XI
‘Oh, Mr Dean!’ I cried again, controlling my sobs but not my desolation as he continued to clasp me firmly. ‘Why is life always so bloody unfair, why am I always getting kicked in the teeth, why does every attempt I make to be successful wind up in failure — no, don’t tell me I’m so lucky, so rich, so privileged, don’t talk to me about the starving millions in India, I don’t want to know about the starving millions in India, I need all my strength to survive my own starvation, because what’s the point of being rich and privileged if you’re not loved, and I’ve never been loved, never, no one’s ever really understood but I’ve been so lonely, I’ve felt as if I’ve been locked up in a prison on the edge of life, and I’ve tried and tried to escape — and then tonight I really thought I’d done it, I thought I’d made it to freedom at last, and I was so happy, being accepted by a group of my sort of people, and it was all so wonderful, so perfect — and so beautiful up there on the roof — and I didn’t even mind when everyone paired off and started snogging because I didn’t actually want to smooch with anyone, it was enough that everyone accepted me as one of their set, and I was just thinking it was the happiest night of my entire life — except for that unforgettable night in the Hebrides, of course, when we danced to Elvis Presley — and in fact I was just wishing you could have been there on the roof with me when that
oaf
Eddie Hoffenberg crashed in and staged this ghastly love-scene which ended in his proposing marriage and slobbering all over me — and oh God, it was
foul
and worse still,
farcical,
I felt any audience would have passed out laughing because the scene was so bathetic — and although I didn’t mean to be unkind to him, I was, I was beastly because it was just such a nightmare being slobbered over by someone who’s physically repulsive, and I know you’re thinking I should be grateful to be loved by anyone, even Eddie, but I’m not grateful, I’m not, I just want to scream with despair because no
real
man has ever found me attractive and I’m sure now no
real man
ever will, and I’m sorry, I do realise I shouldn’t mind so much, but I do mind, Mr Dean, I mind terribly because it seems so wrong that I should have so much love and no
real man
to give it to —’
Eddie burst panting through the door in an agony of anxiety and remorse.
XII
‘Venetia, I — good heavens, Stephen!’ He shied away in shock.
‘Hullo, Eddie,’ said Aysgarth, very casual. ‘Having fun?’
‘My God!’ The expletive, forbidden for a clergyman, revealed the depth of Eddie’s horror. ‘Has the Bishop been looking out of his bedroom window at the South Canonry?’
‘No, fortunately for you I was telephoned by a star-gazing master at the Choir School.’
‘Stephen, I’m so sorry, I — I can’t think why I let them all in, but it was just such a wonderful party and —’
‘Quite. Now get them all out before the Bishop steams up here to defrock us both.’
‘Yes, Stephen. Yes, of course. Yes, straight away. Venetia —’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about Venetia,’ said Aysgarth. ‘I’ll take care of her.’
‘Yes,’ said Eddie. ‘Yes. All right. Thanks.’ He stumbled back into the Cathedral and we listened to the sound of his footsteps as they receded into the distance.
At last the silence was absolute. It was too dark for me to see Aysgarth’s face as we both stood in the shadow of the north wall. I could only wait in an agony of shame for him to pass judgement on my disgusting emotional outburst, but just as I was thinking hysterically that I could bear the silence no longer, he said in a tone of voice he had never used to me before: ‘My dearest Venetia,’ and then I knew he had moved through the looking-glass to join me in an utterly different world.
PART TWO
THE SERPENT
‘For nothing can of itself always be labelled as "wrong". One cannot, for instance, start from the position "sex relations before marriage" or "divorce" are wrong or sinful in themselves. They may be in 99 cases or even Too cases out of too, but they arc not intrinsically so, for the only intrinsic evil is lack of love.’
JOHN A. T. ROBINSON
Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich 1959-1969
Honest to
God
ONE
‘But what is love? Sex? Sex is a marvellous part of it. But sex by itself can leave people deeply unsatisfied. Remember Marilyn Monroe?’
JOHN A. T. ROBINSON
Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich 1959-1969
Writing about
Honest to God
in the
Sunday Mirr
or,
7th April 1963
I
‘My dearest Venetia,’ said Aysgarth, setting aside the past, transforming the present and redesigning the future, ‘it does indeed seem very unfair that you should have to endure such unhappiness, but never think there isn’t at least one person who understands exactly how you feel and who cares deeply what happens to you.’
