VII
‘Dear Eddie, Drooling at the thought of the Château Lafite. Do you have two bottles? Love, VENETIA.’
Having slipped this note through Eddie’s letter-box I crossed the Cathedral sward to the north porch. The bell was tolling for evensong, and as the sidesman showed me to my usual place in the choir, the organ began to play. Five minutes later the procession emerged from the vestry, the congregation stood up — But Aysgarth was nowhere to be seen.
After the service I did sit on Lady Mary for half an hour in the hope that he might still reach the cloisters, but no one came. I tried to work out what had happened. The appointment with the Bishop had been set for three o’clock. If Aysgarth was still at the South Canonry three and a half hours later, what on earth could be going on?
Returning home I poured myself a double brandy and prepared for a tense vigil by the phone.
VIII
He rang just before eight. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry, I —’ He stopped. Then he said to someone nearby: ‘Just talking to Primrose — I won’t be a moment.’ Dido’s voice droned in the background like a dentist’s drill. Then he said to me: ‘Listen, Primrose, I must go — I’d forgotten we were dining out. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ And the next moment I heard the click of the receiver being replaced and the buzz of the empty line.
IX
‘My darling,’ wrote Aysgarth, ‘I had rather a rough ride at the South Canonry this afternoon, and when I got home Dido demanded a blow-by-blow description – which I didn’t give her as she would have had hysterics, but nevertheless she suspected I wasn’t being honest with her, and by the time I’d calmed her down and packed her off to her bedroom to nurse her headache it was nearly half-past five. I was just about to rush off to the Cathedral for evensong when disaster struck: the Architect turned up on my doorstep to discuss the west front, and by the time I’d got rid of him I knew I must have missed you, but I did dash to Lady Mary anyway, just to make sure. Gnashing my teeth at the thought that we’d probably only missed each other by seconds I raced back to phone you – only to find that some more visitors had arrived to see me, and although I did my best to liquidate them they lingered infuriatingly on. Then just
as
I finally got you on the line Dido surfaced to remind me that we were expected at the Chantry for dinner in five minutes! At that point, I can tell you, I was ready to climb every wall in sight and needed a very hefty scotch to help me keep both feet firmly on the ground. Darling, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry – what a disaster! I felt demented.
‘Charles really wheeled on the big guns at the South Canonry. His power-mania is now running riot to such an extent that I feel his true home is in a City boardroom – he’s the kind of potentate who would enjoy raising an eyebrow and seeing the Stock Market plunge in consequence. Thank God he’s missed out on Canterbury! The Church of England’s had a lucky escape.
‘Of course I hardly expected the interview to be easy; he’d signalled the episcopal displeasure by summoning me not by phone ("Hullo, Stephen old boy – any chance of seeing you for a tot of Tio Pepe?") but by a letter,
typed,
if you please, by the hag Peabody and signed with the official episcopal signature – a cross (for bishop), then "Charles" and finally "Staro" (for Starbridge). The full text of this icy missive ran: "My dear Dean, I should be greatly obliged if you could come to the South Canonry at 3.00 p.m. to discuss a matter which requires an urgent resolution. Yours sincerely, 4 CHARLES STARO. "
‘Very nasty. Well, I togged myself up in my best clerical suit and then I
drove
the three hundred yards to the South Canonry. (No turning up on foot like a suppliant.) The lay-chaplain admitted me in vilely aloof style and ushered me into the episcopal study with a sniff. (Why was I admitted by the lay-chaplain? Why not by the chaplain himself? That was a subtle piece of downgrading!) Charles, sitting behind his desk and exuding his very worst public-school/Cambridge snootiness,
didn
’
t stand up.
Damn rude. He just looked at me as if I were some idle undergraduate who hadn’t been studying for his exams and said: "Good afternoon, Stephen. Please sit down. I’m afraid we’ve reached the point where we must settle the fate of the Harriet March sculpture."
‘I nearly passed out. I was all set to drag the rug from under his feet on the Bone-Pelham crisis. However, I pulled myself together, sat down and kept my mouth shut. Sometimes silence
can
be a disconcerting weapon, but Charles didn’t turn a hair. He just said bluntly: "The diocesan committee’s now been selected for the purpose of advising the Chancellor on this matter, but I see no point in them ever meeting. My mind’s made up; I can no longer afford to procrastinate in the hope that you’ll see reason. We just can’t afford to air this case in the Consistory Court, and I must insist that you withdraw your application for a faculty."
