Absolute Truths (28 page)

* * *

‘
25th November, 1963. I haven’t written anything here for a week,
but I’ve been so busy. I’ve done a little praying every day, but it
seems futile and I can’t see any results. That’s why I’m giving
myself a holiday from prayer this morning and writing something
in the journal instead.

‘
Looking back I see I was writing about Samson and I realise
more clearly than ever that Charles isn’t at peace with him. I am,
though. Or am I deceiving myself ? No. I’m free now. I was freed when Charles came home from the war and I knew I was madly
in love with him at last. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
and I’d come to realise how wonderful he’d been
to me
and how
lucky I was to have him. No more Samson. I was cured, healed, entirely restored to sanity. Poor Samson, losing me and missing
out on Charley! I can look back at him today with compassion.

‘But Charles can’t. That’s clear to me now, but maybe subcon
sciously I’ve known it for a long time. After all, didn’t I think of
our return to Starbridge as an exorcism of the past? I must have
thought there was something that needed to be exorcised, but the
exorcism hasn’t happened. Quite the reverse. Starbridge, I find
with horror, has stirred everything up. Charles could forget about
Samson in Cambridge, but he can’t forget about him here, in
Starbridge, where we acted out the great crisis of 1937. Samson
lives on in Starbridge even though Charles pretends he doesn’t.
Charles pretends too that he’s got over his antipathy to the
Cathedral which was so marked when we came to live at the South
Canonry — maybe he found that the best way to suppress the
undigested, unaccepted past was to go through the motions of
falling in love with the place all over again. "Radiant, ravish
ing
Starbridge!" sighs Charles, gazing at that horribly eerie hulk just
as dotingly as Alex ever did, and I can feel my blood nut cold as I
repress a shudder.

‘
How do I exorcise this subterranean river of demonic mem
ories? No idea.

‘
I can’t help wondering if Samson would have been easier to
exorcise from our family life if Charley had been a girl who looked
just like me. Yes, I think that
would
have made a difference. Charles
would simply have blotted Samson right out and adored her in
that sentimental way he has with young girls. But Charley — so
like Samson, such a constant reminder ... Of course Charles
always says the resemblance doesn’t bother him, always insists that
he actually liked Samson, bears him no ill will, and so on and so
on. This
is
the way things ought to be, I agree. But is that the
way things really are? No. Charles, wrapped up in his public-school
ethos, can’t see the way things really are, won’t see it, daren’t see it. It’s easier for him in such an agonisingly complex situation to
take refuge in a world where people say things like: "No hard
feelings, old chap!" and "Keep a stiff upper lip, play the game and
don’t let the side down!"

‘
Phony, phony, phony ... But Charles doesn’t know. He’s not
insincere, just mixed up, and I don’t know how to unravel him.

‘
Supposing I took the bull by the horns and said: "Your problem
is that you’re a jealous man and you can’t bear the thought that
any other man’s ever had me." No, that wouldn’t work. He’d just
laugh and say: "I know you love me now — why should I bother to be jealous, as if I were someone who can’t stop being emotionally
insecure?" And I’m not sure I know the answer to that question.
I just know that Charles can’t bear me to look at another man and
that he’s never really satisfied unless I’m devoting myself to him
100%. That’s why, of course, the best years of our marriage came after the children had grown up. It wasn’t because I couldn’t cope with motherhood. It was because Charles couldn’t cope with shar
ing me. No wonder he was always so keen on sex! It was his way
of re-establishing himself at the centre of my world.

‘
No, that’s unkind to Charles. Obviously he also wanted sex because he loved me. But in the beginning — when he was so
insecure — when he sensed I didn’t love him half as much as I
loved Samson — yes, of course he felt jealous, it was only human
to feel jealous in those circumstances, and he was very jealous and
very insecure indeed.

‘
Perhaps the insecurity goes back even further too; perhaps it
goes all the way back to his childhood. That doting mother, devot
ing herself to him 100% – or trying to, but of course he had to
share her with his father – a fact which made him feel insecure
and jealous – particularly since Eric was so strict that Charles no doubt came to fed he needed every ounce of Helen’s devotion as compensation ... Yes, one could make out quite a Freudian case
to explain why Charles is the way he is, but even if that’s all rubbish
(
and I can’t say I’m terribly keen on Freud) one can’t get away
from the fact that Charles has a jealous streak in his nature and he
can’t forgive any man who makes the fatal error of finding me too
attractive.

