Authors: Susan Howatch
Tags: #Historical, #Psychological, #Sagas, #Fiction
There was no sound from Martin’s room when I arrived home
and this was a relief to me for I was too exhausted for further
conversation. Stripping off my clothes I fell into bed and slept.
I awoke at three with indigestion. I immediately blamed the
coffee which I had been too preoccupied to refuse, but it also
occurred to me that indulging in port and Stilton after duck and
claret is not the wisest behaviour for a man of my age whose
stomach has never quite recovered from the deprivations of war.
I trekked to the bathroom for the necessary tablets, but by the
time I returned I was wide awake. I was wishing I had never
uttered that last sentence to Harriet, a remark guaranteed to rouse
her to fury. Then I started wishing I had never entered her studio,
but no, I could not wish that; she had given me too many illuminat
ing insights to make me regret my visit, and in fact I wanted to
review those insights and meditate upon them but I now had to
quieten my brain, not stimulate it, so all’ meditation had to be
saved for later.
However, no sooner had I made this sensible decision than I
found I was meditating about Lyle; I was finally trying to work
out what she would have thought of my new career as a satyr, and
my conclusions were most unpalatable. I was sure she would have
understood that I had only fallen into bed with Sheila because I
had felt so bereaved, but I was sure too that she would have
garnished her forgiveness with some very caustic comments about
women who wore beige and eschewed black underwear; such a female would have been judged quite unsuitable for my private
life no matter how able she was at running an episcopal household.
As for Harriet ... I could only wince. ‘Messing around with
someone young enough to be your daughter,’ Lyle would have said
severely, ‘is carrying your sentimentality towards young women to
an absolutely lethal conclusion.’ After that I hardly dared consider
what Lyle would have thought of my interlude with Loretta but
I pictured her looking feline as she composed a remark about old
age pensioners who jangled around in short skirts when they
should have been sipping tea with dignity in front of their tele
vision sets.
I did sleep again after this meditation; in fact I slept twice but
each time I awoke after a nightmare which I was unable to recall.
Much depressed by this disjointed and unpleasant night I finally
dragged myself downstairs, but here I was greatly cheered by
Martin, who was in excellent spirits. He was sitting at the kitchen
table with a boiled egg and
The Times.
All the dinner-party debris
had been cleared away, the kitchen was spotless and freshly-brewed
coffee was waiting for me on the counter. Nothing’s more dreary than dirty dishes on the morning after the night before,’ he said when I thanked him for the transformation, ‘and I decided they
couldn’t wait for your housekeeper.’ He even volunteered to cook me breakfast. I did try to say that toast would be sufficient, but I
was told I had to have plenty of protein in order to survive ‘the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’.
‘
Possibly you also need plenty of protein to revive you after
chauffeuring the lovely Harriet,’ he added, extracting two eggs
from the larder, ‘but of course m much too discreet to ask
questions.’
‘She showed me the nude part.’
‘Was it the head?’
‘No, the hands.’
‘
But the Dean’s hands are nothing special, are they?’
°They are now.’
‘A masterpiece?’
‘I thought so.’
‘
What a privilege to be given a private viewing! But I could sec
she fancied you.’
‘
As I’d banned her sculpture in 1963 she was probably just
suffering from a compulsion to win me over ... When are you
off to Starrington?’
‘
When you’ve consumed your protein. Shall I phone and report
on the state of play?’
‘
Please – but do make it clear to Jon that he doesn’t have to see
me until Nicholas is better.’
‘
Silly Little Muggins,’ muttered Martin. Easing the eggs into a
saucepan he added: ‘How long do you want these tortured for?’
‘
Four minutes.’ By this time I was feeling so much better that
I was ready to make plans to spend the morning constructively. It
occurred to me that after my turbulent night my most sensible
course of action was to soothe myself by playing a few more holes
with a five-iron, and I was just picturing an idyllic walk along the fairways of the golf course when my chaplains arrived with Miss Peabody. All were enchanted to discover Martin, star of
Down at
the Surgery,
and Martin was equally enchanted to find himself
with a small but admiring audience. Having informed them of the
previous evening’s dinner-party (‘We all pretended we were in
a
play by Wilde, my dears, even the Bishop!’) he embarked single-
handed on the best scenes in
The Importance of
Being Earnest.
The water in the saucepan almost boiled dry but the eggs were rescued before they could be roasted, and I ate them with bread
and butter. (The toast had burnt.) By this time Martin was playing
Lady Bracknell, the chaplains were cheering every reference to the
handbag and Miss Peabody could even have been found guilty of
giggling. I was just drawing breath to bellow ‘Encore!’ at the top
of my voice when this lax scene, quite unsuitable for an episcopal
residence, was unfortunately interrupted by the arrival of my Archdeacon who swept into the kitchen in a fine flurry of righteousness
and demanded: ‘What’s this – a circus?’ He then saw to his astonishment that the Bishop was present and actually appeared to be
enjoying the uproar. I could see this worried Malcolm very much.
I was not normally the kind of bishop who breakfasted in the
kitchen with my subordinates in the presence of a television star.
‘Are you all right, Charles?’ he said concerned after being formid
ably diplomatic to Martin.
I said I was. By this time the party was breaking up. The chap
lains melted away to the office. Miss Peabody swept off with a
steaming coffee-mug. Martin said with a sigh: ‘Once more unto
the breach, dear friends!"‘ and departed for Starrington. Having
finished my second egg I was just about to announce my decision
to take an idyllic walk along the fairways when Malcolm said:
‘How charitable of you to offer r Martin Darrow hospitality,
Charles! Hardly your sort of person, is he?’
After a pause I said: ‘Martin is a regular worshipper at St Mary’s
Boume Street.’
