Absolute Truths (33 page)

I
awoke feeling like a piece of elderly rope, bedraggled and frayed
at the edges, but this time I was not seriously unwell; I had only
drunk a little of the second bottle, the wine had been of good
quality and I had not been drinking on an empty stomach. I
decided I had behaved regrettably but not disastrously, and by
avoiding whisky I could even be said to be improving. I boosted
my morale with this fable for some time. Then I looked at the
clock and saw that yet again I had missed mass at Starrington.
That was certainly not what I had intended to do, but when one
drinks oneself into a stupor the possibility of failing to set an alarm
clock is high.

Determined to make amends for my idiocy by behaving
as
if I
were completely well, I consumed a cooked breakfast and departed
in my car for the golf course. I took no clubs; I did not delude
myself that I was fit enough to hit a ball effectively, but I saw no
reason why I should not go for a long, brisk, bracing walk on the fairways. Unfortunately, however, I was so busy planning what I
should say to Jon to explain my second failure to attend mass, that
I missed the turning which would have led me through the suburb
of Parson’s Mill to the golf club. Hardly able to believe I could
have made such an extraordinary error, I made a couple of right
turns
in an attempt
to get back on course, but all that happened
was that I found myself in a new system of one-way streets, and I was still fuming as the result of this navigational débâcle when
I realised I was crossing the parish boundary into Langley Bottom.

I forgot my plan to take a bracing walk on the fairways. I
glimpsed the forlorn hulk of the church rising above the shabby terraces which flanked the railway yards, and suddenly, gripped
by an impulse which 1 made no attempt to analyse, I realised I
had to see for myself that former ecclesiastical desert which was
now so improbably filled with flowers.

Of course it seems obvious now that the flower-filled church consti
tuted the perfect diversion from everything I was too afraid to
face, but at the time I could think only of the message implicit in
a dark wasteland penetrated by light. Assuming the church would
be locked I went to the vicarage to obtain the key, and seconds
later Hall himself was opening the front door.

He was wearing a black V-necked jersey with no vest or shirt
so that the dark hair on his chest was displayed in a manner which
I found most inappropriate for someone whose profession required
him to look seemly in public. Around his neck he wore a gold
chain, and dangling from this flashy item was a florid crucifix of
the type which makes a Protestant like Aysgarth want to yell: ‘No Popery!’ and become empurpled. Even I, a tolerant representative
of the Middle Way, found myself blinking at this unquestionably
Romish style of adornment. But this was not the only reason why
I blinked. I had noticed to my horror that he was also sporting
denim trousers, sandals and a complete lack of socks.

‘Good morning, Hall,’ I said appalled.

‘
Good morning, my lord,’ he said, sufficiently shocked to fall
back on the old-fashioned style of address. I was hardly about to
object, however, to being called ‘my lord’. That terrible new Bishop
of Radbury encourages everyone, even the junior clergy, to call
him by his Christian name. Sometimes I think the Church really
is going to the dogs. What purpose can such a false intimacy
possibly serve? To rreat a stranger as a close friend of many years’
standing is quite simply unreal; there are far more Christian ways
of showing concern for a person than to indulge in a phony manner
which ignores social realities. In my youth one called all males by
their surnames unless either they were members of one’s family or
one had known them for a long time. My one concession to chang
ing times was rhat I was willing to address my clergy by their
Christian names if I had known them for more than three years.
But they, naturally, knew better than to dare address me by mine
unless I had given them express permission to do so.

‘
Do please come in,’ Hall was saying, surreptitiously tugging
down his jersey as if driven to cover up as much blue denim as
possible. The kitchen’s the warmest room in the house, but if
you’d prefer the morning-room –’

‘By all means let’s be warm,’ I said, very chilly.

Hall gave a nervous cough. As I followed him down the
passage
into the area which had
once
been the servants’ quarters, I noted
that his hair was growing below his collar and he appeared to be
cultivating sideboards. ‘I trust you intend to visit the barber soon,’
I said, ‘and by "soon" I mean within the next twenty-four hours.’

