Scandalous Risks (31 page)

VI

‘I’ve made a decision,’ said the Bishop, sleek in his Savile Row suit, as he absent-mindedly moved his pectoral cross to the exact centre of his purple stock. ‘I’m going to postpone my comments on the New Morality until I can gauge approximately how much space I can afford to give it. Otherwise I shall get carried away and dictate enough material to give my publishers heart failure at the thought of the production costs.’

‘Okay, Bishop.’ I could now clearly identify as relief the emotion which seeped through me
as
this new postponement was announced.

‘I want to make a stab at the opening chapter,’ Dr Ashworth was saying, ‘but before I start, could you just make a note that the depth metaphor which Robinson finds so startlingly original has of course been used by the mystics for centuries? I think I ought to point out that it doesn’t necessarily lead straight to Valentinus’ Gnostic heresy.’

I scribbled away busily.

‘Oh, and remind me to stress the role of the Devil in the propagation of heresy, would you? These starry-eyed liberal churchmen who peddle heretical theories are always so anxious to gloss over him.’

I somehow managed to scribble on without batting an eyelid.

The Devil,’ mused Dr Ashworth, ‘is a symbol representing an aspect of absolute reality. He’s not a mere fable which "modern man" can water down and redesign, and any churchman who gives the impression that the Devil’s no longer important deserves a stern rap across the knuckles ... All right, let’s make a stab at the opening chapter. Are you ready? Good, then off we go. "Chapter One: The Doctrine of God" ...’

VII

‘My darling,’ wrote Aysgarth, ‘do please forgive me for upsetting you so much up at Starbury Ring. What I was really saying, as I believe you understood in the end, was that it’s not merely preferable but
vital
that we should love each other in the right way. Then we’ll both survive. The truth is I feel I’ve driven a very special bargain with God. If I keep our love within acceptable bounds it’ll remain a blessing; it’ll continue to give me the strength to survive what is at present a tough professional and domestic life, and it will even (as I mentioned to you before) inspire me to be a better clergyman. But if I let my love stray beyond the pale, God will withdraw his blessing and (as the old-fashioned churchmen used to thunder) the Devil will move in. Of course no one seriously believes in the Devil any more – he’s just a childish image from a bygone era, like the picture of God as an old man in the sky – but one can "demythologise" the Devil by talking of him in psychological terms (alienation, dissociation) and literary metaphors (dereliction in the wasteland).

‘My darling, I want to ensure your happiness, not drive you into the wasteland of a breakdown, and you’re so special, so precious, so perfect, that I’m determined to put aside all my selfish desires in order to preserve you from harm.

‘I suspect I’m now sounding turgid in my earnestness, so let me hastily move on to another subject. The Bishop at once springs to mind, and I must confess straight away how startled I was when you leapt so loyally to his defence! Charles has, of course, a superb intellect and is without doubt a most devout Christian, but he’s a typical product of a privileged public school/Oxbridge background: all charm on top, all reactionary attitudes and snobbery and stab-you-in-the-back ruthlessness underneath. Perhaps it’s because I’m just a Yorkshire draper’s son, but the older I get the less patience I have with these pillars of the Establishment. It’s all dinner at the Athenaeum and gossip at the House f Lords and let’s-keep-everything(especially-the-Church)-exactly-as-it-is. Well, time will deal with them all in due course!
Honest to God
is a watershed. In twenty-five years’ time all the conservative elements in the Church will have been swept away and we’ll be living with the triumph of liberalism in the form of a dynamic radical theology.

‘As for Lyle Ashworth, I was even more startled that you should have adopted her as a heroine! She’s not the sort of woman other women usually like. Men always get on with her all right, of course, (although personally I’ve never found her in the least attractive) and in fact I’ve sometimes wondered if she was faithful to Charles during those three years he spent as a prisoner of war. She used to slink around in a little black dress and very high-heeled shoes and look like a cross between Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich. However, that’s all a long time ago now and I can’t deny she’s transformed herself into an irreproachably seemly "Mrs Bishop".

