Absolute Truths (36 page)

‘
I was determined to get here before noon!’ Charley announced
in triumph as his taxi drove away and I emerged from the house
to meet him. ‘As soon as you said yesterday that it wasn’t necessary
for me to come down, I knew you were longing to see me as soon
as possible!’

Unable to frame a reply I found myself becoming the object of
a most exhausting pastoral care. I was given the traditional brief Anglo-Saxon hug which is permitted between males who belong
to the same family, but was then pinned by the forearms and
subjected to an anguished scrutiny at the end of which I was told
I looked ‘wiped out’. I was then propelled into the drawing-room
and eased into the nearest armchair as if I were eighty and mentally
deficient. At that point I was told with religious fervour: ‘Relax —
the Church is taking care of you!’

I did open my mouth to query this masterful assault on my
independence, but before I could utter a word Charley retrieved
his luggage from the front doorstep and produced a bag containing
my favourite delicacies from Fortnum’s.

‘
You haven’t been eating, have you?’ he said. ‘But I intend to
rescue you from starvation — I’m going to whip up a feast which
you’ll be quite unable to resist!’

I followed protesting as he marched to the kitchen, but he paid
no attention and I wound up confronting a plate of pâté de foie
gras on toast. He even produced a bottle of something called ‘tonic
wine’, and when I declared with horror that I was not an invalid
he merely laughed as if I had made a joke.

‘
Now, tell me all that needs to be done and I’ll do it!’ he said
brightly, sitting down beside me at the kitchen table and helping
himself generously to the pâté. ‘Have you suits to be picked up at
the cleaners? Socks to be washed? Do you want cigarettes? A
new library book? More lavatory paper? The chaplains said you’d
temporarily banished Mrs Perkins and Mrs Potts so I’m sure you
must be running out of everything, but don’t worry, I’ll soon have
you organised again!’

‘How very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but –’

‘
Never mind, we can sort that out later. I think at present I
should devote myself entirely to hearing you talk – and you’d like to talk, wouldn’t you? You’ll be amazed by how good I’ve become at listening, especially to the bereaved, so please feel you can tell
me
anything!
Naturally I realise that you’ve been too numb to talk
much, but now the shock will be wearing off and you’ll want to talk non-stop – oh, I know how it
is,
believe me, I’ve seen it all!
When I was counting up all the funerals we’ve had at the church
this year, I –’

‘Charley.’

‘Yes?’

‘Just shut up for a moment, there’s a good chap.’

‘
Oh, you want silence! Okay, I’ll stay
as
quiet as a mouse,’ said
Charley, biting so deeply into his toast that the sound of his
munching crackled around the room.

At last I managed to say: ‘It’s extremely good of you to go to
such trouble and please don’t think I’m unappreciative, but to tell the truth I had a bad night and all I really want to do
is
rest.’ I saw his disappointment and at once felt guilty. ‘I really am delighted to
see you,’ I added in haste. ‘I haven’t been finding it easy here on
my own.’

‘
The chaplains realised that – they were very worried about you
when I spoke to them yesterday ... Dad, do you think it might
be a good idea if you saw your doctor?’

‘No.’

‘But –’

‘
Oh, for heaven’s sake stop fussing around as if you were my
mother!’ I cried in a paroxysm of irritation, but instantly I was
stricken by remorse. To lose my temper with Charley, particularly
when he was trying so hard to be kind to me, was detestable
behaviour. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said desperately. ‘I’m very sorry – I’m not
myself at the moment, and –’

‘
Things aren’t going to change between us now she’s dead, arc
they?’

I was so appalled by this question that I could only say: ‘What
on earth do you mean?’

‘
I was worrying about it all last night. I hardly slept a wink. In
fact that was the reason why I felt I had to come down this morning
– I couldn’t wait till the evening. When you said it wasn’t necessary
for me to come down, I almost thought for a moment that you
didn’t want to see me – and then I started to worry in case you
felt –’

‘
Oh, stop talking such melodramatic drivel! Of course I wanted
to
sec
you!’ I exclaimed, but even as I spoke I was struggling to
my feet to escape from him, and after insisting again that I had to
rest I hurtled upstairs to my bedroom.

I
was
so physically exhausted and so mentally drained that I fell
asleep within seconds of slumping down on my bed. Several hours
passed. When I awoke I again felt guilty that I had failed to see
Jon, but I knew the rest had been essential and I was just planning
further rest in the form of a mindless evening in front of the
television set when I remembered that I was due to dine with the Aysgards

‘
Surely they’d understand if you cancelled!’ Charley protested
when I dragged myself downstairs and revealed my approaching
fate.

