Mystical Paths (25 page)

‘I said: "You’re joking, of course," and he said: "Of course, but have you ever tried it?" "Frankly," I said, "I’ve never fancied having to wear long-sleeved dresses in summer, and besides, it’s so terribly bad for the complexion." That amused him. He said: "I’m sure that’sthe only sane line to take, but nevertheless I wouldn’t mind trying it to see what all the fuss is about."

‘Then I knew he’d slipped far, far out of his true self again, just as he had with Katie and Marina — it was as if he kept dislocating his personality. All I could think was that the Christian I knew had always held himself aloof from the extremes of fashion and despised people who took hard drugs. It was at this point that I did a very stupid thing — not just because I was stoned on champagne cocktails but because I was so unnerved by the dislocation. I made a confession. I said: "As a matter of fact I did try heroin once, just to see what all the fuss was about, but I decided afterwards to stick to dear old alcohol, so much safer, and one never winds up dead in a lavatory alongside a hypodermic needle." At once he demanded: "Who was your supplier?" and I answered: "Dinkie."

‘Well, the weirdest part about this story is that Christian didn’t — repeat:
didn
’
t —
get hooked on heroin. In fact he told me later he’d never even bothered to try it.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He got hooked on Dinkie,’ said Venetia.

.
II

‘I was appalled,’ she said flatly, retrieving the cigarette-box from a distant table and returning not to her armchair but to the sofa where I was sitting. ‘I never liked Dinkie,’ she said, sinking down beside me and fitting a new cigarette into her holder. ‘Who was she anyway? Just an American carpet-bagger who happened to be working with Marina at that art gallery back in 1963. I wish to God Marina had never brought her into the Coterie.’

‘Did Marina —’

‘No, she never knew about Dinkie and Christian, and neither did Katie. I never said a word. It would have killed them. Stunning, shining Christian, heaving away with that bosomy tart — ugh! Even now the thought makes me want to vomit.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I caught them
in flagrante
at my house in Norfolk. It was the spring of 1965 and the cherry-trees were flowering, I can see them now. Christian had been on holiday with Perry, had his row with Marina and confessed to me his urge to try heroin – in fact it was at our champagne-cocktail session that I invited him down to Norfolk. About two weeks elapsed between those London cocktails and that country weekend, time enough for him to look up Dinkie and for her to latch on to him. He admitted after I’d caught them in the act that it wasn’t the first time they’d got together.

‘Dinkie had broken up with Michael by that time and had latched on to Robert Welbeck, whom I’d always rather liked. Dinkie the latcher, latching on to anything capable of an erection ... Did she ever latch on to you?’

‘No, you’re forgetting that I dropped out of the Coterie when I was doing my voluntary work, and by the time I resurfaced –’

‘– she’d run off to the Bahamas with that millionaire who eventually ditched her. Yes, I remember now.’

‘Tell me about this weekend in Norfolk.’

‘I had a house-party of about a dozen people. I invited Katie to come with the baby, but he was very newborn still and although she accepted the invitation she later changed her mind and stayed at home. But Christian came; Katie insisted on it, martyred herself to keep him happy. Marina was there. And so was Dinkie – had to invite Dinkie because I wanted Robert to come. Everyone roared down on Friday night and we had a late dinner, the usual form. On Saturday morning we all flopped around recovering. A buffet lunch. Not quite warm enough for it to be alfresco but the weather was sunny. In the afternoon some of the guests played tennis and some went boating on the lake. I played clock-golf with Robert, but since I was the hostess I was continually keeping an eye on everyone and I noticed early on during the round that Dinkie had disappeared.

‘That bothered me. I was worried in case she was either shooting up in the lavatory or screwing my new gardener in the potting-shed – being Dinkie she was
capable de tout,
and I didn’t want any boring scenes. Then Marina appeared. She’d been boating with Christian but he’d gone indoors to phone Katie – or so he told her, and it never occurred to me that he might have been lying. Meanwhile I was still worrying about Dinkie. "Here," I said to Marina, giving her my putter, "finish the round for me while I make sure Cook hasn’t OD’d on cooking sherry." Robert didn’t mind. He fancied himself at clock-golf and he still hadn’t noticed his girlfriend was missing.

‘I caught sight of the gardener as I returned to the house – he was safe and sound, anointing the front lawn with weedkiller. But I still felt compelled to check on Dinkie in case she was making whoopee with a syringe so I went to her room – and there she was with Christian, both of them stark naked and heaving. It’s hard to describe the quality of my revulsion. I’d thought I was so trendy and sophisticated but I was shocked –
shocked.
I just stood there, unable to speak. My tongue seemed glued to the bottom of my mouth.

