Glittering Images (53 page)

‘But then the miracle happened.

‘This nurse came to the clinic. She was Chinese and a Christian. She took one look at me and decided I needed rescuing and I took one look at her and decided I wanted to be rescued. I spun my usual line – “Sleep with me and all my problems will be solved” – but that cut no ice whatsoever. I was very impressed. Then I said, trying to convince her that I wasn’t such a bad chap after all, “I only drink because I’m lonely,” and she said, “Oh no, you don’t! You drink because you feel guilty and you can’t forgive yourself for what you’ve done.”

‘There’s something very wonderful about the Chinese; they’d got the world sorted out when we were just dancing around Starbury Ring in blue woad. And there’s something very wonderful about a Christian, a real Christian, the kind that practises what it preaches. I said, “I
can’t
forgive myself,” but she said, “Christ can,” and quoted Confucius. My God, I was mad about her! Eventually I said, “Can’t we just pretend my wife’s already dead?” But she told me we couldn’t pretend to God and if he wanted me to marry her he’d arrange it. And damn it all – well, you can guess what happened, can’t you? Two weeks later a cable arrived from England to say my wife was dead.

‘So I married my Chinese lady. She was a lot older than I was so there couldn’t be any children, but nevertheless for ten years we did live happily ever after. I stopped drinking altogether and finally got a job in a good hospital again. I used to work on maternity cases, and I was happy for the first time in years … But then my Chinese lady died and everything fell apart. I felt I couldn’t bear to remain in Hong Kong without her, and I knew it was time to come home.

‘I won’t bore you with all the dubious adventures I had as I earned my passage back to England on a series of hair-raising old tubs, but eventually I did wangle my way within sight of the White Cliffs of Dover. I was forty-five and the War was on.

‘As soon as I was settled, working in an East End hospital which was dealing mainly with casualties from the trenches, I hired a private detective and sent him down to Epsom to find out what was going on. Back came the report that Mr and Mrs Eric Ashworth were living with their two sons, Charles and Peter, in a very nice house on Epsom Downs. Then I had to make a decision. Did I wreck everyone’s lives all over again or didn’t I? Well, I knew what my Chinese lady would have said. She would have told me that if I really wanted to redeem the past I’d put aside my selfish curiosity and leave the Ashworth family to continue their lives in peace. Of course if your mother had been a widow I’d have raced to Epsom to look her up, but as it was … No, I felt I had no right to interfere.

‘After the War I got a better job in a hospital in Manchester – I was always a little uneasy in London in case I bumped into Ashworth – and there I met my present wife, another nurse. I can honestly swear with my hand on the Bible that I didn’t know, when I proposed to her, that her father was making a small fortune out of manufacturing corsets.

‘Eventually the old man died and Bea found herself with “a few thou of the ready”, as the swells say, so we hit on the idea of leaving Manchester and pursuing the ideal country life in a thatched cottage. I had this hankering to return to the Starbridge area; it’s funny how at the end of one’s life one yearns to return to the beginning … But it’s a nice spot, isn’t it? And whenever I get the urge to yawn I remind myself I could still be working in a slum clinic and getting through a bottle of whisky a day. But don’t think I’m complaining! Far from it! I’m always telling myself how wonderfully lucky I am and what a lot I’ve got to be thankful for.’

I knew that way of approaching reality. I had adopted it often enough myself when I had wanted to pretend that all was well in my life, and as I watched him pour himself a second double whisky I said suddenly, ‘Do you and your wife have children?’

He added another fleck of sodawater to his glass before he turned to face me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had children by any of my three wives. But I regard that,’ he added, raising his glass to his lips, ‘as all part of the judgement.’

And then I looked past his glittering image to the sadness which lay opaquely beyond.

‘Have another drink,’ said Romaine. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather hitting the bottle, aren’t I, but I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve been walloped by a sandbag. Do have some more of that appalling sherry! I was in such a state earlier that I forgot to warn you that it was sweet and not dry.’