‘I said: "I dispute your decision, I dispute the wisdom of your attitude and I dispute your despotic attempt to deprive me of my rights under ecclesiastical law. I demand a hearing before the Chancellor." I thought that would stop him dead in his tracks, but he blasted back: "I deplore your hostility, I deplore your pigheadedness and above all I deplore your refusal to face reality. Do you seriously believe you’d ever be granted a faculty for that junk-heap?"
‘I said: ‘Whether I’m granted a faculty or not is irrelevant. The fact remains that I’m entitled to a hearing in the Consistory Court, and no bishop is entitled to dispense with the law."
‘"Don’t flaunt that flabby liberal idealism at me!" exploded Charles. "You’re just using it to cover up the fact that you’re too proud to back down! You know as well as I do that all you’ll achieve by a court hearing is nation-wide publicity in the gutter-press, and if you really think I’m going to stand by and let the unchurched masses split their sides laughing over the pornographic taste of the Dean of Starbridge, you’d better think again!"
‘I shot back: "If you’re so power-mad that you believe you’re above the law, I’m complaining to the Archbishop of Canterbury!"
‘"I’m the one who’ll be complaining to the Archbishop of Canterbury!" shouts Charles. "Either you wash your hands of that sculpture or I’m making a visitation!"
‘Silence. I’m winded. I feel as if I’ve wound up in a pool of blood on the floor, and for a moment I’m so shocked I can’t speak. A visitation would be very nasty. In fact it would be very, very nasty indeed in my present circumstances. The last thing I want is the Bishop arriving on the doorstep like the wrath of God, particularly when I’ve got the west front falling down with the result that I’m obliged to do some juggling with the accounts. (If only I wasn’t already juggling! It’s true that commissioning the sculpture
was
a trifle more expensive than I’d anticipated, but I knew I could make up the deficit eventually. How was I to know I’d suddenly need a quick thousand to shore up the west front?)
‘I see now what must have happened: Charles had the confidence to bludgeon me into a bloodstained heap because he knew I was vulnerable over the accounts. That
traitor
Fitzgerald! He’d tipped off the Archdeacon again.
‘Well, I mopped up the blood (metaphorically) and I staggered to my feet (literally) and I said with dignity: "I’m sorry that you should find it necessary to threaten me in such an extremely unedifying manner, and even sorrier that your order puts me in a most awkward moral predicament. Perhaps, as my Bishop, you can advise me how I can face Mrs March with a clear conscience when I repudiate the contract for the sculpture."
‘I thought that might make him give an embarrassed twitch, but no, he strokes his pectoral cross – I can’t stand it when he does that, I’m sure he only does it to underline the fact that he’s reached the episcopal bench in the House of Lords and I haven’t – and he retorts: "If you can commission a sculpture on impulse, without consulting your Chapter, from an attractive young woman who batted her eyelashes at you over the dry-martini cocktails, I wouldn’t have thought your conscience was too clear in the first place. Pay Mrs March in full so that she has no legal redress and then sever your connection with her. That, I think, will ensure your conscience is a little clearer in future than it is at present."
‘I could have hit him.
‘But I didn’t. Successful clergymen don’t go around hitting people and no clergyman in his right mind takes a swing at his bishop. I’m in my right mind. I didn’t take a swing. But by heaven, I don’t know how I restrained myself.
‘When I trusted myself to speak I said: "I’ve already denied to you that my association with Mrs March is in any way improper. I must tell you that I strongly resent you raking up this slander a second time."
‘"And I must tell you," said Charles, "that I’ve recently heard yet another rumour which implies your association with Mrs March is an improper one. I’m prepared to believe your denials, but I put it to you that the dean of a great cathedral is required to be as far above suspicion as Caesar’s wife, and I must frankly declare that I don’t wish to hear such scandalous gossip ever again." Well, of course, I knew I had to stand up to him, put up a tough front, so I said: "I’m much obliged to you for continuing to believe me innocent of adultery. In the circumstances I suppose I should regard that as an unprecedented favour."
‘He just looked at me. I hoped he was going to give me details of this new rumour – naturally I wanted to demolish it – but to my disappointment he changed the subject and said: "Someone was asking about you the other day, someone who always takes an interest in you and wishes you well. Do you ever think of calling on Jon Darrow?"
‘I was very surprised. However it was a relief to drop the subject of adultery, so I said amiably enough that I’d planned to look in at Starrington Manor next Christmas, and wasn’t it marvellous that the old boy was still ticking over.
‘Charles said: "Don’t leave it till Christmas. Go soon – he’d really like to see you." And then having allowed himself this little piece of chit-chat in order to ease the truly appalling atmosphere between us, he said tersely: "But to return to the sculpture: I trust I can now rely on you to terminate the arrangement with Mrs March immediately and in a manner which generates no publicity of any kind."
