Ultimate Prizes (44 page)

I stopped. My narrative had ended, and all I could add as a postscript was: “Crippling shortcomings. Contemptible behavior. Quite undeserving of that letter, as I’m sure you must now agree.”

But Bell leant forward. I could not look at him, but I was aware of the warmth of his personality enfolding me as he exerted his fabled gift for making a stranger feel cherished. “But surely,” he said in the famous mild reasonable voice which masked his stubborn determination to present the truth as he saw it, “actions speak louder than words? Many people support my beliefs publicly with fine speeches, but do nothing more. You said nothing in public yet in private you did everything which was required of you—and the result was that something very important happened—important for those men and important for you too … Forgive me for being inquisitive, but may I ask if you’re a pacifist?”

“I was. But not since Munich.”

“I was just wondering if you had some pressing reason for not volunteering to be an Army chaplain. You must have been within the age limit when war broke out.”

“Neville thought of volunteering,” said Dr. Ottershaw quickly, “but I talked him out of it. Pure selfishness on my part, I’m afraid. He’s such a very able archdeacon.”

But I looked at Dr. Bell and said: “The Bishop talked me out of nothing. I hated the thought of doing that type of pastoral work—but as the years passed I began to feel guilty that I was safe and snug on the Home Front while other clergymen of my generation were being so very much more heroic. And I’ve often suspected that it was this guilt which provided the psychological compulsion to keep visiting the Germans when all I really wanted to do was stay away.”

“Neville’s a Modernist,” said Dr. Ottershaw hastily, as if this eccentric reference to psychology demanded an explanation.

“Far be it from me to cast aspersions on Modernism,” said Dr. Bell amused, “but can the wonders of psychoanalytical theory really explain the whole of this remarkable success of yours, Archdeacon? I think not.” He rose to his feet before adding: “Now that you’ve so triumphantly overcome your reluctance to deal with anyone born beyond the White Cliffs of Dover, have you ever thought of working in a European context?”

I could only stare at him.

“This era of post-war reconstruction is a very exciting and challenging time for the churches,” said Bell, “and there’s much work to be done, not only in the occupied zones but in Geneva at the secretariat of the World Council of Churches. A German-speaking clergyman with a first-class record as a pastor of POWs would have a lot to offer.” Before I could attempt a reply he added with a laugh to Dr. Ottershaw: “Forgive me for behaving like a poacher, but I think your Archdeacon’s admirable modesty is leading him to undervalue his achievements and narrow his perspective on the future.”

Dr. Ottershaw at once became fluttery. “Well, of course Neville knows I’d never stand in his way—and if he should ever feel that God’s calling him into a different field—”

“God may have quite other plans for Mr. Aysgarth.” He held out his hand to me again. “Goodbye, Archdeacon, and when you’re next passing through Chichester, do stop and call upon me. Remember three things: my wife and I keep open house, I shan’t forget you, and I sincerely hope we shall meet again.”

To my fury I felt myself blushing. I did manage to say: “Thank you, Bishop. You’ve been very kind,” but this colourless understatement made me despair of myself. Having “delivered my soul” in such an uncharacteristic fashion, I had now apparently reverted to the role of the dour inarticulate Yorkshireman.

“Oh, and one thing more,” said Bell, pausing to look back at me as he reached the door. “It’s inevitable that you should have suffered from the non-combatant’s guilt, but in fact all that matters is that you’ve managed to use that guilt constructively. And we’re not talking now of mere psychological drives. We’re talking of how all suffering can be redeemed and transformed by the creative power of the Holy Spirit.”

As he spoke I remembered that during the First War he had been the Archbishop of Canterbury’s chaplain, confined to the Home Front while two of his brothers had been killed in action. I said: “Thank you, Bishop,” and heard my voice, no longer colourless, ring with gratitude. I felt as if I had received a very special absolution.

He departed.

Dr. Ottershaw also left the room in order to escort his guest to the front door.

Without more ado I collapsed stupefied into the nearest chair.

