Absolute Truths (43 page)

I recovered myself sufficiently to say: ‘No more proud, I’m sure,
than you must be of your attractive daughter.’ I still felt quite
extraordinarily confused.

The trouble with having an attractive daughter,’ said Hall,
‘is
that one spends such an enormous amount of time worrying about
what she’s getting up to ... which reminds me: where
is
she?’
To allay his anxiety I took him upstairs to the games-room.

When we had moved to the South Canonry eight years before,
the boys had been adolescent and in order to preserve our sanity
Lyle and I had decided to assign them a remote corner of the
house where they could make as much noise as they liked. The
attic had originally been partitioned in order to provide accommoda
tion for servants, but it was easily converted back into one large
area where the boys could play table-tennis or darts or gyrate to
the racket issuing from the gramophone.

As I led Hall up the attic stairs, the music drifted to meet us.
One of the hoard of old records was being played, but although
I recognised the waltz I was at first unable to recall its title. Open
ing the door I paused on the threshold and was immediately
besieged by all manner of complex emotions at the sight which
met my eyes.

Charley and Rachel were dancing, very sedately and with abso
lute propriety, to the slow waltz which was so well-known.
Although he had never excelled at games during his years at school,
Charley could move gracefully and he danced particularly well, far
better than Michael, the star of the school playing-fields. When
one watched Charley
dance
one forgot his lack of inches and
noticed only how lithe and well proportioned he was and how elegantly he responded to the music. At that moment his pale
brown eyes were golden with delight. I realised he was enjoying
himself immensely.

The memory of Samson flicked across my mind but made
little
impression. It was the next memory which devastated me, the
memory of myself as a young man moving through a world which
was now lost, and as I looked at Charley I felt old, spent and
finished, stripped as I was of the loving wife who had kept the
dark side of old age at bay.

Appalled by this glimpse of a finished life and a solitary wait for
death, I found myself so mesmerised by Charley that I was unable
to look away. He seemed so new, so shining, so full of vitality
as his future stretched bewitchingly ahead of him, and when I
remembered how it felt to be under thirty with the best years of life still to come, I could only feel numb with envy as I saw him
dance with that beautiful girl.

I stared at Rachel, but now I no longer saw her as Hall’s daugh
ter. I saw her
as the
personification of youthful beauty, as an
example of a life still unmarred by sorrow and suffering, as an
inhabitant of that fresh, new-minted, dazzling world which I
myself would never know again. I was painfully conscious not only
of her beauty but of her sensuality, and as this awareness made its
imprint on my mind I felt as if I had been struck across the face
with an iron bar. Shattered by the terrible reality that I would
never again experience either the beauty or the sensuality of the
woman I had loved so much for so long, I could see for myself
only a sterile, dwindling existence in a world which now derided all the values to which I had dedicated my life. Honour, decency,
modesty, unselfishness – order, stability, tradition – goodness,
truth and beauty – faith, hope and love – all those ideals, all
those luminous values seemed to be crumbling in a new era where
nothing was sacred, everything was trivialised and all the precious
wisdom which gave life meaning was being hurled into the raging
furnace of change.

Then I hated the 1960s,
hated
them, hated that decade more
than I had realised it was possible to hate one arbitrary segment
of time, and
as
I was again racked by the longing to be young
again, I saw clearly that it was not Charley I truly envied but
Michael, who was so busy grasping the modem freedom to savour
all the joy and pleasure I was now denied.

I remembered Lyle writing in her journal about my jealousy of
Michael, and I remembered too how I had automatically rejected this diagnosis, even felt affronted by it. Now I saw it was true. So
long as my sexual needs had been satisfied I had been able to clamp
down on the jealousy, but now I was on my own it was no longer
possible to draw a veil over the dark corners of my mind where
unmentionable emotions festered. Lyle’s death had slashed the veil to ribbons. I looked upon the truth at last and the truth was terrible
to me.

