In the Time of Greenbloom (46 page)

“But they distinctly said that this pick-pocket fellow had joined you when you were all lying together on the beach?”

“No they didn't—or at least if they did they didn't mean we were lying there
together
.” He waved at the people on the promenade and spoke slowly and emphatically as though he were explaining something to an imbecile. “These people, all of them who are walking on the promenade with us, are not
with
us, not really. An idiot, or someone who was deliberately trying to distort the truth might suggest that they
were
with us; but surely you can see what I mean?” His venom had the desired effect; Peter flushed. He braced himself so that he walked more uprightly and self-confidently.

“That's what they
said
, Bowden! I must say I was surprised. Mr Victor usually gets to know of these things and quite apart from that, in view of his great interest in you, I didn't think that you were as ungrateful as—the others.”

“As
what
others?”

“Stuart and Jones.” He committed himself reluctantly and John seized his advantage.

“I don't know anything about Stuart and Jones; and if I did I'd keep it to myself,
really
to myself. They're not afraid of anyone, they know perfectly well what the Old Man's attitude is and they also know that there are plenty of people to carry tales and think the worst.”

“That's a little beside the point. A thing like this could be very damaging to Rooker's Close, and lying about it isn't going to make it less so. I think you'll have to make a clean breast of it when you get back and conceal
nothing
. It's the least you can do if you are determined to prevent my telling the Police.”

“Oh the Police! I'm sick of the Police.”

“In any case,” went on Peter smoothly, “I think you'll find Father Delaura will agree with me. You'll naturally have to mention it to him during your confession, won't you? After all, you did lie about the amount of money you had and I'm sure that if you asked him, Father would agree that Mr Victor ought to be told.”

“Hell! Who on earth do you think you are Probitt? My confession's got nothing to do with you whatsoever; I'm not even sure that I shall make it.”

“That's your own affair, Bowden. I was only pointing out that there's no need to make things unnecessarily difficult for
me
. I have to do what is right, and surely once you've made your confession you can't object to my telling Mr Victor about this afternoon?”

“Oh no, not at all. Go ahead! I wouldn't spoil your party for the world. Tell him everything, enjoy yourself and be sure to mention the girls. If you like you can say you
saw
me sunbathing with them or even patting their bottoms; I don't mind. If that's all that's worrying you you have my full permission to trot straight back, knock on the Old Man's door and tell him the whole juicy story.” He paused and turned as they reached the lych gate of the Church. “But I think, since we're now in the Holy precincts, that I ought to tell you one thing.”

Peter, cleaner and straighter than ever, tried to pass him but John moved in front of him.

“No, listen! I'm being Christian, let me finish. I think I ought to tell you that whatever you tell him he won't punish me. Do you understand? He won't be in the least angry, not in the very least. He may love
you
more afterwards, I don't say he won't; but he won't punish me.”

His face as he said this was bright with glee; in a few minutes he was going to be absolved from everything, old and new. He would confess even this, the 'malice and un-charitableness' which he was so enjoying. Afterwards, he would be different, would even love Peter, but now it was quite in order to hurt him for his infuriating and blind interference. He danced ahead of him over the gravel into the cold stone porch and waited.

Probitt joined him.

“I don't know what's the matter with you today, Bowden; but I do think you ought to try and control yourself at a time like this.”

“But I
do
. I
am
! All the time I'm controlling myself. You've no idea what thoughts I'm throttling, what words I'm strangling, what deeds I'm denying myself. Only God knows.”

Probitt walked over to the door.

“Shut up!” he whispered. “Someone will hear you.”

“I hope they do, I want them to; it's just why I've come.”

Ignoring him, Probitt walked ahead past the table with the pamphlets and money-boxes on it, past the alcove with the ornate font, to the central aisle where he paused and genuflected before the distant altar. John followed him and caught him up half-way down the nave.

“Where are you going?”

“To get Father Delaura; he will be in the Sacristy.”

“You mean the
Vestry
!”

“Father Delaura likes it to be called the Sacristy—I think you'd better wait here, Bowden; I'll be back in a few minutes.”

John kneeled down in the nearest pew and placed his hands hopefully together. What he had said about wanting to be heard was now already, he realised, untrue: he was in no mood to make his confession to anyone, least of all to a clergyman like Father Delaura. The whole idea of approaching him in this alien building so far from home filled him with a sense of drawing-room shame.

It was too late to turn back, too late, even to do anything further about the murderer, if it
had
been the murderer; he was here in the Church and in a few minutes he would have to go creeping over to the prayer-stool in the side-chapel and say something. He could always confess to a few lies of course; he didn't even have to think of the particulars of these because they were as much a part of the business of living as tips for waitresses.

Above the rood-screen, an enormous crucifix impended with the dead Christ hanging upon it: a neat hole in his side, a fallen head, and wounded feet and hands scrupulously devoid of blood. His eyes took in the Figure carelessly,
wandering from the neatly placed feet to the plaited thorns crowning the wooden hair.

They ought to have shown the thieves as well, he thought; one on either side of him. Perhaps they ought also to have shown Barabbas passing before Him on his way to another town.

Barabbas had been a murderer and had been released. God must have known that he would be released because if he had not, Christ, who was himself God, would have been reprieved; the cup
would
have passed from him and a problem posed somewhere between Heaven and Earth that would surely have proved insoluble even to God. But God took care of His own; He never made mistakes, and if this afternoon he had allowed another murderer to go free, then presumably it was only what He Himself had intended from the first.

