Absolute Truths (41 page)

As it was a Saturday Malcolm and Nigel were not due to appear
in the office; Nigel
was
preoccupied in catching up with his own
work in Starmouth while Malcolm was busy with parish matters.
When I telephoned he was preparing for a wedding at eleven.

‘Obviously we’re on the brink of scandal,’ he said when I had passed on Paul’s information that Aysgarth had by-passed Bob
Carey, outflanked the Chapter and managed the Appeal single-
handed for some months without producing even a bank statement
for his colleagues’ inspection. ‘Why would he hijack the Appeal
like that unless something shifty was going on?’

‘
What I’d like to know
is
why Bob Carey didn’t tip you off that
he’d been removed as the Appeal accountant.’

°Too terrified that Aysgarth might sack him altogether if he
started complaining to the diocesan office. Did Paul really have
no idea what these new accountants are called?’

‘
None. But since Aysgarth used them when he was a Canon of
Westminster the implication is that they must be completely above
board.’

‘
Well, that may be the implication but we don’t have to be stuck
with it!’

‘Malcolm –’

‘
Hang on, I’ll come over for a quick word. We shouldn’t be
discussing this on the phone.’

‘What about the wedding?’

‘I can still fit in a ten-minute conference.’

The line went dead. Emerging from my study I found Charley
and reluctantly explained that I now had to see Malcolm, but
Charley went to elaborate lengths to tell me he was quite happy
to wait a little longer before adjourning to the golf course.
Reflecting that even an invasion by my archdeacon would be less stressful than this exquisitely polite dialogue with my son, I with
drew again to my study.

‘I think we should have a conference with Sir Reginald,’
announced Malcolm on his arrival ten minutes later. Sir Reginald
Barrington-Frazer, the diocesan chancellor, was our chief legal
officer. ‘I think –’

‘
Wait a moment, Malcolm,’ I said, realising that I had to take
control of the scene before I was left looking fatally ineffectual.
‘I’ve now had the chance to reflect on the conversation with Paul
and I believe we have to be very careful here not to jump to all
the wrong conclusions. First of all answer me this: do you seriously
believe –
seriously
believe – that the dean of a great cathedral would
stoop to criminal behaviour?’

‘
My dear Charles, that man’s capable of anything,
as we all know.
Think of 1963. Any dean who commissions pornographic
sculpture for his churchyard must be completely cut off from
God.’

‘He didn’t see it as pornographic.’

‘Well, there you arc!’

‘
Yes, but ...’ I broke off, took a deep breath and tried again. I
was as worried as he was but I felt I had to make at least some
attempt to reason our way out of our fears. ‘Just let’s consider this
calmly for a moment,’ I said. ‘What do we actually know? Only
that Aysgarth has (a) taken complete control of the Appeal Fund,
(b) engaged new accountants for it and (c) behaved abominably
with Christie’s. The abominable behaviour is certainly embarrass
ing but I’d be very surprised if Sir Reginald judges it to be criminal.
Similarly, it’s not a crime to hire new accountants, particularly if
Aysgarth felt Bob Carey hadn’t the time to do the extra work
properly. And finally, although I agree that the Canons’ ignorance
is a most undesirable state of affairs, they’ve only themselves to
blame – it seems they were all too willing to let Aysgarth play a
lone hand.’

‘
But why should he want to play a lone hand?’ demanded
Malcolm. ‘Surely he must have had some shady purpose in
mind!’

‘
No, that doesn’t necessarily follow at all. Just think: if you were
Aysgarth, a gifted fund-raiser, wouldn’t you seize every chance you
had to circumvent the sluggish fusspots in Chapter and embark
on a brilliant solo? I agree it’s easy to give the current state of
affairs a sinister interpretation, but don’t let’s forget that Aysgarth’s
behaviour could be entirely non-criminal.’

‘
All right,’ said Malcolm, calming down and in consequence
arguing more effectively, ‘all right, I agree that the flirtation with
Christie’s, the power-grabbing and the accountant-switching are
all capable of an innocent explanation when considered separately,
but together they add up to the biggest rat I’ve smelt during all
my years as an archdeacon. For heaven’s sake, Charles, make a
visitation before the lid blows off that Cathedral and showers scan
dal all over the Church of England!’

I knew it was time to exert my authority again but I was so
debilitated by Charley’s emotional blackmail, Paul’s agonised medi
tations on sex and my renewed anxiety about Aysgarth that once
again I wound up saying the wrong thing. It was: ‘I’ll have to
discuss this with Nigel on Monday.’

‘
With all due respect, Charles,’ said Malcolm, using the phrase
which in my experience invariably means that some gross imperti
nence is about to be uttered, ‘I really can’t see what Nigel’s got to
do with this matter. I know you’ve been relying on him more than
usual during this difficult time, but the fact is that his presence here is a temporary arrangement, and I’m the one who’s best qualified to
advise you about the Cathedral.’

Trying to assume a voice of steel I said: ‘Am I not allowed to
consult my suffragan about a matter which could ultimately affect
the whole diocese?’

‘
Oh, I quite understand that he must be kept informed! All I’m
saying is that as he knows nothing about my archdeaconry he’s ill-equipped to advise on its problems — oh, and talking of prob
lems, I must just mention Langley Bottom’ before I run off to that
wedding. Desmond’s due back on Monday from his little holiday
in Devon, but since it’s most unlikely that he’ll be capable of
returning to work straight away there’ll be no need to suspend
him prior to the sacking. Heavens above, look at the time, I must
fly —’ And he raced away to the wedding at St Martin’s.

