Glittering Images (27 page)

‘No.’ Loretta shook her head. ‘That definitely has to be a fantasy. Old Jardine had no education and didn’t know any better, but Alex would know that kind of marriage had no validity. And anyway, damn it, he wasn’t free to marry!’

‘Obviously before he talked himself into an informal marriage he talked himself into an informal divorce. Have you heard of the A. P. Herbert Bill? Parliament’s about to extend the grounds for divorce but I think Jardine’s views go far further than the new law. He believes that a prima facie case for divorce exists whenever the spiritual core of the marriage is destroyed – in fact I’d say he was well in step with Martin Luther who believed that refusal of marital rights should be a ground for divorce. If Mrs Jardine was refusing to have sex –’

‘Charles, you’re in the stratosphere – for God’s sake come down to earth!’

‘But I know I’m right!’

‘And I know you’re wrong! Alex couldn’t possibly get himself in such a mess –’

‘Didn’t you say that where sex is concerned anything’s possible?’

‘You’re out of your mind!’ shouted Loretta, but added at once in a calmer voice, ‘Okay, I can see the theory’s plausible, but try to keep one truth nailed up in front of you: it hasn’t been proved.’

‘It soon will be – all I’ve got to do now is go back to Starbridge and talk to Lyle!’

‘But even if your theory’s true she’ll never admit it!’

‘Oh yes, she will! I’m going to rescue her.’

‘Charles, you’re just not in touch with reality! If your theory’s true – and I don’t think for one moment that it is – then that girl’s besotted with Alex. I say that because no woman who wasn’t besotted would ever acquiesce in the humiliation of a secret marriage.’

‘I think the marriage is breaking up.’

‘Oh, my God … Look, Charles, before you rush off to Starbridge to make some horrific exhibition of yourself, please,
please
go and see that Abbot of yours –’

‘Oh, I have to see him first, I agree. I can’t go on serving God as I should until I’ve made my confession. I’ll go back to Cambridge tonight and call on the Fordites tomorrow morning.’

‘Promise?’

I promised. She sagged in relief, and taking her in my arms I held her for a long moment.

At last she said, ‘Charles, I know we can’t meet again; I know you’ll have to put things right with God by promising there’ll be no repeat performance of this afternoon’s drama, but could you write to me? Just once? Otherwise I’ll go out of my mind wondering what on earth happened in the end.’

‘I’ll write.’

We left the spinney. It seemed a long way back to the bridge over the river. We walked in silence as I planned my next assault on Starbridge and she no doubt wondered how to convince me of its futility, but when we were within sight of the car she said, ‘Alex began to hurt here – it was terrible. He kept saying he wanted to leave his wife but he knew he’d never survive the guilt which would cut him off from God – and that was the moment when he said: “I don’t want to end up like my father”. Charles, I’m just so sure he’d never follow in the old man’s footsteps –’

‘I agree he’d never want to end up mentally unstable and spiritually wrecked, but how far can one exercise control over one’s heredity? Of course with God’s help anything’s possible, but if one turns away from God –’

‘I don’t think Alex could turn away from Freud. He had a psychological as well as a spiritual horror of immorality.’

‘But that’s exactly why he’d feel compelled to convert adultery into marriage!’

‘I give up. Let’s agree to differ,’ said Loretta, kissing me as we reached the car, but when we eventually opened the doors we found the interior was so hot that there was no temptation to linger for further embraces, and with reluctance we embarked on our return journey to Starmouth Court.

Outside the house our hands clasped and on an impulse she said, ‘Never think I don’t understand how difficult your calling is. Never think I believe you’re a bad clergyman just because for once you couldn’t live up to your ideals.’

But I only said, ‘I’ve failed you.’

‘No,’ she persisted, ‘you dream the dream. That’s all that matters. It’s just that in an imperfect world no dream can come true all the time.’

