Absolute Truths (34 page)

FOUR

The pressure of immediate sufferings may unhinge, indeed,
the balance of judgement. Our derangement may be wholly
pardonable, but it must not be allowed to pass for sanity.’

AUSTIN FARRER.

Warden of Keble College, Oxford,

1960-1968

Love Almighty and Ills Unlimited

Now it was Hall’s turn to be astounded. I watched while he
searched for the words to thank me but I did not wait till he had
found them. Assuming his acceptance of the invitation I said: ‘Come at seven-thirty and we’ll dine at eight.’ Then, unable to
restrain my curiosity, I remarked: ‘You seem on very familiar terms
with the Fordite monks!’

‘
I was at school at Starwater Abbey and because of unfortunate
family circumstances I spent several holidays at the monks’ London
house. The Abbot-General took an interest in me.’

‘Was that Father Ingram?’

‘No. Father Darcy.’

‘
Darcy! How his reputation comes echoing down the years! My
spiritual director often speaks of him ... Did you ever meet Father
Darrow?’

‘
Unfortunately our visits to the London house never coincided.’

‘
Ah, that would explain why Jon hasn’t mentioned you ... And
did you never think of becoming a monk yourself?’

‘
I made the mistake of believing my life would be more comfort
able as a married priest.’

‘
Valuable experiences aren’t always the most comfortable
ones.’

‘
I’m afraid this particular valuable experience was very uncom
fortable indeed. But it did teach me a lot. And it did produce my
daughter Rachel.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘You see much of her?’

‘
Not as much as I’d like – although by coincidence she’s coming
down to Starbridge for a visit this weekend.’

‘
In that case please bring her with you to the South Canonry
on Saturday night.’ I stood up and moved into the aisle but when
I realised he had remained motionless in the pew I said to him:
‘Is there some difficulty about bringing her?’

‘
None at all. Forgive me, but I was just very surprised – I didn’t
expect you to be so hospitable to a divorced priest.’

‘
I may be hospitable towards a divorced priest,’ I said, ‘but
as
you’ve already discovered, I’m not at all kindly disposed towards
an ill-dressed one. I trust, Hall, that I shall see you suitably attired
on Saturday night – and don’t forget to make that visit to the
barber’s.’ I thought it wise at this point to show him that although
I had been as soft as butter for some time, I was still capable of
being a tough disciplinarian.

‘Yes, Bishop,’ said Hall, faultlessly meek.

We parted in amity.

II

I did think of driving on from the church to Starrington, but I
decided it would be more sensible to go home for lunch, rest and then visit Jon in the early evening. Accordingly I returned to the
South Canonry where Miss Peabody informed me that Charley had telephoned; he had obtained additional leave and would be
returning to Starbridge on the morrow to spend the weekend with
me. I said that would suit very well, since Mr Hall was coming
to dine with his young daughter on Saturday, and could Miss
Peabody please arrange for the cook-housekeeper to return to work
for a few hours to produce an unpretentious three-course meal for
the occasion.

Thinking of food reminded me that I had to eat again, so I
wandered into the kitchen to inspect the larder. My devoted
Cathedral ladies were still busy ensuring that I did not die of
starvation – so busy that I had already ordered the chaplains to
eat all perishable food which lingered on the shelves longer than
twenty-four hours. (In the pantry the new deep-freeze was almost
bursting at the seams, but at least frozen food did not spoil.) After
much thought I removed from the larder a single scotch egg before
making myself a mug of instant coffee. It was only after I had
retired with this modest lunch to my study that I realised I had
no desire to see Charley at all.

I dialled the number of his flat in Mayfair.

Delighted to hear from me, Charley at once began to talk about
his coming visit. ‘... so I can be with you by tomorrow evening
and stay all Saturday – I’m only sorry I can’t stay on after that,
but I’m preaching at matins on Sunday.’

I was finally allowed to speak. ‘Marley, ifs not necessary, you
know, for you to come down – in fact
as
you’ve already taken time
off this week for the funeral I shall quite understand if —’

‘
But of course
it’s
necessary for me to come – you need to be
looked after! Now, don’t worry about anything, Dad, I’ll be with
you tomorrow and – bother, there goes the doorbell, Sony, got
to rush –’ And the line went dead.

I fidgeted with the scotch egg but abandoned it to dial the BBC.
Michael was out. After leaving
a
message asking him to telephone
me, I went to the office where Miss Peabody was working through
her lunch-hour.

‘
I’m expecting a call from Michael,’ I said. ‘Be sure to let me
know when it comes through. But I don’t want to speak to anyone
else.’

