XV
It was the most scandalous risk but he was faultlessly debonair, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets while his expression conveyed just the right amount of affectionate paternal concern, and beside him Eddie too was acting as if his life depended on it; he was exuding a sociable manner which flawlessly concealed what must have been an unadulterated horror and fear. Everyone was immaculately casual. The Bishop, who showed no inclination to leave, drifted to the window as if to check that the view was still there; Mrs Ashworth, also unable to tear herself away, began to readjust a flower in the vase which she had brought to the room earlier; Eddie wandered to the bedside until he stood within inches of the unaddressed envelope, and Aysgarth, keeping a relentlessly chaste distance from me, lounged against the tall chest of drawers. The conversation, insofar as I could register it, seemed to be light and inconsequential, like the opening phase of a drawing-room comedy. I almost felt we were waiting for the audience to settle in their seats so that Martin Darrow could make his big entrance.
I struggled to concentrate on the dialogue.
‘... and when I happened to mention to Stephen that I was visiting you –’ That was Eddie.
‘– I decided it was time to pay a pastoral call!’ That, of course, was Aysgarth.
‘Quite right!’ said the Bishop, very charming. Why should the Vicar of the Close have all the fun?’
‘My sentiments exactly!’ said Aysgarth.
They beamed at each other, a model of Christian amiability. No other dean and no other bishop could possibly have been on better terms.
‘It’s sweet of you to come,’ I said, finally finding my place in the script. ‘I’m terribly honoured.’
‘How are you feeling?’ enquired Eddie, looking straight at the envelope on the bedside table.
‘Oh, just a trifle fragile.’
‘She has a temperature of a hundred and one,’ said Mrs Ashworth, lying with effortless skill as she continued to remodel the flower arrangement.
‘There’s a lot of this flu about,’ said Aysgarth. ‘I hear the Archdeacon’s daughters are going down like ninepins.’
‘What a curious vision that conjures up!’ said Eddie.
There was much casual laughter in which I managed to join. Everyone was having a splendid time.
‘This is all rather Victorian, isn’t it?’ I heard the Bishop remark after an interval during which I lost the thread of the conversation. I was trying to work out how I could slip the envelope to Eddie without Aysgarth noticing. ‘Wasn’t there a novel by Trollope in which the heroine received a couple of clergymen when she was lying on her sick-bed?’
The mother, I assume, was
in
attendance,’ said Mrs Ashworth, finally abandoning the flowers and deciding for some reason to pick up the wastepaper basket.
Was that
Orley
Farm,
Charles?’ asked Eddie with interest. ‘I seem to recall the hero and heroine being drawn together over a sick-bed, but the hero wasn’t a clergyman, and —’
‘Surely it must have been one of the Barchester novels!’ said Aysgarth.
‘It could have been
The
Vicar of
Bullhampton,
’
said the Bishop, ‘but to be quite honest, I don’t remember. Lyle, why are you wandering around with that wastepaper basket?’
‘Just being a good housewife.’ She emptied my overflowing ashtray.
‘Very smart pyjamas, Venetia!’
‘Thank you, Mr Dean! They’re Charley’s.’
‘I seem to have seen them before somewhere —’
‘Marks and Spencer’s,’ said Mrs Ashworth, looking around to see what she could tidy up next.
‘Ah yes! Good old Marks —’
‘How did we all live,’ mused the Bishop rhetorically, ‘before the advent of Marks and Spencer?’
‘One of my daughters-in-law gave me a Marks and Spencer’s string vest last Christmas,’ said Aysgarth. ‘I always feel very dashing when I’m wearing it.’
I’m rather keen on their shirts,’ said Eddie.
‘They say the royal family shop there incognito,’ I said, finding my place in the script again. I suddenly noticed my hands. They were gripping the edge of the sheet so hard that my knuckles ached. I tried to relax my fingers one by one but by the time I had finished I realised I had once more lost the thread of the conversation.
