Absolute Truths (73 page)

At the junction with Eternity Street I was thinking so hard about
Aysgarth that I almost drove through a red light. If he did indeed
have capital then Harriet’s theory became wholly implausible, but
how large had been that legacy? The uncle could only have been
a bourgeois Yorkshire businessman, and I had no idea how much such a person could be expected to leave. The North was a foreign
country to me; I knew very little about what went on there.

So absorbed was I in these speculations that I compounded my
bad driving by failing to signal that I was turning right into the
courtyard of the Staro Arms, and the driver behind me hooted in
fury. This rebuke made me pull myself together. Parking the car
neatly, I got out, restrained myself from fidgeting with my cross
in the manner which Aysgarth found so intolerable, and walked
briskly into the hotel.

The Staro Arms was a former medieval coaching inn which
nowadays conjured up images of a favourite slipper: shabby but
comfortable. I liked the place far better than the Crusader, Star-
bridge’s smart hotel which overlooked St Anne’s Gate by the
Cathedral. Currently owned by a national hotel group, the Cru
sader catered for wealthy tourists; the Staro Arms, owned and run
by a local family for several generations, catered for the natives
and had changed remarkably little since I had taken Lyle to dine
there soon after our first meeting in 1937.

As I entered the hall the old porter touched his cap and said:
‘Good evening, my lord!’ Here at least it had never occurred to
anyone that the old order might be obliged to yield to the
new,
and seconds later the proprietor himself appeared to welcome me
in pre-war style. Despite the ordeal which loomed ahead I could
not help but feel greatly soothed.

‘
I’m afraid I’ve been very absent-minded and forgotten to make
a reservation,’ I said to Mine Host, but at once he contrived to
imply that the best table in the dining-room was perpetually mine
for the asking.

Having explained that I first had to meet my guest, I ventured
into the main reception room, a long medieval chamber where the
oak-beamed ceiling curved in unexpected places and the faded
carpet was strewn with armchairs upholstered in worn chintz. A
log-fire blazed
in
the huge fireplace, but since most of the heat escaped up the chimney the air was still crisp – a fact which I could only regard as a blessing
as
I began to feel much too hot
under my clerical collar.

There were only three people in the room; I judged the other
guests were by this time at dinner. Sheila was reading a copy of
The Lady,
but when I entered the room she closed the magazine
and stood up. She was wearing a beige woollen dress with a piece
of plain gold costume jewellery, and looked so irreproachably seemly
that
for a moment I could not quite believe we had ever
shared a bed. I also found it hard to believe she could ever have
reminded me of Lyle, and because I could no longer find Lyle in
this alien mirror, I found my loss was violently underlined.
‘Sheila!’ It occurred to me as I gave her hands a quick clasp that
hell was not, as Sartre had proclaimed, other people. Hell was being
obliged to pretend to be someone quite other than one’s true self.
‘I suggest we eat straight away,’ I was saying, and seconds later
we were entering the dining-room which overlooked the garden
– the famous river-garden of the Staro Arms where on fine summer
evenings it was so pleasant to sit at one of the white tables and
watch the water flow lazily through the city to the meadows. I
could remember sitting there with Lyle on that first evening out
together long ago, and at once in my memory I saw her
as
she had
been then: thirty-five years old, slim and small, her hair reddish-
brown, her dark eyes sultry, her whole being exuding that subtle
air of mystery which had ensnared me from the beginning and
enchanted me to the end.

The waiter was saying: ‘Good evening, my lord – this way, if
you please,’ but I barely heard him. I was still remembering that
first evening when Lyle and I had dined together; I
was
picking
out that same table where we had sat, and as I did so the present
seemed to veer away from its course and double back in a great
loop towards the past – and as the present disintegrated beneath
the weight of memory I heard Lyle’s voice say: ‘I don’t like that
woman, Charles. Get rid of her.’

I halted.

We were standing by
the
table,
that same table where Lyle and
I had dined, and the waiter was drawing out the chair so that
Sheila could sit down in Lyle’s place.

‘
Is something wrong?’ I heard Sheila say to me suddenly, but the only words I could utter were: ‘Sorry. Not well. Excuse me.’
Then I blundered from the room.

Sheila joined me
as
1 came to a halt outside in the courtyard. So shattered was I that I rejected the possibility of being other than
truthful in an effort to be diplomatic. I said:
‘I’m
sorry, but I
couldn’t take that dining-room. Too many memories of Lyle,’ and
at once Sheila responded: ‘Let me drive you home in my car.’

I said this was quite unnecessary, but I knew I could not afford
to give her the impression that I was wholly rejecting her company.
‘We’ll go to the Crusader instead,’ I said. ‘I’ll be all right there.’

