Scandalous Risks (33 page)

XVI

Later when I was alone I thought: he still never said directly that he wasn’t having sex with Dido, he still refused to consummate our affair, and he was still evasive about his past. We had appeared to progress in Chancton Wood but in fact the progression had been an illusion. Nothing had changed because none of the mysteries had been solved.

My mother’s fatal words echoed in my ears. ‘I don’t think she’s sleeping with him but of course it’s quite impossible to be sure.’ However in my case it was indeed possible to be sure. If my Mr Dean had looked me straight in the eyes and said: ‘I don’t have sex with my wife,’ I would have believed him. Butinstead he had only said: ‘I’m going to explode that theory,’ as if a sexual blitzkrieg was more convincing than a clergyman’s simple denial.

I mixed myself a dry martini and sat sipping it as the twilight thickened.

After a while a new truth dawned. I saw it had now been proved that moral convictions alone could not be responsible for his refusal to have full sexual intercourse with me, because if he could overcome those convictions sufficiently to ensure we were both sexually satisfied in Chancton Wood, there was no reason why he shouldn’t satisfy us both in the conventional manner. What kind of a tortuous casuistry was responsible for his decision that one route to sexual satisfaction was permitted while another was taboo? It made no sense at all, but I now had a terrible suspicion that his behaviour was somehow connected – in the most intimate way imaginable – with Dido.

Yet I couldn’t be certain. The rock-bottom truth was that I still had no idea what was going on in Aysgarth’s mind, and that, of course, was why it was still so vital that I should succeed in milking Father Darrow for information.

In forty-eight hours’ time I would come face to face with him in the Starbridge Playhouse.

But I had no idea how I could ever contrive to see him on his own.

XVII

‘That’s odd,’ I said to Eddie in the front row of the circle on Friday evening. ‘I know Nick Darrow’s going to be here with his father, but I can’t see them.’

‘I didn’t think Father Darrow went anywhere nowadays,’ said Eddie, looking up from his programme in surprise.

‘The opportunity to see his famous son tread the boards was obviously too potent to resist.’ I cast a quick look around the circle again but there was still no sign of Nick. The Starbridge Playhouse, an art-deco lump built to replace a decayed Edwardian gem, was a miniature version of the palatial cinemas f the 1930s. The facilities it offered were excellent, a fact which explained why Starbridge was so often favoured by West End producers who wanted to try out their work in the provinces, and the audience, seated on only two levels, had been shamelessly pampered by the architect; in addition to the first-class acoustics and comfortable seats there was a bar on each floor. Nevertheless, in the perverse manner of human beings, the older inhabitants of Starbridge were united in pining for their rat-and rot-infested Edwardian gem and regarded the modern theatre as ‘characterless’.

‘Why are you so anxious to see Nick?’ Eddie was asking curiously.

‘He’s my Talisman and whenever I see him something extraordinary happens. I met him in the spring and was whisked away to the Hebrides, I met him in May and was whirled into the Orgy —’ But before I could say more the lights began to dim. Casting one last fruitless glance around the auditorium for the Darrows, I prayed fiercely that they were both present and then made up my mind not to let my acute anxiety ruin the play.

XVIII

Martin Darrow, seemingly tailor-made for the part of Gary Essendine, was given a rapturous welcome by the audience as soon as he made his entrance and with the aid of an able supporting cast transformed Coward’s dated play into a sparkling entertainment for the 1960s. Taller than I had thought he would be but looking younger now that he was not subjected to television close-ups, he moved with effortless grace around the stage, spoke his lines with masterly skill and somehow resisted the awful temptation to ‘go over the top’ once he had the audience in the palm of his hand.

‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’ said Eddie with genuine admiration as the curtain descended amidst thunderous applause for the first interval, but I was already saying: ‘Excuse me — must find Nick,’ and dashing up the gangway to the exit.

I hung around the foyer as people gushed out of the stalls, but no Darrow of any kind emerged.

‘I should think the old man’s staying put,’ said Eddie as he joined me.

