Glittering Images (21 page)

On my way out I paused to look at her bookshelves and discovered in addition to the intelligent modern novels the controversial
The Quest of the Historical Jesus
, Albert Schweitzer’s attempt to reconstruct the career of Christ within an eschatological framework. It was the only theological volume in the collection apart from her inevitable set of Jardine’s books, but it made me wonder if she borrowed other works of theology from the library downstairs. I cast my eye over the Jardine volumes, the anthologies of sermons, his polemic on the doomed Prayer Book reform of the Twenties and his notorious attack on the Malines Conversations, but I found no book which I had not already read. I was interested to see that beyond the Jardine collection there was a copy of A. P. Herbert’s
Holy Deadlock
in which the author of the famous Bill had satirized the law on divorce.

I found the tone of her books vaguely worrying. Apart from her novels her collection suggested a mild preoccupation with religion but not, so far as I could see, with personal piety. There was no copy of the Bible visible in the room.

I began to wonder if Lyle were the apostate.

However I knew I could discover at dinner the exact nature of her religious belief. Taking one last look at that deeply private room I opened the door again and began the convoluted journey back to the main part of the house.

Her first words to me as we met in the hall that evening were: ‘How did you find my room?’

‘I took a map, a compass, a week’s supply of rations and Shipton.’

‘I don’t like to think of anyone prowling around my room,’ she said. ‘In fact I hate to think of it.’

‘Oh? That must make life awkward for the servants!’ I said, smiling at her, and the next moment she was answering rapidly, ‘I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I, and being abominably rude as well. Thank you for the rose. It was beautiful. And thanks for the limericks. I’m glad you didn’t write a sonnet because I happen to find sonnets a bore.’

We set off for the short walk to Eternity Street where the Staro Arms, a former coaching-inn dating from the fourteenth century, was built around a cobbled courtyard. In the garden beyond, wrought-iron tables shaded by scarlet sun-umbrellas dotted the lawn which sloped to the river, and along the low-wall which divided the bank from the garden a row of geraniums stirred in the faint evening breeze. We chose a table which enabled us to see the reflection in the water of the medieval houses on the opposite bank, and soon the waiter arrived with our drinks; Lyle had ordered a Schweppes sparkling lime, garnished with gin and ice, while I had requested a half-pint of Whitbread’s pale ale.

‘Don’t you drink spirits?’ Lyle asked.

I did not answer directly but said: ‘I think clergymen do better to avoid drinking spirits, just as they should always avoid smoking when they’re wearing their clerical collar. Such habits project the wrong image on the ecclesiastical screen.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re keen to project the right one tonight. I was afraid you might be feeling pounce-ish again.’

‘What a stimulating thought!’ I said promptly, but when she gave an exasperated laugh I added to soothe her, ‘We’re going to have a civilized dinner. We’re not even going to mention the Jardines, not unless you want to. We’re going to talk about novels and theology and whatever else we find we have in common, and then I can tell you more – if you’re interested – about my life in Cambridge, and you can tell me more – if you wish – about life in rural Norfolk, where, so Mrs Cobden-Smith tells me, everyone talks in grunts. In other words we’re going to enjoy each other’s company and relax with no thought for the morrow.’

‘That all sounds much too good to be true,’ said Lyle drily, but she was already relaxing, and as we exchanged smiles again I decided I was finally on the brink of making substantial progress.

I myself did not relax until halfway through the meal when I discovered she was not an apostate. She had an unmistakably genuine faith and an intelligent layman’s interest in expanding its intellectual perimeter; as I had suspected, she often borrowed books from the Bishop’s library. I did say with reluctance, ‘I noticed there was no Bible in your room,’ but she replied tartly, ‘Well, at least I now know you didn’t open the drawer of my bedside table!’