It then occurred to me that if this unwelcome allegation in the journal was true, other equally unwelcome assertions might also
have hit the mark, but this possibility was so horrific that I could only push it aside. I had reached the point where reality was prov
ing too harsh to endure. Within seconds I had been confronted
by my lost youth, my unpromising future, the sexual deprivation implicit in my bereavement and a brilliantly lit view into the dark
corners of my psyche. The shock disorientaied me to such an extent
that I even looked around for Lyle because I knew she would take
me in her arms and put everything right. But of course Lyle was
no longer there.

Instead it was Rachel whom I saw. She had parted from Charley
and was moving towards me with her hands outstretched. In the
brightness of the lights her hair gleamed, streaming across her slim shoulders to brush the curve of her breasts, and her dark eyes were
radiant. Here indeed was the acceptable face of modem youth,
but my grief was such that I could hardly bear to look upon it.
How can the old order look upon the new without feeling bereaved
beyond measure for the world which has slipped away? What has
the old order to say to the new, and what use has the new for the
old? I felt as if I were facing Rachel across an abyss which no
gesture could bridge, and yet there Rachel was, holding out her
hands to me
as
if the abyss did not exist and behaving
as
if she
even had something important to say to an elderly man devastated
by despair.

‘
Do dance with me, Bishop!’ she begged, quite forgetting her
shyness in her exhilaration. ‘You mustn’t feel left out! Please dance
– it’s such fun!’

And in a moment of revelation I saw then the other side of the
1960s: I saw the exuberance and the vitality and the generosity
which existed among the young, and I realised I had to respond
not only with warmth but with an equal generosity of spirit. It
was no use cocooning myself in misery so that I was cut off from
the new order. I had to reach out and clasp hands with its ambassa
dors. I had to summon all my strength to wish them well.

I took Rachel’s hands in mine.

‘
I’ve told her how well you dance!’ Charley called as he prepared
to replay the record on the turntable.

I moved with Rachel to the centre of the floor, and as the record
began to play I finally remembered the name of the tune. It was
‘The Tennessee Waltz’. I could remember hearing it at the last ball
which Lyle and I had attended in Cambridge. I could remember
what Lyle had worn, a pale green gown, very simple, the skirt
long and straight. The memory was so vivid that I fancied I could
even smell the scent she had used.

The agony of bereavement assaulted me again, but I fought back
and conquered it. The old order might be changing, yielding its
place so painfully to the new, but at least it could yield with cour
age, with dignity and with style.

I danced and I danced and I danced.

‘Bravo!’ shouted Charley as the record ended.

‘
Congratulations, Bishop!’ called Hall, laughing as he clapped
his hands, and Rachel, naively delighted, breathed: ‘Super!’

‘
It takes two to dance well,’ I said smiling at her. °Thank you,
Rachel.’ But having completed my task I felt as if my heart were
disintegrating beneath the weight of my grief. I looked around
again for Lyle, but she seemed to have disappeared somewhere.
Perhaps she had slipped down to the kitchen to make some more
coffee. Lyle was always mindful of the needs of our guests.

Knowing I had to find her without delay I murmured: ‘Will
you all
excuse
me for a moment?’ and hurried away down the attic
stairs.

On the landing I opened my mouth to shout: ‘Darling!’ just as
I always did when I returned home at the end of an arduous day,
but
as
soon as I drew breath to speak I knew she would never
reply. For a moment I shuddered, horrified that grief should have
so twisted my mind. Then I blindly wiped the sweat from my
forehead, blundered into our room and collapsed in the dark on
the edge of the bed we had shared.

Tears began to stream down my face, but they were triggered not
by the huge emotions gene
rated by Rachel. They were trigg
red by
my memory of that trivial little routine — the memory of all those
evenings when I had shouted: ‘Darling!’ on my return from work and received the answering call which represented love and secur
ity. I thought what a comfort it had been to discuss the day’s
events,
no matter how dreary, with someone who always gave me
unfailing support. I thought of that small recurring pattern which
had been utterly wiped out. I did not think: I have been wholly
deprived of Lyle — for I still felt I could always retreat to her
sitting-mom and recapture her in my imagination. but what I did
think was: I can never call out to her like that again.

