XII
‘My dearest Venetia, last night was
tremendous!
I really enjoyed your dashing witticisms about Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Listen, I’ve just seen in the
Sturbridge Weekly News
that the latest Ingmar Bergman film is playing at the Rialto. Interested? Much love, EDDIE.’
XIII
‘Dear Eddie, Glad you weren’t appalled by my philosophical didacticism at dinner — I’m afraid I was tight as Old Harry after all the divine Château Lafite and the even diviner Pouilly-Fuissé. I really shouldn’t have had that Rémy Martin afterwards, but never mind, we only live once (on earth, I mean) so one might as well forge ahead with élan. However I don’t think I could quite forge ahead to Ingmar Bergman at present — I’m not in the mood for Scandinavian gloom and doom. Why don’t I buy some fish and chips and a bottle of hooch so that we can indulge in the sin of gluttony at my flat? After demolishing Sartre’s existentialism, I think it’s time I behaved like a zombie. We might watch Martin Darrow on TV. Much love, VENETIA.’
XIV
‘... and my darling, I couldn’t help noticing at Castle Brigga this afternoon that you weren’t quite yourself — although of course looking as beautiful as ever and being just as wonderfully sympathetic as always – and suddenly I had the dreadful thought that maybe you’d met the Great Paragon. Even though you were so generous to me in our dear little hollow I had the impression that you were somehow separated from me by something, and after we’d parted I felt in a cold panic for hours – although perhaps my imagination’s running riot merely because I’m so dreading losing you. But my darling, if ever there
was
someone else, you would tell me, wouldn’t you? I do like to think that we tell each other everything. Of course it would slaughter me to know that the Great Paragon had finally arrived, but I’d rather know than not know – even though I can’t imagine how I’d ever survive without you, I love you so much and no words could ever express how grateful I am to you for so utterly restoring my self-esteem after my recent hellish confrontations with the Bishop and the Chapter. You’ve been so sweet, so understanding, so loving, so kind, so –’
XV
‘This is very nice vin
ordinaire,
Venetia. A most interesting bouquet. It goes well with the fish and chips.’
‘Shut up, Eddie, and let’s enjoy Martin Darrow.’
‘Will you kick me out if I hold your hand?’
‘You sound as if you’d prefer to be kicked.’
‘Oh Venetia, I –’
‘
Shut up!
I want to have thirty minutes of absolute quiet while I goggle at the box.’
Eddie shut up.
We watched one of the summer repeats of
Down at the
Surgery.
Martin Darrow, dark, debonair and richly amusing, lit up the screen with his presence. After a while Eddie reached out and encircled my fingers with his huge hot clammy paw.
I somehow managed to keep my fish and chips in my stomach.
XVI
‘... and darling,
darling
Neville, I just don’t know how you could have received such an utterly false impression – if I seemed
distraite
at Castle Brigga it was only because I was so worried about you. Of course there’s no one else! I love you and no one but you, I’ll love you for ever and ever – in fact, I love you so much that
I
’
d even lay down my life to save you,
so don’t talk to me any more about loving someone else, never even think of it because
you
’
re
the Great Paragon,
you,
my adored one, my dearest love, my
darling
Mr Dean –’
XVII
‘Darling Venetia, I’m scribbling this in the Monday staff meeting because I’ve just had a tremendous idea and I can’t wait to let you know about it: why don’t I come up to town on the day after your mother’s seventieth birthday and take you out to dinner at the Savoy? Say yes and I shall be in ecstasy. Passionate love, EDDIE.’
XVIII
‘My darling, I’m scrawling this in the Monday staff meeting where Runcival the Master-Mason is going on and on and on about the blank-blank west front. My undying thanks for your magnificent and moving letter which made me want to sing the Hallelujah Chorus at the top of my voice on the Cathedral sward – only the thought of the sopranos’ top notes deterred me! But thank God, darling, you’re never likely to be in a position where you have to sacrifice your life to keep me safe.
‘I think I’m recovering from THAT BISHOP. I’ve had a top-secret conference with the bank manager about raising the quick thousand and I’m now sure I can pull off a loan without mortgaging any property – I’ve promised him I’ll stage a really gargantuan performance of "The Messiah" this Christmas to recoup my losses. Fitzgerald’s bound to growl: "I thought we were running a cathedral, not a concert hall," but he can’t raise any serious objection to "The Messiah", and I know I’ll win through in the end.
‘( LATER) The Clerk of the Works has just been reading us a doomsday script about the state of the fabric, and declares that in twenty years’ time the spire will fall down. This gives a completely new twist, I must say, to the famous pronouncement:
"Après
nous le déluge!"
