Absolute Truths (47 page)

EIGHT

the
will is pushed
around by passion and instinct, and
where it lands us is too obvious fix me to need to mention.’

AUSTIN FARRER

Warden of Keble College, Oxford,
1960-1968

I was so disturbed that I forgot I had promised Charley to return
to his fiat. I moved down Albemarle Street to Piccadilly, and it
was only when I looked at the clock above the entrance to Fort
num’s that I remembered him. But I did not turn back. I was
afraid to retrace my steps through Mayfair in case my resolve
weakened and I returned to the hotel. Heading west along Picca
dilly to the underground station at Green Park I found a telephone
kiosk, shut myself inside and dialled Charley’s number.

‘
Look, don’t wait around for me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got delayed and
I’m not sure when I’ll be back to pick up my car.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘
I met an old friend for a long lunch and now I need some
exercise in the park.’

‘
Are you just making an excuse because you want to sec Michael?’

‘
No.’ I hung up, unable to face further questions in this vein,
and reflected how utterly I had failed to solve Charley’s problems.
The twilight was deepening as I stepped back into the street but
I now felt it was essential to go for a brisk walk to clear my head
before I embarked on the journey home, and I calculated that I
could walk across Green Park to Buckingham Palace and back
before the light had entirely faded. Turning my back on the noisy
streams of traffic I plunged into the
oasis
of trees and grass between
Piccadilly and Constitution Hill.

In the grand buildings south of the Ritz some of the windows
were already lighted squares, but in the park the Victorian lamps
were not yet glowing. Walking beneath the bare trees I heard the
noise of the traffic fade to a muffled mar and I became aware of
the stillness, the bleakness, the chill of that winter afternoon. There
were few people about. I walked at a fast pace, partly because I
needed to keep warm and partly because I was anxious to expend
energy to ease my tension, but once I had adjusted to the coldness
of the air I found myself moving more slowly. Simultaneously my
thoughts,
as
if thawing from some frozen state, began to quicken. I
was thinking of the final moments of my conversation with Loretta
when I had referred to Lyle being ‘sealed .off’. What had I meant?
I had spoken
as
if Lyle could at some future moment be ‘unsealed’
— recovered, reclaimed, rejoined. I had certainly ‘unsealed’ her in
1937. But this was 1965, and no matter how often and how
obstinately I sat in her sitting-room at the South Canonry and
recalled her in my imagination in order to ward off the reality of
her death, the fact remained that I would never recover or reclaim
or rejoin her in this world again.

By the time I reached the other side of the park and saw the
bulk of the palace beyond the trees, I felt so upset that I did not
turn to begin the journey back to my car but walked on, crossing
the bottom of Constitution Hill, skirting the palace railings and
heading, like a rudderless ship, towards Victoria. I had realised that the disturbing end to my meeting with Loretta had exposed
to me how futile it was to continue the fight against acknowledging
Lyle’s permanent absence. What I had wanted, at Brown’s Hotel,
with Loretta, Lyle could no longer give me. She was not merely
‘sealed off’, that convenient fiction which enabled me to survive the full blast of bereavement. She was dead. She was gone. She
was lost beyond recall.

I rubbed my eyes as I struggled to endure the pain of this reality,
and when I opened them again I saw I was standing on the corner
of Grosvenor Gardens while away to my left, ablaze with lights
and encircled by streams of roaring traffic, stood the massive façade
of Victoria station.

I wandered over, acting as instinctively as a moth drawn to a
flame. I felt I was beyond everything now except grief. I kept
saying: ‘Lyle, Lyle, Lyle ...’ and as I stared around at last some unknown time later I realised that I was not only mentally and
spiritually lost but physically lost
as
well. What had happened to
the station? It seemed to have dissolved into a network of shabby
streets. Profoundly confused I moved on into unknown territory.

A minute later I found myself in a red-light district crammed
with seedy hotels. Unsavoury people loitered, and as I paused to
make a fresh attempt to get my bearings I was accosted by a
prostitute. I moved on, but almost at once stopped dead with
horror. It had dawned on me that a prostitute was in fact exactly
what I wanted at that moment: complete anonymity, a temporary
escape from unbearable pain and no possibility of apocalyptic
consequences.