Miss Peabody made a conventional response to these instruc
tions but was obviously preoccupied by another matter. ‘Bishop,
I’m terribly sorry, but this morning I found another sympathy
letter at the bottom of the in-tray – I can’t think how it managed
to wind up there and not in the special file, but ...’ The apology
was prolonged.

Meanwhile I was discovering that the letter was from someone
called Sheila who lived in Guernsey Street, Pimlico, an area of
central London which was almost unknown to me. ‘Who’s this?’
I said baffled.

‘
I tracked her down in the Christmas card list,’ said Miss
Peabody, pleased to redeem her error by flaunting her efficiency.
‘It’s Mrs Preston, the wife of the late Bishop of Radbury.’

‘
Derek’s Sheila ... yes, of course.’ After pausing to remember
Sunbeam’s predecessor, who had been a good friend of mine, I
drifted back to my study and began to read the letter.

‘
My dear Charles ...’ It was a conventional expression of sym
pathy, but it was perfectly done, the handwriting clear and elegant,
the sentiments framed with unflawed good taste. Reflecting that
it was exactly the kind of letter that I would have expected from
a woman who had made a great success of being a bishop’s wife,
I thought: I must show this to Lyle.

The letter slid from my fingers as my memory lurched into action
a second later.

Sinking down in the chair behind my desk I covered my face
with my hands.

Eventually I pulled myself together. I made another call to the
BBC and left another message. Then I wondered whether it was
time to drum up the energy to drive to Starrington but no, now
I had to wait for Michael to telephone. I waited and waited, and
waiting proved to be such an exhausting occupation that I had to
go upstairs to lie down.

But I was in such a state at the thought of conversing with
Michael that I found I was unable to sleep. I also found I had to
d
rink some claret to calm myself. My nervousness was exacerbated
by the fact that I had no idea what I was going to say to Michael. I only knew I had to talk to him because of what Lyle had written
in the journal — but I knew too that I could not face the journal
again without Jon’s help — and I could not go to see Jon because
I had to stay at home to wait for Michael’s call.

Round and round my thoughts went in an increasingly confused
pattern of circles, and more and more claret disappeared from the
bottle I had opened the previous evening, but instead of calming
me down the alcohol this time seemed to stir me up so that I
found myself moving beyond inertia into a thickening fog of grief.

I said to myself: ‘This is a phase of bereavement. It’s all perfectly
normal. It’ll pass.’ But I felt more distracted than ever, and in panic
I returned to Lyle’s sitting-room to escape into that imaginary
future which seemed so natural, so credible, so absolutely waiting
to happen in a parallel world where blood clots never formed.

Eventually, when there was no more claret in the bottle, I did
sleep a little for I was lying down on my bed again by that time
and it was easier to feel drowsy. But I was awake before Miss
Peabody shut the front door with a bang at a quarter to six. I lay
on my back and watched the ceiling and eventually the grandfather
clock chimed six in the hall.

I had just emerged from the bathroom and was on my way
downstairs to make yet another attempt to speak to Michael, when
the front doorbell rang.

I froze, my grip tightening on the empty bottle of claret.
The doorbell rang again.

I debated whether to do nothing but I found I had to know
who the caller was. Michael did have a front door key but he was
always losing it and he certainly had not had it when he had arrived
with Dinkie to announce his engagement. In a sudden burst of
hope I hurried downstairs, thrust the empty bottle out of sight in the case of the grandfather clock and flung open the front door.

On the doorstep, keeping the engagement which I had post
poned from the previous evening, was none other than my enemy,
the Dean of Starbridge.

Again I found myself presented with a diversion from my bereave
ment. My initial dismay was followed quickly by relief, and in my
relief I made a bad decision: I invited him in.

‘
Are you all right?’ said Aysgarth, hesitating on the threshold.
‘Absolutely fine. Good to see you.’

‘
When no one answered the door I wondered if—’

‘Sorry for the delay. Lavatory.’

‘
Ah. I just wanted to say that if you still don’t feel like a drink –’

‘
Can’t wait for the Tio Pepe!’ I had quite forgotten my intention
of passing off a ginger ale
as a
whisky-and-soda.

We entered the drawing-room and when I invited him to sit
down he settled himself in one of the chairs by the fireplace. ‘How
are you getting on?’ he said as I concentrated on wielding the
decanter as if no alcohol had passed my lips for twenty-four
hours.

‘
Well, I go through a bad patch every now and then, but that’s
normal, isn’t it?’ I had realised that if I continued to insist that I
was absolutely fine I would be behaving like a psychopath.