‘
Charles, there’s no need to go to a lot of trouble to give me
dinner. Why don’t we drive to the South Canonry, you in your
car, 1 in mine, and then I can make my own way back here after
I’ve cooked us a meal?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to cook for me!’

‘I’d enjoy it.’

‘
Yes, but ...’ Automatically I glanced around but there was no
one in earshot. ‘For various reasons,’ I said, ‘I don’t think that
would be a good idea.’

‘
There’s nothing for you to worry about, Charles, I promise
you. I’ll go
as
soon
as
we’ve finished the meal.’

I feared that to protest further might be dangerous, even more
dangerous than embarking on a difficult dialogue with her in my own home without any of the witnesses who would have ensured
my safety if our evening had been spent in the hotel dining-room.
With an effort I said: ‘It’s extremely good of you, and at least
you won’t have to do much more than light the oven. There’s a
well-stocked deep-freeze.’

‘
In that case what are we arguing about?’ she said, and smiled
at me.

I smiled back, parted from her and slid behind the wheel of my car.
As soon as I arrived home I wanted to pour myself a double-
whisky but again I restricted myself to sodawater. Even if I had not promised Jon to abstain from alcohol, the extreme danger of
my situation would have encouraged me to remain stone-cold
sober. I felt I needed the clearest of heads to survive.

‘
Just show me where the kitchen is,’ she said on her arrival two
minutes later. ‘Then you can relax in the drawing-room.’
I showed her to the kitchen. But in the drawing-room all I could
do was sit on the edge of the sofa and watch .the large hand of the
clock on the chimney-piece move with excruciating slowness from
one minute to the next. The time was now after nine.
As soon as Sheila had rejoined me I embarked on a more articu
late apology to reassure her that I had regained my equilibrium;
I was afraid that if she thought I was still in a state of distress she
might become too compassionate. ‘... and it seems so odd,’ I
concluded with a finely-judged air of bemusement, ‘that Lyle’s
memory should overpower me at the Staro Arms yet now be man
ageable in her own home.’

‘
Grief isn’t always logical.’

‘Apparently not ... Can 1 get you a drink?’

She requested a gin-and-tonic, and when we had our glasses in
our hands I said warmly: ‘Let’s drink to your surprise visit to
Starbridge!’

This pleased her. She took a small, ladylike sip.

I was just reflecting that sodawater had never before tasted so
prickly and unpleasant when she said: ‘I’m sure you want to know
why I changed my mind about the
visit,
so I mustn’t irritate you now by beating about the bush. What happened was that after
you left the flat I felt how selfish I’d been, moaning about my
trivial problems when your own must be so very much worse, and
it suddenly occurred to me that I might be able to make amends
by offering you some help.’

There is something peculiarly fascinating about watching one’s
worst dream come true. I did realise that some form of encouraging
response was required but I found I was too mesmerised by the
nightmare to speak.

‘
After all,’ she said reasonably, ‘I’ve been a bishop’s wife so I
know exactly how I could make myself useful. Why don’t I take a
flat in Starbridge for, say, six months? I could easily mn the South
Canonry for you, and I’d be very happy to act as your hostess at
dinner-parties.’

I knew that just as I could not afford to display a single sign
of horror, so I could not afford any pause which would imply
reluctance. At once I said: ‘How very kind of you! And what an
enterprising idea!’

She smiled, still perfectly self-possessed, her fingers curled
around the glass in her hands. I noticed that her nails were covered
in a colourless varnish which gleamed in the light.

‘
Naturally,’ I heard her murmur, ‘there’d be no obligation of
any kind.’

This time I was unable to avoid a pause, and in order to distract
her from its implications, I embarked on a series of trivial move
ments: I set down my glass, smoothed my hair and adjusted the
position of my pectoral cross. I was trying to decide how I should
deal with her. It was tempting to postpone all further discussion of her proposal as gracefully as possible and change the subject,
but I had a strong suspicion that this, the easiest course of action,
would in the long run make matters more difficult. I sensed it was
important that I gave her no chance to hope. Once she started to
think she had succeeded, her disappointment when I finally rejected
her pipe-dream would be far greater and the risk of unpleasant
consequences much higher.

With difficulty I said: ‘I see we’ve reached the point where we
have to refer to what happened last Sunday.’

‘No, there’s no need to mention that.’

‘
Even if we never mentioned it again it would still remain a
reality which has altered how matters stand between us. After all,
if we hadn’t been intimate, you’d hardly be making this very special
offer now.’

‘
That’s true. But –’

‘
I quite understand that you’re motivated by a commendable desire to make my life easier, and please believe me when I say I’m grateful, but I’m afraid that if you came to Starbridge to live you wouldn’t ease my current distress; you’d enhance it. Close
feminine friendship which falls short of physical intimacy is a
luxury I’m not designed to enjoy.’

