Abruptly I tossed aside the notion that I should engage in unpaid part-time pastoral work as I waited for my call to unfold. I needed to be employed. I needed to be employed immediately. And I needed to be employed on my future wife’s doorstep in the parish of Starrington Magna.
Rising to my feet I opened the ancient oak door and stepped into the church. For a long moment I stood gazing at the altar but unfortunately my thoughts were very far from spiritual. I was wondering where the parish stood in the financial structure
of the diocese and how difficult it would be to dredge up enough money for a curacy.
It occurred to me that these were questions an archdeacon could answer, and sitting down in the nearest pew I began to plot my conquest of young Neville Aysgarth.
I met Aysgarth a week later at a luncheon-party given by Miss Barton-Woods. I had expected to find a man of obvious ability, perhaps someone who would reflect the wit and worldliness of his benefactor Dr Jardine, but when I first saw Aysgarth I could detect no remarkable qualities in him.
He was short, no more than five foot seven, and somewhat ill-proportioned, his shoulders too broad for the rest of his frame; it occurred to me that he needed to be half a stone heavier to create a more fetching effect. He had waving brown hair, a high handsome forehead, blue eyes set deep, a Roman nose and a thin straight brutal mouth. It was an odd face, a face of conflict, a face which even I, experienced as I was at summing up people, found it difficult to judge with confidence. I had an impression of an iron will juxtaposed with a shy, sensitive, possibly even a deeply emotional nature, and these seemed explosive attributes for a priest. In fact the more clearly I sensed that he had the determination which is essential to achieve worldly success, the more acutely I wondered, as a director of souls, about the quality of his spiritual life. It occurred to me that the sensitive side of his nature – if indeed it existed – would need to be carefully nurtured to save it from being trampled underfoot by the other, less desirable features of his personality.
His wife, on the other hand, was clearly a much less complex character, a dark pretty woman who preferred to talk of her home and children, as so many wives do, but who was also capable of discussing an eclectic collection of books with Miss Barton-Woods. Aysgarth was evidently adored. Her conversation was littered with sentences which began: ‘Neville
thinks …’ or ‘Neville feels …’ or ‘Neville says …’, and her adoration made me take a more respectful second look at the Archdeacon who by achieving a happy marriage had succeeded where I had failed.
The other guests at the luncheon-party consisted of another young woman in her thirties, Mrs Wetherall who was the wife of Starrington Magna’s absent vicar, and three people of my own generation, a couple called Maitland who owned the second largest property in the parish, and Miss Barton-Woods’ solicitor from Starbridge, a gentleman called Musgrave. The latter at first regarded me with a wariness which suggested he feared I might be a fortune-hunter, but after an exquisitely veiled cross-examination over the pre-luncheon sherry he decided, to our joint relief, that I was an acceptable acquaintance for his client.
The Maitlands too had regarded me with a certain bemusement when I had first entered the drawing-room, but this startled response could no doubt be attributed to the fact that I had decided to wear not my clerical uniform but my new lounge-suit. My vanity had of course preserved the memory of Ruth saying that the suit made me look like a film-star, and I regret to record that I had now given in to the dubious desire to ‘make a splash’, surprising the other guests who had probably expected a desiccated old man in a dog-collar, and dazzling (so I hoped) Miss Barton-Woods who had never before seen this secret sartorial weapon in my armoury. I did dimly remember how I had earlier hated the suit so much that I had longed for my monk’s habit but that eccentric behaviour now seemed part of a very remote past.
When the ladies withdrew at the close of the meal Colonel Maitland was put in charge of the decanter but Aysgarth and I, declining both port and cigars, wandered away from the table towards the nearest open window. As Maitland and Musgrave began to debate how much longer the Luftwaffe could continue to bomb London every night I said to the Archdeacon: ‘I think I find smoking the most difficult habit to tolerate now that I’ve left the cloister.’
Aysgarth murmured a sympathetic response but I wondered if he himself smoked in private like my friend Charles Ashworth. The younger generation of churchmen seemed to have fewer scruples about ‘lighting up’ once their clerical collars had been discarded than the priests of my age.
