Absolute Truths (52 page)

‘Not quite.’

‘
Honestly? In that case perhaps I can feel a little less disgusted
with myself. I didn’t behave like a paragon at all when I finally
emerged from Banbury.’

‘Difficult to get back to normal?’

‘
Crucifying. I was so bloody lonely that I was even tempted to
head for a red-light district. I’m sorry, I know how sordid that
sounds—’

No need to apologise.’

‘
Anyway, in the end I resisted the red lights and jumped into
bed with an old friend instead. I’m sure you must find it quite
incomprehensible that I should have done such a thing —’

‘
Not at all.’

‘
— and I wish to hell now that I’d abstained, because it turned
out to be a dam
fool thing to do and there’s bound to be an
unpleasant scene waiting for me later. God, isn’t life bloody
sometimes!’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you just saying that to be nice to me?’

‘No.’

Thank God. Lord, this is a damned odd conversation to be
having with a bishop! Excuse me while I just pinch myself to make
sure I’m not dreaming

‘
It’s no dream. Good to meet someone else who’s gone through
hell lately.’

‘
Isn’t it wonderful? It makes all the difference to know there’s
someone else screaming alongside you — and that’s the point of
the Incarnation, I can see that so clearly now. God came into the
world and screamed alongside us. Interesting idea, that. I had a
big row once with a Buddhist who played down the hellishness
of suffering by ... but no, forget the Buddhist, and forget me
too. Let’s hear about
you,
Charles. Let’s hear about
your pain.’

I thought: I can’t possibly unburden myself further to a homo
sexual actor with whom I have nothing in common.

But then it seemed to me that we had a great deal in common
at that moment and that with his actor’s ability to empathise he
would give me the support I needed
as
I struggled to survive my
ordeal.

‘
I bet you’re asking yourself how the hell you’re going to endure
the unendurable,’ said Martin suddenly, and when I said: ‘Yes, I
am,’ I saw at last that in my darkest hours since Lyle’s death I was to be helped not by a priest at all, nor indeed by any of my familiar
Christian friends, but by a stranger who stood on the margirs of
conventional society, by one of the outcasts and sinners to whom
Christ had long ago stretched out his hand.

The trouble with bereavement at our time of life,’ said Martin,
‘is
that it raises the curtain on death. At least when one’s young one
can think: this is hell but I’ll live to fight another day. But at our
age you think: this is hell and all I’ve got to look forward to is the
grave.’

Reaching for each word with difficulty I said: ‘Last Saturday
night I felt like a dinosaur which had been heaved into a rubbish-pit
for burial.’

‘How perfectly frightful. Tell me more.’

The bereavement evoked exactly the thoughts you’ve just
described and I suddenly felt I couldn’t stand the hell of the 1960s
a moment longer.’

‘
Isn’t it torture? So trivial! So vulgar! So
noisy — my
dear, the
music!’

‘
I know it’s foolish to look back at the past through rose-tinted
spectacles, but —’

‘
If the younger generation weren’t wallowing in rubbish
we
wouldn’t be driven to reach for the rose-tints.’

‘And talking of the younger generation,’ I said, painfully
recalling past quarrels with Michael, ‘I resent being despised just
because I represent certain values which are now labelled
"irrelevant".’

‘
So do I! "Martin Darrow," the young actors sneer, "that dead
relic of drawing-room comedy!"‘

The thought of the performing arts jolted my memory and I
recalled a film which Lyle and I had seen earlier in the decade
during a visit to London. Impulsively I asked: ‘Did you ever see
The Leopard?’

‘
The Visconti masterpiece? Three times, yes – oh, I know what
you’re thinking! You’re remembering Burt Lancaster, the relic who
was living out those spine-chilling lines of Tennyson: "The old
order changed), –"‘

‘I was very moved by that film.’

‘
Moved! I wept shamelessly. That moment when Burt Lancaster
danced with Claudia Cardinale –’

flat was the young girl, wasn’t it? He danced with the young
girl who represented the new order and although her beauty
touched his heart he was silently grieving for everything that was
lost or passing away –’

‘That scene where he looked at the minor –’

‘I could hardly bear to watch.’

We went on discussing the film. The last of the ginger ale dis
appeared. Only the crumbs remained from our lunch.
‘But surely the point to remember,’ said Martin at last, ‘when
the old order changes so catastrophically that you want to vomit,
is that our whole demarcation of time – all this business of eras and decades – is actually a grand illusion. The 1960s belong just as much to us as they do to your sons and Little Muggins. We’re
all in the same kitchen, all still cooking the future – which means
the future’s not fixed. Anything could happen. You may be on the
ropes now, but you could still have a destiny beyond your wildest
dreams,
even
though the younger generation are currently calling
you a has-been. Look at me, for instance.’

‘You?’

‘
Yes, look at my career. In the 1950s I went through a rocky
patch when the angry-young-man and kitchen-sink dramas came
into fashion. By the time the 1960s arrived I’d concluded I was
washed up. And then what happened? Television comedy! And
now I’m a household name and adored by hordes of middle-aged
women and I drive that heavenly chariot and my bank manager
thinks I’m no end of a swell – and the oddest part of this whole
resurrection is that it’s happening in an era I detest! So to my fury
I have to thank God for the 1960s because they’ve given me a
whole new life – in fact I’ve come to see that
the
era actually
requires old-timers like us in order to balance the present with the
past and produce a future which isn’t a complete nightmare. So
never think the future’s just a black hole. My career changed radically when I was middle-aged; maybe it’ll change radically again
when I’m very old. Actors’ lives are full of endings and new begin
nings, so the important thing is always to live in hope of a resurrec
tion even when to hope seems the most insane thing you can
possibly do.’

