Absolute Truths (30 page)

* * *

‘
28th November, 1964. Today I broke down and told the group
how much I hate Michael sleeping with that awful Dinkie and
how miserable it made me when Charles was so beastly to Michael
about it. Everyone was
so kind.
I just didn’t know it was possible
for women to be so kind to one another. We prayed that Michael
would learn how to treat women with genuine love and respect,
and we prayed that Charles would be more understanding and
forgiving. Emma said: "Perhaps we should pray for Dinkie too."
And then the most extraordinary thing happened. As everyone else
looked horrified at the idea of praying for this slut, this "lost girl", this "fallen woman" who had been shamelessly living with a man
who wasn’t her husband, I —
I,
not Mrs Bishop but
I,
Lyle —
I
said:
"Yes,
of course we must pray for her."

‘
So we prayed for Dinkie, whom I detest — but why do I detest
her so fiercely? Not just because I think she’s messing up Michael;
Michael will survive. Not just because she makes Charles so angry
that the trouble between him and Michael
is
exacerbated; I can
stand that if I have to. It’s because I see in her what I detest in
myself — or rather, I’m projecting on to her my painful hated
memories of that time long ago when
I
was a "lost girl", sleeping
with a man who wasn’t my husband, a course of action which
nearly destroyed me and did in the end destroy my lover.

‘
Today at last I prayed with genuine feeling for someone I detest,
except that I didn’t detest her any more then. I felt nothing but
the tangled-up pain — her pain, my pain, it was all one — and I
saw I had to forgive her
as
I’d forgiven myself, because in the end
we all need to be forgiven, all of us, and "he that is without sin
among you, let him cast the first stone."

‘
I saw then too so clearly why Charles is beastly to Michael. It’s
all connected with this business of projection — of projecting on
to another what you hate or fear in yourself and then condemning
it in order to make yourself feel safe. Charles would like to have lived in the 1920s as Michael lives today, but of course he can’t
admit, even to himself, how much he would have enjoyed bedding
lots of pretty girls and living in sin with a voluptuous tart. That’s
such a dangerous truth that it has to be buried instantly, alongside
the fact that Charles spent a lot of his youth feeling sexually frus
trated. Perhaps if he’d been truly upper-class and truly rich he
could have cottoned on to a wild set when he was an undergraduate
and sown some really lavish wild oats, but he was just a middle-
class solicitor’s son from the stockbrokers’ belt on limited funds,
and Eric would have clamped down at once on any high living.
Things are so different today, so much more egalitarian. Now even the working-classes can sow lavish wild oats, thanks to the ability
of pop singers to earn millions. So Charles doesn’t just condemn
Michael for the sexy, wild streak which he daren’t acknowledge in
himself; he condemns him because he’s jealous of Michael living in the sexy, wild 1960s and having all the fun he never had.

‘Yet this is an over-simplification of the truth, I realise that. For
instance, I know Charles is also against Michael’s promiscuity for
very good, sound reasons, reasons of which I entirely approve —
he’s not motivated merely by dark promptings of the psyche.
Indeed surely anyone with any experience of the world can see
that when men treat women like Kleenex tissues — use once and
dispose — women wind up degraded and the whole selfish activity
ultimately debases both sexes. But there’s a right and a wrong way
to be anti-fornication, and if you go about it in the wrong way
(aided and abetted by convoluted feelings in your psyche) you’re
heading for trouble. It’s no good being dictatorial and dogmatic,
crashing around in outrage that people should so wilfully refuse
to "play the game" and "stick to the rules". That just sends people
rushing naked to the nearest bed to affirm their freedom from
tyranny. No wonder Michael sleeps around — it’s his way of
expressing his individuality. It’s the wrong way, I hardly need add,
and one day he’ll learn there are more mature ways of being grown
up, but meanwhile Charles gives him no chance to grow up because
he positively drives him into promiscuity.

‘
Meanwhile Charley, cunningly taking advantage of the Dinkie
affair in order to curry favour, is being insufferably virtuous and
churchy. I bet he spends hours masturbating. If Charley really feels
so secure with Charles, why is he forever creeping around trying
to curry favour? It’s
as
if he can never relax sufficiently to be himself
because he’s never sure what Charles really thinks of him. (Or is
it that he never dares be himself because he’s all too sure what Charles will think of him?) But whatever it is that’s really going
on, it’s a disaster.

‘
If only I could talk to Charles about this! But he has to believe
he and Charley have a successful father–son relationship. That’s
his reward, he says, for all he went through. But how good is it
for Charley to go through life bearing an invisible placard which
proclaims: I AM
CHARLES ASHWORTH’S REWARD? God,
I get so worried about it all sometimes .. .

