The Furnished Room (8 page)

‘I expect so. What is it?'

She hesitated, then took the plunge. ‘I must have two pounds to pay the rent today, and I'm absolutely flat broke. I simply had to buy some new shoes, you see, because I'm going to a twenty-first birthday party tomorrow, and, well, I mean I couldn't possibly go without new shoes. I mean, my other pairs are absolutely falling to pieces, they really are.' Her eyes were anxious and evasive. She combed her fingers through her hair. ‘I don't know how I can manage the rent otherwise. I spent the rent money on shoes. You know what I'm like about money.'

‘Yes, that's all right. I think I can just about manage two pounds.'

She continued to stare at him. Her face was wan and half ashamed. ‘I know it's awful of me, because I still owe you five pounds from way back last year. But I really will pay it all back some day.'

‘That's all right.'

She took the money and stuffed it into her bag, quickly snapping the bag shut. ‘It's terribly nice of you.'

Embarrassed, he said: ‘Well…' They walked a few paces and then stopped again. He said: ‘How about coming back to my place for a coffee?'

Oh, she was terribly sorry, she really was. Her gestures were theatrical and her eyes honest-wide as she explained that she couldn't possibly, not tonight, what a pity. She gabbled on, using too many excuses and too much vehemence, until he told her that it didn't matter.

He walked her to the bus-stop. She was still extravagantly protesting her regret when the bus arrived.

Walking home alone, Beckett felt cheated and indignant. He had never considered women as existing in their own right, but only in relation to him. It infuriated him that Ilsa should claim a will of her own, that she should refuse to visit his room when he wanted her to. She should be grateful that he wanted her; she should replace her will with his.

He knew that he would pursue Ilsa determinedly; but that even as he redoubled his efforts to win her, there would be a cold mocking voice inside him telling him that he did not really want her.

He experienced, simultaneously, raging desire for her and the knowledge that he did not really care.

St Elizabeth's Church was in a suburban-afternoon road of identical dolls' houses.

A young married couple was out walking. The wife pushed the baby's pram, the husband walked beside her, and an older child ran ahead, doing little skips. Farther up the road, Beckett heard a child screaming in one of the houses. Evidently the child, a girl, was being beaten. The hairs on his scalp prickled. He felt immediate sexual excitement, a sadistic pleasure. He wished he could see the child being beaten.

Then his excitement was replaced by the more creditable emotion of disgust. He felt irritated at being subjected to the screams. Mentally he composed a short essay against beating children. This activity lasted until he reached St Elizabeth's.

The church was a new, yellow-brick building. Builders' materials were in the yard, and there was a wheelbarrow in the porch. The presbytery was next door and was also new and sand-coloured. It was perfectly square, like a child's drawing, with the door in the centre and symmetrical netted windows.

Beckett was about to ring the bell when he happened to glance through the crack in the curtains of the nearest window. Inside, a priest sat alone at a table, his pale, aquiline profile bent over a chess-board. He picked up the red knight. His hawk-like hand holding the piece was beautiful, with long fingers like a medieval carving.

Then two women emerged from the front door. One of them was saying: ‘... so I told Father Lestrade, the Children of Mary are being run in the hands of the few, with that Mrs Busybody Riordan and her little click, and all that trouble about the cakes at the social….'

Their feet stabbed righteously down the road; their triumphant voices gossiping into the distance.

He rang the bell, thinking, if things had been different I would have been dealing with complaining women like those. ‘Father Beckett, about the cakes for the Children of Mary...' Could I have stood their stupidity and triviality? Yes, I suppose so, if I believed.

The neat housekeeper opened the door. ‘Good evening.'

‘Good evening. Is it possible to see Father Hogan?'

‘Is he expecting you?'

‘No, I'm afraid I just called on the off chance.'

She said: ‘He's just getting the car out of the garage. He's going out with Father Dominic.'

Beckett felt relieved. ‘Oh well, it doesn't matter. I'll come some other time.'

‘Why don't you come in and wait? I don't think they'll be long.'

‘Thank you.' He followed her into the house. In the passage he met the priest whom he had seen through the window. The priest made a slight bow to him, then asked the housekeeper if the car was ready.

