Absolute Truths (74 page)

‘
I’m not saying this scene hasn’t been painful,’ I said, speaking
very fast, ‘but don’t lose sight of that idea you had of leaving
London and seeking a new life.’

‘It was just a stupid dream.’

‘But you could have a whole range of possible futures!’

‘
What rubbish — widows of fifty-two are lucky if they have any
thing that resembles a future at all! The truth is that you’ve
increased my unhappiness a hundredfold by giving me a glimpse
of what might have been, and now you think you can put every
thing right by talking a lot of drivel that has no relation to reality!
I —’ She broke off as we both heard the sound of a car in the
drive.

Feeling dizzy with relief that I was about to be rescued from my
ordeal, I could only say idiotically: ‘That’s odd. I’m not expecting
anyone.’

Then it dawned on me that the car was not merely murmuring
but roaring up the drive.

I knew that engine.

Abandoning Sheila I flung open the front door just as Michael’s
MG screeched to a halt on the gravel.

When I hurried out into the drive to meet him I saw he had a
pale drawn look, as if he had not slept for some time. In the hard light from the porch, the planes of his face were outlined in such
a way that his eyes seemed more deepset, his cheekbones more prominent, the
cleft
in his chin more like the scar of an old injury.
He was not drunk but I did not think he was entirely sober either;
although in control of his movements he had the aggressive air of
the drinker obliged to stand his ground in a world which had
become alien and hostile.

‘
I phoned before I left London,’ he said, ‘and I stopped to phone
twice
on the way down but no one answered. I thought you’d
dropped dead.’

‘
Not quite.’ I almost held out my hand but was too afraid of
rejection; he did not seem to be particularly friendly. Desperate
to say the right thing but unable to work out what the right thing
was, I could only ask: ‘Is something wrong?’.

‘Why should there be?’

‘Well —’

‘Why shouldn’t I come home if I feel like it?’

‘Please don’t think I’m not delighted to see you —’

‘
And
don’t slobber over me
just because I’ve chosen to show up.
If you go all slobbery, like the father in the prodigal son story, I’ll bloody well
vomit.’
He suddenly caught sight of Sheila in the hall.
‘Who’s that?’

‘Bishop Preston’s widow.’

‘Oh God!’

‘
It’s all right, she’s just leaving.’ Hastening back into the house
I said to Sheila: ‘It’s Michael and he appears to be very upset. Will
you forgive me if —’

‘
Of course.’ To my relief I realised she had used the brief moment
on her own to recover her self-control. The two words, crisply
spoken, formed the competent response of the clerical wife who
was able to cope unflustered with any emergency. ‘I’ll just turn off
the oven,’ she added with admirable presence of mind. I had
entirely forgotten that we were supposed to be having dinner.

‘
No, don’t do that,’ I said, trying to be equally practical. ‘Michael
might be hungry.’

‘
Well, if he fancies steak and kidney pie it’ll be ready in twenty
minutes.’ She picked up her coat from the hall chair.

‘
I’ll phone you tomorrow, of course.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘
On the contrary, it matters very much,’ I said, but by this time
Michael was entering the hall and no further’private conversation with her was possible. Turning to him I said: ‘You remember Mrs
Preston, don’t you?’

He made a big effort. I saw him draw on his ‘glittering image’
like a glove. Smiling with great charm, he held out his hand and adopted his most winning manner. No one, not even Lyle, could
have understood him
as
well as I did that moment, when the gap
between his confident public persona and his troubled private self
was so painfully wide and deep.

‘
Of course I remember you, Mrs Preston!’ he said. ‘How are you?’
And barricaded behind defences which were quite
as
impressive as his own, Sheila assured him she was very well and remarked
how nice it was to see him again. Another short conversation
followed during which we all toiled to preserve the social niceties,
but at last I was able to escort Sheila outside to her car. As I
opened the driver’s door for her I said: ‘Whatever you do, don’t
go back to London before we’ve talked again.’ By this
time
I had
had the chance to worry about what would happen if I threw her
no life-line of any kind, but Sheila remained self-possessed and
even seemed amused by my words. ‘You don’t have to handle me
as
if I was a tricky pastoral case,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m not about to
put my head in the nearest gas oven.’

This remark certainly indicated that my anxiety for her welfare
was misplaced, but unfortunately it also indicated that my anxiety
for my own welfare should double. I felt I was still very much in
the presence of a woman scorned, but before I could attempt
a reply she got into the car, slammed the door and drove away.

Staring after her I allowed myself one long moment of pulveris
ing anxiety. Then shoving all thought of the scene from my mind
I hurried back indoors to Michael.

