Glittering Images (7 page)

‘It’s all right. My hypocrisy got what it deserved. Sorry I took such a cheap way out.’ The conversation was now so far removed from any dialogue I could have foreseen that I was unable to sustain it. Moving to the hearth, the glass of port in my hand, I pretended to examine the carvings on the chimneypiece.

‘Now that,’ said Jardine, ‘is a very remarkable apology. You’re beginning to interest me exceedingly, Dr Ashworth.’ Although I had my back to him, I heard the splash as he refilled his glass. ‘First of all I was tempted to write you off as just another of Lang’s bright young men,’ he was saying, ‘but the truth’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? You no longer find the required mask of sycophancy easy to wear.’

I finished my port before saying, ‘I’m very much in Dr Lang’s debt.’

‘Of course you are. Men of power have a knack of building up extensive credit, but if one is in a position of power,’ said Jardine, moving over to me with the decanter in his hand, ‘one must always be scrupulously careful not to bankrupt one’s debtors by demanding inappropriate methods of repayment. More port?’

‘Thank you.’ I held out my glass with a steady hand.

‘May I give you a word of advice? Your first duty, debts or no debts, is not to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Your first duty is to God who created you as a unique individual in his own image, not as a miraculous facsimile of Dr Lang. Be yourself, Dr Ashworth. Be the man God intended you to be, not the sycophant His Grace’s vanity would prefer. And now,’ said Jardine, having refilled my glass, ‘I shall stop preaching and we shall divert ourselves very briefly, before we join the ladies, by ruminating on an issue which to me is of far greater interest than dear old St Anselm’s meditations. I refer to the search for the historical Jesus – do you think we can ever see beyond the shining image of the Gospels to the man he really was?’

‘I think it can be unproductive to probe behind glittering images,’ I said, ‘and with all due respect I believe your generation has been too preoccupied with Christ’s humanity at the expense of his divinity.’

Jardine smiled. ‘You think that in pursuing the concept of the immanence of God in mankind we’ve wound up losing sight of God and following mankind, as represented by Christ, down a historical blind alley?’

‘Exactly. Speaking for myself, I’m much more interested in the modern doctrines asserting God’s transcendence and the importance of revelation – I think we should focus on the message Christ presented, not on the shadowy figure behind the glittering image,’ I said firmly, and escaping with profound relief into the world of scholarship, I began to talk of the writings of Karl Barth and the challenge of Crisis Theology.

On our return to the drawing-room Jardine announced: ‘I’m glad to say that Dr Ashworth and I have quite resolved our differences so there’s no need for anyone to remain embarrassed by our debate … Lady Starmouth, come outside and take a turn with me on the terrace.’

‘Coffee, Dr Ashworth?’ called Miss Christie.

‘Yes – thank you.’ I was just moving towards her with alacrity when I was intercepted by a distraught Mrs Jardine.

‘Dr Ashworth, I’m so very sorry – my husband was terribly upset afterwards, I know he was – it was when you mentioned the baby –’ As she broke off I saw to my horror that her eyes were full of tears.

‘My dear Mrs Jardine – please – don’t distress yourself –’

But Miss Christie had come to the rescue. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said to Mrs Jardine, and I was struck by her use of an endearment. ‘Dr Ashworth understands. Come and sit down – Mrs Jennings and I were just discussing the choirboys’ concert.’ And passing me my cup of coffee she steered Mrs Jardine to the cluster of chairs where Mrs Jennings was waiting. I found myself abandoned to the company of the Cobden-Smiths, but Lord Starmouth was no more than six paces away by the fireplace and as our glances met he said without emphasis: ‘The Bishop’s passions get the better of him sometimes, but he’s a good man.’

‘One doesn’t look for passion in a bishop,’ said the Colonel with unexpected tartness. ‘Bad form.’

‘Very bad form,’ agreed his wife, ‘but then of course if one’s not brought up to know the difference between good form and bad form one’s bound to cause chaos in later life.’

‘Steady on, Amy!’