I was so appalled by this insight that I nearly walked under the wheels of a car. A blaring horn, the screech of brakes and a string
of bawled obscenities shocked me into redoubling my efforts to
escape from this labyrinth. This was quite definitely not an area where a bishop could afford to be run over. For a quick, queasy
second I thought of the man who might have been Desmond
Wilton, glimpsed at Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday night. Then
I pushed that chilling image aside and applied myself single-
mindedly to the task of survival.

I was standing at a minor junction, and when I peered up at
the street signs I saw that Wilton Road — a malign coincidence,
reminding me again of spiritually debilitated priests — was inter
secting with Warwick Way. Surely Warwick Way was one of the
main thoroughfares of Pimlico? It was unfortunate that my knowl
edge of Pimlico was so skimpy. I looked around for an under
ground station but saw none. There was no sign of a taxi either,
and although a bus passed, its number was unfamiliar. Another
prostitute accosted me. I moved on at once, stumbling to the right
into Warwick Way, but the whole street seemed to be crawling
with seaminess and in haste I took a left turn into the Pimlico
grid.

The grid was a network of streets designed by Thomas Cubitt
over a hundred years before when London was expanding beyond
the marshes of Westminster. In abrupt contrast to the sleazy life
of Warwick Way, this area was quiet, semi-dead, bowed down
with the effort of preserving its decayed respectability, and within
t
wo minutes I found myself in a not unpleasant environment where
rows of stucco-fronted houses, some smartly painted and even
dignified, bordered a long, straight, empty street. Again I won
dered where I was, and at the next intersection I found out. The
sign on the corner read GUERNSEY STREET and at once a
memory stirred in my mind. I knew that recently I had been intro
duced on paper to that Pimlico road which bore the same name
as one of the Channel Islands, and the next moment I was recalling
the letter from Sheila Preston, the widow of the late Bishop of
Radbury.

With enormous relief I realised I was near a safe haven. I could
have a cup of tea with a good, decent woman, we could talk about such easy subjects as the Old Days and Mutual Friends, and for a
precious hour sexual intercourse would be no more than an esoteric
activity performed by savages in a distant corner of the globe – or
in other words, I would have the chance to regain, in soothing,
asexual surroundings, my shattered equilibrium.

My one remaining problem, I realised as I embraced this vision
with the enthusiasm of a drowning man clasping a
life-belt, was
that I could not quite remember the full address and Guernsey
Street was very long. Leaning against the railings of the nearest
house I made a mighty effort and flexed my memory, not as
remarkable now as it had been in my youth but still capable in an
emergency of a photographic recall. This was without doubt an
emergency. Fiercely I concentrated on visualising the address,
printed on the top right-hand corner of Sheila’s writing-paper. But
the number of the house remained indecipherable.

Walking down the street I eyed the number of each house to
see if my memory would twitch at the sight of the number I was
trying to recall, and when I reached thirty-seven I halted. I had
been thirty-seven when I had married Lyle, twenty-seven when I
had married Jane – and twenty-seven was the right number; I
knew that now, just as I knew that thirty-seven was the wrong
one. Backtracking rapidly I reached an identical house, large and
well-kept, which had been divided into flats. By the flame of my
cigarette-lighter I examined the list of names by the doorbells in
the porch, but there was no card marked PRESTON. Then I
realised that there was a basement flat, approachable from the outside by steps. Leaving the porch I opened the gate set in the
railings and descended to the front door. The name by the bell
was Preston. Even more welcome was the evidence that someone
was at home. Although the curtains were drawn across the window
which faced the basement steps, I could hear the strains of music
in the room beyond. Weak with relief I rang the bell and waited
to be rescued.

The outside light was switched on. The door opened with cau
tion but swung wide as I was recognised.

‘
Charles!’ said Sheila amazed. ‘But how extraordinary – come
in!’