‘Never despair?’

‘
Never
despair!’

There was a pause. I found I was staring again at the fish in his glass case, and suddenly it seemed to me that I too had been living
under glass, distanced from the underlying reality of the 1960s
not only by the isolating side-effects of my career but by
Lyle’s
unflagging efforts to ensure my life ran smoothly. Yet now the
glass had been smashed, and unlike the fish I did not have to
remain a mere memento of a dead past. Exposed at last to the icy
draught of reality, I could draw a deep breath and begin again.

Abruptly I demanded: ‘What are your plans, Martin? Are you
staying here?’

‘
With the Community? No fear! I’ll hole up in Starbridge while
the crisis lasts.’

‘
Come and stay at the South Canonry.’

‘
Seriously?’

‘
Very seriously. You’d stop me giving the whisky another
wallop.’

‘
Ah well, if I can be of some modest use ... Thanks very much,
Bishop’s Guardian sounds a most intriguing new role, but I’d
better get back to the cottage now and see how the loonies are
getting on. Shall I ring you later to let you know my arrival time?’
When we had arranged that he would be at the South Canonry
by seven unless he telephoned with a change of plan, we left the
house and he wandered down the drive with me to my car.

‘
Jon was lucky that you were able to drop everything and take
him to the airport,’ I said as we paused to say goodbye.

‘
Little Muggins picked the right time to stage
a
crisis. I’m back
in the studios next week for another bout of comedy ... Do you
think I’ll ever get to play King Lear?’

‘
Never
despair!’

We
laughed and shook hands. Then I set off on the next stage
of my journey through territory which before Lyle’s death I would
have been unable to imagine.

On the drive home I started worrying about Sheila again, but I
soon realised it was more important to worry about how I was
going to survive until Jon was ready to see
me.
Enlisting Martin
as
a companion had without doubt been a sensible move, but
Martin’s arrival at the South Canonry was still some hours away
and as I approached Starbridge I knew how unnerved I was by
the thought of that empty house. Monday was my official day off;
no one would be there; guilt and shame would soon make solitude
intolerable — and dangerous. I seriously began to consider whether
I
should pour my entire stock of wines and spirits down the drain.

It
was at that moment that
I saw the sign to Langley Bottom
and remembered that Martin had not been the first outcast from
the margins who had given me a helping hand
as
I flailed around at
the bottom of my personal pit. At once the steering-wheel moved
beneath my fingers and the car turned aside from the main road.
I had realised that the only man in my diocese whom I now felt
inclined to see was that divorced priest whom only recently I had
been far too arrogant to want to know.

Once again he was looking extraordinary. He wore an unbuttoned
shirt which gaped to reveal a string-vest, one of those appalling
items of underwear which I believe became fashionable earlier in
the decade. Below the waist he wore dirty trousers, flecked with
paint, and his sandals.

‘
I seem to remember we’ve played this scene before,’ he said as
I boggled at him. ‘Bishop, I do apologise for my appearance,
but —’

‘It couldn’t matter less. Can I come in?’

Now it was his turn to boggle. Holding the door open for me
he managed to say as I entered the hall: ‘I’ve just been redecorating
Desmond’s bedroom. I completed his study at the weekend.’

I paused abruptly as I remembered Malcolm’s information that
Desmond was due to return home that day after his convalescent
holiday in Devon. ‘When does his train arrive?’

‘
It’s been and gone. He’s here,’ said Hall, and as he spoke the
door of the study slowly opened to reveal Desmond himself. His
face still showed signs of damage but he was a healthy colour and —
most unexpectedly — he looked smart. He was wearing his cassock,
which had clearly been on a visit to the cleaner’s, and a new pair of shoes, unscuffed and highly polished. Normally Desmond was
blind to dirt and wore his shoes until they became disreputable. I
deduced that Hall’s idea of a welcome home extended to more
than the redecoration of the study and bedroom.

This transformed appearance made the fear in Desmond’s eyes
all
the more pitiable. With extreme reluctance he edged into the
hall, but before I could speak Hall declared in the manner of a
boxing manager resolutely introducing an unpromising protégé to
a cynical
audience: ‘As you can see, he’s fighting fit now and ready
for anything!’

Desmond immediately wilted. No longer able to look at me he
stared down at his unfamiliar shoes with all the despair of a con
victed murderer awaiting his sentence to the gallows.

But I found I was unable to play the black-capped judge. Indeed
I found I was unable to play a judge of any kind because I was
remembering my own excursion through the darker streets of
London. I saw myself as no better than Desmond, and I found I
had nothing to say.

Then suddenly that black moment of self-knowledge was infused
with light. I felt as if someone had walked through the nearest door
and switched on a mighty torch which destroyed every shadow in
the hall. I could not see this great surge of light, but as it streamed
into the deepest reaches of my mind I realised what was happening.
In the face of such appalling self-knowledge, stripped of all illu
sions, one can only repent, and in the face of such repentance one
can only be forgiven, and in the face of such forgiveness one can
only receive healing and bestow it. I was witnessing the process
of salvation. I was witnessing redemption. I was witnessing an
absolute truth which in my past rush to pass judgement I had been
so willing to overlook for so long.

For one timeless moment all self-centred preoccupation with my
own suffering was eclipsed. The darkness had disappeared, and by
the brilliant light which remained I saw dearly — so cearly that I was almost blinded — what I was now being called to do.

‘
My dear Desmond,’ I said, uttering the words I had always
thought I would never say, ‘how very glad I am to have you back
in the diocese. Welcome home.’

And moving forward I held out my hand.