VI
Dear Venetia,’ wrote Eddie by return of post, ‘I shall look forward to spotting you in the congregation next Sunday. My text will be: "Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." I used to reflect often on that text when I was a POW in May ‘forty-five. However, in my sermon I shall substitute the decadence sown by secular society for the devastation sown by Hitler. Yours, EDDIE. PS. Any chance of you dropping in for a drink some time this week? I’ve got a rather interesting bottle of Château Lafite which I’ve been saving for a rainy day.’
VII
‘Dear Eddie, Passionate about the Château Lafite but this week’s a bit difficult. Can we "take a rain-check", as Dinkie would say? Yours, VENETIA. PS. Marina tells me Dinkie’s having a mad affair with Katie’s brother Simon. I wouldn’t have thought brainless hulks were in her line, but Americans are notorious for their lack of discrimination. PPS. Thanks for warning me about the extremely sinister text on which you intend to preach. I shall bring a hip-flask of brandy in case I feel faint with terror.’
VIII
‘My darling,’ wrote Aysgarth, ‘I didn’t sleep a wink all last night because I was so worried about you, and so far I’ve written three letters but tom them all up. Your distress appalled me. What can I do to put things right? It would kill me to give you up but I’d rather be dead than make you unhappy. One day, as I’ve said before, I will have to give you up; you’ll meet someone of your own generation who’ll make you the best possible husband – you may even meet this Great Paragon tomorrow, for all I know, but darling, make sure he is the Great Paragon because it would break my heart if you wasted yourself on someone who was unworthy of you.
‘Forgive all this turgid agonising, but I fear you might be thinking me selfish, begging you to stay in Starbridge, and I’m anxious to demonstrate that I am capable of putting your welfare above my selfish longings. What I want more than anything else is for you to be happy. That’s how I can face the knowledge that one day I shall have to cede you to the Great Paragon. However, meanwhile you’re free, and until that terrible day when my great prize is irrevocably lost I feel I can’t bear to part from you even temporarily. In fact I---
‘(LATER) Fitzgerald’s just rung up. The Widow Carter says she knows nothing of her late husband’s financial affairs – she never even had a cheque-book until he died– but she does remember that their retirement bungalow in Budleigh Salterton cost £3,000 more than they could afford and that her husband was thrilled when he managed to get the money from somewhere.
‘This is, of course, horrific and the potential for scandal is enough to give any Dean and Chapter a collective nervous breakdown. Imagine Carter, one of the premier deans in England, taking a bribe like that! Fitzgerald and Dalton still doggedly refuse to believe it. Eddie, always the optimist, saysit can only be a matter of hours now before the tabloid press hear Lady Bone-Pelham shrieking that the Dean and Chapter have welshed on the deal to give her heroic husband the distinguished last resting-place he deserves. Meanwhile Sir George is still lying in state at the undertakers’, and the undertakers themselves are getting very shirty indeed. I confess I’m sorely tempted to dig up a little patch of the Cloisters’ lawn in order to bury Carter’s iniquity along with Sir George’s corpse, but if 1 start bending the rules all the nobs will want to be buried there and I’ll have the Health Department trying to prosecute me for operating an insanitary establishment. (Or does this only apply to restaurants?) The whole thing’s a nightmare.
‘Must close, darling – I’ll try not to be so selfish in future, I promise – I really do accept that I can’t keep you for ever, but meanwhile let’s not think of the future, let’s blot it out, let’s just live in the present, let’s have our shining dream, because I love you more than words can ever express and the thought of living without you is absolutely, utterly and entirely UNBEARABLE. All my love, my darling, my angel, my adored one, for ever and ever, N.’
IX
‘Dear Venetia, I’m extremely surprised to hear that Dinkie was having an affair with Simon. According to Perry Palmer, who invited me to Albany for a drink when I was visiting my London dentist last week, she’s ended up as a scalp in Michael Ashworth’s collection. Incidentally, Perry asked when you were coming to see his coal-cellar. Yours, EDDIE. PS. I’ll try not to terrify you from the pulpit! Any chance of seeing you for a cup of coffee after matins? I think I can get out of the sung Communion by putting pressure on Tommy Fitzgerald – I substituted for him in May when he had to waltz off to wait upon his widowed mother. PPS. I shan’t be missing Communion altogether on Sunday, of course – I’ll be the celebrant at the early service. (I don’t want you to think I’m lax!)’
X
‘Dear Eddie, Having drained my hip-flask during your sermon, I shall without doubt require black coffee afterwards to revive me. Thanks. By the way, Perry’s got it quite wrong and it was Emma-Louise who wound up as a scalp. She’s now flirting hard with Robert Welbeck who, so Marina tells me, is dying of unrequited love for her (Marina). Marina herself, of course, is still welded to the frame of her asexual triangle with Christian and Katie and avoiding the furious pounces of Michael Ashworth who can’t bear to think that such a gorgeous scalp might elude his collection. Just as an afterthought: do you think Perry’s queer? I’m trying to decide whether the coal-cellar’s worth a visit. Yours, VENETIA.’