‘
Yes, Bishop. I do apologise, but I’ve been so busy that I’ve
hardly had time to comb my hair, let alone cut it ... May I offer
you coffee?’

‘
Since you’re so hard-pressed, I scarcely like to trespass on your
time.’

Oh, the coffee’s already made for elevenses! I believe one has a
religious duty,’ said Hall firmly, ‘to keep up one’s strength by
eating regularly.’

I thought the consumption of elevenses bore a closer resem
blance to self-indulgence than the performance of a religious duty,
but I preserved an austere silence.

We entered the cavernous kitchen which was smelling so mark
edly of disinfectant that I wondered if Hall had scrubbed not only
the floor but the walls. This odour of chemical purity mingled oddly with the scent of coffee which was wafting from a smart
modern percolator on the dresser.

‘
Milk and sugar, Bishop?’ said Hall, very solicitous. I realised
he was recovering his equilibrium.

‘
No thanks. And before we leave the subject of your appearance
I feel I should make it clear that in this diocese priests are required
to dress as priests except on their days off – and even on their days
off they’re required to dress with good taste and discretion.’

‘
I quite understand, Bishop. But I’m only dressed informally
because I was about to put in an hour working on Father Wilton’s
study. I’m repainting it.’

‘
You mean you dressed informally when you got up this morn
ing? You mean you celebrated mass in sandals? And
without sacks?’

‘
Oh no, no, Bishop – good heavens, what
a
horrifying thought!
No, I wore black shoes and socks for the service, of course I did,
but I shed them along with the cassock when I arrived home. I
find I paint better in sandals.’

‘
Indeed.’ There seemed
little
else to say in the face of such eccen
tricity, so I sat down at the kitchen table, a large item of furniture
which was covered with an eclectic array of objects. I noted a
half-mended pair of trousers with the needle still sticking in the
seam, an iron, an open jar of honey, a bag of apples, a copy of the
Daily Mail –
very light-weight reading for a priest – a packet of
cigarettes, a ball of string, a letter in childish handwriting begin
ning ‘Dear Daddy’ – that gave me a jolt; Malcolm had either
failed to uncover evidence of fatherhood or else had forgotten to
pass it on – two half-crowns, a book of stamps and a box of
candles. My glance had just returned with disapproval to the news
paper when Hall set down a cup of coffee in front of me and said
with a panache I could not help but admire: ‘You’ll be surprised
to see the
Daily
Mail, I daresay, but I must have a newspaper I can
read in five minutes. Otherwise I waste too much
time.’
Opening a
biscuit-tin he offered me the contents. ‘Flapjack?’

I declined but commented: ‘I see the ladies of the parish are
already baking for you!’

Hall looked wary at the mention of ladies but answered equably
enough: ‘People like to rally round in a crisis. For example, when
I asked for volunteers to clean the church I was amazed by how
many people responded.’

I forgot my disapproval. ‘You saw the leaning as therapy?’

‘Yes, I did. People were very shocked by the violence to Father
Wilton – even the non-churchgoers were shocked. It’s a close-knit
community.’

‘Who suggested bringing the flowers?’

‘
I did. It was all part of the ritual of clearsing and renewal .. .
Who told you about the flowers?’

‘
The Archdeacon.’ I paused, but since I always believed in giving
praise where praise was due I added: ‘I congratulate you. You
must have worked very hard, making yourself known to so many
people in such a short time and enabling them to express their
feelings in a way which was psychologically and spiritually
effective.’

Hall
made a
commendable attempt to look modest.

There was another pause, and it seemed to me then that although
the interview had begun so inauspiciously we were now at ease.
Indeed it was as if we had reached a point where my rank and his eccentricity were no longer sources of friction but of harmony, as
if each in some mysterious way complemented the other. I was
reminded of the way in which two apparently unrelated pieces in
a huge jigsaw can suddenly slot together in a perfect fit, and no
sooner had this thought entered my head when Hall said: ‘I knew
you were the right bishop for me.’ And he added, speaking with
increasing speed: ‘I’m sorry about your wife. Obviously this is
quite the wrong moment to talk to you about my plans, but that’s
all right, they’ll keep, and meanwhile I’m quite happy just to be
working here in your diocese.’

