Glittering Images (3 page)

‘I still go to the Abbot of the Fordite monks at Grantchester.’

‘Ah yes, Father Reid. I wish I had the time to call on him while I’m in Cambridge, but alas! One is always so monstrously busy.’ Lang made a theatrical gesture of despair, glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. My audience was drawing to an end.

I asked for his blessing, and when he gave it to me I was aware of his gifts as a churchman; I remembered how his care and concern had sustained me during the difficult years both before and after my ordination; I recalled how his generosity of spirit, glamorously displayed, had sparked my understanding that Christianity could be not a pallid priggish way of life but a glittering realization of one’s finest possibilities. People can be led to Christianity by infinitely diverse routes, and there was no denying that I had been led by Lang’s worldly success to the creed which rated worldly success unimportant. Beyond the glittering image lay the stark absolute truth. It was a juxtaposition which had fascinated me ever since I had decided to be a clergyman, but as I now looked without effort past Lang’s worldly glamour to all the flaws of his powerful personality, I was conscious of amazement that he should have had such an influence on my life. How had this vain, pompous, arid old bachelor ever inspired me to a discipleship which emphasized the humility and simplicity of Christ? The inspiration struck me as little short of miraculous, but then guilt assailed me because although I owed Lang so much I could no longer view him through those rose-tinted spectacles which I had worn with such unquestioning ease in the past.

He departed. The ensuing solitude came as a relief, and retiring at once to my bedroom I stripped off both gown and cassock before pausing to light a cigarette. At once I felt more relaxed, and as soon as I was dressed with the minimum of formality, I returned to my sitting-room, mixed myself a substantial whisky and soda and began to contemplate my mission to Starbridge.

The more I considered the situation the less enamoured of it I became. It would involve me in deception; although it could be argued by any student of moral philosophy that the welfare of the Church justified a little espionage by the Archbishop’s henchman, I was averse to involving myself in one of those situations where the end was held to justify the means. When I had cited Jesuitical casuistry earlier, Lang had all but quoted Shakespeare’s line: ‘This is the English, not the Turkish court,’ but nevertheless I did wonder, as I recalled our conversation, what game Lang was really playing.

Jardine had humiliated him during that debate in the House of Lords ten days ago. ‘What are the ordinary people of England to think,’ the Bishop had demanded in fury, ‘when on one of the great moral issues of the day the Archbishop of Canterbury says with a conspicuous lack of courage that he can vote neither for this bill nor against it? Is this leadership? Is this the great ecclesiastical pearl of wisdom which so many people have been eagerly awaiting? Is this the ultimate fate of the Church of England – to be led into the wilderness of moral confusion by a septuagenarian Scot who has apparently lost touch with those whom he purports to serve?’

I thought Lang would want to get rid of Jardine after that performance, and the only way Lang could rid himself of a turbulent bishop without a scandal was to find evidence of a disabling impropriety so that a resignation could be extorted in private. In other words, I suspected that I was being used not merely to safeguard the Church but to promote a secret war between two of the country’s leading churchmen.

This was a most unedifying thought. As I followed my Sunday evening custom of making myself a cheese sandwich in the little pantry attached to my rooms, I wondered if I could extricate myself from Lang’s scheme but I could see no way out. I had committed myself. I could hardly admit now that I was suffering debilitating doubts. Lang would be most displeased, and incurring my Archbishop’s displeasure was a prospect on which I had no wish to dwell. I decided my best hope of resolving the dilemma lay in proving Jardine’s private life was as pure as driven snow with the result that the Archbishop’s Machiavellian plans would collapse in an unconsummated heap, but the next moment I was asking myself how likely it was that Jardine was an episcopal saint. Even if one ruled out the possibility of a fatal error there was still room for a variety of smuts on the driven snow; the thought of flirtatious behaviour at dinner parties was not encouraging.

I finished my second whisky, ate my sandwich and brewed myself some coffee. Then I decided to embark on some preliminary research by talking to two people who almost certainly knew more about Jardine than I did.