‘
Unfortunately the situation between me and Aysgarth is at pre
sent so awkward that if I cancel he might well take it as a declaration
of war.’ I switched on the television and sat down in front of it
as if determined to sample the leisurely evening I was to be denied.
Blue Peter,
the children’s programme, was being broadcast. I began
to watch avidly.

‘
Can I get you a drink?’ said Charley at last.

Tea would be nice,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’ Just in time I remembered
to add: ‘Sorry I flaked out like that but I was exhausted.’
Charley said he quite understood.

As soon as he had withdrawn to the kitchen, the word ‘drink’
resonated in my brain and I remembered the empty bottle and
dirty glass which I had hidden in the case of the grandfather clock.
Supposing Charley, busily buzzing around, decided to wind the
clock in order to save me the trouble? Abruptly switching off
Blue
Peter
I crept into the hall, extracted from its hiding-place the sordid
evidence of my drinking bouts and bolted to my study where I
locked both the bottle and the glass in my desk. As I did so I
noticed two items waiting on the blotter for my attention. Miss
Peabody had attached a note to each. The first read: ‘As requested,
here is Father Hall’s reference from the Abbot-General,’ and the
second read: This letter came by second post. As the postmark is
Starrington Magna and the handwriting is Father Darrow’s, I felt
you would want to see it.’

Guilt ensured that I dropped the letter
as
if it had scalded me; in an attempt to distract myself, I began to read Hall’s reference.
‘My Lord Bishop,’ the Abbot-General had written. ‘It is without
hesitation and with considerable pleasure that I recommend to you
Lewis Hall from the diocese of Radbury. I have known Father
Hall for many years and can testify that he
is
a devout and conscien
tious priest with a range of unusual gifts which render him pecu
liarly suited to the ministry of healing and deliverance. This
is
the
ministry which he has followed for the past ten years, and during
this time he has come to my house regularly for spiritual direction.

‘
Father Hall has a family connection with the Order, but for
various reasons he prefers neither to discuss this nor to trade upon
it in any way. That is one of the reasons why it is such a pleasure
for me to be able to recommend him on his own merits. I think
I may add, however, without straying beyond the boundaries of
what he would wish me to reveal, that both my predecessors,
Father Darcy and Father Ingram, thought very highly of him.

‘
I regret to record that his marriage was not a success, but the
divorce was not of his choosing and I do beg you not to hold it against him. He sincerely believes that he is now called to the
celibate life, and I assure you he has the very highest moral
standards.

‘
In conclusion I hope not only that he may be of service to God in your diocese but that you yourself may find him an interesting and stimulating acquaintance. As always, my dear Bishop, I have
the honour to be your affectionate brother-in-Christ ...’ The
letter trailed away into an elaborate signature.

Much soothed by the Abbot-General’s epistolary style which
reminded me so strongly of those golden days before the war, I
found that my curiosity now outweighed my guilt and I was able
to break the seal of the envelope which Jon had marked
‘PRIVATE
AND CONFIDENTIAL’.

‘
My dear Charles,’ he had written neatly in black ink on white
paper, ‘you are much in my thoughts. I know you are a wise priest,
but bereavement can distort a man’s wisdom and lead even the
most devout priest down the darkest of spiritual alleys. I have no
wish to nag you to visit me. That would not be right. You must
come here only when you are ready. I write now merely to set
down a few thoughts which you might find helpful to consider if
you can spare the time.

‘
One: be very mindful of your major weaknesses, even those –
perhaps especially those – which you feel sure you have conquered.
Take time to consider each one in turn and remind yourself as you
do so of an occasion when that specific weakness cut you off from
God so that you acted contrary to your true nature.

Two: ask yourself why you have not come back to see me yet, and be very sure you arrive at the right answer. There may be an
acceptable explanation, in which case I beg your pardon for raising
the matter, but if you have any doubt about your motives, you
can be sure the explanation is not acceptable.

Three: consider afresh how you might mend matters with
Michael so that you may give each other the proper support at this difficult time. (One of your most debilitating problems, as I
mentioned after the funeral, is likely to be isolation – an emotional
isolation arising from the fact that extreme shock has made you
unable to respond to all offers of help. Reaching out to Michael
might ease this trauma.)

‘
You will remember that I told you how I eventually put matters
right with my own son. I omitted to tell you that I began this task
by writing Martin a short, simple letter. It ran something like this:
"My dear Martin, I should so like to see you. Please come. You
could cheer me up by telling me some of your amusing theatrical
stories." I did not mention either his unsuitable friends or his way
of life but implied acceptance of his profession and delight in one
of his most attractive features, his sense of humour. He was on
my doorstep in twenty-four hours. At that point we never men
tioned his shortcomings at all. Instead I told him all about mine.
He was most surprised. He had never understood me before. I
was surprised too; once I started talking honestly I could see the mistakes I’d made. In the end I apologised and that was that. He
did try to apologise too for not being exactly the son I wanted,
but I said that what mattered was what God wanted, and since
God had evidently designed him to be an actor, his task in life was
not to please me by being something he was not, but to please God by being the very best actor he had it in his power to be.

