Glittering Images (31 page)

‘For some reason,’ said Jardine, ‘you’ve picked me to be the central figure in your life at present. We won’t call this a fantasy because you evidently find that word hurtful, so we’ll just say that you were experiencing certain difficulties in your private life and when you met me I seemed in some mysterious way to provide you with a solution. Obviously you liked the idea – which that old fool Lang had put into your head – that I was an eminent churchman who led a double life. No, that’s an understatement. You didn’t just like the idea – you were enrapt by it.

‘So you arrive in Starbridge and soon you’ve far exceeded your brief from Lang – after all, it must have quickly become very clear to you that I’m not the sort of man who compromises himself by dabbling in foolish love-letters or keeping an uncensored journal. However you’re not interested in Lang’s brief, not any more. What you’re now interested in is the possibility that behind the glittering image of my ecclesiastical success lies a life steeped in the kind of error which would make even Lang’s senile speculations look pale. You embrace this theory with such zest that it becomes necessary for you to prove it, but the interesting part is that the more obsessed you become with proving my guilt the more fervently you swear you’re on my side. By this time, of course, you’ve parted company with reality altogether. By this time you’re acting out the most elaborate and fantastic of delusions –’

I had levered myself to my feet. My voice said trembling, ‘I refuse to listen to this.’

‘But you will. You will, Charles, you will.’ The lambent eyes were suddenly so bright that I could not look away. ‘Sit down, Charles,’ said Jardine and at once I sank back in my chair. ‘Charles, listen to me – listen to me, Charles, because I say you can’t afford to go on with this fantasy any longer, you must try to face reality, and the reality is that you’re ill, mentally ill –’

‘No –
no
–’

‘Yes, Charles, yes – how could any normal man have misinterpreted my situation in such an extraordinary and bizarre manner? The truth is that the man I am has nothing to do with the man you think I am. You’ve invented me. I exist only in your imagination. You think you know me so well that you can see numerous resemblances between us, but every one of them’s an illusion, an illusion which is necessary to support your longing to believe we’re identical. And why do you want to believe that we’re identical? Because you think you can justify your own unfortunate behaviour by saying you’re only following my example – you feel you can escape from your problems by projecting them on to me. So you place me in front of you as if I were a blank screen and your mind the magic-lantern projector, but in fact it’s
your
image, not mine, which you’re seeing reflected. The real mystery here, Charles, is not what’s going on at Starbridge – that’s just a drama you’ve invented to divert yourself from your problems. The real mystery is what’s going on in your soul. Why does an extremely able and successful young clergyman with a brilliant future and an unclouded past suddenly, for no apparent reason, start mentally falling apart?’

I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and as he too sprang to his feet I said, ‘You can’t talk to me like that, you can’t.’ I was so dizzy that I had to grab the edge of the table.

‘I’m sorry – I’ve taken a risk in speaking so plainly but I could see no other way of convincing you that you simply must have help. I myself can now do no more but I’m sure the monks at Starwater –’

‘You’re rejecting me!’ I shouted. ‘You keep rejecting me! You’ve rejected me over and over again!’

‘My God,’ said Jardine, suddenly ashen, ‘this is what happened with your father, isn’t it? You poor boy, I didn’t realize – oh, what a hash I’ve made of this, I’m so damnably sorry –’

I shoved him aside and rushed from the room.

I have no clear recollection of my journey back to the Staro Arms. All I remember is the hotel receptionist’s disapproving stare as she gave me the change for the telephone call. Then I shut myself in the hall kiosk again and asked the operator to connect the line to Starmouth Court.

By the time Loretta came to the telephone I was almost beyond speech but I managed to say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me the whole truth?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t do it, did he? He didn’t go in.’

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait. I understand what you’re saying and I’m willing to talk, but not on the phone. Where are you?’

‘Starbridge.’

‘Okay, obviously I can’t see you tonight, but tomorrow –’

‘I’m coming tonight.’