I crossed the threshold into my sanctuary.

Sheila was one of those women who always look exactly right for
every social occasion and always look exactly right in the most tastefully unobtrusive way. She was of average height and still
managing, I noted, to repel the advances of the dreaded ‘middle-
aged spread’. Indeed she looked thinner than when I had last seen
her at her husband’s funeral eighteen months ago. I was unsure how old she was, but I had been some years Derek’s senior and I thought it probable that his wife had been some years his junior.
That made her about fifty. She had dark hair flecked with silver, dark eyes and a good skin, pale and smooth. Although not pretty
she was undeniably pleasant to look at because nothing was per
mitted to jar the eye. She was wearing a dark skirt with a beige
twinset. Her nylons were just the right shade of brown. The heels
of her shoes were neither too low nor too high. She wore no
jewellery, only her wedding ring. Even though she had not been
expecting a visitor she still contrived to be faultlessly presentable.

Meanwhile as I absorbed all these soothing details I was making
a series of somewhat disconnected comments to explain my arrival
on the scene and she was murmuring exactly the right courteous
phrases in reply.

.. up in London unexpectedly ... lunch with an old friend
... fancied a walk afterwards before driving home ... do forgive
me for not telephoning first ... if this is in any way inconvenient –’

‘
No, not at all. What a pleasant surprise!’ said Sheila agreeably,
leading us out of the cramped hall into a room ar
^r
anged with such
care that the furniture seemed to occupy the floor-space in a pattern
geometric in its precision. Yet the effect was not unpleasing. The
atmosphere of rigorous order, tempered by the soft colours of the
upholstery and curtains and by the polished wood of the antique bookcases, was both restful and satisfying. On the far side of the
room at the back of the house French windows opened on to a
small courtyard where ivy rambled over white walls and plants in
tubs awaited the arrival of summer. There was a light on outside
to illuminate this attractive sight, but as we entered the room
Sheila flicked off the switch and pulled the curtains. The wireless, which I had heard on my arrival, had already been silenced.

‘
What a charming room!’ I said, feeling the need to break the
brief pause and glad that I could be sincere.

‘
Thank you – yes, I’m fond of it. Pimlico’s a patchy area, but
there are some pleasant nooks and crannies ... Do sit down,
Charles. Would you like some tea?’

I said I would.

‘
And do go ahead and smoke,’ said Sheila, noting the absence
of my uniform. ‘I see you won’t have to remove your clerical collar!
I’ll just get an ashtray.’

I was impressed that she had remembered this foible, but the
ideal episcopal wife remembers every eccentricity about the people
whom she may one day be obliged to entertain. An ashtray arrived.
So, eventually, did tea, complete with some neat little strawberry-jam sandwiches, shorn of their crusts and arranged daintily on a
Wedgwood plate. Sitting by the electric fire in a well-sprung arm
chair
as
I was waited on hand and foot, I began to feel I had
miraculously recaptured the warmth and comfort of that old-
fashioned drawing-room at Brown’s.

Thank you very much for your kind letter about Lyle,’ I said
as she poured the tea. ‘I would have written, of course, but when
I found myself in London today it seemed a good opportunity to
call and thank you in person.’

‘
I’m glad you felt you could drop in unannounced. I regard that
as a compliment.’

Even Lyle would have been proud to utter this effortlessly diplo
matic reply. Lyle had never been particularly friendly with Sheila
but she had respected her ability to be a first
-class
wife for a senior
churchman. ‘Very competent,’ had been Lyle’s judgement. ‘Not
frumpish, not gushing and no more churchy than is strictly neces
sary.’ This had been high praise from someone whose opinion of
her own sex had tended to be low. ‘Not my sort of person, of
course,’ Lyle had added, unable to resist setting her praise within
certain limits. ‘She’d never wear black underwear. But at least she
doesn’t drone on and on about her offspring.’

Since Derek and Sheila had had the misfortune to be childless, however, this lack of droning could hardly be cited as an example
of admirable self-restraint.

