Authors: Susan Howatch
But my dry humour, which is supposed to lighten the atmosphere, has the reverse effect and the boy bursts into tears.
I’m most surprised. After all, I hardly caught him
in flagrante
with another man. Obviously the scene at Sion College embarrassed him, but it had its funny side and I behaved sportingly enough. So, I ask myself, what’s now triggering this melodramatic reaction? Can it really be just because he has no alternative but to admit the sexual preferences which were on open display tonight? Surely not! Nicholas has made it clear to him that facing up to one’s true nature represents an important step on the road to maturity—and to being a good priest. So why are the taps now being turned on?
Quickly I say: “Stacy, whatever your problems, Nicholas and I will stand by you. There’s no need to behave as if you’re about to get the sack.”
But obviously he has trouble believing this because the taps remain turned on. I spend a long moment trying to work out how they can be turned off, but in the end I just hand him the box of Kleenex nearby and say calmly but firmly: “Okay, what appears to be your primary problem here?” It seems plain that my first task is to encourage him to talk.
Slivers of information begin to dribble out of him. He confesses he said he was going out with Tara in order to convince me he was just like any other bloke—and he’s tried so hard to get interested in girls, he really has. But no matter how much he likes them he doesn’t feel comfortable when they’re keen to “snog.” (Revolting word.) He wonders if that makes him gay, but he doesn’t want to snog men either. The gay activists say cheerfully that if he doesn’t want to snog girls he must be gay but he shouldn’t worry about snogging anything at the moment, since his prime task is to relax and grow comfortable with his true sexual orientation. But Stacy’s not happy with this advice. He says that if he’s gay it would “kill” his mother and “destroy” his three sisters, all of whom have no idea he was seduced in his teens
by a much older man, and anyway he knows that what he really wants has nothing to do with gays at all. He wants to be a Nick-clone, married with two children and living happily ever after. That’s what his mother wants. That’s what his sisters want. And that’s what he wants because his family means more to him than anything else in the world. He does so miss Siobhan—sob—and Sinead—sob, sob—and most of all his darling Aisling—sob, sob, sob, sob, sob—
Of course he’s queer as a coot (imagine behaving like a stuffed dummy when a girl’s keen for a kiss!) but I have to tread with great care here because the boy’s so pathetically immature. It’s time to play the cuddly old priest again. “I’m most extremely sorry to see you so unhappy, Stacy,” I say gently, “and I can see now that this is a situation which has been putting you under a lot of stress. I assume you’ve discussed this problem in depth with your spiritual director?”
“Oh no!” he says surprised. “It didn’t seem to have anything to do with prayer.”
There’s so much wrong with this statement that I’m struck dumb, but by a heroic effort I get my tongue in working order again after ten seconds. Meanwhile I note that Stacy’s dangerously unintegrated, having split off his spiritual life from his carnal problems, and that his spiritual director (chosen with enormous care by Nicholas and me) has been unbelievably incompetent. In fact the man’s got to be suffering from Alzheimer’s. I can think of no other explanation that’s plausible.
I manage to say levelly to Stacy: “Well, never mind your spiritual director for the moment. Perhaps the best way forward might be for you to see a therapist who has no connection with St. Benet’s and who could talk all this through with you in neutral surroundings.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that! I wouldn’t want Nick to know I’m not on top of this problem! He thinks I’ve got it all sorted!”
“Then Nicholas must be disillusioned. Otherwise there’ll be more incidents like the one tonight and you’ll make no progress at all.”
“I know you’re a queer-basher, I know what you must be thinking, but just because I wound up sitting with the gays tonight doesn’t mean—” He dissolves into sobs again.
“Look, Stacy,” I say, still speaking kindly but aware of my patience fraying at the seams, “brace up, there’s a good chap, and let’s just clear up two fundamental misunderstandings. First of all the real error you made tonight was
not
that you wound up sitting with the gays. Amazing though this may seem to you in your distraught state,
that’s not a sin. The real error was that you lied to me about Tara and compromised your integrity. In a small community like this we can’t afford to lie to one another and lead double-lives, because the essential falseness of such behaviour always winds up polluting the atmosphere and undermining trust. Do you understand that?”