He could not see that it was anything to do with
him
and he wondered whether or not he ought to mention it at all in his confession. Had he been cowardly? He did not know. Had he been merciful? He had not felt any real compassion for the man, only pity for himself, the secret pity he always felt deep within him when he saw someone else punished. Quite distinctly, however, he remembered that he had felt guilty. Walking along the promenade he had felt his guilt to be so pervasive that it had embraced not only everyone they passed but the whole town and the whole World as well.

He did not feel guilty now; he felt only bewildered and tired. The Figure on the Cross high above his head
looked
significant, looked as though it held the secret answer to all his confusion; but he could not come at it, remained far below it, separated from it by a dimension more considerable even than Time.

He rose hurriedly to his feet as the Vestry door on the right of the Aisle opened to admit Father Delaura and Peter to the Nave. John walked over to them and Peter introduced them.

Father Delaura was shorter than he had appeared from the height of the pulpit and the perspective of the Chancel. He
was very pale and his grey eyes were deeply recessed beneath a lined forehead partially hidden by a black biretta. He reminded John instantly of the Inquisition and he shook the cold hand as reluctantly as he shook the hands of doctors and dentists.

Peter stood there prominently for a moment, fussing round him like a rabbit which had produced a conjurer; and then, making a series of deep genuflections to the altar, he turned and left them and made his way down the long nave.

Father Delaura told John that he would be ready quite shortly and then went across to the Lady Chapel.

For the second time John kneeled down and started to make his preparation. It was now obviously imperative that he should cease his vain speculations and make up his mind what he was going to confess. Father Delaura was patently expecting him to produce a reasonable tally of sins and unless they were forthcoming he might easily suspect him of withholding things; of making what Uncle Felix termed a ‘snide confession'.

From the Lady Chapel he heard the creak of Father Delaura's chair and an impatient unfettered cough. Without thinking he got up and started to walk down the aisle. He had decided that he was not there; that nothing he was experiencing was really happening at all. What moved down the aisle, what genuflected a little unsteadily to the altar and then took its place beside Father Delaura was no more than the animal puppet of his will. Once there he had no further interest in it, would let it say or do what it would, while he himself remained aloft and remote, as remote as the wooden Effigy on the Cross high above the rood-screen.

From his new distance which was yet a proximity to the event closer than any he could otherwise have achieved, he noted that the priest's chin was sunken on his surplice, that he smelled faintly of tobacco and that the lines on his forehead were grey-green.

Father Delaura pronounced some preliminary prayers, the muttering came to an end and then John heard his own voice
beginning to stumble out the syllables of a quite unreal guilt. “I have lied, I have sworn, I have been lazy, I have been impure. I have—”

“Go on.”

“I have thought improper thoughts, I have been dishonest.”

“When?”

“When I was at School.”

“Recently?”

“No Father.”

“Did you steal money?”

“Yes, I think so once.”

“Have you returned it?”

“No Father—not yet.”

“How much did you steal?”

“I can't remember, it was so long ago.” He thought of Greenbloom and Rachel and, as the silence lengthened under the vaulted roof, waited to hear what he would say next.

“Go on.”

“There are so many things: laziness—I hardly ever say my prayers—I find that I hate people, that I'm always hoping that something will happen to them. I don't seem to be able to look at girls without—”

“Without what, my son?”

“Without thinking about them in the wrong way.”

“Habitually?”

“Not always Father, not as much lately.”

“How long is it since you made your last confession?”

“I can't remember Father.”

“You must remember my son, you must try to remember. When you come to your confession you must be sensible of occasions. It is not enough to be general.”

“Yes Father.”

“We must not dwell on our guilt; but in order that our contrition may be real, we must not shrink from recalling the occasions of our sins in the preparation which precedes our confession of them.”

“Yes Father.”

“Very well then, my son, go on.”

Again there was the pause. Far beneath him, where he hung over the spectacle of his guilt, the pews creaked and outside the Church someone walked whistling under the pruned trees. The figure kneeling beside the priest eased itself fractionally on the prayer-stool and the lips began to move rapidly, the words winnowing out, the voice no longer the one he had come to know, but higher and narrower as though the throat were constricted.

“It all began a long time ago Father, because I once knew someone who wasn't like this. You didn't know her, you never saw her when you were young; but
I
did and I loved her before she was killed—”

“Wait!” The priest got up suddenly, a book falling from his lap on to the tiled floor.

“Forgive me Father, it's all true. She
was
killed; she was murdered years and years ago, and today I saw him again, the man who murdered her in Yorkshire when we lived there together and that's why I have done everything that I ever have done.”

Father Delaura sat down again; he was breathing faster and his eyes were half-closed.

“I realise that if she hadn't died there would have been some other reason—there always is; but this is
my
reason and I want you to hear it. That's why I came today although I didn't want to. If you can understand Father, I want to be forgiven for something I never did as well as for all the things I did do—terrible things, little things all the time, not necessarily done but always wanting to be done and although I may not do them they seem to be making me different just because they're there. That's why you'll have to get me forgiven Father, why He'll have to forgive me, so that I can be different like I was before it all happened.”

The white face looked up towards the foot of the high Crucifix and beside it the hand of the priest turned over the pages of the book on his lap.

“I think you had better say no more at present. I am not
sure that you are well, and though of course that makes no difference to the glorious forgiveness which reposes in the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ, it has a bearing upon the advice I shall give you. In cases of this sort the words of Absolution may be granted even in the face of an incompleted confession. I will now pronounce those words and you must have no fear of not being forgiven
fully
for everything you may or may not have done, whether you can recall it or not.”