Absolute Truths (51 page)

At once I said: ‘What sort of a man was he?’

‘
After the way he treated me I refuse to do him the honour of
calling him a man.’

‘Then what kind of a creature was he?’

‘
Tall, dark, handsome, brilliant, charming and young enough to
be my son.’

‘
Hardly the sort of creature one runs across every day.’

‘
Exactly – that was why I fell so hard! But I did try not to. First
of all I thought: I can’t. Then I thought: I shouldn’t. And finally
I thought: well, I might if he were to show interest. But he didn’t
show interest, month after month passed and he showed no inter
est, and then just as I thought I was finally recovering from my
infatuation – WHAM! He did show interest and I was led
as a
lamb
to
the
slaughter. It didn’t last long. He demolished me and
walked out. That was when I hit the bottle and wound up at
Banbury, but I recovered, I crawled back to sanity and I was all
set to begin enjoying life again, or trying to, when – WHAM!
Little Muggins gets sent home and I have to survive a family crisis
– no wonder I feel as if God’s clobbering
me,
but that’s an illusion,
isn’t it, I
can
see that now because he’s sent you along to proclaim
that I’m still forgivable – bloody hell, here we are at the door in
the wall and I’ve just seen that key, tucked in the lock. How do I lock the door after us and leave the key on this side of the wall?’

‘
Push it under the door.’
·

‘
God, that’s wonderful, the voice of sanity, just what I need. Thank the Lord you turned up, Charles! I can’t wait to reward
you with some absolutely delicious bread and
cheese.’
And when
he smiled at me I could no longer find the words which would
have enabled me to avoid lunch and escape from him. Indeed it
occurred to me that although I was in a grossly debilitated state I had a duty to stay so long as I could be of use; I might have been a complete clerical failure in London, but it seemed I was still not
quite a write-off in my own diocese.

I began to feel fractionally less contemptible.

Martin’s car, which I had noticed earlier, was a white Jaguar. All
my life I have fancied fast exciting cars and all my life since my ordination I have been obliged to accept the sad truth that fast
exciting cars are quite inappropriate for a clergyman.

‘
I envy you the Jaguar,’ I heard myself confess as we completed
the short but perfect journey around the boundary wall to the
front entrance of the Manor.

‘
Yes, I thought you were looking a trifle pea-green. Personally
I think all bishops should have Jaguars – it would boost their
image no end.’ Having parked in front of the house, he removed
from the boot his six little bottles of ginger ale, all packed in a
cardboard frame, and commented apologetically: If you want real
booze, Charles, I’m sorry to say the Community only keep med
icinal brandy and communion wine.’

‘Luckily m in an abstemious mood.’

‘
God, how marvellous, sincere congratulations. Look, why don’t
you sit down in the library, which
is
the one ground-floor room
the cranks don’t
use,
and I’ll go scavenging in the kitchen ...’
The front door was on the latch. In the hall Martin passed me
the ginger ale and we parted, he heading towards the green baize
door and I wandering into the library where a hoard of antiquarian
books had stood unread for decades. Volumes of Victorian ser
mons jostled with tomes on field sports to bear witness to the
interests of the nineteenth-century owners of the Manor. Various
stuffed fish of immense size were displayed in glass cases adorned
with brass plates which recorded each fish’s weight, place of
death and the name of its murderer, Algernon Barton-Woods.
Jon’s second wife, whose family had owned the Manor for many generations, had preserved the library
as a
tribute to a vanished
past, and Jon had changed nothing since her death.

Sitting down in one of the leather armchairs I attempted to gather my wits and decide what I should do with myself while
Jon was inaccessible, but no solution sprang conveniently to mind.
Being a member of the Church of England, not the Church of
Rome, I was under no obligation to make a formal confession to a priest; provided I confessed my sins to God, prayed for forgive
ness and asked for the grace to lead a better life, I was not barred
from attending church and receiving the sacraments. Yet for years
I had known I was a man who needed the spiritual discipline of
a confession to a priest, and I was very reluctant, particularly when
I was in such a spiritually disabled condition, to dispense with this aid to putting myself right with God. It also seemed to me indisputable that I needed immediate help from a sympathetic
priest whom I could wholly trust. If necessary I could wait to make
that formal confession to Jon. But what I absolutely could not
afford to do, I now saw clearly, was to go soldiering on alone
until Jon became available.

