Absolute Truths (50 page)

My car was still standing a few yards from St Mary’s church and I realised I would have to do some careful explaining to Charley
later, but now all I cared about was escaping from London. Having
paid off the taxi-driver who had rescued me from Pimlico I drove
rapidly through Knightsbridge towards the western suburbs.

Mile after mile slipped by. It was another grey day, not cold,
but I felt increasingly as if I were encased in ice. After an hour
and a half I felt I could drive no more. My neck and shoulders
ached with tension. I was struggling against a humiliating urge
to cry.

I had been driving along the road which looped through the
hills towards Starbridge, the road I could remember so well from my journeys to Starbridge in 1937, and I halted the car in a new
parking area created at the point where the road completed its
final bend and the city lay below in the valley like a jewel embedded
in a sumptuous case. It was the sight of the Cathedral, towering
on its mound in the heart of the city, which finally made me realise
I was unable to go on. The sight underlined how profoundly I
had betrayed my calling to serve God and follow Christ. I thought
of the trespass: the seamy, selfish intrusion, without love, into the
most private and sensitive areas of Sheila’s body and personality. I thought of the exploitation: the influencing of a lonely, vulnerable
woman by a priest whose position demanded that there should be
no breach of her trust. I thought of the shoddy evasions of the
morning after: the shifty sentences, the rank hypocrisy, the perver
sion of truth. I thought, in short, not only of the act of intercourse
but of the spiritual degeneration it symbolised, and the next
moment I was remembering how I had condemned from pulpit after pulpit the immoral life which I had always prided myself I
had been far too virtuous to lead.

At last I summoned the strength to light a cigarette. That made
me avert my gaze from the Cathedral, but as the flame died all the
colour seemed to fade from the landscape. I was remembering
Sheila’s words: ‘I’d so like us to be friends,’ and as I faced the fact
that this was the last thing I wanted I heard again that other
terrible sentence: ‘I know the rules of the game.’

I considered those rules. As Sheila had pointed out, a clergyman
was ‘allowed’ a lapse though not a regular mistress, but this sum
mary omitted a dimension which Sheila, ever tactful, had left
unspoken. A lapse – an isolated incident which could be confessed,
regretted and forgiven without necessarily incurring disastrous
consequences – was supposed to take place only with the sort of
woman whom no clergyman could be expected to marry. In con
trast, an act of fornication with a respectable widow could only
be considered, according to the rules of the game, as premarital
intercourse. How else could one justify the unjustifiable?

I smoked the cigarette down to the butt and tried to convince
myself that Sheila would be uninterested in marrying me, but it
was obvious she longed to regain that rewarding life of which she
had been so brutally deprived. If she had the chance to many
another bishop she was hardly going to ignore it. No wonder she
had been so smartly dressed and cheerful that morning.

I tried to muzzle my panic by telling myself she was a decent,
reasonable woman who would never behave like an adventuress,
but unfortunately this assumption was difficult to support with
hard facts. All I really knew about Sheila was that she had been
an effective wife for a bishop. This implied a range of executive
skills but told me little about her basic nature. Moreover, even
if her nature was fundamentally kind and sympathetic, it could
well have been seriously soured by bitterness, frustration and the
desire to hit back at the Church which she felt had treated her so
shabbily.

By this time, halfway through my second cigarette, I was coming
to the conclusion that even if I had not laid myself open to black
mail, I had almost certainly raised the curtain on a most unpleasant
series of scenes in my private life. Or in other words, I could not
quite imagine any woman so thoroughly middle-class and respect
able
as
Sheila saying: ‘Marry me or I’ll
tell
our story to the
News
of the World’,
but I could all too easily visualise a future in which
she behaved as if she had a right to a wedding ring.

