Absolute Truths (16 page)

The stranger nipped out so smartly at the end of the service that
he still managed to avoid introducing himself, but everyone had
noticed him and everyone wanted to know who he was.

‘
Any news?’ said Lyle, bringing me my eggs and bacon as I
finally reached the dining-room.

‘Stephen and I bared our teeth at each other.’

‘
That’s not news, that’s just history repeating itself. Did you tell
Paul that I’ve found yet another possible wife for him?’

‘
I’m afraid I forgot. I was diverted by an unknown priest who
looked like an English version of Elmer Gantry.’

‘How exciting!’

Not for the bishop who has to mop up the inevitable mess.’

I began to skim through
The Times.
Lyle filled my coffee-cup at
intervals and provided hot buttered toast at exactly the right
moment. ‘I do wonder what’s happened to Michael,’ she said after
refilling my cup for the second time. ‘Will Dinkie break off the
engagement straight away or will she wait until she has her claws
into Robert Welbeck?’

But I did not want to think of Michael. Instead I retreated to the office where Miss Peabody, already informed by Lyle of my
approaching visit to the hospital, was waiting to tell me how
appalled she was by the news of Desmond’s assault. The typist had
not yet appeared, but from the window I could see my chaplains
pausing by the gate to finish their conversation before they turned
up for work. At once I glanced at my watch, but they still had five
minutes to spare before they were due to cross my threshold.
Mentally shelving my standard lecture on punctuality I said to
Miss Peabody: ‘Anything interesting in the post?’

‘
Nothing urgent.’ Miss Peabody, a large woman of indetermi
nate age whose favourite colour was navy-blue, adjusted her pince-
nez before adding: ‘But there’s the most unusual letter from a
divorced priest in the Radbury diocese who wants to work in
Starbridge. He’s been in a mental hospital for some time.’

‘Draft a letter telling him kindly that I license neither divorces
nor lunatics.’

‘
Oh, he wasn’t a patient, Bishop! He was in the mental hospital
as a
chaplain, but he says he feels he’s now being called to establish
a healing centre in a parish setting.’

‘
I don’t license charismatic wonder-workers either,’ I said, and then reflected with horror that this description could be applied to Jesus Christ. Rapidly I added: ‘Just tell him the Bishop has a
policy of never licensing divorced priests.’

‘
But Bishop,’ said Miss Peabody, whose resolute nature could sometimes lead her to sound like a nurse telling her charge that
‘Nanny knows best’, ‘he has the most glowing reference from the
Abbot-General of the Fordite monks.’

This was indeed surprising. The Fordites were Anglican-
Benedictines who represented the apex of the High-Church wing,
and I would have expected their leader to be as opposed to divorced
clergymen as I was. ‘Never mind the Abbot-General,’ I said, the
recalcitrant charge determined to ‘talk back’ to Nanny. ‘Where’s
the reference from the man’s bishop?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘
Exactly. The man’s obviously been sacked for improper conduct
and is now trying to wriggle into another diocese by reviving an
old connection with the Fordites. Write to him at Radbury, Miss
Peabody, and –’

Oh
_;
he’s not at Radbury now, Bishop! He’s here in Starbridge
and staying at the Crusader.’

‘
Camping on my doorstep,’ I said, ‘will get him nowhere. In
fact –’ I broke off as I put two and two together and made
an astonishing four. ‘Wait a moment,’ I said slowly. ‘Wait a
moment ...’

Miss Peabody waited obediently, but so mesmerised was I by
the notion that
an
English version of Elmer Gantry might be
attempting to invade my diocese that when I spoke I could only produce a completely irrelevant question. It was: ‘How on earth
can an unemployed priest afford to stay at the Crusader?’

‘
I don’t know, Bishop – he doesn’t divulge his financial circumstances,’ came the unfalteringly serious reply. (Nothing a bishop said was ever judged irrelevant by Miss Peabody.) ‘But the letter
is literate and suggests that he’s a gentleman.’

Ignoring this romantic notion that literacy and good breeding
invariably coexist, I said
abruptly
: ‘I can’t possibly see him.
It
would
be a waste of my time, particularly as it would be out of
the question for
me to license a divorced priest for parish work.
Think of the comments I should get from the Mothers’ Union!
No, no, Miss Peabody, write to the man and –’

The telephone rang. I was still so bemused by the manifestation
of an Elmer Gantry in my diocese that I picked up the receiver
before Miss Peabody could take the call.

