Kitabı oku: «Ultimate Prizes», sayfa 3

‘Mrs Ottershaw wasn’t saying.’ I switched off the light.

‘Was Charlotte there?’

‘Yes. With a friend.’

‘A man? How exciting! I do hope Charlotte gets married!’

‘Unfortunately it was just another Wren. And General Calthrop-Ponsonby was there, still breathing fire against the Boers, and Mrs Dean was holding forth about the Girl Guides as usual while her husband tried to convert me to Crisis Theology or neo-orthodoxy or whatever one wants to call the latest variation on the theological rubbish fathered by Karl Barth –’

‘How glad you must have been to get home!’

‘I’m always glad to get home,’ I said, unbuttoning the flies of my pyjamas.

‘Darling, I really am sorry I was so awful earlier –’

‘No need to say another word about it. We’ll ring down the curtain on the scene, pretend it never happened and celebrate your splendid recovery. At least … you have recovered, haven’t you, darling?’

‘Oh yes!’ she said at once. ‘I’m fine now. Everything’s absolutely fine, just as it always is.’

A vast relief overwhelmed me again as I prepared to bring my ministry of reconciliation to a triumphant conclusion.

It never even occurred to me that I might be grossly deluding myself.

TWO

‘First loves do not always keep their glamour.’

CHARLES E. RAVEN

Regius Professor of Divinity,

Cambridge, 1932–1950

A Wanderer’s Way

I

I had just stubbed out my post-coital cigarette when I heard the front door close in the distance and realized that Alex had returned from the palace. Beside me Grace had already fallen asleep. Leaving the bed I pulled on my discarded pyjamas, grabbed my dressing-gown and padded downstairs to attend to my guest.

Alex had paused to read the headlines of the Starbridge Weekly News which had been delivered that morning and abandoned on the hall chest. He was a man of medium height, just as I was, but we had different builds. I’m stocky. He was thin as a whippet and as restless as a cat on hot tiles. His thinning grey hair was straight, sleek and neatly parted. His ugly yellowish-brown eyes radiated an impatient vitality which was defiantly at odds with the heavy, sombre lines about his mouth. As always he was immaculately dressed.

‘Would you like some tea before you turn in, Alex?’

‘A corpse-reviver would be more appropriate! Why on earth did Ottershaw invite that old bore Calthrop-Ponsonby?’

‘I think he feels sorry for him.’

‘How typical! Ottershaw would even feel sorry for a man-eating tiger who wanted to eat him for breakfast … How’s Grace?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Hm.’ He dropped the newspaper abruptly on the hall chest. ‘Can we go into your study for a moment, Neville? I’ll decline your kind offer of tea but there’s something I’d like to say to you.’

Obediently I led the way across the hall. I was anxious to return to bed as I was now very tired, but Alex was not only my present friend but my past benefactor and I always made every effort to oblige him.

I had first met him in 1932 when he had become the Bishop of Starbridge. Having long since decided that it was best to live in the South if one wanted to Get On and Travel Far, I had pulled all the Oxonian strings at my disposal and sought ordination from Alex’s predecessor Dr Hargreaves who had been scholarly, moderate in his Protestantism, tolerant of Modernist thought – and in fact exactly the type of leader I had had in mind when I had been called to enter the Church. Eventually I had become a curate in a village only two miles from Starbridge, and every morning I had been able to look out of my bedroom window at the distant Cathedral spire as it soared triumphantly upwards, symbolizing my high hopes for the future.

After my curacy I had been appointed Rector of Willowmead, a picturesque market-town in the north of the diocese, and it was here, after Dr Hargreaves’ death in 1932, that Alex had entered my life.

I disliked him at first. He was abrupt to the point of rudeness, but I discovered later that he had had many problems on his arrival in the diocese and the strain of solving them had temporarily taken a toll on his charm. The next year, on his second visit to my parish, he was at his best. He inquired courteously about my life history and when he discovered we had much in common – the early loss of a parent, the grinding experience of genteel poverty and the increasing determination to triumph over the inequities of the British class system – I was at once adopted as a protégé. Possibly I would have been promoted without his special interest but that was by no means certain. In a national institution such as the Church of England, which was hidebound by tradition and dominated by men of the upper classes, a self-made man could only rely on help from another self-made man who knew what it was to struggle against prejudice and discrimination. Alex was a Fellow of All Souls, but he had never been to public school. United by our modest backgrounds we had long since entered into the conspiracy which had enabled me to squeeze under the closed door of the established order into the privileged room beyond, and it was this tacit comradeship, acquired on the battlefield of the class system, which gave our mutual respect a strong emotional edge. Of course we never displayed emotion to each other; we were, after all, Englishmen. But although we belonged to different generations I considered him my closest friend.

