Absolute Truths (15 page)

I must at this point give credit where credit is due and admit
that Aysgarth worked just
as
hard as I did to eliminate the spiritual
decay which had affected our community. He kept himself sober,
behaved immaculately with young women and worked hard to
raise money to restore the Cathedral’s crumbling west front. It
was then I realised that Aysgarth’s principal talent, the one which
outshone all the others, was for survival.

It would be untrue to say we became friends, but we did make
elaborate attempts to be pleasant to each other. ‘And bearing in
mind our temperamental incompatibility,’ I said to Jon, ‘even elab
orate attempts to be pleasant must represent some sort of modest
spiritual triumph,’ but Jon immediately became very austere.

‘
I agree it’s a triumph,’ he said, ‘but it’s certainly neither modest
nor spiritual. It’s a gargantuan triumph of the will fuelled by pride
and self-deception, and all that’s really happening is that you’re
passing off a spurious affability as a Christian virtue. Phrases
such
as "temperamental
incompatibility" and "modest spiritual
triumph" actually fail to describe or explain anything that’s going
on here.’

I was baffled. ‘But Aysgarth and I
are
temperamentally incom
patible!’

‘
I see no evidence of that. You’re both intelligent men capable of strong passions and deep commitment. In fact I don’t see you
as incompatible at all, temperamentally or otherwise — you’ve actu
ally got a lot in common. You’re both well-educated men in the
same line of business. You both enjoy fine food, good wine and
t
he company of attractive women. You’re both devoted to your
children.’

‘Yes, but —’

‘
Your present attitude to Aysgarth says a great deal about your
desire to behave like a good Christian, but very
little
about your
desire to take the essential Christian journey inwards and examine
your soul to work out what’s going on there. Perhaps if you were
to take another look at the writings of Father Andrew, who was
not only a modern master of the spiritual life but a man of immense
humility and psychological insight ...’

I did meditate on the passages Jon marked for my attention, but I regret to say I did not like Aysgarth any better afterwards.
I could only redouble my efforts to treat him in the most Christian
way I could devise.

It had been arranged that we should take the short service of
matins together on that particular morning in February, I reciting
the office and leading the prayers, he reading the assigned passages
from scripture, and when I entered the vestry of the Cathedral shortly before half-past seven I found he was waiting for me. I
assumed that the three Canons had already taken their seats among
the congregation in St Anselm’s chapel.

‘Hullo, Charles! Tiresome sort of weather, isn’t it?’

‘
Very dreary. I hope it doesn’t snow and disrupt the trains.’

‘
Going anywhere special today?’

‘
Just nipping up to town for a committee meeting at Church
House.’

‘Rather you than me!’

This concluded our opening round of pleasantries and was,
as
a golfer might say, par for the course. Aysgarth smiled at me
benignly. When I had first met him long ago in 1940, he had been
reserved, serious and not unappealing in his appearance despite
that lean and hungry look which is always supposed to indicate
an oversized ambition. Now, many double-whiskies and many
sumptuous dinners later, he was stout and plain with a racy social
manner which bordered constantly on frivolity. Being short, he
was probably grateful for his thick hair which added a few precious
tenths of an inch to his height. The hair was off-white and untidy,
calling to mind the fleece of a bedraggled sheep. His blue eyes
were set above pouches of skin in a heavily lined, reddish face, and
his thin mouth, suggesting obstinacy, aggression and a powerful will, marked him as a forceful personality, someone who had no
hesitation in being ruthless when it suited him. For some reason,
which must remain one of the unsolved mysteries of sexual chemis
try, women consistently found this tough little ecclesiastical gang
ster attractive. The phenomenon never ceased to astonish me.

As I took off my coat I carefully embarked on a second round
of innocuous conversation. ‘How very kind of you, Stephen,’ I
said, ‘to give Charley lunch yesterday.’

‘
Not at all,’ said Aysgarth, following my example and toiling to
be agreeable. I had thought he might make some comment on the
lunch and perhaps even mention Samson, but he asked instead:
‘How’s Michael? Dido told me he came down to see you yesterday.’