‘
Charles?’ said the suffragan Bishop of Starmouth, startled to
speak to me without being delayed by an intermediary. Nigel Farr had by that time been assisting me in the south of the diocese for s
ix years, and although I gave him a free hand to run Starmouth
as he thought fit we kept in close touch and he always consulted me
over problems of behaviour among the dcrgy. On that particular
morning he was worrying about a curate who had been preaching sexual liberation behind his vicar’s back while running the parish
youth club.

‘
... and according to the enraged vicar there’s now an anony
mous letter accusing the curate of flirting with a fourteen-year-old
moppet.’

‘
Almost certainly the product of another fourteen-year-old mop
pet who fancies the curate herself,’ I said, ‘but anything’s possible.
What’s the vicar been doing while his curate’s run amok? Obviously
their relationship has broken down – see the pair of them, reintro
duce them to each other and drill it into that curate’s head that
it’s his business to fight the permissive society, not to join it. No
clergyman sanctions immorality in
this
diocese,’ I added, adding
some familiar words out of habit
as
I glanced at my watch and
shuddered at the prospect of my interview with Desmond. I sud
denly remembered that the petrol tank of my car was almost empty
– which would mean a stop on the way to the hospital – which
in turn meant I had less time than I had thought. Truncating the
conversation with Nigel I promised to phone him back later and-
replaced the receiver.

Immediately the phone rang again. This time Miss Peabody
pounced. Meanwhile my chaplains had arrived and were milling around like a couple of dogs who needed to be taken for a walk.
‘Bishop, if I could just have a word with you about your visit to
the alms-houses ...’

‘Bishop, if I could just see you about your
meeting today at Church House ...’ As I listened to this chorus
with half an ear I suddenly realised Miss Peabody was saying: ‘Just
a moment, Archdeacon, I’ll
see
if he’s available.’

I grabbed the receiver. ‘Malcolm?’

‘Good news, Charles. The police have arrested a man for the
attack on Desmond. He’s a lunatic, just released from mental hospi
tal, who’s got a phobia about Roman Catholic priests. When he
walked into the police station this morning to confess, he told them he thought that St Paul’s was an RC church and that Desmond was
one of the Pope’s flock.’

‘So he was quite unknown to Desmond?’

‘No previous connection whatsoever.’

‘
Thank God. Talk to you later.’ I hung up and immediately, as
my chaplains began to mill around me again, Miss Peabody said
in her firmest voice: ‘Time for you to go to the hospital, Bishop.’
The typist had arrived red-nosed and was busy sneezing over every
one. Edging out of the room I promised my chaplains they would have my full attention on my return, and on reaching the hall I found that Lyle was already waiting with my hat and coat.

I said distractedly: ‘The car’s nearly out of petrol.’

‘No, it isn’t. I put some in while you were at the Cathedral.’

In the office the telephone was ringing again, and for one poign
ant moment I pictured myself back in Cambridge with nothing to do all morning but write about Hippolytus and Callistus.

‘
Off you go, darling,’ said Lyle propelling me outside, ‘and don’t
get bogged down with Desmond. It’s bad for your blood pressure when you fall behind in your timetable.’

I hurtled away down the steps to my car.

The sun was now shining but the air was still cold and the
Cathedral had a hard, dense, sculpted look.as it rose from the frozen grass of the churchyard. Above the central tower the spire narrowed to a pinpoint against an ice-blue sky. Leaving the Close by the main gateway I drove with dread to the hospital.

I had no doubt whatsoever that Desmond would have to besacked, although obviously the sacking would have to wait until
he had recovered from his ordeal. One simply cannot keep priests
who persist in hoarding pornography and in consequence risk embroiling the Church in scandal. I would do my best to help Desmond overcome his problems; I would arrange the best medi-
cal care, the best spiritual direction, the best possible form of early retirement. But there was no question of allowing him to continue at St Paul’s. I was all too aware that Malcolm and I had had a very
lucky escape from disaster. To let Desmond remain in his job would have been the height of foolishness.

It was precisely because I knew Desmond had to be sacked later
that this visit to the hospital promised to be such an ordeal for
me; I knew I had to conceal the decision to sack him in order
to
offer him something which resembled pastoral care, and
as
I
reluctantly prepared to hide behind the public persona which Jon called my glittering image, I found that shame was mingling with my dread. Dissimulation is not a comfortable course for a bishop to take, even when the purpose
is
to be kind to a sick man in hospital.