XI
‘Darling,
darling
Neville, I cried when I read your letter, wept for hours, because you were trying so hard to be noble when all I really deserved was a kick on the bottom for being so
cruel
as to talk as I did. Of course I’ll never leave you, never – except later this month when I have to go up to town for my mother’s seventieth birthday. No way out of that, I’m afraid, but don’t worry – I’ll come straight back to Starbridge. And again, don’t worry – I don’t want to marr
y
anyone except you, and if you’re never free, then I’ll never marry. So please,
please
treat my silly remark about leaving as if it had never been uttered, and
do
stop talking about that repulsive Great Paragon, because I adore you, I couldn’t live without you and there couldn’t possibly be anyone else, not now, NOT EVER ...’
XII
‘This is amazingly good coffee, Eddie. Congratulations.’
‘It takes a foreigner to make decent coffee in England!Well, tell me the worst – what did you think of the sermon?’
‘Great fun. Can’t wait to reap what I’ve sown.’
Eddie laughed. We were sitting in the drawing-room of his little house in the North Walk and beyond the bow window the Cathedral basked in the hot August sun. The room was carefully furnished with reproduction antiques, and the walls were lined with English sporting prints; all books were confined to the study across the hall. Eddie himself was still wearing his cassock and looked like a huge black pear.
‘... and I simply must take this opportunity to tell you how grateful I am that you never treat me as a clergyman,’ he was saying earnestly. ‘After being continually addressed by the elderly inhabitants of the Close as "dear Canon" and viewed as if I were a stainless-steel robot, it’s so refreshing to receive letters from someone who has no hesitation in writing about affairs and asexual triangles and pounces and queers –’
‘That reminds me, do you think Perry’s queer as a coot?’
‘I find it quite impossible to tell. In fact I don’t believe it’s possible to know much about anyone’s sex-life unless one happens to be a priest who hears confessions.’
I said vaguely: ‘You don’t hear confessions, do you, Eddie?’ and was surprised when he said he did. ‘I share the job with Tommy Fitzgerald,’ he added. ‘I’m not High-Church by inclination as Tommy is, but I had plenty of experience of the confessional when I was running my Anglo-Catholic parish at Langley Bottom.’
‘Yes, I remember your triumph among the bells and smells. But Eddie, since confession isn’t compulsory in the Church of England and since it’s regarded by the majority as a High-Church fad, I’m amazed to hear the Dean allows such goings-on in his Cathedral!’
‘Oh,
he
’
d
never hear anyone, of course! The very word "confession" makes him regress instantly to his Nonconformist upbringing!’
‘Then who performed the impossible feat of persuading him to allow confessions?’
‘The Bishop. Charles is the kind of priest who’s difficult to classify: his churchmanship’s middle-of-the-road, but he can preach like an Evangelical once he gets going on sin and he’s as fervent about confessions as any Anglo-Catholic.’
‘But how on earth did the Bishop force Aysgarth to –’
‘Oh, the clash was resolved without too much trouble because Charles had Cathedral tradition on his side and Tommy was already there, willing to hear confessions. Stephen soon decided it would be prudent not to meddle too violently with the status quo -- he’d only just been appointed Dean – and later he did come to see that the Cathedral, as the mother-church of the diocese, really does have to provide a confessor for the occasional penitent who turns up. But we’ve got another big churchmanship clash brewing, and this one won’t be resolved so easily. Charles is in favour of experimenting with the idea of making the Eucharist the main service on Sunday morning, but Stephen just says: "Over my dead body.’
‘What do you three canons say?’
‘Nothing. We’re far too busy praying for a resolution to our eternal problem.’
‘What eternal problem?’
‘How to prevent our Bishop and our Dean killing each other.’
‘But good heavens, Eddie, are you saying these clashes go on all the time?’
‘Oh, we live dangerously in this Cathedral Close! It’s blood and thunder all the way! I hesitate to say this to you, Venetia – and perhaps I can only say it because I know you’re as devoted to Stephen as I am – but he really does behave very foolishly sometimes.’
‘What do you mean by "foolishly"?’
‘Well, he’s got this odd, reckless streak. He takes such risks.’
‘Scandalous risks?’
‘Potentially, yes.’ Eddie hesitated but when I interposed: ‘Go on, you can trust me,’ he said: ‘Let me give you an example of the most fearful crisis which has recently blown up as the result of a risk he took. He commissioned a sculpture for the Cathedral churchyard, and he did it without consulting the Chapter. Of course he quickly asked us for our approval, showed us somevague sketches and produced an impressive title for the work – "Modern Man In Search Of God" – but that didn’t alter the fact that he was imposing his decision on us. Apparently he’d met this attractive young sculptress Harriet March – maybe you know her? – at one of Dido’s Art Evenings, and she’d charmed him so much that he’d offered her the commission on the spot. But he knew nothing about her work, nothing at all! What a risk to take, what a potential scandal! However, fortunately for him the Tate were prepared to vouch for her so it seemed he’d brought off the gamble, although Tommy and Paul remained livid about the lack of consultation and Tommy made a very cutting remark about Stephen’s penchant for young women – which, as you and I both know, is a perfectly harmless idiosyncrasy that he’s been indulging in innocently for years. Anyway, just when we’d decided we’d all learn to love the sculpture, Mrs March sent some photographs of the work in progress and it was quite obvious that the masterpiece will be pornographic.’