In the summer of 1937 he began to have trouble with the Archdeacon of Starbridge, an elderly man who had developed the habit of flying into senile panics, and after this millstone had been manipulated into retirement Alex offered me the archdeaconry. I myself was not sorry to leave Willowmead. I had organized the parish into a model of Christian efficiency and had been secretly longing for some time for new worlds to conquer. My translation to Starbridge came at the most appropriate moment, but unfortunately no sooner had I been installed at St Martin’s in the September of 1937 when Alex was obliged to retire from the bishopric.

At first I was much upset, not only because I was fond enough of Alex to be concerned about his health, but because I was acutely aware that I could ill afford to lose such an influential patron. I awaited Dr Ottershaw’s arrival with trepidation, but to my great relief my fears proved groundless.

In general there are two types of bishops: holy bishops and what I call chairman-of-the-board bishops. The latter are by nature businessmen with gregarious personalities and a flair for organization; their inevitable worldliness is mitigated by the spirit of Christ, and their success as bishops depends on the degree of mitigation. Holy bishops, on the other hand, usually have no talent for administration and need much time to themselves in order to maintain their spiritual gifts; their success as bishops depends less on the grace of God than on their willingness to delegate their administrative duties continually to talented assistants.

Alex was a chairman-of-the-board bishop. Dr Ottershaw was a holy bishop. I was the talented assistant who thrived on delegated administrative duties – and within a month of his arrival I had realized that Dr Ottershaw and I were made for each other. I even realized that had Alex remained in office we would almost certainly have quarrelled. Alex had a notoriously combative manner; I had an equally undesirable weakness for wielding a verbal sledgehammer. That premature retirement might have been unfortunate in many ways, but at least it had enabled us to preserve the friendship which now in 1942, ten years after our first meeting at Willowmead, we both valued so highly.

As we entered my study that night he said almost before I had closed the door: ‘Will you think me intolerably impertinent if I offer you some paternal advice?’ and at once I said lightly: ‘You know very well I enjoy your impertinence – go ahead!’ But I was alarmed. I have an aversion to people in authority who dole out paternal advice. Such behaviour always reminds me of my Uncle Willoughby.

‘It’s about young Miss Tallent.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said, somehow contriving to remain cool as the temperature in the room appeared to soar to a tropical heat.

‘Yes.’ Alex, whose hatred of hypocrisy and endless crusades for truth had won him plenty of enemies during his episcopate, was hardly a man to be deterred by coolness. ‘Neville, next time you meet an alluring young woman at a dinner-party, don’t disappear into the moonlight with her for more than five minutes. And next time you meet Miss Tallent – if there is a next time – don’t disappear with her at all. I’m a great believer in the pleasures of an amitié amourcuse, but such friendships are best conducted with happily married women escorted by their happily married husbands. Dabbling with a fast little miss isn’t conducting an amitié amoureuse. It’s playing with fire and asking for trouble.’

‘Quite.’ To my fury I realized I was blushing; this unfortunate adolescent handicap is one which I have never quite managed to outgrow. Deeply embarrassed I turned aside to realign the photographs of my children on the mantelshelf.

After a pause Alex said tersely: ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I always speak my mind, as you know, and on this occasion I’m speaking purely out of a concern for your welfare. You mean a great deal to me, Neville. I’m very fond of you – and I’d hate to see your career take a wrong turn.’

I was outraged. To spell out his affection – to indulge in sentimental utterances – to violate our delightful friendship by acting like some mawkish heavy-handed father – it was intolerable. Speech was quite beyond me. I could only grab the photograph of Grace and start polishing the silver frame furiously with my sleeve.

