Glamorous Powers (41 page)

‘That’s the new Abbot-General, isn’t it? I hear he’s a Cambridge man – did he read theology?’

‘No, French novels and Oscar Wilde,’ I said, making him laugh, and began to talk about Francis’ rise to monastic power from such remarkably inauspicious beginnings.

To my delight the dinner-party that evening proved a most happy occasion apart from one incident which revealed a tension which no doubt the Ashworths would have preferred to conceal. Halfway through the last course the elder boy pitter-pattered into the room in search of entertainment and both his parents gave exclamations of dismay.

‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ demanded Lyle, but the little boy,
ignoring her, ran straight to Charles and scrambled up on to his knees.

‘He says he feels sick.’

‘He’s always saying that. It’s his new ploy to get attention. Come along, Charley – back to bed –’

‘No!’ cried the child, and hid his face in Charles’ jacket.

Lyle, whose normal manner was one of cool confidence, suddenly became ruffled. ‘Stop being so naughty this instant! There’s Michael upstairs, fast asleep, good as gold –’

As the child screamed with rage Charles exclaimed: ‘Stop throwing Michael’s name in his face! Can’t you see he hates it?’

‘Well, I hate him misbehaving! He plays up to you, Charles – he knows perfectly well you’re as soft as butter with him –’

‘Who’s as soft as butter with Michael?’

I stood up to terminate this disturbingly abrasive exchange, and moving over to the child I began to stroke his hair.

He looked at me in surprise. Unlike Michael, who was the kind of infant guaranteed to excite much admiration, Charley was a plain child who was probably unused to special attention from strangers. His sullen mouth hinted at a temperamental nature but his eyes, bright now with unshed tears, reflected his intelligence and I could sense his little thoughts flashing anxiously hither and thither as he tried to understand what I wanted. Very gently I enfolded his mind with my own, and a second later he was stretching out his arms towards me.

‘Well!’ said Lyle, sufficiently astonished to forget her tension. ‘I’ve never seen him respond to a stranger like that before!’

I picked the child up and he relaxed against my chest with a sigh. Stroking his hair again I was acutely aware of Anne’s enrapt admiration and I was also acutely aware that I enjoyed it.

‘You’re going to sleep now, Charley,’ I said. ‘You’re tired, very tired, so tired that your eyelids feel heavy.’

His eyelids promptly drooped over his pale brown eyes. His thumb rose to his mouth. He was at peace.

‘Well!’ said Lyle again, matching Anne’s admiration. That’s the kind of magic I wish I could bottle and take home!’

She came with me upstairs to put him to bed, and when we had tiptoed from the room she said: ‘Thanks – that was amazing.’ For a moment I thought she had no intention of saying anything else but then she blurted out: ‘I’m sorry I got so irritated but I feel under frightful strain at the moment.’

I assured her in my most neutral voice that there was no need for her to apologize, but with a sinking heart I realized she was unable to resist the urge to confide.

‘I’m just no good without Charles,’ she said. ‘I get so depressed, so afraid – and don’t tell me I’m just one woman among thousands with husbands in the Army and that we all have to make sacrifices in war-time; that sort of platitude does no good at all.’

‘Then what exactly do you want me to tell you, Lyle?’

She stopped at the top of the stairs. Tell me it’s not all some ghastly punishment.’

‘It’s not all some ghastly punishment. War-time life is simply a difficult challenge which you must surmount as best you can. Don’t you have any friends in Cambridge?’

‘They’re all
his
friends, and anyway all the nice men are away and all the women are absolute cats –’

‘Then if you have no friends to offer support, you must turn to your family. I know you have no family of your own, but Charles has parents to whom he’s devoted – why don’t you take a house near them in Epsom?’

‘Charles doesn’t know this, but his mother and I can’t stand each other.’

‘Why doesn’t Charles know? Why haven’t you discussed such an unfortunate problem with him?’

‘I’m afraid of him being upset. I’m afraid he’ll stop loving me. If Charles stopped loving me I think I’d kill myself – I’d feel so worthless, so contemptible, so –’

There’s no need to resort to talk of suicide – I can hear what you’re trying to say. You need someone who’ll blot out those
feelings of worthlessness by making you feel cherished and special.’

‘But there’s no one.’ The tears started to fall. ‘No one, I swear it. No one except Charles.’

I regarded her in silence as she found a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes daintily. Then I said: ‘The real solution is to exorcize that guilt which is giving you these unbearable feelings of worthlessness. You should go to seek help from Dame Veronica again.’

‘I can’t. She dislikes me.’ More tears fell.
‘You’re
the only one who can help because you’re magic and you always know all the answers.’

I sighed, partly because she was exasperating me, partly because I felt sorry for Charles being burdened with such a troubled wife and partly because I did feel a genuine compassion for her in her misery. Abruptly I said: ‘You need a sympathetic older man who’ll offer you a platonic paternal friendship. Try Dr Romaine. He’d do anything for Charles.’ And without giving her time to reply I strode away downstairs to the dining-room.

At the end of the meal when the ladies had retired Charles said to me: ‘I’m sorry Lyle and I clashed over Charley like that, but as I warned you earlier at the chapel she’s under great strain. What a pity it is that she and my mother don’t get on! I’d feel much happier if Lyle could take a house in Epsom.’

‘I quite see it’s the most difficult problem.’

‘To tell you the truth – and I didn’t mention this earlier because I don’t see how it can ever come to pass – I think the perfect solution would be for her to take a house near Starvale St James. She likes Alan, and –’

‘– and Dr Romaine would be so pleased to look after her for you! What a splendid idea!’

