Ultimate Prizes (7 page)

“But don’t you remember? You’re going to be my spiritual guide and write me uplifting letters!”

“But my dear Miss Tallent—”

“You didn’t think I was serious, did you? You didn’t think I meant what I said, but I swear to you I’m deeply in earnest and absolutely desperate. I know you think I’m stupid and frivolous and not worth bothering about, but—”

“Everyone’s worth bothering about. But don’t you think your local clergyman would be better placed than I am to give you the guidance you need?”

“That celibate fish? He’s only fit to be lightly grilled on both sides and served to the congregation with parsley sauce!”

I made a quick decision, the kind of quick decision capable administrators make, a cool practical decision untainted by emotional involvement. There was no doubt this girl was genuinely distressed and adrift. It seemed reasonable to suppose she was suffering from that particularly debilitating confusion which so often follows a severe bereavement: an appalled recognition of her own mortality and a consequent questioning of her way of life. With the right help this self-examination could lead to a vital spiritual growth. Who was I to regard her with such un-Christian cynicism because she had spent too many years as a mindless society girl? In a very real sense Dido’s tasteless comment about Jesus had hit the mark of truth. He would never have walked past her with his nose in the air, and since I was one of his followers neither should I.

Abruptly I altered course. “Very well,” I said, adopting a crisp authoritative tone. “If you honestly believe I can help you I’ll answer your letters—but on one condition. You must address me as ‘Archdeacon,’ I must address you as ‘Miss Tallent’ and our correspondence must be a model of propriety.”

“That’s three conditions, not one! But never mind, I accept them all with rapturous gratitude.” She smiled radiantly at me. “Goodbye, Archdeacon dear. I’m off to the post office to buy a large supply of stamps.” And leaving me wondering how on earth I could have been quite such a fool, she sailed triumphantly from the room.

3

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“But she’s famous! She almost married that millionaire—and then there was the film star—and everyone knows she flirted with the Prince of Wales!”

“I don’t find that sort of thing very interesting.”

“Well, she obviously found you very interesting indeed! Why in heaven’s name did she call you Stephen?”

“The name Neville reminded her of Mr. Chamberlain.”

“But what was she doing calling you by your Christian name when you’d only just met her?”

“Oh, society people have very peculiar manners these days. Like people in show business.”

“Well, it all sounds very fast to me! Why, she even said she talked to you on your own for half an hour in the garden!”

“Only about Victorian literature.”

“But what did everyone think when you disappeared for half an hour with a society flirt?”

I cleared my throat. “I think that designation’s a little uncharitable, Grace. Not even a society girl’s beyond redemption.”

“Don’t tell me she wants you to redeem her!”

I cleared my throat again. “Well, as a matter of fact she did show signs of wanting a complete change of direction. I’ve promised to write her a line or two in response to any queries she may have about spiritual matters.”

“Honestly, Neville! I wouldn’t have thought you could be quite so naive!”

“And I wouldn’t have thought you could be quite so catty and cynical!”

Grace suddenly drooped as if all the strength had drained out of her. Immediately I hated myself. “My dearest love”—I took her in my arms—“I know it all seems highly irregular, but what’s a clergyman to do when he’s asked for spiritual advice? He can’t refuse to give it simply because the person in search of help is someone with whom he’d never normally associate!” I kissed her before adding: “Of course I’ll show you every letter.”

“Don’t be silly. You know that’s not necessary.” She clung to me briefly before turning away with the abrupt comment: “The curates have arrived.”

“Bother the curates.” I grabbed her back into my arms and said in my firmest voice: “I love you very much—as I trust I proved to you last night—and for me you’ll always be the only woman in the world. Why on earth should I even look twice at a saucy little piece of nonsense like Dido Tallent?”

That indeed was the question.