‘— Jermyn Street,’ said the Bishop, concluding a sentence. Recalling the conversation about clothes I made the brilliant deduction that he had been referring to the tailors who made his shirts.
‘My father’s been to the same tailor in Savile Row for fifty years,’ I said. ‘So unadventurous.’
There was a pause. To my horror I realised that my deduction had been wrong and that the conversation had moved on from clothes. What else happened in Jermyn Street apart from the tailoring of expensive shirts? I racked my brains in panic but could only recall the back entrance of Fortnum’s.
‘Talking of your father, Venetia,’ said Eddie, rushing to the rescue, ‘how did that family dinner-party of yours go? I completely forgot to ask.’
‘Oh, it was fabulous!’ I said, now feeling ill with the strain of keeping up with the conversation. ‘We were all awash with champagne and sentimentality!’
‘Eddie paid a quick visit to London that weekend,’ said Aysgarth, ‘but he won’t say much about it. I can’t think why he should be so secretive.’
I commented brightly: ‘We all have our secrets!’ before it struck me that this was quite the wrong thing to say. Or did I merely think it was wrong because my secrets were so all-consuming? ‘I mean — what
I
’
m
trying to say is —’
‘We ought to pay a quick visit to London ourselves, Lyle,’ said the Bishop as I floundered to a halt. ‘I want to see Thornton Wilder’s play
The Ides of March.
Have you seen it, Venetia?’
‘I think Venetia’s flaking out,’ said Mrs Ashworth, suddenly taking control of the scene,’ and after receiving a bishop, a dean and a canon simultaneously, I’m not one bit surprised. Charles, would you like to lead the retreat?’
‘I’ll post this for you, Venetia,’ said Eddie, picking up the envelope on the bedside table.
‘It’s not addressed,’ said Aysgarth, who had also been watching the letter like a hawk.
‘It’s okay,’ I said much too loudly. ‘I —’ But I had to stop. I was so terrified of saying the wrong thing. My mind went blank. Panic began to interfere with my breathing.
‘It’s a note for Lady Flaxton,’ said Eddie, pocketing the envelope. ‘Venetia told me about it on the phone last night. Don’t worry, Venetia, I’ll write the address and provide the stamp.’
‘Well!’ said the Bishop, moving to the door. ‘Come along, gentlemen — the audience is at an end!’
I thought: I’m nearly there. I’ve only got to hold myself together for a few more seconds. We’re all nearly there. No one’s made any ghastly mistakes. We’re going to survive.
‘... so get well soon, Venetia —’ That was Aysgarth. ‘Yes, get well soon —’ That was Eddie.
Nearly there. Nearly home.
‘Would you like Primrose to look in with some magazines?’ I found my voice. ‘Well, if she has five minutes to spare ...’ I was going to make it. Only seconds to go.
‘I’ll ring her at the office when I get home —’
‘Lovely — thanks so much —’
The countdown to safety had now begun. Ten — nine — eight —
‘I’ll be in touch, Venetia,’ said Eddie. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need.’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right now —’
Seven — six — five — four ‘Well, take care of yourself —’
‘Yes, take care of yourself —’
Three — two "Bye, Venetia —’
"Bye, Venetia —’One — ZERO! I’d done it. I’d survived. Thank God.
"Bye, Eddie,’ I said, almost fainting with relief. "Bye, Neville.’ The world at once stopped turning as everyone froze in their tracks.
PART FOUR
THE LIGHT OF
THE WORLD
‘
Here was more than just a man: here was a window into God at
work. For "God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself".
’
JOHN A. T. ROBINSON
Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich
1959-1969
Honest
to
God
ONE
‘It is this union-in-estrangement with the Ground of our being ... that we mean by hell.’
JOHN A. T. ROBINSON
Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich
1959-1969
Honest to
God
I
Someone was screaming.
I couldn’t think who it was.