‘How comforting life must be for you soft-hearted liberal Deists! But Christianity is much tougher and more virile than that. I ignored the care of your soul in order to exploit you for my own selfish purposes. That’s acting without love and compassion. That’s sin. That’s failure.’

But still she struggled to comfort me. ‘You’re the one who’s hurt here. I exploited you every bit as much as you exploited me.’

‘That wasn’t exploitation. Your action was a cry for help as you sought an end to loneliness – a loneliness which I’ve completely failed to alleviate.’ I saw her expression change as she realized I had seen much further than she had ever intended, but I was unable to stop myself saying, ‘The psychoanalyst helped you. The Christian priest rejected you. What a travesty, what an unforgivable debasement, of the way things ought to be!’

For a moment I thought she would be unable to reply but at last she said unsteadily, ‘It’s such a beautiful dream!’ Then she struggled out of the car and ran into the house without looking back.

I drove down the dark winding drive into the valley.

It was late at night when I reached my rooms in Cambridge, and I was very tired. After a bath I drank some whisky and slid into bed.

I had not read the evening office. I had made no attempt to pray. For a long time I lay still, as if I could retain my equilibrium in the spiritual void by aping unconsciousness, but when I felt the void deepening I left the bed to pour myself another drink. In panic I focused my mind on the Starbridge mystery, that proven distraction from my problems, and later – it was around one in the morning – it began to dawn on me that I had to solve the Starbridge mystery before I could make my confession to Father Reid.

Yet I had promised Loretta I would go to the Fordites before I returned to Starbridge, and I had to keep my promise to Loretta.

I drank some more whisky.

Eventually I decided that I would call on Father Reid but only to arrange a retreat at the end of the week. Then I could go back to Starbridge, and once the mystery had been solved I could concentrate on putting my soul in order in time for the Cathedral services on Sunday.

Happy ending.

I drank another whisky as if I needed help in believing that such happiness was within my reach, and gradually as I thought of Starbridge, radiant ravishing Starbridge, that shining city which contained the key to all my secrets, I knew how deeply I was compelled to prise apart that glittering image in order to confront the stark dark truths beyond. Then in my mind’s eye I saw Jardine, not the Adam who hid behind Alex, but the bishop empowered with the
charismata,
the coruscating churchman, just the kind of churchman I wanted to be, but of course I
was
Jardine, I knew that now, and that was why I had to see him again as soon as possible.

‘I’ve got to talk to Jardine,’ I said aloud to the whisky bottle as I turned it upside down to shake the last drops into my glass. ‘He understands me. No one else does.’ And as soon as those words were uttered I knew I could never confide in Father Reid. Seeing Father Reid would be a waste of time but I had made my promise to Loretta and like all good clergymen I never broke a promise. I would see Father Reid for a brief social visit before I departed for Starbridge because I was such a good clergyman, such a brilliant success, and my father was so proud of me and yes, I’d definitely go to see Father Reid and that was final.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

The next morning I took some alka-seltzer, brewed some strong coffee and made myself read the office. I had made up my mind not to go to pieces. The bout of panic had been aggravated by my foolish lapse with the whisky, but now I had regained my equilibrium all would be well.

I drove to Grantchester, the village near Cambridge where the Fordites had their house. I had decided to pass the time with Father Reid by telling him about the St Anselm manuscript; I still intended to arrange a retreat, but now that I was sober I remained more convinced than ever that my confession could be made only to Jardine.

So difficult was it for me to face the painful reality of my situation that I was halfway to Grantchester before I perceived the obvious objection to my plan. Jardine would inevitably decide that our lives had become so entangled that he was disqualified from acting as my confessor. Indeed if he considered himself married to Lyle he was quite unfit to offer me spiritual counselling.

At this point I felt so confused that I stopped the car. I felt unable to speak of Loretta to anyone but Jardine because it seemed to me that only someone who had made an identical error would be able to summon the compassionate understanding necessary for granting absolution. At the thought of Loretta my body stirred restlessly, and that small movement which my mind failed to control at once emphasized the overwhelming nature of my problems. Devoid of effective counselling, confronted by the utter breakdown of my celibate life, knowing myself temporarily cut off from God, I had my back to the spiritual wall.

