Glittering Images (4 page)

‘Did he remember meeting me last year?’

‘Of course! When I mentioned your name he said: “Ah yes, the young canon from Cambridge who thinks the world began not with Adam and Eve but with the Council of Nicaea!”’

So Jardine had at least glanced at the book which had made my name in theological circles. He himself had published no work of historical scholarship, but that never deterred him from writing trenchant reviews of other people’s efforts and I had been surprised as well as relieved when my own book had escaped his characteristic literary butchery. How the escape had been achieved I was uncertain, but possibly he found any discussion of Arianism boring and had decided to rest his pen.

These thoughts about scholarship reminded me that I had not yet decided why I should need to consult the library of Starbridge Cathedral, and aware how important it was that my need should be convincing I spent some time pondering on the problem before I devised a stratagem which would enable me to tell the truth. I had long been contemplating the revision of my lecture notes on medieval thought. I now decided that my undergraduates were going to learn more about St Anselm, and as a conscientious lecturer I naturally felt obliged to cast a glance over Starbridge’s early manuscript of
The Prayers and Meditations.

I suffered a further moment of uneasiness as I contemplated the duplicity inherent in this decision, but then I pulled myself together with the thought that no harm could come to me even if Jardine were steeped in apostasy. On the contrary, Lang was bound to be grateful for my help with the result that I would inevitably emerge from the affair with my future prospects in the Church enhanced.

Casting my last doubt aside I began to prepare for my journey.

So I came at last to Starbridge, radiant ravishing Starbridge, immortalized by famous artists, photographed by innumerable visitors and lauded by guidebooks as the most beautiful city west of the Avon. I could remember clearly from my previous visit as an undergraduate the medieval streets, the flower-filled parks and the languid river which curved in an are around the mound on which the Cathedral stood. The Cathedral itself dominated not only the city but the valley. Wider than Winchester, longer than Canterbury, set in a walled precinct which was even larger than the close at Salisbury, Starbridge Cathedral was renowned for embodying in pale stone and vivid glass the most glittering of medieval visions.

The city itself was small, and being encircled on three sides by the river it still gave an impression of compactness despite the recent housing development to the cast. It lay snugly in the middle of its green valley like a jewel displayed on velvet, and the smooth slopes of the surrounding hills added to the impression that the landscape had been designed in order to show the city to its best advantage.

The diocese was primarily rural but it included the port of Starmouth with its sprawling slums so there was a dark underside to the tranquillity which formed the stranger’s immediate impression of the area. Nonetheless I thought Jardine was probably well pleased with his latest preferment. The diocese was rich; his income was well to the fore among episcopal salaries. London was easily accessible by train, a fact which meant he could keep in close touch with the centres of power, both secular and ecclesiastical, and the bishopric conferred an immediate right to a seat in the House of Lords, a privilege not accompanying the majority of bishoprics where the incumbents had to wait their turn for an ecclesiastical seat to fall vacant. Starbridge was not Canterbury and it was not York but it was plush, privileged and pleasing to the eye, and no doubt there were many among Jardine’s episcopal brethren who envied him.

I had decided to travel to Starbridge in my car, not the sports car which I inevitably found myself driving whenever I dreamt of motors, but the respectable little Baby Austin which was cheap to run and easy to manipulate out of tight corners in the busy streets of Cambridge. Whenever I hankered for an MG I reminded myself how fortunate I was to have even an Austin. Most clergymen could not afford a car, and in fact motors were still regarded by the older bishops as an evil which lured parsons on jaunts away from their parishes.

The road began to curve among hills as I approached Starbridge, and soon I glimpsed the Cathedral in the distance. The road curved again, the spire vanished, but at the next twist it was once more visible, slim and ethereal, a symbol of man’s inchoate yearning to reach upwards to the infinite. As the road continued to wind I felt as if it were mirroring life itself, granting glimpses of transcendence only to rush on before the transcendence could be fully experienced, but finally the last fold in the road lay behind me and I could see the entire city shimmering in the valley below.

This view over a settlement was very old. The Romans had built their city Starovinium on the ruined encampment of the British tribe the Starobrigantes, and the ancient name still survived in city landmarks and on official documents. The Bishop, who was theoretically married to his diocese, was entitled to use the surname Staro in his correspondence, and I had proof of this tradition in my pocket. Jardine himself had sent a letter to welcome me to Starbridge.

‘My dear Dr Ashworth,’ he had written in a bold striking hand, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury has informed me that you wish to pursue your studies in the Cathedral library, and may I now confirm that you would be most welcome to stay at the palace from the evening of July the seventh until the morning of the tenth. His Grace thought you would probably arrive by motor, but should you prefer to travel by train, please send a wire to my chaplain, Gerald Harvey, who will arrange for my chauffeur to meet you at the station. His Grace also thought that you would not wish to stay more than three nights, but if you should decide to prolong your visit I hope you will assist me at the early service of Holy Communion in the Cathedral on Sunday. In looking forward to the renewal of our acquaintance, Dr Ashworth, I send my best wishes for a safe journey, and assure you that I remain yours very sincerely,
ADAM
A
LEXANDER STARO.’

The auguries for my visit could hardly have been more favourable. Descending from the hills I drove across the floor of the valley and finally entered the city.

The crooked medieval streets were confusing but the way to the Cathedral was signposted and I soon found myself at the gateway of the Close. Slowing the car to a crawl I asked the constable on duty to direct me to the palace; my memory of the Close was hazy.

I drove on, and the next moment the Cathedral was towering above me in an overpowering display of architectural virtuosity. There had been no later additions, no ill-judged alterations. Built during the short span of forty years the Cathedral was uniform, untouched, unspoilt, a monument to faith, genius and the glory of English Perpendicular.

