Scandalous Risks (19 page)

‘
I’ve simply no time to go mad — which reminds me, I must dash home because a dozen people are coming for drinks. But when am I going to see you again?’

‘I could attend Communion tomorrow. That would set the Bishop’s mind at rest.’

‘I’d stop worrying about Charles, if I were you.’

‘But if he looked out of the window just now —’

‘I’m sure he didn’t. The last thing any dedicated academic does in a library is look out of a window.’

‘All the same it might be politic if—’

‘My darling, you mustn’t attend Communion merely to reassure the Bishop! That wouldn’t be right.’

After I had recovered from the delicious shock of being addressed as ‘my darling’ I managed to mumble: ‘I want to attend Communion to try to be a better Christian. If Christianity’s all about finding God in loving relationships, then I want to be a far better Christian than I’ve ever been before.’

This pleased him. He gave my hand an approving squeeze before saying: ‘Stay on in St Anselm’s chapel after the service tomorrow and I’ll slip back from the vestry to meet you.’ In a burst of enthusiasm he added: ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoy talking to you – your destiny is obviously to be my Egeria!’

‘The name rings a bell but I can’t quite –’

‘
She was a great listener.’ He clasped both my hands as we faced each other. I had remembered to wear flat shoes so I was the perfect height to gaze into his eyes.

‘St Anselm’s chapel,’ he managed to say after an emotional silence. ‘Tomorrow morning at eight.’

I nodded, once more beyond speech, and we went our separate ways.

IV

I staggered back to the Chantry where I found Marina reclining on the sofa in a dusty-pink negligée and indulging in one of her lengthy phone conversations; the faint squeak of a voice (male) was audible as I drifted past the receiver. When the squeak ceased Marina said: ‘Michael, how wonderful! I’d adore it,’ and stopped caressing a strand of her blonde hair in order to wave at me buoyantly. I deduced the Bishop’s son was trying to line her up for another pounce. Vaguely I wondered if the Bishop himself had ever pounced around in his youth, but the thought of Dr Ashworth behaving in a manner which could be described as sexually seamy was quite inconceivable.

The next thing I knew I was in my room and collapsing in a heap on my bed. I was in a stupor of ecstasy. The Dean of Starbridge –
the Dean of Starbridge –
had said I was wonderful. In other words – and I had to rephrase this sentence in order to savour its extraordinary content to the full – a brilliant, successful, attractive man had expressed a genuine admiration for me. Perhaps he even loved me, although of course I knew it would be unwise to assume this without further evidence that his feelings ran deeper than mere compassionate affection – and of course I knew I had no right to expect so much. But nevertheless he had said I was ‘wonderful’ and called me ‘my darling’. How intoxicating! I could still barely grasp the dimensions of my changed universe; I felt I could only gaze in amazement at the cosmic vista which had unfolded before my eyes.

Finding a sheet of writing-paper I printed: ‘N. N. Aysgarth. Norman Neville Aysgarth. Neville Aysgarth. Stephen Aysgarth.’ So many designations! For good measure I added all the titles he had had during his career. ‘The Reverend N. N. Aysgarth.’ (That described him when he had been a vicar.) ‘The Venerable N. N. Aysgarth.’ (That covered the years as Archdeacon.) ‘The Reverend Canon N. N. Aysgarth.’ (That dealt with Westminster Abbey.) ‘The Very Reverend the Dean of Starbridge’ – The Dean of Starbridge! And
me!
Carefully I drew a little heart, pierced it with a delicately etched arrow and wrote VENETIA at one end and NNA at the other. Never before had so trivial a doodle afforded me such immense satisfaction, and as I contemplated those magic initials my excitement reached new heights. Never mind that he had a wife. Never mind that he was a clergyman, a fact which prohibited anything so unspiritual as a full-scale adulterous love-affair. At least – thanks to Bishop Robinson – we could indulge in a high-minded love, a romantic self-denial and countless erotic meetings .. . However, it seemed unlikely that the Bishop of Woolwich had openly advocated eroticism when he had outlined his scheme for a new morality based on the noblest form of love. Picking up my copy of
Honest to God,
which had somehow become buried beneath the latest James Bond novel, the current copy of
New Musical Express
and
Lady Chatterley
’
s Lover,
I opened the book and scanned the chapter on ethics. A heading announced: ‘Nothing Prescribed – Except Love.’ What a prescription! Enthralled I read on:

