VIII
We were more than halfway to Starbridge before I summoned the nerve to ask: ‘Neville, what exactly is your connection with Nicholas Darrow’s father, that clergyman who ran the Theological College back in the ‘forties?’
The car swerved slightly, but to my relief he seemed more astonished than annoyed by this new attempt to probe the past. ‘Jon Darrow?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why on earth should you want to know about him?’
I’ve been told he knows you through and through.’ At once he said sharply: ‘Who said that?’
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t want to mention her name again, but —’
‘Why in heaven’s name should Dido have been talking to you about old Darrow?’
‘Well, she was boasting about how well she knew you, and –’
‘Ah, now I understand this new obsession of yours to know me through and through! Darling, you must stop seeing Dido as a rival – and you must stop believing every word she says. She doesn’t know me well at all. She only knows Stephen.’
Dimly it occurred to me that in order to participate intelligently in these extraordinary conversations I needed a wisdom which I had not lived long enough to acquire.
‘And who does Darrow know?’ I said cautiously.
‘The first three Nevilles.’
‘Not Stephen?’
‘No, I haven’t seen much of the old pirate since Stephen evolved.’ He tried to overtake the car in front, thought better of it and dropped back. The oncoming car hooted furiously as it skimmed past our wing-mirror.
‘Why do you call the old boy a pirate?’ I said when the sound of the horn had died away. ‘I thought he was a holy hermit who lived in a wood on Communion wafers.’
Aysgarth laughed so hard that he nearly drove through a red light. We were now re-entering the suburb of Parson’s Mill. ‘It’s really amazing,’ he exclaimed, ‘how myths form around that buccaneer! My dear, Father Jonathan Darrow is an eccentric Anglo-Catholic priest who used to perform charismatic wonders, flirt with scandal and make strong archdeacons weep. His years at the Theological College constituted his respectable phase. Before that he’d done more or less everything – he was even a monk in the Anglican Fordite Order during the ‘twenties and ‘thirties! Young Nicholas, of course, was fathered later. Martin the actor was fathered long before.’
‘But is the old boy really living in a wood as a hermit?’
‘I think it would be more accurate – though less amusing – to say he lives as a recluse twelve miles from Starbridge; he had a cottage built for him in the grounds of the Manor House which his second wife owned at Starrington Magna. She’s dead now, I’m sorry to say – a nice woman she was, I liked her – and the Manor itself is run by a religious community of about eight men and women who keep an eye on the old boy to make sure he’s all right.’
‘You mean he’s capable of living alone in his cottage? Someone told me he was senile.’
‘There was a rumour he was unhinged for a time by his wife’s death, but I suspect the people who say he’s senile are the people who can’t imagine why anyone should want to live as a recluse.’
‘But Neville,’ I said as we approached the bridge over the river, ‘how did this clerical eccentric, whom you don’t seem to like much, come to know you so well?’
‘Ah,’ said Aysgarth. He paused. Then he said: ‘Well, as a matter of fact he gave me a helping hand once. Very decent of him and I appreciated it. I was going through a bit of a spiritual crisis at the time.’
‘You mean you’d lost your faith?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ said Aysgarth shocked. ‘Who do you think I am – one of Graham Greene’s whisky-priests? No, life just became a trifle awkward for a few days, that’s all. However, I survived. I’m a born survivor,’ said Aysgarth, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the car shot over the bridge, ‘and so’s that old pirate Jon Darrow. Incidentally, what do you think of that boy of his? I haven’t seen him since he was a child.’
‘He’s a psychic. He gives the impression of never travelling without his crystal ball.’
‘That sounds like a chip off the old block! There was some wild talk about how his father foresaw Pearl Harbor but I never believed a word of it. Dear old Darrow, he used to drive me mad when I was an archdeacon, but he was a great character. I shall feel sorry when he’s finally called to meet his maker.’
That remark gave me a jolt. St Darrow, Nick had told me, was eighty-three. The old boy could be borne off by the angels at any minute. I had to act fast.
After parting from Aysgarth outside the Staro Arms amidst the usual torrid hand-squeezes and smouldering looks, I retired to my flat and tried to work out how I could gain access to this ancient recluse who had once known my Mr Dean so well.
IX
From the telephone operator I obtained the number of Laud’s College in Cambridge, but when I put through the call I was told term had ended. I then looked up the number of Starrington Manor where one of St Darrow’s disciples managed to produce my Talisman after a three-minute hunt.
‘Sorry to bother you, Nick,’ I said, determined not to make Marina’s mistake of drowning him in cloying enthusiasm, ‘but I was hoping you could give me some advice about your brother. I’ve been invited to see
Present Laughter
and –’ I paused with thespian skill to convey the impression that a casual thought had just drifted into my mind ‘– oh, by the way, I assume you’ll be heading for the Starbridge Playhouse too some time that week?’
‘On the Friday, yes.’
‘Ah, I think Eddie – Eddie Hoffenberg, my escort – can only manage the Saturday, so I doubt if I’ll see you, but I must just ask this: as I told you once, my mother’s a huge Martin Darrow fan – would he think me a colossal bore if I went backstage and asked for his autograph for her?’