Panic flooded through me again but I conquered it by bombarding my mind with images of Starbridge. Lyle, Jardine, Carrie – Jardine, Carrie, Lyle – Carrie, Lyle, Jardine –

Driving the last mile to Grantchester I reached the monks’ house and turned through the gateway.

The Fordite Order of St Benedict and St Bernard had been founded in the last century when an old rogue named Ford, who had made a fortune in the slave trade, came under the influence of John Henry Newman and suffered a startling conversion to Anglo-Catholicism. Shortly before Newman seceded to Rome, Ford died, leaving all his wealth to the Church of England for the purpose of founding a monastic order. His incensed widow eventually acquired a fraction of her husband’s estate, but the Fordite monks had begun as a rich community and the careful management of their resources had ensured that the community became richer still. In this prosperity they formed a striking contrast to attempts by others to lead a cenobitic life within the Church of England, attempts which usually ran into financial difficulty.

There were four houses, all granted the status of Abbey by various benign Archbishops of Canterbury, but with one exception – the boys’ school where the title had been retained to impress the parents – the word ‘Abbey’ was not used by the Order. This was because the Fordites liked to stress their separation from the Roman Catholic orders and considered that the word conjured up unfortunate images of the religious climate in England before the Reformation. Indeed although the Fordites lived a Benedictine way of life their English idiosyncrasies set them apart from traditional Benedictine communities. The title ‘Dom’ was never used either; people outside the Order were encouraged to address those monks who were ordained as if they were still Anglo-Catholic priests in the world, and apart from the London headquarters, where the Abbot-General lived in disconcerting luxury, there was a notable lack of pomp and pretentiousness in the communities.

The headquarters had once been old Ford’s townhouse, the school Starwater Abbey had been his country seat and the Ruydale estate in Yorkshire had formed part of his extensive property investments, but the house at Grantchester had been acquired long after his death for the purpose of specializing in retreats for theological students, and I had stayed there on a number of occasions both before and after my ordination. The house lay on the outskirts of the village made famous by Rupert Brooke’s poem, and was set in secluded grounds of five acres where the monks grew vegetables and kept bees. The Fordites’ Grantchester honey, recalling the poem by Brooke, was much in demand by visitors to Cambridge.

When I rang the bell that morning the front door opened so swiftly that I jumped. I had an immediate impression of improved efficiency, and the impression was strengthened by the young doorkeeper himself who was exceptionally clean and neat in his appearance. The Fordite habit, with its vague resemblance to the habit of the Trappists, underlines the idiosyncratic nature of the Order; the over-tunic is black and sleeveless but the under-tunic is white with long sleeves which tend inevitably to grubbiness. However this monk’s sleeves were sparkling white, as if he were advertising some new soap-powder, and his little brass crucifix gleamed as it hung from his leather belt.

‘Good morning!’ he said cheerfully, an impressive illustration of the contented celibate life. ‘Can I help you?’

Despite all my troubles it was impossible not to smile at him. ‘I’m Dr Ashworth from Laud’s,’ I said. ‘I was hoping Father Reid might be free to see me for a moment.’

The monk immediately became grave. ‘I’m afraid I must give you some sad news, Doctor – Father Abbot died last week and was buried on Friday.’

I was nonplussed, not merely because my plans were flung into disarray but because I had been fond enough of Father Reid to feel a keen regret that he had been separated from me. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I managed to say. ‘I shall miss him. He was my spiritual director.’ I tried to collect my thoughts. Obviously as a canon of the Cathedral I had a duty to see the new authority, express my condolences and offer him my good wishes for the future. ‘Perhaps I could see Father Andrews?’ I said tentatively, naming the officer who I assumed had taken Father Reid’s place.