‘
... and how are you getting on, Charles?’ Sheila was asking as
I sat sipping Earl Grey tea and thinking how wonderfully better
I felt, secure in my unexpected sanctuary and pampered by the
ideal episcopal wife. ‘It must have been the most terrible shock.’

‘
Yes, but ...’ I began to make the conventional remarks about
how kind everyone had been, how sympathetic, how understand
ing. Sheila listened and nodded and occasionally made exactly the
right comment, saying neither too much nor too little.

‘And how are the boys?’

‘
Well, I haven’t seen much of Michael – the BBC keeps him so
busy – but Charley’s been a great support, and ...’ I talked on
with increasing ease. I suppose I was dimly aware that what I said
bore little relation to reality, but after my dangerous exchanges
with Loretta I found it such a relief to conduct a conversation
which was not only conventional but banal.

‘
... and of course I must get back to full-time work soon,’ I
said when I had finished my third cup of tea. ‘I feel guilty that
I’ve cancelled so many engagements, and now that Easter’s on the
horizon I feel I must take up the reins again without delay.’

‘
But surely it would be a mistake to return to full-time work
too soon! Are you worried about how your suffragan’s coping?’

‘
No, Nigel’s managing well,’ I said, thinking how pleasant it
was to talk to a woman who knew exactly what being a bishop
involved. ‘But one of my archdeacons is becoming a trifle magis
terial.’

‘
Archdeacons can be such a problem! We had an excellent one
at Radbury in the end, but when we first went to the diocese
Derek found he had inherited an archdeacon who ...’

A horrific archidiaconal anecdote unfolded. I listened and shud
dered and enjoyed it greatly.

‘
... and of course all the Anglo-Catholics were up in arms —
the rows over Reservation were quite dreadful,’ concluded Sheila
serenely, and added before I could draw breath to comment:
‘Charles, would you like a drink?’

To my amazement I realised it was after six o’clock. ‘How very
kind,’ I said, ‘but I think perhaps I should be on my way.’

‘
You wouldn’t like just one whisky to fortify you foe your
journey?’

I had a whisky. I also managed to stop being so self-centred and
ask her about herself, but her life was apparently pleasant and
untroubled. She had various friends in London; she attended
evening classes in Italian; she dabbled with various kinds of volun
tary work; she was saving up to go on a Hellenic cruise.

‘
I’ve been a guest-lecturer twice on the Hellenic cruises,’ I said.
‘I gave talks on St Paul’s journeys. Lyle and I ...’ I embarked on
a series of reminiscences, but eventually I happened to glance at
the clock on the chimney-piece. ‘Good heavens, look at the time!’
I exclaimed. ‘I must go.’

‘
You wouldn’t like to stay to supper? I’ve plenty of eggs and also
some fresh mushrooms — I’m sure we could have a very passable
omelette.’

‘
What a splendid idea!’ I said, mellow after my whisky and all too willing to seize yet another chance to postpone my return to
that empty house. ‘If it’s not too much trouble ...’

She assured me it was no trouble at all, offered me another
whisky, which by a supreme effort of will I ‘declined, and showed
me the way to the cloakroom before withdrawing to the kitchen.

On my return from the lavatory it dawned on me that even one
whisky had been unwise. So far had I relaxed that the comfortable
room now seemed to enfold me in an irresistible cocoon and the
whisky only increased my resulting languor. I began to feel som
nolent.

I eyed the sofa. The next moment I was slipping off my shoes,
loosening my tie and saying sternly to myself: five minutes. Then
I adopted a horizontal position on the sofa and sank instantly into
unconsciousness.

When I awoke I at first had no idea where I was. The room was
in darkness but a light had been left on in the hall so that I
was able to see the dim shapes of the furniture. I sat up. That was
when I realised that a blanket had been tucked around me. Fighting
myself free I leapt to my feet and blundered towards the door in
search of a light-switch. On the way I banged into a side-table
which instantly crashed to the floor, but although I winced I did
not stop. The switch clicked beneath my fingers. I stared at my
watch in disbelief.

The time was seven minutes past one in the morning.