Opening the window wider I remarked idly: ‘What a pleasant parish this is! But since it’s so extensive I’m surprised Mr Wetherall was obliged to manage without a curate.’
‘It’s the usual story,’ said Aysgarth with a shrug of his shoulders to indicate resignation at the passing of the old order. ‘Changing economic conditions have resulted in the vicar being barely-able to keep himself, let alone a curate.’
‘But I understand this parish is in the Bishop’s gift. Can’t the endowment be improved by prising open the diocesan coffers without trying to tap the funds of the Church Commissioners or Queen Anne’s Bounty?’
‘I’m sure Dr Ottershaw would feel that in war-time there were more urgent demands on the diocesan coffers.’
‘Quite. But –’ I decided to lay my cards on the table’ – it had occurred to me that I might contribute to the war-effort on the Home Front by taking care of this parish while the Vicar’s in the Army. Of course I’d prefer to work on a purely voluntary basis but unfortunately I do need some form of stipend.’
Aysgarth’s expression immediately became so inscrutable that I felt uneasy. ‘I’m sure, sir,’ he said, ‘that Dr Ottershaw could find work for you which was a great deal more commensurate with your distinguished career in the Order.’
Impatience elbowed my uneasiness aside. ‘My dear Archdeacon, since Our Lord was content to wash the feet of his disciples without wondering whether or not it was commensurate with his career as a teacher, surely it would ill become even the most distinguished priest to turn up his nose at serving God in a country parish?’
‘I take your point, sir,’ said Aysgarth politely, refusing to be intimidated, ‘but I put it to you that we nonetheless have a duty to serve God to the best of our ability, not to squander that ability in work which is unsuited to us.’
I found myself becoming increasingly annoyed. ‘You think I’m unsuited to work in a country parish?’
‘That’s not for me to judge. I’m only fit to judge whether in view of the war-time shortage of clergymen it’s essential for this parish to have a parson, and in my opinion –’
‘Supposing I were to tell you that I’d been led to this place by God? Would you continue to close your mind to the possibility that I might have been called to serve here?’
I expected Aysgarth to capitulate at this point. It is hardly easy for a young archdeacon to stand his ground when a distinguished ex-abbot starts talking forcefully about God, but Aysgarth’s obstinate mouth only hardened and I felt his will confronting my psyche with the strength of a steel wall.
‘If you feel called to serve in this parish, sir,’ he said in a voice devoid of emotion, ‘then of course you must discuss your position with Dr Ottershaw. But I can’t help thinking that if you really want to do some worthwhile war-work you’ll acknowledge that the Home Front extends beyond the boundaries of Miss Barton-Woods’ estate.’
So he had noticed Miss Barton-Woods’ expression when she had seen me in my new lounge suit. Cursing the vanity which had betrayed me I simultaneously marvelled at his nerve in administering the rebuke. I had been a Fordite abbot, the equal in rank (so it was usually held) of a bishop. Within the Church there was even a school of thought which held that an abbot was superior to a bishop. Yet here was this young archdeacon not only lecturing me about war-work but even daring to imply that my humble aspiration to be a country curate might be rooted in an aspiration which had nothing to do with humility at all! In my rage I almost felt that his perspicacity was more intolerable than his insolence. I was seething.
‘May I suggest,’ I said in my coldest voice, ‘that you think a little less about the worldly power you wield as an archdeacon and a little more about the spiritual needs of the untended souls in your archdeaconry?’
‘And may I suggest,’ said Aysgarth instantly, ‘that you think
a little less of your own needs and a little more about the needs of our war-time Church?’
In the deep silence which followed I suddenly realized I had not only involved myself in a most unedifying skirmish but had made a potentially dangerous enemy. Shame mingled with consternation and bred incredulity as I tried to work out how I could have allowed my pride to lead me so far astray, but I decided that a full analysis of the disaster could wait. My immediate task was to patch up the damage.
‘This conversation does neither of us any credit,’ I said tersely, ‘and I must apologize for raising such an obviously difficult subject. It was hardly my intention to sabotage what I’d hoped would be a cordial relationship.’
‘I’ve certainly no wish for our relationship to be other than cordial,’ said Aysgarth with a primness which I found quite repulsive, ‘but I’m not one of your monks, Mr Darrow, and you shouldn’t expect me to humour you with unquestioning obedience.’
