Glittering Images (28 page)

‘I’m sorry, sir, but Father Prior’s been transferred to London.’

The young monk’s face was now expressionless and suddenly I sensed that a massive upheaval had taken place within those closed community walls. As I recalled my earlier impression of an improved efficiency it occurred to me that a new broom had begun to sweep the house very clean.

‘Well, if Father Reid’s dead,’ I said, ‘and Father Andrews has been transferred, who’s now in charge?’

‘Father Abbot-General has appointed someone from outside our community, sir – Father Jonathan Darrow from our house in Yorkshire.’ He opened the door wide. ‘Please do come in, Dr Ashworth – our new Abbot wishes to meet everyone who came under Father Reid’s direction, and I’m sure he’ll see you straight away.’

That settled that.

I crossed the threshold, and although I did not know it I was crossing my private Rubicon.

I was about to meet my exorcist.

‘There is no part of my duty as bishop that perplexes and distresses me so much as the treatment of clergymen who have fallen into some gross impurity.’

Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson
Bishop of Durham 1920–1939
ed.
E. F. BRALEY.

I sat down in the visitors’ parlour which was a large plain room containing a table and several chairs. Above the fireplace a crucifix hung on the wall but there were no pictures. A glass panel had been inserted in the door so that no monk could have an unobserved conversation with a female visitor.

It was past the hour of Mass which concluded the early services, and I knew the monks would be engaged in their private tasks before they reassembled for the next service at noon. The house was quiet. The Fordites are not bound to observe a strict rule of silence but conversation is discouraged except during the weekly recreation hour on Saturdays.

Three minutes passed. I was continually rephrasing my words of condolence, and I was still searching for the most appropriate formula when swift footsteps echoed in the hall and the new abbot strode into the room.

He was very tall, even taller than I was, and had a lean but powerful frame. His iron-grey hair was cut very short, his iron-grey eyes saw, I knew, everything there was to see, and the strong striking bone structure of his face was impressive but intimidating in its austerity. It was an irony that the lavish pectoral cross and heavy ring which symbolized his office succeeded in underlining this austerity rather than negating it. An abbot was usually considered the equal in rank of a bishop within the Church of England, and although a bishop had a pastoral duty towards any monks in his diocese, a duty acquired when he was appointed ‘visitor’ to their cloister, a Fordite abbot was answerable only to his Abbot-General in London and to the Archbishop of the province.

‘Dr Ashworth?’ said the stranger as he paused on the threshold of the room, and added much as the chairman of the board might have addressed a young director who interested him: ‘Good morning – I’m Jon Darrow, the new Abbot here.’

He somehow managed to be formal and informal at the same time. The use of the abbreviated first name was striking and led me to assume he had kept his original name on entering the Order. Monks were supposed to choose a new name to symbolize their new life in God’s service, but the Fordites regarded this cenobitic tradition as optional.

He closed the door and we shook hands. His clasp was firm, brief, confident. Mine was cautious, uncertain, perhaps even unnerved.

‘I’m extremely sorry that you weren’t informed of Father Reid’s death,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately he kept no list of those he counselled so it was impossible for me to write to you.’ He made the omission of a list sound like evidence of an unpardonably inefficient administration, and I began to wonder if he had ever served in the army. The authority he exuded had a certain ‘spit-and-polish’ quality; as I tentatively embarked on my set speech I found myself remembering the young doorkeeper’s dazzling crucifix.

‘I was very surprised – and greatly saddened – to hear the news – it must have been a shock to you all –’

‘It was, yes,’ said Father Darrow, crisply terminating my unimpressive attempt to express my condolences. ‘Father Reid was held in considerable affection by the community and will be much missed.’

That disposed of Father Reid. Still trying to find my bearings I said uncertainly, ‘I understand you’ve been brought in from outside – isn’t that rather unusual? I thought that normally the community elected an abbot from among their own number.’

‘It’s very unusual, yes, and a stimulating challenge both for me and for my Grantchester brethren.’ That disposed equally crisply of the unusual appointment. ‘Please sit down, Dr Ashworth. I presume you came to see Father Reid about a spiritual matter?’

Uncertainty continued to grip me. I hesitated.

‘Let me tell you a little about myself,’ said Darrow, sitting down opposite me at the table. ‘I think it’s often difficult to confide in someone new and untried; spiritual directors are not, after all, something one acquires without thought at the local shop, like a sack of potatoes. I’m fifty-seven years old and I entered the Order when I was forty-three. Before that I was a chaplain in the prison service, and before that I was a chaplain in the Navy – in which, incidentally, I served during the War. I obtained my theology degree at Laud’s. For nine years of my life I was a married man and I have a son and daughter, now grown up.’ He paused. ‘That, I fear, is very much of a thumbnail sketch, but I hope perhaps you may find it illuminating.’

I did. A former Naval chaplain who knew what sex was all about and had even got as far as fathering two children might well be an acceptable alternative to Jardine, and spurred on by the knowledge that I had my back to the spiritual wall I said cautiously, ‘Thank you, Father. Yes, that’s very helpful. I’m sorry I was so hesitant.’ I tried to dispense with hesitancy. ‘I came here this morning in the hope of arranging a retreat,’ I said, attempting a passable imitation of my usual self-confidence. ‘I thought I might return here on Friday, have a talk with you – at your convenience, naturally – and make my confession. Then I’d like to spend some time in prayer and meditation under your direction before leaving early on Sunday morning in order to attend the services in the Cathedral.’

Father Darrow was looking straight at me with his very clear grey eyes. My nerve failed. ‘Well, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,’ I said rapidly, rising to my feet. ‘If you have no objection to my plans, I’ll –’

‘Sit down, Dr Ashworth.’

I sank back in my chair.