‘But my dear, Alex is the first to admit his upbringing left a lot to be desired! That peculiar old father and that dreadful little villa in Putney –’

‘The great thing about the Bishop,’ said Lord Starmouth, ‘is that he’ll own to the little villa in Putney. A lesser man would simply draw a veil over it.’

‘He had the veil firmly in place when he met Carrie,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘Steady
on,
Amy!’ The Colonel was now clearly nervous. He shot a wary glance in my direction, but I was more interested in Miss Christie; she had left Mrs Jardine, now happily talking about choirboys to Mrs Jennings, and was approaching us with the coffee-pot.

‘Is Carrie all right?’ murmured the Colonel as his cup was refilled.

‘Yes, all’s well, Colonel, don’t worry.’

‘Dr Ashworth still looks a little white around the gills,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘That hardly says much for the power of the Bishop’s port,’ said Miss Christie drily, sweeping away again with the coffee-pot.

‘That’s a very strange girl,’ mused Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘but so good with Carrie.’

I said casually, ‘She must be a great asset in the household.’

‘That hardly does her justice. When I think of that time at Radbury before her arrival –’

‘My dear,’ said the Colonel with surprising firmness, ‘I don’t think we’ll talk about that at present, if you please.’

I was disappointed, and with reluctance I realized that it might pay me later to cultivate Mrs Cobden-Smith.

I had apparently resumed my role of spy. Did this mean I was regaining my equilibrium after the bizarre scene with Jardine? I supposed it did, yet I had no wish to think of spying and no desire whatsoever to dwell on bizarre scenes. Easing myself away from the Cobden-Smiths I succeeded in cornering Miss Christie at the side-table where she was stacking the coffee-cups on to a tray.

‘What time is Communion tomorrow?’ I said, offering the most inoffensive question I could devise.

‘Eight o’clock. Breakfast is at nine.’ She looked past me at the drawing-room door. ‘Here come Mr Jennings and Gerald – will you excuse me? I must order fresh coffee for them.’

I lost her, and it occurred to me then that a quiet mild approach was going to make no impression whatsoever on Miss Christie. However if she thought she could brush me aside merely by juggling coffee-cups she had made a big mistake.

I resolved to adopt a much tougher line in future.

It was after eleven when I regained the sanctuary of my room, and having stripped off my clothes I smoked a cigarette as I tried to work out what had happened. Some strange bond seemed to have been forged between me and my host but it seemed to be my duty to ignore it. It was not my business either to like or to loathe Jardine; my task was merely to estimate how vulnerable he was to scandal.

However I found I now had a stronger desire than before not to connive with Lang in any secret plan to oust Jardine from the Bench of Bishops. Jardine was clearly innocent. A man of such integrity would be incapable of living a secret life as an apostate steeped in adultery, and I was also sure he was far too shrewd to engage in any middle-aged folly which fell short of an adulterous liaison. It seemed obvious that he exercised his flirtatious streak harmlessly with his lovely ladies and had long treated Miss Christie as part of the palace furniture.

This conclusion was reassuring enough, but I still had to answer the question of what went on in Miss Christie’s mind while Jardine behaved like the good man he undoubtedly was. I reminded myself that Jardine could still be vulnerable to scandal if Miss Christie decided to play the neurotic spinster by transforming herself into a furnace of frustrated passion, and although she hardly gave the impression of being a neurotic spinster I felt there was something odd about her extreme self-containment.

I decided I had a moral duty to investigate Miss Christie further and an absolute moral duty to discover how likely she was to transform herself into a furnace of passion.

No Jesuit could have achieved a more satisfying casuistry. With a smile I stubbed out my cigarette, retired to bed and began to plot my espionage for the morrow.

‘I have seen so many clerical careers arrested, and (to all outward seeming) definitely marred, by the clergyman’s marriage, that I never hear of a clergyman’s becoming “engaged” without a shiver of anxiety.’

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

I awoke violently at seven. Naturally I had been dreaming of Miss Christie. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, but I decided that I had no excuse for breaking any of the minor rules by which I achieved self-discipline, and one of those rules was that I never smoked before breakfast. With an effort I read the morning office. Then making another random dip into the Bible I eventually encountered the appropriate words: ‘Seek and ye shall find’.