‘
That’s at the bottom of the whole Aysgarth mess, although it’s
more than my life’s worth to mention it. If I drag the subject up
again now and have another go at proclaiming that intercourse
never happened, Charles will immediately suspect out of sheer
jealousy that it did happen, and then the whole agony will begin
all over again. It’s much better just to let him know regularly how
much I detest Stephen – which I do. When I think of what hap
pened this summer – that pornographic sculpture – and the ensu
ing rows which put Charles under such strain – and then all that
other utterly dreadful behaviour which – but no, it’s no good
thinking about that now. Charles buried the scandal six feet deep
for the good of the Church, and that’s that.

‘
Or is it? Everything’s festering underground, that’s the trouble.
In Charles’s eyes Stephen committed the sin of "letting the side
down", and in Stephen’s eyes Charles is "the man who knows too
much" – with the result that the more Charles bends over back
wards to be Christian in order to "do the done thing" and allow
Stephen to make a fresh start, the more humiliated and resentful
Stephen must feel. If only Stephen would resign! But he’ll cling
to power like a limpet, he’ll ride out the pain and the humiliation,
he’s tough as old boots. And meanwhile the bad feeling goes on
and on and on ... No wonder the Cathedral’s looking sinister
nowadays. By this time it must be stuffed with a sort of demonic
sludge. Maybe I
should
pray for it – or maybe I should pray for
Stephen, but no, I can’t, I’m not holy enough to pray for a man
I detest. Well, let’s be honest! I’m not holy at all.

‘
I’ll pray some more for Venetia instead. Oh, I did like her! I’m
not good at liking women, but I liked
her.
She was my kind of
person. Clever. Amusing. Interested in sex. Fun. I shall keep pray
ing for her – and for Charles – but not for Stephen, bloody
Stephen, turning on the sexual power when I was at my most vulnerable, when I was dreading so much that Charles wasn’t
coming home – oh God, I can still see that gin-and-tonic the size
of a goldfish bowl, no, don’t think of it, wipe it out, think of
something else, start praying.

‘
MEMO TO GOD : I don’t really have to pray for someone I
loathe, do I? I mean, how can one do such a thing and remain
sincere?’

‘
26th December, 1963. Another long interval
has elapsed during
which I’ve written nothing, but Christmas really is an impossible
time of year to do anything except try to keep sane.

‘
Darling Michael’s given me a book token and I’m just wonder
ing if I should drop into the SPCK bookshop and invest in a tome
on prayer. The trouble is that I’m such a Protestant at heart that
I don’t like people giving me orders or advice on my spiritual
life and getting between me and God. The very phrase "spiritual
director" makes me recoil, but maybe that’s because I always associ
ate it with the monster at Starrington. Selfish old eccentric!
Imagine going off into the woods to live
as a
hermit when you’ve
got a fourteen-year-old son to look after! No wonder Nicholas is
so peculiar, even now he’s in his twenties and grown up.

‘
But I must stop ranting about Jon, and perhaps I should also
stop being too proud to seek advice on prayer. After all, since I’m
so ignorant and stupid about praying, shouldn’t I at least make
some
effort to improve my almost non-existent skill? If I really
feel called to pray, should I be content with merely muttering
inefficiently to God for a short time every morning? But maybe
the whole call’s a gigantic delusion and I’m just playing psychologi
cal games with myself. I do wonder sometimes, especially when
I’m depressed. I feel depressed now, exhausted by Christmas. No
wonder the suicide rate soars at this time of the year, but no, I

don’t want to cut my throat, I just want to put my feet up and
not talk to anyone in the
Church of England for at least twenty-
four hours.

‘MEMO TO GOD : If you really want me to go on with the
praying you’d better say so – and SAY IT CLEARLY. I’ve been
praying in this new serious way for some weeks now but as far
as I can see there have been no positive results and I’m getting
discouraged. I do still have this vague urge to pray and I offer it
to you again, even though it’s so feeble and inadequate, but if the
whole thing’s a delusion LET
ME KNOW
so that I can do some
thing more rewarding instead. I’ll
give you
till Easter.

‘
(I’m sure one’s not supposed to give God ultimatums, but what
the hell,
I’m
fed up.)

‘
An afterthought: at least I haven’t
turned my
journal into fiction
yet. I suppose that
must
rank as some sort of modest achievement.’

* * *

‘
2nd March, 1964. I might have known I’d never keep up a journal
regularly. Over two months since my last entry! Hopeless. All I
can say in my own defence is that I’ve kept up with my early
morning prayers. Still no visible results, but m going to go on
till Easter before I chuck it in.