‘Then came the most shocking thing of all. Christian laughed and said: "Come and join us!"

‘He wasn’t Christian any more. The dislocation was absolute. It was as if someone else had finally taken his place.

‘I got my tongue unglued. I said: "You’re out of your mind" – and I never spoke a truer word, Nick, because he
was
out of his mind, he just wasn’t there any more, he’d gone away, he’d been displaced by ... but it wasn’t really a person. It was a presence. It shone out of his eyes and pretended to be Christian, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t Christian at all.

‘Then suddenly Dinkie giggled, and the scene seemed to snap sideways into another reality; it was like pressing a button on a transistor and instantly changing wavelengths. Abnormality ended, normality began and we started to behave predictably. I said: "You bloody bitch, I never want you in my house again," and she purred: "What’s the matter, darling? Jealous?" Funny how dialogue in real-life melodramas is far more hackneyed than any actor would tolerate on the stage ... And the next moment the action became just as hackneyed as the dialogue. I walked right up to the bed and hit her, and when she collapsed on the pillows with her mouth wide open in astonishment I said to Christian: "If Marina and Katie ever find out about this I’ll kill you.’”

‘Extraordinary, wasn’t it? Imagine someone like me coming out with a line like that! But oh God, I was so devastated .. . The madness, the defilement, the vilely
alien
quality of the horror ... I ran to my room and cried out of sheer shock, but at least I cried in private. I’ve got this ghastly tendency to weep in public when I’m emotional, can’t seem to stop myself soaking the nearest masculine shirtfront — in fact perhaps I ought to provide you with a water-proof bib before we go any further —’

‘Did Christian come after you to your room?’

‘Yes. Ten minutes later. I’d mopped up the tears by then. He knocked on the door and as soon as I saw him I knew he was back inside himself again, but he was in shreds. He said stammering: "I’m sorry, Vinnie — I wouldn’t have upset you for the world,’” and I just whispered: "What the hell’s going on?’”

‘He said: "I no longer know who I am. I’ve lost touch with the centre. And he quoted Yeats: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world ...’”

‘I asked him if he was high and that was when he said he’d never got around to trying heroin. And they hadn’t been smoking pot either. That bedroom was odourless.

"Don’t worry,’” he said, "I’ll work it out. But Christian Aysgarth’s got to die because I can’t live with him any more.’”

‘What do you think, Nick? What was going on? He was having some kind of breakdown, wasn’t he? After he died I went straight to Albany and said to Perry: "Was it suicide?’” but he just said no, not possible because although Christian had been depressed he’d been getting better.

‘Did you mention your suspicion of suicide to anyone else?’

‘No, that was out of the question. Marina and Katie were upset enough by the belief that the death was accidental, and even if I’d been brutal enough to slaughter them with a suicide theory, I couldn’t have told them why I suspected suicide; I couldn’t have revealed that madness I’d uncovered. Even to Perry I just said that I thought Christian had been very troubled, and in fact I’m no longer sure whether "madness’” is the right word to describe what was going on. What do you call it when a personality is so dislocated that something else seems to be standing in its place?’

‘Possession.’

‘No, I mean seriously.’

‘The overpowering of the ego by chaotic forces rising out of the subconscious mind.’ Setting down my glass I reached out and held her hand. ‘How did you get Dinkie to keep her mouth shut about the affair?’

‘Oh, that was easy because she didn’t want Marina to know. Marina’s always been so good to her — in fact she’s probably the only female friend Dinkie’s ever had.’

‘When did the millionaire conveniently remove Dinkie from circulation?’

‘Not long after Christian died. Of course I hoped we were rid of her for ever, but no such luck. Back she eventually came, but she’s very druggy now and lives in some awful bed-sit on the outer reaches of Bloomsbury. I suppose some man must be keeping her — unless she’s earning a living on the streets. Anything’s possible.’

‘Do you have her address?’

‘No, but Marina does. Katie’s on heroin and Dinkie supplies her ...’ She finally started to cry.

I put an arm around her shoulders and gripped her hand harder than ever.

‘We were all so alive, Nick ... Life was such fun ... That magical Starbridge party in the May of ‘sixty-three ...’ For several seconds she was unable to speak but at last she whispered: ‘Say something. Anything.’

‘There’s nothing to say. All I can do is be here and share your pain. But one day, Venetia, one day —’

‘Yes?’ she said, and suddenly she was smiling at me through her tears. ‘Come on, my Talisman! Come on, my Halley’s Comet! Roll out the future and give me hope!’

‘In the end,’ I said, ‘I’m going to help you beat back that Great Pollutant. Somehow. Somewhere. Some day.’