‘Darling, I hardly know how I’m going to endure the agonising wait for our next meeting! I can’t exaggerate how utterly renewed you make me feel; when I returned from our outing to the Ring I tossed off that Sunday sermon with no trouble at all and it’s turned out to be a stunner. (Excuse the boasting but I wanted to leave you in no doubt of your amazingly beneficial effect on me!) Always remember that I’m PASSIONATE about you and that you’re the most vital thing in my life.

All my love,

N.

‘PS. (LATER) Fitzgerald has just denied he ever mentioned the sculpture’s phallic cigars to the Archdeacon and says Lindsay’s only concerned about the legal status of the churchyard. What a liar Fitzgerald is! Of course he’s deliberately roped in the Bishop’s henchman in order to involve Charles in the fight against the sculpture!

‘PPS. (LATER STILL) Gilbert’s just phoned after a fearful intellectual session in the library with a professor whose speciality is medieval Latin. There seems to be no doubt that the Cathedral statute only refers to the cloisters lawn as the Cathedral’s consecrated burial ground. Gilbert says the reasoning behind this rather curious state of affairs almost certainly arose from the fact that while the Cathedral was being built,the deceased of Starbridge were buried at St Martin’s-in-Cripplegate which in those days had a far more extensive burial ground than it has now. As you probably know, St Martin’s church preceded the Cathedral; it was originally built for the spiritual benefit of the Cathedral workmen, and soon afterwards it became the parish church, replacing the Saxon round church which had been destroyed by fire. According to Gilbert’s theory, the first bishop probably reckoned that the hoi-polloi could go on being buried at St Martin’s while the Cathedral could be reserved for the nobs — and since the graveyard at St Martin’s was already the official parish burial ground, he wouldn’t even have had to issue an edict; all he would have needed to do was acquiesce in the status quo.

‘So the evidence so far certainly supports Lindsay’s claim that the Cathedral churchyard is unconsecrated curtilage, but I’m going to assure him that the hunt is now on in earnest for evidence of the later consecration which I feel sure must exist. That’ll make Lindsay sweat blood! Meanwhile little Gilbert is almost hysterical with excitement and has plunged back into the library to comb the archives. Join the Church for an action-packed career liberally seasoned with suspense! But seriously — what a life ...’

VIII

‘I think it’s terrific that you’ve chucked up your vapid society life in order to live in a small flat in a provincial town and work for a clergyman,’ said my fiery contemporary Charley Ashworth, pale brown eyes almost golden as he regarded me with wholehearted approval. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.’

His mother groaned lightly, laying down her knife and fork in protest, but I was enjoying my food too much to follow her example. It was Sunday, and in accordance with Mrs Ashworth’s invitation I had presented myself at the South Canonry for lunch. The roast beef was succulent. The Yorkshire pudding had already melted in my mouth. The roast potatoes and the peas were sublime enough to qualify the South Canonry for three stars in the
Guide Michelin.
Having recently suffered from a surfeit of solitary encounters with tins of baked beans, I had already decided that this perfectly cooked meal represented gourmet cuisine in its most triumphant form.

‘What have I said now?’ demanded Charley in response to his mother’s quiet moan of despair.

‘Darling, Venetia may not like to hear her respectable past described as a "vapid society life", nor may she be very happy to hear that you didn’t think she had it in her to live differently. When are you ever going to learn that this mania of yours for being outspoken is often tactless, offensive and just plain wrong?’

‘Come, Lyle, that’s a bit stiff, isn’t it?’ said the Bishop good-humouredly, spearing his last slice of Yorkshire pudding. ‘Charley’s merely anxious to be truthful, and one should always seek to discern the truth, whatever the truth is.’

‘Not if it means getting everything wrong and being downright rude,’ said Mrs Ashworth.

