THREE
‘God, Tillich was saying, is not a projection "out there", an Other beyond the skies, of whose existence we have to convince ourselves, but the Ground of our very being ...’
‘For assertions about God are in the last analysis assertions about Love — about the ultimate ground and meaning of personal relationships.’
JOHN A. T. ROBINSON
Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich 1959—1969
Honest to
God
I
When I arrived back at the Chantry I stumbled across a large envelope which was lying on the hall floor by the front door. It was marked: ‘The Hon. Venetia Flaxton’, and in one corner Aysgarth had printed ‘BY HAND’.
‘Coo-ee!’ shouted Marina, who was watching television in the drawing-room. ‘How was Anti-Sex Ashworth?’
‘Thundering about the sinfulness of man!’
The telephone rang. As I hesitated in the hall with the envelope in my hands I heard Marina say: ‘Robert! What a lovely surprise! I was afraid you might be Michael or Don ...’
I sped upstairs, shut myself in my room, ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents. In addition to the May issue of the Cathedral magazine there were two letters. The first read: ‘My dear Venetia, I was delighted to see you at Holy Communion this morning, and I thought you might like to sec the latest edition of our magazine. My leading article, dealing with the importance of art in connection with religion, may remind you of my recent attempt to have the beautiful painting of the cat in the St Anselm manuscript made available to a wider public in the form of a picture-postcard. In sending you my blessings, I remain your affectionate friend, N.N.A.’
The second letter read: ‘My darling Venetia — my Egeria! — I felt I must write and tell you how wonderful it was to see you this morning — I could have murdered that old stick Gilbert for tottering into the library just as your narrative describing the Orgy was becoming delectably racy! How I wish
I
could have · gone to a party like that when I was young, but I never did, not even up at Oxford; I was the wrong class, didn’t know the right people, had no money, etc., etc., and anyway I had to work so hard to "get on" that I could ill afford to take time off for pleasure. Never mind, I can now enjoy youthful orgies vicariously, through you!
‘You looked quite ravishing in your party gown — and equally ravishing in that striped frock you were wearing this morning, and how I managed to avoid "pouncing" on you (as you would say) in the manner of young Michael Ashworth as we stood side by side gazing at Puss-in-Boots I can’t imagine. Incidentally I was quite shocked by your description of Michael, and I’m sure none of
my
boys would ever carry on in that tasteless fashion. I’m sure — indeed I hope! — they’ve done some hard chasing in their time, but young drunks who "grope" (as you put it) in public are most definitely not amusing, and I’ve always impressed on my boys — though by example, not by sermons, I hasten to add — that women should be put on pedestals and reverenced.
‘Dear me, how strait-laced that sounds! And as you know I’m not a bit strait-laced, I pride myself on my liberal outlook, but although I passionately believe that sexual love is good and right, I utterly disapprove of behaviour which is self-centred and lacking in respect for the opposite sex — and thus uncivilised to the point of vulgarity. Someone once remarked that the biggest argument against immorality is that it’s in such bad taste. (Could this have been Oscar Wilde? But no, Wilde would surely have turned the comment inside out and declared: "The biggest argument against immorality is that it’s in such
good
taste!") Of course the remark about bad taste is an exaggeration, but there’s an element of truth in it because man was made to reach for the stars, not to roll around in the mud – and now we’re definitely in Wilde’s territory; do you remember that line from
Lady Windermere
’
s Fan:
"We’re all in the gutter but some of us are looking up at the stars"? Maybe I’ll preach on that theme soon and stress that we should
all
be star-gazing. How I’d love to see the Bishop’s face if I took Oscar Wilde for my text!
‘I’m enclosing the Cathedral magazine because I need an excuse for delivering this missive by hand – and I also enclose a fake letter for you to show Marina in case she sees me pop the envelope through the letter-box. I intend to entrust my letters to the post in future, but I was so bursting to communicate with you that I thought I must just take one little risk! Now darling, remember your promise and write back
instantly.
Our rendezvous on Wednesday afternoon is still (as I write this) forty-two hours away and I can’t wait till then to hear from you. Much,
much
love, NEVILLE.’