‘This position, foreshadowed thirty years ago in Emil Brunner’s great book
The Divine Imperative,
is given its most consistent statement I know in an article by Professor Joseph Fletcher in the
Harvard Divinity Bulletin,
entitled "The New Look in Christian Ethics". "Christian Ethics," he says, "is not a scheme of codified conduct. It is a purposive effort to relate love to a world of relativities through a casuistry obedient to ..."‘

I lost interest. It was really amazing how those theologians could make even a subject like love seem boring. Tossing the book aside I paused only to burn my fevered jottings in the ash-tray and then I began to dream of a future in which nothing was prescribed except love.

V

The Bishop was absent from Communion the next morning, but I knew that only Anglo-Catholics were in the habit of attending ‘mass’, as they called it, every day. Aysgarth, being Low-Church by inclination, privately considered it quite unnecessary to attend Communion except on Sundays and special Holy Days, but since the Bishop always turned up at least twice during the week Aysgarth too, not to be outdone, appeared with a similar regularity in St Anselm’s chapel for the weekday services of matins at seven-thirty and Communion at eight. This spiritual one-upmanship would have been amusing if it had not reflected the antipathy between the two men, but in view of their strained relationship the situation could only seem unfortunate. I felt sorry for my Mr Dean being burdened with a bishop he disliked, and I felt wary of Dr Ashworth who I suspected might well harbour a ruthless streak behind his steel-plated charm. The desire to keep on the right side of such a formidable figure was strong, and I was sorry that I had no opportunity that morning to impress him by my presence at Communion.

I was also disappointed that the celebrant was not the Dean himself but the current canon-in-residence, Fitzgerald; Aysgarth merely assisted him. (Fortunately there was no sign of Eddie.) I did try to follow the service carefully in my Prayer-book, but I was feeling so exalted that I continually lost my place and had a hard time keeping up with the other members of the small congregation, the retired clergy and withered old women who seemed to fill up so many nooks and crannies in the Cathedral Close. I must have been the youngest person present by at least thirty years.

I had never felt entirely comfortable with the Communion service. It had always conjured up for me images of cannibalism, and I had been accustomed to justifying my repulsion by arguing that we can’t all find certain symbols equally meaningful. However, I was now so transformed by my new universe that I discovered even my attitude to Communion had changed. How could I have found that beautiful symbolism repulsive? How very far astray I must have been — in fact, how had I even dared to call myself a Christian? I resolved to turn over a new leaf. When my turn came to approach the altar-rail I remembered my confirmation classes, took the sacrament reverently and sank to my knees to pray as soon as I returned to my seat.

A shaft of sunlight penetrated the chapel and emphasised the delicate lines of the vaulted ceiling. Love, Truth, Beauty — the absolute values — all were present, Love represented by Aysgarth, Truth by the service which pointed to Christ, Beauty in the architecture of the chapel. How futile the Orgy seemed in retrospect, how meaningless and trivial! Eating too much, drinking too much, running around after men and thinking of nothing but sex — what an intolerable waste of time such pursuits were when there was this other world waiting to be explored! I could now clearly see that this other world was the true reality. Everything else was mere illusion.

I was still pondering on these radical thoughts when the service ended; Fitzgerald and Aysgarth padded off behind the verger to the vestry and all the old dears in the congregation tottered home to breakfast. I waited, watching the sunlight and mentally reciting religious poetry. I was just skimming through Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ and had reached the line: ‘Bring me my arrows of desire!’ when Aysgarth slipped back into the chapel.

We’ll go to the library,’ he said as I sprang to my feet. ‘The Librarian’s never there before nine-thirty so we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

‘Let’s hope the Bishop isn’t about to look up another reference!’

