In panic I scraped together a few pale platitudes. ‘It was a typical romance of youth,’ I said. I was attracted by her looks but in fact we were utterly mismatched and made each other very miserable. I did my best to be a good husband –’ The terrible half-truths ran on and on’ – but life was difficult. One of the reasons why it was difficult was because –’ I reached for the whole truth but knew it was going to slither through my hands; I was too afraid she might think me an Anglo-Catholic fanatic ‘– was because I need a certain amount of time alone for prayer and meditation and devotional reading, and Betty could neither understand nor accept that.’ I hesitated, knowing I should specify the amount of time I needed, but the next moment my voice was saying: ‘However the situation was eased when I felt called to serve at sea.’ I told myself I really could
not let the lie about a call pass. But I did. I was too frightened of being judged a deserting husband who had walked out on his loving wife.
‘Once I was no longer at home all the time we got on much better,’ said my voice with despicable glibness. ‘It was a case of “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. However nothing could change the fact that the marriage produced tensions which interfered with my spiritual life, and when Betty died I knew I could serve God best as an unmarried man. I wanted to be a monk straight away but of course I had to stay in the world to provide for my children.’ Too late I corrected myself by saying: ‘To care for my children.’ Sweat prickled the nape of my neck. I dared not look at her. ‘However when they were grown up and going their own way in the world –’ I told myself I really could not gloss over my difficult years as a widower. But I did. I was terrified that she might recoil when she heard how I had not only failed to live as a priest should but had even jilted the woman who loved me.’ – when my children no longer needed me, I joined the Fordites. For years I remained convinced that I should be celibate, but recently when I was called to leave the Order I realized that my marital unhappiness had arisen not because I was unsuited to marriage but because I’d married the wrong woman when I was too young to know better.’
I told myself I could go no further, but in my imagination Father Darcy was looking at me with contempt and at last my pride came to my rescue. I really could not allow myself to be such a coward. Making a mighty effort I said: ‘That’s not much of a confession. The truth’s far darker than that. I was haunted by guilt that I couldn’t love Betty as she loved me and I conceived of becoming a monk as a form of atonement. Later I did fall in love but I rejected the woman by entering the Order. I’ve done appalling things, Anne. I hurt my wife. I hurt my –’ Balking at the word ‘mistress’ I grabbed a term which in my youth had been capable of an innocent meaning’ – my lover. And of course I hurt my –’ But at that point cowardice reclaimed me. My courage was exhausted and I could not utter the word ‘children’.
In the silence which followed, Anne’s fingers intertwined comfortingly with mine and I felt so grateful for her silent sympathy that a few shreds of my courage rose phoenix-like from the ashes. Remembering Francis’ letter I resolved to embark on a realistic description of Ruth and Martin.
‘Of course my difficulties have affected my children,’ I said in a resolute voice, the voice of a man determined to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, ‘and they’ve been through certain awkward times. But I couldn’t wish for a more devoted son and daughter and I really am tremendously proud of them. I know Ruth’s being silly about the wedding, but-she’s only acting out of a misguided concern for my welfare. And I know Martin should have replied to my letter by now, but I can only conclude that for some reason he hasn’t received it. Martin always replies to my letters – and replies very amusingly too, I might add. He’s got an excellent sense of humour, and women always seem to find him very attractive and charming.’
I stopped speaking, and gradually as the silence lengthened I became aware that I was staring at Anne’s engagement ring, a Victorian circle of gold set with garnets, which I had bought at a small jeweller’s shop in Starbridge. The ring was so pretty that I had not felt ashamed that it was cheap, and at the time of the purchase I had thought the garnets symbolized the fire of love. Now I was aware only that they were the colour of blood. I felt as if I were suffering some profound haemorrhage.
‘Darling!’ said Anne warmly, and suddenly the garnets flashed past my eyes as she slipped her arms around my neck. ‘How lucky your children are to have a father who obviously cares so much for them!’
Shame nearly annihilated me. ‘Anne, I really can’t let you believe … you really must understand that I … I mean, I can’t possibly let this conversation end without stressing my terrible faults and weaknesses –’
‘Silly man, I don’t expect you to be a saint!’
‘But I have such crippling peculiarities –’
‘My dear Jon, if I’d wanted to marry the dead-norm of English
manhood, would I have looked twice at anyone who’d just spent seventeen years being a monk?’
‘But maybe you’d be a great deal happier with the dead-norm of English manhood –’
‘Absolutely not! It was a man claiming to be the dead-norm of English manhood who jilted me! Now stop agonizing about yourself in this morbid fashion and come up to the house for a drink before you sail back to your doting post-mistress – I think you need a very stiff sherry to set you back on the rails of optimism …’
That night I reflected for a long time on this harrowing conversation with Anne but eventually I told myself it was neither possible nor desirable to attain an absolute honesty in a single interview. There was too much emotional constraint on my side and too much emotional vulnerability on hers. To subject her to a single prolonged and inevitably turgid confession of my failures would only upset her, and it seemed to me that I had a moral duty not to strain her love by wallowing self-indulgently in guilt. ‘Stop agonizing about yourself in this morbid fashion,’ she had said, and I was neither so stupid nor so insensitive that I could not detect her antipathy. Women, I knew, did not like self-indulgent wallowing. It filled them with impatience and contempt.
‘Thank God your father’s not the complaining sort,’ said my mother in my memory. ‘I can’t abide men who moan and groan.’
‘You won’t believe this,’ said my father to me lightly, years after her death, ‘but because I was so much older than your mother I was always haunted by the dread that she might find me an elderly bore. Silly of me, wasn’t it? Of course she was as devoted to me as I was to her, I can see that now, but I always guarded my tongue to ensure we never exchanged a cross word – with the result that despite the differences in our age and
rank we were able to live happily ever after, as of course you remember.’