I knew I should signal to him that there was no possibility that
I would allow him to work in the diocese permanently, but all I
said was: ‘I’m sorry you have to work in a church which is so
run-down and unprepossessing.’

‘
Unprepossessing?’ said Hall astonished. ‘But it’s magnificent! A Victorian masterpiece! The space, the light, the stonework, the
glass –’

‘And now the flowers?’

Hall stood up, reached for the keys which were lying on the
dresser and said: ‘You came to see the flowers, didn’t you?’

‘
How did you know?’

‘
I can see they have meaning for you. Let me take you over to
the church straight away.’

Pushing aside my cup of coffee, I followed him from the house.

Winter faded and spring seemed close once I saw the flowers.
They were everywhere: hardy weeds from the water-meadows;
snowdrops, crocuses and even daffodils from the little back gardens
of the Victorian terraces; innumerable varieties of chrysanthemums
from the local florist. I wandered around touching the blooms as
if I could not quite believe they were real, and after a while I
became aware of the transformed church itself, the scrubbed floor,
the polished pews, the shining brass; even the Anglo-Catholic
accoutrements, which can so easily with lack of care degenerate
into a ramshackle mess, seemed stylish, glittering, sumptuous. All
the tarnish had vanished. So had the elderly candle-stumps. The
holy water stoup was pristine. And beyond all the renovated fur
nishings, beyond all the flowers, the great cross glowed in the
multi-coloured light which streamed down on the high altar, a
numinous sign pointing beyond itself to the eternal cycle of suffer
ing, death, resurrection and renewal.

I sat down in one of the pews and Hall sat down beside me. At
last I said: ‘I must be honest with you. This can only be a temporary
renewal. There’s no money to finance a healing centre anywhere,
least of all here. The diocesan board of finance -’

‘This needn’t cost you a penny.’

I assumed that either he had misheard me or that I had misunder
stood him. ‘What needn’t cost me a penny?’

The healing centre. For a start, I wouldn’t take a salary, I don’t
need one. And second, there’s no reason why a healing centre
shouldn’t be funded by
charities and private individuals. The Fordite monks would set it up.’

The Fordite monks;’

‘
Why not? Now that their numbers are reduced, they hardly
know what to do with all their money, it’s an embarrassment to
them – just think of all the loot they got when they sold off the
Ruydale estate!’

‘
But surely a remote Yorkshire sheepfarm wasn’t worth much?’

‘
The Abbot-General laughed all the way to the bank.’

‘
But –’

‘
Every river was stuffed with fish and every moor was groaning
with grouse! The international estate agents even printed a special
colour brochure to make sure that the price was pushed into the stratosphere, so don’t worry about the money, Bishop, I’ll get the
Abbot-General to launch a new charitable foundation, he’ll love
it,
it’ll
give him a new interest in his old age.’

I struggled to comment but words failed me.

‘
One day,’ said Hall, ‘one day when you’re free to grapple with the problems of St Paul’s Langley Bottom, please do allow me to explain my plans to you in detail. St Paul’s is actually the perfect
place because it has that very large, bone-dry crypt yet there are
hardly any corpses in it — I suppose that’s because
the
church is
comparatively new and in the old days most of the parishioners
wouldn’t have been able to afford an expensive interment. So
although we’d have to do a certain amount of reburying, I don’t
regard that as a major obstacle, and once all the bones have been
transferred to the cemetery ...’

I ceased to listen. I was thinking: there must be an ecclesiastical
law which I can invoke to extricate myself from this fantastic
scheme, but the next moment I was remembering Lyle, writing in
her journal about the sayings of Jesus, and into my head came the
words: The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.’

Before I could stop myself I said to Lewis Hall: ‘Come and dine
with me this Saturday.’