At last I groped my way to the basin in the corner of the room
and dowsed my face in cold water. I did not dare turn on the light
for fear of glimpsing my shameful reflection in the glass, but as I
dried my face I realised I had to see how far my appearance
betrayed me. How could I face my guests with bloodshot eyes? In panic I tried to pray for composure but I was in such a state
that I could only whisper over and over again: ‘Help me. Do
something. Help me.’ Naturally nothing appeared to happen; the
black cloud of that terrible reality which I was enduring not only
smothered my words as I uttered them but blocked from my mind
all concept of a loving God, and at last, acting on the cynical old
maxim ‘God helps those who help themselves’, I decided I could only survive the evening with the aid of the brandy decanter.

Lurching to the door I blundered out on to the landing — and
stopped dead.

Lewis Hall was leaning over the banisters and gazing meditat
ively at the elegant curve of the stairs.

SEVEN

‘
The sufferer finds his action, in the ordinary sense, cramped
or enfeebled. The mere supporting of his trouble uses up
such energy as he has.’

AUSTIN FARRER

Warden of Keble College, Oxford, 1960-1968

Love Almighty and Ills Unlimited

‘
We mustn’t outstay our welcome,’ said Hall, straightening his
back. ‘I’ve told Rachel we must leave in ten minutes.’ He did not
look at me. He was apparently still fascinated by the staircase.

‘
No need to rush.’ Having delivered this response firmly in the
most normal of voices I realised in panic that I had exhausted my
strength. The performance of normality was one which I was
unable to sustain. ‘Excuse me,’ I said rapidly, ‘shan’t be a moment,
I’ve just got to ...’ I ceased speaking, bolted back into the bed
room and remembered to switch on the light. Obviously I could
not continue to cower in the dark, but now at last I was unable
to avoid glimpsing my reflection in the mirror and instantly my
despair doubled as I saw my haggard face. I decided I was unfit
to be seen by anyone,
least
of all by one of my clergy.

At that point I slumped down on the bed again and covered my face with my hands because I could sec no solution to my
predicament. My mind was quite blank. I felt annihilated.

The next moment I heard a small stealthy click as Hall opened
the door.

I froze, immobilised with rage, and prayed violently to be spared
this final humiliation.

But it seemed I was not to be spared. I heard the faint squeak
of the hinge which had remained unoiled since Lyle’s death and
t
hen another click
as
the door was closed again. The thick carpet
muffled his footsteps but I knew he was crossing the room. Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees I kept my face covered,
squeezed my eyes shut and waited for him to do what any normal
clergyman would do to preserve his bishop’s dignity: I waited for
him to leave as unobtrusively as he had arrived so that afterwards
we could pretend he had never entered the room at all.

But of course Hall was no ordinary clergyman.

Dumping himself on the bed beside me he said in the laconic voice he had used earlier while discussing his exorcisms: ‘Don’t
worry about Desmond. I’ll look after him.’

These eight words, selected with such apparent ease, had the
most electrifying effect. I was so startled that I opened my eyes,
let my hands fall from my face and swivelled to face him. Diverted
from my agony I found myself mesmerised by all those two sen
tences implied: the knowledge that Desmond was an episcopal
problem, the understanding that he required special care – and
above all the realisation that I could best be jolted out of my
self-centred misery by having my thoughts bent outwards to focus
on someone who was worse off than I was.

Slowly, unsteadily, still grappling with my astonishment, I said:
‘You know about Desmond?’