I began to review the people who could fill the role of temporary
help-mate, but almost at once I became uneasy. I had no intention
of telling anyone but Jon about the fornication, but was it wise
even to admit to drinking too much and being so sunk in
depression that I was currently the most inert and inept bishop
on the bench? After all, I had a duty to the Church to keep up
appearances. A bishop who ran around whining that life was intol
erably tough would be a most unedifying spectacle even to the
most loyal of his ordained friends. In fact I could almost see the
Abbot-General of the Fordite monks pursing his lips
as
he thought:
poor Ashworth, very sad, but he’s letting the side down, not play
ing the game. The Abbot-General and I had been to the same
public school. I knew exactly how he would react. Perhaps soldier
ing on and keeping my mouth shut for the
time
being was simply
a cross I was being called to bear ... Or was this a gigantic
delusion fuelled by a spiritual pride which made the confession of
inadequacy intolerable? I tried to think dearly but I knew I was
getting in a muddle. Whom could I talk to and what could I say? I stared at the nearest stuffed fish as if I expected him to reply to
these baffling questions, and I was still staring when Martin
returned to the room.

‘
I didn’t tell the gang that the Bishop was here,’ he said, setting
down a tray of bread, cheese and apples. ‘I just said you were
a
friend of mine. I thought you mightn’t be in the mood to see them
all genuflecting at the sight of your pectoral cross.’

‘
How very understanding.’ Making an effort I began to concen
trate on the task of sustaining a conversation.

‘
Ah well, there’s an actor for you – always trying to imagine
what it’s like to be someone else! Here, take the glasses and pour
out the ginger ale while I slice the bread. God knows what this
cheese is but I think it might be a variety of Double Gloucester.
The green flecks are chives, not mould.’ And when the picnic had been prepared he added unexpectedly: ‘Say grace, would you? I’d
like that,’ so I produced a suitable sentence for the occasion.

‘
I’m feeling slightly more normal,’ he remarked afterwards.
‘Sorry I was so demented earlier – and while we’re on the subject
of apologies, I’m sorry I didn’t write to you about your wife. I
should have written even though we’ve never been more than mere
acquaintances.’

‘
No doubt if I’d been friendlier to you in the past you’d have
responded differently.’

‘
Well, I wasn’t exactly friendly myself, was I? Dad screwed every
thing up, of course, by falling in love with you back in I937.’

‘
Falling in love? My
dear Martin!’

‘
Oh, I don’t mean sexually! But it was a very intense father–
son relationship, wasn’t
it?’

‘
Nonsense! Jon’s always been the detached spiritual director!’

‘
It didn’t look that way to me, old chap. In fact every time he
spoke of you dotingly I wanted to run screaming in the opposite
direction – but no, don’t get upset! I did recover from my sordid
jealousy! Dad and I straightened out our relationship during the war, but even so I still felt, whenever I saw you, that I was hope
lessly inadequate – no, forget that, don’t take me seriously, m
just hamming it up, but m only hamming it up to let off steam
and avoid exploding with rage. How could Dad be so bloody
stupid about silly Little Muggins! Why doesn’t he just give him a
good slap instead of laying on the white magic with a shovel?

Charles, tell me frankly: do you think my father’s round the bend?’

‘
On the contrary, Jon always strikes me as being the sanest, most
balanced man I know.’

‘
It really is extraordinary how he manages to give that impression
to so many people.’

