Glamorous Powers (21 page)

‘For a man who’s just survived the rack you’re being extraordinarily charitable –’

‘No, not charitable. Honest.’

‘– but now I must call an end to all this delectable fraternal flattery in order to discuss practical matters,’ said Francis firmly. However he was much cheered, and conquering the melancholy which had prompted his unique confession he embarked on the task of bringing clarity to my clouded future.

‘The Church authorities at Westminster tell me that they can’t trace this chapel without knowing the name of the owner,’ he said, ‘so we have no proof that it exists, and in my opinion it would be the greatest possible mistake if on leaving the Order you sat around waiting for the chapel to materialize. On the contrary, your first task, it seems to me, is to set aside all thought of the chapel and try to work out exactly what you’re being called to do.’

I could hardly deny that this was sensible advice so I had no difficulty in replying tactfully: ‘Yes, Father.’

‘One must never demote the faculty of reason in favour of a dubious mystical “schwärmerei”,’ said Francis severely, suspicious as always of my meekness and perhaps still wondering if I were envisaging a latter-day Star of Bethlehem to guide me on my way. ‘You must approach your unknown future rationally – starting from now.’

Despite the fact that I had had experience of the sad task of assisting a monk to leave the cloister, I was surprised by the depth of my confusion when I found myself on the receiving end of an abbot’s ministrations. I hated the talk of money, although I knew it was essential that I should have some means of support. I hated the thought of leaving my brethren, although I knew the departure from Grantchester would have to be faced, and I hated the prospect of making a plan for the immediate future although I did realize I could hardly emerge into the world with the mindless naïvety of a chicken hatching from an egg; I had to acquire – at the very least – a roof over my head, the prospect of hot meals and the services of someone who would do my laundry.

‘… and you must buy some modern underclothes,’ added Francis.

‘Why?’ I was becoming impatient with these worldly trivialities. ‘Surely I can make do with what I have!’

‘Do you want to be a laughing-stock to your laundress?’

Despite my impatience I could not help but be impressed by this all-embracing attention to detail. I had never told any of my departing monks to buy new underclothes.

‘Now we must decide exactly where you’re going to go,’ said Francis, continuing to exercise his indefatigable talent for the practical. ‘I always think that a departing monk should if possible spend his first few days in a normal home so that he can be reminded what life’s like without people praying all over the place. Would your daughter have you to stay?’

But I had already decided to go to Ruth for a week. In a recent letter she had mentioned that my grandson would be visiting a schoolfriend in mid-August, but my grand-daughter would be at home and I liked the idea of discovering more about her. I wondered if I were being sentimental in assuming it would be easier to be a grandfather than a father.

‘And where will you go for the next three weeks before you return to London to review your situation with me?’ pursued Francis.

‘I’d thought of Allington Court. I stayed there once before I entered the Order.’

Allington Court in Devon was the former home of a wealthy bishop who had bequeathed his estate to the Church of England under a trust which stipulated that his home should become a hotel offering inexpensive holidays to clerical families. The house boasted a remarkable library, several comfortable reception rooms and a chapel – though not a chapel built in the style of Inigo Jones. Nowadays the hotel was seldom patronized by clerical families with children, but clerical widows, retired priests and interested laymen arrived regularly, theological students came to recuperate from examinations and a variety of church-workers appeared in the hope of renewing their spiritual energy. The establishment was run by a warden, always a priest of distinction, and he employed two assistants who helped him to organize retreats, to respond to any requests for counsel and, on a more mundane level, to generate a sociable atmosphere.

I wrote to the Warden to ask if he could offer me accommodation at such short notice in August, but there was no difficulty; the war had depleted the ranks of his regular visitors. I also wrote to my daughter and received an ecstatic reply by return of post. Of course I could come to stay. I could stay for as long as I liked. She could hardly wait to see me. My news was so wonderful, so marvellous, so exciting. What did I like to eat? What did I drink? Did I want to meet anyone? Would I hate a party? Had I got anything to wear? (I thought of my underclothes.) Had I got any possessions at all? Would I like a book from Boots’ Library? I was to tell her everything I wanted so that my every whim could be gratified.

After telling myself how fortunate I was to have such a devoted daughter I decided I found this flurry of questions curiously exhausting. With caution I wrote back to inform her that I would eat anything that was put in front of me and drink anything except spirits. Then I wrote even more cautiously that I would prefer not to meet strangers at this time since readjustment to the world would inevitably be difficult and I would need to channel all my gregarious inclinations into renewing my acquaintance with my family. I concluded by writing that if Boots had the latest detective story by Miss Agatha Christie I would be most interested to read it.

That night I went to bed depressed, although when I tried to analyse my feelings I could not decide whether I felt depressed because Ruth had reminded me of Betty, showering me with trivial questions, or because the reality of leaving the Order was at last impinging on my consciousness. However I allowed myself no respite from that particular reality; the next morning I embarked on the difficult task of writing the letters which would inform my friends in the world of the new turn my life had taken.

To Charles Ashworth alone I allowed myself to hint at the ordeal I had undergone. ‘As you can imagine,’ I wrote, ‘I have been experiencing a most difficult time, but I trust that eventually, when I’m settled in my new life, we may meet and resume our friendship.’ But even to Charles I wrote no word
of my vision or of my utter ignorance about the nature of my new work.

With my letters completed I then reached the most arduous part of my severance from my old life: the parting from my brethren at Grantchester.

Francis and I travelled to Grantchester in the height of luxury in the Abbot-General’s Daimler, inexcusably purchased by Father Darcy to convey him on his annual visitations well before arthritis had confined him to a wheelchair. Our chauffeur was my friend Edward the master-carpenter who drove us at such a stately pace up the Great North Road that I thought we would take all day to reach our destination. I even told Francis frankly that we should have travelled by train but Francis, his weakness for glamour well to the fore, merely told me not to be such a spoilsport.

