V
But in fact he resisted temptation well. Apart from clasping and squeezing my hands he attempted no other torrid activity; he seemed far more interested in indulging in stimulating conversation. At the end of our interlude he sighed: ‘This has been such fun — what a pity we can’t stay longer!’ And he gave me a peck on the cheek. Back in Starbridge he dropped me in Eternity Street so that we could return separately to the Close, blew me a kiss, breathed some passionate parting words and disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
Staring after him I tried to work out why I felt not merely disappointed but confused.
VI
‘My darling Neville,’ I wrote that night at the Chantry. ‘It was marvellous to see you today without everyone breathing down our necks, and many thanks for explaining the first part of
Honest to God.
’
I paused. I was sitting at the table in the dining-room and across the hall in the drawing-room Marina was engaged in a telephone conversation with Katie Aysgarth. Christian had finally sent Marina a note of thanks for the Orgy and she had used this communication as an excuse to ring him up, but Katie had soon followed her husband to the phone, and as I listened I realised Marina was being invited to Oxford as soon as Lady Markhampton had returned home. Marina’s expressions of gratitude were numerous and ecstatic; she appeared to give no thought to the masculine groans which would erupt when she cancelled her London dates, and soon she was gossiping away to Katie on the theme of how awful all men were except Christian. I was now more convinced than ever that their eternal triangle was very odd indeed.
Meanwhile that other odd person, Perry Palmer, had phoned me to confess that the curious Japanese prints were a fiction but that he would be delighted to show me instead another great curiosity, his full coal-cellar, whenever I returned to London; it was an old joke among Christian’s friends that Perry, whose set in Albany had hardly been altered since Victorian days, had absent-mindedly ordered a vast quantity of coal for his fireplaces shortly before London had been declared a smokeless zone. Amused by the flaunting of this legendary museum-piece I promised to phone him when I was next up in town; I had already decided that Perry could replace Eddie as my smokescreen, deflecting the world’s attention from the real object of my passion.
The thought of the object of my passion prompted me to turn back to my letter. ‘Of course Robinson’s absolutely right,’ I wrote fluently. ‘We can’t go on thinking of God as an old man in the sky who made a space-trip to Bethlehem two thousand years ago, dressed up as Christ, and left the universe untended. Much better to chuck away all those obsolete old myths and throw the whole Christian tradition in the melting-pot in order to recast the faith in terms that are intelligible to the secular mid-twentieth century! That’s exactly what people of my generation want. We want to move forward from our parents’ world, the world the war rendered obsolete, and create a world that’s
new.
No more dead wood, no more hidebound tradition that’s meaningless, no more risible fairy-tales. Everything must be hard, cool, clear and unsentimental.
‘So no more talk of God as an old man in the sky who carries on like some irascible father-figure! People of my generation have quite enough trouble with their fathers without wanting a father-figure God! I think it was quite brilliant of Paul Tillich to say instead that God is the "Ground of our being", and I think it’s even more brilliant of Robinson to pick up this definition and develop it. To think of God as being present throughout the whole world, present in some mysterious way deep down inside us, is much more meaningful than thinking of him as "out there", high up in some corner of the universe that the scientists can never quite find. How clever of Robinson to see that the concept of depth has so much more meaning for us today – after all the talk of "depth psychology" – than the concept of height!
‘Next time we meet you must move on from Tillich and tell me about those other German theologians Robinson likes so much. I want to hear more about Bonhoeffer’s "religionless Christianity" and Bultmann’s "demythologising". (Does Bultmann really say that the only thing that matters is the message? How modern that sounds! Do you suppose he’s ever worked in an advertising agency?)
‘It’s agonising to think we have to wait a whole week to resume such a riveting conversation – please write SOON to ease my torment! Lashings of love, EGERIA.’
I had just tucked this letter in an envelope and was sealing the flap when Marina arrived in high spirits after her stimulating phone call. ‘Writing to the mysterious Mr X?’ she said. ‘I told Christian just now that I suspected you were on the brink of a mad affair with Perry, but Christian just said: "Whoever the lucky man is, it certainly isn’t my friend Peregrine" — which rather suggests, doesn’t it, that he knows something about Perry that we don’t. I wonder what went on when they were at school together ... Do they swim in the nude at Winchester?’