‘
I did buy the book on prayer but I couldn’t get on with it. This
was a real disappointment because for
some
reason I was convinced
that buying the book on prayer would lead to a big break-through
– in fact I was so sure of this that I was even beginning to believe God himself had planted the thought in my brain. How stupid of
me! How sentimental! And how utterly self-centred! m sure God
has better things to do with his time than to go around planting
fantastic hopes in the minds of clerical wives who are trying to kid
themselves they have a special call to pray.

‘
On the advice of the man at the SPCK bookshop I waited until
the Lent books started to be published before making my dud
purchase, and I did read all the right r
^e
views in the
Church Gazette,
so it wasn’t as if I bought the book without the proper care and
research. Well, I suppose anyone can make a mistake – or would

I
find any book on prayer peculiar and dull? Maybe books on
prayer are written for peculiar, dull people. What sort of people
are interested in prayer anyway?

‘
But the answer to that question appears to be: all sorts, some
of them most unexpected. Eileen Pearce, the new canon’s wife,
who’s smartly turned out and not obviously churchy, asked me
today if there was a women’s prayer-group she could join. Imagine
it! Sitting around with a bunch of women and praying en masse!
I wouldn’t mind sitting around with a bunch of men – but if I
did, I doubt if I’d keep my mind on my prayers.

‘
Anyway I don’t like the idea of praying in a group. I’d much
rather pray on my own. (I’ve found I don’t really pray at church
services, I just go through a praying ritual – which m sure can
be perfectly adequate, but I find praying at home less distracting.)
I suppose, if I’m to be fair, praying at home in a group might
have its interesting side – getting together with like-minded people
usually does – but how could I ever tell anyone why I have to
pray so hard for Charles?

‘
I’m increasingly worried about Charles. He took a real hammer
ing from those atheists on that beastly TV show. He’s tough and
brave to face them but he’s sensitive underneath and they hurt
him, I know they did. If only he could retire to Cambridge for
two weeks and write some wonderfully erudite monograph on the
Early Church! Then he’d feel better. I really wish now that we’d
never left Cambridge. Sometimes I feel he’s still not happy
as a
bishop. Sometimes I think he’s still expending far too much energy
on "keeping a stiff upper lip" and "playing the game".

‘
Oh God, please help Charles, he’s really not cut out to be
a
militant
bishop, and being any kind of bishop’s so difficult, he’s
always in a rush, there’s never enough time (how the pace of episcopal life has speeded up since Alex’s day!) and I think he’s
really getting very troubled by it all, particularly since the
Honest
to God
fuss in all the secular press when he felt called to speak out
against the "New Morality". I have this horrible feeling that
Charles is being driven down a blind alley where he’ll be endlessly beaten up – a vile image but an apt one.

‘What can I do to make things easier for him? Devote myself to
him 100%. Fine. But where does that leave me –
me,
Lyle? Where
it always does nowadays — powerless but praying. God, I can see
now why I get so fed up! I feel there’s no
me at all,
the true me
has been squeezed out by this clerical automaton called Mrs Bishop
who hovers constantly at Charles’s elbow to ensure he has every
thing he wants ... Poor Charles, I’m so worried about him, I do
wish I could talk to him properly, but I can’t, he wouldn’t under
stand, he’d just get upset, and I mustn’t make him upset, he’s upset
enough by being a bishop, and I mustn’t make matters worse.

‘
All I can do is pray. Funny about Eileen Pearce, bringing up
the idea of a prayer-group. I wouldn’t have thought she was the
type at all — too young, too busy. She even has a part-time job —
she’s a secretary in a firm which has
nothing to do with the Church.
Only Wednesdays and Fridays, but she says it’s so nice to have a
little life of her own. Her mother takes care of the children when
they come home from school. Her husband doesn’t seem to mind.
Of course they’re much younger than us, a different generation.
Charles would mind, but then he needs me to devote myself to
him 100%. Oh God, what am I going to do about Charles .. .

‘
And there’s me too, isn’t there, I can sec that dimly now. What
am I going to do about
me? I’m
not happy, my life’s somehow
out of alignment, it’s as if we’ve all been dislocated in some way
by forces we don’t understand and can’t control.

‘
MEMO TO GOD
: Cracks seem to be opening up in my con
sciousness and when I peer into them I don’t like what I see. Is it
that prayer has somehow opened my mind so that I can see farther
than I ever did before? Or am I simply going mad? Please,
please
don’t
let
me have a nervous breakdown — it would make life even
more awful for Charles.’