III
Starrington Magna, a sprawling village which stood twelve miles from Starbridge, was surrounded by farms owned by wealthy London businessmen who liked to play in the country at weekends. However, Nick told me that Starrington Manor’s Home Farm was run by a local man while the Community cared for the Manor’s extensive grounds. The house itself, I discovered, was not a Georgian mansion like my home but a rambling old pile which reminded me of a gingerbread house designed by a talented cook. It sat placidly in the sunshine amidst daisy-strewn lawns and looked hospitable. I found it a marked but not unattractive contrast to the glacial symmetry and manicured swards of Flaxton Hall.
‘It’s most peculiar of Father to see you like this,’ said Nick, leading me across the back lawn towards a wood. ‘I can’t understand it. He never sees women. In fact he seldom sees anyone. You must be careful not to stay more than ten minutes, and please don’t stage an emotional scene because he wouldn’t like it. He’s too old now for all that sort of thing.’
‘Who do you think you are?’ I said. ‘A Norland nanny, complete with pram and nappies?’
Nick said obstinately: ‘He’s got to be looked after.’
‘I thought the Community did that.’
‘Huh!’ said Nick in contempt and fell silent.
Before we entered the wood we passed a long, tangled herbaceous border bright with blooms. I thought how my mother would have rushed to tidy it up and ruin it.
‘I like this place,’ I said impulsively. ‘It’s got a good atmosphere.’
Nick stopped mooching along like an overgrown James Dean and decided to be gracious. ‘Father keeps the atmosphere clear,’ he said mysteriously, ‘and not even the Community can pollute it.’
‘What’s wrong with the Community?’
‘Bunch f silly neurotics playing at the religious life. Father only keeps them around for my sake so that I don’t have to worry about either him or the house when I’m away.’
Having entered the wood we were now following a well-marked path. The light, filtering through the leaves, was green and dim and cool.
‘How did your father find these nut-cases?’
‘They found him. Weak people are drawn to him because his psyche’s so strong,’ said Nick proudly, as if his father were an extra-sensory Tarzan. ‘He started with a couple of ex-monks – Anglican Benedictines from the Fordite Order – who needed a home while they readjusted to life in the world. They eventually married but, thank God, haven’t reproduced. Probably don’t know how. Then we’ve got an ex-missionary, an ex-Naval chaplain, an ex-theological student and an ex-pop-singer, all with various terminal hang-ups. The pop singer’s writing an opera about God.’
I was much intrigued, but before I could ask more questions the bushes parted on my left and I saw below me in a fairy-tale dell, framed by beautiful trees and magical shafts of sunlight, a vision of architectural perfection. It was a little chapel, exquisitely proportioned, a miniature variation on the classical themes expressed so sublimely by St Paul’s church in Covent Garden.
‘My God!’ I said, stopping dead to gape in admiration.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Nick, now very friendly.
‘Celestial. What’s that ruin in the background?’
‘A chantry destroyed by religious thugs at the time of the Reformation.’
Dreamily we wandered on down the path towards the glade on the floor of the dell. Birds sang. Beyond the intricate pattern of motionless green leaves the sky was a pure, misty blue. The sense of peace was overpowering.
On reaching the glade I noticed that beyond the chapel stood a little house with a slate roof and walls of golden stone. Flowers grew in the window-boxes which flanked the open front door, and a tough-looking tabby-cat, guarding the threshold, watched our approach with a knowing expression before disappearing nimbly into the interior.
Nick paused. ‘I’ll hang around out here,’ he said, becoming bossy again. ‘Father might need me. And remember: no more than ten minutes. I don’t want him tired.’
‘Anyone would think
you
were the parent here! Incidentally, why do you call him Father while Martin addresses him as Dad?’
‘He doesn’t like being called Dad but Martin doesn’t know because Father never liked to tell him for fear of hurting his feelings.’ Nick sounded pleased by this, as if he had scored in some important way over his famous half-brother.
I was about to say frankly: ‘You Darrows are the oddest bunch!’ when a shadow moved in the doorway and I realised that Father Darrow was now standing watching us, the tough tabby-cat curled neatly in his arms.
IV
‘Come in, Miss Flaxton,’ he said. ‘Off you go, Nicholas.’
‘But Father —’
‘Quite unnecessary for you to stay, thank you.’