Oh, splendid! That must be a great consolation to Father Darrow. Now, Charles, I do hope you intend to take it easy – I know
you want to get back to work but I really feel it would be a big
mistake to pick up the reins again before you were fully
fit.
There’s
nothing for you to do today anyway. Nigel and I are just going
to have a little conference.’
Filled with foreboding I said: ‘What’s the main item on the
agenda?’
‘
Langley Bottom. We’re going to hammer out the details of how
we can pension off Desmond, evict that shady adventurer Hall
and close down St Paul’s.’
I silently bid farewell to my idyllic walk on the fairways.
‘
I haven’t forgotten the problems involved in closing the church,’ added Malcolm when I failed to demonstrate enthusiasm for his
agenda. ‘But I think now that Desmond’s home again we really
have to get down to brass-tacks and map out a plan of action.’
Another pause followed.
‘Charles, are you quite sure you’re all right?’
‘Recovering fast, Malcolm.’
‘
Listen, if you’d rather I put St Paul’s on ice until you’re feeling
more rested, I’ll place the Cathedral at the top of the agenda instead
and Nigel and I can begin planning the visitation.’
I opened my mouth, drew in some air to ensure I remained
conscious and contrived to say in my most colourless voice: ‘I
think if you examine your memory carefully, Malcolm, you’ll find
that I’ve never agreed to a visitation.’
‘
Yes, but since that’s the only course you can now take to bring
Aysgarth to heel –’
‘Aysgarth’s not a dog. He’s our brother in Christ.’
‘
Yes,
yes, yes – of course he
is,
but I really do feel that unless
you step in soon and take the hardest of hard lines –’
‘
Could you let me know, please, when Nigel arrives? I’d like to
attend this meeting.’
‘
Oh but Charles, there’s no need – we’ll only be doing the basic
spadework this morning!’
‘
Good,’ I said. ‘I feel in the mood for some basic spadework.
I’m sure I shall find it most stimulating.’
Malcolm gave a guarded little smile. So might a nurse have
smiled at the bedside of a feverish patient who had announced his
intention to get dressed and go home. Such madness had to be
handled with care.
Retiring to my study I slumped behind my desk, put my head
in my hands and wished futilely that I
was far away in
Cambridge.
It was without doubt one of those moments when I hated being
a bishop – but of course bishops weren’t allowed to hate being
bishops.
That wasn’t the done thing at all.
FOUR
‘
The universal misuse of human power has the sad effect that
power, however lovingly used, is hated.’
AUSTIN FARRER
Warden of Keble College, Oxford,
1960-1968
I
Time passed
while I waited for Nigel to arrive from Starmouth. I
knew I should be praying for the strength and skill to manage the
difficult scene which lay ahead of me, but I was soon in such a
state of tension that I could recall only the worst memories of my
bishopric: the interviews with the occasional clerical failure, the
rows with Aysgarth, the appearances on television when I had
debated the permissive society with atheists. In truth hating my job was not as novel an experience for me as it should have been.
I tried to cheer myself with the thought that at least on this
occasion I did not have to face the television cameras, but this did
not alter the fact that I still had to solve a severe management
problem. This is an aspect of my job which few people are willing to
believe can exist. The popular vision of a bishop’s life is that it
must be all God-given glory and spiritual fulfilment and silver-
tongued oratory in the House of Lords. A bishop is supposed to be far removed from the harassed executive driven to execute a
series of Machiavellian manoeuvres in order to control his power-
mad subordinates. This dark underside of ecclesiastical life forms
the paradox of all Christian organisations: the kingdom of Christ is not of this world, but this world is the place where those who
preach that kingdom have to live. And men who are valued for
their spiritual gifts – who indeed come to prominence as the result
of their spiritual calling – find themselves expected to do worldly
work for which they have neither the training nor the inclination.
The sound of a car interrupted my train of thought. Moving to
the window I saw Nigel halting his Humber in the drive.
I tried to estimate how far I could rely on his support. I knew he would welcome any attempt I made to re-introduce Malcolm
to the limits of archidiaconal power, but I was unsure how far he
would back me up if I tried to make a decision which he might
well judge unsound. In fact if the scene were to go very wrong I
might even end up achieving the impossible: an alliance between
the suffragan and the archdeacon, hitherto at loggerheads, against
the bishop whom they decided had finally succumbed to a nervous
breakdown.
Making a big effort I made a new attempt to gather my wits
and think like a layman. What I had to do was to play my cards
so that Nigel would support me against Malcolm no matter how
much he disagreed with my proposals about Langley Bottom, but
how was I to achieve such rigorous loyalty? I toyed with various
manoeuvres. I could increase the diocesan grant to Starmouth, but
no, that would be too tricky because the diocesan board of finance
was currently in a sullen mood and might suggest I art back on
education – which would affect the Theological College, my pride
and joy. I could pull strings in the House of Lords in an attempt
to get government funding to boost Nigel’s pet housing project
in the Starmouth slums, but because there was a Labour govern-
ment in power my strings were not as strong
as
they might have been. Nevertheless the government would inevitably have a soft
spot for the slums – and possibly also for Nigel who made no secret
of his commitment to Christian socialism and was well versed in
sociology, that tiresome subject which the secular
masses
now
seemed to be regarding as a new religion. I had indeed hesitated before appointing a suffragan who had socialist interests, but in
the end I had put the welfare of the diocese first; I had needed
someone like Nigel to manage those Starmouth slums, and besides,
I had never been opposed to a decent Christian socialism, only to
socialism as a secular ideology which created economic havoc and
called it progress.
‘
Nigel’s here, Charles,’ said Malcolm, putting his head around
the door.
‘
Splendid!’ I exclaimed, effortlessly concealing my dread, and
moved at once into the hall to meet him.