‘Then they’ve got to be in the seats underneath the circle,’ I muttered. ‘There’s nowhere else they can possibly be.’ I charged into the auditorium and to my vast relief saw Nick straight away. He was sitting in a row near the back, and beside him was a very, very ancient item indeed, an apparition which displayed the almost translucent skin of extreme old age. I thought vaguely how good it was of him to come and was sure he was hating every moment of it. Poor old man! No doubt he wished he was tucked up in an armchair in front of the television. In panic I wondered if I had made a colossal mistake in believing that St Darrow could be a source of enlightenment; he looked much too old to be a source of anything, and perhaps Dido had been right in dismissing him as senile.

‘Venetia!’ Nick had risen to his feet and was gaping at me. ‘I thought you were coming to the play tomorrow!’

‘Change of plan!’ I said brightly, moving down the row in front of him where all the seats had been temporarily vacated. ‘And how’s my Halley’s Comet? Is something extraordinary just about to happen?’

Nick smiled and turned to his father. I heard him say: ‘This is Venetia Flaxton.’

The very, very ancient item moved. It rose to a vast height, gave me an enigmatic, fascinating smile and offered me a thin, beautiful, elegant hand which achieved an astonishingly firm, positive, compelling grip. Grey eyes, immensely steady, looked not only at my face but deep into my soul. My jaw sagged. My eyes widened. I was speechless.

‘How do you do, Miss Flaxton,’ said Father Jonathan Darrow.

PART THREE

THE GREAT POLLUTANT

‘Where, one must ask, will the ravages of liberal theology end? The Devil and Hell
went
long ago; the position of the Blessed Virgin has been seriously undermined; God, who until last week was invulnerable, is now distinctly on the defensive. What will ultimately be left except a belief in the need for bishops,
if
only to give evidence in trials about obscenity and to talk to pop singers on television?’

T. B. UTLEY

The Honest to God Debate

e
d.
DAVID L. EDWARDS

The
fact that the
old land-marks are disappearing is not something to be deplored. If we have the courage, it is something to be welcomed ...’

JOHN A. T.
ROBINSON

Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich

1959-1969

Honest to Go
d

ONE

‘ it seems to be assumed throughout
[Honest to God]
that what "modem man" can or cannot believe is the test of truth. Yet the problems of "modern man" are not always as new as they are made out to be. Christianity is not easy for the natural man to accept in any age. Nor is mid-twentieth century man of necessity the type of the future. In the next century man may be astonished at the confidence of some of our disbeliefs.’

JOHN LAWRENCE

The Honest to God Debate

ed. DAVID L. EDWARDS

I

Did I manage to utter the formal words of introduction as I shook hands with Father Darrow? I have no idea. I was in a trance. All I could think was that this was no pathetic old man but a magic seer who could tell me everything I wanted to know. Immediately the stakes in the complicated game I was playing seemed to increase tenfold. Now it was not merely important but vital that I should see him on his own.

‘... and you know Canon Hoffenberg, don’t you, Father?’ Nick was saying.

We met when I attended the Theological College after the war,’ Eddie said. ‘How nice to see you again, Father Darrow! I hope you’re well?’

Well enough, thanks.’ He smiled thinly as if he felt a man deserved a more austere expression of good will than the fascinating greeting he had produced for me.

I finally managed to recover my poise. ‘You must be so proud of your son!’ I said. ‘I’m hoping to go backstage afterwards to get his autograph for my mother.’ And I added brightly to Nick: Will you be going backstage too?’

Nick obviously felt such adulatory behaviour was far beneath him. ‘No, we’re meeting Martin at the Staro Arms.’

‘What a coincidence!’ I exclaimed wide-eyed. ‘We’d planned to have a drink there, hadn’t we, Eddie?’

‘Oh yes!’ said Eddie, playing up with unexpected resourcefulness. ‘Perhaps you can get your autograph there instead, Venetia – it would save you fighting your way backstage!’

