At the bottom of the guest-list lurked Primrose and that drip Tait, but Marina and I had long since hatched a foolproof scheme for their speedy disposal.
I sighed, excitement pushing aside the inertia that so often follows an afternoon snooze, and at that moment realised that
Honest to God
was still lying in my lap. On an impulse I opened the book at random and read: ‘The words of St Augustine, "Love God and do what you like", were never safe. But they constitute the heart of Christian prayer — as they do of Christian conduct.’
So Bishop Robinson was dusting off those highly ambiguous words of St Augustine! No wonder Bishop Ashworth was having apoplexy at the South Canonry. Love God and do what you like. That seemed to imply ... although of course St Augustine hadn’t meant ... or had he? No, of course not. But what a potentially stupendous slogan for the sizzling 1960s!
Racing back to the Cathedral for evensong I prepared to love God and dote on the Dean.
V
By this time I had discovered that if one is violently in love the desire to talk constantly about the object of one’s passion is very strong. I considered I was successfully maintaining a languid façade, but although I suppressed the urge to betray myself by addled chatter, Marina soon noticed my regular attendance at the Cathedral and finally I could no longer write off this behaviour as a metaphysical safety measure. In the belief that a half-truth is often more convincing than an outright lie I responded to her growing suspicion that I was a religious fanatic by confessing: ‘Well, the truth is I’m so fond of the Dean that I simply can’t bear to disappoint him by not showing up regularly for services — he’s been so kind to me ever since I was nine years old.’
Marina was quite satisfied by this sentimental explanation but afterwards, with superhuman self-restraint, I confined myself to attending evensong no more than three times a week and entering the Cathedral on Sunday only for matins. By loitering near the vestry after the service I often managed to bump into Aysgarth, but such golden moments were not guaranteed and indeed it would have looked odd if I had been perpetually encountering him. Soon I began to feel somewhat starved of his presence, but starvation, as anyone on a strict diet knows, can initially induce a powerful sense of well-being.
I was certainly overflowing with well-being when I returned to the Chantry after my quick trip to London and showed an admiring Marina my new dress. I was just rummaging in my bag for the receipt — of course Marina had refused to believe the dress had only cost ten pounds — when
Honest to God
fell out. At once Marina spotted the naked man on the cover and shrieked: ‘Super — pornography!’
‘Down, Fido, down! It’s a best seller, available over the counter!’
‘But what’s it about?’
‘God. He’s the new "in" thing. Everyone’s mad about Him.’
‘Help! Maybe I should read a page or two. I’m actually quite keen on God, deep down, but the Church is so dreadfully square, isn’t it?’
‘No more!’ I cried, brandishing
Honest to God
in triumph. ‘Bishop Robinson’s making it trendy! He says that the heart of Christian conduct is loving God and then doing what you like!’
‘No! You mean —’
‘Of course. So long as you love God, everything’s okay,’ I said, wondering idly if St Augustine was turning far away in his unknown grave, and having poured myself into my new dress I began to practise various sultry poses in front of the looking-glass.
VI
I remember the Orgy, that innocent affair; if it had been a real orgy we would have called it a party — or possibly, later in the ‘sixties, a happening. How long ago it all seems now as I look back from the 1980s! It’s hard to remember the exact quality of that lost era, but in 1963 if one was under thirty one lived in a world of untarnished dreams and ideals, unpolluted gaiety and adventure. Except for nicotine and alcohol drugs were seldom encountered — and who needed pot when one could get high on vintage Veuve Clicquot? Drugs were for riff-raff in those days, and we were the opposite of riff-raff; we were the
jeunesse
dorée,
gathered by Marina Markhampton to celebrate life with style in ravishing surroundings, not to ‘turn on and drop out’ in some sordid urban squat. Looking back at that magical evening I can see us all with such painful clarity, sophisticated yet innocent, fast but not corrupt — and above all so mercifully blind to that terrible time ahead when the enchanting
communitas,
the group spirit, of the early ‘sixties fell apart and terminated in chaos.
To the future!’ cried Christian Aysgarth, raising his first glass of champagne, and at once my heart missed a beat because he was so attractive, his shining career seemingly stretching ahead of him into the distance, and when he spoke, his wife Katie gazed up at him as soulfully as if they were newly-weds while Marina, completing the triangle which I was later to find so mysterious, flung her arms around his neck and exclaimed what heaven it was to see him again. At that point Perry Palmer, Christian’s old school friend, said dryly: ‘You really should be a Moslem, Christian, in order to accommodate all these doting women in a respectable style!’ whereupon Marina retorted: ‘Don’t be a bitch, Perry!’ and Christian drawled: ‘I’d like to see my bank manager’s face if I were to tell him I intended to keep four wives!’ Then Katie commented with unflawed serenity: ‘Think of the fun I could have gossiping with the other three whenever you were away!’ and when they began to debate harems I lost the thread of the conversation until suddenly Christian caught my eye across the room as I held court with Norman Aysgarth and Robert Welbeck; I heard him declare: ‘If I have a harem I’m going to have Vinnie in it!’ and when he winked at me I was reminded of his father.