I was deeply relieved. No matter how strongly I felt that Lyle was right for me I would have had no choice but to accept that she was wrong if I had uncovered evidence that she was not devout. How could one live with a woman in the closest intimacy unless she were able to understand the fundamental force in one’s life? An attraction of spiritual opposites was a disaster for any clergyman.

This hint of my more private spiritual concerns evidently aroused Lyle’s curiosity, and at the end of the meal she gave in to the temptation to enquire how I had reached my decision to be ordained. ‘And don’t just say you were called,’ she said. ‘Obviously God called you but how did He do it?’

I said easily, ‘I’d been a regular churchgoer since my last year at school when Dr Lang had given the prizes and made a speech which had caught my imagination, but although I did toy then with the idea of being a clergyman I knew my father wanted me to follow in his footsteps by becoming a solicitor in the family firm. However after a year up at Cambridge I found the law had no message for me and soon I was feeling so miserable and confused that I wrote to Dr Lang for advice. I decided that if he replied encouragingly it would mean I should consider going into the Church but if he merely replied politely through a chaplain it would mean I’d have to think again.’

‘And he replied encouragingly?’

‘He wrote a letter in his own hand and asked to see me. He wasn’t Archbishop of Canterbury then; he was Archbishop of York, and he invited me to Bishopthorpe for the weekend. Naturally I was overwhelmed. He was so very kind and understanding.’ I paused. The contrast between my past and present feelings for Lang was unexpectedly painful.

‘So of course you felt you were being called.’

‘I knew it. My father was livid but he mellowed later and now he’s very proud of my success.’ I signalled for the bill and said lightly, ‘So much for my calling. I’m afraid it’s not very dramatic, is it? No blinding white light on the road to Damascus, no voice speaking from the clouds!’

‘I should think it was very dramatic,’ said Lyle, ‘but on a human, not a divine level. However I suppose it was only natural that your father should have been disappointed when you chose not to follow in his footsteps.’

‘Oh, it was no great tragedy,’ I said as the waiter brought the bill. ‘He got what he wanted in the end. My brother Peter took my place in the family firm and everyone lived happily ever after.’

‘Honestly? Or is that another of your extravagant romantic statements?’

‘What extravagant romantic statements?’

‘Never mind. That was a lovely dinner, Charles, and I enjoyed every mouthful. Many thanks.’

Five minutes later we were walking back along Eternity Street in the moonlight. I had offered to take her to the Staro Arms in my car but she had evidently decided that a drive
à deux
was best avoided – or perhaps the Jardines had only let her out of their sight on condition that she abstained from travelling in my chariot of sin. I had learnt no more about her relationship with them, but I had not forgotten my impression that they were conspiring to chaperone her, and no matter how often I told myself the idea was absurd I was unable to convince myself I was being irrational.

At the antiquarian bookshop which marked the end of Eternity Street we turned right and saw ahead the Cathedral Close’s gateway illuminated by the pale light of the street-lamps. The Cathedral itself, massive against the moonlit sky, loomed in the distance and assumed an eerie shadowed beauty as we began to cross the sward of the churchyard.

We were silent. It was almost eleven o’clock and the lights in the windows of the houses around us were beginning to be extinguished. At the east end of the Cathedral we reached the white gate in the churchyard wall, and before I raised the latch I hesitated. Simultaneously we moved towards each other and simultaneously we held out our arms for an embrace. The resulting kiss was full, mutual, perfect, and I felt that old, delectable satisfaction that the feminine flesh could be so entirely other yet so entirely complementary to the flesh in which I myself lived and moved and had my being. I was once more aware how small she was, how delicately made, and beyond this awareness I was conscious how densely my desire was spreading through my body as it drove away all doubt, all difficulty and all despair. I wanted to go on kissing her. I wanted to go on generating the heat which fired that exquisite force beyond description, but she broke away, dragging open the gate in the wall and running off along the East Walk.

I caught up with her halfway down the palace drive.

‘My God, what a fool I am!’ she gasped, pausing to scrabble frantically in her bag for her latchkey. ‘What a fool!’