‘What a brilliant idea! Although of course,’ I added smoothly to Nick, ‘we wouldn’t want to intrude on any family reunion.’

‘There’d be no intrusion,’ said Father Darrow before Nick could speak. ‘The reunion’s already taken place.’

‘And Martin’s spending Sunday with us anyway,’ said Nick, taking his cue from his father but not looking particularly enthralled at the prospect of seeing us later.

‘Marvellous!’ I said gaily, smiling at him. Then I stole a glance at Father Darrow. With shock I found he was looking straight at me and at once I was aware f the irrational conviction that he was reading my mind, skimming through it in the manner of someone obliged to absorb the main story of a newspaper in seconds. Again I felt as if I had plunged to the ground in a lift; I was reminded of my first meeting with Nick on the Starbridge train at Waterloo.

‘Well!’ said my voice with a dreadful false heartiness. ‘We’ll look forward to seeing you both later! Come along, Eddie.’

The next thing I knew I was reeling into the foyer.

‘Shall I fight for a gin?’ offered Eddie, eyeing the bar where a dense multitude was screaming in a haze of cigarette smoke.

‘Please.’ I felt I had to get rid of him in order to concentrate on my recovery.

He battled back with a couple of gin-and-tonics just as the bell rang to signal the end of the interval.

‘Eddie, you’re heroic.’ I knocked back my drink. ‘And thanks for playing along with my performance in the stalls.’

‘Am I allowed to ask what’s going on?’

‘No. Just keep on being heroic.’

The bell started to ring again.

We returned to our seats in the circle.

II

Is this my family I see before me?’ mused Martin Darrow, half in and half out f the character of Gary Essendine as he made a grand entrance into the main reception room of the Staro Arms. ‘It is! But who’s the lovely lady with the tiger eyes, the Pre-Raphaelite locks and the exquisitely-dressed companion?’

Eddie boggled at this histrionic approach and I was aware of Nick fidgeting in an agony f embarrassment, but I sprang up, captivated by such uninhibited charm, and replied promptly: ‘I’m Venetia Flaxton and this is Canon Eddie Hoffenberg of the Cathedral. Congratulations – we enjoyed your performance enormously!’

‘Now if this were a Hollywood musical,’ said Martin amused, ‘a dozen singing waiters would immediately appear with champagne! Thank you, Venetia. How do you do, Canon. Well, in the absence of the singing waiters, what are we all going to drink?’

‘The bar’s closed,’ said Nick austerely.

‘Well, of course it is! This is spiritual downtown Starbridge, not wicked old Sunset Strip! But as I’m a resident I can still terrorise the lounge waiter. What would you like, Miss Tiger-Eyes?’

‘I’d adore a brandy,’ I said. ‘Rémy Martin would do.’

‘I’m mad about this girl,’ said Martin. ‘What a throwaway line! Like saying: "I’d adore a car – I think I could just about stand a Rolls-Royce!"‘

We all laughed. Eddie settled for a whisky-and-soda, Nick for a Coca-Cola and the old man, after a fractional hesitation, requested a glass of port.

‘... and my usual orange juice, please, Bill,’ said Martin to the waiter as he offered me a cigarette. ‘Now Dad, let’s hear your verdict – were you appalled?’

‘Not in the least,’ said the old man serenely. ‘It was a most entertaining and well-constructed play and I’m sure it was most difficult to write. It occurred to me that Mr Coward is probably underrated by the serious critics despite — or perhaps because of — his popular success.’

If I had had any lingering doubts about his mental faculties these shrewd remarks would have destroyed them. I was delighted by this tribute to Coward’s craftsmanship, but before I could say so Nick muttered in an urgent voice to his father: ‘What Martin wants to know is not what you thought of the play but what you thought of him.’

This amused Martin very much. ‘You funny boy!’ he exclaimed indulgently as if Nick were a child who had made a precocious remark. ‘Do you really think Dad isn’t aware of that?’