It wasn’t the Bishop, motionless in the doorway. It wasn’t Eddie, paralysed at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t Aysgarth, carved in stone in the middle of the carpet. It wasn’t Mrs Ashworth, transfixed by the dressing-table.
But someone was screaming. Someone was shouting: ‘No,
no,
NO!’ over and over again in a rising crescendo of hysteria.
Then I realised the voice was connected with me. It belonged to a fragment of my personality. I had begun to disintegrate and now I was splitting into a thousand pieces .. .
I screamed and screamed, but Mrs Ashworth was coming to the rescue; I saw her move, saw her swing round on the three men and shout: ‘OUT!’ in a voice which made them jump. The curious part was that they all obeyed her instantly. Afterwards I never forgot that at the most crucial moment of my spiritual sickness the Church of England, that ancient bastion of male privilege, turned tail and fled
en masse
.
Mrs Ashworth flung her arms around me. She cried in agony: ‘It’s all right – don’t reproach yourself –’ but I could only weep: ‘I’ve mined him – I’ve given it all away.’ Then huge sobs tore at my throat, but she only held me closer and as I clung to her in a frenzy of terror I heard her whisper: ‘Oh my darling child, do you think we hadn’t guessed? I always knew you were Dinkie. I’ve suffered with you every inch of the way ...’
II
After a long while when I was calmer and we had used up the box of Kleenex wiping away our tears, we sat in silence, holding hands. I felt safer now that I knew I was no longer alone. I was still unable to think clearly but I could breathe in a normal manner and know that only one person was doing the breathing. Mrs Ashworth had apparently glued together my fragmented self by enfolding me in a loving silence. Without words we were able to share the pain and thus, mysteriously, reduce it.
At last, after what seemed a great interval, I whispered five words. They were: ‘What will the Bishop do?’
‘Enlist Jon Darrow’s help.’
‘I know the Bishop dropped a hint earlier about Father Darrow, but Neville didn’t seem to realise —’
‘It’s no good dropping delicate little hints to someone like Stephen. You have to slam him against a wall and shake him till his teeth rattle before he takes any notice. I told Charles that, but poor Charles! He does so hate taking a tough line!’
‘Does he? But during that final row they had over the sculpture —’
‘My dear, I was livid —
livid!
Charles was up all night afterwards, pacing the floor in a frenzy, and that sort of stress is extremely bad for him. He’s got a very sensitive nature,’ said Mrs Ashworth, exuding the fiery concern of a protective tigress, ‘and he can’t bear fights.’
‘But he seems to be so good at them! I thought he was capable of pulling out a long knife at any moment and —’
‘No, luckily for Stephen long knives aren’t included in the regulation kit issued to bishops at their consecration.’
‘But surely
now —
’
‘
Oh, it’ll be ultimatum time of course — "Rehabilitate yourself with the aid of a skilled director or else I’ll go straight to the Archbishop" — but don’t worry. Those old public schoolboys who run the Church of England always prefer to bury a mess six feet deep and then play cricket on top of it. Charles will press for rehabilitation, and Stephen — who’s quite the most relentless survivor I’ve ever met — will fall into line.’
‘So
‘So assuming the affair’s over, you shouldn’t waste any more energy worrying about him.’ She reached for the cigarettes on my bedside table but the packet was empty. ‘Shall we smoke?’ she said. ‘There’s a packet in my bedroom — just a minute.’
By the time she returned I had phrased my next question. ‘Mrs Ashworth,’ I said, ‘when did you first realise what was going on?’
‘Last May.’ She paused to light our cigarettes. ‘Charles told me he’d looked out of the window of the Cathedral library and seen the two of you holding hands in the cloisters. His comment was: "I do wish Stephen would stop this idiotic flirting with young women. I’ve no doubt it’s all quite harmless but it’s definitely not appropriate behaviour for a senior cleric." Then suddenly I had a twinge of feminine intuition. Of course I had no idea—how could I have had? — that Stephen might ever be capable of such serious clerical misconduct as adultery, but nevertheless I thought: supposing it’s
not
harmless? And I suggested to Charles that we kept an eye on you. He hit on the idea of employing you as a secretary, and gradually as time passed —’
‘It all became obvious.’