Reconverted into an overgrown James Dean, Nick slouched off across the glade with his fists shoved deep in his pockets.
‘It’s very difficult for Nicholas that I’m so old,’ said Father Darrow, setting down the cat before ushering me across the threshold. ‘Old people can seem so fragile to the young and he’s become over-protective, but as you see, I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’
I stared around. The room was perhaps fifteen foot square and contained a bunk bed with drawers underneath, a small wardrobe, a table with two chairs, an easy chair with a footstool and numerous shelves of books on either side of a stone fireplace. There were no pictures, no photographs, only a crucifix hanging over the bed. Everywhere was fanatically tidy and spotlessly clean. The old man was spotlessly clean too, just like the room, and neat as a new pin. In contrast to the previous evening, when he had been dressed
as a layman
for his outing to the theatre, he had now chosen to appear as a clergyman; he wore a black suit, a black stock and a snow-white clerical collar. He also, unlike most ordinary Anglican clergymen, wore a small pectoral cross, representative, I supposed, of the Anglo-Catholic churchmanship which made him prefer to be addressed as ‘Father’ rather than ‘Mr’. His beautiful hands gestured that I should sit down at the table. He offered me tea.
‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble ...’
But the kettle had already been boiled in the little galley-kitchen. ‘They were able to bring electricity to the cottage without much trouble,’ he said, as if he felt obliged to explain the presence of modern conveniences. ‘The main road runs close to here beyond the wall of the grounds. However, I chose not to have electric radiators. I prefer an open fire, even if it does mean a little extra work.’
The tabby-cat was washing its paws on the hearth but when Father Darrow sat down opposite me the animal padded over to us. The old man poured out the tea and nodded to the cat. Instantly it leapt into his lap and began to purr.
‘It’s very good of you to see me like this,’ I said, watching his hands stroke the stripey fur, ‘especially when you never see women.’
‘What a nasty old misogynist that makes me sound!’ He gave me his most fascinating smile. ‘It’s true that in the old days my ministry was to men, but that wasn’t because I disliked women; it was because I liked women too well. However, at the advanced age of eighty-three ... Well, nowadays I see just whom I want to see, that’s the truth of it. Most people I don’t want to see. Nothing to say. But occasionally I come across a person who screams silently: HELP! HELP! – and then, I assure you, I’m the most sociable creature you could imagine.’
I was entranced. ‘You really heard me screaming for help?’
‘A young woman,’ said Father Darrow, ‘attractive, delightful and obviously well-to-do, sits down at a table with four men. But she has no eyes for her escort, no eyes for the famous actor who’s being so charming to her and no eyes for the young man who’s too shy to be more than conventionally civil. Again and again she steals glances at this very decrepit old party who’s quite clearly, as they say, "past it". And again and again, whenever the decrepit old party meets her fascinated gaze she looks away as if she’s been caught in a fearful indiscretion. Now what can be the meaning of this curious behaviour? In addition it’s clear that the young lady’s in a state of profound agitation. She twists the strap of her bag; she drinks her brandy too fast; she talks with great style but little content. Adding two and two together I make an unlikely four: the young lady has heard about me and for some reason believes that I can ease her agitation. I take a gamble, I suggest an interview and she almost collapses with relief. So! Here you are, and all I now have to do is ask how I can help you.’
‘Why, you fabulous old pet!’ I cried, but then realised in embarrassment that this was hardly the most respectful way to address a clergyman. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘Demented with relief. Slip of the tongue.’
But Father Darrow looked delighted that a young woman should be calling him a fabulous old pet, and as he smiled at me again he seemed so sympathetic, so kind and above all so immensely approachable that I felt I could talk to him without pause for hour after hour while I bared my soul for his inspection. Having been obliged in recent weeks to keep my own counsel and dissemble endlessly in order to preserve my great secret, I found that the impact of meeting someone to whom I could open my heart was so great that I had a wild desire to weep. But I controlled myself. No emotional scenes, Nick had said. I didn’t want the old pet regretting his decision to give me an audience.
‘Well, you see, it’s like this,’ I said, dry-eyed but not, unfortunately, very coherent. ‘I seem to have got myself into rather a peculiar situation with a clergyman – I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not his mistress, at least not exactly, but nevertheless ... well, it’s just rather a peculiar situation.’ Gulping some air I tried not to panic.
