The Floating Body (24 page)

‘No, no, I don’t have to take first school this morning.’

‘Excellent!’ Jack almost rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Then let’s continue our walk in the fresh morning air and see if we can reach some sort of satisfactory conclusion in our “great war” over human nature.’

‘Nothing would please me better,’ I said. And I meant it.

We walked across the cathedral close and out through the wooden door to the gravel road behind the school, then followed the road in the direction of a distant stand of trees. Off to our right were builders working on the new housing development the Dean had told us about. But they were far enough away, and their work was quiet enough, not to disturb us.

‘If there really is, as you have argued, a basic corruption in the human heart then what is needed is a repair job,’ I suggested cautiously as we walked.

‘Precisely!’

‘So what I need to do for myself is what prison life is supposed to do for convicted criminals. I need to rehabilitate myself.’

‘Sadly, young Morris, that’s not enough,’ said Jack.

I was surprised and asked him to explain.

‘Well,’ he said, carefully weighing, as he always did, every word, ‘rehabilitation does what you’re planning to do for Conway and Wynyard—it teaches corrupt hearts to wear a new face; it teaches the problem people in our society to function differently. But it does nothing to change the basic corruption itself.’

‘I suppose what it really teaches is suppression.’

‘And suppression alone, of course, can never be enough.’

‘Meaning . . . ?’

‘Imagine a red-headed Irishman born with a fiery temper. He is, by inclination, likely to fly off the handle at the least provocation—and either verbally or physically abuse his provoker. To function normally in society he will suppress his natural inclinations. But they will still be there. He still feels the deep hurt and hatred—he just stops showing it.’

‘And you’re proposing instead,’ I said tentatively, ‘some sort of treatment that deals with the source of the problem, not just the symptoms?’

‘That’s what Christianity has taught from the beginning. Remember that quotation from Jesus: “Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies.” We can suppress those things, but the problem is the heart from which they spring.’

I asked with a sarcastic laugh, ‘Are you suggesting some sort of cardiac surgery?’

Jack smiled and said, ‘Perhaps we could call what we need “spiritual cardiac surgery”. Our hearts are distant from God. More than that, our hearts are rebellious against God.’

‘And by “heart” we mean—?’

‘Our core—our life stance. Life consists of our relationships, with each other and with the creation around us, but we act as if all of life is about
us
. And that life stance, that “heart”, never satisfies, because it is a corruption of the way we were designed to function.’

I asked Jack to explain further, so he went on, ‘People are still people. They hunger for eternal life and for fellowship with God, yet at the same time they flee God and try to replace him with idols of their own making. But the replacement does not satisfy. Christ as the Saviour addresses the whole human being, in the heart, at our core—not merely one side of us.’

‘Do you think I worship an idol?’

‘I don’t imagine that you keep a small, carved statue in a cupboard in your room and bow down to it, laying gifts at its lifeless feet.’

‘Well then . . .?’

‘In our modern world the most common idol that each of us treasures, worships and serves is—himself.’

‘So you’re saying the idol I worship is Tom Morris?’

‘And the idol I worship is Jack Lewis. That is the corruption in the human heart. The murderer of Dave Fowler worshipped himself enough to feel motivated to end another human life. Dave Fowler had somehow defiled the murderer’s altar of Self, and so Dave Fowler had to die.’

We were now nearing the copse of elm trees that lay at the end of the field, and I thought about Jack’s words for a moment before replying, ‘Your case, if I understand it well enough, is that fear of detection can stop some people—most people—from destroying or damaging others who fail to “worship” them adequately, but that’s not enough. A bigger change is needed. The heart has to change. The “object of worship” has to change.’

‘Exactly, young Morris—exactly.’

‘So how do I do that? How do I change myself? How do I heal what is within me?’

‘You don’t. You can’t.’

‘Then the situation’s hopeless!’ I almost wailed.

‘Yes, our condition
is
hopeless. And that is why we must place ourselves in the hands of Another.’

I said nothing, but a quizzical expression must have come across my face because Jack continued, ‘When you’re physically ill you place yourself in the doctor’s hands. You trust yourself to the doctor. And, if all goes well, the doctor does for you what you cannot do for yourself—he heals you.’