‘I don’t get everything wrong!’ said Charley indignantly. ‘Of course we all make mistakes, but most of the time I think the truth’s blindingly obvious.’

‘That remark just shows you’ve reached the age of twenty-five without growing up,’ I said, finally giving way to the urge to have a bash at his bumptiousness. ‘Most of the time the truth’s a complete mystery — in fact sometimes I think it’s a miracle that anyone ever has an inkling about what’s really going on.’

‘Well spoken, Venetia!’ said my heroine.

‘Over to you, Charley!’ said the Bishop, effortlessly neutralising the friction between his wife and son by adopting an amused, affectionate tone. ‘How are you going to respond to that "palpable hit"?’

‘Venetia has obviously been too greatly influenced by the philosophical idiocies of Berkeley,’ retorted Charley, ‘but I stand by the absolute values of Plato and hold that the fully real is fully knowable!’

‘But surely,’ I said, moving in for the kill with my verbal rapier, ‘Platonic philosophy has been exploded by the logical positivists?’

‘Plato will be remembered when A. J. Ayer is forgotten!’ said Charley, furiously parrying the blow. ‘Logical positivism is just a temporary aberration from the truth, like the theology of John Robinson!’

‘Rubbish!’ I said, fighting bravely on although my rapier was now shuddering in my hand. ‘In twenty-five years’ time the conservative wing of the Church will be extinct and we’ll be living with liberalism in the form of a dynamic radical theology!’

Charley snorted with contempt. His remarkable eyes seemed to blaze with golden sparks, and his wide, mobile mouth was set in a passionate snarl. He looked like an outraged Pekinese.

‘In twenty-five years’ time,’ he declared, ‘John Robinson will be a back number, radical theology will have reached a dead end and the Evangelicals will be on the march again to set the Church back on course after the mid-century decades of decadence and debility!’

‘Phew!’ said the Bishop. ‘That was a real scorcher! Lyle, is there any more of that sensational Yorkshire pudding?’

My rapier had shattered. Aysgarth’s bold prophecy was in shreds. Automatically I turned to the Bishop for the final word of authority. ‘And you, Dr Ashworth.,’ I said, ‘what do you think?’

‘I think,’ said the Bishop, ‘that the gifts of the Spirit can be recognised by their fruits, and that "Truth", as the old saying goes, "is the Daughter of Time"?’

‘Seconds, Venetia?’ I suddenly realised Mrs Ashworth was hovering at my elbow with a plate of sliced roast beef.

‘No, thank you.’ I felt unable to face another mouthful; the mere thought of food made me recoil.

‘I hope I haven’t upset you,’ said Charley, dropping his abrasive manner as he saw my leaden expression. His naive concern was curiously appealing. ‘It’s so nice to talk to a girl who can actually talk back. I just love having a good slanging match.’

In the ensuing silence the Bishop tried to smother a smile, Mrs Ashworth assumed her most inscrutable expression and Charley, who had turned red after paying me this extraordinary compliment, furiously attacked his last roast potato.

I came to the unexpected conclusion that although he was now too juvenile to take seriously he might well evolve into the most stimulating man. However, I could hardly afford to waste my energy visualising Charley in the 1970s; I needed all my strength to face the approaching treacle tart and custard.

It really was the most superb Sunday lunch.

IX

‘... and grim news has emerged from the library,’ wrote Aysgarth. ‘Gilbert, twittering with horror, has unearthed some most unwanted evidence in the papers of Josiah Samuel Hawkyns, Bishop of Starbridge 1703-1716. Apparently the Cathedral statutes were lost during the Civil War — the clergy thought Cromwell might burn the library, so as many books and documents as possible were removed and hidden when the Roundheads were reported to be closing in on Royalist Starbridge. As it turned out, the Roundheads only rampaged through the Cathedral smashing up all the side-chapels, but the Bishop died of shock and later it was realised that no one knew where he had hidden the statutes. Cromwell hanged the Dean
en passant
and so Starbridge later had a new bishop and a new dean, neither of whom had any idea of the exact rules laid down for the governing of the Cathedral. Inevitably, within a generation, people were being buried on the sward in the belief that they were committing their mortal remains to consecrated ground.