‘Don’t misunderstand,’ said Alex at last. ‘I’m sure the little escapade tonight was innocent. But where an attractive woman’s concerned any man – even a clergyman – perhaps especially a clergyman – has an almost limitless capacity for self-deception.’

I finished polishing the frame and set it back on the mantelshelf. Then I said in my politest voice: ‘I take your point. Thank you for your advice. Is there anything else you wish to say?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact there is.’ I should have remembered that when Alex was exercising his compulsive candour he was virtually unstoppable. ‘Can you tell me if there’s a financial reason why you don’t have a nursemaid living in to attend to my delightful godson in his more exuberant moods? Because if there is indeed a financial reason I hope you won’t be too proud to accept my offer of help. I’ve money to spare and I’d be happy to do anything which might ease the situation.’

Once more I was appalled. In my stiffest voice I said: ‘What situation?’

‘My dear Neville, I’ve been staying here for three days and I’m neither blind nor deaf! It’s patently obvious to me that Grace is at the end of her tether!’

‘Nonsense. I concede she’s a little tired at the moment because she’s still recovering from the Easter holidays, but now that the three older boys are back at school she’ll soon recover. Very good of you to offer help but it’s not necessary. No problems financially. No problems of any kind, thank you.’

‘Neville, I know you’re a proud man, but wouldn’t you find it helpful – just for once – to admit that everything in the garden isn’t quite as lovely as it ought to be? If Grace is so exhausted that she can barely cope with her domestic duties, how can she possibly deal satisfactorily with her responsibilities as an archdeacon’s wife? She deliberately evaded the dinner-party tonight, didn’t she? Well, as it happens that wasn’t a disastrous evasion, but what are you going to do when a really crucial engagement turns up, an engagement vital for the well-being of your career? Or in other words, how is Grace going to summon the extra energy she’ll need to keep up with you in the future? If you were to engage a nursemaid –’

‘That’s not what Grace wants. She couldn’t bear another woman constantly in the nursery.’

‘Then engage a full-time cook-general!’

‘That’s not what Grace wants either. She couldn’t bear another woman constantly in the kitchen.’

‘I’m getting rather tired of hearing what Grace wants! What do you want? It seems to me, judging from your behaviour tonight, that you’re beginning to feel short-changed!’

Somehow I managed to control my temper. I heard myself say in my most colourless voice: ‘You couldn’t be more mistaken, Alex. You’ve utterly misread the situation, but on the other hand, why should I expect you to read it correctly? The truth is no outsider can really know what goes on in any marriage.’

‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said Alex dryly, deciding to wipe the tension from the conversation by exercising his caustic wit. ‘No one knows the half of what’s gone on in mine.’ He turned aside but as he opened the door he was unable to resist the urge to proffer still more unwanted advice. ‘Deposit Primrose and Sandy with a kind neighbour,’ he said, ‘and take Grace away for a second honeymoon before you get tangled up with another fast little miss.’

‘There won’t be another fast little miss. Perhaps you can’t be blamed for drawing quite the wrong conclusions from my idiotic behaviour with Miss Tallent, but let me assure you now, once and for all, that Grace is a perfect wife and I adore her.’

‘Splendid! Very well, I’ll now stop overstepping the mark in my usual outrageous fashion and take myself off to bed before you try to hit me with those clenched fists of yours. Good night, Neville. God bless you. And do try to remember that I’ve spoken only with your welfare in mind …’

II

I was so angry with this cavalier attempt to meddle in my marriage that although I was tired I lay awake fuming for over an hour in the dark. I hated Alex thinking that Grace was temporarily less than perfect. I hated him telling me facts I already knew. And I hated him suggesting facile solutions when I knew very well that the problem was more complex than he in his ignorance supposed. I could not simply impose a cook-general or a nursemaid on Grace against her will. After all, it was she, not I, who would have to deal with the woman, and if Grace felt unable to cope with a stranger in either the kitchen or the nursery, any effort on my part to employ someone suitable would only be a waste of time. Also I knew from past experience that Grace interpreted my suggestions about employing additional help as implied criticisms of her ability to be the perfect wife and mother. Then no matter how hard I tried to reassure her that no criticism was intended, she became more depressed than ever. Eventually, I was sure, the problem would be alleviated when Sandy ceased to need constant maternal supervision and embarked on his career as a schoolboy, but until that golden moment when he skipped off to begin his first day at kindergarten, it seemed my best course of action was to help Grace by being loyal, loving and endlessly sympathetic. I had to make up my mind never to complain about her melancholy, never to reproach her for shying away from the social life she should be sharing with me and never, never, never to lose my temper. I was always mindful of the fact that Sandy could hardly have been conceived without my assistance, and if he was now complicating our lives I had a moral duty to ameliorate the situation by being a perfect husband.