II
‘My darling Mr Dean,’ I wrote later after Marina had retired yawning to bed, ‘I adored both your letters, even the fake one, and thought your article about art was fabulous. Do keep on with your crusade to get Puss-in-Boots on a postcard!
‘So glad you wanted to pounce on me in the library – I bet your pounces are everything pounces should be (private and paradisical) and not ghastly plunges made in an alcoholic fog (public and pukeworthy). But I’m not sure I really want to be put on a pedestal and reverenced – unless, of course, the reverence came in the form of regular dusting of the most stimulating variety.
‘But before you produce your duster, "get a load of this!" (as Dinkie would say). There have been sensational goings-on at the South Canonry where I’ve just dined off an extraordinary syllabub and a measure of claret so small that all I could do was inhale it. That famous double-act, Dr and Mrs A., kidnapped Yours Truly, and as the result of my incarceration beneath the episcopal roof I’m on the point of winding up in the Archdeacon’s lap! I’m also on the point of winding up on the episcopal pay-roll, as my Lord Bishop has bribed me to work for him by offering me an immense salary and an IBM dream-machine.
‘He vows — wait for it! — to demolish the divine Dr Robinson in a new book (to be dictated at odd hours to the Hon. V. Flaxton, super-secretary) and his wife implies this will be his biggest demolition job since he took an axe to the Arian heresy in his gilded youth. He’s a little nervous of his secretary, an item called Peabody (I didn’t dare ask how many bishops she’d served under!) but he fancies he can get away with taking me on as a luxury and he’s already referring to me as a secretarial Rolls-Royce.
‘This letter, designed to form part of a lurid best-seller entitled
How to Get On in the Church of England: a Guide for Single Girls
under Thirty,
comes to you with best love from your devoted EGERIA. PS. Why on
earth
have I been so suddenly marked out for this extraordinary episcopal attention? Did Dr A. play Peeping Tom after all as we sat on Lady Mary? Could he conceivably regard me as a "lost girl" who has to be "redeemed"? (I seem to remember that Gladstone underwent similar behavioural problems when he kept bringing prostitutes home to tea.) Any light you can throw on this bizarre situation would be greatly appreciated.’
The next morning, on my journey to the newsagent’s shop beyond St Anne’s Gate to buy the
Daily Mail,
I dropped the letter in the pillar-box on the North Walk and had the satisfaction of knowing it would catch the first post. To my amazement it reached the Deanery by the second post that morning. (The post then was not nearly so bad as it is now, but even in 1963 such extraordinary speed was a notable occurrence.) Aysgarth wrote back that afternoon, and the following morning, the day of our rendezvous, I was ripping open the envelope.
‘My darling Venetia,’ I read, ‘I’m truly appalled by this episcopal skulduggery which is driving you into the Archdeacon’s lap — does Mrs Lindsay know you intend to use this singularly unattractive archidiaconal feature as a resting-place? — and I’m
very worried indeed
about this "dream-machine" you mentioned. It sounds exceedingly improper. The initials IBM are, of course, quite unknown to me since clergymen should have better things to do with their time than read articles in
The Times
about American corporations, but in my opinion all single girls under thirty who aspire to "get on" in the Church of England should regard such questionable modern devices, labelled IBM or otherwise, with suspicion.
‘My Lord Bishop’s daring in risking the wrath of Miss Peabody is second only to his nerve in engaging my Egeria to string his pearls of wisdom — or, as would seem more likely, his fake pearls of folly. If he were to spend more time reconstructing the Christian faith for our day and age, as our hero Robinson is doing, and less time demolishing what he’s pleased to call heresy, the level of church attendance in the diocese of Starbridge might conceivably rise from its present all-time low! My dearest, must you really indulge in esoteric rites with your dream-machine in the company of this over-educated reactionary? How can I save you from such a sinister fate at the South Canonry, and how, for goodness’ sake, can I prevent you winding up in the Archdeacon’s lap? This letter comes to you with best love from your devoted but deeply concerned MR DEAN, now to be addressed by you
(please!)
as NEVILLE.
