Authors: Susan Howatch
Tags: #Historical, #Psychological, #Sagas, #Fiction
FIVE
‘
Nothing blinds us to the true and living image of God except
the false man-made idol, worldliness.’
AUSTIN FARRER
Warden of Keble College, Oxford, 1960-1968
Said or Sung
When I had the chance to observe him at dose quarters I saw that
he was merely a plain man in his early forties with a thickset figure
which would have profited from regular exercise on a golf course. His nose was too large, his jaw too square and his mouth too thin
for his features to be judged other than irregular. At a loss to
understand why he should be planted in my hall when he had no
appointment to see me, I gave him my chilliest stare and waited
for Miss Peabody to rush from the office to my rescue.
But the priest was clearly not a man who let the
grass
grow
under his feet. Moving forward he held out his hand and said
warmly in a courteous voice: ‘Good morning, Bishop! My name’s
Lewis Hall.’
Finally detaching my feet from the threshold I closed the front door and allowed my hand to be gripped. But before I could utter
a word Miss Peabody erupted from the office. ‘Oh Bishop —’ I
had seldom seen her so flustered — this is the gentleman from Radbury whom we were discussing earlier. I did explain that it was quite impossible for you to see him, but when I mentioned
that you’d gone to the hospital to visit Father Wilton he asked if
he could wait for your return so that he could hear the latest news.’
This was a move which contrived to be both thoroughly
Christian and immensely cunning. As Miss Peabody quivered
vanquished before me and I found myself registering a reluctant
admiration for the man who had outwitted her, the stranger saw
the chance to build on his success by cornering me for conver
sation.
I clearly remember thinking to myself: this man shall not pass
the threshold of my study.
Meanwhile the man was saying soberly: ‘I do hope Father
Wilton’s progress is satisfactory. I was very struck by the way you
spoke of him at matins.’
I could not recall saying anything in particular about Desmond
himself; I had merely announced that he had been the victim of
an attack. Confused by the discrepancy I became fatally hesitant.
‘Well,’ I began, but that was all I was allowed to say.
‘
Since you referred to him as Father Wilton., I assume he’s an
Anglo-Catholic,’ said my visitor, ‘and if you’re now looking for a
locum, may I volunteer for the job? I’m an Anglo-Catholic myself, and Miss Peabody confirms that you have my reference from the
Abbot-General of the Fordite monks.’ He gave Miss Peabody a
radiant smile.
Miss Peabody turned pink, in the manner of a wallflower
suddenly asked to dance by the beau of the ball, and babbled: ‘I
did mention the reference to you, Bishop, and if you want me to
fetch it –’
I held up my hand. She stopped.
I opened
my mouth to take
control of the conversation. ‘I thank you for your kind offer, Mr
Hall,’ I said. ‘I shall forward it to the Archdeacon. And now I
have a train to catch shortly. If you’ll excuse me –’
‘
Yes, of course, Bishop. I’ll be only too happy to come back at
a more convenient
time.’
This assurance was not what I wished to hear at all. In a moment
of fury I repeated to myself: this man will
never cross
the threshold
of my study.
‘
Mr Hall,’ I said, ‘I’m aware that you feel called to establish a
healing centre and certainly I wish you every success. However, I
feel bound to say that in this diocese I have a policy of never
licensing –’
‘
I want to specialise in priests who have suffered a spiritual
breakdown.’
Silence fell upon us all, but now I no longer saw the
stranger,
still
as a
statue, or Miss Peabody, fluttering in the background. As
the memories of 1937 cascaded through my mind I saw only Loretta on that Surrey hillside and Alex Jardine removing the
decanter from me when I had been so very drunk at his episcopal
palace – although I never thought of those incidents nowadays, never, they were all buried so deep in my mind that I never had to think about them – indeed I never had to think about any incident from that spiritual breakdown, my first catastrophe, but
now I was thinking, now I was remembering, and I could hear
my younger self reciting the words of the General Confession to Jon, who had helped me survive.
‘
... spare thou them that confess their faults ... restore thou them that are penitent ...’ I remembered how I had been spared
and restored. I remembered how conscious I had been of the
healing power of the Holy Spirit
as
it moved ceaselessly through
the world to raise up and renew all that was broken and cast down.
I remembered that I had not always been a strong, successful bishop, battling
contra mundum
to preach the absolute truths.
My worldliness and my sophistication, those two hallmarks of
a civilised man at the top of his profession, abruptly dissolved; it
was as if a curtain had been rent from top to bottom by an unseen
hand so that light could pour into the darkened room beyond.
Acting instinctively – because for one mysterious moment my
entire intellect had been by-passed – I turned, gestured to the door
of my study and said to the stranger: ‘Come in.’
Then I myself led the way over the threshold which seconds ago
I had sworn he would never cross.