I lit a third cigarette from the glowing tip of the second. Chain-
smoking, unshaven, dressed in yesterday’s clothes — all I needed
now, it seemed, was an empty bottle of whisky to complete the
picture of the roué crawling home after
a
lost weekend, but I was
so paralysed by my predicament that I could not even shudder and
the next moment an even darker
view
of yesterday’s catastrophic
sequence of events was inching with loathsome plausibility into
my mind. I had finally remembered Abba Cyrus’s acid comments
about the psychology which led to fornication.

I thought of all the self-
knowledge
I had repressed. Jon in his
letter had urged me to be on my guard against my weaknesses —
surely when I had read his words I had automatically recalled the
errors I had made with women in the past? Of course I had, but
I had immediately erased them from my memory. I then saw, with
revulsion, that although I had told myself I was going to London
merely to appease Charley, I had also been motivated by the desire
to escape from my troubles by flirting with disaster. Why
else
should I have wound up loitering outside Brown’s Hotel when I
could have had a quick lunch elsewhere? And after leading Loretta
on only to reject her — another disgusting piece of behaviour —
why had 1 wound up in a red-light district on the wrong side of
Victoria instead of outside Charley’s flat in Mayfair? The truth was I had failed to be honest with myself, failed to face my weaknesses in order to
survive them, failed to behave a
s a priest should — and
now because of those multiple failures I was trapped in a mess
which had the potential to destroy
me.

I crushed out my cigarette. Fortunately no divine revelation was
required to tell me what I had to do next. I needed help, and in
such a desperate crisis there was only one man to whom I could
t
urn.

I paused at the South Canonry only to shave, change and drink
some milk. Then having retrieved Lyle’s journal from my study I
hurried away at last on my long-delayed journey to Starrington.

The door in the wall surrounding the grounds of the Manor was
locked. At once I wondered if Jon was ill, for usually he unlocked
the door himself every morning, and when I noticed seconds later
that a smart car was parked off the road beneath the trees I won
dered if it belonged to some unusually affluent local doctor.

Driving back to the front entrance of the Manor, I parked outside the gates in the hope of avoiding the residents and made a
series of rapid manoeuvres which took me around the edge of a
lawn to a path which led into the woods.

I walked for some minutes. It had been raining earlier and the
woods were still dank. Eventually the path brought me to the
brink of the dell, and looking down I saw to my relief that smoke
was rising from the chimney of the cottage. At least if Jon was ill
he was not in hospital. Quickening my pace as the path zig-zagged
downhill I reached the floor of the dell and hurried over the grassy
sward to the cottage door.

At first no one responded to my knock, but just as I was deduc
ing with relief that Jon was not only well but praying in the chapel
nearby, the door was flung open and I knew this optimistic con
clusion was wrong.

I found myself facing Martin Darrow, Jon’s son by his first
marriage. Although he was an actor who preferred the theatre,
Martin had become nationally famous in the 1960s as the result of his television series
Down at the Surgery, a
curious exercise in
comedy in which Whitehall farce
met Emergency Ward Ten
with
beguiling results. He was only five years my junior but looked considerably younger. In fact I often wondered if he had had a
face-lift. At least he did not dye his hair, which was a distinguished
shade of grey. (Or did he dye it? Was it possible that nature alone
could have achieved such a supremely distinguished shade?) His
choice of expensive clothes made him look like a model in an
advertisement: very well turned out, but not quite a gentleman. He was exceedingly good-looking, much better-looking than his
father; he also had a fine resonant voice, various stagey mannerisms
and a facile charm which made him seem as if he were perpetually
acting in a comedy by Noel Coward. What he was really like, I
had no idea. Nor, I confess, had I ever made any effort to find
out. I admired him for triumphing over his alcoholism; I thought
he
was an
excellent actor; but we inhabited such different worlds
that I could not imagine having a conversation with him that lasted
longer than five minutes.

‘
Good God!’ he exclaimed when he saw me. ‘Come in.’ And
turning aside he called: ‘Dad, ifs your pal, the Bishop!’ before he
added to me: ‘He’s in the lavatory.’