He nods, snorting into a fresh Kleenex. He’s nearly exhausted the tissues in the box by this time.
“Your lie this evening stemmed directly from the problems you’re having about your sexual identity,” I pursue, ploughing on doggedly, “and this is why it’s urgent that you have help in finding a solution. It’s also vital that you keep nothing back from Nicholas, who as your Rector is responsible for your welfare. Now, the second fundamental misunderstanding”—I pause to come up for air—“which is minor in comparison with the first but which needs to be corrected in the interests of truth, is that I’m not a queer-basher. I object to no human being on account of his or her taste in snogging. What I object to are the lies, the self-deception and the double-life which all arise from a poorly integrated sexuality. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He nods again drearily and snorts into the last Kleenex.
I grab another deep breath and slog on. “Nobody’s perfect,” I say. “We all have our flaws, but our job is to recognise them, face up to them and take the appropriate action so that they can be transformed into creative, not destructive, forces within our personalities. Take me, for example. I’ve got a very flawed sexuality. I made a complete balls-up of my marriage and I’ve never been able to sustain a successful relationship with a woman. That’s my infirmity, my handicap, my cross—call it what you like—and in a sense this puts me in the same league as the homosexuals, but I absolutely believe that the answer to a poorly integrated sexuality is
not
to lead a double-life and
not
to bob around low bars in order to pick up rough trade. During the course of my life I’ve proved that I’m at my most integrated—and happiest—when I’m celibate. Of course celibacy can be tough and I’m not pretending I’ve always lived up to the ideal, but by sublimating—not repressing but
sublimating
—my sex-drive I’ve managed to live a full, rewarding life in which I’ve been of service to others. And on the occasions when I did fall by the wayside, I’ve
never
deluded myself by saying my lapses were right, I’ve
never
demanded special consideration because of my handicap, and I’ve
never
been stupid enough to whine: ‘Oh, Jesus would approve of my occasional nights on the tiles because that’s the way I’ve been designed by God!’ God didn’t
design me to be damaged. I got this way in the school of hard knocks and now I’ve got to work hard cooperating with God to redeem the mess … Are you listening?”
He nods but he’s not. He’s weeping silently again and there are no more tissues left in the box.
“What I’m trying to say,” I resume, searching without success for a handkerchief, “is that there’s no flaw or handicap so grisly that it can’t be redeemed and translated into a positive force for the good. But first of all we have to acknowledge our flaws—we have to ‘name the demons,’ as the old-fashioned religious language puts it, so that they can be brought under control. That’s why I’m suggesting you seek help from a therapist who specialises in your type of problem. You need to ‘name the demons’ so that you can conquer them and become a mature, well-integrated priest.”
Stacy whispers pathetically: “I don’t want a therapist. I don’t have demons. I just don’t want to snog with anyone at present, that’s all. I’m sorry I got mixed up with the gays tonight, but I promise I won’t go near them again.”
Dear God, he’s understood nothing! “Stacy—”
“All I want,” says Stacy desperately, “is to go on living here with Nick and slogging my guts out to be the kind of priest he wants. Nick’s the most wonderful guy in the world, and if I let him down and have to leave St. Benet’s my life wouldn’t be worth living, but I’m not going to let him down. I’m going to keep taking out Tara and eventually I’ll snog her and then everything will be okay.”
Once again my tongue ceases to function.
I’m appalled.
***************
(Had to put the asterisks in—no words seemed adequate to describe the quality of the hiatus which then took place in the conversation.)
Ye gods and little fishes! The boy’s in love with Nicholas—and this is no harmless hero-worship; this is homoerotic lunacy which will obstruct Stacy’s journey to homosexual maturity and eventually bog Nicholas down with a pastoral problem the size of an elephant. Moreover—and this is the real killer-threat to St. Benet’s—Stacy shows no desire to face up to his problems and no ability even to understand why he should do so. We just can’t afford this sort of immature, unaware, unperceptive person on the team at the Healing Centre. In our kind of ministry we need to rely one hundred per cent on our col
leagues, and how could one ever have sufficient confidence in a priest who’s incapable of spiritual growth and psychologically as dumb as an ox?
