Glamorous Powers (33 page)

‘Beastly,
beastly
children –’

‘Fortunately I was big for my age and soon became more than a match for the bullies. Then eventually I went away to boarding school where no one knew my mother’s background so I had no trouble living happily ever after.’

‘Just like your parents … I’m glad your mother was happy in spite of the neighbours.’

‘I suspect she wrote off their lack of charity as the price she had to pay for her security.’ As soon as the word slipped out I knew I had made a mistake. I should have said ‘romance’ or ‘happiness’ but before I could attempt to gloss over the error Miss Barton-Woods commented sympathetically: ‘I’m sure all orphans must long to feel secure in a nice home with someone they love,’ and the next moment I heard myself saying: ‘I remember her talking once about her favourite cat. There sits Chelsea,” she said, “washing her paws in front of the fire. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love us, of course, but what she really loves is sitting in front of that fire on winter evenings and knowing she’ll never be one of those alley-cats left outside to starve in the cold.” She often used to express truths – truths which she could never have expressed directly – by talking about her cats. I remember –’ But I broke off. I had begun to wonder if old age had finally caught up with me by producing an urge
to be garrulous in the company of sympathetic young women.

‘Go on,’ said Miss Barton-Woods, but I was silent, remembering the time over fifty years ago when Chelsea had given birth to four kittens, three of which had died. ‘It’s for the best,’ my mother had said casually, mopping up my tears. ‘If there are too many kittens the mother doesn’t have enough love for them all and they’re not brought up properly. Better to have one kitten who becomes a splendid cat than a bunch of nuisances who yowl around asking to be drowned.’ And I had known then that she had never wanted another child after I was born. ‘Of course her greatest sorrow,’ my father had said after her death, ‘was that she was unable to give me more children.’ I could still recall the exact quality of my amazement as I had realized how imperfectly he had known her.

‘I mustn’t bore you with my past,’ I heard my voice saying to Miss Barton-Woods, and at once she responded: ‘There’s no question of boredom but you mustn’t think I want to pry. Why don’t we sink into one of our restful silences?’

I smiled and said no more, but the atmosphere was neither awkward nor uncompanionable.

The motor-bus roared on towards Ashburton.

‘… but may I hasten to reassure you,’ I wrote that night to Francis, ‘that although I shall be staying beneath the same roof as an unchaperoned young woman I shall be in
no danger
of succumbing to Monks’ Madness. Miss Barton-Woods is so much younger than I am that I can unhesitatingly think of her as a daughter, and even if she were older I would still be quite safe as I have
no inclination whatsoever
to respond to her in any carnal way. In short, I am
in complete command
of this situation.’

I reread this letter and decided that I had never sounded more sane. However the copious underlinings troubled me. I added: ‘Forgive the emphatic style but I’m sure you’re worried about me and I’m most anxious to allay your fears.’ I almost continued:
‘I know I myself would be worried if I were in your shoes,’ but I thought better of it. I had quite enough to occupy my mind without trying to put myself into Francis’ shoes.

Nevertheless I was unable to stop asking myself what he could possibly be thinking.

The next morning I said to the Warden: ‘I’ve received an unexpected invitation from a friend who lives near Starbridge, so I regret to say I shall be leaving Allington earlier than I’d planned.’

To Miss Tarantino, who playfully accused me of plotting a secret elopement with the departing ‘Miss Fielding’, I said: ‘So you’ve guessed my guilty secret!’ and to Miss Barton-Woods herself I said as she left: ‘I look forward immensely to tomorrow.’ Then I retired to the chapel to meditate but I was so excited that I made a sad hash of my spiritual exercises.

The train reached Starbridge a quarter of an hour late on the following afternoon, but I still had five minutes in which to change platforms and pace up and down like a tiger at the zoo. Repeatedly during my pacings I stared at the spire of the Cathedral, soaring in the distance above the cluttered railway yard as if to symbolize my faith triumphing over my disordered doubts, but at last my view was interrupted by the arrival of the train to Starrington Magna.