‘I should think they do a lot of things in the nude at Winchester.’
‘I was wondering about Perry’s possible lack of genitalia.’
‘Perhaps all — or nothing, as the case may be — will be revealed to me when I inspect his coal-cellar.’
‘But seriously, Vinnie, who is this secret man in your life?’
‘Jesus Christ. Everyone and no one. God — who’s to be found in loving relationships. God’s the Ground of Our Being. He’s not up there in the sky — he’s down here, deep down inside every one of us —’
‘Darling, have you been hitting the gin?’
The telephone rang. Marina flitted away to answer it but flitted back to report: ‘It’s churchy old Primrose — are you in or out?’
‘Oh God! I’d better be in, but what a bore.’ Still clutching my unaddressed envelope I slunk to the phone. ‘Primrose! How thrilling to hear from you — how’s life with the Archdeacon?’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Primrose, very cool. The Archdeacon and I were just going over the minutes of the last meeting of the diocesan Board of Finance when he happened to mention —’
Mr Lindsay had revealed I was about to move into his lap and work for the Bishop.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ I said glibly. ‘Really, I’m getting so old that I’m forgetting what I said to who!’
‘Rubbish!’ said Primrose. ‘You’ve simply dropped me with such a bang that everyone in Starbridge must be deafened. Now look here, Venetia. Is it anything I’ve said? Because if I’ve done something to offend you, I want to know so that I can put things right. You’re my best friend, and —’
‘Oh, Primrose ...’ I felt a complete heel. ‘No, it’s nothing you’ve done, I promise —’
‘Then I simply can’t understand what you see in Marina Markhampton. She’s so absolutely trivial, not worthy of someone with your brains. You’re not having some ghastly lesbian affair with her, are you?’
‘Honestly, Primrose! What a suggestion!’
‘Dido says she’s sure Marina’s a lesbian.’
‘I’m surprised to find you listening to Dido!’
Dido’s very shrewd about who’s carrying on with who. For instance, do you remember that alto-tenor with the long blond hair who sang in the Cathedral choir last year? Tommy Fitzgerald said Father ought to make the alto-tenor cut his hair to disguise the fact that he was obviously queer as a coot, but Dido just looked Fitzgerald straight in the eyes and said: "My dear, he only pretends he’s queer because he wants to cover up the fact that he’s having an affair with the organist’s wife." The alto-tenor ran off with her a week later. Fitzgerald was livid — not with the alto-tenor, of course, but with Dido for being right.’
‘Well, if Dido thinks I’m having a lesbian wing-ding with Marina —’
‘I didn’t say Dido thinks that. Dido just thinks Marina’s a lesbian. Dido’s only comment on
you
is: "If dear Venetia’s lingering in Starbridge just for the thrill of working for the Bishop, I’d be very much surprised."‘
There was a silence.
‘Hullo? Venetia?’
‘Sorry, just trying to figure out what on earth Dido’s getting at. Does she think I’m about to run off with the new alto-tenor?’
‘Well, there’s a rumour going around that you’re madly in love —’
‘Oh, my God! I make one drunken joke to Christian and for some perverse reason he chooses to broadcast it as gospel truth to all and sundry! There’s no one, Prim, honestly — except perhaps Perry Palmer. He’s just invited me to see his coal-cellar.’
‘Perry’s a eunuch.’
‘Have you cast-iron evidence of that fact?’
‘Well, no, but ... I say, Venetia, you haven’t finally discovered a mad passion for Eddie, have you?’
‘Don’t be revolting! Look, come and see me on Monday after I’ve moved into the Archdeacon’s flat, and we’ll knock back a bottle of champagne together to celebrate my acquisition of the new pad.’
‘I’ll bring a bottle of sherry,’ said Primrose. ‘If I drink more than two glasses of champagne I get a headache.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Prim, you drink your two glasses and I’ll toss off the rest! You talk like an old maid sometimes!’