He laughed and we left the chapel together. There were two cleaning women at work, one flicking a duster in the nave and the other pushing a droning Hoover over the carpet by the high altar, but no one else was in sight as we crossed the transept to the door which opened on to the library staircase. On the landing above the first flight, the stairs continued upwards to the gallery which encircled the nave, but Aysgarth ignored them, advanced to the double doors ahead of us and produced a key. The door swung wide. We entered the library.

It was a long room, very old, with a vaulted ceiling and that special musty smell of ancient paper and antiquated leather. Books lined the walls and beyond the Librarian’s table I saw the chained manuscripts, treasures so precious that the pre-Reformation canons had tethered them to the reading-desks. On the west side of the room the long thin windows looked across the lawn of the cloisters to the wooden seat donated by Lady Mary.

‘Have you been here before?’ Aysgarth was saying as he closed the door.

‘When you first became Dean you gave me and my parents a guided tour.’

‘So I did! But did I show you the cat?’

‘Cat?’

‘He’s a doodle in our most famous manuscript, one of the earliest copies of St Anselm’s
Prayers and Meditations.
The first Bishop of Starbridge somehow managed to extort it from the monks at Canterbury.’ Moving to one of the chained treasures he opened the manuscript at a place which was already marked, and when I drew closer I saw illuminated capital letters, lines of pale brown unreadable script and, in the left margin, an exquisite little painting of a cat with a mouse in his mouth.

‘He’s been under discussion lately,’ said Aysgarth as I exclaimed in admiration. ‘I want to have coloured picture-postcards of him made to sell in the Cathedral shop, but I’ve met with opposition in Chapter. Fitzgerald said Puss-in-Boots here was neither a pertinent nor a reverent representation of St Anselm’s mighty work, and Dalton agreed with him.’

‘Honestly, Mr Dean, how square – and how stupid!’

‘My darling, you can’t go on calling me Mr Dean when we’re alone together! Call me Stephen.’

I said at once: ‘Oh no. Not Stephen. That’s
her
name for you.’

There was a silence. He looked away and lightly fingered the edge of the manuscript. My heart gave a massive thud. ‘And anyway,’ I added rapidly, ‘don’t you think it would be a mistake if I got into the habit of calling you by your Christian name? Supposing I slipped up in public. Primrose would say: "Oh Venetia, why are you suddenly addressing Father as if he were someone of our generation?" And your wife would immediately deduce –’

‘We mustn’t talk of my wife,’ said Aysgarth. The morality of the situation demands that we never discuss her.’

With an enormous effort I managed to avoid a second deadly silence. In my most casual voice I said: ‘Okay, fine. If that’s the way the cookie crumbles, so be it.’

At once he laughed in delight and the tension vanished. ‘What a marvellous phrase!’ he exclaimed. Where did it come from?’

‘It’s one of Dinkie’s gems. She’s an American pal of Marina’s and was one of the guests at the Orgy.
’

‘
I want to hear about this Orgy!’ said Aysgarth, reaching out to clasp my hands. ‘Let’s sit down on the window-seat and luxuriate in a long gossip!’

‘How exciting that sounds, Mr Dean!
’

‘
Neville – please! I insist! It’ll be such a change to become Neville again – but wait a minute, which Neville am I? I’ve been several Nevilles in my time.’

‘Well, now you can be a new one, specially for me.’

I had spoken flippantly but I had enthralled him. ‘A new Neville!’ he exclaimed, and gazed at me as if I had opened some indescribably alluring Pandora’s box. Then tightening his grasp on my hands he declared buoyantly: ‘What a stimulating prospect – and now stimulate me further by telling me all about the Orgy!’

I laughed unable to resist his high spirits, and firmly setting
aside the queasiness which had assailed me when he had refused to discuss his wife, I began to describe the revels of Marina’s Coterie.

VI

Half an hour later at a quarter past nine someone, thinking the double doors were locked, inserted a key and tried to walk in. ‘Quick!’ whispered Aysgarth. ‘Puss-in-Boots!’

We raced silently to the reading-desk and by the time the Librarian had worked out that the doors were already unlocked we were gazing in rapture at the little painted cat.

‘And the truth is,’ said Aysgarth in ringing tones, ‘the scribe almost certainly got bored with copying the manuscript, and – oh hullo, Gilbert! You’re early this morning!’