9

Glittering thoughts streamed through my head as I gazed out of the window and abandoned myself to fantasy. The World Council of Churches had been founded but it had not yet met. I could be involved in the organisation’s work from the beginning, perhaps as some sort of liaison officer with the German churches—perhaps even as a personal assistant to Bell, who was certain to dominate the first meeting. The great irony about Bell, with his long history of support for German Christians and Jews, was that he spoke no German. Perhaps I could accompany him everywhere as an interpreter; perhaps—but my imagination had scaled such heights that I began to feel dizzy.

I told myself severely that I should deal in certainties, and at once I thought how working for the brotherhood of man, in the form of the World Council of Churches, would offer me endless scope for putting my Liberal Protestant ideals into practice. On a less rarefied level I also reflected that working abroad would give me the chance to escape from the English class system. What a liberation! Intoxicated with the thought of such a heady freedom, I abandoned myself to fantasy again and began to picture an idyllic version of Switzerland. Within seconds I was seeing it all in glorious Technicolor: mountains, valleys, lakes, summer sunshine, pristine snow, alpine flowers, picturesque towns—and shop-windows full of chocolate, bushels of chocolate, dark chocolate, pale chocolate,
even white chocolate
, that dim but treasured memory from the lost world before the war …

In the distance Dr. Ottershaw closed the front door. My fantasy ended. I was left remembering that since I had five children, no private income, and an expensive wife, probably no man in the Church of England needed an archidiaconal salary more than I did. But on the other hand, if God wanted me to work for the World Council of Churches, He would surely help me surmount the financial stumbling-blocks in my path. Or was the existence of the financial stumbling-blocks an indication that I wasn’t being called to chase my dreams on the Continent after all?

I had no idea.

Confusion descended on me again, and I was still toiling futilely to perceive what the extraordinary interview with Bell had really meant, when Dr. Ottershaw returned to the room.

10

“Well, wasn’t that typical!” he exclaimed, closing the door behind him and returning to his desk. “George Bell has only to hold out his hand and within five minutes even the most reserved of men is pouring his heart out to him!”

“I’m afraid I talked far too much.”

“Nonsense! He was wholly absorbed—and so, of course, was I.” The Bishop hesitated, and as he did so I was aware of the depth of his personality, the seriousness which his detractors, who wrote him off as a light-weight, consistently underestimated. He said simply: “I hope you weren’t embarrassed that I was present,” and at once I answered: “I was glad. I’m only sorry I’d never confided in you before.”

“I hardly encouraged you, did I?”

“Bishop, you really can’t blame yourself for my tiresome reticence!”

“But I do. I’m supposed to be your Father in God, but George Bell learns more about you in ten minutes than I’ve learnt in nine years. I feel very strongly now that I’ve failed you in some profound way not easy to define.”

“But you’ve been the best boss I could ever have wished for!”

“Ah, but that’s all part of the problem, isn’t it? The roles of confessor and superior aren’t really compatible, as the religious orders discovered long ago, and the inevitable gulf between us has been exacerbated by your natural reserve and my horror of being a prying spiritual busybody. But that doesn’t excuse my failure. The truth is I’ve consistently exploited you; you take such a load off my shoulders that I’ve succumbed to the temptation to sit back and let our relationship remain at a secular level, but of course that’s unforgivable behaviour for a bishop entrusted with the care of souls. I’ve sensed you’ve been through difficult times since your first wife’s death. I suspect you’re very troubled now, but what have I done to try to help you? Nothing! I’ve feebly allowed our conversations to be restricted to diocesan matters—and by doing so I’ve connived at a situation in which we continue to take refuge from each other in our formal, familiar roles.”

After a pause I said: “There’s comfort in familiarity. And if you’ve connived at the situation, then so have I.”

“A willing victim of my pastoral neglect? I can hardly believe that excuses me. Neville, if there’s anything I can do for you at this troubled time, anything at all, I do most earnestly hope that you’ll overcome your reserve and let me know.”

I was more conscious than ever of his essential goodness, and realising that he deserved to have his mind set at rest, I disclosed the information which I had earlier vowed he would never know. “I’ve been to the Fordites,” I said. “I’m very grateful to you for your concern, Bishop, but you mustn’t worry. I’m not without guidance at present.”

Dr. Ottershaw made no attempt to conceal his relief. “You went to Starwater?”

“No, to London. Darrow organised it. I saw the Abbot of Ruydale who was staying there for a few days.”

