Mystical Paths (42 page)

VIII

The sauce had just the right texture, the pasta was
al dente,
the salad was crisp, the trifle was delectably enhanced by sherry. Abandoning any lingering ascetic inclinations I ate like a horse and drank like a fish – not a large fish, perhaps, but certainly a small one with a thirst. The normal conversation bounded along through all the normal subjects, providing a lavish antidote to my recent travels through abnormal landscapes. We talked about where my home was, where I had been educated, where Rachel’s home was (Cadogan Square) and where she had been educated (St Paul’s Girls School before her arrival at King’s College, London). We then talked about how London had gone downhill since the tourist industry had exploited Carnaby Street, how the Beatles had gone downhill since their early days, how America had gone downhill since the escalation of the war in Vietnam, and how even though Hollywood had gone downhill French films were still worth seeing ... We began to survey the French cultural front, past and present, and having ruminated over Truffaut and Proust we returned to the subject of Berlioz. Within minutes Rachel and I had discovered a mutual interest in Beethoven.

‘Beethoven’s for one’s twenties,’ said Lewis, ‘Mozart’s for one’s thirties and after forty it’s really Bach or nothing.’

‘What happens after fifty?’ said Rachel. ‘Is there anything except the "Dead March" in "Saul"?’

‘Perhaps after fifty one reverts to Beethoven and begins all over again,’ I said. ‘In one’s end is one’s beginning. Life’s a circle. The wheel of fortune. Boethius.’ By this time another bottle of Chianti had been opened.

‘Bo who?’ enquired Princess Normality.

‘Boethius. He was a philosopher who –’

‘Oh, I can’t bear philosophy! What a waste of time to sit on one’s bottom thinking when you could be dancing around having fun! Philosophy’s abnormal.’

‘Eat your hearts out, Plato and Aristotle!’

‘No wonder the Greeks had such a low opinion of women,’ said Lewis.

‘I think philosophy’s futile too,’ I said, ignoring him, ‘because the greatest truths are beyond the power of words to express.’

‘That sounds a bit peculiar,’ said Her Royal Highness. ‘If there are no words, why not just invent a few more?’ ‘Well, all words are symbols, and –’

‘Rubbish! Where’s the symbolism in "the cat sat on the mat"?’

‘My daughter, the logical positivist,’ said Lewis.

‘That sounds very rude, Daddy. Watch it. And you’re sounding increasingly peculiar, Nicholas. I do hope you’re not secretly abnormal.’

‘Come to Starrington Manor with me tomorrow and I’ll show you exactly how normal I can be!’

Lewis slammed down his glass. ‘Is Rosalind interested in philosophy, Nicholas?’

‘Who? Oh, Rosalind –’

‘What did she read at university?’

‘Rosalind didn’t go to university,’ I said, suddenly
_.
realising I was being blitzed. ‘She went to Winkfield to learn cordon-bleu cookery and flower-arranging.’

‘Who’s Rosalind?’ demanded Rachel.

‘My ex-fiancée,’ I said, outmanoeuvring Lewis. ‘I’m just about to break off my engagement.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Rachel, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m sure it’s the right decision. I can’t quite see you wedded to a flower-arrangement.’

‘I’ll show you to your room, Nicholas,’ said Lewis, rising to his feet. ‘No doubt you’d like to unpack and have an early night.’

I realised this, was an order but I was unable to resist saying to Rachel: ‘Can I help with the washing up?’

‘How extremely kind of you,’ said Lewis, ‘but since you’re our guest I insist that you now relax.’

Rachel pulled a face behind his back.

With regret I allowed myself to be dragooned from the room.

IX

‘Now just you listen to me,’ said Lewis, having led me to a sparsely furnished bedroom on the first floor. ‘This won’t do. You’ve got to focus entirely on your current crisis in order to survive it, and if you now take time out to frolic around you could be endangering your entire recovery.’

‘Lewis, with all due respect, don’t you think you’re slightly – just very slightly – overreacting?’

‘No.’

