Absolute Truths (55 page)

By the time we left the Cathedral I had quelled my misgivings by reflecting that this was clearly a time when I was destined to rub
shoulders with the most unexpected people. But it then occurred
to me that the words ‘rub shoulders’ hardly formed the most appro
priate phrase for a bishop to use in connection with Mrs March.

While I fought my way through these thoughts, my companions
were discussing the service. Both of them had enjoyed the anthem;
there was a disagreement about which of the choirboys had looked
the most angelic; Mrs March confessed her admiration for the
vicar-choral who sported a black beard. Trying not to feel
depressed that both she and Martin had treated the service as little
more than a free concert, I kept quiet and wished fiercely that Lyle
were waiting at the South Canonry to rescue me.

‘
You’re very silent, Bishop,’ said Mrs March as we approached
the front door.
’I’m merely overwhelmed by the calibre of your conversation.’

‘
Ouch!’ said Martin.

‘
Tell me,’ ordered Mrs March, egged on to match my barbed
remark with an equally barbed reply, ‘why did you do nothing at
that service except move in and out with that long stick?’

‘
Crozier, darling!’ exclaimed Martin with a light little laugh, and
gave me an anxious look.

‘
And why did you do nothing, Mrs March, except lie back and
think of black beards?’

‘
Not all women get a kick out of lying back and thinking of
England,’ said Mrs March.

‘Help!’ said Martin.

‘
Obviously you want me to think you have hidden depths, Mrs March,’ I said, ‘but you must forgive me if I treat them as unavail
able for plumbing.’

‘Gosh!’ said Martin.

‘I’m beginning to like this man!’ purred Mrs March.

In panic I thought: what on earth am I doing with such frightful
people?

But then I realised with horror that I was enjoying myself.

Fortunately some part of my brain remained intact despite my
witless compulsion to make suggestive remarks, and by the time
I was mixing the drinks I had worked out what had happened. I
was not merely celebrating my survival of evensong; I was escaping
from the unrelieved stress of the entire day. Such behaviour may
well be excusable when displayed by a soldier home on leave from
some grim battle zone, but any clergyman who embraces this form of retreat from reality should remind himself that he plays Russian
roulette with his reputation.

Since I was still sane enough to realise what was happening to
me I was also still sane enough to calm myself by reasoning that
I did not have to deny myself all amusement to ensure my safety;
I just had to avoid combining that amusement with an idiotic
degree of risk. But having asked myself when idiocy began I knew
the answer was: almost straight away. I knew exactly how far I
could go with women without giving them all the wrong ideas. Any friendliness had to be mixed with an emotional neutrality, and emotional neutrality certainly did not include indulging in
dialogue which produced sensual smiles and intimate looks. If I
had been bald, bespectacled and bloated no doubt I could have
allowed myself more leeway, but none of these distressing adjec
tives could be applied to me. How tiresome it is that sexual attrac
tion can
be
conveyed merely by one stray look or a single
unguarded inflection! I did not like Mrs Match and I had abso
lutely made up my mind to regard her looks with distaste, but the
more interest she took in me the more conscious I became of her
appeal.

‘
How did you manage to wind up at the Deanery for five hours?’
I said
as
I handed her a gin-and-tonic. I was just congratulating myself on uttering a blameless question in an exemplary
manner when I heard myself add
frivolously: ‘That seems a little
punishing for someone who doesn’t usually move in clerical
circles!’

‘
Dido invited me to lunch before
I addressed
her Arts Group,’
said Mrs March, giving me a look which seemed to suggest there
were circumstances in which she might find punishment attractive,
‘and somehow everything seemed to slide right out of my control
before we even sat down to eat. She served dry martinis.’

‘
I adore Dido,’ said Martin. ‘Can I have a plain tonic, Charles,
if you’ve no ginger ale?’

As I poured out the tonic for him I said to Mrs March: ‘But
how did the Dean seduce you into staying on for evensong?’

‘
I’m always ready to be seduced by a good offer.’

‘
Do be serious for a moment, darling!’ said Martin, becoming
uncomfortable again.