There was a pause. Then: ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean that. How’s Maurice Tait?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Primrose politely. ‘What time shall I come on Monday?’
‘Oh, just roll along when you’ve finished work. It’ll be fabulous to meet again!’
‘Fabulous,’ said Primrose.
We said goodbye and hung up.
VII
After the conversation I spent several unpleasant seconds thinking of Dido’s talent for discerning who was sleeping with whom, but then I dismissed her from my mind by recalling that in fact I was sleeping with no one and that there was no logical reason why she should regard me with suspicion. My episcopal job, socially glamorous and intellectually stimulating, was quite sufficient to justify my stay in Starbridge to all but the neurotically suspicious.
I then remembered that I had not yet summoned the energy to inform my parents of my great coup in landing a job with the Bishop, and it occurred to me that before they, like Dido, succumbed to the neurotic suspicion that I was on the brink of behaving like a decadent member of the aristocracy, I should pen the required letter without delay. Accordingly, having returned to my writing-case in the dining-room, I found a fresh sheet of paper and wrote: ‘Dear Mama, I’ve rented a flat (12 Butchers’ Alley) and intend to live in Starbridge for at least three months as from next Monday, in order to help Bishop Ashworth write his new book. My landlord is Archdeacon Lindsay. I don’t anticipate being in London in the immediate future, but I might look in at Pauncefoot some time if you happen to be around. Meanwhile please try and stop Papa rampaging around the House of Lords, collaring prelates and badgering them with questions about me. I hope you and your plants are thriving. Love, VENETIA.’ I spent five minutes trying to decide whether to provide my new telephone number but finally wrote it down as a postscript. I had realised that if one of my parents died I would feel guilty if the survivor was unable to contact me immediately.
‘Writing letters again?’ said Marina, nursing a cup of hot chocolate as she drifted into the room to say good-night. ‘You write more letters than any girl I’ve ever met.’
‘Just keeping the parents happy.’ I began to address the envelope.
‘Oh, parents!’ said Marina. She spoke as if referring to a rare species of animal which only existed on the far side of the globe. On an impulse she sat down opposite me at the table and gave her hot chocolate a stir. ‘I’ve trained my mother never to expect a letter from me, but if you can keep your parents at bay with letters, maybe I’ve made a mistake. That weekly phone call I have to make is really a fearful bind.’
I had by this time had ample experience of the weekly Markhampton phone call. Marina would sigh and moan beforehand, but the conversations with her mother always sounded happy enough. ‘Why don’t you try talking to your father occasionally?’ I said, folding the sheet of writing-paper in half. ‘It might provide a welcome variation in the routine.’
‘Oh, my father barely talks at all,’ said Marina. ‘Not to me anyway.’
‘What bliss.’ I began to slip the letter into the envelope and the silence that followed was broken only by the rustle of paper, but at last Marina said nonchalantly, so nonchalantly that I hardly realised what she was saying: ‘Well, I don’t care. What the hell? He’s not my real father anyway.’
My tongue halted in its progress down the envelope’s flap. Then I completed the lick and very carefully pressed down the seal. ‘No?’ I murmured so vaguely that I sounded as if I were barely concentrating on the conversation. ‘I don’t think I knew that.’
‘Oh, good. Sometimes one imagines the whole world’s twittering about it behind one’s back, so it’s nice to know you weren’t keeping quiet out of an urge to be tactful .. I never quite know what you’re thinking, Venetia. You’re a bit of a mystery in some ways.’
‘Well, at the moment my thoughts are utterly predictable and completely mundane. I was wondering when you found out about this tiresome little kink in the family tree.’
I had struck the right casual note. As she relaxed, stirring her hot chocolate, I realised she wanted neither sympathy nor a prurient curiosity but a detached interest which bordered on the clinical. All emotion had to be kept ruthlessly at bay.