I tried to reply but speech proved impossible. I was now crying soundlessly, the tears streaming down my cheeks. Without thinking I rubbed my eyes with my hand, and then remembered — too late — that I was wearing eye make-up. Without doubt my face was now a mess. My tears welled faster than ever. Then he gripped my hands. As he said: ‘I’ll take you back to the Chantry,’ I was acutely aware that his fingers were very strong and very hot. They clasped mine so hard that I quite literally reeled, stumbling off balance, turning my ankle and snapping the heel of my shoe.
‘Oh God —’
‘It’s all right, I’ve got you.’ He gathered me in his arms. I almost passed out.
‘Sorry — tight as an owl — can’t seem to keep upright —’
‘Never mind, at least one of us is resolutely vertical!’
We laughed. My tears had stopped. The possibility of recovering my equilibrium no longer seemed fantastic.
‘What’s happened to your shoe?’ he was saying.
‘
Accidental death.’ I stepped out of both shoes and he promptly released me in order to pick them up. I was now the same height as he was, and suddenly he seemed much closer.
Carrying my shoes in one hand he clasped my fingers again with the other and we began to walk out of the shadow of the Cathedral. The ground beneath my feet was cool and damp but of course I was walking on air so I barely noticed. With my free hand I tried to wipe the smudged eye make-up from my cheekbones. We said nothing. His fingers seemed hotter and stronger than ever.
We crossed the North Walk, we crossed Choristers’ Green, we crossed the little lane which ran past the Chantry’s front gate. The moonlight seemed blindingly white, and when we turned at last to face each other I could clearly see the downward curve of his sultry mouth. The expression in his eyes was inscrutable.
All he said was: ‘I think Lady Mary Calthrop-Ponsonby requests the pleasure of our company after evensong tomorrow.’
I nodded. He handed me my shoes. I took them and opened the gate.
‘Are you all right now?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Very much so.’
We smiled at each other. Then he began to walk briskly away towards the Deanery.
II
The Orgy rolled on till dawn, but I barely noticed. I repaired my make-up, slipped into another pair of shoes, smoked a cigarette and savoured my euphoria. Eventually the Coterie floated back to the Chantry but to my relief there was no sign of Eddie.
‘Gone home to do penance for permitting an orgy on consecrated ground,’ said Christian, giving me a penetrating look. ‘I must see Father tomorrow and claim full responsibility ... Are you all right, Venetia?’
Before I could reply Marina cornered me. ‘Darling, do tell! Did Eddie try and rape you? What was going on? Why did you rush off the roof like a bat out of hell?’
‘Eddie always drives me mad,’ I said with a yawn. ‘He just drove me madder than usual, that’s all.’ And then driven by the urge to escape I tottered upstairs and passed out. God knows what happened as the Orgy drew to a close, but probably not very much. It was, after all, 1963, not that anarchic year 1968 and certainly not the year afterwards when everyone bucketed around burbling: "Sixty-nine is divine!’ What a bore social life became — which is no doubt why I look back on Marina’s Orgy with such uncharacteristically heavy nostalgia.
The next morning I rose early, my hang-over soon negated by a potent combination of Alka-Seltzer and euphoria, and wondered if I was feeling energetic enough to buy a newspaper, but in the end I merely lay on my bed and thought of Aysgarth. At noon Marina appeared, looking fragile. Dinkie, Emma-Louise and Holly remained stacked in the spare-room for another hour but eventually they too emerged, looking vanquished by Veuve Clicquot. I had to be careful not to appear too hale and hearty when I eventually gave them a lift to the station.
Time crawled on. The housekeeper and the charwoman, both heavily tipped, finished cleaning up the mess. At three o’clock I picked a flower and meditated on the ravishing symmetry of its petals. The sun shone. The birds sang. Drinking some tea I gazed in rapture at the Cathedral.
Sunday evensong was at four o’clock, and never in my life had a church service seemed more meaningful. I listened to every note sung by the choir, every word of the prayers and lessons. Phrase after phrase of the Collects, the Magnificat — even the Nunc Dimittis — seemed impregnated with a new and glorious meaning. As I tried not to look too often at Aysgarth I resolved recklessly to ignore the risk of being dubbed a religious maniac and to attend evensong every day. Let everyone think I was experiencing a religious conversion! Why not? Other people experienced religious conversions. It happened all the time. Indeed perhaps I really was experiencing a religious conversion: I certainly felt God had decided to take some notice of me at last, and if God was now playing an active role in my life, surely I had a moral duty to be as devout as possible in order to express my gratitude?