‘
I don’t think the Bishop wants me to be serious at all,’ said Mrs March, ‘but let that pass. What happened was that by three-thirty
everyone had either passed out or dropped out and only Stephen
and I were left. He then suggested tea and .1 hadn’t the strength
to resist.’

‘Where was Dido?’ demanded Martin.

‘
She’d taken a poet called Toby to the greenhouse so that he
could recite to the plants. Apparently she recites Browning to them
every day.’

‘I’m surprised they don’t wilt and die,’ I said.

‘
Plants worship being talked to,’ said Martin. ‘I talk to my
window-box all the time. Go on, Harriet. There you were, drinking
à
deux
with the Dean —’

‘
There I was, drinking gallons of strong tea while Stephen told
me how awful everything was —’

‘
How interesting!’ I exclaimed, genuinely intrigued. ‘Whenever
I get together with Stephen he does nothing but tell me how
wonderful everything is. How do I get him to change the record?’

Try growing your hair and wearing a short skirt.’

‘
Don’t get side-tracked, darling,’ said Martin. ‘We’re simply
yearning to know how the Dean lured you to the Cathedral.’

‘He said: "This is your lucky day! The evensong anthem’s that
marvellous piece by Elgar — do come and hear it!" and I was so
exhausted by that time that all I could do was whisper: "How
lovely! I can’t wait!" So after we’d had a little tot of claret to pep
us up for the service —’

‘
I’m not sure Charles wants to hear about little tots of claret
before evensong,’ said Martin.

‘
On the contrary,’ I said, magnificently urbane, ‘I’m delighted
to hear you enjoy wine, Mrs March! Perhaps I should have offered
you a glass of claret instead of a gin-and-tonic.’

‘
If I see another glass of claret today I’ll scream — the whole
table was awash with it at lunch. And do please call me Harriet.
Don’t worry, I shan’t attempt to call you Charles. I know men like
you find it offensive when people take liberties with Christian
names.’

‘
Where clergymen are concerned,’ said Martin warningly,
‘people shouldn’t take liberties with anything.’

‘Phooey! What do you know about clergymen?’

‘
More than you do, my sweet! I may be just an actor, but my
father’s a priest!’

‘
Priests can be actors,’ I said in between gulps of sherry, ‘in their
way.’

‘
Bishops certainly need a flair for stagecraft,’ remarked Martin.
And those robes! My dear, such style!’

‘
This particular bishop would look good on the stage,’ mused
Harriet. ‘In fact in his younger days I daresay he would have
qualified as a matinée idol. I’d have been tempted to sculpt him.’

‘I’m sorry you should consign my allure entirely to the past,’ I
said, ‘but I hear it’s not only matinée idols whom you sculpt. In
fact there’s a rumour going around the Close that you’re sculpting
Stephen Aysgarth in the nude. Do please assure me that this is
just a figment of someone’s imagination.’

‘
Good God!’ exclaimed Martin, transfixed in the act of lighting
a cigarette.

Harriet gave a small, secretive smile, caressed the curtain of hair
on one side of her face and looked up at me with a limpid
expression in her eyes. ‘I’m certainly dealing with uncovered flesh,’
she said, ‘but it’s only a part of him.’

‘Which part?’ demanded Martin promptly and they both laughed, but Harriet made no reply.

‘
We’re shocking our host!’ said Martin becoming nervous again
as
I too remained silent, but Harriet said: ‘I think not.’ And gazing
into the depths of her glass she added: ‘How ironic it is that
Stephen Aysgarth, who’s supposed to be so worldly, particularly
about women, is actually idealistic to the point of naivety, whereas
the Bishop here, a man who’s supposed to be puritanical to the
point of ingenuousness, is obviously very sophisticated about the
opposite sex.’

‘
Crikey!’ said Martin. ‘How do you field that one, Charles?’

‘
I’m not fielding anything. I’m too busy wondering what Har
riet’s going to do with Stephen’s nude part.’

Martin started to laugh.

‘
I mean,’ I said, ‘the sculpture of Stephen’s nude part. I mean
. well, what I’m trying to say
is,
why bother with any nude part
of Stephen at all?’

By this time none of us could keep a straight face.

