Mystical Paths (27 page)

VIII

‘I thought it was about time you turned up again,’ said my half-brother, opening the door of his flat. ‘The water’s hot. Feel free to take one of your two-hour baths.’

‘Never mind the bath. I want to talk to you.’

‘Oh, surely not! How original!’

I dumped my jacket on a fake Louis Quinze chair and plodded through the thick pile of the carpet into the living-room. The
Observer
was spread wide on the sofa. Something which could have been Ella Fitzgerald’s voice was burbling softly from the stereo. On the desk was the latest montage of press cuttings all proclaiming how wonderful Martin was.

‘How’s the old man?’ he was saying. He was wearing casual clothes in a suede-with-everything style and looked like one of those models in a cigarette advertisement, all rugged masculinity beneath a glossy façade. His hair, now completely grey but still thick, looked as if each strand had been massaged into place. His liquid-brown eyes, inherited from his mother, the daughter of a tobacconist, had the lustrous clarity of a longtime non-drinker, and his lined face had been lightly tanned by the sun-lamp. He looked both impossibly, unbelievably handsome and subtly, indefinably vulgar. ‘I’m going down to see him next weekend,’ he was saying. ‘I’m worried about him.’

‘Who?’

‘Dad.’ Martin had never managed to discover that our parent preferred to be called ‘Father’. ‘Wakey, wakey!’

‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’

‘My God, you’re not high on drugs, are you?’

‘Of course not!’Well, you certainly look as if you’re in some weird state! What’s going on?’

‘Martin, I want to talk to you about Christian Aysgarth.’ The liquid-brown eyes jelled. Naturally he had no wish to reveal his pathetic, unreciprocated passion, and a second later as his face snapped into action I knew I was to be offered a bravura performance by an actor at the top of his profession. ‘Christian!’ Surprise was registered, a touch of bewilderment, a hint of fascinated interest. He got it just right. Nothing was overdone. ‘My dear Nicholas, you do surprise me!’ The projection was a hundred per cent correct too, no playing to the back row of the gallery. His television experience was standing him in good stead. Why on earth should you suddenly want to talk about Christian after all these years and why— more baffling still—should you make a special journey here to talk about him to me?’ ‘It’s been suggested to me that you were lovers.’ I had decided that in order to have a profitable discussion about Christian’s final months we had to acknowledge the unrequited passion as quickly and painlessly as possible.

‘You amaze me,’ said Martin without batting an eyelid. He started to fold up the
Observer.
Whenever I’m with you I feel like a nervous parent in the presence of his infant phenomenon; he simply can’t imagine what the little love will come out with next ... By the way, shall we have some tea? I bought some rather heavenly Lapsang Souchong at Fortnum’s yesterday.’

‘Do you deny that you were in love with Christian?’

‘Dear boy,’ said Martin, adopting his favourite Noël Coward manner, ‘regardless of how I might choose to answer that question, I consider the matter to be absolutely none of your business.’ And he made a superb exit into the kitchen.

IX I joined him as he was spooning tea-leaves into the teapot. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Can we start again? I’m trying to help Christian’s wife. She thinks he committed suicide and the guilt’s driving her nuts — literally, no exaggeration; she’s now in a nursing-home. Since she broke down I’ve been investigating Christian’s death because I feel sure that if only I can prove he didn’t commit suicide she’ll stop feeling that she was in some way responsible for the tragedy.’

‘You greatly intrigue me,’ said Martin, setting out cups and saucers on a tray. ‘The noble young hero in pursuit of the Holy Grail of Truth! How attractive! But shouldn’t that kind of role be left to Charlton Heston?’

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Tut-tut! Language! Don’t forget your next big role is in the all-star epic
Ordination!
’

‘
Now look here, Martin —’

‘All I’m saying is that if you think I can’t sec you’re heavily censoring your explanation you’re more of a fool than I thought you were. You were always drawn to Christian, weren’t you? A bit in love with him yourself, perhaps.’

‘You bastard!’

‘You watch it! No one calls me names, least of all a twentyfive-year-old child who thinks he’s taken out a patent on how to be a one-hundred-per-cent he-man. Pass me the milk from the fridge, please.’

I silently retrieved the milk. Then I said: ‘Sorry, can we try yet again?’

‘Okay, let’s both work to make it third time lucky — let’s put aside your distinctly curious behaviour and concentrate on me. You’re quite obviously panting to discover the precise nature of my friendship with Christian, but unfortunately that’s a very complex matter and I’m not sure I feel inclined to embark on an explanation to which, let us remember, you’re not entitled. Let me first ask you this: who gave you the idea that Christian and I were lovers?’

‘Someone saw you together at a party in the November of 1964.’

‘I never went to a party with Christian.’

‘I don’t mean you went together. You went separately, but —’

‘November, ‘sixty-four? I don’t remember this. Who gave the party?’

‘Venetia.’