“I’ve never met him, but I know those senior Fordites are all exceptional men … What did he advise you to do about your work? It’s very important that you don’t overstrain yourself during this distressing time.”

“I’m sure if Lucas had thought I was unfit for work he’d have suggested a prolonged retreat. But he didn’t, and as I told you earlier at the Cathedral, I want to keep working. I feel I must try to lead as normal a life as possible while Darrow helps me sort out my difficulties.”

“Darrow! But can you work with him?”

“Lucas thought it was worth a try.”

“Well, of course Darrow’s exceptionally gifted in his own way,” said Dr. Ottershaw troubled, “but bearing in mind your past difficulties with him—”

There was a knock on the door, and the lean, lynx-eyed chaplain poked his long nose into the room. “Excuse me, Bishop, but I just wanted to make sure that in all the excitement of Dr. Bell’s visit you hadn’t forgotten to tell the Archdeacon about our latest crisis.”

“Bless my soul, it had entirely slipped my mind—I must be going senile!” exclaimed Dr. Ottershaw, and I knew, just as he did, that we were being offered the chance to slink thankfully back into our familiar roles after our awkward performance in a far less comfortable play. “Come in, Freddy. Neville, I really do hate to bother you about this, but—”

“No need to apologise, Bishop. I can hardly wait to be diverted by a lurid diocesan crisis, the more lurid the better.”

“You may live to regret those words, Archdeacon,” said the chaplain, sitting down beside me, “but I confess I’m eternally grateful you’ve uttered them. Bishop, would you like me to summarise the gory details for Mr. Aysgarth?”

Barely able to suppress a sigh of relief, I thanked God for yet another respite from my troubles and prepared to glide smoothly back into my role of Archdeacon.

  15  

“
It has been urged that man’s spiritual life is the emergence in him of a new level of experience, a new integration of the aesthetic, intellectual and moral elements in his nature … In it the whole personality is involved, in both its inward completeness and its outward relationships …
”

C
HARLES
E. R
AVEN
THE CREATOR SPIRIT

1

“
BEFORE
I
BEGIN
, A
RCHDEACON
,”
SAID THE CHAPLAIN
, “
MAY
I say on behalf of all the staff at the palace how sorry we were to hear about the tragedy. We wish to extend our deepest sympathy to you and your wife.”

“Thank you.” Freddy Hampton’s well-meaning platitudes sounded a shade too slick, but then the conversation of Old Etonians always did seem a shade too slick to me. I usually managed not to hold his privileged background against him.

“And now for the crisis.” Hampton fortified himself by taking a deep breath. “It’s about Mellors.”

It says much for my disordered state of mind that I immediately thought of the gamekeeper in
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
.

“The Vicar of Flaxton Pauncefoot,” said Hampton, seeing my glazed expression.

The village which possessed this ridiculous but not untypical name lay in my colleague’s archdeaconry, but I had heard of the incumbent. Flexing my memory I recalled that after his wife’s death during the war he had taken to drink, with the result that Archdeacon Babbington-French had hauled him before the Bishop for a stern reproof. Fortunately for Mellors Dr. Ottershaw had instead offered kindness and sympathy, a far more effective cure for that type of behaviour, and Mellors had been sufficiently encouraged to pull himself together.

Tentatively I ventured: “He’s been drinking again?”

“Oh, much worse than that!” said Hampton, looking severe. “He’s been giving peculiar sermons.”

“Who says so? Babbington-French?”

“As a matter of fact the Archdeacon doesn’t know anything about this yet.” Hampton contrived to signal to me by the conspiratorial tone of his voice that this was a matter of the very greatest good fortune for us all. “Let me tell you exactly what happened. At nine o’clock this morning Lord Flaxton phoned, and—Do you know Lord Flaxton, Archdeacon?”

“Only by reputation.” Flaxton, a moody peer noted for his eccentric intelligence and his devotion to the parliamentary Liberal party, spoke regularly in the House of Lords. In addition to his townhouse in London he owned a country estate which included the entire village of Flaxton Pauncefoot.