No sooner had I crossed the threshold than I saw Jon’s son by
his second marriage, Nicholas, twenty-two years old and supposed
to
be
doing voluntary work in Africa. He was sitting cross-legged
on the rug in front of the fire and holding Jon’s tabby-cat in his
arms. He looked over his shoulder at me but did not speak. A
second later he gave a convulsive shudder. He was ash-white and
looked ill.

Martin said to me airily: ‘Nicholas has been flown home
unexpectedly — I took Dad to Heathrow this morning to meet
him and we’ve only just got back.’

‘
What happened?’

‘
Oh, just a little disagreement with one of the local yokels. You’ll
be all right now you’re home, won’t you, Nicholas?’

The boy shuddered and went on clutching the cat. Apparently
he was beyond normal social intercourse. Thin, bony and with his
father’s unusual pallor, he wore glasses which gave him a serious,
scholarly look. Jon too had been obliged to wear glasses in his
youth. The boy greatly resembled him.

I was just thinking that I should make some elementary pastoral
gesture when Jon emerged from the bathroom. He looked both
flustered and upset. In fact the contrast between his usual serene
manner and this distressed appearance was so great that I knew at
once I had chosen quite the wrong moment to call.

‘
I’ll come back some other time,’ I said at once. ‘Obviously
Nicholas needs your undivided attention.’

‘
But I want to talk to you!’ Torn between his inclinations as a
priest and his obligations as a parent, Jon now became almost
frantic. ‘I’ve been praying for days that you’d visit me!’

‘
I’ll stay with Nicholas,’ said Martin soothingly. ‘You and Charles go and talk in the chapel.’

But Nicholas at once began to shudder continuously and Jon,
hurrying over to him, made no attempt to reply. As Martin glanced upwards in an eloquent gesture of exasperation, the boy, still seated
on the floor, grabbed Jon’s leg as if to anchor him to the room
and I made the decision to introduce a note of reality into this
increasingly bizarre scene. Crisply I said to Jon: ‘Have you called
a doctor?’

‘
He’s not ill, just frightened. It’s a question of demonic infil
tration.’

‘
Oh my God!’ muttered Martin under his breath
as
if about to
expire with embarrassment.

Jon managed to say in a neutral voice: ‘Martin, take Charles up
to the house and give him some lunch.’

‘
What a splendid idea!’ said Martin brightly. ‘Come along,
Charles!’
.

I said to Jon: ‘If there’s anything I can do —’

‘
No. Forgive me, Charles, I know m letting you down —’

‘
Obviously Nicholas must be your first priority. But I wonder
if I could leave this packet with you?’ I held up the journal which
I had placed in an envelope. ‘Perhaps later when things are less
fraught —’

‘
I’ll look at it. Yes, of course.’ He was already turning away.
Placing the envelope on the mantelshelf I glanced back at him and
saw he was kneeling beside the boy who was still shuddering
with his mysterious emotion. The cat, watching me with sleepy subhuman eyes, somehow heightened the atmosphere of eerie
abnormality and made me glad to escape from the room.

Feeling considerably shaken I said to Martin as soon as the front
door closed behind us: ‘What on earth’s been going on?’

‘
The silly little muggins tried to exorcise a witch-doctor.’ Martin
sounded both glum and disgusted. ‘Trust that child to make
a
complete psychic balls-up and create havoc! Typical.’

This extraordinary information at least diverted me from the
fact that Jon was temporarily unavailable. ‘But what was he doing
trying to exorcise a witch-doctor? I’ve heard the majority of witch-
doctors nowadays do a lot of good and are pillars of their com
munities!’

‘
Well, either the witch-doctor wasn’t one of the majority or else
— and this is far more likely — Nicholas pranced around being such
a psychic menace that the witch-doctor lost patience and decided
to give him a good fright — no, don’t go that way, Charles, we
can drive back to the house — I’ve got my car parked outside the
door in the wall and there are six bottles of ginger ale in the boot.
I always travel fortified for emergencies, particularly when I’m
dealing with those two loonies we’ve just left.’