We took Stacy on in the belief that he had potential, that he would develop and improve. But we were deluding ourselves. The boy’s a disaster. If he stays there’ll inevitably be a pastoral mess of the worst kind: either he’ll make a catastrophic balls-up in treating a client or he’ll get engaged to please Nicholas and then go cottaging in secret when the strain of a live-a-lie life becomes too much for him.
I foresee screaming headlines in the
News of the World
, the Archdeacon descending on us like the wrath of God and the Archbishop phoning the Bishop of London to ask just what on earth is going on in his charismatic backyard. The reputation of the Healing Centre would be tainted. Nicholas’s ministry could well be washed up, closed down, wiped out …
Game, set and match to the Devil.
Still reeling from this kick from the cloven hoof I regain control of my tongue but find I can only say feebly to Stacy: “Look, I don’t think we can profitably continue this conversation tonight. Let’s wait till Nicholas gets back before we explore the situation further.”
I’m in such a pole-axed state that I forget Stacy’s longing to keep Nicholas in ignorance, and the result’s a disaster.
“You can’t tell Nick!” yelps Stacy in panic. “You’ve got to treat every word of this conversation as confidential!”
Triple-hell! Now I’m really stymied! But as a priest there’s only one response I can give, so I give it. “All right, Stacy,” I say. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, but I can’t stress too strongly that you should tell Nicholas everything before he receives feedback from other people and puts two and two together. How do you think you’re going to keep the incident at Sion College quiet? Not only is he in close touch with Tucker about our AIDS programme, but he sees several of the other priests regularly at the local clergy meetings.”
But Stacy just says desperately: “I’ll talk my way out of that,” and dissolving into sobs again he bolts at last from the room.
***************
(I’m getting fond of using asterisks to denote a horrifying hiatus.)
Well, I try to calm down but it’s hard. My thoughts are scurrying all over the place. Surely Stacy doesn’t imagine he can stay at the Rectory for ever? It’s his second curacy and he’s due to be here three years. Then he’ll move on, just as a curate always should. But could
he perhaps be seeing himself moving on not to a parish or a hospital chaplaincy but to a salaried job at the Healing Centre? We’d like to take on another priest some day, particularly now I’m getting older, and Nicholas has probably said as much to Stacy—who’s now dreaming of a permanent niche for himself at St. Benet’s. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Stacy must know his work leaves a lot to be desired, but obviously he’s sidestepped that knowledge by kidding himself all will be well so long as he tries to be a Nick-clone. Dear God, what a mess …
If the situation wasn’t so dangerous it would be tragic, of course—tragic and pathetic. Poor little Stacy. But what on earth am I going to do?
Unfortunately I must leave that question dangling as I have no idea how to answer it, and anyway it’s time to describe the second kick from the cloven hoof.
Well, after Stacy’s bolted sobbing upstairs to the curate’s flat, I beetle to the kitchen, invade the refrigerator and eat three slices of mushroom quiche left over from lunch, a lettuce leaf, a small pot of coleslaw and a large bowl of rum raisin ice cream. I wash all this down with a double-whisky, generously diluted with repeated dashes of sodawater, and afterwards I feel more human. Back in the bedsit I soothe my nerves further by listening to Bach, and I’m just thinking that the possibility of sleep might not, after all, be remote, when I hear the doorbell ring.
I glance at my watch. Half-past ten. Too late for a social call, but certainly not too late for a desperate soul, drunk, drugged, suicidal, homicidal or just plain homeless who fancies some Christian attention. I struggle into the hall. Can I manage for a few seconds without my crutches? Of course—if I’m more or less stationary. Setting them aside I grab the rounders bat which we keep by the front door and prepare for action. I’m hardly an illustration of the command “Love Thy Neighbour” at this moment, but there’s nothing particularly Christian about being foolhardy and although the City’s crime rate is low there’s always the chance of a priest-hating psychopath turning up. With my hand on the latch I peep through the spy-hole.
Bad news.
My visitor’s Francie Parker and she’s clearly off her rocker.
***************
Francie hasn’t been at St. Benet’s today. She had to go down to Kent to take her mother to hospital for an X-ray. Perhaps the strain
of her absence from St. Benet’s has unhinged her—but maybe she would have become unhinged today anyway, whether or not she’d received her regular weekday fix of Nicholas Darrow.