‘When did you last make your confession?’

In the circumstances it was a conventional question but that did not make it easier to answer. However I thought that with luck he would accept my information without questioning it. ‘Last April,’ I said.

‘And you made your confession to Father Reid?’

Damn. ‘No,’ I said casually, trying to pretend there was nothing unusual about such an evasion of one’s spiritual director.

‘To whom did you make your confession?’

Double-damn. This was very awkward. I cleared my throat and rubbed my nose to give myself time to think. ‘I was in France,’ I said at last, ‘on holiday. I made my confession to a priest in a Paris church.’

‘A Roman Catholic?’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause. ‘You discussed the matter with Father Reid, of course,’ said Darrow, ‘on your return.’

‘Well, as a matter of fart,’ I said, ‘no, I didn’t.’

‘When did you last make your confession to Father Reid?’

‘Last March, before Easter.’

‘How often do you make confession?’

In my confusion I was so preoccupied that my normal practice of confession might be judged inadequate that I failed to realize he was bent on exposing the abnormality of two confessions made in rapid succession. ‘Well, I’m not really an Anglo-Catholic, Father, not nowadays, and since confession isn’t compulsory in the Church of England –’

‘Once a year? Twice? Three times?’

‘Once a year. During Lent.’

‘I see.’ There followed a pause as I belatedly realized I had revealed a situation I would have preferred to conceal. Darrow waited, but when I remained silent he said with perfect courtesy, ‘Today is Tuesday. May I ask why you wish to postpone your confession till the weekend?’

Triple-damn. I had no wish to start discussing my need to return to Starbridge. ‘There’s a very important matter,’ I said firmly, ‘which I have to attend to.’

‘A worldly matter?’

I was caught. If I said yes he would accuse me of putting worldly interests before my spiritual welfare. If I said no he would want to know why I was clearly reluctant to discuss a matter which was part of my spiritual life. I stared at him, and as he stared back, grave and uncompromising, I realized with the most profound uneasiness that he was formidable.

‘When did you last receive the sacrament?’ he said while I was still floundering over his last question.

This was easier. With relief I said, ‘Sunday.’ And driven by the compulsion to polish away the tarnish which he had perceived on my glittering image I added, ‘I was staying at Starbridge – at the palace – and the Bishop asked me to assist him at Communion.’ This sounded reassuringly impressive, and I was just relaxing in my chair when he said: ‘And if your own bishop were to telephone you today with the same request how would you answer him?’

In the silence that followed I felt my face grow hot as I shifted in my chair and stared down at my clasped hands. No reply was possible. I felt humiliated, angry and gripped by a violent desire to walk out. Yet I stayed – and not only because I knew I had my back to the spiritual wall. I stayed because he was mentally pinning me there and I was quite unable to wriggle away.

‘What is your Christian name?’ said Darrow.

‘Charles.’

‘Then since you’ve put yourself under my direction I shall call you by your Christian name – you have put yourself under my direction, haven’t you,’ said Darrow in a voice which made it clear he expected no argument, and I nodded. At that point I was incapable of shaking my head.

‘Very well. Now, Charles, let me summarize the situation for you as you seem to be too confused to see it clearly. You come here and tell me that you wish to make confession. Because you normally make confession only once a year during Lent it would appear that some abnormal difficulty has overtaken you since you attended Holy Communion last Sunday. Moreover since your confession during Lent another abnormal difficulty apparently overtook you last April which necessitated a confession to a Roman Catholic priest, a most unusual step for an Anglican clergyman to take and a step which you apparently felt unable to discuss with your confessor Father Reid. These abnormal difficulties suggest you need help and obviously you’re not unaware of this, but you come here this morning and suggest that you put your spiritual life in abeyance for a few days while you attend to some matter which you insist is of great importance. I put it to you that nothing is more important than that you should make your confession and return to a state of grace at the very earliest opportunity, and I do beg you most earnestly to rearrange your plans so that you can return here either today or – at the very latest – tomorrow morning.’

He stopped speaking. I stared at my clasped hands and as I watched, my fingers began to twist together, interlocking until the knuckles shone white.

At last I said, ‘I do realize how odd my behaviour must seem, but there’s a mystery I have to solve and until it’s solved I can’t understand the mystery beyond the mystery, which is the mystery in my mind, and until I solve the mystery beyond the mystery, how can I hope to achieve any real understanding of what’s going on?’

I was mouthing gibberish. I broke off in despair but Darrow said, ‘What you’re saying is that you can’t make your confession because your errors are shrouded in mystery; you’re saying that until you unravel this mystery you’re unable to achieve the understanding which must necessarily precede any truly meaningful repentance.’

‘Exactly.’ I was impressed as well as deeply relieved by his grasp of the situation. ‘Once I solve the mystery in the foreground,’ I said with more confidence, ‘then the mystery in the background – that is, the mystery in my mind which is driving me into error – will become clear and I’ll be able to make an effective confession.’

‘But what makes you so sure that this first mystery, the mystery in the foreground, is solvable?’

‘Well, it must be.’ I stared at him. ‘Of course it must be.’

‘Must it? In my experience the puzzles of life can seldom be unravelled easily into clear-cut solutions. Suppose you fail to solve the mystery. What then?’

‘But there’s no possibility I’ll fail! All I have to do is to go back to Starbridge and talk to a certain person.’

‘But what makes you so sure that the mystery in the background will then be triumphantly illuminated? Supposing, on the contrary, the solution of the first mystery results not in light but in darkness?’

I continued to stare at him. ‘How could that happen?’

‘What you’re really saying is this: you’re saying you need a light to illuminate the dark corners of your soul. But one has to be very careful with dark corners of the soul. Too much light too suddenly can be dangerous. The dark corners can hit back and put the light out.’