‘PS. No need to worry about the Ashworths. To me the explanation of the unprecedented benevolence is simple: (i) The Bishop’s reached the age when he’d far rather dictate his rubbish to a gorgeous young creature like you than to a hideous old hag like Peabody; (2) Mrs Bishop has reached the age when she wants to compensate herself for her absent sons by acquiring a substitute daughter; and (3) they may well be engaged in a conspiracy to capture you as a girlfriend — perhaps even as a wife — for Charley, whose continuing lack of interest in girls would be enough to worry any parents who want a normal life for their son.’
PPS. As soon as we meet in the courtyard of the Staro Arms I shall demand an explanation of the Archdeacon’s lap!
Longing
to see you, N.’
III
‘I thought this moment would never come!’ said Aysgarth as I scrambled into the front seat of his dusty Humber that afternoon. ‘My darling, you’re looking like a Pre-Raphaelite Guinevere, radiating mysterious allure, and how Lyle Ashworth dares to leave you alone with a sex-obsessed bishop and a dream-machine I can’t think. What’s the news from the Archdeacon’s lap?’
The Humber had halted seconds earlier in the courtyard of Starbridge’s oldest hotel, a former medieval hostelry rumoured to have been patronised by Chaucer. No native of Starbridge seriously believed this fable, but it made fine fodder for the tourists and had spawned a cottage industry which produced cheap mugs adorned with pictures of Chaucer fondling a quill pen.
As Aysgarth enquired about the Archdeacon’s lap he spun the car into a three-point turn and with an anguished squeal of tires the Humber shot out of the courtyard into Eternity Street. I had long suspected that Aysgarth was a racing-driver
manqué;
whenever he was behind the wheel of a car he seemed to be celebrating an escape from his life as an eminent churchman. That afternoon he was wearing an ancient pair of grey flannel trousers, a faded blue shirt which was stretched tightly across his midriff, no tie and a shabby tweed jacket which looked as if it had been rescued from a jumble sale. His white hair was bedraggled, suggesting that he had repeatedly run his fingers through it in a fever of romantic impatience, and as he smiled at me he revealed his square, raffish teeth, proved indisputably genuine by the fact that they were out of alignment. (I suspected the Bishop possessed dentures; his teeth were far too even to be true.) As soon as I had entered the car I had been aware of a fascinating odour of cigarettes and Lux soap overlaid with a faint, tantalising whiff of whisky.
‘My darling Mr Dean!’ I exclaimed impulsively. ‘How exciting you are! Just like an English version of James Cagney!’
He laughed and laughed. At the humpbacked bridge which spanned the river, the car swooped up and down so wildly that my stomach seemed to hit the soles of my feet, but all he gasped as I shrieked was: ‘Isn’t life fun?’
We drove on in ecstasy out of the city.
IV
‘... so I’m all set to take up residence in the Archdeacon’s lap next week,’ I said, concluding my report on the flat in Butchers’ Alley as the city rapidly vanished into the distance behind us. ‘My own home at last! The moment I move in I shall put a rose between my teeth, open a bottle of champagne and loll naked on a tiger-skin rug beneath a poster of Elvis Presley!’
‘I must lurk beneath the window with a periscope! Do you really have a tiger-skin rug?’
‘No. I don’t approve of skinning cats.’
‘Neither do I. By the way, talking of cats,’ said Aysgarth as the car roared down the valley towards the hills which marked the beginning of Starbury Plain, ‘I was all set to fight for Puss-in-Boots again at yesterday’s Chapter meeting, but I never got the chance. That fatuous ass Fitzgerald, who’s long been seduced by the Parish and People Movement, started nagging me to make the Sung Communion the main service on Sunday mornings and call it a Eucharist, and by the time I’d beaten him off –’
‘But isn’t that just a High-Church fad?’
‘Yes, but now we’ve got an Archbishop of Canterbury who runs around in a purple cassock instead of a decent pair of gaiters the Catholic wing of the Church of England thinks it can get away with anything.’
‘No Popery!’
‘Well, one mustn’t be bigoted. Certainly as a liberal I favour ecumenism – unity for all Christians – even though it’s no good expecting the Roman Catholics to do anything except kick us in the teeth. The first move towards unity will have to come from them.’
‘So while you wait you amuse yourself by beating up the Anglo-Catholics whenever they get too Romish!’