To me, yes. But Charles kept saying: "We’ve no proof," and trying not to believe the worst. Poor Charles — such a very Christian nature! However in my experience,’ said Mrs Ashworth, blowing smoke casually at the ceiling, ‘the worst is usually true.’
‘Neville and I ... we never actually ... we didn’t quite ...’
‘No? I wonder why he held back. I suppose it was just his way of fooling himself that he wasn’t committing adultery.’
‘It seemed to be more complicated than that. He saw me as a great prize and he seemed to be frightened that if he won me he wouldn’t want me any more.’
‘How bizarre! But no doubt his capture of Dido taught him how unpleasant winning a great prize could be.’
‘Oh, he never saw Dido as a prize! He married her out of compassion.’
Mrs Ashworth gave an incredulous laugh. ‘My dear, his
amour
fou
for a society girl was the talk of the Church! He was mad about her.’
There was a silence. Then slowly I said: ‘Perhaps he still is. After all, I know he didn’t abstain from going all the way with me just because he was afraid of winning a great prize and finding it unsatisfactory; he also abstained because he believed it would save Dido from destruction.’
‘Well, of course I’ve long suspected that there’s far more to that marriage than meets the eye. People are usually so busy noticing how obsessed she is with him that they overlook how utterly he’s bound up with her.’
‘But in that case why did he –’
‘– fall for you? Oh, for all the usual reasons, I’m sure, but also, I suspect, because you represented an escape from the Dido obsession and he’d reached the stage where he needed a holiday. After all, what’s the most satisfactory way of escaping from an obsession? You escape into another obsession and run the two of them in tandem.’
‘So you think he didn’t really love me at all?’
‘On the contrary I’m sure he was mad about you, and that’s why one should stress the peculiarity of his psychology. If he didn’t consummate the affair there must have been very powerful mental forces holding him back.’
‘It seems so stupid,’ I said, ‘to have gone through all this without ever –’
‘It could be important for your recovery. Human beings are really very fragile, emotionally and spiritually, and need to keep a certain private space around their deepest selves where they feel they can be in control against any invading force. If you can feel later that there was at least one part of your deepest self which was untouched by this destruction, you’ll find the healing will take place more easily.’
I said simply: ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be healed.’
‘My dearest Venetia –’
‘I can’t stop thinking about him. What on earth could have been said after they’d left the room?’
‘Probably very little. They’d pretend your fatal slip never happened because they’d all need time to work out what they were going to do next.’
‘Neville must be in the most frightful panic –’
‘I doubt it. He’ll have knocked back the whisky by this time.’
‘My God, you mean you know about the drink?’
‘Oh, we all know about that. The great thing is to hush it up, but fortunately those canons practise loyalty on a heroic scale ... And talking of canons, Eddie’s still very keen, isn’t he?’
‘I’ve actually agreed to marry him. I’ve just made the break with Neville. That letter Eddie took away –’
‘Good heavens, now I see it all!’
I started to cry. ‘He’ll get the letter tomorrow – I can’t bear to think of it – he’ll be so hurt, so shattered, so crushed –’
‘For a little while, perhaps.’
‘But Mrs Ashworth –’
‘My dear, that one’s tough as old boots. They simply don’t make them any tougher up in Yorkshire.’
‘But if he loses me and loses his job –’
‘He won’t lose it. I’ve told you: he’ll fall into line and trot off to Jon Darrow’s spiritual workshop for a compulsory overhaul and comprehensive repairs. Of course if Stephen were a gentleman he’d do the decent thing and resign, but he’ll never voluntarily give up that Deanery. It’s much too big a prize to kiss goodbye.’
‘But he doesn’t approve of spiritual directors and he calls Father Darrow an ecclesiastical pirate!’