‘Ah, Miss Tiger-Eyes! Yes, I do remember. Okay, go on — what were Christian and I said to be doing there? Pawing each other? Holding hands? Sighing into each other’s eyes?’ ‘No, but —’

‘I should think not! Do you really think homosexuals are incapable of behaving with good taste and discretion?’

That gave me a jolt. ‘You’re saying Christian was a homosexual? But surely — no, wait a minute, don’t answer that, let me broaden the question. Martin,’ I said as the electric kettle came to the boil on the counter, ‘can you tell me just what kind of a man you think he was?’

‘I think he was the most dangerous man I’ve ever met and I wanted to kill him,’ said Martin. Would you like a slice of angel-cake with your tea?’

NINE

‘There is the hunger for mysticism, the longing to escape from the pressures of environment so that the self may realise itself in freedom, in touch with the reality that transcends.’

MICHAEL RAMSEY Archbishop of Canterbury 1961-1974.
Canterbury Pilgrim
I We sat down side by side on the sofa with the tray on the coffee-table in front of us. Ella Fitzgerald had ceased burbling on the stereo. The silence was broken only by the sound of running water as Martin poured out the tea.

‘He was bisexual,’ said Martin. ‘In my opinion they’re always big trouble. But let’s be quite clear what I mean by "bisexual’”. I’m not talking of the man who marries young when he isn’t fully mature and then slowly realises he’s in the wrong sexual set-up; I’d class him as a homosexual who faced up to the truth about himself fatally late. And I’m not talking either of the people who go through a homosexual phase at school and then lead entirely heterosexual lives later on. I’m talking about individuals who in adult life go either way and are quite capable of carrying on with both sexes at the same time.’

‘No genuine commitment to either sex?’

‘Exactly. And because these unfinished creatures are incapable of orthodox emotional involvement they’re in a unique position to cause havoc. Inevitably, it seems to me, one winds up watching from the sidelines while the bisexual — who’s basically only in love with himself — flits from gender togender and treats one’s own very genuine feelings as if they were symptoms of a rather embarrassing disease. "A bad scene’”, as your generation say.’

‘So you’re implying that Christian —’

‘In the beginning I got him dead wrong,’ said Martin, beginning to drink his tea. ‘I thought he was a homosexual, a late developer who had just about realised he was in the wrong sexual set-up. I discounted Perry. Perry recurs at homosexual gatherings, but no one’s ever yet produced evidence that he goes to bed with anything except a good book. However, even though I discounted Perry as a lover, his presence in Christian’s life seemed like evidence of Christian’s latent homosexuality. I saw Christian as someone who had grown up in an emotionally repressed household in which the emphasis had been on conformity and success. So I worked out that he would have battened down the homosexuality — unconsciously, of course — in order not to jeopardise his chances of having a brilliant career and a dazzling private life.’

‘The theory certainly fits the facts.’

‘Like a glove, yes, but unfortunately for me it wasn’t correct. It turned out he’d been emotionally damaged by —’ ‘— the death of his mother.’

‘That was certainly damaging, but it wasn’t the whole story. After all, both you and Dad lost your mothers in adolescence, just as Christian did, but I can’t seriously describe either of you as anything but heterosexual.’

‘But what else happened to damage Christian?’

‘Dean Aysgarth’s behaviour. I think that when the mother dies like that, the adolescent’s relationship with the father is crucial. Dad was actually very angry with his father after his mother died, but he went on respecting him despite all their difficulties because Grandfather Darrow behaved with dignity in his bereavement and did nothing to make Dad want to reject him as a role-model. But what about Christian? Think of his father’s extraordinary second marriage to that bizarre woman! And to make matters worse, Christian was convinced that the Dean became involved with her when the first wife was still alive.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Well, Christian certainly did. Apparently there was a dinner-party at the bishop’s palace shortly before the first Mrs Aysgarth died. She herself didn’t go but the Dean went, and — no, wait a minute, he couldn’t have been the Dean in those days —’

‘He was the Archdeacon. Go on. Dr Aysgarth went to this party —

‘— and met Dido, who was then the hottest flirt in London society. The two of them wound up disappearing into the moonlit garden for half an hour of unchaperoned chat, and because of Dido’s reputation everyone was shocked out of their clerical minds.’

‘I bet he never even held her hand!’

‘Probably not, but you’re missing the point. The point is that this was crazy behaviour for an archdeacon at a bishop’s dinner-party in the early 1940s, and it can only be explained by saying he was so attracted to her that he threw discretion to the winds.’

‘How did Christian hear about it?’

‘He was at Winchester with someone whose grandfather attended the dinner-party and was scandalised by the Archdeacon’s behaviour. Christian did mention the old boy’s name but I can’t quite remember it ... General Calthrop-something ... was it Calthrop-Ponsonby? It was one of those names which make one simply salivate with the desire to sing "There’ll Always Be An England’”.’

‘So you’re theorising that Christian was profoundly disillusioned with his father, even more disillusioned than was generally supposed.’