‘You’re only a fool to say you’re a fool! When are you coming to Cambridge to visit me?’

‘Never.’ She finally found the key. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, I despise myself, I absolutely vowed I wouldn’t lead you on –’

‘What on earth’s going on in this house?’

‘Nothing!’ As she succeeded in opening the door I saw her eyes were bright with tears.

I grabbed her for another kiss and although she tried to push me away I held her tightly. ‘Are you in love with him?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! No, of course not!’

‘Are you in love with her?’

‘What?
’ She was so appalled that she even forgot to struggle.

‘Then there’s absolutely no reason why you can’t be in love with me. Look, darling –’

Voices echoed in the distance, and as the grip of my arms automatically slackened she broke away, rushing over the threshold to safety. I paused to wipe her lipstick from my mouth, and by the time I entered the hall she was already vanishing upstairs.

I closed the door just as the Bishop’s departing dinner-guests began to stream out of the drawing-room, and when Mrs Jardine made a confused attempt to introduce me I was obliged to linger in the hall. Eventually the last guest departed but Mrs Jardine, smiling brightly, forestalled my attempt to slip away up the staircase.

‘Did you have a nice evening, Dr Ashworth? It’s such a good thing for Lyle to get out and about with someone her own age, and I’m sure the outing cheered her up tremendously! She was so depressed about the Coronation.’

The Bishop’s harsh voice immediately exclaimed, ‘Carrie!’

Mrs Jardine jumped. ‘Oh Alex, I’m sorry, I –’

‘Lyle’s quite recovered from all that now.’

‘Yes, of course she has – dearest Lyle, she’s always so contented – well, we all are, aren’t we? And Dr Ashworth, what a mercy the weather stayed fine for you this evening! It must have been so delightful in the river-garden of the Staro Arms!’

I told myself I was going to solve the mystery of Lyle Christie even if it proved to be my last accomplishment on earth.

As I walked to the Cathedral the next morning with the Bishop to assist him at the early service I was not expecting to be engaged in conversation. Silence is preferable before a profound act of worship, but on leaving the house Jardine said casually, ‘I’m glad you enjoyed your dinner at the Staro Arms. Rather an attractive example of a medieval inn, I’ve always thought.’

‘Yes, very.’

‘And as my wife said last night, it’s good for Lyle to get out and about with someone her own age.’ As we passed through the palace gateway he fidgeted for a moment with his pectoral cross before adding, ‘Why my wife chose to bring up the subject of the Coronation I can’t think. It’s true Lyle was depressed at the time because she couldn’t participate in the event as Carrie and I did, but she stayed at home by her own choice. I offered to get her a ticket for one of the stands in Parliament Square, but she was absolutely resolute in declining … Were you yourself in London for the Coronation?’

‘I had a seat in the Haymarket.’

‘It was a magnificent ceremony,’ said the Bishop, ‘but I was infernally hot in my cope and the hours of standing about were hard on the older bishops.’ He paused but as we reached the Dean’s door, the private entrance for the clergy, he said very courteously, ‘Well, Canon, I’m delighted to have you with me this morning – welcome once more to the Cathedral!’

I murmured my thanks, but on my way to the vestry I found myself wondering what – if anything – these casual comments on the Coronation had been designed to hide.

Lyle was absent from Communion, and as I helped the Bishop administer the sacrament I felt more bewildered than ever. A kiss with an unmarried man hardly constituted a sin serious enough to remove her from a state of grace. I decided she must have overslept but I remained worried, particularly since I knew she was a regular Sunday communicant, and later I realized that Jardine was worried too. I heard him say to his wife who was waiting for us after the service, ‘What’s happened to Lyle?’

‘She said she was feeling a little frail, poor dear. I told her to go back to bed.’

‘But Lyle never feels frail!’ In his concern the Bishop sounded outraged.

‘Well no, dearest, not usually, but any woman can have a frail day once in a while.’