I quickly moved to protect my Achilles’ heel. ‘Oh, Michael’s
fine, couldn’t be better!’ I said, taking care to exude the satisfaction
of a proud parent. ‘How’s Christian?’

Christian, Aysgarth’s eldest son and the apple of his eye, was a
don up at Oxford.

Oh, doing wonderfully well!’ said Aysgarth at once. ‘I’m so
lucky to have sons who never give me a moment’s anxiety!’
Instantly I grabbed hold of my temper before I could lose it,
but it was still difficult not to shout at him: ‘Bastard!’ I knew
perfectly well that Aysgarth was remembering Charley, running
away from home, and Michael, being flung out of medical school,
while the Aysgarth boys had journeyed through adolescence with
out ever putting a foot wrong. Aysgarth had four sons from his first
marriage, all of whom were highly successful and utterly devoted to
him.

‘
Is Christian working on an
^o
ther book?’ I enquired politely, but
I was unable to resist adding the barbed sentence: ‘I hope I’ll find
it more original than his last one.’

‘
Ah, but the influence of classical Rome on medieval philosophy
isn’t quite your subject, is it, Charles?’ said Aysgarth, delivering
this lethal riposte without a second’s hesitation. ‘If you’d read
Greats up at Oxford, as I did, you’d find that Christian’s scholar
ship was more within your intellectual reach.’

The worst part about Aysgarth, as 1 had discovered to my cost
in the past, was that he was a killer in debate. One entered an
argument with him at one’s peril, but of course,
as
Jon would have
instantly reminded me, I had no business getting into an argument
with Aysgarth at all.

Fortunately the entry of the verger put an end to this serrated
conversation, and when I was ready we were led silently through
the Cathedral to the chapel where the daily services were held.

I could not help thinking that my visit had begun on a singularly
unfortunate
note.

Much depressed I prayed for an improvement.

The congregation stood up to greet us
as
we entered St Anselm’s
chapel, and I saw that all three residentiary Canons were in the
front row. The most senior was Tommy Fitzgerald, who had once
confessed to me that Aysgarth was the only man he had ever
wanted to punch on the jaw, and next to this normally unpug
nacious Anglo-Catholic stood Paul Dalton, who had once told me
he hardly knew how to face a Chapter meeting without having a
nervous breakdown. On the far side of this normally stable church
man of the Middle Way was the newcomer to Starbridge, Gerry
Pearce, whom I had selected for his staying-power after his prede
cessor, a crony of Aysgarth’s, had decamped to London
as a direct
result of the 1963 crisis. Gerry was a moderate Evangelical who
had spent some years as a missionary in an unpleasant part of the
world before returning to England for the sake of his growing
family; I had poached him from the Guildford diocese where he
had passed five arduous years persuading the affluent middle-
classes that there was more to life than making money in London.
Coming from an affluent middle-class area of Surrey myself I was
in a position to appreciate his achievement.

I did not care greatly for Tommy Fitzgerald, an unmarried fuss
pot who in his own way could be just
as
pigheaded as Aysgarth,
but I liked Paul Dalton, who had read divinity long ago at
Cambridge, just as I had, and who was so devoted to cricket that
he seldom left his television set when a test match was being
broadcast. Apart from a tendency to wander off the point in
diocesan committee meetings, Paul’s most tiresome habit was to
complain how difficult it was to remarry. Since his wife’s death he
had tried hard to find a suitable replacement, but he had never
found anyone who matched his rigorous specifications. Lyle said
he did not want to remarry at all but merely felt obliged to go
through the motions of pretending that he did, but having been
obliged to listen to Paul’s confidential opinions on the subject I
knew that unlike Tommy Fitzgerald he was not happy as a celibate.