Remembering my loss of temper earlier I winced, but at least I was able to console myself by recalling my subsequent ministry of reconciliation. How wrong Alex had been to assume that I was being short-changed in the bedroom! Even after sixteen years of marriage I was never deprived in that area – except on those occasions when Grace was in an advanced state of pregnancy or suffering from migraine or too exhausted to do anything but pass out. However, those exceptions were of no consequence, since one could hardly expect married life to be one long sex romp. Even D. H. Lawrence had never tried to describe Mellors and Lady Chatterley with five children. My brother Willy had smuggled a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover into England after a holiday in Paris and I had read the book with interest, but personally I thought it was greatly inferior to Lawrence’s other work.

Remembering that Lawrence’s own marriage had been childless I began to think of Alex again. His childless marriage was certainly far from successful, and it occurred to me to wonder how far his own marital discomfort had influenced his interpretation of my dilemma.

Alex had said lightly that no one knew much about his marriage, but I suspected I knew all too well what had gone on. Having married his intellectual opposite after a whirlwind courtship, it seemed clear that he had long since regretted his folly. Even with no children to distract her his wife Carrie had been unable to master her increasing responsibilities as Alex had travelled rapidly up the Church’s ladder of preferment. In 1927 when he had been appointed Dean of Radbury he had even been obliged to engage someone to keep her life in order, and it had been this companion, an icy virgin with a deceptively steamy appearance and a brain like an adding machine, who had run first the deanery at Radbury and later the palace at Starbridge. The companion had eventually left to get married, much to the Jardines’ fury, and since 1937 a variety of women had been hired and fired in the unending struggle to keep Carrie organized. Even now Alex was living quietly in a small village, Carrie was incapable of running her life without help. What a burden for any husband! Alex used to joke bravely about his ménage à trois, but I thought his marriage must be the height of dreariness.

The one redeeming feature was that Carrie in her elderly way was still pretty. It had seemed logical to assume the Jardines enjoyed something which resembled a sex life – how else could Alex have made his marriage tolerable? – but now I found myself wondering if the heart condition which had terminated his career had also terminated the intimate side of his marriage. Curiously enough he always seemed very fit, bursting with energy, but if he had been so quick to detect a nonexistent sexual frustration in my marriage it seemed logical to deduce he was no stranger to sexual frustration in his own.

I sighed, feeling sorry for him, and with my anger finally conquered I succeeded in falling asleep.

The next morning I was confused to discover that I still felt angry with him but for a different reason. I could accept that he had spoken out of the best of motives; I could even accept that he had been justified in feeling concern about Grace; but what I found hard to accept was the way he had conducted the interview. Displaying the delicacy of an elephant and the sensitivity of a rhinoceros he had charged around trying to impose his conclusions upon me without regard for my willingness to accept them, and although such behaviour might possibly be forgivable when displayed by some well-meaning Victorian father I thought it was quite unforgivable when displayed by a clergyman. I myself had no great pastoral gifts. My talent was for administration, but I knew enough about pastoral work to realize that when counselling someone in trouble one’s prime duty was to listen, not to make speeches, to nurture trust, not to destroy it. In some fundamental way my trust in Alex had been impaired by that bruising interview. I still admired him as a man; I still respected him as a friend. But I did not want to discuss my private life with him ever again.

This was a disturbing conclusion, but fortunately in the early mornings I was always too busy to dwell on unpleasant thoughts. My first task was to make the tea. I always performed this chore because I felt that the least Grace deserved was a husband who delivered the early morning tea to her in bed. Having accomplished this ritual I withdrew to my dressing-room, read the Office and meditated conscientiously on the appointed verses from the Bible. Being Low-Church in inclination if not in practice – my services were carefully aimed at the middle-of-the-road moderate majority in the Church of England in order to avoid unfortunate controversy – I preferred to focus my spiritual exercises on the Bible before applying myself to my prayers.