‘Interestingly, once Martin realised that I loved and accepted
him as he was, even though I might still disapprove of some of
the things he did, his private life immediately took a turn for the
better. That was when he finally conquered his alcoholism. I must be quite honest and say I still wish he was not a homosexual, but
as
he said to me the other day, if he were not a homosexual he might well not be such a good actor. By that he meant that he
had come to terms with being different, one of a widely despised
minority, by converting all the pain and tension into a powerful, positive creative force. You and I, of course, would see this as an
example of the redeeming work of the Holy Spirit. So perhaps
one might argue that our task as priests is not primarily to condemn
sinners but to facilitate the work of the Spirit so that all suffering, merited and unmerited, may be redeemed. Then indeed we would
be able to say with St Paul: "All things work together for good
to them that love God." What a hard saying that is, and how easy
it is to pay it lip-service in the name of piety while side-stepping the task of expending blood, sweat and tears to make it a living
truth.

‘
I must now close this letter. I shall of course continue to pray
for you daily, and until we meet again I can only assure you that

I
remain always your most devoted friend, J.D.’

I had just finished reading this letter in which Jon handled me
with kid gloves while trying to keep me on the spiritual rails, when
Charley arrived with my tea.

‘Are you going to drink this in here?’

‘
Yes, there’s a letter I want to write,’ I said without thinking,
but a second later I realised he wanted me to drink the tea with
him in the drawing-room. ‘It won’t take long,’ I said hurriedly.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

He trailed away without a word.

Quickly I locked up Jon’s letter in the desk alongside the bottles,
took a sheet of paper from the top drawer and wrote: ‘My dear
Michael, I should very much like to see you. If you were to visit
Starbridge soon it would mean a lot to me. Perhaps you could
cheer me up by telling me some amusing stories about your
friends.’ But at this point I stopped. Michael would know I was
being insincere. I detested his friends, that fast set presided over
by the dangerous Marina Markhampton, and I found no story
about their excesses in the least amusing. I considered substituting
‘the BBC’ for the words ‘your friends’, but decided the letter would
still sound insincere. Apparently Jon’s approach was not one I
could use.

But when I read Jon’s letter again I saw he was recommending
not a slavish imitation but an attempt to be plain-spoken and
honest. Then I began to think not of Jon but of my father. I myself
had come from a troubled family, although after many years my
father and I had resolved our difficulties — and
as
soon
as
I remembered the resolution of those difficulties in 1937, I
remembered too the letter which had been waiting for me when
I had come back from the war.

‘
My dear Charles,’ he had written shortly before his death early in
1945, ‘in case we never meet again I wish to commit the following
thoughts to paper: (1) I am exceedingly pleased that you have turned out well. (2) The fact that you haven’t gone to the dogs
convinces me that I was right to be strict with you when you were
young, but I regret that this led to a certain amount of mess
and misunderstanding. And (3) I’m sorry we took so long to get
everything straight between us. But at least you know now that I
was, am and shall always be your most devoted father, E it t c
ASH WORT H.’

I thought: he put everything right in the end.

Grabbing a fresh sheet of paper I wrote: ‘My dear Michael, your
mother thought –’ I broke off, shying away from the memory of
the journal, but suddenly I saw that by drawing on the journal I
was
joining Lyle at last on her great spiritual journey, and although
I had let her travel alone at the end of her life I was now being
given the chance to show she had not travelled in vain. ‘Your
mother thought,’ I wrote, ‘that I’d behaved very stupidly towards
you for a long
time. I’m
sorry. Having spent so many years in
academic life I know very well that clever men can behave like
complete fools when they embark on a basic human endeavour
such as fatherhood, but I do now want to behave more intelli
gently. I know there’s so much I haven’t got right, but after I’m
dead I’d like you to think that despite all my mistakes I did manage
to put everything straight at the end. Can we meet? Name the
time and the place and I’ll be there. Your most loving and devoted
father, CHARLES ASHWORTH.’

I folded the paper, crammed it into an envelope and wrote the
address before dropping the letter into the out-tray. By this time
my tea was tepid. Having poured it down the drain in the kitchen
I reluctantly rejoined Charley in the drawing-room, but fortunately
he was watching the television news so I was spared the task of
sustaining a conversation.