Seconds later I found myself inviting Harriet to join us for
dinner.

As I tried to justify the unjustifiable I told myself that since I had
Martin for a chaperon nothing could possibly go wrong. I even
told myself I was being neurotic, doubting the wisdom of enjoying myself with these particular people at this particular time. It never ceases to amaze me that excuses drummed up to permit reckless
behaviour so often sound like the last word in common sense.

After I had distributed another round of drinks we retired to
the kitchen where I removed from the deep-freeze some portions of duckling à
l’orange,
and Harriet and Martin volunteered to cook
the
vegetables. They then instructed me to sit at the kitchen table
and keep an eye on the oven, a task which they realised was compat
ible with my limited ability to cook, but barely had the oven door
closed on the duckling than I became aware of my longing for a
cigarette. I began to remove my collar.

Harriet said to Martin: The Bishop’s taking off his clothes.’

‘
Hush, dear girl, pretend not to notice.’

‘
Since you’re so enthralled,’ I said, ‘I won’t stop at the collar.
I’ll pay tribute to the informality of the occasion and take off my
stock as well.’

‘
What a pity there’s no music!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘David Rose
and his orchestra should be blasting out "The Stripper" ... Out of my way, Harriet darling, I want another potato from the veg
etable rack.’

Having removed my stock I folded it neatly and put it on top
of the refrigerator alongside my clerical collar. Then I opened my shirt at the neck, replaced my jacket and readjusted my pectoral
cross before finally producing my cigarettes.

‘
I can’t possibly continue to call you "Bishop" after that erotic
performance,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m going to call you Charles, and if
that’s taking a liberty, what the hell, I’m grabbing it with both
hands.’

‘
No lust here, dear, it’s taboo,’ said Martin, ‘and for God’s sake
stop fondling those peas. Charles, pass me one of your ciggics,
there’s a good chap – I’ve left mine in the other room.’

‘Could I have another drink?’ said Harriet.

‘
You’ve already had two!’ objected Martin before I could reply.

‘
Yes, but didn’t you notice the way he mixes gin and tonic? He
simply shows the glass to the gin bottle!’

‘
That was the second time around!’ I retorted. ‘The first gin-and-tonic is always a standard measure, but the ladies of my acquaint
ance prefer the next one to be milder.’

‘Isn’t it obvious I’m no lady?’

‘
Surely you’re sick of alcohol by this
time!’
said Martin severely.
‘What about all that claret the Dean poured down your throat?’

‘
It mostly went down his. Good God, after five hours at the
Deanery, a visit to church and an episcopal striptease, aren’t I at
least allowed to down a couple of stiff gins?’

I retrieved the bottles from the drawing-mom and Harriet
showed me how to mix what she called a ‘proper’ gin-and-tonic.
‘It looks very improper to me,’ I said.

‘Want one?’

No thanks.’

‘Oh, go on – you’re aching for it!’

‘
That’s a Noël Coward line,’ said Martin. ‘When I played the
juvenile lead in
Hay Fever
back in the ‘thirties –’

‘
Where are we going to eat?’ demanded Harriet, ruthlessly cut
ting short the theatrical reminiscences.

‘
Maybe we should eat here in the kitchen,’ said Martin, cross at
being interrupted, ‘and pretend we’re in some play by Weaker.’

‘
I refuse to be in a play by Wesker!’ I declared. ‘We’ll eat by
candlelight in the dining-room!’

‘
Yippee!’ yodelled Martin, his good humour instantly restored.
‘We can pretend we’re in a play by Oscar Wilde!’

‘
What a pity we’re not all wearing evening dress,’ said Harriet.
‘I see myself sheathed in a midnight-blue gown, very décolleté,
with trailing skirts which whisper over the carpet
as
I walk.’

‘
Like Mrs Erlynne,’ I said, ‘in
Lady Windermere’s Fan.’

‘
Who was she?’

The fallen woman.’

‘
Steady, Charles,’ said Martin. ‘Keep your eyes on the oven.’ The oven can look after itself while I raid the cellar. Would you
really scream at the sight of another glass of claret, Harriet?’

‘
Yes – with ecstasy.’

1 retired to inspect my wine collection.