I felt not only as if he had spat on my olive-branch but as if he had had the impertinence to flagellate me with it. Before I could stop myself I said: ‘I assure you, Archdeacon, that if you’d been one of my monks this conversation would have taken a very much more Christian course.’ And turning my back on him I rejoined Musgrave and Maitland at the dining-table.
‘What on earth was going on between you and Aysgarth?’ said Miss Barton-Woods when I was at last alone with her in the drawing-room. ‘Mr Musgrave told me the clerical fur was flying “sotto voce” by the window and brotherly love appeared to be conspicuous by its absence!’
I achieved a casual laugh. ‘I’m afraid Aysgarth and I made a very clumsy attempt to explore each other’s personalities,’ I said, ‘but no doubt we’ll become more adroit in time. I must say,
I’m surprised he didn’t volunteer to be an army chaplain. He’s obviously the sort of priest who enjoys a fight.’
‘Isn’t the age-limit between twenty-eight and thirty-eight? I think he must be a fraction too old. Philip Wetherall’s forty, but he had a military uncle who pulled strings for him as soon as war was declared.’
‘The Church has the final word in recommending a man as suitable.’ I thought of Charles Ashworth who was now also forty; he had had to slip around the official age-limit, but Charles, a former protégé of Archbishop Lang, had friends in high places.
‘In that case I suppose Dr Ottershaw decided that Wetherall could be spared and Aysgarth couldn’t,’ Miss Barton-Woods was speculating. ‘After all, an archdeacon’s more important than a country vicar … I say, I’m awfully sorry if you found Aysgarth heavy going! I’ve heard he’s occasionally a bit stiff with men – some form of social insecurity, perhaps – but I assure you he can be charming, especially with women.’
‘Ah!’ I said, wondering if I were now detecting a resemblance between Aysgarth and his benefactor Dr Jardine other than a breathtaking capacity for insolence.
‘Of course he’s always the soul of propriety,’ said Miss Barton-Woods hastily. ‘He’s devoted to his wife. But sometimes I suspect that beneath that rather prim exterior there lurks a secret hankering for wine, women and song. He adored the dinner-parries at the palace when Dr Jardine was bishop – and Dr Jardine, of course, was famous for his titled ladyfriends and his vintage port.’
‘At the risk of sounding insufferably priggish I feel bound to say that an interest in titled ladies and vintage port is best left to laymen.’
Miss Barton-Woods laughed. ‘You weren’t one of Dr Jardine’s admirers?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Aysgarth hero-worships him, although I don’t think they see much of each other now that Jardine’s retired to Oxford. They think alike on clerical matters – Aysgarth always supported
Jardine against the Archbishop of Canterbury and the High-Church party.’
‘Yes, I sensed his antipathy to Anglo-Catholicism when he persistently refused to address me as “Father”, referred to priests as parsons and displayed an open contempt for monks.’
‘Heavens, how boorish!’ exclaimed Miss Barton-Woods, and in her annoyance she turned a most becoming shade of pink. ‘I
am
sorry!’
‘It’s hardly your fault that internecine strife is common between the different wings of the Church!’ I retorted, making her laugh again, and the conversation turned to other matters but the memory of my clash with Aysgarth continued to make me feel uncomfortable. It was not the kind of prelude I wanted to my new career in the diocese of Starbridge.
Miss Barton-Woods had evidently been intrigued by the fact that Aysgarth and I represented different wings of the Church, for when we next met she said tentatively: ‘I must admit I find it hard to connect you with Anglo-Catholicism – I’d have thought you’d favour a more austere approach, just as Aysgarth does.’
‘I’m austere in my private worship, but public worship is quite a different matter.’ I hesitated, not wanting to bore her with a religious polemic, but when I saw she was genuinely interested I said: ‘A rich liturgical tradition can play a vital part in providing symbols for truths which can’t easily be expressed. In my opinion ritual can make complex truths more accessible – and particularly to people who lack the education to receive truth in the form of complex word-structures. Hence the effectiveness of the Anglo-Catholic slum-priests.’