Of course I had already realised that he was bringing news of
the disaster which the final entry in Lyle’s journal had foretold.

I was sure Michael had come to seek my help but I was equally
sure he had no idea how to
tell
me about what had happened. When two people have for a long time been unable to conduct
even the most innocuous conversation without winding up in a
fever of furious pain, the possibility of having a profitable dis
cussion becomes remote. The onus
was
obviously on me to establish a quiet, calm atmosphere so that he had the chance to intuit
my willingness to listen sympathetically, but quiet, calm atmos
pheres are hard to establish when both parties to the conversation
a
re already on an emotional rack. When I found him drinking neat
whisky in the drawing-room I wanted to shout at him: ‘You stupid
young fool, how dare you wreck your life like this!’ and although
I managed to keep my mouth shut, the effort exhausted me. Out
wardly expressionless but inwardly awash with rage and fear, I
removed my collar, lit a cigarette and tried to decide where I should
sit down. He was occupying one end of the long sofa. Hardly
daring to make the move for fear I was doing the wrong thing, I
sat down at the other end.

‘What was that woman doing here?’ Michael demanded morosely.

‘Oh, just having a quick drink.’

‘
I never want to sec another woman again. As far as I can see
the only solution to the problem of sex is to be either past it or
castrated.’

I decided I was being invited to comment. In my mildest voice
I murmured: ‘I assume that means your current romance has taken
a wrong turn,’ but unfortunately I was in such a state that again
I could not remember the name of the new girlfriend, the nice girl
who had been with him at the funeral and had been such a welcome
contrast to Dinkie. This was a distressing pastoral slip. Remem
bering names made a difference, implied concern, demonstrated
a genuine interest. Clergymen always needed to remember
names.

Staring down into his glass of whisky, Michael was either unable
or unwilling to reply.

The silence began, the silence of estrangement, and although I
knew I had to end
it
I could not decide what to say. I could only
think how odd it was that in my professional
life
I should be so
articulate and adroit while in my private life I had so often lacked
the words to express my deepest feelings.

‘I wish Mum was here,’ said Michael.

This was a signal. I knew it was a signal. I was a clergyman with
a long experience of dealing with distressed people, and I could
recognise the moment when someone signalled a willingness to
talk on an intimate level. But the thought of Lyle, absent when
she was so desperately needed, proved almost too much for me to
bear. I was unable to respond.

After a moment Michael added: ‘It was terrible to arrive here
tonight and know she’d never be here again.’

I told myself that if I now failed to utter even the feeblest sen
tence I deserved to remain estranged from Michael for the rest of
my life. I managed to say: ‘I’m glad you came. I wanted to see
you. I meant every word I said in that letter.’

‘What letter?’

I was so disorientated by this question that I could only answer
stupidly: ‘I posted it last weekend.’

‘
Oh,
that letter.
I didn’t open it. When I saw your writing on
the envelope I wanted to puke. Sony.’

I was silenced again.

‘
I felt I couldn’t cope with you,’ said Michael. ‘Not without
Mum. She shouldn’t have died like that, it wasn’t fair. I don’t
believe in God. All this pain – all this mess – I mean, where is he,
for Christ’s sake, where is he, and what the hell does he think he’s
doing?’ And he gave a sudden, violent shudder as his eyes at last
filled with teats.

At once I stood up to move closer to him, but he said fiercely:
No, don’t slobber over me!’ and hurtled across the room to pour
himself another whisky.

‘
Aren’t I allowed even to apologise for being too preoccupied
by my own grief to be of any use to you recently?’

‘
I didn’t want you being useful. You might have slobbered. You either slobber or you’re incompetent. Look at that mess I got into
with Dinkie! It was Mum who sorted everything out while you
just went into hiding with your archdeacon.’

‘
At least I didn’t slobber.’ I wondered if the mention of Dinkie
was a hint that he was now ready to talk of what I could only
assume was the sad end of his brief new romance. I still could not
recall the name of the girl. All I could remember was that she had
been one of the two girls who shared a flat with the dangerous
Marina Markhampton.

Meanwhile Michael was saying bitterly: ‘You never understood
about Dinkie. Never.’

‘
Your mother thought I did. She thought I understood far better
than I was ever willing to admit.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

I thought: I can’t talk about this, it’s impossible, it’s out of the
question.

But then I thought of Lyle, taking her great spiritual journey
without me, and I knew I was again being called to prove that not
one word of that journal had been written in vain. Off-handedly,
casually, rather as if I were reminiscing about a round of golf I
said: ‘I’d have liked to live with a girl like that when I was your
age. But I never got the chance.’