‘I think so, Father Dominic.' She showed Beckett into the small parlour. It was plainly furnished, with a table covered by a cloth of Irish linen with a lace border, four hard chairs, and a glass-doored cupboard with books on three shelves and wine glasses on the fourth. The chess-board had been removed.

‘Have you seen the new church?' she asked. ‘Oh, but I expect you were at the consecration ceremony. We were all very worried in case the building wasn't finished in time, but a number of parishioners lent a hand and between us we got it finished. We were very lucky, it was all completed in time except for the bike-shed, which the workmen are finishing now.'

He said politely: ‘Really?'

‘Yes. Well, I don't expect Father Hogan will keep you waiting long. He likes to take the car out whenever possible because he's practising for his driving test.'

‘Oh, is he?'

‘He's taking it next week. I've been saying a decade of the rosary every night that he may pass.'

When she had gone Beckett sat down on one of the hard chairs. There was a vase of gladioli on the table. There were no fallen petals round the vase. The flowers were tidy and sterile, like flowers in an undertaker's window.

He looked around. There was a crucifix on one wall, on another a picture of the Sacred Heart. The picture was a standard reproduction and he had seen it before; Christ parting his robe to display an embarrassing heart which bled crimson glycerine. Even as a child, Beckett had felt nauseated and insulted by that shameless heart, by the idea of drowning in a syrup of love and pity. His pride had revolted at the thought of Christ's embarrassing love; and yet he had been terrified of committing a mortal sin which would cut him off from that love.

The airless parlour made his head ache. He got up and went over to the bookcase, scanning the titles. There was a contrast between insipid lives of saints and similar pious trash, and thick volumes on advanced theology and comparative religion. He wondered who was responsible for the choice. He selected one of the volumes, and sat down to read. The print was small, and the foxed pages had a camphor smell. From time to time he yawned and glanced at the clock. He had been waiting for three-quarters of an hour when he heard the car returning. He looked out of the window. The black Austin had L plates, and a St Christopher medallion on the windscreen. The violent braking at the kerb amused him. The atrocious driving was typical of Father Hogan.

He watched the two priests alight. Father Hogan had not changed in appearance. He looked as usual as if he had just scrubbed his florid face with a nailbrush and carbolic soap, and flattened the black-bull curls with cold water.

Father Dominic reached the gate first, but waited for Father Hogan to catch up and open the gate for him. He did not appear conceited; he expected others to open gates for him, not because of any personal merit but as part of the order of authority.

Beckett withdrew from the window and waited for the priests' entry.

He could hear Father Hogan's harsh Belfast voice from the hall. ‘Who? Who did you say it was?' The housekeeper's answer was indistinct.

Father Dominic entered first. His pale, chiselled features gave the impression that he raised austerity to the level of a passion. He seemed to be a man of great willpower, intellect, and passion, who bent these qualities to the service of the most rigorous discipline he could find: that of the Church. His eyes had the cold fire of a self-imposed ideal.

In comparison Father Hogan looked like a peasant oaf. He pumped Beckett's hand and exclaimed heartily: ‘Well, Joe, this is a pleasant surprise. A pleasant surprise indeed. I'd given you up for lost! Your mother and I had a long talk recently. She's a very good woman, Joe, a very pious woman. One of the backbones of the parish. I hope you appreciate her.'

‘Yes, Father, she said she'd seen you.'

‘Been home, then, have you?'

‘No, she wrote to me.'

‘Oh, she wrote to you.' Father Hogan turned to the other priest. ‘Father Dominic, this is Joe Beckett. Joe's family live in my previous parish; they're old friends of mine.'

‘How do you do?' Father Dominic shook hands. ‘We met briefly in the passage, earlier.'

‘I'm afraid I've called at an inconvenient time. I don't want to interrupt you when you're busy.'

‘Not at all. We welcome anyone who calls. Have you seen the new church?'

‘From the outside.' Beckett anticipated, with boredom, another long account of the building, but to his relief Father Dominic did not pursue the subject.

‘Well, Joe,' Father Hogan said, ‘we haven't seen you at home for some years now. What is it? Three? Four?'

‘About four, Father.'

‘About four. And are you living here now?'

‘No, I live in Notting Hill.'