I had just reached this virtuous conclusion when the service ended. The hour had come. Slipping away along the transept I heaved open the great door into the cloisters and skimmed down the north colonnade towards Lady Mary’s seat on the edge of the lawn.
III
Birds were singing in the cedar tree. The sky had clouded over, though the air was still warm, and the colonnades were empty save for two tourists who were examining memorial tablets. Sitting on Lady Mary I watched them inch their way around the quadrangle. They were on the point of disappearing through the door into the nave when Aysgarth finally emerged from the transept.
He was looking exceptionally smart. His hair had been combed. He was wearing a well-pressed suit and highly polished shoes. His brisk, authoritative walk created an impression of power and confidence. He exuded a subtle air of distinction. As I repressed my desire to rush headlong into his arms a voice in my head was whispering in awe: this is the Dean of Starbridge,
the Dean of Starbridge,
and the Dean of Starbridge at present wants to see me more than anyone else in the world.
‘Sorry to be so long,’ he said, rapidly covering the last yards that separated us. ‘I was buttonholed by the Bishop in the vestry. That row over the coach-park is still going on.’
‘Are you winning?’
‘Of course!’ He smiled radiantly. Then he sat down, positioning himself so that his right thigh was at least six inches from my left, and folded his hands primly in his lap. ‘So!’ he said, giving me a hot look with his steamy blue eyes. ‘How are you today?’
‘Indescribably better.’ I too smiled radiantly, but he did not see me. He was too busy taking a quick look around the cloisters to make sure we were alone.
‘Good.’ Reassured of our solitude he relaxed but for some reason refused to look at me. I supposed he wanted to ensure that the scene remained dignified and civilised. At once I resolved to be indestructibly nonchalant to signal to him that I was aware of his great eminence, that I understood his wish to remain unemotional in a public place and that I was not the kind of woman who indulged in embarrassing scenes.
‘Have you heard from Eddie?’ he said idly, flicking a speck of dust from his cuff.
‘A pathetic little note of apology was pushed through the letter-box this morning. I felt lower than the lowliest worm.’
‘You can’t help it if you don’t love him.’ He gazed at the cedar tree as if it had developed an immense fascination for him. ‘And talking of love —’ He clasped his hands together tightly ‘— Christian said you told him last night that you were keen on someone else. He wondered if the man might be Marina’s brother, since that would explain your rather unlikely new friendship with Marina herself, and this seemed to me to be a plausible theory.’
I managed to say: ‘Believe me, I’m not dying of unrequited love for Douglas Markhampton.’ I had suddenly realised that despite the hints I had dropped in my impassioned monologue he was still so unsure of my feelings that he felt driven to proceed with extreme caution. I wanted to shout: ‘It’s you,
you,
YOU!’ but of course I said nothing. I merely continued to loll on Lady Mary as if I hadn’t a care in the world.
Meanwhile Aysgarth was savouring his relief that I was uninterested in Douglas Markhampton. As I watched, his clasped hands parted and his thick strong fingers uncurled themselves until they were resting lightly on his thighs. Then he said: ‘I don’t see why you should die of unrequited love for anyone. Love should always be reciprocated in some form or another. It’s too precious to waste.’
‘You mean,’ I said, wilfully obtuse in an effort to preserve my nonchalance, ‘I should somehow reciprocate Eddie’s grand passion?’
‘Oh, love can’t be made to order, of course,’ said Aysgarth hastily. ‘All you can do there, I’m afraid, is be kind.’
‘I’ve certainly no wish to be unkind.’ I was watching his fingers curling and uncurling on his thighs. ‘But surely when people are plunging around in a sex-frenzy they’re not interested in mere kindness?’
‘Sex, I agree,’ said Aysgarth primly to the cedar tree, ‘presents enormous problems, but in the end it’s love, not sex, that makes the world go round. I don’t mean to denigrate sex, of course; God made the world and it was good, as the Bible says, and this means that sex is fundamentally good too, but love doesn’t always require a sexual expression. Indeed love can transcend sex altogether.’
‘Honestly, Mr Dean, I think Eddie’s a long way from transcending sex!’
