Absolute Truths (70 page)

The penance Jon set me had two parts. First I had to promise to
make a retreat under his direction as soon
as
possible, and second I had to promise to abstain from alcohol until this retreat had been
completed. He made no attempt to set a date for the beginning
of my retreat; he said he understood how important it was that I
should make contact with Michael, but he left me in no doubt
that I was to detach myself from the South Canonry as soon as I
could.

After I had made my promise he began to advise me on prayer.
‘Your first task,’ he said briskly, ‘is to shore up your spiritual
strength when you’re in such a debilitated state that your normal
rule of life
has
broken down. A little prayer and often is a more
realistic aim at this stage than a substantial session in the morning
and evening; arrow-prayers will be more suitable than heroic bouts
of meditation — in fact, be sure not to set yourself any heroic
spiritual tasks because you’ll almost certainly be setting them out
of a sense of guilt which will doublé if your efforts end in failure.
And don’t attempt to read any new books; stick to the old favour
ites. A sermon a day by AUSTIN FARRER

will do you far more good
than the latest volume from some learned German theologian. Try
to read the office, but don’t panic if your concentration
is
too bad
to make the exercise worthwhile; simply look at the appointed
daily readings. And don’t try to frame elaborate intercessions. Just
visualise the people you need to pray for, including yourself, and hold them up to God. Ask for patience and the power of discern
ment as you try to understand how you can best work with God
Lo redeem your errors.’

This last sentence reminded me that so far he had dropped no
hint that I should take an early retirement. Reluctantly I said: ‘Do
you think I should resign the bishopric?’

‘
I don’t think that’s a profitable question to ask at the moment.
It’s much more important that you should concentrate on getting
yourself fit enough to answer such a question correctly. But I’ll
say this: I don’t think it necessarily follows at all that your recent
errors mean you’re now ircapable of being a good bishop — indeed
if all goes well you may become a much better one.’

‘
You
seem
to be displaying an insane degree of optimism!’ I
said, but I thought of Hall, talking of spiritual strength, and I
began to feel fractionally better.

‘
All I’m displaying,’ said Jon, ‘is a reasonable degree of hope.
You’re merely too debilitated to know the difference.’

‘
It’s just hard for me to have any hope for the future when I
remember Sheila. What in heaven’s name am I going to do about
her? How do I even begin to ease her from my life?’

‘
You may find you don’t wish to ease her from your life. You
may eventually find you want to marry her.’

‘
I can’t imagine —’

‘
No, of course you can’t. That’s the point. All talk of remarriage
is futile at the moment because the only woman you really want
is Lyle.’

‘
But in the meantime how do I deal with Sheila? Supposing —’

‘
And it’s also futile to worry about disasters which may never
happen. Just set Sheila on one side for the moment while you
concentrate on recuperating — and set the Cathedral on one side
too. You can’t do more there anyway until Aysgarth produces draft
accounts, and that’s not going to happen overnight.’

It may not happen at all. If he’s guilty —’

‘
I’m not nearly
as
sure of that as you and your colleagues are.
It’s quite possible that all the prevarication about the accounts can
be put down to sheer pigheadedness.’

‘His pigheadedness, I agree, has to be experienced to be
believed,’ I said with feeling. ‘And how on earth do you stand his
persistent rudeness to you?’

‘
Because I know why he behaves like that; it’s to goad me into
taking a tough line. Aysgarth likes people taking tough lines
because it enables him to be tough in return, and being tough ensures that all his defences are kept in place. In the past I’ve
attempted more subtle approaches, but it’s like trying to catch a
tiger with a butterfly net: he chews up the net and bares his teeth
at me all over again.’

‘
Obviously he’s quite impossible.’
..