I drove down the North Walk with the vast sward of the churchyard on my right. On my left the ancient houses, dissimilar in style yet harmonious in their individual beauty, provided the perfect foil to the Cathedral’s splendour, and as I turned south into the East Walk I experienced that sense of time continuing, an awareness which is never more insistent than in a place where a long span of the past is visually present.

At the end of the East Walk the palace gates stood open and within seconds I was confronting the palace itself, a Victorian ‘improvement’ on the original Tudor building which had been destroyed by fire in the last century. Dr Jardine’s home was a mock-Gothic travesty built in the same pale stone as the Cathedral, but it was not unpleasing. Smooth lawns and ancient beech trees framed the house, and above the porch the arms of Starbridge were carved in the stone in a brave attempt to unite medieval custom with a wayward Victorian illusion.

Parking my car in a secluded corner of the forecourt I extracted my bag and paused to listen. The birds were singing; the leaves of the beech trees were a brilliant green against the cloudless sky; the town beyond the walls of the Close might have been a hundred miles away. Again I sensed time continuing. I was standing in twentieth-century England yet at the same time I felt a mere pace away from a past which contained the seeds of an alluring future, and suddenly I forgot the harsh realities of the present, the horror of Hitler, the agony of the Spanish Civil War, the despair of those whose lives had been ruined by the Slump. I was conscious only of my privileged good fortune as I allowed myself to be seduced by the subtle glamour of Starbridge, and running up the steps to the front door I rang the bell with all the eagerness of an actor who could barely wait for his cue to walk onstage.

The door was opened by a butler who looked like a character from a Trollope novel – a worldly version of Mr Harding, perhaps – and I stepped into a vast dark hall. Beyond some mock-Gothic furniture of varying degrees of ugliness a handsome staircase rose to the gallery. The walls were adorned with dim portraits of nineteenth-century gentlemen in clerical dress.

‘If you’d care to come this way, sir …’ The butler had already taken the bag from my hand when a woman emerged from the far end of the hall. As the butler paused at once I paused beside him, and the woman moved swiftly, smoothly, silently towards us through the shadows.

‘Dr Ashworth?’ She held out a slim hand. ‘Welcome to Starbridge. I’m Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine’s companion.’

I took her hand in mine and knew without a second’s hesitation that I wanted her.

‘I pleasantly assured him that in my belief, based on the experience of a long ministry, it would be roughly true to say of the married clergy of the Church of England that probably fifty per cent were ruined by their wives and fifty per cent were saved.’

Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson
Bishop of Durham 1920–1939
ed. E. F. BRALEY.

No one had described Miss Christie to me, and Jack’s reference to an ice-maiden had evoked an image of a tall blonde. However Miss Christie was small, no more than five foot two, with slender ankles, a slim waist, reddish hair and black-lashed dark eyes. She also possessed high cheekbones, a delicately moulded but very firm chin and a subtle mouth which somehow reinforced this hint of a determined character while conveying an impression of sensuality. Her make-up was discreet; her grey skirt and white blouse were restrained in taste, as befitted a lady’s companion in a clerical household; I thought her alluring beyond description, and my first coherent thought was: how could he resist her? Yet I knew that this was a wild question which failed to reflect the reality of the situation. Unless he was an apostate Jardine had no choice but to resist, yet such was Miss Christie’s allure that for the first time I seriously considered the possibility of apostasy.

She showed me to my room. I managed to maintain a polite conversation as we ascended the stairs, but all the time I was thinking about Jardine in the light of what I now knew of Miss Christie. As I calmed down I dismissed the melodramatic notion of apostasy but I now began to wonder if Jardine’s inclination to form harmless friendships with good-looking women was his way of deflecting an inclination which was not harmless at all.

I roused myself from these speculations as Miss Christie led the way into a large bright room sombrely adorned with more massive Victorian furniture. Beyond the window the garden stretched downhill to the river, and on the far side of the sparkling water cows were grazing among the buttercups in the meadows. Starbridge lay east of this outmost curve of the river, and to the west the farmlands stretched across the valley to the hills.

‘What a beautiful view!’ I said as the butler deposited my bag and departed. Miss Christie had moved to the vase on top of the chest of drawers and was restoring the symmetry of the flower arrangement by adjusting an errant rose.

‘The bathroom is at the end of the corridor,’ she said, evidently finding my comment on the view too mundane to merit even a murmur of agreement. ‘Dinner is at eight but we assemble for cocktails in the drawing-room at any time after quarter-past seven. The water’s hot every evening from six o’clock onwards. I trust you have everything you require, Dr Ashworth, but if by any chance something’s been forgotten do please ring the bell by your bedside.’

I thanked her. She gave a brief formal smile and the next moment I was alone.

There was a bible placed on the bedside table to remind visitors that despite the grandeur of their surroundings they were in a clerical household, and in an effort to distract my mind from the temptation to meander down carnal byways I opened the pages in search of an edifying quotation. However this random dip produced only Ezekiel’s diatribe against the harlot. Still thinking of Miss Christie I ploughed forward into the New Testament and eventually found myself lingering on the text: ‘For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.’

That seemed like a good omen for an espionage agent. I closed the bible. Then after visiting the regal lavatory, which remained as a sumptuous memorial to Victorian plumbing, I unpacked my bag and sat down with my prayer book to read the evening office.

When I closed my prayer book the time was half-past six. I stripped, washed at the basin to erase all trace of my journey, and decided to shave. I did not usually shave twice a day but I wanted to appear thoroughly well groomed, not only to impress Miss Christie but to impress the Bishop. I sensed Jardine might have strong views on the obligation of a clergyman to present a neat appearance to the world; he himself had been very smart, very dapper, when I had encountered him in Cambridge eight months ago.