I shuddered suddenly, then cast the memory aside, but that night I dreamt that William the tabby-cat had disappeared, abandoning those who loved him to a hell of loneliness and desolation, and my mother was saying severely: ‘You’ve no one to blame but yourself. You shouldn’t have moaned and groaned about your past like that,’ while my father said urgently: ‘Guard your tongue. Never exchange a cross word. Never complain.’
I awoke sweating in the dark.
After a long while I repeated to myself that I would, of course, tell Anne everything; it was unthinkable that I should even consider not telling her everything; but I would not tell her everything just yet. The revelations had to be made little by little at carefully judged intervals, and meanwhile a long healing silence seemed called for.
Drifting back into sleep I found to my relief that William was purring peacefully in my arms.
The next morning I forced myself to reread Francis’ letter in order to confirm that I had addressed myself to all of the many problems he had listed.
I had dealt with question (I), my unhappiness with Betty. The subject of parenthood, which had occupied questions (2), (3) and (4), would have to wait. I examined question (5). Had I talked to my fiancée in detail about my spiritual needs? No, but I had made it plain that I required time to satisfy them and Anne had appeared to accept this without complaint; after all, unlike Betty she had her work to occupy her and would not expect my undivided attention twenty-four hours a day. Had I warned her that my spiritual needs often made me unsociable? No, but that was of no consequence since Anne was hardly a social butterfly, cramming her calendar with frivolous engagements. Had we discussed the contribution she might make to
my work in the parish? No, but I had already decided that the nature of her contribution should be given time to evolve; I had no wish to burden her immediately with parish matters when her war-work was so important. Nevertheless, in answer to question (8), I felt confident that she would eventually support me to the best of her ability, just as a good wife should.
How was I going to resolve the conflict arising from the fact that we belonged to different wings of the Church? There was no conflict. She was willing to learn about Anglo-Catholicism and eventually I would educate her to share my point of view.
Had I had a frank discussion with her about money? No, but what was there to say? She would manage her money and I would manage mine and naturally I would not dream of interfering in her financial affairs. Had I had a conversation with her about intimacy? Yes, and further conversation would at this stage be inappropriate. Any sexual problems could be sorted out on the honeymoon; Had I paused long enough to imagine what this marriage would really be like or was I at present only capable of imagining how charming Anne would look in her nightgown? How impertinent! But Francis had merely been trying to needle me into confronting the difficulties, and now that I had indeed confronted them this final question did not require a serious answer.
Deciding that I had made a tolerable, if not entirely perfect, response to my spiritual director’s interrogation, I happily began to count the hours which separated me from my first glimpse of Anne’s nightgown.
On the afternoon before the wedding all four Ashworths arrived, accompanied by the children’s nanny. Realizing how much I wanted to see Charles Anne had insisted that they be invited to dine and sleep at the Manor, and when I reminded her that such an offer would compel us to abandon the tradition that the bride and groom should not meet on the night before the
wedding she displayed an admirable contempt for superstition. So the matter was settled, much to my delight, and I began to look forward to the luxury of a long talk with Charles.
When I saw him again I felt I was being granted a new insight into the misguided but all-too-human weakness which had led Father Darcy to keep Francis by his side in London. How delightful it was to have a friend twenty years one’s junior who so exactly fulfilled one’s specifications of the ideal son! Charles had his faults; as his spiritual director I knew that better than anyone, but he was an able priest, a loyal husband and a devoted father – all the things Martin would never be – and there were times when I was tempted to jettison the detachment which made me so successful as a counsellor and manifest a paternal affection. But that would have been unforgivable. It was my detachment which made me valuable to Charles as he wrestled with his problems; he needed a spiritual director, not a father, and besides I was quite astute enough to see that my paternal impulse was primarily selfish, springing not from an altruistic desire to benefit Charles but from an urge to compensate myself for the agony of Martin’s shortcomings.
All these thoughts passed through my mind as we greeted the Ashworths and showed them into the drawing-room, but at last I roused myself sufficiently to hear Charles say to Anne: ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your invitation! It’s hard to brave a hotel with two children under three, and although Lyle suggested leaving the boys behind in Cambridge with Nanny I hated the thought of missing them when I had leave.’ He added that although he had considered the idea that they might all stay with a local acquaintance of his, a doctor who lived in the village of Starvale St James, the doctor’s wife was unfortunately not the most hospitable of women.
‘Is that Dr Romaine?’ said Anne interested. ‘I’ve never met him but one of my friends is always saying how wonderful he is with mothers and babies.’ And as the inevitable comments followed about what a small world it was I saw Charles had put
her at ease. One of Charles’ gifts – a very useful one for a clergyman – was his ability to be immediately and effortlessly charming to people from all walks of life.
Later I took Charles down to the chapel and after he had expressed the most gratifying admiration we settled down in one of the pews for our talk. I had no wish to compromise my detachment by disclosing too much personal information, but of course I had to tell him how I had met Anne, particularly when he pressed me for details. However I somehow restrained myself from talking about my vision. My role in Charles’ life was not to burden him with my spiritual problems – nor to enthral him with my spiritual challenges – but to help him along his own spiritual way.
‘I realize now how much I’ve missed our regular meetings at Grantchester,’ he said after we had discussed his problems. ‘And what a relief it is to find you still as rational and serene as ever despite all the turmoil you must have gone through! In fact one of the things I most admire about you, Father, is that you never seem to have any serious difficulties – or if you do you apparently always have the strength and wisdom to overcome them without effort.’
‘My dear Charles!’ I shall never cease to be amazed by how imperfectly we are known even by those closest to us. ‘You’re very nattering, but I hardly think Father Ingram would recognize me from that description!’