Absolute Truths (22 page)

‘
Christianity is, of course, a very costly religion,’ said Jon, ‘but
I’m sorry to hear you’re finding it too expensive.’

I groaned again, but in fact I welcomed this austere rebuke,
found it bracing —
as
Jon had known I would. I needed a strong
rod to flog me out of the pit of despair. A flimsy switch would
have been of no use at all.

I took a deep breath. The boil had been lanced and the time
had come to apply some antiseptic ointment. Calmer now that I
had expelled my anger I began my attempt to regard my problems
with detachment.

‘
Very well,’ I said, ‘we’ll set Desmond aside for the moment.
There’s a hellish interview in store for me there but at present my task is simply to be a good pastor and ensure he’s properly looked
after. I suppose I might just manage to achieve that if I can stop
being so self-centred that all I think about is not Desmond’s welfare
but my own discomfort. And we’ll set aside the wonder-
worker
for
the moment too; if I employ him as a locum it doesn’t commit me to any fantastic scheme for a healing centre. The really intrac
table problem is — as usual — Aysgarth. What on earth do I do
about that drunken menace at the Deanery?’

‘
Why don’t you start by referring to him in a manner which
reflects his reformed drinking habits? And perhaps you might take
a moment to remember that even if he was the worst drunkard in
Starbridge he’d still be a member of your flock.’

‘
All right, what do I do about that stone-cold-sober old sheep
who’s been gambolling in the Cathedral library with such unfortu
nate results?’

‘
This sounds so obvious that I hardly like to mention it,’ said
Jon apologetically, ‘but why don’t you have a friendly chat with
him and simply ask what’s going on?’

‘
Because we’re beyond friendly chats where the Cathedral’s con
cerned. No, I can sec I’ll be driven to make a visitation – I’ll have
to bring in the lawyers and haul him over the coals in the chapter
house.’

‘
You’d look a big fool if he’s got a satisfactory explanation.’

This pithy realism had the required effect: I struggled to think
more profitably. After a moment I said: ‘Maybe it would be best if I dealt with him through the Archdeacon. At least if he has a
row with Malcolm he won’t be having a row with me.’

‘
That’s certainly a pragmatic suggestion,’ conceded Jon, adopt
ing a milder tone as he realised I was making a big effort to
be constructive, ‘but I wonder if you’ve allowed sufficiently for
Aysgarth’s psychological peculiarities. If you send in the Arch
deacon, Aysgarth’s inferiority complex will get the better of him
and he’ll think you’re being intolerably grand and stand-offish. Is
it really so impossible for you to invite him informally to the South
Canonry for a glass of sherry?’

‘
He’ll brag about all his brilliant, successful sons and I shan’t be
able to stand it. No, sorry, forget I said that — I’m being self-
obsessed and negative again —’

‘
Why the new outburst of envy on the subject of Aysgarth’s
sons? How are Charley and Michael?’

‘
Oh, don’t ask! Michael’s just become engaged and disengaged
to that frightful American tart and continues to regard girls as
nothing but animated mattresses. As for Charley, he’s just told me
he wants to be a monk, but of course it’s not a genuine call —
he’s merely expiring with frustration because of his compulsion to
admire women who are unobtainable. I had to cat hot buttered
crumpets with him at Fortnum’s today while he wailed about the
extraordinary nature of his erections.’

‘
But how wonderful that he could be so frank with you!’ said
Jon encouragingly. ‘I’m sure I never talked to my father about
such matters!’

‘
I’m sure I never talked to mine about them either, but the
young seem to talk about anything these days — Michael even tried
to tell me he was saving Dinkie by fornicating with her! I’ve begun
to think it’s impossible for the two of us ever to have a conversation
which doesn’t end in a row.’

‘
It reminds me of what I went through with Martin,’ said Jon,
referring to his son by his first marriage. ‘The normal channels of
communication had become so blocked that all we experienced
when we met was pain.’

‘How did you finally unblock them?’

‘I accepted him
as
he was.’

This was not the answer I had expected. I had thought he might
say: ‘Martin eventually became mature enough to behave better,’
or: ‘Once Martin had conquered his alcoholism I was able to see
him without getting upset.’ After a pause I ventured the comment:
‘I’d be doing Michael no favours if I accepted him
as
he is, locked
in a self-destructive pattern of behaviour.’

‘
But what is he trying to say to you by behaving in this particular
way?’

‘
I told you years ago. He’s saying how furious he is that I don’t
spoil him rotten, just as Lyle does.’

‘
I’m sure that’s at least partly true. But should one really be
content with a mere partial truth?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is that the only reason why Michael should be angry?’

‘
Well, obviously he’s also jealous of his brother, but he’s just
got to learn to grow up, that’s all, because I’m not altering my
relationship with Charley. That’s my one big
success
as a family
man — and my reward for all I went through in the past.’

Jon said nothing.

‘
It’s not
as
if I neglect Michael,’ I insisted, more irritated than
disturbed by this silence. ‘I’ve always tried to do my very best for
him, even though the only reward I get is bad behaviour.’

Jon picked up the cat again. The animal, delighted, patted his
cheek with its paw.