‘
Of course I’m not saying he doesn’t make mistakes —’

‘
Mistakes! Where family life’s concerned it’s just one long
balls-up! The only thing Dad’s ever been able to bring up success
fully is a cat — in fact sometimes I think Nicholas is just like a
mixed-up kitten and I half-expect him to screech "Miaow!" when
ever he sees me. If Anne hadn’t died it would be different, but
ever since those two loonies have been left stranded without her,
they’ve become increasingly peculiar and now they’re cocooned in
this bizarre psychic cosiness which I think is extremely unhealthy.’

I could not help but admit: ‘I’ve been worried myself about
Nicholas since Anne died.’

Thank God — an ally! I wish now I’d played a bigger part in
Nicholas’s upbringing, but I didn’t, I opted out, and now Nicholas
resents me, sharpens his claws and gives me steely looks whenever
I appear on the scene. 1 don’t
think
homophobia’s at the bottom
of the aversion, but of course it doesn’t help that I’m a homosexual
— and in fact that was the main reason why I opted out; homo
sexuals aren’t supposed to hang around adolescent boys and Dad
would hardly have thought I was
a
suitable role-model, but actually
I could have given Nicholas a whiff of normality. I could certainly have given him a sense of proportion about the psychic rubbish,
but now — just because I chose to do damn all — Nicholas winds
up in a catatonic state after trying to exorcise a witch-doctor and
Dad’s in such a flat spin he could wind up having a stroke! Oh,
the whole situation’s a catastrophe — and there’s Dad, supposed
to be a brilliant spiritual director! God! I hardly know whether to
laugh or cry.’

Recognising his feelings of guilt I said: ‘Don’t be too tough
on yourself. I’ve made several moves over the years to provide
Nicholas with a whiff of normality, but Jon was never able to
relax his grip. I think he knows in theory that it’s got to be done
but for some reason he finds it impossible in practice.’

‘
Dad finds all family life impossible in practice. I really can’t
think why he ever married, particularly since he seems to have the
kind of sex-drive that can be turned on and off like a tap —’

Talking of sex,’ I said, carving myself some more cheese. Tell me more about
Attila the
Hun, the destroyer who laid waste your
life.’

‘
Ah, the creature! Well, I certainly didn’t intend to inflict all
the gory details on you, but since you’re being so extraordinarily
sympathetic ...’ He embarked on a description of the affair.

By the time I had finished my second bottle of ginger ale it had occurred to me that although I had suffered a great deal in recent
weeks, I had not suffered the experience of being mocked and
ridiculed by someone I loved. Nor had I had to suffer the frustra
tion of an intense love which was not reciprocated. Nor had I had
to endure the voluntary departure of the one I loved. Nor had I
had to suffer the loss alone, deprived of the support of a community
which cared about me. Nor was I without children who had the
special power to keep precious memories alive. In short, it had
occurred to me for the first time that although my bereavement
had been and continued to be terrible, there were other bereave
ments which could be worse.

‘
... and of course he was bisexual, neither one thing nor the
other, someone who had never made a real commitment to either
sex,’ Martin was saying, concluding the description of the Oxford
academic who had done so much damage, but I heard myself
comment: ‘I wonder. He sounds more like a heterosexual who
was very emotionally disturbed, possibly even on the brink of
breakdown.’ Quickly I added: Tm not saying a man has to be on
the verge of breakdown to have a homosexual affair. m just saying that this particular man doesn’t strike me as being a typical bisexual
— unless he was lying to you when he said there’d been no homo
sexual episodes in his past.’

‘
He could have been lying. I’ll never know. And I suppose it
doesn’t matter now anyway what he was.’

‘
Doesn’t it? But surely if he was very emotionally disturbed —
profoundly unhappy — doesn’t that make it easier to forgive him?’
There was a pause while Martin worked out the implications of
this question. Finally he said: ‘I do sec I’ve got to forgive him in
order to be free, but the truth is that the person I find hardest to
forgive is myself. Imagine going off the rails like that at my age!
When I think how I hit the vodka —’

‘After Lyle died I hit the scotch.’

Did you, Charles? Did you really? But how hard did you hit
it?’

‘Hard enough to be hung over.’

‘
How wonderfully reassuring! But of course you then pulled
yourself together and behaved like a paragon.’