‘Can’t it be now?’ she enquired dryly. ‘Why do I have to wait?’

‘I’ve no power. All I can do is pray for you.’

‘Doesn’t sound much fun!’

‘I’m not in it for the fun.’

Not in it for the fun,’ she said, ‘and not out for what he can get. What a man! But darling, if you can’t rescue me just yet from my cesspit, do let’s have a little fun! I hate to think of you just sharing my pain and praying — it sounds so dreadfully dreary!’

Not half so dreary as your cesspit.’

‘How do you know? Even my cesspit,’ she said, as I suddenly realised my hand was sweating in hers, ‘has its interesting moments.’

Not when I’m around it doesn’t.’ I decided I had to remove my arm from around her shoulders, but I let it slip to her waist instead. Clumsy. I tried to work out the next step I needed to take to detach myself but my brain seemed to be malfunctioning. Perhaps the debonair thing to do was to give her a brief, chaste kiss and immediately glide off the sofa to the door. I pictured a single graceful movement, all style and sophistication.

‘It’s extraordinary what an attractive man you’ve become,’ she said, casually removing my glasses. ‘How you’ve improved with age! You were so very plain and peculiar when I first met you.’

I decided she needed another verbal biff on the nose. ‘Even then,’ I said, casting modesty aside in order to achieve the biff, ‘you couldn’t stop watching me.’

‘Damn it, that’s quite true, I couldn’t!’ she exclaimed good-humouredly, and we both started to laugh. I’m not sure whathappened to that brief, chaste kiss but I certainly never made the stylish glide off the sofa.

When our mouths parted after a long, lascivious interval she said idly: ‘Rosalind’s not relevant at the moment, is she? I mean, she’s just a clerical accessory who only becomes important after ordination.’

There were several replies I could have made to this falsehood but I said nothing. I was too busy giving her another kiss and telling myself it was just a further prelude to my stylish glide to the door.

‘Do you like my lounger-gown?’ she enquired after we had paused again for air. ‘It makes me long to do something erotic, exotic and eccentric — such as lying on a leopard-skin rug while fondling a diamond-studded whip and reciting "Tyger, Tyger, burning bright’”.’

‘Could you discuss the imagery of William Blake’s poetry while beating up a Grand Marnier soufflé with one hand tied behind your back?’

‘Can’t stand Grand Marnier and I’m not into bondage, but I’m more than willing to be eloquent about Blake over a hefty Rémy Martin.’

We laughed and laughed. Of course I could see now what fun her cesspit was and how dreary I had been to harp on the spiritual nature of our friendship.

Then she said: ‘The zip-fastener of my lounger-gown is approximately six inches from your left hand, and the zip-fastener of your jeans is approximately six inches from my right. Shall we have a race and see who wins?’

I won the race with Venetia, but I lost the battle to the Great Pollutant.

Looking back I can see so clearly that the act had nothing to do with love and almost nothing to do with lust. We were using sex as an anaesthetic to escape from situations beyond our power to master, and in using sex we were abusing each other. It was a sin, as they used to say in the old days before the word lost its meaning and merely made people smirk. But although the religious word had lost its power, the reality to which it pointed was still strong as a sword designed for disembowelment. The modern word which points to that reality is alienation. That word doesn’t make people smirk, not in the twentieth century. It’s a word to freeze the blood and send people rushing to the nearest psychiatrist.

Sin is when you turn away from God — or, in the other language, alienation occurs when the ego, that erratic, unreliable driver of the personality, temporarily turns aside from the great quest for integration with the inner self, the self that’s authentic, the self that contains the potential to be fully human, fully fulfilled and fully alive. You don’t become fully human by exploiting others; you don’t realise your full potential by being insensitive and uncaring. You miss the mark. You fall short of bringing to life your unique personality blueprint designed by the living God who dwells as a spark in the very core of it. The quest for integration — for self-realisation — for the start of what religious language calls eternal life — has been thwarted. Sin/ alienation is psychological dis-ease which if unhealed can lead to the living hell of lost hopes and blighted lives.

But in the 196os the curtain came down on these ancient truths explored by religion and translated into another language by psychology. In the 1960s everyone was brainwashing everyone else into thinking that we had all been set free to live happily ever after by wallowing in mindless self-indulgence. No wonder R. D. Laing believed that the mad were sane and that it was society which ought to be certified! The spirit of the age advocated a style of life which could only lead to mass psychic breakdown as people indulged their egos and became increasingly alienated from their true selves.- I suddenly realised Venetia was speaking, demanding to know my thoughts.

‘I don’t have any,’ I said, and it was true. I wasn’t thinking about sin and psychic disintegration, not then. I was mentally anaesthetised.