I was still taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself when
Charley arrived, over-attentive, with a cup of coffee for me.
I felt more in need of a double-brandy.

SIX

‘
Bad things don’t reveal a cruel God; they hide from us the
God of love.’

AUSTIN FARRER

Warden of Keble College, Oxford, 1960-1968

A
Celebration
of
Faith

‘
How old is this child who’s coming here tonight?’ enquired
Charley later.

‘Seventeen.’

‘
What a pity — a very boring age! I suppose she’ll only be capable
of simpering about the Beatles.’

I made no comment. I was trying to work out how to survive the remainder of the morning, but it passed more easily than I
had dared hope as Charley himself suggested postponing our outing
to the golf course. He had decided to do some shopping for
the dinner-party; he had noticed there was very little gin, no Schweppes tonic and no lemon. During his absence I tried to
answer some sympathy letters, but when I opened the file I could
do no more than reread the letter from Sheila Preston, the wife
of the late Bishop of Radbury, and reflect how odd it was that she
had wound up living in Pimlico, that shabby hinterland south of Belgravia, in a street which shared the same name
as
one of the Channel Islands. Lyle and I had spent a holiday with the boys on
that particular island not long after the war. Michael had learnt to
swim there. I could clearly see him, aged eight, small, sturdy,
tanned., smiling — and a second later I was remembering the letter
which was still lying in my out-tray. Passing Charley in the hall
as he returned from his shopping expedition, I drove to the post
office and sent the letter by the express service to London.

By the time I arrived home Charley had selected some food
from the deep-freeze and was organising lunch.

‘
I expect you want to rest this afternoon,’ he said neutrally
as
we finished eating, but I knew I had reached the point where I
had to pay him attention. We set off for the golf course with a
five-iron and a putter apiece and played a few holes, but a driving sleet put an end to this unpleasant exercise and we retired, damp
and chilled, to the South Canonry. I then declared I needed a hot
bath, and I managed to make this luxury last for a very considerable
time.

When I had summoned the strength to venture downstairs I
found that Charley had changed into a clerical suit for the dinner-party, and this pleased me; I disapproved of young clergymen who
felt so coy about their uniform that they refused to wear it unless
they had to. I myself was wearing a clerical suit with a purple
stock. At an informal dinner-party in my own home I felt the
traditional episcopal uniform would have been too showy.

‘
Maybe Hall will wear a biretta,’ said Charley frivolously, having
gossiped with the chaplains that morning and learnt of Hall’s
brand of churchmanship.

But Hall had dressed with scrupulous care in the height of
convention in order to make amends for his wild appearance at
our previous meeting. He was attired, just
as
he had been when I
had first seen him in the Cathedral, in a well-cut clerical suit, a black stock and only the smallest of pectoral crosses. His shoes
were so highly polished that they gleamed like metal. His hair had been trimmed. The sideboards had been eliminated. Undoubtedly
he was now shaved, groomed and buffed to a high lustre, but by
some bizarre feat he managed to look far more arresting and sinis
ter than he had appeared in his casual clothes. I had forgotten how
every head in the chapel had turned to look at him when he had
attended the Cathedral’s early services.

So struck was I by the fact that Hall’s heroic attempt to look
wholesome had met with such singular lack of success that I did
not at first see the girl who was lingering behind him, but as Hall
stepped forward to shake my hand the light from the porch shone
upon her and I saw that she was not merely pretty, like Elizabeth
Aysgarth, but beautiful. The beauty was not classical, but in its
modem originality it was very striking. She had long straight dark
hair and a pale skin and such a slim neat figure that she looked
like a little china doll in her plain straight plum-red frock. She
appeared to be wearing no make-up except around the eyes, which
were dark, glowing and enormous. Her strong, sculpted jaw
formed a fascinating contrast to her full-lipped, very feminine
mouth, but although I was conscious of her sexuality I was con
scious too of her innocence; she seemed so young, so fresh, so
unmarred by the sheer nastiness of so much of modem life. My
heart turned over. I forgot little Miss Elizabeth and her knowing,
winning ways. I found myself wholly enchanted by little Miss Rachel, and for a painful moment Lyle returned to me as we
grieved again for the daughter we had never had.

Introductions were made. The girl was very shy, but Charley
concealed his inferiority complex by assuming a bossy manner
which she seemed to find reassuring. Hall, of course, was on his
best behaviour. No ambassador to the Court of St James’s could
have been more courteous.

‘
What will you drink?’ I said to him in the drawing-room, and
as his sharp glance flicked over the collection of bottles on the
sideboard I knew he was calculating which drink I felt was most
appropriate. With a canniness which bordered on the telepathic
he asked for a Tio Pepe.

‘
Would you prefer a gin-and-tonic, Rachel?’ said Charley. ‘I
hated sherry when I was your age – in fact when I was very young
I hated gin too. Would you rather have the tonic on its own?’

Rachel said she would. Fortunately she did not seem in the least
affronted by these questions which implied she was barely out of
the nursery, but although she continued to gaze at him with her glowing dark eyes, Charley was far too busy opening a bottle of
tonic to notice.

I found myself remembering the famous acid comment that
youth was wasted on the young.