‘And now we come to Bishop Josiah Samuel Hawkyns. In 1707 he found the statutes hidden behind a secret panel in the dining-room of the old episcopal palace and to his delight he discovered — here we go! — that the Cathedral churchyard was not a consecrated burial ground in the power of the Dean and Chapter but unconsecrated curtilage to which he as bishop could stake a claim. Accordingly he dispossessed the Dean and Chapter, banned all future burials from the churchyard and used the sward for grazing his horses. Dean Augustus St John Merrivale is reported to have drunk three bottles of claret and died of apoplexy — and I’m not in the least surprised.

‘However, unlike poor Augustus St J M, I shall somehow restrain myself from knocking back a vat of St Estèphe and survive to fight the next battle — which, of course, will now centre directly on the sculpture. I have to apply for a faculty in order to place it in the churchyard, and Charles, through Lindsay, is bound to oppose my application, but by heavens I’ll get that faculty even if I have to extract it by shaking the Chancellor until his teeth rattle!

‘Meanwhile Fitzgerald was seen by my spy Eddie lunching in the Quill Pen with the Archdeacon — the whole issue reeks of conspiracy, but I’ll fight these philistines to the last ditch. Fitzgerald even had the nerve to say to me in Chapter that it was impossible for a phallic symbol to be aesthetically pleasing. "My dear Tommy," I said, "what could be more phallic than our unique and ravishing spire?" Fitzgerald went purple, as if I’d uttered a string of four-letter words, and Dalton said primly: "Isn’t that going a little far, Stephen?" I’d like to shoot the pair of them — and the Bishop and the Archdeacon too!

Talking of Charles, I’m now convinced the Ashworths want to marry you off to Charley, so I’m most relieved to hear you think he’s too juvenile to take seriously. He has a volatile temperament, and volatile temperaments, as I know full well, can make married life very exhausting. However, despite this handicap I’m sure he’s a good boy; I’ve always taken an interest in him ever since he told me when he was very small that he wanted to be a clergyman, but because Charles and I were never exactly the best of friends I haven’t seen as much of either Charley or Michael as I might have done. My mentor Bishop Jardine (Lyle’s former employer) was very partial to them both and even asked me on his deathbed to keep an eye on them while they were growing up, but that, of course, was when we thought Charles wouldn’t come home from the war.

‘You didn’t tell me anything about your conversation during this culinary dream of a Sunday lunch, but I assume Charles was too busy demolishing roast beef to demolish heresy!

‘Now, darling, as I’ve already told you this is the most frightful week for me, and although I thought I’d be able to escape on Wednesday afternoon as usual, the vast funeral allocated to Wednesday morning has acquired a sting in its tail in the form of a lunch for the most important mourners, and to my rage I shall be unable to get away. Thursday is this ghastly regimental service followed by a buffet-lunch for sixty. Friday afternoon would have been possible – the morning’s no good as I shall be kidnapped by Miss Trotman for dictation – but now I have to go and see the Cathedral’s solicitors about my application for a faculty. Saturday’s useless as both James and Sandy are coming down for the weekend, while Sunday – ah yes! On Sunday I’m supposed to be worshipping God in the Cathedral! I knew there was something I wanted to do if only I could find the time! But seriously ... what a life.

‘All I can suggest is Lady Mary on Wednesday evening. Darling, I’m sorry, sorry,
sorry
to be so inaccessible, but I’ll make it up to you on Wednesday week, I promise – if I’m not dead with frustration as the result of being unable to swamp you with kisses this week among all those superbly phallic standing stones. Write soon – only the thought of receiving your letters makes the prospect of this week bearable, all love, N.’