My first telephone call was to a London friend who worked for
The Church Gazette.
We had been up at Cambridge together as undergraduates, and later when I had been Lang’s chaplain and Jack had begun his career as an ecclesiastical journalist it had suited us both to maintain our friendship.

‘I confess I’m ringing you out of sheer vulgar curiosity,’ I said after the conventional enquiries had been exchanged. ‘I’m about to stay at the episcopal palace at Starbridge – what can you tell me about its current tenant?’

‘Ah, the vampire who feeds on the blood of pompous archbishops! Brush up your theories on the Virgin Birth, Charles, take a gun and shoot straight from the hip – after dinner at Starbridge when the lovely ladies have withdrawn the conversation will be guaranteed to put you through your theological paces.’

‘Are you deliberately trying to frighten me?’

‘Oh, don’t despair of survival! He likes theologians – they give him a good run for his money. But why are you offering yourself to Jardine for shooting practice?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder. Tell me more about these lovely ladies I shall meet at the dinner table.’

‘The gossips say no man receives an invitation to dine unless he has an attractive wife, but I dare say that’s an exaggeration.’

‘What’s Jardine’s own wife like?’

‘She’s a wonderful, fluffy little thing with a heart of gold and a stunning selection of tea gowns. Everyone adores her. Her favourite topic of conversation’s the weather.’

‘That must make a welcome change from the Virgin Birth. And isn’t there a good-looking companion in the household? What do I talk about with her?’

‘Don’t get excited, Charles – curb your natural inclination to indulge in impure thoughts! Miss Christie’s the original ice-maiden. Starbridge is littered with the bones of those who have died of unrequited love for that particular lady.’

‘Well, I wasn’t seriously expecting to find a nymphomaniac lodged at the episcopal palace –’

‘No, Jardine knows when to play safe. Lovely ladies, preferably titled and always chaperoned by their boring old husbands, are more in his line than nymphomaniacs and ice-maidens. No scandal, of course. He just likes to look and chat.’

‘No doubt he enjoys the chance to talk of subjects other than the weather.’

‘Ah, so you’ve heard the rumour that the Jardines’ marriage has died of boredom, but don’t you believe it, old chap! Mrs Jardine’s still pretty as a picture and I shouldn’t think Jardine gives a damn about her intellect once the lights are out in the episcopal bedchamber.’

‘Jack, are you still working for
The Church Gazette
? You’re sounding exactly like a hack from
The News of the World
!’

‘Nonsense! There’s nothing scandalous about a bishop who sleeps with his wife.
The News of the World
would only bat an eyelid if he started sleeping with someone else, but as far as I know –’

‘Yes, how much of this prurient rigmarole of yours is hearsay and how much is first-hand information?’

‘Well, naturally I’m in league with the chaplain but since he always presents his hero as a cross between St Paul and Sir Galahad he’s hardly a source of spicy gossip. However I do have first-hand experience of the Jardines. Last March I was invited down to Starbridge to report on a Church committee meeting which was discussing special Coronation services in the southern province – Jardine, as chairman, was playing host. Of course he’s rumoured to eat journalists on toast for breakfast but in fact he was very civil to me, and Mrs Jardine was a poppet. She gave me some ginger biscuits and said I reminded her of her nephew.’

‘And the luscious Miss Christie?’

‘She gave me a cool look and told me where to find the lavatory. But I think you’ll like both the Jardines, Charles, and I see no reason why you shouldn’t survive your visit with ease. Just gird your loins when the sinful vintage port starts circulating, and take a deep breath if the Bishop begins to hold forth on the Virgin Birth …’

I next telephoned a man whom I had met at theological college and who was now the incumbent of a rural parish in the Starbridge diocese. Although our paths had diverged since our ordination we had maintained our friendship by letter and I felt I could express without insincerity the hope that we might meet during my visit. However a meeting was to be impossible; he and his family were about to take their first holiday in five years. Keeping quiet about my spring visit to France I said I was sure Bournemouth would be delightful, but I was still repressing a shudder at the thought of the cheap boarding house which awaited him when he asked why I was visiting Starbridge.