‘
Never mind, at least I can talk to the group. Can’t tell them
everything, of course, but at least I can
tell
them something, and
I really do feel now that so long as I have the group supporting
me it doesn’t matter that I can’t talk to Charles any more.

‘
MEMO TO GOD: I’ve been demanding and demanding things
from you, often quite ruddy, in fact often very ruddy, like an
ill-bred spoilt child, but I think prayer must have made me better-
mannered or perhaps it’s helped me grow up a little and now I
should like to
say politely: "Thank you very much" – not just for
staying with me no matter how unpleasant I was, but for actually
moving closer and surrounding me
with people who care.

‘
An afterthought: How curious it is that all those sayings of
Jesus which one learns by rote at an early age – sayings that become
so familiar that one never thinks deeply about them – are now all
chiming and making sense, like a great poem leaping up from the
printed page to hit the reader between the eyes. I find myself
thinking about Jesus more and more, which
is
so odd because I’ve
never thought much about Jesus except
as a
historical figure, very
interesting, of course, and greatly to be respected but not exactly the sort of person you’d see walking across the Cathedral sward
at Starbridge. Yet
the
strange thing
is
that now I think he
was –
is – the sort of person who might turn up in Starbridge, and
sometimes when the group meets I look at the closed door of the room and remember how he moved through the closed door after
his death to be present with his disciples, and then I – no, I’m
writing like a religious maniac and
I
must stop.

‘
Another afterthought: Would Charles recognise Jesus if he
appeared in the diocese? Would any of those powerful, worldly
clerics who "play the game" and "do the done thing"?’

* * *

‘
1st December, 1964. Advent’s started. All the awful pressures of
Christmas are looming on the horizon, and the biggest problem
is that Michael’s still insisting on bringing Dinkie down for Christ
mas Day. I’m really looking forward to the next meeting of the
group, it’s such a life-line, I wonder now how I ever managed
without it. How lonely I was before! How isolated, adrift and
confused! What’s the purpose of all this prayer, I used to ask – I
suppose I had some high-flown, self-centred notion of playing the
heroine and saving people, but what’s happened is that God’s saved
me. By grounding myself in him and turning outwards towards
the world I’m losing my fixation with myself as I care for others and am cared for by others in return. "For whosoever will save
his life shall lose it," said Jesus, "but whosoever will lose his life
for my sake, the same shall save it." Such a paradox, but I feel I’m experiencing what he meant. How did Jesus know so much when
he was only in his early thirties? Extraordinary! 1 wish I could
have talked to him, but no, I’ve missed him by centuries again,
just
as
I’ve missed Julian of Norwich.

‘
Or have I? I’ve missed him in the flesh, certainly. I’m not pot
tering around in Palestine two thousand years ago. But in the
spirit ... "For where two or three are gathered together in my
name," said Jesus, "there I am in the midst of them" – and there
we all are, gathered together in his name, all supporting one
another, all joined together in prayer, and this tiny, faltering,
initially almost pathetic activity by a group of middle-aged and
elderly women – a group most men would have instantly written
off– has become a huge, powerful, dynamic, meaningful enterprise
which has enriched all our lives. Back and back Christ comes to us, again and again and again – and the life and light he brings is
God in action, it’s a miracle, it’s nothing less than the saving power
of the Holy Spirit
‘THANKS BE TO GOD!

‘
How I wish I could share all this with Charles, but he’s so busy
and I mustn’t bother him.

‘
MEMO TO GOD : Thank you for this wonderful "showing"
which has changed my life. I hardly like to ask for anything when
you’ve given
me
so much, but please give me a helping hand
through Christmas.’

* * *

‘
29th January, 1965. Well, I got the helping hand and survived
Christmas. No time to write the journal, but never mind, no one
will read it anyway. In fact now that my life’s been so transformed
I’m not sure -I need to write a journal any more to give vent to
my bottled-up feelings, and perhaps I should destroy it in case I
fall under a bus. I wouldn’t want Charles to read it. He’d be upset
to find out there was a whole side of me he never knew. He’d
think he’d failed me — and perhaps he has, but poor Charles, this
damned bishopric is twisting him into such a tortuous pattern and
he can’t help being so self-absorbed.

‘
How I wish we’d never come to Starbridge!

‘
How I wish too that I could discuss him in depth with the
group, but some subjects really are
verboten.
I just can’t dissect the
Bishop and invite the group to pore over the pieces. I must be
content with the general support, but it torments me that I’m no
nearer solving Charles’s problems. I always wind up thinking: he’s
absolutely right to condemn immorality and uphold tradition, yet at the same time he’s absolutely wrong. And I know I can never
say that to him — well, let’s face it, I know I can never say anything
important to him at all.