‘I have to leave early this evening to go to the dentist.’ The Librarian, a faded little wisp of a man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a suit which smelt of mothballs, was looking anxiously at me as if he feared he ought to remember who I was.

‘Venetia, this is Mr Pryce,’ said Aysgarth. ‘Gilbert – Miss Flaxton. I was just showing her our famous cat.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said the Librarian in the voice of one who was obviously baffled.

‘Well, thank you so much, Mr Dean,’ I said. ‘I mustn’t take up any more of your valuable time.’

‘Not at all. I’ll just escort you downstairs –’

‘Oh, please don’t trouble –’

‘It’s no trouble whatsoever!’

We escaped.

‘
That was bad luck,’ muttered Aysgarth on the stairs. ‘Let’s step into the cloisters for a moment. He won’t see us if we stay beneath the library in the east colonnade.’

Seconds later we were gazing across the lawn to Lady Mary. ‘Before we part,’ Aysgarth was saying, ‘we really must solve the problem of where we can meet without the Bishop, all three residentiary Canons and the entire Cathedral staff tripping over us with remorseless regularity.’

‘There’s an obvious solution,’ I said at once. ‘My time at the Chantry’s running out, and when I get a flat –’

‘Oh, I could never visit you there.’

I was stunned. ‘You couldn’t?’

‘
No, much too dangerous. I’m well-known in Starbridge, my visits might be noted, and besides ... We have to remember that serpent, the one who’s gliding alongside us in our beautiful garden and wearing a collar and leash like a well-behaved pet. If I really love you – and of course I do – I’ve no option but to keep that serpent under control.’

‘But if you can’t come to my flat –’

‘
How I wish you could come to the Deanery as my secretary! But I don’t see how I can fire dear old Miss Trotman. She’s served under three deans, and ... dear me, how improper that sounds!’ He began to shake with laughter.

‘But I don’t see how I could possibly accept a job
as
your secretary ...’ I started to giggle. His laughter was very infectious. ‘No, you couldn’t. I’m fantasising. Now let me see –’

‘Do you have a day off?’

‘Certainly! Clergymen who work twenty-four hours a day seven days a week always wind up being no use to anyone.’

‘Well, in that case –’

‘
– we’ll meet on Wednesday afternoons. Why don’t I take you for a drive? Usually on Wednesdays I just eat a big lunch, quaff a bottle of wine and snooze the afternoon away, but now’s obviously the time for radical reform!’

‘But won’t it seem odd if you revolutionise your day off so violently?’

‘
I’ll say the doctor’s advised me to lose weight by eating light lunches, cutting back on the drink and going on little excursions once a week!’ He was excited. His eyes sparkled. He gave me a radiant smile. ‘Why don’t we meet outside the Staro Arms at two next Wednesday?’

‘Fine, but how do I communicate with you if something ghastly happens and I can’t make it?’

‘
Ring the Deanery and say to whoever answers the phone: "Please tell the Dean that Lady Mary wishes to speak to him about the memorial tablet."‘

‘If only Lady Mary knew how useful she was being to us! Or at least ... Good heavens, Mr Dean, we don’t really think, do we, that Lady Mary’s watching us from her own personal cloud in heaven?’

He laughed. ‘My dear, Christians no longer believe in the three-decker universe with heaven above the clouds, hell below the ground and the world in between! In the opening chapters of
Honest to God —
’

‘
I
must
read that book —’

‘I’ll tell you more about it on Wednesday.’

Briefly our hands clasped. Above us the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and as euphoria gripped me again I forgot about sex and marriage and all those other popular hobbies that human beings rated so highly. I remembered only that I was standing in the heart of a mighty cathedral, one of the greatest cathedrals ever built, while beside me stood its master, one of the most powerful churchmen in England, a man who had treated me as if I were truly exceptional and declared that he loved me. What more could I possibly want? Nothing. Indeed so great was my happiness that to have asked for more, I felt, could only have damned me as a monster of greed.

Skimming back to the Chantry I resolved to tackle
Honest to
God
without delay.