I turned over the LP of Floyd Cramer, who had played the piano on so many of the Presley records, and as the party gathered speed time became displaced, just as it so often does when vintage champagne flows freely, and the exact sequence of events is now muddled in my memory, but I can recall wandering past the sofa some time later — had the buffet disappeared? No, there was still plenty left — and I can remember changing the record again — we were on Cliff Richard by that time, but no, it couldn’t have been Cliff because Marina didn’t like him, so perhaps it was Adam Faith — or could it conceivably have been Eden Kane? — anyway, the record-player was drooling in the corner, but not too noisily, we didn’t want to drown the conversation — and as I said, I was wandering past the sofa where Michael Ashworth was trying to grope two girls at once — I can’t think who they were now, but I’m sure one was the American girl Dinkie Kauffman, who had a cleavage reminiscent of the Grand Canyon, while the other girl might have been Emma-Louise -- and as I said, I was wandering past the sofa when I bumped into Katie’s brother Simon, the handsome slab, who said: ‘Whoa there!’ as if I was a horse — he always talked to women as if they were horses – and I had only just managed to stagger out of his way when I came face to face with Christian’s friend Perry Palmer, who looked so ordinary, medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, medium plain face, but was supposed to be something rather extraordinary in the Foreign Office – although nobody knew for sure – and Perry lived in London
at Albany
,
which was very grand and I couldn’t help wondering how he’d wangled a flat there – a set, I mean, they call them sets in Albany – but perhaps the Foreign Office had some special pull.
Anyway, Perry said to me: ‘You seem to be the only intelligent girl here – you’re the only one who’s not swooning over Christian,’ and I said to him as I refilled our glasses: ‘Don’t worry, darling – I’m not in love with him!’ – which was a most peculiar thing to say, but fortunately Perry laughed and answered: ‘Didn’t I say you were intelligent?’ and it occurred to me that he was really rather entertaining and perhaps not a homosexual after all – although after the Burgess and Maclean scandal one could never be quite sure about anyone in that line – and certainly no one knew for certain that Perry was a homosexual, just as no one knew for certain he was a spy – in fact Marina said he was a eunuch, although when I asked her if she’d inspected his genitals she had to confess she hadn’t – which just goes to show that no one ever tells the truth about sex, not really, it’s all wishful thinking and fantasy tricked out with little flashes of romantic illusion.
‘No one tells the truth about sex,’ I said to Perry in the kind of voice one uses to proclaim a profound truth after a couple of tankards of Veuve Clicquot – and Buddy Holly was playing on the gramophone which was strange because I could have sworn I put on Del Shannon – but Perry had been collared by Don Latham, the pal Michael Ashworth had brought down from the trendy division of dear old Auntie BBC, and I found myself facing Christian’s wild-card, the mysterious Mr X. And now I must go back to the beginning of the party when Floyd Cramer was playing the piano, because I have to record that when Christian walked in with Mr X I couldn’t believe it, I just
couldn’t
believe it,
because Mr X turned out to be Eddie Hoffenberg – Eddie of all people! – and as soon as I could get Christian to myself– no mean feat– I hissed: ‘Chrissie, how dare you bring that Teutonic masochist!’ Christian always hated being called anything but Christian, so he knew how cross I was, but to my fury he just laughed and said: ‘Eddie’s one of the most interesting men I know – and I’m perpetually in his debt because he keeps Father happy by chatting about the Church. That’s more than I can ever be bothered to do.’ And then he was snapped up by Marina before I could reply. I wanted to snap him back, but at that moment – it was still the Floyd Cramer era of the party – Primrose arrived with that drip Tait so Marina and I had to put our anti-Prim programme into action.
I shovelled some champagne down Primrose as quickly as possible while Marina replaced Floyd Cramer with Elvis Presley. Primrose turned pink, and when she was no more than halfway through her first glass – Elvis was panting ‘I Got Stung’ – she said to me: ‘It’s such a nuisance about this prior engagement but I’m afraid we simply have to go, don’t we, Maurice?’ Then Tait, who was goggling at Dinkie’s cleavage, said obediently: ‘Yes, I suppose we do,’ but I thought nonetheless that he looked wistful as he was led firmly away by Miss P. Aysgarth, Girl Guide leader, and as I detected in him an embryonic inclination to lust after an exposed bosom I realised he was not quite the damp squib I had always thought he was.
‘You look sensational, Venetia!’ said Eddie, cornering me as soon as Primrose had departed with Tait in tow, and I was aware of Marina swapping Elvis for Jim Reeves now that our mission had been accomplished.