Jack paused to light his pipe and gaze at the line of low, rolling hills that formed the horizon.

‘Your spiritual condition,’ he resumed, ‘and mine is identical to that. We need to place ourselves in the hands of Christ. We need to trust ourselves to him, and to his treatment.’

‘And what treatment would that be?’

‘Think about that expression “spiritual cardiac surgery”. Jesus himself calls it being “born again”. Christian thinkers over the centuries have called it “regeneration”.’

‘How does it happen?’ I asked quietly. ‘What does it
feel
like?’

‘The first, faint stirrings come when one becomes aware of the need. One of these days I shall write about my own experience, but for the moment picture it like this: it’s like becoming aware of a danger and at the same moment becoming aware of an offer of rescue from that danger. That, I can assure you, is irresistible.’

Jack stared at the distant horizon, and at the pale grey clouds that were slowly rolling in, as if he was gazing into eternity.

‘There was a moment,’ he said, ‘when with great reluctance I was dragged into seeing my true state, and—in the same instant—offered rescue from the state I was in. In that instant I understood what Christianity has been saying down through the ages: forgiveness is powerful. Forgiveness heals the corrupt heart. Forgiveness displaces the idol of Self on the altar of the human heart and puts in its place the rightful occupant: God himself.’

I said nothing, but realised that Jack was speaking from the other side of a border that I had never crossed.

‘I also realised,’ said Jack, ‘that forgiveness is costly. There is always a price to pay. And Christ paid that price. In his death on the cross, Christ fought an almighty battle with my enemies—with condemnation and death—and he won. Because he paid that price and won that battle, I can be forgiven, God can be reinstated as the proper object of my life, and my heart can begin to heal.’

As we were talking we had begun retracing our steps back down the gravel road. With such big issues whirling through our heads, we were deep in thought and barely aware of our surroundings.

As a result I was almost the victim of violent bloodshed.

To picture what occurred you need to understand that as Jack and I walked side by side he was on the soft grassy shoulder while I was on the gravel of the road bed itself. This put me directly in the path of the builder’s lorry when it rumbled up behind us.

I believe I came close to the Olympic record for the standing high jump when the lorry driver loudly tooted his horn from a distance of approximately two inches behind my left ear. I leaped onto the grassy shoulder of the road, landing with a thump beside Jack as the tip-truck rumbled past.

We watched as it disappeared in a cloud of dust, bouncing over the ruts and bumps in the uneven road. I reassembled my shredded nerves and dusted off my jacket.

‘Are you all right?’ Jack asked.

‘Shaken, not stirred,’ I replied with what I hoped was a confident grin. Then I added, ‘I should be getting back to the school. I have to take the Fourth for English in second school, which is’—here I glanced at my watch—‘only minutes from now.’

‘You hurry along then, Morris,’ said Jack. ‘I shall dawdle. An idea is forming in a remote corner of my brain that may prove useful.’

A few minutes later I was calling the Fourth to order and telling them to get out their poetry books.

‘Aw, poetry, sir? Do we have to?’ came a voice from the back, joined by a general chorus of moans.

‘We’re doing Lord Byron this morning,’ I said firmly. ‘Books out! Now!’

Their surrender was followed by a general shuffling of books.

Once they were settled I said, ‘Turn to page 127. There you will find one of the best poems about an ancient battle ever written.’

‘A battle!’ said an unidentified voice, this time from close to the front of the room. ‘Why didn’t you say it was about a battle?’

‘We like battles, sir,’ chirped another voice.

I silenced them and began to read ‘The Destruction of Sennacherib’.

‘Now, what does it mean, boys,’ I asked, ‘when it says the Assyrian army came down “like the wolf on the fold”? Anyone?’

‘They came down slashing their swords,’ said one boy, waving his ruler in the air to demonstrate and almost removing the left ear, one nostril and a collar stud from his neighbour.

‘Does anyone remember what a simile is?’

Jones down the front, who always knew the answers, had his hand up, but so did Stanhope. This was an encouraging sign. Had the young blighter actually starting studying then?