4

Alex returned at noon after bearing his olive branch to the village of Starvale St. James, where Lyle had rented accommodation a year before. She normally lived in Cambridge, where before the war her husband had been a canon of the Cathedral and a theologian at the University, but after Ashworth had been sent overseas with his regiment Lyle had preferred to retreat temporarily to the country so that her young children would be in a safe place. Ashworth had an elderly friend in Starvale St. James—none other than the irate churchwarden who was now persecuting me about the font—and Lyle, already familiar with the diocese after her years with the Jardines, had decided she ran less risk of being lonely there than elsewhere in the English countryside.

When Alex returned I had just finished speaking on the telephone to the Bishop, who was in a flap about the proposed prisoner-of-war camp on Starbury Plain. It was by no means certain that we would be allowed any contact with the prisoners but the Bishop felt we should at least plan as if some form of pastoral work, no matter how limited, would be permitted. Unfortunately the camp, if built, would stand in the other archdeaconry, and the other Archdeacon, Hubert Babbington-French, was now openly proclaiming that the only good German was a dead German. No wonder the Bishop was in a flap; it wasn’t every day he had to deal with an eminent cleric bent on bawling out un-Christian slogans. Obviously the idiotic Babbington-French would have to be steered away from the wretched Huns, but I had a nasty feeling that the Bishop in his despair was planning to steer me towards them. I was willing to do my duty and attempt to behave in a Christian manner towards even the most repulsive Nazi, but the prospect was far from enthralling, particularly when we were all waiting to see if Hitler opened his Baedeker guide at the wrong page. I was now privately very worried indeed about the prospect of an attack on Starbridge, for my vicarage was in the centre of the city, but Grace, following the example of the Queen, had said that the children stayed with her and that she intended to stay with me—and I, of course, had to stay at St. Martin’s. I could only thank God we had a good air-raid shelter and pray that Hitler, diverted by the fighting on the Eastern Front, would lose interest in reading travel guides.

I was just wondering if I should hold daily services at lunch-time for all the city workers who would be experiencing a strong compulsion to pray for deliverance, when the door of my study opened and Alex strode in. There was a spring in his walk, a smile on his face and a carnation in the buttonhole of his smart lounge suit.

“Do I deduce that the hatchet was safely buried?” I said amused after we had exchanged greetings.

“I think it would be more accurate to say that we managed to ease the hatchet into a coffin to await a full burial later—but at least that’s a step in the right direction! We sat in the garden and drank tea for twenty minutes.”

“Only twenty minutes?”

“She had to attend a committee meeting of the Women’s Institute. But she sent her love to Carrie, so it would seem the ice is definitely broken.”

“Splendid! And what did you think of her boys? That little Charley says he wants to be a clergyman.”

“So he told me.” Alex, who had been pacing around the room in his usual restless fashion, now stopped jingling the coins in his pockets and started eyeing the telephone. “I’d so much like to tell Carrie about the meeting,” he said. “Would you mind if I put through a call on your extension upstairs?”

“Not at all—go ahead,” I said, and embarked on a letter to the Red Cross about the parish food parcel for British prisoners of war.

I was halfway through this task when I was interrupted by the arrival of my diocesan
bête noire
, a clergyman named Darrow about whom I shall say more later. I mention him now only because it was at this time that he began his career at the Theological College in the Cathedral Close, a fact which became of considerable importance to me in 1945 after I had almost committed adultery.

On that morning in 1942 when Darrow arrived without warning on my doorstep and breezed arrogantly into my study, the Theological College was in the midst of a crisis because of the war-time shortage of staff, and on the previous evening at the palace Alex had been able to provide Dr. Ottershaw with the vital information that Darrow had had experience in the training of clergymen. Darrow had had experience in many other clerical fields too—driving archdeacons well-nigh round the bend was only one of his more esoteric activities—but now is not the moment to expand on his buccaneering career in the Church. His purpose in calling at the vicarage that morning was to thank Alex for recommending him to the Bishop, but he wound up by delivering an insufferably priggish lecture on the theme that the ultimate prize for any priest—as a bigoted Anglo-Catholic he always called clergymen “priests”—could only be union with God.

“How did I manage to keep a civil tongue in my head?” demanded Alex as soon as Darrow had stalked out. “I must be getting saintly in my old age! And to think that according to Lyle her husband remains one of Darrow’s most devoted admirers!”