Beyond the three Canons who were gathered in the chapel that
morning I recognised the Vicar of the Close, who conducted the
day-to-day pastoral work for the Dean, and in the same row I
noted three retired clergy and my two chaplains, all of whom lived
nearby. A couple of devout laymen from the diocesan office and
half a dozen equally devout elderly women formed not only the
remainder of the congregation but the loyal core of the Cathedral’s b
and of regular worshippers.

I was about to conclude my quick inspection of those present
when I saw there was a stranger among us. This was very unusual.
As I have already indicated, few people chose to attend a weekday
‘said’ matins on a dark winter’s morning, and usually the Starbridge
visitors who attended church during the week preferred to pass
up matins in favour of Holy Communion at eight. I gave the
stranger a sharp look, and as if sensing my interest he raised his
head to stare straight into my eyes.

I blinked, taken aback. He was a priest, but a sinister one:
swarthy, blunt-featured and built like a
pugilist.
His remarkable
eyes, black and hypnotic, were set deep in shadowed sockets, and
as
soon as I had registered their potential power to cast a spell I
found myself thinking: that man’s big trouble. And I wondered
which bishop had the ordeal of keeping him in order.

The service started. When Aysgarth read the first lesson I stole
another glance at the visitor and wondered if my instinctive distrust
had been unjustified. He was conservatively dressed in a well-cut
suit. His clerical collar was thick enough to look old-fashioned and
his black stock was adorned with a small gold cross, hinting at an
Anglo-Catholic churchmanship. The extreme respectability of his clothes formed a bizarre contrast to his sinister countenance and
his curious aura of ... But I could not quite define the quality of
the aura. I could only think again: that man’s big trouble. And I could imagine not only all the women in his home congregation
being disturbed by his powerful presence, but far too many of the
men as well.

Towards the end of the service I briefly mentioned Desmond’s
disaster and proposed that we all observe a moment of silence
to pray for his recovery. Intercessions were usual
^l
y made at the
Communion service, but I felt that Desmond’s case should be
presented to that tightly-knit matins congregation. With the excep
tion of the stranger we all knew each other and we all knew
Desmond. In such circumstances I thought my request would call
forth a particularly solid shaft of prayer.

After the service I adjourned to the vestry with Aysgarth for the
short interval between matins and Communion, and soon we were
joined by the three Canons.

Who was that man?’ demanded Tommy Fitzgerald.

But no one knew.

I asked: ‘Did no one introduce themselves?’

‘
He gave us no chance,’ said young Gerry Pearce. ‘He stayed on
his knees and kept praying.’

‘
An Anglo-Catholic,’ said Aysgarth neutrally. ‘I noticed the pec
toral cross.’

‘
Talking of Anglo-Catholics,’ said Paul Dalton,’ what a shocking
piece of news that was about poor old Desmond ...’

Desmond was discussed in suitably muted tones for a couple of minutes. Then since it was not the morning when we all attended
the Communion service, the group dispersed. Gerry and Paul
drifted away to their homes for breakfast. Tommy, who was that
month the Canon ‘in residence’, responsible for the services, wan
dered off to make sure the new verger had set out the right quanti
ties of wine and wafers. Only Aysgarth lingered, waiting to see
what I was going to do. ‘Staying on, Charles?’ he enquired casually
after Tommy had disappeared. ‘What about that train to London?’

‘
I’m not leaving until I’ve seen Desmond.’ Making an enormous
effort I forced myself to say: ‘I’m afraid our conversation earlier
wasn’t one of our best efforts. I’m sorry.’

‘No need to apologise. Entirely my fault. I’m sorry too.’

How hard we were both trying to be Christian! And what a
stilted, awkward job we were both making of it! In despair I
wondered if I was even fit to receive the sacrament, but I knew
this descent into gloom was unjustified. I repented of my earlier
burst of anger; I wanted to attend Communion; I needed the
comfort of the sacrament as I faced the long, arduous day which
lay ahead.

In silence I returned to the chapel, and in silence Aysgarth, not
to be spiritually outdone, padded along by My side.

I wondered what Jon would have said, but decided I was much
too depressed to want to imagine.