‘It’s really amazing what one can learn to like,’ said Mrs Ashworth, ‘when one’s professional life is on the line. No, my dear, the big question here is not what’s going to happen .to Neville-Stephen; his future’s clearly mapped out. The really big question
is
what’s going to happen to you.’
I wiped my tears from my swollen eyes and whispered: ‘What do you think I should do?’ as if I now had a choice. But of course no new choice existed. I still had to end the affair to ensure Aysgarth’s survival, and I knew there was only one way of making him let go.
‘You really want to know what I think?’ said Mrs Ashworth. ‘I think you should marry the good, decent man who loves you.’ I started weeping again. ‘But I don’t love him.’
‘So long as you like him and respect him, I don’t think the absence of romantic love is important. And as for the real love, that can come later.’
‘Can it?’
‘Why not? When one’s emerged from a disastrous affair, goodness and decency begin to seem immensely attractive.’
I was reassured by her confidence, and suddenly the future seemed less chilling. ‘Mrs Ashworth,’ I said, speaking reluctantly but driven on by a craving for further reassurance, ‘am I right in thinking you speak from personal experience? You seem so very certain ... I’m sorry, I don’t want to pry, but —’
Mrs Ashworth said obliquely: ‘I never cease to thank God that Charles wanted to marry me even though I was then too battered to love him as he deserved.’
‘So before you met him —’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Who is it?’ called Mrs Ashworth sharply, and the Bishop answered: ‘Me.’
‘Just a moment.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and left the room. I heard their voices murmur in the distance for some time but at last Mrs Ashworth returned to say briskly: ‘Charles would very much like to see you on your own. It might be a good thing. He could convince you that the Christian response to Stephen’s behaviour isn’t to disembowel him with a long knife.’
After a pause I said: ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll wait in the corridor. If you want to turf him out, all you have to do is yell.’
She slipped out and the Bishop slipped in. He was very quiet, very calm, very gentle. ‘This won’t take long,’ he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down by the bed. ‘Sometimes in a crisis it’s best if no words are spoken but I think if I were silent now I would only add to your very great anxiety, so I want to say this: I know the Church must often seem to a layman to be just another worldly corporation staffed by ambitious executives, but in our own inadequate, imperfect way the churchmen in authority do try, by remembering God every day and praying to Him for the grace to serve Him as He desires, to live according to Christian precepts. My job is to be a shepherd. That’s why I carry the crozier, the shepherd’s crook, in the Cathedral. I have to care for the sheep, all of them, not just the sheep who stay bunched together and never put a foot wrong, but the sheep who stray out of sight and can’t find their way home. My duty in caring for the flock is not to run around with a whip and a knife, flogging the strays into line and cutting the throats of the ones who cause trouble. My duty is to go after the strays and find them and carry them back one by one to safety. So you see, although bishops may seem very grand people, particularly when they’re dressed up in their Uniform, and although their job may seem rooted in a complex web of power, yet at the heart of their lives lies this great simplicity, the simplicity of the shepherd who serves God by caring for others and helping them when they’re in distress.’
He paused as if to consider whether he should say more but then rose to his feet and silently replaced the chair. It was only when he reached the door that he spoke again. He said: ‘I expect it’s too difficult for you to talk to me, but if you should wish later when you’re better to talk to a clergyman, I can easily arrange a meeting. Meanwhile I’m sure my wife is far more able to help you than I am.’ And he slipped out again into the corridor.
Feeling that no man could possibly be of any use to me at that moment I reflected vaguely that it was a pity there were no women priests. But of course those old public schoolboys who ran the Church of England would never permit a woman to play cricket on their hallowed turf.
‘Still conscious?’ said Mrs Ashworth, returning to the room.
‘Yes. He was rather sweet,’ I said vaguely in a hopeless attempt to express my gratitude for the Bishop’s kindness, and then overcome by my exhaustion I again started to cry.