I should make it clear that I did not immediately think: ah, this is
the Holy Spirit in action and I must give this man everything he
asks for. I merely wish to explain why I let Hall cross the threshold
of my study when I had resolved to refuse him admittance. In fact
one has to be most cautious about detecting the presence of the Holy Spirit. It is
all
too easy to be driven, by mental stress or
psychological peculiarities or faulty reasoning, to make a mistaken
identification, and I knew
as
soon as I had recovered from my
moment of impulsiveness that I would have to be very careful what
I said next. It was more than possible that Hall’s invasion of the
South Canonry had nothing to do with the will of God at all.
Indeed one could just as easily argue that the Devil was pushing
this man into my diocese to cause disruption, and that the mem
ories of my spiritual breakdown had reduced me to a state of
addle-headed incompetence.
Having thus flogged myself back within the boundaries of
common sense, I said abruptly to Hall: ‘What’s so special about
the Starbridge diocese that you should feel called to work here?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘
Yes, my friends among the Fordite monks said you took a
special interest in priests who had suffered breakdowns. They men
tioned no names, but they told me about one priest who’d been
kicked out of the London diocese after an incident in
a
public
lavatory. No one else would touch him but you gave him a second
chance.’
I found I was too overwhelmed by the irony of this latest twist
of the conversation to reply. My decision to give Desmond a job
– a decision which had just been proved disastrously unsound –
was now being presented to me
as a
powerful Christian action
which was still having important consequences. So confused did
I feel at this point that I had to make a considerable effort to
concentrate on what Hall said next.
‘
I was intrigued by this story,’ he was adding, ‘because it was
so contrary to your popular image as a bishop tough on sexual
sin. That was when I realised you had to be a far more subtle and
complex character than your enemies were willing to believe. I
decided to find out more about you, and soon I realised how much
I respected your attempt to uphold traditional moral standards,
your advocacy of spiritual direction, your friendly attitude to both wings of the Church and your unusual ability to be both a highly-
qualified theologian and a gifted spiritual leader. I felt then that
you were exactly the bishop I was looking for – and after the
recent change of bishops at Radbury I assure you I was
looking
hard
. I got on well with Derek Preston, but Sunbeam leaves
me
cold.’
I emerged from my stupefied silence. ‘Sunbeam?’
‘
Leslie Sunderland, the new bishop of Radbury. Surely you
know that his clergy call him Sunbeam! It’s a tribute to his radiant
liberal optimism.’
Recognising my obligation to be loyal to a brother-bishop, even
a radically liberal brother-bishop, I suppressed my amusement and
said austerely: ‘I did notice that you enclosed no reference from
Bishop Sunderland with your letter.’
‘
I confess I never wasted time asking for one, but the Fordites will speak up for me. You know the Abbot-General, don’t you?’
‘
Well enough to be surprised that he hasn’t told you my policy
on the licensing of divorced priests.’
‘
He did tell me, but of course I knew that an exceptional bishop
like you would always know when to be flexible about applying
those sort of rules. After all, why should you wish to penalise me
for the fact that my wife ran off with another man? With your
happy marriage you’d be much more likely to offer me sympathy.’
‘
I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to be sympathetic, but –’
‘
And of course you’ll have grasped that
as an
extremely conven
tional Anglo-Catholic I don’t believe remarriage is an option for a divorced priest. In fact I shall never embarrass you either by
remarriage while my wife’s still alive or by any other unsuitable
behaviour,’ said Hall firmly, and added, looking me straight in the
eyes: ‘I consider myself called to celibacy.’
After a pause I said in my most neutral voice: ‘Really.’ But before
I could say more we were interrupted – to my relief – by the
buzzer of the intercom.
‘
You must leave for the station in twenty minutes, Bishop,’
intoned Miss Peabody, ‘and don’t forget that you still have to talk
to Roger about the government’s education graphs.’
‘
Thank you.’ I replaced the receiver. ‘Well, Mr Hall,’ I said,
rising to my feet. ‘I confess this has been an interesting interview
– and certainly, despite your marital status, I wouldn’t object to
engaging you on a temporary basis as a locum, but –’
‘
Thank you so much, Bishop, I knew I could rely on you to be
flexible. Now, I’d only need about twenty minutes to explain my
plans for the healing centre, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find
a slot for me in your diary, particularly since I can come back here
at any hour of the day or night –’
There was a tap on the door and Lyle peeped in. ‘Excuse me,
Charles, but Michael’s here again. Could you have a quick word
with him before you rush off to London?’
I immediately wanted Hall to expound for twenty minutes on
his healing centre.
Meanwhile Hall himself was saying rapidly: ‘I’ll see Miss Peabody, shall I, to fix a time when I can come back?’
As I heard myself consenting docilely to this suggestion, it
occurred to me to wonder if I had been hypnotised.