‘No, I won’t have any more, thank you. I think I should leave so that we can each recover from our separate sandbags.’

‘Oh, but you can’t possibly leave yet – I want to hear all about you! I say, I’ve just had the most delectable idea: let me pour away this ridiculous whisky and bring up from the cellar the most magnificent bottle of Veuve Clicquot which I’ve been saving for a rainy day!’

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘but I must refuse. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t drive on an empty stomach. Stay to lunch!’

I said with difficulty, ‘You must excuse me, Dr Romaine. But I must go.’

‘Ah well,’ he said, drinking half his double whisky, ‘just as you wish. But before you run off do please tell me when I can hear you preach. I’d so much like to come to Cambridge and “sit under” you, as they used to say when I was young.’

‘I’m not the Canon in Residence at the moment. I shan’t be preaching until the first Sunday of next month.’

‘Splendid, I’ll come up for the weekend. Where does one stay in Cambridge?’

‘The Blue Boar is the most convenient hotel, but –’

‘I’ll telephone for a reservation. Now, you needn’t think you have to entertain me – in fact you needn’t even see me if you don’t want to, that’s all right, I understand. Just because I lost my head a moment ago and started talking about champagne you mustn’t think I’m dead set on being a drunken old bore, making your life a misery. I’ll just slip up to Cambridge, slip into the Cathedral to hear you preach and then slip away again – no fuss, no bother, no mess –’

I heard myself inviting him to dine with me in hall after the morning services.

When he escorted me to my car he said: ‘How wonderful it must be for Ashworth that you’ve done so well! And your brother – has he done well too?’

‘He’s a partner in my father’s firm.’

‘Lucky Ashworth! But then my Chinese lady would just say that the good get their reward. What an amazing man he was! When I was working in the slums of Hong Kong and getting through a bottle of whisky a day, I used to think of him surging triumphantly through life in his wing-collar. He haunted me, you know, and so did your mother – they’ve both haunted me all these years … I suppose your mother’s still very lovely to look at?’

‘She’s kept her looks remarkably well, yes.’

‘I’m very glad, but I wouldn’t want to see her again because I’d rather remember her exactly as she was. Sometimes,’ said Romaine casually, ‘it really is far wiser not to risk resurrecting the past.’

I merely looked at him. I thought of my mother, longing year after year for him to come back, and no reply was possible.

At once Romaine realized he had made a mistake. ‘However of course I’m so very glad you came here today!’ he said, obviously fearing I had interpreted his remark as a personal rebuff. He had taken his right hand out of his pocket but when he realized I had no intention of shaking hands with him he pretended to flick a speck of dust from his cuff. ‘It was such a wonderful surprise!’ he added desperately. ‘I feel so excited that I’ve met you!’

‘In that case it was lucky that Ashworth stopped you aborting me, wasn’t it?’ I said, slamming the car door, and drove off with a roaring engine to blot out all possibility of a reply.

I was in such turmoil that two miles outside the village I halted the car on the verge and switched off the engine. Gripping my cross I tried to pray but I was too upset. I wanted only to wipe Romaine from my mind, but there he was, imprinted for ever, a smooth, tough, wily old survivor who apparently knew exactly how to tug at my heartstrings. I thought of his valiant effort to gloss over his touching offer of champagne; I thought of his brave attempt to hide his distress when he realized I was determined not to shake his hand; I thought of his pathetic panic when he realized he had aroused my animosity, and I felt that my equilibrium, so painfully acquired at Grantchester, had been demolished. I could cope with his charming mask merely by disliking it, but the pathos beyond defeated me. I felt threatened by it. I was quite prepared to work out an intellectual formula for forgiveness which would put my beleaguered psyche at rest while enabling me to be a good Christian, but I did not want my emotions involved. My instinct was to lash out, push him away.