Whisky slopped on the carpet as Michael’s glass slipped in his
hand.

‘
Of course I could never admit that to myself,’ I said, now
sounding almost bored. ‘It wasn’t a truth I was willing to face,
but your mother quite understood how jealous I was. In fact she understood a lot of things which had entirely eluded me, and she
wrote them all down in an exercise book which I found after the funeral. You can read
the
book one day, if you like. Jon’s got it
at the moment. It’s rather interesting.’ I might have been talking
of a library book which had helped wile away an unimportant hour or two. Moving to the sideboard I siphoned myself some
more sodawater and sipped it slowly. ‘I’m sure I would have tired
of Dinkie’s obvious attractions after six months,’ I added as an
afterthought. ‘But the less obvious attractions would have
entranced me for much longer.’

Michael could hardly have looked more stunned if I had con
fessed to keeping a brothel. Now it was his turn to be speechless.
Taking another sip from my glass I said: ‘I was always attracted
to curing women who had been emotionally damaged.’

The room was now utterly silent. I watched the soda-siphon for
a moment and then turned my attention to the gin bottle
which
was
standing next to it. ‘That was one of the reasons why my first
marriage wasn’t a success,’ I said. ‘Jane wasn’t damaged. There was
no challenge. I got bored.’ By this time I was examining the label
of the Tio Pepe. ‘I should have guessed what was going on in your
life when you told me Dinkie had had an appalling childhood,’ I
added, ‘but since I’d condemned you as immoral I was determined
not to identify myself with you in any way.’

I heard Michael set down his glass, and when I turned to face
him at last I saw he had even pushed it away across the coffee-table
as if he no longer needed the scotch that remained. All he said
was: ‘Why did you always want to cure women who are messed
up?’

‘
My mother was a very unhappy woman. So was yours, when you were very young. I should have remembered.’ I sighed at the
memory of the troubled early years of my second marriage before
adding: ‘Of course the heal-the-sick syndrome isn’t uncommon
among clergymen, particularly those who arc interested in the
Church’s ministry of healing. If I hadn’t been a clergyman I’d have
been a doctor.’

‘
I knew you wanted me to be a doctor as soon as you realised
there was no hope of me being a clergyman,’ said Michael, ‘but I
just found illness was boring — and all that science was so tedious —’

‘
I wish you’d told me.’

‘
I thought you wouldn’t let me drop out. I thought you’d say
I had to soldier on and play the game. That was why I messed
around with nurses on that epic scale — I couldn’t see how else to
escape.’

I said: ‘I messed around a bit when I couldn’t face telling my
father I didn’t want to go on reading law.’ I paused to examine
the unfamiliar memory before forcing myself to add: ‘Of course it
was all very different in my young day. Girls of one’s own class
were taboo, illicit sex always had to be covered up, the post-war
syphilis epidemic was scaring us out of our wits —’

‘
Wait a minute,’ interrupted Michael, sounding as confused as
if I had been talking in a foreign language. ‘When you say you
messed around a bit, do you mean you just had a kiss occasionally?’

‘
No.’

‘
You mean —’

‘As a matter of fact, it was all very sordid and frustrating. No wonder I was jealous of you and your good times.’

Michael whispered: ‘Good times!’ and looked sick.

At once I realised this was a cue, curving the conversation back
to his present crisis and inviting me to ask a direct question about
what had gone wrong, but I still could not remember the girl’s
name. One of the girls who shared Marina Markhampton’s flat
was called Emma-Louise, but this was not the girl who had accom
panied Michael to Lyle’s funeral.

Meanwhile Michael was pushing the crisis away again by
embarking on another diversion. ‘This exercise book where Mum
wrote down you were jealous of me — what was she doing, writing
down things like that?’

‘
Keeping a journal. It’s a well-known spiritual exercise, and as
time
went on it clarified her thoughts so that she could pray more
effectively.’

‘
Effectively?
All God did was turn around and vomit all over us!
What a complete and utter waste of time all that praying was!’
After a moment I said: ‘In the beginning she did think it was
rather a waste of time, particularly since she was praying for the most unlikely things to come true. She prayed, for instance, that
I would come to understand my mistakes. She prayed that I would
stop being so "absolutely stupid" — her phrase — about you. And
I’m quite sure she prayed that one day in a future quite impossible
to imagine we would sit down and have an honest conversation
with each other.’

I did not wait for him to speak; his silence was the only reply
I needed to hear. Setting down my glass on the sideboard I said:
‘It was after I read the journal that I knew I had to talk to you. That’s why I wrote you the letter which I posted last weekend,
the letter you didn’t open. I thought —’

‘
I did open it,’ said Michael.