‘
Not impossible. Just difficult. If only Father Darcy were alive
to advise me! I’m sure I was right to see you and Aysgarth together,
particularly as
definite
progress was made, but it was a risky
manoeuvre and Father Darcy might well have said ...’ And he
talked on, deep in memories of his mentor. It was always a surprise
to me to remember that I myself had never met Father Darcy.
Thanks to Jon’s unflagging reminiscences I felt I knew this
legendary Victorian eccentric only too well.

Jon was still
talking
when the front door of the cottage opened
and young Nicholas slouched moodily into the room. He wore jeans and a black leather jacket and his hair needed cutting. I
reflected in irritation that no future ordinand should wander
around looking like a seedy rock-’n’-roll singer, but I supposed
there was nothing wrong with the boy that a sound, disciplined theological college would be unable to cure. Or was there? I suf
fered a pang of anxiety. If Nicholas took to drugs and ruined
himself, Jon would never recover.

‘
I sort of felt you’d finished,’ he said to his father, but I suspected
that what he was really saying was: ‘I want you to myself now —
get rid of him.’

I rose to my feet. ‘I’m glad to see you looking better, Nicholas!’
I said with what I hoped was an air of positive approval, but he
made no effort to return my smile.

‘
Yeah,’ he said, still speaking very sloppily, but the younger
generation did speak sloppily; it was the fashion. ‘I’m okay.’
But when he made this assertion I heard the note of uncertainty
in his voice. He halted by his father, the puppy returning with
relief to his master’s side, and stood there, waiting for me to
go.

Jon immediately became uneasy but struggled to refocus his
attention on me. ‘We should stop at this point anyway,’ he said.
‘You’re tired and you need time to reflect on what’s been said, but
do please come back
as
soon
as
possible ... Nicholas, say goodbye civilly to the Bishop, please, and don’t attempt to chew gum and
talk at the same time. It spoils your ability to enunciate words
with clarity.’

Young Nicholas stood up straight, held out a cold damp hand
and said in a crisp monotone: ‘Goodbye, Uncle Charles. It was
nice to see you. Please give my regards to Charley and Michael.’
So might a robot have spoken after the correct programming from a scientist. I suffered another pang of anxiety, but now was clearly
not the moment to worry about Jon’s family problems.

Having taken my leave of them both, I walked back rapidly
through the woods to my car.

By the time I arrived home Miss Peabody had long since departed,
but on entering my study I found her typed notes which referred
to the files selected by Nigel for my attention. In no mood for
studying them, I tossed the notes into the in-tray and moved the
files to the edge of my desk
as
if I hoped they would fall off and
vanish. It was not until I had completed this rearrangement that
I turned my attention to the message written by Miss Peabody on
my memo pad.

Glancing down I read: ‘Mrs Preston (wife of the late Bishop of
Radbury) telephoned at 5.15 p.m. She
is
in Starbridge for a little holiday and would like to see you, if convenient. She is staying at
the Staro Arms (Tel. no.: 684).’

I was still staring with horror at this appalling information when
the telephone began to ring at my side.

Following my private interview with Jon I had been feeling calmer, less confined, more ready to believe I was capable of surmounting
the difficulties which were besieging me on all sides, but the com
bined onslaught of Miss Peabody’s message and the ringing telephone plunged me once more into a panic-stricken fog. It took
me at least ten seconds to remember that I was still hoping to hear
from Michael. Finally I managed to pick up the receiver.

‘It’s me,’ said my archdeacon. ‘Any news?’

‘News?’ I said blankly. ‘No. Should there be?’

‘But I thought you were going to
tackle
Aysgarth!’

‘
Ah yes!’ I somehow pulled myself together before he could
decide I was certifiable. ‘He’s going to produce draft accounts.’

‘Oh, well done, Charles,
well done!
When?’

‘
Soon. Look, can I phone you back tomorrow? I’ve only just
got back to the house, and ...’ I got rid of Malcolm and stared again at the memo from Miss Peabody. I was still fighting the
desire to head straight for the whisky decanter when the doorbell
rang.