“Ashworth’s busy being an Army chaplain in North Africa. If he was trying to run an archdeaconry where Darrow was on the rampage, he’d soon modify his admiration, I promise you! What on earth will life be like at the Theological College once that pirate prances through the front door?”

“I prophesy charismatic wonders, incense in the College Chapel and a collective nervous breakdown for the remaining staff. And talking of nervous exhaustion … Am I forgiven for speaking my mind to you about Grace last night?”

“Of course.”

“I really am sorry if I upset you, Neville.”

“My dear Alex, let’s ring down the curtain on the scene and forget all about it!”

“Very well, but before the curtain finally reaches the ground, may I just ask if you’re taking my advice about bearing Grace off on a second honeymoon?”

“Drop the subject, Alex, there’s a good fellow—just drop it,” I said, brandishing a voice of steel alongside my friendliest smile, and he hastily began to talk of other matters.

But that night in the bedroom I found myself saying to Grace: “How would you like a week’s rest before the school holidays begin? We could leave Primrose and Sandy in Manchester with Winifred and go to a hotel in the Lake District.”

Grace, who had been brushing her hair, paused to stare at me in the triple mirror. “But is it still possible to take holidays there?”

“I’m sure it is. Holiday-makers are only banned from the south and east coasts.”

“But I couldn’t possibly leave Sandy with Winifred! He’d wear her out.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t mind being worn out in order to give you a rest! After all, you’re always saying what a wonderful sister she is.”

“Yes, but she’s not as patient as I am, and—”

“No one’s as patient as you are with that little monster! Personally I think a touch of impatience now and then would do him no harm at all!”

“But Neville—”

“Why are you beating around the bush like this? The issue’s really very simple: Do you or don’t you want a second honeymoon?”

“I suppose I’ll have to say I do, won’t I?”

“For heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed, no longer making an effort to conceal my exasperation. “What sort of answer’s that?”

“The sort of answer which I’m sure you require of a perfect wife.”

“Grace, if you weren’t so constantly obsessed with perfection you wouldn’t make such ridiculous statements!”

“
I
obsessed by perfection? But Neville,
you’re
the one who’s obsessed! You—chasing the prizes of life, never able to rest, never being satisfied—”

“What rubbish—of course I’m satisfied! I’ve got the perfect wife, the perfect home, the perfect family—I’ve won all the ultimate prizes of life! Well, nearly all of them—”

“Darling, listen to me.” Rising to her feet, she turned her back on the triple mirror and we faced each other. “I’m not a prize. I’m a person. I can’t just be kept in a glass case on a mantelshelf. I have to move in the real world, and in the real world I can’t be this perfect wife of your dreams. I do try to be—I keep trying and trying—I try so hard because I don’t want to disappoint you, but—”

“You could never disappoint me.”

“No? Supposing I tell you that I don’t want to go away to the Lake District unless we take Sandy and Primrose with us? Darling, we simply can’t dump them on poor Winifred for a week! It’s just not fair to her, and besides I wouldn’t enjoy myself—I’d spend my whole time worrying in case they were unhappy. I admit I do want a rest, but I’d much rather wait until our family holiday in July.”

“Very well.” I turned away.

“Neville—”

“No need to say another word. You’ve spoken your mind and I still think you’re perfect. Happy ending. Now let’s ring down the curtain on the scene and forget I ever mentioned the idea,” I said in the most equable voice at my command, and withdrew at once to my dressing-room.

5

I found myself unable to concentrate on the evening office, and an attempt to pray proved futile. However when I eventually returned to the bedroom in my pyjamas, Grace said at once: “Darling, could we compromise? If we changed our plans and spent our family holiday in the Lake District instead of Devon, we could leave all five children with Winifred for the first forty-eight hours and have that little holiday alone together after all. I don’t think Sandy could destroy Winifred in two days, and since Christian and Norman are old enough to be helpful with the younger ones, I wouldn’t spend all my time worrying about how they were getting on.”

“Splendid! I’ll cancel Devon immediately.”