‘
Who was that extraordinarily sexy priest?’ muttered Lyle,
reappearing after I had parted from Hall at the front door.
‘Today’s English version of Elmer Gantry. He tells me the clergy
in the Radbury diocese call Derek’s appalling successor Sunbeam.’
Lyle was still laughing when my lay-chaplain sped out of the
office to waylay me. ‘Bishop, about those graphs –’
‘
He’ll be with you in a moment, Roger,’ said Lyle, instantly
becoming ruthless. ‘He has to have a word with Michael.’ And
as
I found myself being propelled towards the drawing-room door
she added to me sotto voce: Dinkie broke off the engagement this
morning, thank God, and poor Michael felt so wretchedly upset
that he came straight here for consolation after putting her on the
train to London.’
‘
You mean he really did want to marry her after all?’
No, no, no, of course he didn’t! Deep down he’s sick with relief
that it’s all over, but just think for a moment how
you’d
feel if
you’d taken endless trouble to try and "save" someone only to
have her kick you in the teeth at the end of it! He’s absolutely
mortified that he could have been so idiotic
as
to practise his
idealism on a money-grubbing tart – apparently in the end she
just said straight out that he wasn’t rich enough for her. Imagine that! I suppose she was simply too stupid to find a tactful excuse
– oh, and talking of stupidity, don’t mention the phantom preg
nancy. It turned out he colluded with that lie because it was the
only reason he felt would justify the marriage.’
‘But if he didn’t want to marry her anyway –’
‘
Well, of course for his pride’s sake he had to pretend that he
did! Otherwise he’d have had to admit he’d been a perfect fool
and allowed his idealism to lead him up the creek!’
‘
But isn’t he having to admit that now? Surely he’s too humili
ated to want to face
me!’
‘
That’s not the point. The point
is
that because he’s at such a
dreadfully low ebb you have the golden opportunity to forge a
new relationship by being kind and sympathetic and understanding, and if you dare slink off to London now without seeing him –’
‘
All right, all right,
all right!’
Terminating this feverish conversation, which had been conduc
ted almost entirely in whispers, I resigned myself to my fate and
ventured reluctantly into the drawing-room.
Sprawled on the sofa Michael was drinking black coffee and
looking hung-over. I noted that his long hair was uncombed, his
face was unshaven and he wore no tie. My own father, presented
with such a challenge to his standards, would have exclaimed: ‘What a debauched, decadent and downright disgraceful sight!
Disgusting!’ but I thought my old friend Alan Romaine would
have said gently: ‘You look a trifle wrecked, old chap. Anything I
can do to help?’ I tried to keep Alan’s memory in the forefront of
my mind
as I faced Michael,
but it had been Eric Ashworth, not
Alan Romaine, who had brought me up and I found it very hard
at that moment not to react like a strict Victorian father.
I cleared my throat. ‘You look a trifle wrecked, old chap,’ I said,
carefully uttering the right words, but as I spoke I realised with
horror that every syllable vibrated with insincerity. The worst part
of this débâcle was that I was genuinely desperate to show kind
ness, sympathy and understanding. It was just that I was quite
incapable of articulating it.
‘
Oh, you needn’t pretend you’re not thrilled to bits!’ said
Michael exasperated. ‘God, how I detest the hypocrisy of the older
generation!’
I struggled to repair my error. ‘Sorry,’ I said, finally managing
to sound sincere. ‘I didn’t mean to hit such a false note. And yes
— it’s true
I’m
glad the engagement’s off, but I’m genuinely sorry
you’re upset.’
‘
Balls! You’re delighted that I’ve got my comeuppance after
months of fornication!’
‘
I’m
much more worried about the mess she may have left you
in. Are you in debt?’
‘
Well, I had to spend a bit of money on her, didn’t I? She always
said money was the only thing that made her feel secure, money
never
let
her down like people did. You see, when her parents’
marriage broke up she blamed herself and —’
‘How much do you owe?’
‘
— and she’s been in a mess ever since really, okay, I know she
was as dumb
as a
lobotomised kitten but I was prepared to over
look that because I thought
she was
really rather sweet underneath
all her bloody awful hang-ups, and I thought that if only I could
show her there was at least
someone
who cared,
someone
who
was prepared to stand by her, she’d stop being so money-fixated
but —’
‘
I don’t want you getting bogged down in debt. If things are
really bad —’
‘
— but it turned out she’d only shacked up with me because she
thought we were millionaires — she saw you
as an
aristocrat with a big house and a seat in the House of Lords and it never occurred to her that you were just an ordinary middle-class chap who lived
rent-free in a Church house and only got the seat in the Lords
as
a perk which went with the job! Why do the Americans never
understand the English class-system?’
‘
Look, Michael, I think you’d better tell me how much you owe
and then —’
‘
You’re not listening to me, damn it! You never listen, do you?