Nick shot him a furious look but the old man said in a soothing voice: ‘He only wanted me to put you out of your suspense — and of course I should have congratulated you straight away, just as Miss Flaxton did. Most of the time I quite forgot you were Martin, and on the rare occasions when I did remember I was always so thankful that you weren’t like Mr Essendine in real life.’

This was evidently the right thing to say. Martin laughed and commented to Eddie:’ There speaks the ex-monk and the priest!’

‘Of course Gary Essendine was very naughty,’ I said, ‘but so were the girls. I loved it when Joanna said she’d lost her latch-key — I laughed like a drain.’

We were still deep in our discussion of the play when the drinks arrived, but as Martin raised his glass to me with a smile I summoned my nerve, produced my programme and asked him to autograph it for my mother.

‘... and she’s Lady Flaxton, not Mrs,’ I added hastily after he had declared he would produce a personal dedication.

‘I’m wild about the aristocracy,’ said Martin, scribbling busily. ‘I always think "All Men Are Equal" is quite the most boring lie ever invented.’

The conversation, sustained almost entirely by Eddie, Martin and me, continued to bowl along at a smart pace while I racked my brains to devise a scheme for separating Father Darrow from his family so that I could beg him for a private audience at a later date. Nick, out of his social depth again, gazed into his glass of Coke as if he were seeing mystical images in the depths, but was probably only longing to go home. The old man sat very still and said little but appeared quite content to sip his port and listen to us. However, as soon as I had swallowed my last mouthful of Rémy Martin he said to his younger son: We must be going — can you bring the car to the door?’ and Nick jumped up with alacrity.

‘I hope you won’t be offended if I offer to pay for the drinks,’ said Eddie to Martin. ‘We actually came here with the intention of playing host — if the bar had been open —’

The futile argument began over who was to foot the bill. I write ‘futile’ because it was quite obvious that Martin intended to pay and equally obvious that Eddie could not bring himself to accept this generosity without making a lengthy protest.

I looked at Father Darrow and Father Darrow looked at me. We were still seated. Martin and Eddie were drifting, like boats turned loose from their moorings, towards the centre of the long, low-ceilinged room. Nick had by this time vanished to retrieve the car.

Father Darrow said quietly but distinctly: ‘You want to see me, don’t you?’ and somehow I managed to utter the syllable: ‘Yes.’

‘Come to my cottage at Starrington Manor at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘Okay.’ I could barely speak.

Martin, having won the argument, drifted back to attend to the aged parent. ‘Want a hand, Dad?’

‘No, thank you.’ The old man rose carefully to his feet. Although he stooped he was still taller than either of his sons. Taking his time he moved across the room as if he were a great actor making a supremely dignified exit, and Eddie hurried ahead to hold the swing door open for him. Beyond the main entrance of the hotel Nick was waiting beside a small black car.

‘I was glad to see you again, Canon,’ said Father Darrow, offering Eddie his hand. ‘May God bless you. And please remember me, if you will, to your friend the Dean.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Goodbye, Miss Flaxton.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Darrow – Father Darrow, I mean,’ I said, so jolted by his unexpected reference to Aysgarth that I made a mess of the farewell, but he smiled at me before disappearing into the night.

Afterwards as Eddie and I walked down Eternity Street I realised it was time I provided some explanation, no matter how fantastic, of my peculiar behaviour, so I said with fervour: ‘Martin’s fabulous, isn’t he? Much better-looking than either Nick or the old man. I suppose he’s on his third or fourth wife by this time and keeps a glamorous mistress in some thrillingly seamy place like Pimlico.’

Eddie heaved the windy sigh of the dedicated masochist. Too late it occur
^r
ed to me that by pretending I had a crush on Martin I was being brutally tactless.

‘Such a pity he’s so old!’ I said hastily. ‘Of course I could never be really serious about anything over fifty.’

Eddie sighed again as if he had decided it would be more fun to disbelieve me. All he said was: ‘I think I must make another appointment with my osteopath. My back’s taken a turn for the worse.’

I could have slapped him.

In silence we walked on down Eternity Street.