‘
That cat’ll talk to you one day,’ I said, finishing my tea.

Jon smiled, moulded the cat into a motionless mass of fur and
began to speak of prayer.

Later, after we had prayed together, I was able to tell him I felt
better. I knew my problems had not magically melted away, but
I was more at peace, more accepting of my tasks as a bishop,
more confident that I would be granted the grace to exercise my
responsibilities as I should. Having thanked Jon whole-heartedly
I declined his offer of more tea and moved at last to the door.

‘
By the way,’ I said, hesitating with my hand on the latch, ‘I
quite forgot to tell you — this divorced wonder-worker, who’s
trying to wriggle into my diocese, has a reference from the Abbot-
General of the Fordites.’

‘
That fails to impress me,’ said Jon, very chilly. ‘I don’t approve
of the present Abbot-General.’

I knew why. The present Abbot-General, who in fact was a
decent enough fellow, educated at all the right schools, had dosed
the Fordites’ house in Yorkshire where Jon had spent his happiest years as a monk. Jon had disagreed vehemently with this decision
and said it showed an inexcusably supine spirit, but in common
with the Roman Catholic orders, the Fordites were declining in
numbers, and the Abbot-General had had little choice but to shed
one of his four houses. It had been yet another sign of the depress
ing times in which we lived.

‘
But don’t you think it’s odd,’ I persisted, ‘that the Abbot-
General’s prepared to recommend a divorced priest?’

‘
Well, of course in my young day it would have been unthink
able. Certainly Father Darcy would have said ...’ And
as
he so often did, Jon began to speak about the hero of his monastic
years, Father Cuthbert Darcy, who had died in 1940 but had
subsequently taken up residence in Jon’s head as a golden memory.
However, halfway through the Darcy anecdote (which I had heard at least twice before) Jon broke off and said abruptly: ‘Forgive me
— I’m keeping you from Lyle and you must go. How is she, by
the way?’

‘
Wonderful. Best wife in all the world. Don’t know how I’d ever
manage without her.’

Jon smiled again. Then he said: ‘I’ll continue to pray for you
and Aysgarth.’

We parted. I was on my own once more but ready (or so I
thought) to face whatever horrors lay ahead, and
as
I headed down
the track through the woods I noticed that far above me in the
cold night sky the stars had started to shine.

I crossed the threshold of the South Canonry as the grandfather
clock began to strike ten in the hall.

‘
Darling!’ I shouted, just
as
I always did when I finally regained
my safe harbour after an exhausting day sailing on the ecclesiastical
high seas. It was
as
if I were announcing my presence to the pilot
who would then guide me to the right berth.

‘
Coo-ce!’ called Lyle from upstairs, revealing that she was wait
ing for me in her little sitting-room.

I steamed forward with alacrity across the hall.

When I entered the room I saw she had the whisky bottle and the soda-siphon waiting for me alongside a plate of sandwiches covered by a
glass
dome. She had turned up the central heating,
and I was immediately aware, amidst all the welcoming warmth,
of a vast relief that I was at last safe in my own home with the
wife I loved. I found myself thinking ardently: thank God! as I
realised how very fortunate I was despite all my troubles, and how
very greatly blessed.

‘
Feeling better?’ said Lyle, putting aside her sewing. She had
been mending the sagging hem of one of. my favourite golfing
shirts.

‘
Much better. I don’t think I’ll murder Aysgarth just yet,’ I said,
moving forward to give her a kiss.

Lyle stood up. I have this very clear memory of her standing
up. I have not described Lyle apart from mentioning that she had
kept her figure, but I shall now add that she was small and fine-boned and that she had dark hair, smooth and thick, which she
wore drawn back from her face and gathered in a bun at the nape
of her neck. Her hair had once had a reddish tinge but this had
disappeared along with her first grey hairs towards the end of her
forties. Her dark eyes appraised the world coolly from behind
rimless spectacles which heightened the impression of an efficient
employee, devoted to her job. Her poise, her graceful movements,
the hint of a strong sexuality held ruthlessly in check behind that
faultlessly proper façade — all combined to create the air of mystery
which was
as fascinating
to me in 1965
as
it had been in 1937 at
our first meeting. For me indeed she was ‘beyond compare’, not
merely a devoted wife but a loyal friend and an exciting companion,
and I knew that so long
as
we were married no day would ever
seem too hard to endure.

1 saw her stand up. She was wearing an olive-green wool dress,
perfectly plain, and the diamond brooch I had given her on our silver wedding anniversary. In the soft light from the lamps she
looked very young. I shall always remember how young she looked
at that moment, how alluring, how indestructibly beautiful.

I saw her stand up. i was still crossing the room towards her.
She put aside her sewing and she stood up. In my memory I can
see that scene happening over and over again.

She was smiling as she rose to her feet. I can still remember
how she smiled. Then suddenly without warning she lost her bal
ance and staggered to one side.

‘
You’ve been hitting the gin!’ I teased her
as
she righted herself,
but she only said in confusion: ‘But I haven’t had a drink all day!
So why —’

The clot of blood cut off her voice.

The clot of blood cut off her breath.

The clot of blood cut off her life.

My third catastrophe had arrived out of the blue.