The chauffeur was waiting when I arrived. His extreme age gave a venerable air to his peaked cap and gaiters, and infused his welcome with dignity. The motor was equally dignified; despite my ignorance on the subject of mechanized transport I did realize that I was about to complete my journey in a Rolls-Royce, and my automatic judgement was that it was a most unsuitable vehicle for a monk. But then I remembered that I was no longer a monk, and suddenly for the first time the full awareness of my liberation exploded in my consciousness. It was as if my psyche, long burdened with the strain of leaving
the Order, had finally somersaulted free, and my depression now seemed not only remote but fantastic, a mental aberration which could not possibly be repeated.

We drove through a long village built in that pale golden stone which is quarried in the Starbridge area. Many of the houses had thatched roofs and were set beside a stream which for half a mile ran parallel with the road. There was no green but I glimpsed a Norman church tucked away down a lane, its steeple rising above the trees like the prow of a ship breasting the waves. I also noted two public houses and the usual assortment of shops including a post office where I could cash my weekly money order.

At the end of the village the road began to encircle the high brick wall of the estate and a minute later we were driving up the curling drive of the Manor. To my disappointment I saw it was not a beautiful house but its varied features, accumulated over the centuries, gave it a certain eccentric grace. It appeared well-kept but not smart; I realized I was moving into a quiet, casual, effortlessly well-bred world where smart country houses were considered the hallmark of the nouveaux riches, and for a moment I remembered my home long ago, the respectable little villa with the respectable little front garden where my mother had grown well-behaved flowers in order to impress the neighbours. I had never been allowed to play in the front garden. Only working-class children played so near the street, but I had been happy in the back garden where my mother moved dreamily in a bewitching silence among the undisciplined shrubs and the aromatic herbs and the wild lawn studded with daisies. I could see her long skirts trailing across the grass as she listened to her thoughts, and Chelsea was there too, sharpening her claws on the peach-tree in preparation for a new adventure, serene elegant Chelsea who savoured her security by the fire on dark winter evenings and was quite content with the one kitten who sat bright-eyed at her side.

The door of the motor was opening. Returning from the 1880s with a jolt I alighted just as the butler opened the front door.

He was very old, like the chauffeur, and had a mild innocent expression which reminded me of Timothy at Grantchester. I was given a civil welcome and ushered deferentially across the threshold before I was informed of the absence of my hostess. ‘But she hopes to be back within the hour, sir,’ he added after waiting for my murmur of regret, and began to lead the way upstairs.

I was taken to a large corner chamber with extensive views to the south and west. The furnishings were Victorian; my glance encountered a handsome brass bedstead, an elegant washstand and a vast but noble wardrobe. The carpet was probably beyond price but had faded into a distinction which rendered it mercifully unobtrusive. Noting the plain curtains and the war-time black-out blind with approval, I saw that the only picture in the room was an austere engraving of Starbridge Cathedral and at once I decided that this was one of those rare pictures which could not be automatically consigned to the wardrobe. Sighing with pleasure I became aware that the butler was asking me whether I required tea immediately.

‘No, thank you.’ All thought of food and drink seemed unbearably irrelevant. ‘Can you please direct me to the chapel?’

The old man looked startled but led me to the south window and indicated the woods on the far side of the lawn. After pointing out the indentation among the line of the tree-tops and describing the dell he added: ‘You’ll find the path behind the summer-house, sir. You can’t miss it.’

Immediately I was on my way.

As soon as I joined that part of the path where my vision had begun I realized I was in the wrong time; at that moment my vision was not to be exactly reproduced. In the time in which I was now moving, the sun was shining and the wood-pigeons were silent in the trees.

But the chapel was the same. I looked down upon it, just as
I had in my vision, but this time I was so stunned to see it that I stopped dead. However the chapel remained, neither vanishing nor fading, no mere imprint on the retina of my psychic eye but a three-dimensional building accessible to the five senses, and hurrying on down the path I crossed the floor of the dell, bounded up the steps to the porch and flung wide the main door.