“Well, you can imagine how the conversation went,” Hampton was saying. “He demanded to speak to the Bishop. Then he announced that Mellors was preaching heresy and had to be immediately defrocked. Of course the Bishop expressed the necessary shock, horror and regret—”

“So embarrassing,” murmured Dr. Ottershaw, “because you see, it was I who appointed Mellors. You’d think Lord Flaxton would have the right to appoint the vicar, but the Flaxtons sold the advowson to the Bishop in the eighteenth century.”

Ignoring this historical aside Hampton continued: “Dr. Ottershaw then explained to Lord Flaxton that his custom was always to send an archdeacon to investigate parish trouble because once the Bishop himself became involved, there was a risk of publicity—and anyway most cases can be sorted out at the archidiaconal level. I honestly think Lord Flaxton expected the Bishop to drop everything, rush to Flaxton Pauncefoot and drag off Mellors by the scruff of the neck! However when he realised that the Church of England was no longer in the Middle Ages he said: ‘Well, don’t sent that blank-blank ass Babbington-French’—sorry, Bishop, but I do think Mr. Aysgarth should know Lord F. was absolutely
virulent
on the subject—‘send that other Archdeacon, the one the Starmouths rate such a capital fellow. I’ll see him at three o’clock this afternoon.’ Then he rang off before the Bishop could say you weren’t available.”

“The aristocracy don’t mean to be thoughtless,” said Dr. Ottershaw, who could never bear to say an unkind word about anybody. “It’s just that they’re so accustomed to getting their own way. What shall I do, Neville? I can hardly believe you’re in the mood to face a furious peer and a heretical vicar, but if I call in Hubert Babbington-French—”

“Don’t do it, Bishop—don’t do it!” begged his chaplain. “We’d have Lord Flaxton storming the palace, Mellors shrieking that he’s being persecuted and Jack Ryder of
The Church Gazette
roaring down from London to investigate heresy in Flaxton Pauncefoot!”

“He’s right,” I said to the Bishop. “Let’s forget Babbington-French for the moment and concentrate on calming down Lord Flaxton. What’s this heresy that Mellors is supposed to be promulgating?”

The Bishop said simply: “I didn’t dare ask.”

“It’s always so awkward when clergymen go round the bend,” mused Hampton. “Thank goodness it doesn’t happen often.”

We shuddered. “May heaven preserve us all from nervous breakdowns!” said the Bishop with feeling, and I hardly knew how to restrain myself from muttering a fervent amen.

2

When I left the palace all I wanted was to reflect on my meeting with Bishop Bell, but there was no time. My curates were waiting for me at St. Martin’s; I had to hear their reports, discuss parish business and delegate as much work as I could. Afterwards I telephoned Darrow. He was unavailable but I left a message to say I was engaged in urgent diocesan business and that he was on no account to delay his return home that evening in the hope of hearing from me. I had no idea how long it would take me to clean up the mess in Flaxton Pauncefoot, but a heretical mess was unlikely to be eliminated merely by the quick flick of an archidiaconal duster.

Having dealt with Darrow I realised with a sinking heart that it was once more time to face my wife. I dragged myself to the hospital, but again the meeting proved easier than I had anticipated. Dido talked incessantly about herself, and all I had to do, as I listened to the catalogue of her infirmities, was to exude sympathy. Occasionally I did wonder if this sympathy was ringing false, but I spent most of the time asking myself, with that apathetic detachment which so often accompanies despair, how I was going to live with her for the next thirty years. I did remember Aidan talking of the grace of God, but once I was in Dido’s presence it was much harder to resist the temptation to write him off as an ancient celibate preaching a holy optimism which had no meaning in a marital hell.

At last after an apparently interminable interval the ward-sister arrived to conclude my visit. “But I haven’t asked him yet if he has any news!” Dido protested.

“I’ve no news at all,” I said, standing up. I knew better than to talk to her about the funeral. “Sandy and Primrose send their love. Merry will be visiting you this evening.”

“But won’t you be visiting too?”

“I may not be able to make it. There’s a very urgent diocesan problem—”

“Aren’t I more important than a diocesan problem?” Without warning she burst into tears.

“There, there!” said the ward-sister, bustling forward. “It’s not your husband’s fault, is it, that he’s such an important man!”

“Oh, shut up, you old cow!” stormed Dido, tears streaming down her face.