‘But Lewis –’

‘No, don’t whine "but Lewis" at me! This ego-building flirtation is nothing but a dangerous exercise in escapism, and you’ll solve nothing, I assure you, by tap-dancing into a dream-world where you play Fred Astaire to Rachel’s Ginger Rogers!’

‘You’re talking exactly like a celibate priest who’s hung up on sex!’

‘Well, at least I’m not talking like a perpetual virgin who has no idea what sex is all about! Look, let me try and put this in the simplest possible language – like the language in those easy-reader books designed for primary school children. You’re in danger, Nicholas. You have a big bad dangerous enemy who’s trying to destroy you. But luckily you also have a friend who wants to save you. The friend’s taken you into his house, bolted all the doors against your enemy and said to you: "So long as you do as I say, you’ll be safe." Meanwhile your enemy’s outside, roaming around the house in the dark and gnashing his teeth because he can’t get at you. Now, what do you do? Do you follow your friend’s advice and stay safe? Or do you fling wide the front door and cry to your enemy: "Oh, do come in!"‘

‘You’re surely not suggesting that the Devil’s trying to get at me through Rachel!’

‘Okay, let’s scrap the easy-reader approach and try again. While you’re under acute stress, Nicholas, you’ve got to avoid all behaviour which could exacerbate your mental and emotional fragility and lead you into the kind of mess I’m sure you’d prefer not to imagine. If you were a heavy drinker I’d tell you to stay off the booze in order to avoid disaster, and you’d know exactly what I was talking about. But your problem isn’t booze, is it? So I have to say to you instead: steer clear of the girls. At this particular stage of your crisis it’s a question not just of morality but of self-preservation.’

‘I see your line of argument,’ I said tactfully, trying to calm him down. Unfortunately I was then unable to resist adding: ‘But are you sure you’re not getting steamed up just because you’re Rachel’s father?’

‘Well, of course I’m getting steamed up because I’m Rachel’s father! I’m steamed up because I’m her father and I’m steamed up because you’re in my care, and how I haven’t exploded like an abused pressure-cooker long since I’ve no idea. What do you think I am, some sort of spiritual robot? Now pin back your ears, unscramble your brains and get this: put Rachel aside for the time being because if you persist in chasing her now I could no longer counsel you. I’d be far too emotionally involved.’

My little rebellion collapsed and died. Subsiding on the bare mattress I said: ‘Okay, you can stop beating me up. I get the message, but I really liked her, Lewis! My behaviour wasn’t just mindless escapism!’

‘No, it was just a mindless sexual reflex. But what could be more natural for a young man who thinks being hung up on sex constitutes certifiable behaviour?’

‘Look, I’m sorry I said –’

‘Forget it. Celibate priests get used to cheap gibes.’

‘Of course I know you’re not really hung up on sex –’

‘What if I am? And why shouldn’t God use the hang-up to make me the kind of priest He wants me to be? It’s one of the big fallacies of the ministry of healing,’ said Lewis as I boggled at him, ‘that everyone should aspire to be perfectly "whole".

Quite apart from the fact that perfection isn’t obtainable in this world, God can work through one’s afflictions to transform them into a powerful source for the good – provided that one works with Him to use them in the best possible way.’ He turned aside. ‘I’ll get you a sleeping-bag.’

I went on sitting motionless on the edge of the bed, but by the time he returned I was able to say: ‘I’ve been very rude and very ignorant. I’m sorry.’ And without giving him time to reply I added: ‘I’m worried in case I sleep-walk.’

‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure that won’t happen, but by all means let’s allow for the additional one per cent. Before I go to bed I’ll rig up a device which will make a crash on my landing if you open your door. If you want to pee during the night, use the pot under the bed.’ He dumped the sleeping-bag on the mattress and a pillow-case on the pillow.

I felt reassured. Tentatively I said: ‘And tomorrow?’

‘You’ll want to start the day in church, of course. Desmond and I say matins at seven-thirty and celebrate mass at eight before we breakfast together to discuss parish matters. After breakfast I’ll leave you with Desmond while I keep my morning appointments, and after lunch I’ll spend some time with Rachel. Be ready to leave for London with me at three-thirty.’