‘That’s no theory; that’s a fact. Christian said he was so appalled by the Calthrop-Ponsonby story that he couldn’t even bring himself to tell Norman. The idea that his father could have looked at another woman while his perfect first wife was still alive, was obviously both shattering and revolting.’

‘And you’re saying this two-fold damage to Christian — this damage from both his mother and his father — resulted in him being unable to make a genuine emotional commitment to either sex?’

‘Well, of course one can never be entirely certain about anything where sex is concerned, but it seems clear to me in retrospect that the only lasting commitment he managed to make was to his brilliant intellect; he knew that wouldn’t let him down. In fact looking back I suspect he regarded sex — any sex — as a last resort to ward off terminal boredom.’

‘When did you first realise he wasn’t quite the late-developing homosexual you thought he was?’

There was a peculiarly sordid scene when he told me he had taken to copulating with a really nasty piece of work, female, whom it suddenly occurs to me you must have met. She was a friend of Marina Markhampton’s, a Miss Dinkie Kauffman, all bosom and teeth and legs set permanently apart.’

‘Yes, I’ve met her.’

Then perhaps you can begin to imagine the quality of my horror when I was informed — very casually — by Christian of his new attempt to stave off terminal boredom. "My dear boy,’” I said to him, careful not to be emotional — he
hated
emotional scenes — "if you have to bound around with girls, do you really have to pick a low-grade tart with the brains of a tick? It’s so dreadfully lacking in style!’” He found that amusing. He stood over there, hands in his pockets as he lounged against the door-frame, and he laughed. I’ll always remember that. He’d casually disembowelled me, I was bleeding to death and all he could do was laugh.’

‘Martin, I’m now quite convinced he was having some kind of breakdown. He wasn’t usually such a shit.’

‘Oh, but I’m afraid he was,’ said Martin mildly. Take off those rose-tinted spectacles of yours and face the facts: he was a shit who sent me to hell. Rather fun to be back in hell actually — I hadn’t looked in on the old place for years. In fact I was so keen to celebrate my return that I rushed straight to the nearest pub and hit the vodka.’

‘My God!’

‘Careful — remember ordination! But yes, you’re right to be horrified. Fortunately as soon as I recovered consciousness I had the brains to rush to that marvellous place near Banbury and incarcerate myself until I knew it was safe to come out. Haven’t touched a drop since. Happy ending ... More tea?’

‘Thanks. Martin, I do realise it’s none of my business, but ... could you possibly go into greater detail about your relationship with Christian?’

Martin thought for a long moment. His face was shadowed, his eyes dark with memory. Then unexpectedly he smiled at me.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t really think I can. Sorry.’ And he returned to the kitchen to fetch the kettle.

II

As he topped up the teapot with hot water I said: ‘Okay, I accept that I can’t hear the details, but I think you can still unlock the mystery surrounding the last few months of his life. It’s indisputable that his behaviour during that time changed radically, and what I want to know is why it changed.’

‘There may be no single reason.’ Martin poured us both more tea. °The change could have been caused by a number of factors which happened to converge at a certain time.’

‘But when people have a breakdown, isn’t there always a trigger? If he did get together with you,’ I said carefully, ‘perhaps the expression of homosexuality could have been the trigger — it could have turned his whole image of himself upside down — brought him face to face with a situation he couldn’t master —’

‘I assure you that where his sexuality was concerned he was incapable of that degree of angst. And I dispute your diagnosis of breakdown. His old life might have been disintegrating, but he himself wasn’t disintegrating at all. He was charging along in fine fettle.’

After a prolonged pause I said: ‘Okay, I’ll buy that. What you’re really saying, aren’t you, is that there’s not the remotest possibility of suicide.’

‘None. Believe me, the last person Christian would ever have killed was himself because he was the only person he really loved. However unfortunately I don’t see how you can convince his wife of that without destroying her most cherished illusions.’

‘But all the evidence suggests he was chronically dissatisfied and unhappy — couldn’t he have fallen out of love with himself?’

‘He might have been chronically dissatisfied and unhappy — but with the life he was leading, not with the person he was. Let me try and sketch a parallel situation so that you can see more clearly what I’m driving at. Think of a beautiful woman who’s passionately in love with her own reflection in the mirror. She has a wardrobe of clothes, all in the height of fashion, which make her appear even more beautiful. Then one day she notices her favourite outfit’s looking a little tired. She tries another — and another — but they look tired too, and she suddenly realises that her outfits no longer do justice to her supreme beauty. She panics; she tries on different accessories but none of them makes any difference and finally she reaches the inescapable conclusion: she still adores herself but she’s got to have a whole new wardrobe.’

By this time I was sitting on the edge of my chair but all I said was: ‘Go on.’

‘My opinion,’ said Martin, ‘is that if Christian hadn’t drowned in that accident, he would have ditched his old life by dropping out in the biggest possible way.’

My theory was confirmed. ‘I don’t think he did drown in that accident,’ I said. ‘I believe he’s alive and well and living under another identity.’