To my relief she remained calm. She said simply: ‘I’d worked
everything out – how I could let my flat, which firm I should use
to store my best pieces of furniture, what arrangements I’d need
to make at the bank. I was feeling so excited about escaping from
London and giving my life a purpose again.’

‘I’m all for your life having a purpose, but –’

‘
It all seemed so meant,’ she interrupted strongly. The way you
turned up out of the blue and the way we got on so well and .. .
well, I daresay this sounds pathetic to a sophisticated theologian,
but I really did feel as if all my prayers had been answered and
God had come to my rescue at last.’

I said equally strongly: ‘No theologian, sophisticated or other
wise, should treat the subject of prayer with contempt. But Sheila, although you may well be right about God coming to your rescue,
you may nevertheless be wrong about how that rescue’s going
to be achieved. After all, what’s actually happened here? You’ve
suddenly come to sec that the way forward for you is to leave
London for a while. Now, that can certainly be construed as a
God-given enlightenment, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that
I’m to play any part in your new future.’

She stood up. Automatically I too rose to my feet and we faced
each other across the hearth.

‘
You think I’m trying to entrap you into marriage,’ she said
abruptly, ‘and you’re backing off. But I quite see it’s ridiculous to
talk of marriage when you’re newly bereaved so let’s just forget
about it.’

‘
In view of what happened last Sunday I hardly think amnesia
is an available option.’

‘
Obviously you’re horribly embarrassed about last Sunday, but
you needn’t be. It seems to me that shorn of all embarrassment
the situation’s simply this: I’m extremely efficient and I can be very
useful to you at the present time. I quite understand that your
duty is to be celibate, but I also quite understand that one can’t
always live up to one’s ideals. So if from time to time you did find
celibacy impossible –’

‘
My dear Sheila,’ I said, sweating
as
the scene finally began to
spiral out of control, ‘it’s vital that we should be realistic here. I
won’t even begin to go into all the moral arguments. I’ll just take
a strictly pragmatic line and say your suggestion is an invitation to disaster. Someone would eventually find out what was going
on.’

‘But surely if we were both scrupulously careful –’

‘
Someone would eventually find out.
I know they would. I
know.’

I saw curiosity flicker in her eyes. ‘You sound as if you’d seen
it all before. But surely as Bishop of Starbridge you’d be quite
above suspicion?’

‘
Just because
I’m
above suspicion doesn’t mean I’d remain there
if I were to make a move which gave rise to gossip! If you came
to Starbridge everyone would put our friendship under the
microscope and we could only survive that kind of scrutiny if the
friendship were completely above board.’

She was silent, but just as I was daring to hope that I had
persuaded her to be reasonable she said: ‘Very well, if I can’t help
you by coming to Starbridge, at least I can still be of use in London.
I can’t see how anyone would ever know, if you visited me
occasionally in Pimlico, that you were paying more than a pastoral
call.’

Once again I found myself unable to avoid a pause, but this
time my expression must have betrayed my horror because she
began to blush. The atmosphere of embarrassment was now almost
tangible.

At last she said in a low rapid voice: ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m not
talking like a bishop’s wife, but you didn’t exactly behave like a
bishop last Sunday, did you?’ and after another terrible interval I
answered: ‘I know you wouldn’t be speaking along these lines
if I hadn’t behaved as I did. I’m not blaming you for anything
you’ve said, and I’m certainly not passing judgement on you
either.’

Thanks a lot!’

This sarcastic response gave me such a fright that I redoubled
my efforts to open her eyes to reality. I could feel the polite veneer
of the conversation disintegrating in a web of cracks like bruised
glass.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘just think for a moment, just think what
would happen if we embarked on a prolonged affair. It wouldn’t just be Sunday night happening over and over again. It wouldn’t
just be a safe, comfortable, static relationship which would fill in
the time while we waited until it was socially acceptable for me to remarry. Love affairs are dynamic, not static. They grow, change,
become more complex — and once powerful emotions are gener
ated, obvious hazards appear. For instance, supposing we found
after six months that you’d had enough but I wanted to marry
you —’

‘
How tactful! Of course we both know it’s far more likely that I’d want to many you and that you’d be the one chafing to walk
away.’ She turned her back on me and began to walk stiffly towards
the door.

‘
Sheila —’

‘
You’re right to regret last Sunday. If we hadn’t slept together
we wouldn’t be having this vile, humiliating scene.’ She stumbled
out of the room.

I caught up with her in the hall. By this time I was in such a
state of guilt, pity, shame and sheer panic that I hardly knew what
I was saying, but I felt I could not afford to let her leave in a
hostile frame of mind.