‘Should I phone Perry to warn him we’re coming?’

‘Good heavens, no! Never give a clam time to dose up!’ ‘But supposing he’s out?’

‘Let’s take the risk. And talking of phone calls, I expect you want to ring home before you go to bed. There’s an extension downstairs in the hall.’

I stood up with reluctance. ‘I’m almost afraid to phone in case he’s worse.’

‘What exactly are these physical troubles of his?’

‘Oh, all the usual psychosomatic ailments – and the latest fiasco is eczema on his hands. Why he won’t see a doctor and get the right cortisone ointment I just don’t know but sometimes I think he wants to be ill.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he knows at heart I’m a poor replica and so he feelsthere’s no point in staying alive any longer. He only survived my mother’s death because he thought he was going to see the replica living his life all over again for him.’

There was a lengthy pause. Lewis remained motionless, staring at the boarded floor, but at last he looked at me and said: ‘If I were him I’d want to live. I’d be too worried about what might happen to you if I died.’

‘But if he’s reached the end of his tether –’

‘One doesn’t reach one’s late eighties unless one has a very long tether. Ring home and find out how he is. You may be pleasantly surprised.’

We went downstairs together and I phoned the Manor. Agnes said my father was a little better. He had been very pleased with my letter and hoped to hear from me again soon. ‘... and if you’re now in Starbridge, Nicholas, I really don’t see why you can’t come home and –’

‘I’ll ring again tomorrow.’ Replacing the receiver I said to Lewis: ‘You were right. He’s better. Do you suppose –’ ‘Keep praying,’ said Lewis. ‘Keep stroking his psyche. Remember Whitby’s fur.’

I nodded but was unable to comment.

We returned upstairs.

X

After I had prayed for my father I lay awake for some time planning how I could trade in Rosalind while causing the smallest possible distress to all concerned. The problem was acute because I was very fond of her. I found her restful. Since I had known her from birth she had the familiarity of a nursery teddy-bear which was retained after childhood for sentimental reasons; the reasons might be sentimental but the affection they reflected was genuine enough. Rosalind was the only person apart from my father with whom I could be silent without feeling embarrassed. The truth is one doesn’t need to talk to one’s favourite bear; one just holds its paw and feels comforted by the way it so effortlessly symbolises loyalty and devotion. Teddy-bears also have the great virtue of being predictable. Their joints can only move in certain directions; their glass eyes have an unchanging glare. Being so conscious of unpredictable forces, I loved the predictable, the reliable, the secure.

But that was all very dull, I could see that now, just as I could see that I had only proposed to Rosalind because I had felt unable to maintain my sexual double-life a moment longer — and because Rosalind had been there, just as she always was, and the desire to play safe had been so overpowering. But now I realised I needed someone more stimulating. I still wanted someone normal — God preserve me from marrying a psychic and acquiring yet another set of peculiar problems! — but I wanted someone who made normality hum with excitement, I wanted to put my teddy-bear away in the toy-cupboard, I wanted to move out of the cosy nursery at last into a bright brash adult world.

I pictured myself saying to Rosalind: ‘We can still be friends, can’t we?’ and I could picture Rosalind replying good-naturedly: ‘Silly old Nicky, of course we can!’ And I heard myself say: We can still listen to Beethoven, can’t we, and go for walks in the woods and toast crumpets for tea in winter and laugh at
The Avengers
on TV and be silent together while you arrange your flowers in those beautiful patterns? Because I wouldn’t really be trading you in, would I, if I married someone else — you’re woven into my life so seamlessly that I couldn’t begin to cut you out.’ And in my imagination I heard Rosalind answer: ‘Darling Nicky, don’t worry — whatever you do I’ll love you and stand by you for ever ...’

