains. He prefers presto to largo . He is incapable of refusing a dare. He does not have Common Prayer on his iPhone. He has Grindr. But provided Freddie does not twoc the episcopal car for his jollies, this is something else the bishop (hating the sin, loving the sinner) chooses to know nothing about.
    By now Miss Blatherwick has done battle with the bloodstains, so we will administer a well-earned cup of English Breakfast and a bowl of porridge. I expect she will have a nap, while keeping an ear open in case Freddie texts to say he needs picking up. A text? On a mobile phone? I thought you said she was seventy-eight? Oh, ageist reader! Miss Blatherwick is perfectly up to speed with modern gadgetry. Does it matter that her text messages are infested with rogue cedillas and umlauts? They are perfectly cogent. We will repose her on the sofa, set aside her glasses, and spread a plaid blanket over her legs. Sweet dreams, Miss Blatherwick! You are a good woman and Freddie is lucky to have you in his life.
    The year is off to a faltering start. New Year’s Day is Tuesday. Everyone’s asking if it’s worth going back to work for three days. Normal life won’t really be resumed until next Monday. We are left inhabiting a rather listless Saturnalia, restrained from excess by resolution, yet assailed by all the