‘Actors never mind being asked for autographs,’ said Nick in a tone of voice which suggested he considered all actors far beneath him. It occurred to me then to wonder if he might be jealous of his handsome, successful brother.
‘But do I have to mention your name in order to win admittance to the august presence?’ I pursued, craftily signalling to him by my facetious tone that I too thought actors were a race apart.
‘I shouldn’t think so. But mention it if you like,’ said Nick, picking up my signal and becoming gracious.
‘Lovely, thanks so much. I say ... will your father be going to see the play?’
‘Yes.’
‘How exciting for him! I hope he likes it. Older people often find Coward quite shocking, I believe.’
‘My father isn’t that sort of old person,’ said Nick, becoming austere, ‘and since my mother was a Coward fan, he’s familiar with the text of
Present Laughter.
’
‘
Super! Okay, Nick, mustn’t delay you any longer – see you around some time. ‘Bye.’
I hung up, found pen and paper and wrote: ‘Dear Eddie, After that mean-spirited, unchristian little note I sent in response to your last letter, am I allowed to change my mind about
PresentLaughter?
I’ve decided I’d like to go, although for various reasons the only evening I can manage is the Friday. However, if you’d prefer not to escort me – indeed if you’d prefer to tear up this note and jump on it – I shall quite understand. Yours, VENETIA.’
I posted this missive five minutes later in the Chasuble Lane pillar-box. Then feeling confident that I would eventually come face to face with St Darrow, I congratulated myself on my Machiavellian skills and began to speculate again – fruitlessly – on the mysterious multiple personalities of my extraordinary Mr Dean.
X
An hour later I was just goggling at the television news (the Profumo scandal was now in full flower) and spooning baked beans into my mouth when the telephone rang. It was my mother, who had discovered that Martin Darrow was to appear at the Starbridge Playhouse. Enthralled by the thought of seeing her hero in the flesh she was already planning her visit to Flaxton Hall which could be used as a base for her assault on the theatre.
‘... and I was wondering if we could go to
Present Laughter
together, darling,’ she added. ‘I’d so like to see your flat – perhaps we could have an egg or something before the play. Can you boil an egg yet?’
‘Oh yes, but it’s so messy – all that steam –’
‘Well, never mind, a sandwich would do –’
Will Papa be with you?’
‘Oh no, he’d never go near anything by Coward. That’s why I thought that perhaps you and I —’
‘Mama, it’s terribly unfortunate but I’ve just agreed to go to the play with Canon Hoffenberg. Could you arrange to go with one of your Starbridge pals instead? You could come here for a drink first, of course —’
‘Canon Hoffenberg!’
‘Yes, but don’t tell Papa — he’ll ring up and start bawling away about the damned Huns, and frankly I’m not in a mood to take it.’
‘Oh, I know, darling, I know, so exhausting, and personally I’ve always rather liked Canon Hoffenberg —’
‘Just
let
me know when you’re coming, Mama, and I’ll go out and buy some gin.’
‘No, no, don’t buy any gin — your father will be so relieved when I tell him with a clear conscience that you don’t keep spirits in your flat. A glass of sherry would be quite sufficient for me.’
We parted amicably. Eyeing the gin bottle nearby I made a mental note to hide it in the airing cupboard before my mother arrived. Then I returned to the apparently endless television report on the Profumo scandal (distinguished married man ruined by ravishing young floozie) and began munching away once more on my baked beans.
XI
‘Dear Venetia,’ wrote Eddie in a letter which was delivered by hand, ‘I’ve got two tickets for the front row of the circle for the Friday performance. I shall be having dinner first at that new restaurant, the Quill Pen, in Wheat Street and if you’d like to join me, just let me know. Otherwise I’ll pick you up at your flat at 7.4o. The restaurant column of the
Starbridge Weekly
News
said that on the Quill Pen’s wine-list there was a very bold sparkling Mosel (which one seldom encounters in this country), but perhaps you’d prefer champagne, which I’ve no doubt the Quill Pen can also supply in abundance. Yours, E D D I E.’
I wrote back: ‘Dear Eddie: Congratulations on the front row of the circle! I thought the best seats would already have been nabbed, but maybe the Cathedral clergy have a special pull at the box office. I’ll drink anything that sparkles — in fact I’ll drink anything — but I’m on a diet so I’ll say no to the Quill Pen. See you at 7.4o as you suggest. Many thanks. Yours, V E N E T I A.’
Then I picked up Aysgarth’s daily report, read it through yet again and wrote: ‘My darling Neville, Thanks so much for your letter, but honestly, there’s no need to work yourself into such a frenzy of remorse — it wasn’t
your
fault that I was demolished at the Deanery! In fact I can see now (thanks to you) that I overreacted to all D’s remarks and made a mountain out of a molehill, so really I can blame no one for the demolition but myself. Sorry I got so fixated on your past and tried to turn you into a mystery man. Pm sure you really are terribly simple and that I really am being terribly stupid. It’s just that I find you so enthralling that I tend to go into an overheated feminine flat spin unless I understand every single thing you do. Such a drag for you! I promise to behave more rationally in future.