‘He needs time to cool off, but perhaps later some form of friendship might be possible for you both. Of course there are those who declare that a true, loving friendship which transcends sex is impossible for any normal man or woman,’ said Aysgarth, interlocking his fingers again. ‘They say that in the garden of life sex is always the serpent lurking in the undergrowth to corrupt Beauty and Truth and Goodness, but I reject that kind of cynical, pessimistic view of the world. Even a serpent can be tamed and domesticated because with love nothing’s impossible. In
Honest to God
Bishop Robinson says —’
‘I’ve simply got to read this masterpiece!’ I exclaimed, recklessly casting aside my nonchalance. ‘So far I’ve only read him quoting St Augustine’s slogan: "Love God and do what you like."‘
‘Ah yes, but laymen so often misunderstand that command —’
‘It doesn’t mean, does it, that you can jump into bed with whoever you like just so long as you turn up in church on Sunday?’
‘Hardly!’ He had at last relaxed; I thanked God for theology. ‘It means that if you love God — which is the purest, noblest sort of love — you should be able to love your fellow-men in the same way and then the love will both protect you from sin and steer you into the paths of righteousness. "Love God and do what you will" thus becomes "Love God and you’ll automatically do the right thing" — and Robinson’s relating that principle to what the Germans call
Situationethik:
he’s saying that in moral dilemmas there are no hard and fast rules and that each situation should be regarded as unique; he’s saying that love — the best kind of love — should be the only guiding light in seeking a resolution of moral problems.’
‘So love — the best kind of love — is the highest reality we can know?’
‘Certainly, and it’s there that we find God. God is Love — and Love, as Robinson points out so truthfully, can be found within the best human relationships. Therefore a truly loving relationship, whatever the context, can never be wrong.’
‘But supposing two people love each other,’ I said, ‘and one happens to be married to someone else?’
‘Adultery,’ said Aysgarth, smoothing the material of his trousers over his thighs with strong sensual movements of his fingers, ‘is prima facie wrong. That we all know. But if, for example, a married man found himself in a
truly
loving relationship with a woman who was not his wife, there would be no adultery because he would love that woman enough to abstain from any behaviour which was morally wrong.’ Suddenly, quite without warning, he swivelled to face me and our thighs brushed. At once we gave galvanic starts and he glanced hastily around the colonnades, but we were still unobserved and a second later he was saying in his most urgent voice:
‘Love’s one of the ultimate prizes of life so it must never be tom up and chucked away. An illicit love must be transformed; a licit love must be exalted. Christians have always laid such emphasis on love. Tertullian tells us that in the days of the Early Church the pagans used to say: "See how those Christians love one another!" Love’s the key-note in Christianity, and Robinson’s emphasising that fact in order to bring Christianity up to date so that it can speak afresh to modem man. God isn’t out there in space, says Robinson, He’s here, He’s within the world, He’s the very ground of our being. "See how those Christians
love
one another!" says Tertullian, quoting the pagans. Christianity conquered that pagan world – and why? Because it was a religion based on love, the best kind of love, the love everyone needs in order to thrive and become whole. Sometimes it’s possible for that love to have a sexual context, sometimes it isn’t, but as I said just now, it’s love, not sex, that makes the world go round. You told me last night how starved you were without love, and now I want more than anything else in the world to bring that starvation to an end.
"See how those Christians love one another!"
God’s in every truly loving relationship. He’s here now, with us.’
He stopped abruptly and there was a pause before he exclaimed with an awkward laugh: ‘What a sermon! Forgive me – I didn’t mean to behave as if I were in the pulpit.’ To my amazement he even began to blush, smoothing back his hair in an agony of embarrassment and staring furiously at his shoes as if he feared he had made a fool of himself.
‘My darling Mr Dean,’ I said, so touched by this wholly unexpected vulnerability that my eyes filled with tears, ‘you can preach to me as often as you wish for as long as you like, and I hope it’ll be
very
often and for
very
long.’
He finally dared to look at me again. Then overwhelmed by the unspoken message which must have been emanating from every line of my face, he dared to believe the unbelievable. Automatically he grabbed my hand and tried to speak but no words came. I found I was tongue-tied too. We could only sit clutching each other, my left hand locked in his right, but at last he managed to say: ‘You’re a wonderful girl – and if Eddie’s the only man under forty who can see that, I despair of the younger generation.’