I toyed with this fantasy for some time but finally, realising it was a fantasy, I blotted out the thought of Rosalind in order to focus on Rachel. I began to visualise the smart London parish she would require. So long as I had Rachel I was sure I could adapt to any environment, and how relieved my father would be if I wound up working in the mainstream! In fact I could see plainly now, that my father had been right and that I had to avoid the ministry of healing. I didn’t want my wifethinking I was an incomprehensible failure who had wasted his opportunities for a conventional ecclesiastical career.

I slept, and dreamed I was killing Christian because he had tried to take Rachel away from me.

But despite this frenzied mental activity I neither got out of bed nor untied the string that tethered my ankle. It was as if the thought of Rachel had acted as a charm to keep all abnormality at bay.

XI

The following morning I attended matins and mass at St Paul’s. Any Roman Catholic would have felt quite at home there. So would any pre-war Anglican ritualist who got his kicks out of flouting the rubric. At first I felt gloomy, more convinced than ever that Anglo-Catholicism needed to be yanked out of this esoteric rut (could anything have been more old-fashioned in the 1960s than the florid touches which had given the Protestants such apoplexy in an era which was as dead as a doornail?) but after five minutes I began to feel comforted by the familiar patterns. Here was another of my old nursery teddy-bears symbolising security and predictability in a world of chaos. The liturgy suddenly seemed as soothing to me as a mantra.

Only a handful of creased old women joined us as we said matins, but a surprising number of people turned up for mass. On a weekday this was unusual. It forced me to acknowledge that the old-fashioned ritualism might not be as irrelevant as I’d supposed, and it made me look more closely at the two priests in charge. Father Wilton, bald, rosy-cheeked and asexual, had a mild, tranquil air; I found it easy to imagine him being very kind, very humble and very good — an easy victim for the parish harpies, but at least no one could accuse him of not being a devout Christian. Lewis, in contrast, looked like a prize-fighter who had wound up in the wrong ring. It was the first time I had seen him in a cassock, and instantly I remembered my father confessing to me once that he had always felt more comfortable as a priest when he wore a m0nk’s habit, because a black cassock, even when muted by a surplice, tended to stimulate quite the wrong response among the ladies.

Breakfast at the vicarage turned out to be a substantial meal; I might have guessed that Lewis would need to be well-fuelled. The daily housekeeper produced eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread, toast and an enormous pot of tea. Father Wilton had toast with marmalade. I had toast with eggs. Lewis had toast with everything. Conversation centred on parish affairs, although Father Wilton took care to include me in a couple of digressions. When he asked no questions about my presence at the vicarage I realised that Lewis had briefed him earlier.

After breakfast Father Wilton said gently: ‘Would you like to settle down in my study with a good book, Nicholas?’ and I realised he was to be not merely my host but my baby-sitter. We passed most of the morning in his study, he writing letters, answering the phone and occasionally withdrawing to the morning-room to deal with callers, I rereading Anthony Hope’s
The Prisoner of Zenda
in a battered edition which was a relic of Father Wilton’s remote boyhood. Time passed while Rudolf Rassendyll, having escaped into another identity, encountered the ravishing Princess Flavia.

At eleven o’clock my own princess surfaced, flashing long lissom legs beneath a mauve mini-skirt, and flew off in her father’s Volkswagen for another raid on the supermarket. With reluctance I returned to Ruritania.

Lunch consisted of sandwiches with Father Wilton who said kindly: ‘Shall we eat in silence this time? I always feel that after a working breakfast with Lewis I need a quiet lunch.’ Lewis himself, returning home late from his work, looked in on us briefly but retired upstairs to have lunch with Rachel.

After the meal my baby-sitter suggested I might enjoy a little sunshine in the garden, but bearing in mind what had happened on the last occasion when I had tried to enjoy a little sunshine in a garden, I turned down this suggestion and began to read
Rupert of Hentzau,
the sequel to
The Prisoner of Zenda.
It allended in tears, of course. You can’t escape into another identity. Poor old Rudolf. But it was a good try.

Lewis collected me just as I was skimming the final pages. ‘Ready, Nicholas?’

I thanked Father Wilton for his
hospitality and set off on the journey to London.