To reveal that the Bishop had invited me to stay at the instigation of Dr Lang would have seemed, in the circumstances, an unforgivable piece of bragging so I merely mentioned my desire to visit the Cathedral library and said I would be calling at the palace as a courtesy. What’s your opinion of Jardine, Philip?’ I added. ‘Do you find him a good bishop?’

‘I find him an embarrassment, quite frankly. That speech in the Lords! I felt sorry for Lang. A bishop’s got no business to attack his archbishop in public.’

‘But what’s he like when he’s doing his job instead of chasing every headline in Fleet Street?’

‘Why ask me? I usually only see him once a year for confirmations.’

‘But don’t confirmations give a good indication of a bishop’s conscientiousness? There’s a world of difference between a bishop who can barely disguise the fact that he’s treading a very well-worn path and a bishop who makes the candidates feel the occasion’s as special for him as it is for them.’

‘True,’ said Philip reluctantly. ‘Well, I have to admit Jardine can’t be faulted there – although when he first became bishop five years ago he did seem
distrait.
However, I put that down to lack of experience. The next year he was quite different, very much in command before the candidates, very relaxed behind the scenes, but all the same … I’ve heard he can be an absolute terror.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he’s supposed to be at his worst when a clergyman wants to get married. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about clergymen being ruined by unsuitable wives, and if he doesn’t think a clerical fiancée’s going to make the grade as a vicar’s wife he has no hesitation in saying so. It makes one wonder about his own marriage – rumour has it that Mrs Jardine’s delightful but incompetent and that the real power at the palace is her companion.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about Miss Christie. Jack Ryder paints her as a
femme fatale.
’

‘What rubbish! She wouldn’t have lasted ten years in a bishop’s household unless she was propriety personified!’

‘But she’s attractive, isn’t she? Wouldn’t it have been safer to engage a companion who looked like the back end of a tram?’

‘Jardine’s the kind of man who would baulk at confronting the back end of a tram every morning at the breakfast table.’

‘Philip,’ I said amused, ‘I’m receiving the clear impression that you don’t like him, but is this solely because he attacks his archbishop in public and demolishes clerical fiancées? Neither of these unfortunate habits can have affected you personally.’

‘No, thank God Mary and I tied the knot while Jardine was still Dean of Radbury! I don’t dislike him, Charles – he’s always been charming both to Mary and to me – but I do disapprove of him. I think he’s far too worldly, and he’s got a very flashy
nouveau riche
streak which should have been ironed out before he was let loose on an income of several thousand a year. I’ll never forget the garden party he gave for the diocesan clergy two years ago – talk about extravagance! I was shocked. I kept thinking what all the catering must have cost and calculating how many poor people in my parish could have benefited from the money.’

‘My dear Philip! Aren’t you being a little churlish about your generous bishop?’

‘Perhaps. And perhaps you live in an ivory tower, Charles, and don’t know what’s really going on in the world. How long has it been since you visited a house where the husband’s been unemployed since the Slump, the wife’s half-dead with TB and the children have rickets as well as lice?’

There was a silence.

At last Philip said rapidly: ‘I’m sorry –’

I interrupted him. ‘I’m very conscious, believe me,’ I said, ‘that I lack experience at the parish level.’

‘Nevertheless I shouldn’t have implied –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ There was another pause before I added: ‘Well, I’m sorry I shan’t be seeing you, Philip. Perhaps next time –’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Next time.’

But we both knew ‘next time’ was a long way away.

On the following morning the Archbishop telephoned to inform me that I should present myself at the palace early on Wednesday evening; Jardine had professed delight at the prospect of offering me hospitality, a profession which Lang cynically suspected derived from a guilty wish to make amends for the bellicose speech in the House of Lords. ‘… and I’m sure he’ll give you a warm welcome, Charles,’ was the Archbishop’s dry conclusion.