‘You don’t look so bad yourself, Canon,’ I said kindly, casting a vague glance at his well-cut suit and daringly striped shirt, and then I managed to escape from him by circulating with a plate of hors d’oeuvres. However instead of moping against a wall and wondering why he had come, Eddie circulated too, chatting away brightly to Norman’s wife, man-eating Cynthia, who enjoyed talking to anything in trousers, even if it did look like Eddie, and then he had a long session with Marina’s school friend Holly Carr – Holly was nice, I liked her better than Dinkie or Emma-Louise – and finally as Christian, the beau of the ball, beckoned Eddie to his side I realised dimly that Eddie was being a social success – which seemed so unlikely that I had to have another glass of champagne to recover from the shock.
Then after I had declared to Perry Palmer that no one ever told the truth about sex – and now I’m jumping forward again and Buddy Holly was singing ‘Peggy Sue’ – or was it ‘That’ll Be The Day’? – I found myself confronting Eddie again and he was saying urgently: ‘I
must
talk to you,’ which seemed sinister, so I said to play for time: ‘You’re in a peculiar state, Eddie – what’s the matter?’ and he was just beginning to tell me when Michael Ashworth, who had finished his double grope on the sofa, slid his arm around my waist and purred: ‘Hullo, Gorgeous – how’s life among the coronets?’ That Michael was smooth enough to play host to a brigade of skates.
‘Much the same as life among the mitres, I expect,’ I retorted, but Michael begged:
‘
Please!
Can’t we leave the Church out of this?’ – which made me realise what a problem it must be if one’s father’s known as Anti-Sex Ashworth and one’s brother’s famous as the biggest prig in town.
‘But I’m mad about the Church!’ I protested to Michael: ‘Wildly, passionately mad about it!’ And at that moment, as if on cue, the Church entered the room in the form of a divinity undergraduate – Marina’s personal wild-card, hours late, floated into the party on a magic carpet of psychic vibrations and stared appalled at the riotous scene that confronted him.
‘NICKY!’ screamed Marina, halting in the act of dishing out chocolate mousse from the buffet. ‘You angel – you’ve arrived!’
‘Who’s this?’ I heard Dinkie say intrigued.
I said: ‘It’s my Talisman,’ but for some reason no one, not even Dinkie, took any notice of me. Then I realised this was because I had spoken the words in a whisper. Possibly it might be time to think about black coffee, but first of all I had to have a little more champagne to neutralise the shock brought on by the appearance of my very own Halley’s Comet.
‘Have a drink, Nick!’ I cried, waving a bottle in his direction. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Just half a glass. I can’t stay long. Sorry I’m late.’
‘I suppose you were treading your mystical paths so hard that you didn’t notice the time!’ said Marina, radiating indulgent charm.
‘No, to be honest I just forgot about the party altogether.’ He accepted the full glass I offered him and looked hopefully at a dish of sausage-rolls. ‘Can I have one of those, please?’
‘You
forgot?
’
echoed Marina, hardly knowing whether to be amazed or outraged.
‘Isn’t he original?’ I said, trying to galvanise her into displaying a sense of humour. ‘I bet no one’s ever forgotten one of your parties before!’
There was much laughter and Marina sensibly decided to pass off the incredible faux
pas
as a joke. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ she declared to her guests. ‘This is the Coterie’s soothsayer-inresidence – Nicholas Darrow!’
Nick gave her a most unfriendly look and devoured his sausage-roll in an agony of embarrassment.
‘Brother of Martin Darrow the actor!’ trilled Marina. ‘Really?’ exclaimed Holly.
‘Gee whiz!’ drawled Dinkie.
‘Way out!’ breathed Emma-Louise.
‘Idiot!’ I muttered to Marina. ‘For God’s sake put on another record and give the poor child a chance to merge with the crowd.’ I turned back to my Talisman. I felt I wanted to protect him. ‘Come over here, Nick,’ I said briskly, ‘and take no notice of all those asinine females. Do you know any of the Aysgarths? This is Christian – and his wife Katie –’ To my relief Elvis began to warble ‘It’s Now or Never’ and the Orgy picked up speed again as everyone finished boggling at the Infant Phenomenon.
The Aysgarths were kind to him but he was very shy and clearly out of his social depth. I wondered if he was embarrassed because he was casually dressed – I realised then that even the Oxbridge undergraduates had begun to display sartorial informality at parties – but after a while I came to the conclusion that he was oblivious of his blue shirt and jeans. It seemed far more likely that he hated parties and only attended them because someone had told him he ought to be more sociable. I was just wondering how I could alleviate his misery when he was kidnapped by Michael Ashworth, who knew him well, and borne off to amuse Dinkie and Emma-Louise.
I said to Christian: We’ve got to save little Nicky from being mauled to pieces by those voracious floozies and then reassembled by Marina to perform parlour-tricks. Do something brilliant – instantly.’
At once Christian rose to the challenge.