‘
Uh-huh.’ Hall suddenly became off-beat, informal, daring. I
had a vivid impression of him
as a
priest who because of the strict orthodoxy of his religious life knew instinctively when it was safe
to step with confidence outside the ecclesiastical rules and apply unconventional pastoral care. Ignoring my rank, ignoring every
thing except that I was a distressed man who could only be reached
by the boldest of moves he said: ‘Remember I mentioned that I’d
visited Desmond in hospital? Well, I called every day and it was
lucky I did. He needed someone to talk to so I got him moved
into a side-ward for an hour, and as soon
as
he had some privacy
he spewed everything out.’

‘Everything?’

‘
Everything. He was very upset after the Archdeacon had beaten
him up.’

‘
Beaten him up?

‘
Metaphorically speaking. Imagine telling a sick old priest that
the Bishop’s seen his porn collection! Doesn’t Lindsay have any
thing that remotely resembles sensitivity? Of course Desmond felt
like committing suicide.’

‘
Suicide?
By this time I was beyond any response except a parrot
like repetition.

‘
Don’t worry, it’s okay, I fixed everything, hauled him back
from the brink, gave him hope. I said: "Forget that queer-bashing
martinet of an archdeacon, remember your bishop, remember Ash-
worth’s known to be sympathetic to priests who are on the ropes. I
wouldn’t be here now," I said, "if I hadn’t heard about Ashworth’s
interest in that area. Ashworth knows about suffering," I said,
"knows about hell, he’s been in the war, he’s seen it all, he’s not
one of those lily-livered sentimentalists who talk of a heaven for
little children above the bright blue sky, he knows just what hell everything can be down here on earth and how vulnerable we all
are and how we all need love and compassion and forgiveness if
we’re not to kick the bucket or go round the bend out of sheer
despair. Have faith in your bishop!" I said to Desmond. "And
pray for him!" Desmond likes praying, he’s good at it, I could tell
that at once. "PRAY FOR HIM!" I ordered after your wife’s
death, and he did, it perked him up no end, gave him something
positive to do, and after I’d heard his formal confession and given
him absolution he trotted off to Devon to recuperate in a very
positive frame of mind. I’ve been sending him a postcard every
day to keep him topped up and he’s written back to say the natives
are friendly, the library at Allington Court
is
excellent and he can’t
remember when he last had such a good time. He said he realised
now that if only he’d had a holiday earlier he wouldn’t have got
overstrained and started messing around with the porn.’

I managed to say faintly: ‘But why didn’t he take a holiday
earlier? 1 always encourage my clergy to take holidays!’

‘
Couldn’t afford it. Supports his widowed mother in a private
nursing home in Starmouth. She’s ninety-two.’

‘
But something could have been arranged! If Pd only known —’

‘
Evidently the Archdeacon Rampant never thought that piece
of information was worth passing on, but don’t worry about Lind
say, I can deal with him, I know that type. The important thing
is
to get him to stop persecuting Desmond so that Desmond can
realise his full potential. I feel very strongly that with his gift for
prayer he can be a real source of spiritual power in that parish .. .
By the way, what’s Lindsay going to do with the porn? Desmond
says he’d like to burn it himself, and I think that’s good — a burning
would be helpful, cathartic. We could have a bonfire in the back
yard. I like bonfires, don’t you?’

‘—’

‘
Never mind, we can talk more about that later. How are you
feeling now?’

‘Fine.’

‘
You don’t look fine, you look
as
if you’re on your last legs.
Why don’t you drop that stiff upper lip and smash something?’

‘
I hardly think that would be appropriate behaviour for a
bishop!’

‘
Ah well, if we’re talking about what’s appropriate,
let me
take
you downstairs and give you a stiff brandy! Then you might feel
strong enough to ditch that stiff upper lip, get human, roar with
rage, scream with pain, shed enough tears to fill a bucket — well, why shouldn’t you, you’re bereaved, it’s your right to grieve — and
don’t think Pd mind because I wouldn’t, it’s all the same to me, wouldn’t bother me at all, in fact Pd admire you, think you were
being constructive.’