I decided that the sooner I returned to Darrow the better but meanwhile I was a long way from Grantchester, I had had no lunch and I knew Darrow would have advised me to eat before wrestling further with my problems. Starting my car again I drove back to Starbridge.

By the time I arrived all the restaurants serving lunch had closed but I prevailed on the lounge-waiter at the Staro Arms to bring me sandwiches and coffee. After the meal I felt better. Reflecting that Darrow might well have recommended exercise at this point, I decided to take a walk along the river, but when I reached the West Bridge and saw the spire of the Cathedral I knew I had to make another attempt at prayer. I felt I urgently needed to pray not only for the strength to master my troubles but for forgiveness. I had hurt that pathetic old villain in Starvale St James, and I wanted to lighten the burden of my guilt before I resumed my journey.

Remembering that my earlier attempt to pray in the car had been a failure I wondered if I was being superstitious in assuming that a spiritual competence would miraculously return to me once I stepped on to consecrated ground, but superstitious or not I felt the pull of the Cathedral, and the next moment I was turning back along Eternity Street.

I had given Darrow my word that I would keep well away from the palace, but as it was now nearly half-past three I calculated that the possibility of meeting either Lyle or the Jardines was acceptably remote. Jardine usually spent his afternoons fulfilling official engagements, Mrs Jardine, if she were at home, would be having a rest before tea, and Lyle would probably be relaxing in the garden after her usual busy morning. Thinking hard of Lyle I reached the crossroads at the end of Eternity Street, and I was still thinking of her as I passed beneath the arch into the Close.

Minutes later, as I entered the Cathedral, the cool dim light was immediately soothing, and savouring the pervasive air of peace I moved slowly down the nave towards the chancel.

At the far end of the south transept lay the chapel set aside for private prayer, its carved screen supplemented by curtains which covered the spaces in the wooden tracery and ensured the privacy of those praying within. Opening the door I stepped softly inside. I had expected to find myself alone but a woman was kneeling in prayer and as I came in she glanced up.

We both gasped. For one long moment we remained motionless, staring at each other, but when Lyle began to grope her way to her feet I said rapidly, ‘I’m sorry – I’m disturbing you,’ and retreated in shock to the transept.

‘Now one word in your car. Perhaps I am mistaken: but I have sometimes thought that there was a suggestion in what you say and write, of some private and special worry of your own. If that be so, don’t suspect me for one moment of the impertinence of pushing into your affairs: but I have a genuine affection for you, and should be glad to help you in any way that was in my power.’

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

‘Charles –’ She stumbled after me but I had stopped before she called my name. Far away in the nave I could hear the faint drone of a guide as he showed a party of visitors around the Cathedral.

‘Tell me I’m not hallucinating,’ said Lyle, still stupefied. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world?’

‘I had to see someone in Starvale St James.’ Pulling myself together I added, ‘Look, we can’t talk here – let’s go into the cloisters.’

The massive door opened reluctantly as I heaved the handle, and we passed from the transept into the sunlit quadrangle beyond. In one corner of the grassy square a garden-seat had been placed in memory of some Edwardian benefactor, and at my suggestion we sat down facing the cedar tree which shaded the lawn.

‘This is the most extraordinary thing to happen,’ said Lyle, still dazed. ‘It’s like a sign.’

‘It’s certainly an opportunity to say how very much I’ve been thinking of you. Did Mrs Jardine get my letter?’

‘Yes, that was like a sign too – the letter made you seem real again. I was beginning to think I’d imagined you.’

‘My dearest Lyle …’ I was quite unable to stop myself taking her hand in mine and she was apparently quite unable to stop herself tightening her clasp on my fingers. ‘Forgive my long silence,’ I said, ‘but I was in a colossal muddle when we last met and Father Darrow’s been busy unravelling me.’

‘We were all so relieved when we heard you were safe with the Fordites … Is Father Darrow really as clever as everyone says he is?’

‘It would be impossible for me to praise him too highly.’