I will not record the scene in the chapter-house at Grantchester as my resignation was announced; the memory affects me too deeply even now. Later, after Francis had organized the election and installed my prior as the new abbot, there were various emotional moments as I took my leave. David the beekeeper gave me a pot of our famous Grantchester honey. The novices proffered a hastily-written scroll of appreciation. My officers presented me with one of my favourite books from the library,
The Cloud of Unknowing
, and as I accepted it with gratitude I thought how appropriate it was that the title should so accurately reflect my current spiritual condition. I was much moved.

Eventually when all the farewells had been concluded in the chapter-house the new abbot escorted me to the front door. I was hoping he would restrict himself to a few formal phrases in order to lessen the awkwardness of the parting, but to my dismay he blurted out: ‘If only we knew what you were going to do, Father! It would make your loss so much easier to accept!’

I could not speak. Not only was I paralysed by emotion but he had echoed my own sentiments with such precision that I could not have attempted to argue with him. However Francis exclaimed with a severity worthy of our mentor: ‘If Jonathan can accept this new call from God with courage and dignity, Bernard, I really fail to see why you can’t do likewise! This mawkish outburst can’t be excused just because I’ve judged it unfitting at present to disclose further details of the call to you!’

Poor Bernard was crushed. He managed to say with the obedience of a good monk: ‘Yes, Father,’ but his grief remained as deep as my own.

In the Daimler Francis muttered: ‘I know I was harsh, but it’s no good allowing a new abbot to sink into sloppiness when his brethren are in an emotional state. He simply has to set a good example, keep a stiff upper lip –’ He broke off as he saw my expression. Then: ‘Sorry,’ he said. He sounded uncharacteristically abashed. ‘It was harrowing, wasn’t it? Poor Bernard. Poor brethren. Poor you.’

But I was sunk too deep in misery to reply.

In our final conversation which took place before I left the Order Francis said with the robust common sense which I had come to respect so profoundly: ‘Jonathan, I know this is a difficult subject but I’m reluctant to close our talks without speaking my mind to you on the subject of women – and don’t, I beg of you, now mutter some idiocy such as: “Oh, I’ll be all right.” I do accept that you’ve got the strongest desire to live as a priest should, but what I think may well happen is that once you’re back in the world you’ll soon be so busy wrestling with all manner of temptation that you’ll be unable to concentrate on the vital task of listening for any further word from God about your call. Then once you’re in such a debilitated spiritual state it’s possible – not inevitable but possible – that you’ll eventually start drifting into error.’

Here indeed was a harsh and painful reality. I said: ‘You’re tactfully reminding me that my last attempt to live a celibate life in the world ended in disaster.’

‘Yes, but don’t misunderstand. I’m not actively counselling you to marry; it may be that your new life in God’s service will be so absorbing that celibacy becomes not only essential but easy. On the other hand neither am I actively counselling you to remain celibate; it may be that your new life will require the presence of a wife. But what I
am
strongly advising you to do is to keep an open mind on the subject of marriage.’ He paused to choose his words with care before adding: ‘Remember that you’re a very different man now from that young priest who got into such a harrowing emotional mess. Remember that your marital problems arose not merely because at that time you were unsuited to marriage but because you’d made the mistake of marrying the wrong woman – and don’t, whatever you do, automatically dismiss the possibility that somewhere in the world there may well be a woman who could enhance your life instead of diminishing it.’

Without hesitation I said: ‘That’s good advice. I’ll do my best to be sensible.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

‘I promise I’ll pray that by the grace of God –’

‘That’s better.’

‘– I may be wise enough to make the right decisions and strong enough to live according to his will.’

‘That’s much better. Very well, you’re ready to leave and tomorrow I’ll release you from your vows.’

The release from my vows took place before two witnesses, Ambrose and the Prior, in the privacy of the Abbot-General’s office. The mercifully brief ceremony was set out in the constitution of the Order and Francis made no attempt to deviate from the text, but when I handed over my habit, that symbol
of the way of life I was abandoning, I was overcome by such a profound sense of loss that I might not have known how to continue if we had not all been diverted at that moment by the chimes of noon ringing out in error to announce the half-hour.

‘I must get that clock overhauled,’ said Francis blandly when the ceremony had been completed. ‘It’s become much too temperamental lately.’ And as the other two men left the room after wishing me well he handed me a large brown envelope. ‘Here’s the first instalment of your loan together with your identity card, ration book and the standard sheet of advice about the old age pension, how to sign on at the Labour Exchange and where you can go for help if you’re destitute. There’s also an additional sheet giving information about war-time conditions – I expect you’ve read about “Cooper’s Snoopers” from the Ministry of Information and how the Local Defence Volunteers can ask you for your identity card, but you should also know that road signs and the names of railway stations are all being removed in order to confuse any invading Germans. I’d advise you to get hold of a map before the booksellers destroy their stocks.’

Again I was impressed by his attention to detail. Thanking him I stuffed the envelope in my pocket and groped for my suitcase.

‘Not so fast!’ drawled Francis, and he then gave me not only copies of the Bible, the Book of Common Prayer and the Fordite Missal but also Father Darcy’s copy of
The Philosophy of Plotinus.

The last offering touched me deeply. I had neither expected any memento of my mentor nor anticipated a gift which embraced the subject of mysticism. ‘What a very liberal and courageous choice!’ I said, ever mindful of Plotinus’ dubious status as a pagan.

‘The old man would have given you St Augustine’s
Confessions
, of course,’ said Francis, pleased by my response, ‘but I can see I must fight the urge to turn myself into a replica of the old man.’