Evensong

This is Olivia’s fourth Sunday, and fourth Evensong, at Rochester Cathedral. Not her fourth consecutive Sunday, because she has missed last week’s. If she gets to like some- where enough to go regularly, as she does with Rochester, she usually misses one service after three or four visits—a simple precaution, in case the congregation start noticing her.

So, her fourth Sunday out of five. And, like each pre- ceding one, it is a warm, copper-toned summer evening. But her precaution hasn’t worked. Out here in the Cathedral precincts, where refectory tables have been set out for coffee after the service, a couple of them have already sought to make eye contact.

And then there are the ones hunting her. Instinctively she feels that they’re getting closer, and that this may be her last Evensong at Rochester. A pity: she likes it here and has felt almost settled. Currently she works at a secondhand book- shop in the High Street. It is a lowly job but it reminds her of Anwar. He used to like old books. He’d have dealt easily with those hunting her, but he isn’t here anymore. He’s long gone.

She knows about Churches and how they work, but the Old Anglicans puzzle her. What they deal in—simple companionship—gives them no apparent gain or advantage. It doesn’t readily translate into a business model. The Old Anglicans continue as always on their gentle decline, while the New Anglicans get more and more powerful.

She decides as usual not to stay for coffee but to walk back along the High Street to her flat. But Michael Taber, the Dean of Rochester Cathedral—he’d taken this evening’s service—goes up to her. She’s seen and heard enough of him to know that he’s charming and patrician but also, under- neath, very smart.

He flashes his smile. “Won’t you stay for coffee, Ms.—?”

She sees he’s also switched on his I’m Listening expression in preparation for her reply. She doesn’t want to be drawn into a conversation, especially not with him, so she answers hastily, “Taylor. Olive Taylor. Thank you, but I can’t stop, I have to go now.” She almost adds, “Because my cat’s waiting for me,” but just manages not to. She shudders inwardly; at least she’s avoided giving him that clue.

But it doesn’t matter. Taber studies her as she walks hurriedly away. He is thinking about her. Olive, Olivia. And Sarto means Tailor. It can’t be. It can’t be. 

EIGHT: OCTOBER 6, 2060

1

The pale wood door of the Boardroom stood impassively before him. Kicking it down, he decided, would be too theatrical, so he merely opened it (though without knocking) and strode in.