‘"As you wish," I said equally tersely, "but I’m sorry. The sculpture’s a fine work of modern art – in the opinion of those who have the taste to appreciate it." Then I waited, but when he didn’t offer me either his hand or a reply I walked out.
‘Well, all I can say is that I’ve staved off a disastrous visitation. But what a scene! I feel as if he beat me up with that pectoral cross of his. I’d like to – but no, I must get a grip on myself. Violent feelings are utterly wrong for a clergyman. Perhaps I can work mine off by punching a pillow for ten minutes! No, on second thoughts I think it’s time for a triple whisky. (The dinner-party tonight was an awful bore but at least the port flowed freely.)
‘I haven’t yet worked out what to say to Harriet, but I’m sure she’ll be decent about the fiasco if I put all the blame squarely on Charles. The stupid part about the rumours is that I’m quite certain she’s not interested in carrying on with any man at the moment because she’s still wedded to the memory of her hero husband who
was killed on Everest. That fact makes this new rumour all the more startling – and worrying too. Where did the story come from and how on earth did it get started? I don’tthink I can blame Fitzgerald for this one. Scandalous facts – yes. Romantic fiction – no. Not his line of country at all.
‘But I must now leave the mystery unsolved and conclude this letter. I’ll slip out early tomorrow morning, take the car to Butchers’ Alley and pop the envelope through your door – I’ll be tempted to ring the bell, I know, but you’d be in your nightdress and I might feel tempted to rip it off. I already feel like ripping everything in sight and giving primeval howls of rage. That **** of a Bishop! I can’t
bear
being worsted in a power-struggle like that, I long to WIN! My darling, write
soon
–
I feel so starved of your company that I can hardly endure it, vastest, devotedest love, N.’
X
‘According to Stephen,’ said Eddie as we sipped Château Lafite in his drawing-room and watched the Cathedral turn golden in the evening light, ‘he and Charles had a stylish fencing match which Stephen eventually won by graciously withdrawing the sculpture in order to do the pathetically harassed Bishop a favour. I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No. I think Charles, as Dinkie would say, "took him to the cleaners". How is Dinkie, by the way?’
‘Oh, she’s in a ghastly state. She’s having an affair with a married man who –’ I stopped. I had only drunk half a glass of wine. I said: ‘I think I’m going mad.’
‘I thought Dinkie was carrying on with –’
‘– with Simon, yes. Sony. Mental aberration.’
‘I say, Venetia, you wouldn’t by any possible chance be free for the rest of the evening, would you? I’ve discovered this nice little restaurant where they have a most provocative Pouilly-Fuissé –’
I agreed to go out to dinner.
XI
‘Well, thanks, Eddie — it’s been fun —’
‘Any chance of seeing you next week?’
‘Why not? I might as well live it up a little before I have to face the ghastly family reunion at Lord North Street.’
‘I’m glad your brother was finally able to buy the rose-bowl on credit.’
‘God knows what he bought it on — I think he had to take someone to lunch at the Ritz in order to get the loan. The entire episode with all its shoddy scrounging and revolting extravagance makes me wonder why the British haven’t long since guillotined their aristocracy.’
This amused Eddie. ‘We seem to have reversed our roles!’ he remarked. ‘Now that the sculpture crisis is over I’m calm and cheerful, whereas now that you’re facing the family reunion you’re gloom personified!’
Well, don’t get too cheerful — there’s still the problem of how you’re going to raise the quick thousand to shore up the west front.’
Eddie said startled at once: ‘How did you know about that?’ My stomach seemed to turn a full circle in a single second. My voice said: ‘You told me.’
‘I know I told you about the west front but I never mentioned any exact sum of money.’
‘Then I must have got it from Primrose — you know how the Dean tells her everything.’
‘I’m surprised he told her about the Chapter meeting yesterday morning. It developed into a real slanging match when Stephen had to reveal he’d led us astray about the cost of the sculpture.’
I said quickly: ‘Primrose was talking about the staff meeting last Monday. Wasn’t it Runcival who said the temporary repairs would cost a thousand?’
‘Yes, it was, but that slang phrase you used, "a quick thousand", wasn’t used by Runcival. As English isn’t my native tongue I’m very sensitive to slang, and I know that particular colloquialism only surfaced at yesterday’s Chapter meeting.’
Well, now it’s surfacing again,’ I said. ‘I don’t see why the Dean and Chapter should have a monopoly on the well-worn phrase "a quick thousand". Heavens, look at the time, I mustn’t keep you hanging around on the doorstep a second longer —’
‘But we haven’t yet made a date for —’
‘Phone me,’ I said, and escaped.