‘But Charles –’

‘I’ve got to see you. If he lied about you I’ll know he lied about everything,’ I said, and rang off before she could reply.

In my room I changed back into my grey trousers, sports jacket and open-necked shirt. I also drank two glasses of water in pursuit of sobriety. Then I packed my bag, paid my bill and left the hotel.

The drive took less time than I had anticipated for there was little traffic at that time of night. Beyond the Surrey border on the ridge called the Hog’s Back I felt tired but I cured that by stopping the car and drinking from my bottle of whisky. Staring at the lights which stretched north to London in the valley below me, I thought of Starbridge, its radiance masking unutterable horrors, but that memory was too painful to bear and taking another shot from the bottle I drove on into the dark.

It was after midnight when I reached Starmouth Court but a light was shining in the little morning-room where Loretta and I had first met. I glimpsed her figure silhouetted against the window, and a moment later I was stumbling into her arms.

‘Everyone’s gone to bed,’ she said. ‘Come and have a drink. You look shot to pieces.’

In the morning-room she passed me a glass of brandy and I drank half of it straight off. Then I said, ‘Just what the devil did go on in that bloody spinney nineteen years ago?’

‘We made love.’

‘Completely?’

‘No.’

‘But why the
hell
didn’t you make that clear?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charles, give me credit for at least the minimum of good manners! You were panting to make love to me. How could I say, “Wait a minute!” and regale you with a blow by blow description of what had happened with Alex?’

‘But I only went ahead because I thought he’d gone ahead too!’

‘My God, that’s a bizarre remark!’

‘But if I’d known there’d been no penetration –’

‘The way he made love that hardly mattered. Alex did tell me that without penetration there was no adultery according to the law of England – remember me saying he’d have made a good lawyer? – but when one’s busy having an orgasm the legal niceties don’t seem very important. As far as I was concerned I’d made love to him and he’d made love to me and –’

‘But he told me the truth.’ I could think of nothing else. ‘“I never penetrated her,” he said. So if he told me the truth about you then he must have told me the truth about Lyle –’

‘What did he say?’

I started drinking my brandy rapidly again. ‘He called my theory a fantasy.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Shut up!’ I shouted.

She jumped. ‘Charles – darling – take it easy –’

I tried to apologize by kissing her but she was unresponsive and the next moment she was removing the brandy bottle to the far side of the room.

‘Maybe this is where I start to dream the dream,’ she said drily. ‘You’re obviously incapable of dreaming anything at the moment so I’ll have to do the dreaming for you to help you along.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘How long would it take to get to Cambridge at this time of night?’

‘Less than three hours. Perhaps less than two and a half. Petrol will be a problem but there’s an all-night garage on the Great North Road.’ I swallowed the rest of my brandy. ‘Well, if you’re washing your hands of me I may as well go.’

‘Don’t be dumb, I’m coming with you.’

‘What!’

‘Well, someone’s got to look after you, haven’t they, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else volunteering for the job!’

‘But I wouldn’t dream of dragging you all the way to Cambridge!’

‘And I wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone when you’ve obviously been hitting the bottle. I’m going to drive you home.’

‘But you’re an American! You’ll drive on the wrong side of the road!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I may have my faults but I’m not incompetent. Excuse me while I just scribble a line to Evelyn – and I’d better call a hotel to let them know I’ll be arriving in the middle of the night. Which hotel should I stay at?’

‘The Blue Boar. But Loretta –’

‘I’ll use the phone in the hall. Just a minute, Charles.’

I sank back on the couch, but as soon as I was alone the pain began to pound me and seconds later I was retrieving the brandy bottle.

Somewhere north of Hatfield she said, ‘Where does that Abbot live – the one you told me about?’

‘Heaven. He died and changed his address. Found that out this morning.’

‘Is there a new Abbot yet?’