‘Oh, I’m very used to clergymen in peculiar situations,’ said Father Darrow, mercifully unshocked and still exuding his bewitching sympathy from every pore. ‘Have a little sip of tea.’
I had a little sip of tea. Then I managed to add: ‘We’re madly in love but it’s all very confusing.’
‘There’s a wife, I daresay, in the background,’ suggested Father Darrow helpfully, stroking the cat behind the ears.
‘Yes, but we’ve both accepted that there can be no divorce.’ Suddenly the words began to stream out of me. The real problem,’ I said, ‘is what sort of relationship we can have. You see, he believes – and he’s terribly modem in his outlook – he believes there are no hard and fast rules any more when it comes to dealing with ethical situations; all you have to do is act with love – which sounds like an invitation to a sexual free-for-all but it’s not. The catch is that you have to act with the very best kind of love, pure and noble. So if a man loves a girl and says to himself: "Do I take her to bed?" the answer’s not yes, it’s no, because if he really loves her he won’t want to use her to satisfy himself in that way.’
‘This sounds like the New Morality outlined by Bishop Robinson in
Honest to God.
’
‘
So you know all about that!’ I had thought an ancient recluse would hardly bother to keep abreast of modern theology. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘The important question is what
you
think of it.’
‘I just don’t know any more, I’m so confused. My clergyman, following the New Morality, says that even though he’s married we’re allowed a romantic friendship so long as we truly love each other, because so long as we
truly
love each other we’ll be high-minded enough to abstain from anything that’s wrong — wrong in the sense that it would hurt either us or other people. Well, that’s fine, so heroic, but the trouble is, the deeper I get into this relationship the less sense that seems to make. I mean, if you love someone you do want to go to bed with them, you can’t stop yourself, sex becomes like a tank, crushing all the noble thoughts into the dust.’
‘You’re saying that the gap between Dr Robinson’s idealism and your experience of reality has now become intolerably wide. And what about our clergyman? Is he experiencing this gap too?’
‘Yes, but ... Honestly, Father Darrow, I just don’t know what’s going on in his mind. There’s no doubt he’s a deeply moral man — I mean, this is not, repeat
not,
your typical runaway vicar who periodically features in a
News of the World
scandal — but sometimes I think he’s making the New Morality an excuse for not going further with me; I’ve begun to suspect he’s held back not by his moral beliefs, genuine though they are, but by some sort of psychological block which arises out of his past.’
Father Darrow was deeply interested. ‘Have you any idea what this could be?’
‘In my worst moments I suspect it’s all connected with his wife, and in my very worst moments I get obsessed with the thought that he’s still sleeping with her, but the truth is I just don’t know. All I do know is that occasionally he seems very mixed up — some of his conversations are really bizarre — yet at the same time he must be extremely sane and well-balanced.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘Well, I wasn’t exaggerating a moment ago when I said he’s not your typical runaway vicar. He’s not a vicar at all. He’s terribly distinguished, he’s one of the most important men in the diocese, and he simply couldn’t hold down such a job unless he was sanity personified.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Father Darrow, ‘I see it all now.’ He set down the cat. ‘You wanted to see me because I know him well and you think I can unlock the mystery of his personality for you.’
‘That’s it.’ I sagged with relief. ‘His wife says you know more about him than anyone else except her, so I thought that if only you could explain him to me I’d at last be able to understand what’s going on.’
‘What’s going on,’ said Father Darrow, ‘is adultery, Miss Flaxton.’
‘Oh no!’ I said at once. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear? We haven’t had sex. I mean, we haven’t had complete sex. I mean —’
‘How often do you see this man?’
‘Once a week on his afternoon off, when we go for a drive in his car, and sometimes we’re able to see each other for a few minutes in between, but he writes every day and I write back so we’re in close touch.’
‘He likes your letters, does he?’
‘Oh, he adores them! And he adores me — he says I’m the greatest prize he’s ever encountered —’
‘Yes, of course. He would. I recognise him now.’
I stared. ‘You do?’
‘Oh, he’s quite unmistakable. Tell me, has he perhaps encouraged you to call him by another name, a name he doesn’t normally use?’
Shock locked itself in a lump in my throat as the mounting strain of the interview finally took its toll on me. I was unable to speak.
‘It’s the Dean, isn’t it?’ said Father Darrow.
I covered my face with my hands and began to tremble