‘Ah, Notting Hill. So your church will be...?'

‘I'm afraid I don't go to church any more.' As he spoke, dizzy excitement spiralled through Beckett. It was caused by his anticipation of a battle of ideas. The excitement passed off as quickly as it had arisen, leaving his mind clear to deal with the forthcoming argument.

Father Hogan sat down heavily. ‘Now, Joe, Joe! What is this?'

‘I'm no longer a Catholic, Father.'

‘Ah. But! You may be a lapsed Catholic, or an unworthy one, but you are still a Catholic. You are in mortal sin and you had better do something about it.' Then Father Hogan, with crashing lack of tact, confided to the other priest: ‘This young renegade here once intended to become a priest, Father.'

‘I'm sure Mr Beckett had his reasons for changing his mind.'

Father Hogan agreed: ‘Ah, yes, of course, these things can't be forced. Vocations come from God. And sometimes they come to the most unlikely persons. Why, I myself was a holy terror as a boy, and a vocation was farthest from my mind.' He turned to Beckett again. ‘However, this business now of mortal sin...'

‘Sin is an offence against myself, and therefore I'm the only one to know whether I have sinned.'

‘Sin is an offence against God,' Father Hogan contradicted. ‘You are disobeying His commandments.'

‘Surely it is generally agreed now that the commandments are merely sensible social precepts. If Moses claimed they were God-given, it's probably because he thought that that would be the likeliest way of enforcing them. No laws are absolute; they vary according to the needs of the society they serve.'

‘Generally agreed? No it is not generally agreed. Heresies may come and go with the fashion, and the devil may whisper all manner of notions into our ears, but the word of God will always be the truth.'

Father Dominic was sitting like an angular composition in black. He remarked: ‘Perhaps we should find out what platform Mr Beckett is speaking from. Is it that of nineteenth-century rationalism?'

‘I dunno about platforms, Father.'

Then Beckett burst out: ‘But, anyway, enormous advances were made in the nineteenth century. It gave us our awareness of cause and its formative context.'

‘Quite so,' Father Dominic said. ‘But even the strict determinist will feel, in his daily life, as if he is making choices. He may know theoretically that his actions are determined and that conscience is only a socially conditioned reflex, but nevertheless if he commits a mean action he will, in practice, feel guilty. He arrives, in fact, at a paradox, which could be expressed by saying that man has not got free will, but has the illusion of free will. Do you agree?'

‘Yes!' Beckett was enthusiastic. ‘Man hasn't got free will, but only the illusion of it. And sometimes the fabric of illusion wears a bit thin, and we glimpse our lack of freedom beneath it.'

‘The Church recognizes the same paradox, and expresses it thus: God is timeless, and past, present, and future coexist in His moment. He therefore knows our future actions. Men, living in time, are not affected by His knowledge and have free will.'

The housekeeper entered, bearing a tray of tea things. There followed the ritual of pouring out from the silver pot, passing cups and offering sugar.

When the woman had gone, Father Dominic enquired: ‘Did you say you lived in Notting Hill? I wonder if you know an old friend of mine — Mr Gash?'

‘Yes, I know Gash. He lives in the same road as me. Practically opposite. What a coincidence!'

‘It's a long time since we've met. Ten years or so. How is he?'

‘Well, he's rather a local curiosity. Rumour has it that he was once a rich man, but now he lives like a hermit, dresses in rags, eats scraps, and sleeps on the floor.'

‘Oh yes, the Gashes were pretty well off,' Father Dominic said. ‘Gash was my parents' friend rather than mine, as I was only a boy at the time. He was a frequent visitor at our house. He was a wealthy socialite, and had a brilliant career, many talents, popularity, good looks, everything. His friends assumed he would climb high in the world. Then he began to suffer from headaches, which were caused, in my opinion, by his self-division. That is, he was divided between his brilliant, successful life and various preoccupations and ideas which tormented him. Finally he disappeared, abandoning his career, his beautiful wife, and their child. He signed over his money to his wife, and kept barely enough to live on. I heard later that he had joined a small religious sect who lived in isolation somewhere in Scotland. I'm sorry to learn from you that he now lives under such squalid conditions. He'd be a welcome visitor here, if he cared to call.'