As the ward-sister recoiled in rage I frantically tried to create a diversion. “Darling, I really do have urgent business to attend to—I’ve been summoned to see Lord Flaxton. Do you know him?”

“Flaxton!” The sobs halted as Dido gazed at me in surprise. “Oh, he’s dreadfully serious-minded and peculiar, all Latin and Greek and pre-1914 Liberalism and acid speeches in the House of Lords, and
she
can’t talk about anything except gardening, but the girls are quite fun, nothing dazzling but quite fun, and there are two sons in the F.O. or the Guards or something, and there’s a little afterthought, another girl, I think, although it might be a boy, I can’t quite remember, but anyway it’s too young to be amusing. Why on earth are you going to see Lord Flaxton?”

The ward-sister said in a voice cold enough to chill molten lava: “You’ll have to hear about that later, Mrs. Aysgarth. And now if you don’t mind, Archdeacon …”

I didn’t mind in the least. Retreating with haste to my car I found the dog-eared county road-map and began to work out the quickest route to Flaxton Pauncefoot.

3

Flaxton Pauncefoot was one of those villages which had been a picturesque rural slum in the nineteenth century and was now a picturesque rural landmark much favoured by holiday-makers in search of a mythical “Merrie Englande”; there was even a maypole on the village green. The previous baron had spent much money improving the lot of his tenants, and his son was apparently following his example by keeping the cottages in a good state of repair. The vast quantities of dark thatch looked spruce and crisp; many of the little latticed windows were neat enough to be modern replacements; the pale golden stone, so typical of the Starbridge area, conveyed the impression that it had recently been scrubbed. The pub, which was called the Flaxton Arms, inevitably had roses growing around the door.

Flaxton Hall, a starkly symmetrical hulk, was set on a hillside facing away from the village towards the distant port of Starmouth. I noticed that the lawns, though not immaculately manicured, were still trim, while the house appeared as well-kept as the village cottages. The Labour Government would almost certainly be making life less comfortable for the Flaxtons, but it seemed this difficulty could still be shrugged off as a minor inconvenience.

I was just waiting for some pre-war relic of a butler to respond to my arrival, when the front door was opened by a child of about nine years old, a bony angular child with a cloud of frizzy dark hair which was held in place by a headband. Beneath her heavy dark brows her eyes were an unusual shade of greenish gold which I thought might make her attractive later. She was wearing a blue frock, possibly part of a school uniform. Her fingers hinted that she had recently had an accident with an ink-bottle.

“Good afternoon,” she said grandly. “But you shouldn’t have come to the front door. All chauffeurs have to go round the back to the servants’ entrance.”

“I’m not a chauffeur.”

“Then why are you wearing gaiters?”

“I’m an archdeacon. May I come in, Miss Flaxton? I have an appointment with your father.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“I made an inspired guess. Has school closed early today?”

“I never go to school. I don’t believe in it.”

“How sensible,” I said, realising she was bending the truth in the hope of shocking me, and stepped past her into an oval-shaped hall White marble statues gleamed in pale blue recesses; a blue and white frieze decorated the rim of the lofty ceiling far above the white marble floor. As I gazed at these austere examples of eighteenth-century classicism, I began to feel as if I had shrunk, like Alice in Wonderland, and was now trapped in an inverted Wedgwood bowl. The child’s bold, somewhat bizarre manner only strengthened the resemblance to Carroll’s fantasy.

“I’ve got a daughter of your age,” I said, trying to inject a little normality into the scene in order to ease my nervousness. “What’s your name?”

Without a second’s hesitation the child said: “Vanilla.”

It seemed we were still in Wonderland. Not to be outdone I immediately said: “How very charming and original. Congratulations!”

She smiled but looked suspicious. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No, but never mind, I’m greatly entertained. You remind me of
Alice in Wonderland.
” Out of the corner of my eye I saw the butler belatedly gliding to my rescue.

“If I’m Alice,” said the child, “who are you?”

“If you’re Alice I think I’d like to be Lewis Carroll.”

The butler, a large individual with an asthmatic wheeze and hands the colour of lard, assumed an appropriately deferential expression at the sight of my uniform. “Good afternoon, Mr. Archdeacon. Lord Flaxton is expecting you.”