As I dressed it occurred to me that I still had to seek and find a great many facts about Jardine before I could report convincingly to Lang that the Bishop’s private life was as pure as driven snow; my impression of innocence would carry little weight unless it were supported by a thorough understanding of Jardine’s psychology, and I could hardly establish a psychological portrait without much more information about his past. Apart from gauging Miss Christie’s ability to become a furnace of passion my main task was clearly to talk to as many people as possible about the Bishop without making them suspect they were being interrogated, but I doubted that this would prove difficult. People always enjoy a gossip about a famous man, and when a famous man is personally known to them the temptation to reveal how much they know is all the greater.

Leaving my room, I padded downstairs. I met no one, although I could hear the distant rattling and banging of servants pursuing their early morning rituals. Opening the front door I stepped out into the porch, and the brilliant sunlight flooded into my eyes so that for a second I saw only a shimmering green pattern of beech leaves and grass. Beyond the drive the pale stone of the Cathedral soared into a cloudless sky, and after opening the white gate which was set in the wall of the churchyard I headed along the north side of the building to the porch.

A passing verger directed me to St Anselm’s Chapel where the weekday Communion services were held. There was no time to gape at the glory of the nave; I wanted to clear my mind in preparation for worship, and as soon as I had chosen my seat in the chapel I knelt to sharpen my concentration. However I had instantly noted Miss Christie’s absence.

This failed to surprise me. Weekday Communion is seldom attended by hordes of laymen, and in fact I saw no one I knew from the palace in the small congregation. Then Gerald Harvey hurried into the row behind me, and seconds later at eight o’clock the Dean and the Bishop appeared, preceded by the verger.

As the service progressed I thought how preposterous it was to imagine a bishop administering the sacrament when he was not in a state of grace, and again I remembered the integrity which had emanated from Jardine during our private conversation over the port.

My moment came to receive the sacrament. Erasing all thought of my commission I focused my mind on the spiritual reality confronting me and it was not until I had returned to my seat that I allowed myself to think again of Jardine. I vowed to remember that my first duty was not to the Archbishop of Canterbury. I asked for the strength to overcome my weaknesses. And at the conclusion of the service I let the familiar prayer of Christ echo in my mind: Let thy will, not mine, be done.

Lang’s will immediately became as unimportant as my own. I felt comforted, and rising to my feet at last I left the chapel to find Gerald Harvey hovering in the side-aisle.

‘Waiting for the Bishop?’ I enquired with a smile.

‘No, for you.’

I was impressed by this courtesy and at once I felt guilty that I had written him off as ineffectual. ‘How nice of you,’ I said. ‘Sorry I’ve kept you hanging about.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t apologize for taking extra time for prayer!’ said Harvey shocked. He was so young and ingenuous that he made me feel old and world-weary. ‘How did you like the service?’

I paid the Bishop a suitable compliment and was glad I did not have to be insincere for the sake of politeness. We walked through the porch on to the sward. Beyond the wall of the churchyard the houses of the Close basked in the sun and a horse was drawing a milk-cart slowly along the North Walk. I could hear the birds singing in the cedar tree nearby.

‘I must confess the Bishop intrigues me,’ I said idly at last. ‘What would you say was the fundamental nature of his belief? God-centred? Christ-centred? Rooted in the Trinity?’

‘Well, it’s all those things,’ said Harvey, ‘but I suppose he’s fundamentally Christocentric. He has an overriding belief not just in Christ’s compassion and forgiveness but in Christ’s honesty and truth, and that’s why he can’t bear hypocrisy – he sees it as a re-enactment of the Pharisees’ behaviour in the Gospels and he feels called to attack it just as Our Lord did.’ He shot me a shy glance. ‘Please forgive him for last night,’ he said rapidly. ‘He didn’t mean to hurt you. He just misjudged your sincerity – I think he suspected you’d only adopted your point of view out of loyalty to Dr Lang and of course he was wrong, but anyone can make a mistake, can’t they, and he really is the most wonderful man, absolutely the best, believe me.’