You never listen!’
‘
I do listen, but all I hear is a lot of romantic adolescent drivel
about how you made a fool of yourself in the
e
worst possible way
with a girl who was quite unworthy of you! Now answer my
question:
how deeply arc you in debt?’
‘
Your problem,’ said Michael furiously,
‘is that
you can’t forgive
me for having sex with her! Just because you haven’t had sex
for
years
and have never in your life been lucky enough to make love
to a steamy American sexpot —’
Lyle walked back into the room.
‘
Darling,’ she said to Michael, ‘I’m so sorry your father keeps
saying the wrong thing, but I assure you he does understand how
horribly upset you feel now that Dinkie’s rejected all your heroic
efforts to care for her. You do understand that, don’t you, Charles?’
‘
Yes,’ I said.
‘
What your father really means, Michael — although he’s too
worried about you to make himself dear — is that he hates to think
you may be in debt as the result of all your praiseworthy idealism,
and he wants to do all he can to help. That’s what you want, isn’t
it, Charles?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘But Mum —’
‘
Hold on, darling, I must get your father launched on the jour
ney to London. Charles, you must have a word with Roger about
those graphs — thank you so much for insisting on seeing Michael
before you left.’
Battered and baffled I retreated to the hall.
Instantly I was waylaid by my lay-chaplain with a sheaf of papers.
‘Bishop, I really am worried by these graphs I got from the Edu
cation minister — I can’t make sense of them at all, and although
I’ve had them
Xeroxed
for the
committee,
I honestly think it might
be better to leave them out. On the other hand, if you leave them
out paragraph 19(b) of the report becomes incomprehensible,
so —’
‘
I’ll sort everything out on the train,’ I said, relieving him of the
papers
as
Miss Peabody appeared at my elbow.
‘
Oh Bishop, I do apologise for Father Hall’s invasion, but he
was so persuasive and so obviously a gentleman —’
‘
I thought he looked like an assassin,’ said Roger, unable to
resist taking a swipe at Miss Peabody’s cast-iron snobbery.
‘
I thought he looked like Heathcliff,’ said the typist, passing by
with a mug of coffee.
Edward my priest-chaplain erupted from the office. ‘Bishop, I’ve
got Lord Flaxton on the phone — he says he’s discovered that the
new vicar of Flaxton Pauncefoot is a member of CND, and he
wants to know how you could have licensed a pacifist to work in
the diocese. He says the man’s probably a KGB agent.’
‘Don’t get diverted, Charles,’ said Lyle, emerging from the cloakroom with my hat and coat.
Edward, who was new to his job, demanded wildly: ‘Is Lord
Flaxton nuts?’
‘Eccentric,’ said Lyle, stuffing me into my coat.
‘But what shall I say to him, Bishop? He’s absolutely livid — breathing fire —’
‘
Suggest he has a drink with me at the House of Lords next week.’
‘
Here, Bishop,’ said Roger, taking the papers back from me,
shoving them into my briefcase and thrusting the briefcase into
my arms all within the space of five seconds.
‘
Togs for Church House,’ said Lyle, passing me the bag contain
ing my formal episcopal uniform. ‘Darling, I’ll drive you to the
station — you don’t have time to search for a parking space.’
‘
I’ve got a feeling there was something else I had to say to
Edward ...’
‘
He’s gone back to be beaten up by Lord Flaxton,’ said Roger
before I could digest that Edward had vanished from the hall. ‘Do
you want him to visit Father Wilton in hospital?’
‘
Ah — Desmond, yes, that was it — tell Edward to get hold of the hospital chaplain and explain that Desmond likes to receive
the sacrament daily —’
‘
Bishop, you’ve run out of time,’ said Miss Peabody, and for
one bizarre moment I felt I had been sentenced to a most unpleasant eternity. ‘You must leave at once.’
But another thought had occurred to me. — and tell him to
phone Malcolm Lindsay to say we may not need to trouble Bishop
Farr about a locum for St Paul’s —’
‘Come on, Charles!’ Lyle was chafing by the front door.
But still I hesitated, my mind refastening on Desmond as it
belatedly occurred to me that he might be in no fit spiritual state
to receive the sacrament. I told myself firmly that he would always
repent of his sins and pray for the grace to do better, but still
I was gnawed by doubt. A repentance which did not include confessing his renewed taste for pornography could hardly be
construed as acceptable ... I started to worry that in my desire
to be a compassionate pastor I had been inexcusably sentimental
and slack
as a
father-in-God.
‘Do you have a locum in mind, Bishop?’
‘
That man Hall who was here earlier. Tell the Archdeacon — no,
on second thoughts I’d better tell him myself —’
‘
Charles,’ said Lyle, ‘do you really want to miss both your train
and your lunch with Jack at the Athenaeum?’
She finally managed to detach me from the South Canonry.