He laughed. ‘Oh, I can be charitable towards the Anglo-Catholics – with an effort! That’s the point of the Church of England – Catholics and Protestants are united under one umbrella. But no one’s going to catch me tinkering with the Communion service and destroying the basic pattern of Sunday worship in the name of some half-baked liturgical fashion which seduces every High-Churchman in sight! Low-Church by inclination I may be, having been brought up by evangelical Nonconformists, but in worship I’ve always tried to follow the Church of England’s famous "Middle Way", the road between the extremes of Catholic and Protestant practice, and it’s in the name of that "Middle Way" that I absolutely refuse to downgrade Sunday matins. "Over my dead body," I said to Fitzgerald –’
‘What bad luck that you should be saddled with an Anglo-Catholic canon!’
‘Oh, there’ll be murder done in our Chapter meetings yet, I swear it! No good looking to the Bishop for support, of course; you’ve only got to mention the word "Eucharist" to him and he’s off on some outstandingly boring dissertation on the Early Church –’
‘But the Bishop’s not an Anglo-Catholic, is he?’
‘No, but he has Catholic leanings. He’s keen on confession and retreats – and he’s always saying that every clergyman should have a spiritual director –’
‘Have you got one?’
‘Certainly not! Using an intermediary in dealing with God is a very Catholic concept, and anyway my soul’s my own business; I don’t want some stranger messing around with it, and in my opinion agonising over one’s spiritual life simply encourages morbid introspection. God helps those who help themselves — although of course,’ said Aysgarth, becoming cautious as if he had suddenly realised he was being too dogmatic, ‘sometimes in very difficult situations one’s unable to help oneself. Then one does indeed need the help of an older clergyman of great spiritual wisdom. But usually such occasions are rare.’ He paused before adding: ‘I used to talk to Bishop Bell occasionally about various private problems. I’ve missed him since he died in ‘fifty-eight.’
‘You don’t feel tempted to unburden yourself to your current father-in-God Bishop Ashworth?’
‘What an appalling thought! No, I’ll leave that sort of charade to Fitzgerald. What a bishop! What a canon! Or as Cicero would have said —’
"0 tempera!
’
I quoted.
"0
mores!
’
‘
My darling!’ He turned his head to smile at me in delight and the car nearly plunged into the ditch. I screamed lightly but I was enjoying myself too much to care whether or not we veered off the road. I was enthralled by his frank talk about the Chapter, and I felt as privileged as if I had been listening to the Prime Minister describing the private feuds of his publicly united cabinet.
By this time we had left the main road and were zipping along a country lane. A wandering cow bellowed in horror as we shot past within inches of its flank. The occasional pot-hole tested the durability of the back axle. The car panted uphill with all the zest of a bloodhound pounding across wide open spaces. We were now climbing on to Starbury Plain, and as we left the trees of the valley behind, the bare hills began to level out around us to form a vast, undulating plain.
‘Can’t you get rid of Fitzgerald, Mr Dean?’
‘No cause, I assure you, is dearer to my heart, but unfortunately removal isn’t so easy ... Darling, do stop calling me "Mr Dean" now that we’re alone together! I — heavens above, here’s the car-park! I nearly missed it.’
The brakes squealed, the tires screeched and the car behind us gave a blast on the horn. Cutting our speed violently in a few hair-raising seconds, Aysgarth swung the Humber off the road into the parking area laid out by the National Trust when it had acquired the acres surrounding the famous ancient monument, Starbury Ring. This megalithic stone circle, reached by a twenty-minute walk along a bridle-path, was fortunately unpopular with the majority of modern tourists, most of whom preferred to avoid exercise. On that afternoon there were no coaches in the parking area and only a couple of cars. No one was in sight. ‘The cars’ occupants had all disappeared over the brow of the hill on their way to the Ring.
‘What shall we do?’ said Aysgarth, switching off the engine. ‘Walk or luxuriate?’
‘Oh, luxuriate — much more fun!’ I said at once, remembering that he too, like most tourists, shied away from exercise.
He sighed and gazed without enthusiasm at the bridle-path. ‘I really should walk,’ he said. ‘It would be good for me.’
‘It would be even better for you if you relaxed here in the car and told me all about
Honest to God!
’
He laughed and quoted: ‘"I can resist everything except temptation!"‘ Then he reached out and clasped my hand.