‘Yes, Stanhope—what is a simile?’

‘It’s when you say something is like something else, sir.’

‘So if the poet says the Assyrians attacked “like the wolf on the fold”, what is being compared to what here?’

Blake’s hand shot up. ‘Sir! Sir! I know, sir!’

‘Yes, Blake?’

‘To a pack of wolves swooping down on a flock of sheep and tearing their throats out with razor sharp teeth.’

This bloodthirsty image pleased the rest of class, who expressed their approval in a rumble of murmurs that swept across the room.

For as long we focussed on Byron and the image of warfare the class was with me, but when I told them to get out their Bibles to look at the original story the poem was based on, there was a collective moan.

‘But we’ve been to chapel already this morning, sir,’ complained Fox.

‘This is not chapel, this is English. A great deal of English literature cannot be understood unless you understand the Bible that stands behind it. So no more complaints—open your Bibles at Second Kings chapters eighteen and nineteen.’

There were more grumbles so I added, ‘And if you’re not quick about it, I shall imitate the Assyrian and come down on you lot like the wolf on the fold.’

By the time the bell rang to mark the end of second school I had the whole class engrossed in the story—both the original and Byron’s retelling of it.

From the classroom I made my way to the Senior Common Room, my tongue hanging out for a cup of tea.

McKell was already in his usual chair with a large sheet of paper spread across his knees.

‘Ah, Morris,’ he said, ‘take a look at the end of term exam results. I intend placing these on the noticeboard in just a moment. Tell me what you think.’

I ran my eye down the list. As usual Cardew had topped the list, closely followed by Hamilton, Redway and Clifford. I was also pleased to see that young Stanhope had passed. He was just above the pass-fail line, but just above was enough.

Then a grin of delight spread across my face as I saw that Conway and Wynyard had both failed—and failed miserably.

‘I thought you’d like that,’ said McKell. ‘I’ve decided the humiliation of such a bad performance in the term exam is punishment enough. Unless you disagree?’

‘No, no, not at all. You’re the Deputy Head, and you have more experience of these boys than I have. I’m content to let it go at that.’

McKell grunted in agreement and rose to go and post the list on the noticeboard in the archway under the Old School.

I carried my tea across to the pigeonholes where letters for the masters were placed each morning, and I was pleased to see an official looking envelope in mine. I grabbed the letter, tore it open and devoured it eagerly.

‘Yes,’ I said, speaking to no one in particular.

The top of the page bore the letterhead I’d been hoping to see, and the contents said exactly what I wanted.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Are you yapping at me, Morris?’ growled Henry Beard unpleasantly from the other side of the tea urn.

‘Sorry, Beard,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t intended to speak out loud.’

‘Then don’t!’

But no sourpuss could take away my sense of elation and my heart was as light as a soufflé whipped up by a
cordon bleu
chef. As far as I was concerned, the bluebird of happiness had definitely come out of early retirement and was buzzing around the place whistling a merry tune like billy-o.

‘Good news?’ said Geoffrey Douglas from behind the cloud of blue smoke put up by his pipe.

‘The best,’ I said.

‘So I take it you proposed and she said yes?’

‘A different kind of news entirely,’ I chirped.

‘Well, then . . .’ Douglas urged. ‘Spill the beans, old chap. Let us into the secret.’

I looked around and saw that every eye in the Common Room was on me, and suddenly felt the awkwardness of my position.

‘Actually,’ I said. ‘I think I’d better tell the Head Master before I make a public announcement.’

I edged rapidly out of the Common Room, leaving puzzled faces behind me. But their puzzlement failed to dampen my pleasure. I was still gliding on clouds of happiness as I sailed out to the archway where a crowd of eager students was gathered around the noticeboard.

McKell brushed past me on his way back to the Common Room for his second cup of tea. As he did so, I saw Inspector Gideon Crispin and his stolid, silent Sergeant Merrivale enter the cathedral close.

They spotted me, the only master in sight, and walked rapidly across.

‘Have you seen Mr McKell anywhere, Mr Morris?’ the inspector asked.