‘
Just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it isn’t frightful. Thanks,’
he added
as
I handed him his drink.

I sat down opposite him. My guest then chose to adopt that
quiet attentiveness which the bereaved usually prefer to a torrent
of conversation, but I felt driven to say: ‘No need to be pastoral.
How’s your family?’

‘
Very well,’ said Aysgarth, at once picking up the hint that I
needed some trivial conversation before we broached the subject
of the Cathedral. ‘Pip’s got the leading solo in the Choir’s Easter
concert, and Elizabeth’s top of her form in every subject as usual.’
Elizabeth and Pip were the children of his second marriage.

‘
Splendid!’ I said, regretting that I had given him the chance to
brag but unable to work out how to avoid the next question which
was: ‘And how are all your other children?’

‘
Oh, doing wonderfully well!’ said Aysgarth, delighted to be
able to chronicle the remarkable achievements of the adult children
of his first marriage. ‘Christian and Katie are happier than ever,
and Norman and Cynthia have just moved to the most beautiful
mews house in Chelsea so they’re happier than ever too. As for
James, he’s still going from strength to strength in the army – no
marriage on the horizon yet, but I’ve always pictured James marry
ing late, perhaps when he’s reached the rank of brigadier. Sandy’s
decided to do a doctorate – no
problems
there at all – and back
in Starbridge my wonderful Primrose is busy making a huge
success of marriage and motherhood, so there’s no cloud on the
horizon there either.’

After a slight pause I managed to utter a single syllable. It was:
‘Good.’

Aysgarth smiled placidly and took another sip of sherry. His
small, thick-fingered, brutal hands looked incongruous
as
they
clasped the delicate, elegant
curves
of the Waterford glass. Leaning
back in his chair he crossed one leg over the other to signal how
relaxed he was, how self-confident and self-possessed, just as a
successful self-made man should be in even the most trying of
social situations. Aysgarth had short legs and wore trousers which
were never quite the right length. Many were the times when I
had longed to refer him to my tailor.

The pause lengthened. Suddenly Aysgarth uncrossed his legs,
leaned forward in his chair and made another, far more radical
attempt to be pastoral. ‘Look, Charles,’ he said, ‘I can see this isn’t
the right moment to discuss the Cathedral. I know you’re keen to
get back to work and of course that’s very commendable, but –’

‘
Why are you trying to sell off the Cathedral treasures?’

Aysgarth leaned back in his chair, recrossed his legs and sighed.
Then having signalled that he was quite unintimidated he replied
mildly: ‘Who told you I was negotiating with Christie’s?’

‘
Jack Ryder.’

To my amazement Aysgarth laughed. ‘I swear Jack will even get
wind of the Day of Judgement in advance! But I hope he takes
more trouble then to get his facts right.’

Incredulously I demanded: ‘You’re saying Jack’s been misin
formed?’

‘
Well, of course he has! You don’t seriously think I’d flog the
St Anselm masterpiece, do you?’

‘But in that case what on earth –’

‘
It was all a magnificent stunt to gain publicity for the West
Front Appeal! As soon as the catalogue was published I planned
to give a press conference, wring my hands and bemoan the crisis
which was apparently driving me to take such desperate action
– I’d even got a blown-up photo of Puss-in-Boots for the TV
cameras –’

‘Puss-in-Boots?’

‘
Well, he doesn’t actually have any boots on, but you know the Puss I mean – it’s that margin-drawing of the cat with the mouse
in his mouth. Think how sentimental the English are about ani
mals! They might have resisted the plea of an elderly dean, but
once Puss-in-Boots had flashed on to their TV screens the money
would have come rolling in! The climax would have come when
I snatched the manuscript back, saving Puss for England. Think
of the drama in the tabloids!’

‘
But surely that’s extraordinarily unethical behaviour! Christie’s
would have been livid once they realised how they’d been used!’

‘
Nonsense — free advertising for them, and anyway I’d have let them sell a few unimportant books to keep them happy —’

‘
No book in that library’s unimportant! What’s gone so wrong
with the Appeal that you have to stoop to such highly questionable
behaviour?’

‘
Charles, I know you’re only two years older than I am, but you’re sounding like a real old buffer in an old people’s home.
This is not "highly questionable behaviour"! This is modern fund
raising, using the power of television! And nothing’s gone wrong
with the Appeal — we’ve merely reached the point where we need
a final burst of publicity in order to reach our target in a blaze of
glory!’