The pews stretched before me on either side of the central aisle and I saw the empty space below the east window where the altar should have stood. Then I found I could see no more. Slumping down on the nearest pew I covered my face with my hands and shuddered beneath the impact of the knowledge that three months ago I had journeyed through time and space in a manner which defied the known laws of physics.

After a while I became calm enough to notice the evidence of the chapel’s disuse. The pews needed polishing. So did the brass memorial tablet. Cobwebs festooned the windows and dirt lay ingrained on the floor. There was also a pervasive musty smell, conjuring up images of long damp winters. The thought formed in my mind that I had to effect a restoration, but whether this was a mere emotional reaction from within or a faint call from without I had no idea.

I knelt to pray. At first I prayed in words, thanking God again for his guidance and asking that his will be fully revealed. Then I prayed in images: the classical architecture of the chapel, symbol of Beauty, one of Plato’s three absolute values; the spire of the Cathedral at Starbridge, symbol of another absolute value, Truth; the cross on the summit of the spire, symbolic of Christ and of that third absolute value which Plato had called Goodness and which the Christians had exalted as Love. The images quickened. I saw Christ crucified, Christ resurrected, the old life giving way to the new, but then even the familiar images faded beneath the power of my desire to communicate with God, and I found myself praying in stillness, waiting upon the silence, my mind open, my senses in repose but alert for the slightest tremor of psychic movement.

Yet nothing stirred. No wordless message formed in the
blankness and in the end my concentration broke as my mind, overstrained, eased its way painfully back to a normal level of consciousness in the manner of an athlete slowing down from a fast sprint to a walking pace. My first reaction, not unnaturally, was to be disappointed; I had been so confident that once I reached the chapel I would receive a further revelation. My next reaction was to be baffled; here I was at the chapel and yet nothing was happening. My third reaction was to be cross; I had struggled through three exceedingly difficult months only to be kept in the dark when I could expect to be enlightened. However I then realized I was being preposterously arrogant, nagging God for another revelation like a spoilt child whining for a sweet, so my final reaction was to be ashamed. Father Darcy, I knew, would have said that in my arrogance I was in no fit spiritual state to receive a revelation, and Father Darcy, as usual, would have been right.

With regret I resigned myself to the fact that the way forward was to remain hidden. But then, just as I was about to slide despondently back into the pew, I heard the click of the latch and knew that my hostess was entering the chapel.

When she saw I was kneeling she immediately withdrew, and although I wanted to stop her the door closed before I could utter a word. At once I rose from my knees and strode outside.

She was waiting on the steps of the porch, and immediately I was startled because for the first time in our acquaintance she was wearing clothes which fitted her. I saw she had a waist – not a small waist and certainly not a wasp-waist, but nevertheless a waist. I also saw that the other attributes of her feminine figure were by no means as ill-proportioned as ‘Miss Fielding’s’ wardrobe had led me to suppose. Of course she was still too stout and of course there was no possibility that I might find her sexually attractive, but I realized that it was not after all so surprising that she should have had a fiancé and I even felt it
was not beyond the realms of possibility that one day she might have another.

My surprise gave way to a detached observation. Miss Barton-Woods was wearing a pale grey coat and skirt with a dark blue blouse and she looked, in a discreet way, the wealthy landowner that she was. Ruth would have dressed up such plain clothes with fussy costume-jewellery; Miss Barton-Woods wore a single cameo at the neck of her blouse. Ruth would have worn flimsy shoes with high heels; Miss Barton-Woods had exchanged ‘Miss Fielding’s’ ugly walking shoes for a pair of brogues so elegant that I felt certain they had been hand-made. Ruth would have painted her face and dowsed herself with perfume; Miss Barton-Woods presented merely a powdered nose, a trace of pale lipstick and a faint fresh aroma which indicated that her uncurled hair had recently been washed. I admired her good taste, applauded her lack of pretentiousness, and wished with a vague, guilty unhappiness that Ruth would refrain from concealing her natural advantages beneath such a vulgar layer of artificiality.