‘
MEMO
TO GOD : Please show
me how to help Charles solve
his problems before something frightful happens. He’s under such
strain that I’m beginning to wonder how much longer he can keep
going without breaking down.’

* * *

’9th February, 1965. Ghastly goings-on — so ghastly that I’m
driven to take refuge in my journal to work off my horror and
despair. Yesterday Desmond Wilton was beaten up and Charles found pornography in his (Desmond’s!) bedroom. Dido Aysgarth swooped in screaming about men in black leather. Poor Charles
was absolutely at the end of his tether and Malcolm was drinking
scotch
as
if it were lemonade. To cap it all, Michael and Dinkie
arrived to announce their engagement.

‘
Mess after mess after mess! Naturally "Mrs Bishop" and "Mum"
have to ride to the rescue, and I get fed up all over again with
these two cardboard cut-out heroines who are so far removed from
the real me. (I note this self-centred, bolshie reaction just to remind
myself that even though the prayer-group has wrought a miracle
in my life I’m still a long way from being (a) a saint, and (b) a
noble, self-sacrificing Christian wife and mother.)

‘
Anyway, I sorted out the tart, Michael and Charles. At least I
didn’t have to sort out Desmond. I wonder if Marian managed to
sort out Malcolm. (I wonder what he’s like in bed. I find it hard to
imagine a red-haired man being erotic, but that’s just my personal
blind-spot. Maybe Malcolm’s an absolute dynamo — or does he
work off all his dynamism roaring around the diocese? I must say,
if I had to listen daily to Marian reminiscing about her hysterec
tomy, I’d roar around the diocese too.)

‘
Talking of sex, thank God Charles can still (a) "get it up", as
they say in those large American novels which I peep at discreetly
in the library, and (b) do something with it after it’s been upped.
I’m sure this triumph in the face of advancing years is entirely due
to the fact that I look after him so carefully, not overfeeding him
and always ensuring that he’s well exercised both in the bedroom
and on that silly old golf course — although actually, what a bore
all that sex was last night, I could hardly have been less in the
mood to play the siren, but poor Charles, he was in such a state
that I had no choice but to rush to the rescue.

‘
However, I’ve come to think I’m rushing to the rescue much
too much where Charles is concerned, and
that t
his situation where
I devote my whole life to keeping him going isn’t healthy for our
marriage. We’ve now reached the stage where I even have to put
petrol in his car for him. What does he think I am, a robot who
does all the chores at the touch of a button? I clean his shoes, fill
his cigarette-case, organise his wardrobe, run his house, control that trout Peabody, protect him from all the churchwomen who
adore him passionately, make sure he has nourishing meals at the
correct times, listen to his moans and groans – and provide sex
on demand. Do I ever get any thanks? No. He takes me for granted.
It’s not right, Charles, it’s not right! I know you love me, but you’ve lost sight of me, lost touch, and now we don’t talk any more.

‘
But at least I can still pray for you. I pray that somehow you’re
going to get out of this dreadful blind alley you’re in. I pray that one day you and Michael will be friends. I pray that one day all
our painful family problems will be resolved. I pray and pray, but
just recently I’ve begun to feel nervous, even frightened, and I’m
not sure why – it’s
as
if this awful mess with Desmond Wilton
is
the harbinger of some really catastrophic mess which will shake
everyone to the foundations. I looked at the Cathedral today and
its windows seemed so black that when it looked back at me I thought of the monsters Behemoth and Leviathan in the Book of Job – and I was reminded again of the Devil, slipping into Starbridge in the 1930s and never being properly cast out. Then I
thought: he’s not only back, infesting the Cathedral – he’s exuding
a thick black poisonous miasma which
is
going to destroy us
a
ll.

‘
All neurotic fantasy, of course. I don’t really believe that. But
what I do believe is that I’m describing in symbolic terms the chaos which is lurching around on a psychic level at the bottom of our unconscious minds, and I’ve got to pray and pray to God
for help. How I wish Jesus could walk across the Cathedral church
yard and say to the demons: "BE GONE!" Jesus was the greatest healer and exorcist who ever lived, reaching right down into the bottom of everyone’s unconscious minds to iron out all the kinks
and twists caused by guilt and pain so that each soul became
smooth and clean, and every distorted personality became straight
and true, lined up right with God and set free to realise its full potential. "I am come that they might have life," he said, "and that they might have it more abundantly."