‘You bet there’s a new Abbot – as you Yankees would say. He’s an ex-Naval chaplain called Darrow who knows all about sex. Married nine years. Became a monk. Amazing.’ I took another sip of whisky. I had stopped having drinks now, of course. I just had little sips occasionally.

‘He sounds like the kind of guy who could cope with anything. How do I get to the Abbey to deliver you?’

‘Keep going to Cambridge. Turn off just before you get there. Little village. Grantchester. Like the poem by Rupert Brooke. My wife used to like his poetry … Did I ever tell you about my wife?’

‘You said her name once. Jane.’

‘Jane, yes. I loved her very much. She was so pretty, so sweet, so good, and I was so unfit, so unworthy, so … But Father Darrow will be able to cope. Did I tell you he’d even fathered two children? Extraordinary. How could such a man become a monk, you ask. How could any man become a monk, you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a special gift – a “charism”, as we say in the Church. In fact Father Darrow is what we in the Church would call “charismatic”. He’s six foot three and looks as if he practises telepathy in his spare time.’

‘Well, start exercising your telepathy, Father Darrow,’ said Loretta, ‘and lay out the welcome-mat for Charles.’

I took another sip of whisky to help me face the thought of Darrow waiting beyond the welcome-mat, and the car sped steadily on through the night towards Grantchester.

The porch light was shining at the Fordite mansion but the rest of the house was in darkness. Halting the car Loretta switched off the engine and turned to face me.

‘I’ll leave the car-keys with the bell-hop at the Blue Boar,’ she said. ‘Have you got that, Charles?’

‘Car-keys. Blue Boar. Porter. What funny words you Americans use!’

‘Do you have a suitcase in the trunk?’

‘No, I have a bag in the boot.’ Opening the door I levered myself from the passenger seat and leant against the car as I gazed up at the stars. ‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘Reminds me of God. Utterly transcendent. Says Karl Barth.’

Loretta was moving swiftly up the steps to ring the bell. Leaving my bag by the front door she ran back to the car.

‘Come along, darling. This way.’

‘I love you, Loretta. Marry me.’

‘No, you’re going to marry Lyle. Remember?’ She was steadying me as I cautiously navigated the steps.

‘But you could cope. You’re coping. I love you. That wonderful sex – if I could have you every night –’

‘– you’d get tired of me. Look, someone’s opening the door. Come on, darling, just another couple of steps. Nearly there.’

A little white-haired monk appeared on the threshold. I had never seen him before but he said: ‘It’s Dr Ashworth, isn’t it? Father Abbot’s been expecting you.’

Then I knew Darrow was already exercising his charism.

Loretta kissed me and said, ‘Good luck.’

‘I’ll never forget you, never,’ I said, but she was already on her way back to the car. The engine started, she waved goodbye and seconds later I could see only a pair of red lights vanishing beyond the gateway.

‘This way, Doctor,’ said the little monk, steering me firmly over the threshold with one hand while he carried my bag with the other. He closed the door by a gentle push of his foot. This way.’

I was guided through a door which led into the guest-wing, and manoeuvred with skill to the corridor of bedrooms on the floor above. We finally stopped outside a door where the numeral four was painted on the panel, and the little monk, never relaxing his grip on me for a moment, set down my bag to turn the handle.

‘Four’s my lucky number,’ I said. ‘I’m so lucky, so privileged, so successful, it’s really amazing how lucky I’ve always been. Did you know I was one of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s chaplains when he was Archbishop of York? My parents were so proud. I come from a wonderful home – I’ve got wonderful parents, a wonderful brother, everything’s always been so wonderful – I’ve had every possible advantage and yet I don’t deserve it, don’t deserve it at all because I’m so unworthy, so unfit.’ I sat down very suddenly on the bed. The room was small and neat, the bed placed in the corner, the table and chair by the window, the wardrobe against the inner wall, the basin in another corner by the unlit gas fire. There were no curtains, only a black blind, and no pictures. On the bedside table stood a lamp and a bible.