‘It happened last year,’ she said. ‘I was at that restaurant off Berkeley Square — you know the one, all fish and dim lighting — and someone in the party said to me: "Of course your real father’s the art critic Walter Forrest, isn’t he?" and I said: "Of course, who else?" and then I didn’t hear anything for five minutes — at which point I had to rush to the lavatory to be sick.’
‘I hope there wasn’t some quizzy dragon on duty.’
‘I don’t know what was on duty. All I remember now is the revolting pink carpet. Anyway, after that I decided to ask my mother about Walter Forrest — I was actually rather excited to think I’d been fathered by something intelligent — so eventually I cornered Mummy in her studio. She was painting the most sensational picture, lots of naked legs and pubic hair and stray breasts floating all over the place, and I don’t think she really wanted to be interrupted but I stood my ground and said: "So I’m Walter Forrest’s bastard — how thrilling!" For a moment she just went on mixing her paints. Then she said: "Don’t worry, darling, Daddy and I both adore you and Walter’s never been in the least interested in children. I’d forget all about him, if I were you." I asked why I hadn’t been told and she just said: "I honestly didn’t think it would make you happy." I tried to explain that I felt a bit of a fool since obviously everyone knew except me, but she never batted an eyelid. "Oh no!" she said. "No one knows anything for certain, but you do have a great look of Walter and of course it’s well known that among our sort of people the last child in the family is often a cuckoo in the nest." Then she went on painting. I wanted to ask her more but then I realised I had to find a lavatory and vomit again .. . Well, I mean, the scene really was rather pukeworthy, wasn’t it?’
‘Terribly dreary,’ I said. ‘What a drag.’ I suddenly realised I was creasing my mother’s envelope at one corner with small, furtive movements of my fingers.
‘Sorry to waffle on about something so sordid,’ said Marina, taking a sip of her hot chocolate. ‘I’ve never told any of my other girlfriends, but perhaps I was lured on this time because you’re so much more soignée than they are. For instance, I’m sure you know all about what goes on among our sort of people, and anyway you’re the last child in a family yourself, aren’t you? I suppose I knew subconsciously that you’d understand.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I smoothed the crease out of the envelope. ‘Did you ever confront Walter Forrest?’
‘Why do you think I got that job in the art gallery? When he turned up at one of the exhibitions, I marched straight up to him and said: "I’m Marina, Alice Markhampton’s daughter." And he said: "Oh yes? It’s years since I’ve seen Alice. I hope she’s well." Then he turned his back on me and began to talk to someone else.’
‘Brute. I’d have clobbered him.’
‘It
was
a bit much, wasn’t it? Oh, how I hated all men at that moment,
hated
them — in fact I still do sometimes, it comes over me in waves ... although never when I’m with Christian, of course.’
‘I like Christian,’ I said. ‘I always have. But I don’t know what goes on there.’
‘Then I’ll tell you. He’s good and decent and kind. That’s why I love him. On that ghastly evening at the restaurant after I’d vomited in the pink-carpeted lavatory, it was Christian who took care of me. I couldn’t tell him what was wrong and he didn’t ask. He just got a taxi and brought me home and we drank tea together while he held my hand and told me all about how awful life was in the Middle Ages. Wasn’t that nice of him? By the time he’d finished I’d almost forgotten how awful London was in 1962.’
‘Good old Christian,’ I said. ‘Does he ever kiss you?’
‘Oh, just the occasional peck on the cheek. But he holds hands beautifully.’
‘You don’t think he might ever try and do more?’
‘Why should he?’ said Marina, finishing her hot chocolate. ‘He’s got Katie.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better totter off to bed before my eyes close. Thanks so much for listening, Vinnie. I hope I didn’t bore you.’
But I was unable to reply. My entire world had suddenly gone pitch black. Horror had paralysed every muscle in my body.
‘Venetia?’
In the nick of time the instinct to dissimulate in order to survive came to my rescue and will-power triumphed over paralysis. I managed to say casually: ‘Sorry. Still thinking of Christian. No, of course you didn’t bore me, Marina.’
‘You won’t tell anyone about Walter Forrest, will you?’
‘Never.’
She smiled gratefully and wandered away.