‘
Constructive?
But how could it
ever
be constructive for a bishop
to behave in such a disgusting fashion?’

‘
Oh, forget all that bishop business for five minutes,’ said Hall
crossly. ‘Ditch it along with the stiff upper lip, why not, and stop
worrying about what I’d think of you because just at this moment
I don’t care who you are, I wouldn’t even care if you were the
Pope or Marilyn Monroe, all I care about is helping you bash your
way out of this bugger-awful corner you’re in.’

‘That’s all very well, but if I go to pieces —’

‘
I’m not talking about going to pieces, I’m talking about facing
the pain. Did you ever meet Aidan Lucas, the Fordite abbot up at Ruydale? He used to say: "It’s a question of facing the pain."
He got that from Father Darcy, of course. Everyone got everything
from Darcy. If Darcy were here now he’d say: "Come along,
Charles, have a stiff brandy and stop beating about the bush!

You’re saying the words you want me to hear, but I hear the words
you can’t bring yourself to say!"‘

Utterly dazed I said doubtfully: ‘I can’t imagine that most
illustrious Abbot-General ever advocating a stiff drink,’ but this
objection was instantly swept aside.

‘
Advocating it?’ exclaimed Hall. ‘He’d have insisted on it!
Darrow was the one who always looked down his nose at alcohol,
but Darcy couldn’t stand Darrow’s asceticism, he thought it was
all moral pirouetting, a show-off exercise of Darrow’s strong will
— and here you arc, trying to ape your spiritual director, but all I
can say is forget the pirouettes and hang up your ballet-shoes.
We’re off to hit the brandy.’

The next moment I found myself being deftly piloted out of the
bedroom and steered downstairs. Once or twice I did think I
should protest, but I never got around to opening my mouth. It
seemed so much simpler just to keep quiet and do as I was told.

‘
Let’s smoke,’ said Hall, having installed me in an armchair in the drawing-room. ‘You’ve got a fixation, haven’t you, about not smoking in your clerical collar, but don’t worry, I’ll whip it off for
you.’

‘
I think I can just about manage to whip off my own collar,’ I
said in the manner of an invalid who was now well enough to be
querulous. ‘And it’s not a fixation,
it’s a
discipline.’

‘
Great. I’m keen on discipline, trains one up, stops one going
down the drain, kicks the Devil in the teeth. I’ll take off my collar
too.’

We
took off our collars and lit cigarettes. Two brandy-and-sodas
were mixed. A
glass was
thrust into my hands and a chair was
pulled up so that he could sit close to me. Even before I had taken
a sip of my drink I realised I was calmer. I felt as if I had been
grabbed from some sordid gutter where I had been bleeding to
death, and was now being bandaged from head to toe. All my
ragged edges had been smoothed. The blood had been staunched.
The pain had been dulled. Ruthlessly enfolded by this intensive
unorthodox care I was able to sit quietly, smoke my cigarette and
take small sips from my glass.

‘
Bit like the war, isn’t it?’ said Hall after a while. ‘Life hell,
barriers down, everyone sticking together, living from day to day.’

’Sounds familiar.’

‘
You should dig a trench and hole up for a while. If you go on
playing the hero you’ll wind up liquidated. Errol Flynn might have
been able to win wars single-handed in the gospel according to
Hollywood, but the rest of us need help.’

True.’

‘Is old Darrow still compos
mentis?’

‘Completely.’

Then why hasn’t he kidnapped you for a couple of weeks?’

‘
He tried.’

‘So what happened?’

‘
I thought I needed to stay on here and say goodbye to my wife
properly. But then I got bogged down in diocesan problems —’

‘
For heaven’s sake! Leave them all to the Archdeacon Rampant!’

‘
— and then there’s a problem with the Cathedral —’

‘
Set it aside. I’ve got your wife’s prayer-group praying for the
Cathedral.’