Acts and Omissions by Catherine Fox

hands, all innocence. His pink T-shirt says What Wouldn’t Jesus Do?
    Father Dominic is late, but he’s on his way. On the passenger’s seat is a lovely bunch of blue hyacinths for Susanna. Remembering his Lenten discipline, Dominic has got over himself. Paul is, after all, his father in God, and however tedious the evening proves to be, crucifixion was doubtless more tedious still.
    Aha! You see what I am about? You think I’m steering Dominic in the direction of Freddie May? Well, let me tell you that Dominic has more sense than to allow some pretty boy to wander into his life, wipe his feet on his heart, and wander out again. I’m almost certain about that. We’ll follow him in to the palace and see what happens, shall we?
    The big drawing room was full when Dominic arrived. He smiled, shook hands, and air-kissed his way round the throng. ‘Meet my wife.’ ‘Hi!’ ‘Have you met my husband?’ ‘Hi!’ It was all sugar and spice and all things nice. Lord, how he needed a drink. But no. Forty days and forty nights. Mingle, mingle. Lovely, lovely. He headed to the drinks table, resolute.
    Oh. My. God! ‘Um. Hello!’
    The vision smiled at him. ‘Hey. What can I get you?’
    â€˜Something soft?’ Argh. The conversation was being dubbed into innuendo. ‘Ha ha! Yes, well, this looks like elderflower.’
    â€˜Seriously? Du-u-ude, I can totally get something hard for you?’ Sly flash of tongue stud.
    â€˜What, supermarket Shiraz?’ (You little tramp!) ‘I think not.’
    Mercifully, Susanna appeared and asked Freddie to help carry things through to the dining room.
    Dominic watched him go. My. Oh. My.
    Then he recollected himself and (tempted and yet undefiled), picked up a glass of sparkling elderflower. When he turned the bishop was at his elbow.
    â€˜I’m very much appreciating your recommended Lent book, father.’
    There. See? We will leave them now to their chicken and broccoli bake. But the bishop is not pleased. I fear his earlier sartorial intervention misfired. Freddie is no longer in trackies and flip-flops. His black trousers are smart, if a little snug. But he’s wearing a tight black ultra-low V-neck T-shirt and sporting more cleavage than any clergy wife present.
    Has he overstepped the mark? Not quite. But he is deliberately standing right on the mark, defying the bishop. And the bishop is deliberately ignoring him.
    For now.

Chapter 12
    The cardinals are in conclave. Tempting though it is, we mustn’t loiter with the crowds in the piazza, nor yearn with them for a glimpse of white smoke. Our business lies with the diocese of Lindchester. We are on the brink of Passiontide. On Sunday our focus will shift from the Wilderness to Jerusalem. But today is Tuesday. At 9.17 a.m. a little local train (this train is made up of two carriages) rattles out of Cardingforth towards Lindford. Let’s follow it.
    The Linden flows beside the track among rush and willow. To our left the cooling towers serenely manufacture clouds. Look away. A solitary crow lollops over a field greened with winter wheat, and here and there along the hedges we can make out a sly haze of hawthorn leaf, a frosting of blackthorn blossom. The train clatters on, knackerty-tack, knackerty-tack . Allotments, houses, a square-towered church in a huddle of yews. We will shortly be arriving into Carding-le-Willow. If you are leaving the train, please ensure you have all your luggage and personal belongings with you. Carding-le-Willow, our next station stop.
    Personal belongings? As opposed to what? Impersonal belongings? Arriving into ? Station stop ? What, to distinguish it from the other places where we stop for no apparent reason, which are not stations?
    That is correct: Dr Jane Rossiter is on this train. Her car is being serviced, and she is on her way to work. Today she’s wearing a black beret because she still hasn’t been to