Eddie’s now scribbling furiously, probably eager to produce some earnest memorandum. Poor old Eddie, he’s been a bit excitable lately – I think the sculpture crisis has told on him. When we met this morning he said he wanted to go up to London after Sunday evensong for a reunion with some old chums from the Anglo-German Churchmen’s Fellowship, and could I stand in for him at the early services on Monday. Well, of course officially he’s supposed to be tethered to the Cathedral this month
as
he’s the canon-inresidence, but I think he deserves a short break and I’m very willing to help him out. What a tower of strength he’s been to me recently! After Fitzgerald’s betrayals I’ve got to the stage where I really appreciate loyalty, and
as
I told you once not so very long ago, at least I can always rely on Eddie never to stab me in the back. All my love, my darling, my angel, my –’
XIX
‘Dear Eddie, Okay. Dinner at the Savoy on Sunday night. But I warn you, I’ll be a basket-case after my mother’s party and may well be unable to speak. You’d better come to Lord North Street at around six-thirty to have a drink and say "hiya" to the parents.
‘Meanwhile there’s something I want to ask you: when is a confession not a confession? An old school-friend of mine, Margaret Wharton, saw an Anglo-Catholic priest the other day and told him a lot of things about her married lover. Afterwards she found out to her horror that the priest counsels her lover’s boss.
Margaret wasn’t actually in the confessional with this priest, she was just chatting. Is there a remote possibility that the priest could pass on to the boss the fact that the married lover is up to his neck in adultery? Margaret can’t sleep a wink at night for worrying about this. Please advise instantly. Lots of love, V.’
XX
‘My darling Venetia, If the priest betrays a single syllable he should be reported to his bishop. Confidential conversations aren’t confined to the confessional.
‘Many thanks for the invitation to Lord North Street. I’ll bring your mother a belated birthday present. She’s very keen on plants, isn’t she? In tremendous spirits,
much
love, EDDIE.’
XXI
‘My darling Neville, I’m glad to report with enormous relief that the great family orgy is over and we now have ten years to recover before my mother reaches eighty. Everyone behaved well, although that idiot Harold made a revoltingly sentimental speech – my father and I looked at each other and knew instantly that we both wanted to throttle him – and Oliver arrived slightly tight from the Reform Club – and Henrietta would keep boring us with stories about her dogs – and Sylvia talked on and on about her pregnancy (if I were pregnant I hope I’d have the good taste to keep my mouth shut and not go so nauseously mumsy-wumsy) – and Absolutely-the-Bottom Arabella kept tossing her newly-blonded hair all over the place as she prattled about Sebastian, her current "dreamboat", who must be just about the most brainless hunk on earth to fall for all that rubbish.
‘Mama was thrilled with the rose-bowl which Sylvia had tricked out with those ghastly scentless roses which always look like plastic. In fact Mama adored the whole circus and even shed a tear after Harold’s frightful speech and said how lucky she was to have such a wonderful glorious family, and we all slobbered over her shamelessly and told her how lucky we were to have such a wonderful glorious mother. God knows how much champagne we all drank. Papa even started declaiming in classical Greek. The whole evening was a huge success.
‘This morning I’m slightly hung-over but I did just want to dash off a letter so that you wouldn’t feel "starved". Darling, I’m thinking of you constantly and counting the hours that separate us — in fact I hardly know how to wait until we’re at Castle Brigga once more ...’
XXII
‘How very clever it was of you,’ I said to Eddie as we dined at the Savoy, ‘to give my mother that book. Victorian water-colours of plants! She’ll be your friend for life now.’
‘I hope so,’ said Eddie blandly, sipping his champagne.
Silence fell. I toyed with my grilled sole and wished I felt hungry. Frantically I searched for a new topic of conversation. ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense!’ I said brightly, making an artistic mound of my spinach. ‘I’ve been deprived of the Starbridge news for two whole days! What’s the latest shattering development?’
Dido came to see me.’
My knife clattered on my plate. I tried to grasp the handle again but something seemed to have happened to my fingers. Casually my voice said: ‘Oh yes? What a bore! What did she want to talk about?’
‘Stephen.’
‘Well, that’s hardly a new departure, I suppose.’ I took a large gulp of champagne and managed to get my knife under control. ‘But what did the old girl say?’
‘She’s terrified of the Bishop.’
‘Oh God, don’t tell me she had hysterics all over your drawing-room!’
‘No, she was well in control of herself, although I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a touch of hysteria. I think she’s right to be terrified.’