‘Who cares about the younger generation?’ I retorted, so racked by the urge to fling myself into his arms that I hardly knew what I was saying. ‘I certainly don’t!’
He smiled. Then suddenly he began to radiate confidence. ‘If I write to you,’ he said, ‘will you write back?’
‘Instantly. But Mr Dean, don’t tell me that our new friendship is to be solely confined to letters!’
‘Perish the thought! But it won’t be easy for us to meet on our own, and –’
He broke off. Far away in the north-east comer of the cloisters the transept door had closed with a thud and the next moment footsteps were ringing out in the colonnade. My view of the intruder was hidden by the pillars but Aysgarth, dropping my hand as if it had scalded him, signalled that danger was at hand. At once I assumed my most languid expression and pretended to examine a fingernail.
‘Yes, well, to return to my earlier remarks,’ said Aysgarth as if we were engaged in an earnest intellectual discussion, ‘Bishop Robinson has studied the work of three German theologians, Tillich, Bultmann and – oh hullo, Charles! I thought you’d gone home.’
Looking unexpectedly modem in a grey suit, the Bishop glided to a halt by Lady Mary. To indicate his episcopal rank he was wearing a purple stock and pectoral cross, but he seemed less intimidating without his old-fashioned uniform and I was surprised when I realised I was nervous.
‘As a matter of fact I did set off for home,’ he was saying in response to Aysgarth’s remark, ‘but then I remembered I wanted to look up a reference for a sermon. I’ve just paid a quick visit to the library.’
There was a pause during which Aysgarth and I somehow restrained ourselves from staring in horror at the library windows which faced us above the east colonnade. Indeed I was still gazing at the Bishop as if driven to memorise every line on his face when he added in his pleasantest voice: ‘Did you enjoy your party last night, Venetia?’
‘Oh, enormously!’ I said, producing my best friendly smile as my heart began to thump. ‘I’m so glad Michael was able to come!’
‘It was nice of you to invite him,’ said the Bishop, smooth as glass. ‘I was talking to someone at the Choir School this morning, and he seemed to think the party was really rather exceptional.’
Aysgarth at once cleared his throat and made a great business of examining his watch. ‘Good heavens, look at the time! Venetia my dear —’
‘Yes, of course, Mr Dean,’ I said swiftly. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a thousand and one things to do. Thanks so much for sparing the time to talk to me about Bishop Robinson.’
‘How much longer will you be staying at the Chantry, Venetia?’ said Dr Ashworth suddenly as Aysgarth rose to his feet.
‘Until Lady Markhampton returns in ten days’ time.’
‘And then, I assume, you’ll be heading back to London?’
‘No.’ I was acutely aware of Aysgarth pausing, unable to resist the temptation to listen to my reply. ‘I’m going to get a flat.’
‘Here?’ said the Bishop surprised. ‘In Starbridge? Does this mean you’ve been offered some exceptional secretarial post?’
‘No, although naturally I hope —’
‘
Oh, you’ll need an interesting job or you’ll soon be very bored! There’s not much in provincial old Starbridge, is there, Stephen, to keep a sophisticated young woman like Venetia amused!’
‘I think Venetia might want rather more from life, Charles,’ said Aysgarth equably, ‘than mere sophisticated entertainment. Perhaps you could find her a job at the diocesan office?’
‘Perhaps I could. If that’s what she wants.’ With his most charming smile he added to me: ‘Come and see us again at the South Canonry! I’ll ask my wife to phone you and fix a date.’ And before I could do more than murmur a conventional word of thanks he had gone, striding away from us without a backward glance and disappearing through the door which led into the churchyard.
‘Glory!’ I muttered. ‘Do you think he looked out of the library window and saw us holding hands?’
‘
Why shouldn’t we hold hands?’ retorted Aysgarth. ‘Aren’t we old friends?
Honi soit qui mal y pense!
’
‘
But —
’
‘
Personally I’m more worried about the star-gazing master at the Choir School who’s apparently been unable to resist bleating to Charles about last night’s rooftop revels. That could have a very adverse effect on the coach-park struggle.’
‘
It could?
’
‘
Yes, Charles could say to me: "If you can’t stop your own family running riot with their friends in the Cathedral, how can I trust you to control the occupants of ten coaches parked simultaneously in Palace Lane?’
‘Honestly, Mr Dean, I can’t think how you keep so sane amidst all these brawls and back-stabbings —’