After this interval I shaved and dressed. Usually I wore my archidiaconal uniform, but if my engagements were informal – or if the weather was so hot that the wearing of gaiters became intolerable – I had enough courage to resort to a plain clerical suit. I’m not the kind of man who enjoys tripping around in an antiquated fancy dress.

When I eventually left my dressing-room I headed for the nursery, where Sandy would be waking up, and put some toys in his cot to keep him quiet. By seven o’clock I had reached my study where I aimed to put in an hour’s work before breakfast. On that particular morning I caught up with my sympathy letters – after three years of war one had to take great care that the sentiments expressed sounded genuine – paid a couple of bills and studied two archidiaconal files, one relating to new gutters for a church with a persistent damp wall and the other concerning a parish quarrel over a new font. I decided it would be prudent to ask the diocesan surveyor to look at the old gutters and even more prudent to ask the diocesan lawyers to advise on whether the font was, legally speaking, a font. The outraged churchwarden was insisting that it reminded him of a lavatory.

I yawned. The archdeaconry was quiet. No fallen steeples, no dispute about plastic flowers on graves, no rural dean suffering from delusions of grandeur, no curate going berserk with choirboys, no vicar letting off Anglo-Catholic liturgical fireworks, no verger blowing his brains out. Finding myself with five minutes to spare before breakfast I drew up a plan for my Sunday sermon and plucked a few pertinent quotations from my trusty memory. My brother Willy always said I had a mind like a vacuum cleaner; I can effortlessly absorb any information from the sublime to the ridiculous and regurgitate it, sometimes years later, with an efficiency bordering on the robotic.

At breakfast I admired the new bow in Primrose’s hair, glanced at the headlines of The Times, read the latest letter from Christian at Winchester, answered the telephone, picked Sandy’s rusk off the floor twice and asked Alex if he intended to spend all day in the Cathedral library, where he was studying the records of his episcopate.

‘No, I’m having a rest from my autobiography today,’ he said, surprising me. ‘I’ve decided to take a train to Starvale St James and call on Lyle.’

Lyle, now Mrs Charles Ashworth, was the icy companion who had run the Jardines’ household so efficiently before her unwelcome defection to the state of matrimony in 1937.

‘She probably won’t want to see me,’ Alex was saying as he idly applied marmalade to his toast, ‘but I thought it would be too ridiculous if I left the diocese without calling on her. I intend to arrive on her doorstep waving the olive branch of peace.’

‘Better late than never, but why not phone her first? Your olive branch will be wasted if you arrive on her doorstep and find she’s gone out for the day!’

‘I’ll take the risk. If I ring she might simply slam down the receiver – I can’t tell you what a tangle we all got into back in 1937 –’

‘I always thought it sounded the most grotesque storm in a teacup and I can’t believe Lyle won’t welcome the chance to end the estrangement. Do you want a lift to the station?’

He accepted the lift. I noted with compassion that he had bought expensive presents for Lyle’s two sons. Evidently he was anxious that his olive branch should be substantial.

‘Remember me to Lyle, won’t you?’ I said. ‘As it happens I’ll be coming her way soon. An incensed churchwarden at Starvale St James is complaining that the new font looks like a urinal.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Alex vaguely, and when he failed to smile I knew his thoughts were far away.

Leaving him at the station I called at the diocesan office on Eternity Street to collect my special allowance of extra petrol coupons, suffered myself to be cornered by various officials who saw me as a channel to the Bishop, escaped into the High Street to buy cigarettes and finally parked my car in the old vicarage stables behind Butchers’ Alley just as the clock of St Martin’s chimed the half hour. I was fractionally late for the morning conference with my curates, but to my relief I saw no bicycles parked outside the vicarage gate. I disliked my curates arriving ahead of me and looking insufferably virtuous as I walked into the room. Much better that they should arrive panting and apologetic while I was sitting coolly behind my desk.

I opened the front door. I withdrew my key from the lock. And I paused, paralysed with shock, as my hand remained on the latch. I had heard a laugh in the morning-room where we received the parishioners who called on us, but this laugh belonged to no one who lived within the parish of St Martin’s – in-Cripplegate. Automatically, without stopping to think, I blundered forward into the hall.