‘But why? The Bone-Pelham crisis was defused, the sculpture mess has now been swept under the rug and I’m sure the Dean will somehow raise the money to shore up the west front — why should Dido suddenly start twittering in terror?’
‘Because my worst nightmare’s come true and there’s a rumour going around that Stephen’s having an affair with Harriet March.’
I managed to say after only a fractional pause: ‘You mean because he commissioned the sculpture on an impulse while she was simpering at him during a party?’
‘No, there’s a new rumour, and Dido says it’s already reached the South Canonry. Apparently (and Stephen didn’t tell me this) Charles indicated during their big showdown that the story was known to him. Of course Stephen must have denied everything, but I think this could finally be the point where the Bishop pulls out the long knife. We all know what he’s like on the subject of sexual morality. He may overlook heavy drinking, commissioning pornographic sculpture and juggling with the accounts, but he’s not going to turn a blind eye to a sexual indiscretion.’
I drained my glass. As a passing waiter immediately refilled it I said: ‘What I’d like to know is how this bloody silly new rumour ever got off the ground.’ Automatically I started drinking again.
‘According to Dido, Stephen’s been seen driving around with a glamorous, long-haired young woman on his day off — and of course that description does fit Harriet March.’
‘Obviously someone’s mistakenly identified the man as the Dean.’
‘No, there’s no question of mistaken identity. Apparently Stephen almost caused a traffic accident in Chasuble Lane a few weeks ago, and the policeman who happened to be passing by not only recognised him but spoke to him. Before joining the force this man had worked in the stonemasons’ yard at the Cathedral, so —’
‘But how did the story reach Dido if the policeman no longer has any connection with the Close?’
‘Oh, a good story will always grow wings and fly! The policeman told his former work-mates in the pub that a young woman like a film star with long, wavy dark hair had jumped out of the Dean’s car and vanished as if she was anxious to avoid publicity. The enthralled work-mates told Runcival who told the Clerk of the Works who told Tommy Fitzgerald who told Paul Dalton who told his sister who told Dido —’
‘— who told you. I see. But then who told the Bishop?’
‘It was almost certainly the Archdeacon. Tommy tipped him off about the sculpture, and the odds are he tipped him off again about the rumour. And of course once the Archdeacon knew —’
‘But surely there could be a perfectly innocent explanation? For instance, two of the Archdeacon’s daughters have long wavy hair, and Sally, if not Julie, could certainly be described as glamorous. Why shouldn’t the Dean have been giving her a lift? And why, when he got stuck with the policeman in Chasuble Lane, shouldn’t she have nipped out and popped home to the vicarage down Butchers’ Alley?’
‘Funnily enough I offered Dido the same explanation, but she just said that no matter how many innocent explanations were offered, the Bishop would continue to think the worst.’
‘That sounds as if she’s secretly suspecting the worst herself!’
‘No, Dido seems absolutely convinced that Stephen would never have a fully consummated love affair with anyone. But of course a clergyman can get in a scandalous mess without committing an act which is legally defined as adultery, and what Dido’s afraid of is that Stephen’s dabbled in a flirtation that’s somehow got out of control.’
‘I just can’t believe he’d be quite such a fool.’ I drained my glass of champagne again. ‘Dare I ask how this interview with Dido ended, or will that spoil the punchline of your story?’
‘She asked me to intervene. She said none of the sons had ever been able to talk to him and I was the only man who could possibly help. That’s true, of course. Funny how Dido always gets the personal relationships dead right —’
‘But what on earth does she expect you to say?’
‘She wants me to spell out the cold hard facts of life and bring him down to earth. She’s convinced that having lost touch with reality by indulging in this heavy flirtation, he’s now in the most frightful danger — and Pm bound to say,’ said Eddie as he too finished his glass of champagne, ‘I think she’s absolutely right.’
‘I think she’s round the bend.’
‘No, Venetia. You’ve got Dido dead wrong. I know she’s tormented by a neurotic temperament, but she’s honest, she’s loyal and she’s brave — brave enough to face this appalling crisis without flinching. She wants to save Stephen. And so do I. And so, I think, do you.’
‘Well, of course I do! I’m just boggling at her melodramatic suggestion that you should stage some monstrous scene in which you spell out the cold hard facts of life like a teacher trying to educate a sub-normal pupil! You’re not really going to do as she suggests, are you?’
T
y
e already done it,’ said Eddie.
I nearly passed out. ‘You mean you’ve seen him?’
‘No. Not him. I came to the conclusion,’ said Eddie, laying down his knife and fork, ‘that it wasn’t actually Stephen I had to see.’
And as I stared, too shocked to move or speak, he raised his head and looked me straight in the eyes.