‘Yes, but you can imagine the difficulties – my parents would be angry – they’d feel slighted – there’d be jealousy, sulks, barbed remarks –’

I could endure his torment no longer, and taking a deep
breath I prepared to plunge through his confusion to rescue him. ‘Charles,’ I said firmly, ‘your first duty is to your wife. Your parents must come second, and if they start to make a fuss you must be tough with them. I know how hard it is for you to be tough with your parents, but you should take the line that while you’re fighting for your country you need their unqualified support. That’s the kind of language your father at least will understand.’

Charles actually sagged in his chair with relief. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re right. Yes, that’s the line to take.’ He began to look cheered. ‘I’ll write to Alan tomorrow.’

‘Before you do that, follow the advice I gave you earlier at the chapel and have an honest conversation with Lyle about your mother. I can’t stress to you how important it is that a husband and wife should feel able to confide in each other on even the most difficult subjects.’

Immediately Father Darcy’s voice exclaimed in my imagination: ‘“Physician, heal thyself!”’ but I pretended not to hear. Once again Charles had miraculously diverted me from my own problems, and besides …

I hardly wanted to think of Father Darcy on the night before my wedding.

After the Ashworths had retired to bed Anne came outside to see me off. ‘I like Charles,’ she said. ‘I feel he’s got great integrity underneath that glossy exterior, but I’m not so sure about Lyle. I think she could be a bit of a siren.’

This astute remark prompted me to wonder how my body had ever judged Lyle worthy of an automatic sexual response. How disturbed I must have been! As I now compared Lyle’s small slim figure with Anne’s generous, even queenly curves, I felt as if I were comparing a common garden sparrow with a golden eagle.

‘… and what a way you have with children!’ Anne was exclaiming. ‘You were amazing with that little boy!’

I opened my mouth to reply: ‘It was a parlour-trick. I did it to impress you,’ but the words which emerged were: ‘When I stroked him he reminded me of a cat.’

‘Funny little boy, what a pity he’s so plain – but oh Jon, that baby! Isn’t he adorable? I looked at him and thought … wondered …’ She hesitated, but by the time I said: ‘Yes,’ she was already adding in a rush: ‘It’s strange because I’ve never been particularly maternal. Perhaps I felt I didn’t dare be maternal so long as I was unmarried – but now … Oh Jon, I do so hope –’

‘Of course you do,’ I said, and a second later my tongue was dutifully wrapping itself around the words she wanted to hear. ‘So do I.’

A prolonged embrace took place during which my mind was entirely occupied with picturing the consummation of our marriage. When I next spoke I only said: ‘You’re not worried about tomorrow night, are you?’ and she answered with a touching simplicity: ‘No, because you’ll make everything come right.’

For a brief moment I thought of Whitby, purring in absolute trust as he waited to be healed. Then the curtain came down over my memory, and giving Anne one last kiss I walked away down the drive to the village.

I had resolved to hold a service of Holy Communion the next morning, but I had asked Charles if he would be the celebrant in order that Anne and I might kneel together at the altar-rail. The three of us met at the chapel at eight. Lyle, to my relief, had chosen not to attend, although whether this was because she had no desire to communicate or because she was sensitive enough to realize that I wanted to be on my own with Anne before a priest at such a special time, I could not determine.

Charles performed his part with an unpretentious dignity which impressed me; I had never before seen him going about his work. Outside the sun was shining, and within the walls of the chapel I could sense in the extreme stillness the underlying unity of all things.

We were married at noon. In her desire that the occasion should be as unlike her ruined wedding-day as possible Anne had wanted the minimum of witnesses, so the majority of her acquaintances had been excluded. However her aunt Miss Fielding came and so did the neighbouring Maitlands who had known Anne all her life. Mr Musgrave the solicitor and Mr Dawson, who helped Anne run the estate, completed the bride’s guest-list. I had not heard from Martin and did not expect him to appear, so in the absence of my family I issued a handful of invitations to members of the local church. I invited Mrs Wetherall, the wife of the absent vicar; I also invited the Bishop and his wife, although they were unable to attend, and finally I invited the Aysgarths. I felt Aysgarth could hardly trample on a second proffered olive-branch, and when he accepted my invitation with civility I hoped that my peacemaking efforts would bear fruit in future.

There were also a number of other onlookers at the wedding; in accordance with Anne’s wishes the indoor servants and the two gardeners trooped into the back pews with their spouses and offspring.

I wore my clerical suit. Anne, shying away from any costume which resembled a wedding-gown, wore a bright blue frock. Colonel Maitland gave the bride away and Charles conducted the service as admirably as he had celebrated mass. Although Anne had rejected most of the music traditionally associated with weddings, Mrs Maitland played the piano (transferred from the house to replace the defunct organ) as we all sang the Twenty-Third Psalm, and at that point the simplicity of the ceremony moved me. I was reminded of the services I had conducted in the Navy during the War when the well-worn phrases of the Prayer-Book, recited in an unorthodox environment, had acquired a fresh meaning.

Finally the moment came, and glancing up at the north window I thought of the light I had seen in my vision. Then I put the ring on Anne’s finger and became, after twenty-eight turbulent years as a widower, once more a married man.

‘Next, faith-healing is very much entangled with sacerdotal magic; and as no suggestion is more potent than that which is reinforced by religion, some of the most striking cures which have been reported are connected with alleged miraculous powers.’

W. R. INGE
Dean of St Paul’s 1911–1934
Lay Thoughts of a Dean

We gave our guests as lavish a luncheon as war-time austerities permitted, and departed from the Manor at three o’clock when the chauffeur drove us to Starbridge. I was determined not to travel far on the first night. I entirely disapprove of couples who begin their marriage drained by weeks of increasing tension, debilitated by gluttony at the reception and demolished by a long journey in the opening hours of the honeymoon.