Grace was saying: ‘That’ll be Neville. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just tell him you’re here.’

I plunged across the morning-room threshold. Grace, who had almost reached the door, hastily recoiled. As our visitor sprang to her feet I saw us all as three puppets jerking on the ends of some exceedingly erratic strings.

‘Hullo Stephen!’ said Dido, whose memory I had, of course, been conscientiously suppressing all morning, and gave me a bold, bright, impudent smile.

‘Good morning, Miss Tallent,’ I said, rigid with rage behind my clerical collar. I was acutely aware that Grace was wearing her oldest dress, the one she only wore around the house, and that she looked faded, fatigued and unfashionable. In contrast Dido, seemingly poured into her sleek naval uniform, looked saucy, sexy and scintillating. I could have slapped her.

Suddenly I became aware of Sandy’s presence. In the profound silence which followed the formal exchange of greetings he staggered across the floor and offered me one of his toy bricks.

‘Thank you, Sandy.’ I took the brick and gripped it so hard that my fingers ached. Then in a passable attempt to achieve a smooth social manner I said to Dido: ‘How kind of you to call, but I’m afraid you must excuse me. I have an urgent meeting now with my curates.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of troubling you when you’re so busy!’ exclaimed Dido with that wide-eyed candour which I found so fatally compelling. ‘I just called to leave my card and enquire if your wife was better.’ Giving Grace her warmest smile she added confidentially: ‘You didn’t miss much at the Bish’s dinner-party – your husband was the only redeeming feature.’

The doorbell rang.

‘I’ll go!’ said Grace, scooping up Sandy.

‘No, I’ll answer it –’

‘No, it’s all right, Neville –’

We collided in the doorway before Grace succeeded in escaping into the hall.

‘I’m obviously causing chaos as usual,’ said Dido. ‘I’ll leave at once.’

I realized I was still holding Sandy’s brick. It was bright red, the colour of violence, volcanic fire and technicolour blood. It also matched Dido’s lipstick. Setting the brick down on the table with meticulous care I somehow managed to say to Dido in my politest voice: ‘If you feel you must go, then I shan’t try to detain you, but I apologize if you’ve been made to feel unwelcome.’

‘Oh no, your wife was charming! We got on terribly well!’

‘Miss Tallent –’

‘Oh, I do wish you’d stop calling me that! Why don’t you call me Dido, just as everyone else does?’

‘I’m most flattered that you should wish to be on such friendly terms with me, but I’m afraid a clergyman has a duty to be formal towards a young lady he’s known less than twenty-four hours.’

‘But I’m sure Jesus would have called me Dido without a second thought! He never bothered to be formal with the good-time girls!’

I opened my mouth to say coldly: ‘I fear I can only consider that remark to be in excessive bad taste,’ but the words were never spoken. To my horror I realized I was smiling. ‘You’re outrageous!’ I exclaimed in despair. ‘What on earth am I going to do with you?’

‘But don’t you remember? You’re going to be my spiritual guide and write me uplifting letters!’

‘But my dear Miss Tallent –’

‘You didn’t think I was serious, did you? You didn’t think I meant what I said, but I swear to you I’m deeply in earnest and absolutely desperate. I know you think I’m stupid and frivolous and not worth bothering about, but –’

‘Everyone’s worth bothering about. But don’t you think your local clergyman would be better placed than I am to give you the guidance you need?’

‘That celibate fish? He’s only fit to be lightly grilled on both sides and served to the congregation with parsley sauce!’

I made a quick decision, the kind of quick decision capable administrators make, a cool practical decision untainted by emotional involvement. There was no doubt this girl was genuinely distressed and adrift. It seemed reasonable to suppose she was suffering from that particularly debilitating confusion which so often follows a severe bereavement, an appalled recognition of her own mortality and a consequent questioning of her way of life. With the right help this self-examination could lead to a vital spiritual growth. Who was I to regard her with such unchristian cynicism because she had spent too many years as a mindless society girl? In a very real sense Dido’s tasteless comment about Jesus had hit the mark of truth. He would never have walked past her with his nose in the air, and since I was one of his followers neither should I.