‘
But if you were on course to reach the target anyway — as you
always assured me you were — I simply don’t see why you need
to behave like some vulgar executive in an advertising agency. This
is the Church of England, not Madison Avenue!’

‘Now calm down, Charles, and do try not to be so overemotional —’

‘I must say, I deeply resent your patronising tone!’

‘
Your tone to me is consistently patronising,’ said Aysgarth, the killer in debate, ‘and it’s particularly patronising when you imply
I’m not a gentleman just because I’ve got the guts not only to
welcome modern marketing techniques but to
use
them! Now look here, Charles. I’m the dean, I have autonomy where the
Cathedral’s concerned, and I’m well within my rights in taking
whatever decision is necessary for the preservation of the fabric.’

‘
Well, if you think I’m going to stand by and allow the library
to be plundered —’

‘
I do hope we’re not going to have a serious quarrel about
this,
Charles. I always find it so very unedifying when a bishop tries to
undermine the authority of the dean and chapter by behaving in
a manner which is inconsistent with the dignity of his office.’

At once I knew there was only one way of ending this interview
which I had so disastrously mishandled. Rising to my feet I walked
to the door, opened it and said: ‘Obviously we both need to pray
about this very difficult matter before we attempt to continue our
discussion.’

Aysgarth set down his glass with a thump and stood up. ‘I’m
sorry I’ve upset you,’ he said. ‘You certainly don’t need any further
distress at this time, but you must realise that most deans don’t
have to put up with such consistent interference from their
bishops.’

‘
Most deans don’t try to sell off their Cathedral treasures!’

‘
I’m not selling off any treasures. I admit I was thinking of
selling a few old books which no one would miss, but —’

‘
I shall miss them! Posterity will miss them! Every book in that
library is a precious legacy from the past and must be preserved
for the future!’

‘
If you’re so interested in dead relics, run a museum,’ said
Aysgarth, delivering his final devastating riposte, ‘but I’ve better things to do with my Cathedral than seal it in a glass case until
it’s crumbled into dust.’

And he walked out, slamming the front door.

V
Having lit a cigarette to calm my nerves I telephoned Malcolm at
his vicarage in the centre of the city.

‘
I’ve just tackled Aysgarth about Christie’s, and I regret to say
the conversation became very acrimonious indeed.’

‘
Confound the man! What was his explanation for the Christie’s
shenanigans?’

I managed to summarise the interview without disclosing that
Aysgarth had made me look old-fashioned, stupid, snobbish, arro
gant and — most intolerable of all — impotent. In conclusion I
added: The worst part is that there’s nothing more I can do.’

‘
Oh yes, there is! Make a visitation!’

‘
But that’s such a double-edged sword! The publicity, the gossip,
the scandal —’

‘
It needn’t be
as
bad as you think. Don’t forget the entire inquiry
can take place behind closed doors and you have control over the
final report.’

‘Even so —’

‘
Charles, take a deep breath and go for the jugular. How else
are we going to find out what’s going on?’

‘You really think the Appeal’s in a mess?’

‘
What else can one think? One moment he’s swearing to us that
everything in the garden’s lovely and the next moment he’s behaving like a shady confidence trickster and planning to sob over that
cat on television!’

After a pause I said: ‘I need to pray about this.’

‘Well, of course I shall pray too. But in my opinion —’

‘
I don’t think either of us can have a worthwhile opinion until
we’ve prayed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ I said, ending the conver
sation.

As I replaced the receiver it occurred to me that Malcolm had
become too bossy. Why had I never noticed before that he was
talking like an over-zealous secular executive? All archdeacons risk
falling in love with the power their position confers on them, but
their bishops should make sure that a mild flirtation never becomes
an
amour fou.
I wondered if I should have a quiet word with
Malcolm’s rural deans to discover if they were on the brink of
mutiny, but before I could reach any decision the telephone rang.

Immediately, certain the caller was Michael, l grabbed the
receiver.

‘
Charles my dear,’ said Dido Aysgarth almost before I had
announced: ‘South Canonry’, ‘I’ve just heard from Miss Peabody
who dropped in here to give the Bible Reading Fellowship Notes
to Miss Carp that you’re starting to go out and about again, driving
off in your car this morning and disappearing for hours, and I
thought that was so brave of you
as
the more you sit around and
mope the worse it gets,
as
I know all too well, I found that out
when my sister Laura died, and believe
me, it’s
action plus the
determination to build a new life that keep one going in terrible
times —
so when I heard from
Miss
Peabody that you were going
out and about again, I thought:
poor
Charles,
so
brave, and I knew
straight away that I was being called to invite you to dinner.’