Once again my heart almost seemed to stop beating before
pounding on at breakneck speed. My first thought was that the
caller was Sheila, but common sense soon told me that she would
be waiting, discreet
as
ever, at the hotel. My visitor was almost
certainly one of my devoted Cathedral ladies bearing more food
for the deep-freeze – or had Michael impulsively driven down from
London to see me? Filled with a sudden burst of hope I rushed
out into the hall and flung open the front door.

But my visitor was not Michael. It was Harriet March.

‘
I want to apologise for my outrageous behaviour,’ she said before
I could display any emotion whatsoever. ‘Stephen’s just ordered
me to grovel at your feet. Can I come in for a moment?’

‘
If you insist.’

‘
I thought clergymen always gave a big welcome to a sinner
panting to repent! Don’t you want me to bare my soul?’

‘
Not particularly. Bare it to Stephen.’

‘It’s Stephen I want to talk about.’

‘
All right, come in.’ By that time it had occurred to me that if
I rebuffed her too rudely she might be tempted to make trouble
for me all over again.

She was wearing a short, white, belted raincoat, black stockings
and black, patent leather, high-heeled shoes. Her long, wavy hair
was drawn austerely back behind her ears, secured with a black
ribbon and allowed to foam casually down her spine. Her eyes,
caked in vulgar make-up, looked very large and very green.

Remembering Jon’s insight I realised that Harriet was not much
older than Lyle had been in 1937, and I could now clearly see
how my memory had been stirred. But I could also now clearly
see how far the two women differed. Lyle had been so subtly, so
elegantly erotic. In contrast Harriet’s eroticism seemed not merely
blatant but crude.

‘
Sherry?’ I offered neutrally as we entered the drawing-room.
‘How terribly forgiving,’ she said. Thanks.’

But I did not invite her to sit down. After handing her a Tio
Pepe I helped myself to some sodawater and with our glasses in
our hands we stood in front of the fireplace like two guests at an
unsuccessful cocktail party.

At last she said: ‘Have you figured out why I did it? All I wanted
was to help Stephen by giving him a weapon to use against you.’

‘
You don’t seriously expect me to believe that, do you?’

‘
God, what an ecclesiastical thug you are! I make a meek, mild, little statement reeking of repentance and you take a big swipe at
me! All right, you brute, I’ll come clean. I could see you found
me attractive last night and when you not only turned me down
but made that utterly vile remark about nymphomaniacs —’

‘
I regretted that as soon as Pd said it. I’m Sony, Harriet.’

That’s more like it! Okay, I’m sorry too, but you can see why I thought: I’ll take that man down a peg or two and at the same
time do my heroic Mr Dean a big favour. I know it was a mad
decision but I was mad with rage — and in fact I’m still not entirely
sorry I took a swipe at you for your hypocritical behaviour. What
a nerve to pretend you’re white as driven snow and lay all the
blame on me for that sexy undercurrent in the studio! Didn’t
someone say once in the Bible that when a man looks at a woman
and lusts after her he’s
as
good as committing adultery?’

‘
Yes, it was a gentleman called Jesus of Nazareth. Am I allowed to defend myself against the charge of hypocrisy? It’s very easy for
people outside the Church to jeer at clergymen, but no matter
how often we fall short of our ideals —’

‘
The important thing is that you have ideals and try to live up to them. You think I don’t understand that? Every artist worthy
of the name knows about falling short of the ideal but always
trying to strive for it ... You really did like the hands, didn’t
you?’

‘Very much. It was a privilege to be shown them. Thank you.’

‘
All right, Charles, you don’t have to grovel on all fours! I
was
bloody
to you and you were bloody to me but now I reckon we
can consider ourselves all square.’

‘
I always like happy endings,’ I murmured, sipping my sodawater
and wishing it were whisky.

‘
Hold on, we haven’t quite reached the golden sunset yet. I want
to talk about that West Front Appeal.’

I nearly dropped my glass on the hearthrug.