‘Help! Naked ladies?’
‘Naked men – and only one portion of their anatomy is portrayed.’
‘Glory!’
‘Well, of course we can’t possibly have it in the churchyard – the gutter-press would feast off the story for days and we’d be the laughing-stock of the Church of England. I realise that, Paul realises that, Tommy realises that, but thanks to Tommy playing his cards wrong and roping in the Archdeacon, Stephen’s got locked in a power-struggle with the Bishop and that’s absolutely FATAL. I tell you, Venetia, those two should never be living in the same cathedral close. They’re not only theologically incompatible; they’re temperamentally mismatched. Stephen can really only get on with cuddly, pliable old bishops like the late Dr Ottershaw back in the ‘forties, but Charles is neither cuddly, nor pliable nor even particularly old. God knows where it’ll all end ... I say, Venetia, would you like a drink? It somehow seems to have turned into twelve o’clock. I’ve got rather an intriguing bottle of hock in the fridge –’
‘Lovely. Thanks. But Eddie –’ Automatically I followed him into the kitchen — this is horrific. I didn’t quite realise — I mean, I had no idea —’
‘No, of course not — how could you have known? I shouldn’t really be telling you, but to be honest I’m just so worried that it’s the most unutterable relief to confide in someone I can trust. I can’t really discuss the situation with Paul and Tommy because I’m afraid of seeming disloyal to Stephen.’
‘Well, you can trust me to the hilt and I swear I’ll never think you’re being disloyal. Supposing this ghastly mess does get splashed all over the worst front pages in Fleet Street? What would happen then?’
‘Disaster. The Bishop would be down on us like a ton of bricks. He’d make a visitation.’
What’s that?’
Well, it certainly wouldn’t just be dropping in at the Cathedral for elevenses. What does the chairman of the board do when his biggest branch office goes off the rails? He turns up with the auditors and lawyers, tracks down the source of the catastrophe and sacks the man responsible.’
‘My God.’ I had to lean against the doorpost, but fortunately Eddie was unaware of the full dimensions of my horror; he was too busy extracting the cork from the bottle. ‘But surely Ashworth can’t fire Aysgarth!’
‘No, he can’t, not directly, because the deanery’s a Crown appointment, but if a really serious mess is uncovered —’ Eddie began to pour out the hock — Charles will go to the Archbishop of Canterbury. There’d be no trial in the Church Courts, of course — much too scandalous — but Archbishop Ramsey, with the Crown, as it were, in the pocket of his purple cassock, would gently suggest a retirement with full pension rights on the grounds of ill health.’
I was speechless. It was only when we had returned with the wine to the drawing-room that I managed to say: ‘Eddie, if you’re deliberately piling on the gloom and doom in order to frighten me —’
‘Let me cheer you up by saying that although the sculpture could turn into a fiasco big enough to warrant a visitation, the Cathedral itself is still bowling along in an acceptable fashion — or in other words, I don’t believe a visitation would turn up a mess serious enough to justify
an
appeal to the Archbishop.’ Thank God!’
‘But what really worries me,’ said Eddie, barely listening, ‘is that this is only the latest of a long series of clashes between the Bishop and the Dean, and now Charles could well have reached the point where he’d seize any opportunity to pull out the long knife. If he can’t drive home a charge of mismanagement, he’ll be itching to prove a charge of personal misconduct, and although Stephen may wriggle out of this present tight corner, where on earth will his gambler’s streak lead him next? Thank goodness he’s at least cut back on the drink recently. I can’t even begin to describe the scandalous risks he’s taken during his long love affair with the bottle ... Hm, this hock’s really very passable! Have a sip, Venetia.’
I sipped the hock. It tasted of nothing. When I replaced the glass on the table I was aware that my hand was trembling. ‘Now you really are exaggerating, Eddie!’ said my voice brightly. ‘I know our Mr Dean drinks quite a bit, but —’
‘
Quite a bit?
Sorry — excuse the heavy irony. But perhaps I’d better not say any more, it’d be a mistake, I’d regret it later —’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘No, you tell me everything. Good for you to get it off your chest. And don’t worry, I swear I’ll never tell a soul.’
Well, you won’t believe half of what I say,’ said Eddie, knocking back his hock. ‘You simply won’t believe it, but ...’ He embarked on his revelations.
And then the horrors really began to unfold.