I was determined not to stay for lunch but I was ready enough
to accept a lift back to the gates of the Manor. Falling into step
beside him I began to walk down the track to the wall.

‘
Christ, what a morning!’ Martin was exclaiming, sounding
glummer than ever. ‘Sorry, wrong expletive, no offence meant, but really — really! I feel like roaring around like King Lear. What have
I done to
be
saddled with such a family, I ask myself,
what have I
done?
I feel like going to Banbury before I can throw sanity to the
winds and hit the bottle in the biggest possible way.’

‘Why Banbury?’

‘
Oh God, haven’t you heard what goes on at Banbury? There’s
a marvellous nursing-home there where they dry out the loathsome
rich and the even more loathsome show-biz types who have been
trying to destroy themselves. In fact I’ve only just emerged from
the place after going on a bender, and — Christ, listen to me, why
am I letting my hair down like this? One glimpse of a purple stock
and I’m babbling my confession at top speed! Sorry, Charles, I really must stop saying "Christ" like that, I know priests find it
offensive, and anyway I find it offensive myself these days — did
Dad tell you I’ve started going to church again?’

‘
As a matter of fact he did mention —’

To be strictly accurate, I haven’t been to church lately. I’m in
a spiritual limbo after being clobbered by a disaster — no, not Little
Muggins and his witch-doctor, but a sex-disaster of indescribably
awful dimensions — and now I’m cut off from God again, I’m up
shit-creek without a paddle, and I can only suppose I’m being
punished — do you see God
as
vengeful, Charles?’

‘No.’

‘How interesting! I thought you’d say yes.’

With a sinking heart I was realising that some sort of pastoral
response was being required of me. I wondered if I had ever since
my consecration felt less like being a bishop. I even wondered if
I had ever since my ordination felt less like being a priest. Making
a huge effort I said tentatively: ‘Was the sex-disaster the result of
your lapse with the bottle?’

‘No, the lapse was the result of the disaster.’

In a last-ditch effort to turn the conversation into another chan
nel I murmured: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

‘
My dear Charles, I’m in such a state at the moment that I
wouldn’t even care if you’d been ordered to interrogate me on behalf of the KGB! What I’d like to do
is
go back to my church in London and make my confession but m afraid of the priest telling me I’m a disgrace — with the result that I’d run out and
hit the bottle all over again. However, if you don’t see God
as
vengeful —’

‘I’d rather emphasise God’s mercy.’

‘
How extraordinary! I’d have thought that you, of all bishops —’

‘
Anyone can suffer a sex-disaster.’ I paused. I think I was waiting
for Bishop Ashworth, that moral paragon, to take control of the
scene with a suitably smooth-tongued pastoral performance — the
kind of performance I had staged for Desmond in hospital — but
nothing happened. It seemed the Bishop had gone away. Instead
someone else — the ‘I’ who was quite other than this glittering
image — said: ‘Anyone can repent too, and be forgiven. Where do
you go to church?’

‘St Mary’s Bourne Street.’

‘But surely they’d
be
sympathetic there!’

‘
They’ve certainly been sympathetic in the past, but that was when I was a communicant, living a celibate life and being good
as gold. I feel I simply can’t go back there now and say —’

‘
All right, tell me instead.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly! You’d be revolted.’

‘What’s so revolting about being human?’

‘
What’s so revolting about ... My God! Charles, I never knew
you could be like this, it’s extraordinary, I’m
stunned.
But can one
really make a confession to a priest while ambling through a wood?’

‘
I’ve heard confessions while ambling through a concentration
camp. But I agree that ideally a confession should be heard in
a church. Why not regard this
as a
rehearsal for your priest at
St Mary’s?’

‘
I quite like the idea of a rehearsal,’ said the actor, gaining confi
dence. ‘But I need to be fed an opening line.’