‘Apart from my idiotic behaviour (as specified above) I adored every minute of our meeting, especially the bit where we stuck together so torridly that steam rose from our wet clothes. But I think you’re right and we should change the rendezvous from the Staro Arms. How about the car-park of the Starbridge Playhouse? Which reminds me, I decided to make my peace with Eddie by agreeing to go with him to see
Present Laughter.
Eddie suggested this outing some time ago and I thought it might be a painless way of compensating him for my beastliness on the Cathedral roof. Then I shan’t have to go out with him again.
‘Darling, what a
bore
about Fitzgerald taking a phallic view of the sculpture’s "box of cigars"! He must have a mind like a sink — in fact I’m really quite shocked. As for him saying that the sculpture displays no Christian message but only symbols of the old earth-mother type of religion, all I can say is that I think he’s behaving like a Freudian case-book.
‘
Longing
to see you again and
panting
for your next letter. By the way, I suppose it’s a bit late in the day to start worrying, but are you sure it’s safe for me to write as frankly as this? Wouldn’t it be wiser if I addressed you as "Dear Mr Dean", signed off "love, Venetia", and cut out all references to generating steam? Whenever I think of the Profumo scandal (can’t wait for the House of Commons debate!) I get very nervous of taking any potentially scandalous risk. Much,
much
love from your devoted EGERIA.’
Aysgarth wrote back by return: ‘My darling, don’t worry about our letters. I always get up early to put in an hour’s work before breakfast, and D always has breakfast in bed as compensation for the fact that she seldom manages to sleep before three in the morning. My study, as you know, is next to the front door and I see the postman come up the garden path — usually around seven. There’s absolutely no possibility that D would ever be up at that hour, and by the time the second post arrives Miss Trotman’s here to pounce on it (though she would never, of course, open an envelope marked "Private and Confidential"). The only tricky time is on weekends but I’m very vigilant and D’s really much too absorbed in her own affairs to bother to ambush the postman. All your letters I keep under lock and key, and the key itself is always in my pocket. So say whatever you wish when you write to me — there’s no scandalous risk involved!
‘As for John Profumo, I’m sorry for him, of course — I’d be sorry for any man who wrecked a successful career — but I fear my sympathy is limited. Any distinguished man who’s fool enough to mess around with the demi-monde as represented by Christine Keeler is taking not merely a scandalous risk but a suicidal one.
‘I’ve thought a lot about our last meeting (the steam in the front seat!) and I’m sure everything’s all right. You have such a benign influence on me; I’m feeling more energetic, drinking less, losing weight — even praying better! (And like John Robinson I confess I always found schematic teaching about prayer rather a dead loss — there! I’ve never told anyone that before.) Robinson is right, of course, in saying that prayer shouldn’t mean a withdrawal from the world but a wholly committed engagement with it. Praying is working, relating to other people and above all LOVING. How clearly I can see that now, and you’re the one who’s helped me to see it. So I’m sure our love is right, sent by God to help me become a better clergyman. The gifts of the Spirit, as the famous saying goes, can be recognised by their fruits.
‘How very good of you to be so kind to poor old Eddie. I think this is admirable. Well done! I too shall be going to see
Present Laughter
but not until the Saturday — D plans to give a farewell party for the cast afterwards at the Deanery. I must say, I’m looking forward to comparing Martin Darrow’s stage skills with his father’s — that old ecclesiastical adventurer used to act like mad whenever he donned a cassock and glided around performing his Anglo-Catholic rituals! No wonder he spent seventeen years being a monk; the urge to dress up in medieval costume and play the holy man would have been far too delectable to resist, and as for his faith-healing phase later — when he tried to play Svengali, Rasputin and Our Lord Jesus Christ all rolled into one — well! Poor old Dr Ottershaw (Bishop of Starbridge 1937-1947) nearly had a heart-attack.
‘If it hadn’t been war-time Darrow would never have been recruited to teach at the Theological College, but the situation was desperate and he did have the right academic background. But look what his invasion produced! A perfectly respectable college, known for its middle-of-the-road churchmanship, was turned into a hotbed of Ango-Catholicism laced with periodic outbreaks of charismatic wonders! I admit the College became a huge success, but as soon as Darrow retired in 1950 it collapsed like a pricked balloon and became rather nasty. There was a terrible scandal in the ‘fifties when ... but no, I must be loyal to the Church and preserve a discreet silence! Charles Ashworth mopped up the mess when he became Bishop. I’ll say this for Charles: he doesn’t stand any nonsense when it comes to clerical behaviour which is really quite unacceptable.
‘Must stop now, darling, but I send my best love as always, N. PS. Let’s have a quick tryst on Lady Mary — how about Sunday post evensong?’
Drinking a cup of black coffee I wondered how much longer I could tolerate a diet of occasional quick trysts on Lady Mary and a weekly steamy kiss on Starbury Plain.