On arrival I was directed to a distant ward and found Desmond
in a long room with a dozen other patients. The nurse on duty
had warned me that because of the injuries to his jaw he was
unable to talk, but despite this warning I was still shocked when
I saw him. Heavy bandages hid most of the bruises but the flesh around his eyes was dark and swollen. Normally Desmond had rosy cheeks which in combination with his round blue eyes and
lack of hair gave him a resemblance to an affable baby. The brutal
destruction of this innocent appearance seemed unforgivably cruel.
I found it hard not to flinch.

‘
How very sorry I am to see you like this, Desmond,’ I said, drawing up the visitor’s chair and sitting at his bedside. ‘What a terrible thing to happen.’ And I took his hot, damp hand in mine.

His eyes filled with tears, and at once I found the scene so distressing that I hardly knew how to endure it. I realised he was
reminding me of my POW days and the men who had been beaten
up, but I realised too that I had to blot out all thought of the past in order to deal with the present. Tightening my grip on his hand
I said quickly: ‘It’s all right, I know you can’t speak and I know
you can remember nothing about what happened. I’ve just called
to tell you the man was a mental patient who had never met you
before, so there’s no need to torment yourself with the thought
that you were attacked by someone you knew who had a grudge
against you.’

Desmond was now struggling to blink back his tears, and I
found this pathetic attempt to keep a stiff upper lip for his bishop
almost intolerably touching. Speaking more rapidly than ever I
said: ‘And don’t worry about the parish. The Archdeacon will see
that mass is celebrated every day – and yes, we do realise that
Father Pitt is only fit enough to take the occasional service. I intend
to seek Bishop Farr’s help in finding a locum – Starmouth is more
of an Anglo-Catholic stronghold than Starbridge,
as
you know.’ I
realised as I spoke that I had forgotten to mention the problem
to Nigel when we had discussed the fourteen-year-old moppet, so
I made a mental note to telephone him as soon as I returned home.
‘The point is,’ I heard myself saying, ‘that you must have all the
time you need to get fit again, and your prime task now
is
to focus
on making a good recovery.’

A single tear trickled down Desmond’s cheek as he lost the battle
to beat back his emotion. I suspected guilt was now mingling with
all the pain and shock, guilt that he was not worthy to receive
kind words from his bishop. Repressing a shudder at the thought
of the pornography and somehow keeping my voice calm despite
the hellish level to which the scene was sinking, I asked: ‘Does the
chaplain know you like to receive the sacrament every day?’

He shook his head.

‘
I’ll make sure he’s told. Now ... shall we take a moment to
pray?’

He achieved a nod. I then had the task of framing some appropriate sentences, but I was in such a state of distress by this time that
my creative powers failed me and I found myself falling back on
a prayer I had used as a POW. This upset me still further, but with
an iron will I clamped down again on the harrowing memories and followed the prayer with a recitation of the matins’ collects. I was
wondering if I should
offer the laying-on of hands.
Many sick
people find this sacramental gesture comforting, but I had my
doubts about whether I should attempt
it
in this case. Jon was
keen on the laying-on of hands but always said it should never be
attempted in a situation where there was a marked ambivalence of
feeling. This was because the darker side of the ambivalent emo
tions would block the healing power of the Holy Spirit, with
the result that only the negative feelings of the ego would be
communicated.

In the end I thought: better safe than sorry. So I made no
sacramental gesture, but still my anxiety remained at a high level.
I was now wondering if Desmond was seeing the attack as a pun
ishment for his sins, and I knew I should take time to demolish
this superstitious dread. God, after all, hardly requires someone
else to beat us up. We arc only too busy beating ourselves up by
committing wrong acts which have unpleasant
consequences.

‘
Desmond,’ I said after concluding our prayers, ‘I can’t leave
without making sure you don’t misinterpret this appalling crime.
First, although we can’t deny that God has created a world in
which random violence takes place, we can be certain he never
wills this random violence to happen. And second, we can be
certain that because he never wills suffering he’ll strive always to
redeem it by bringing good out of –’ I broke off. I had realised
that for Desmond good was not going to come out of evil because
as the result of the assault he was going to lose the job which
constituted his entire life. But now was obviously not the time for
a complex meditation on the mystery of suffering. Now was the
time for a good bishop to speak with confidence in order to
reassure Desmond as he deserved. I had to offer certainties, not
doubts. – by bringing good out of evil,’ I concluded firmly. I
stood up as I added: ‘Forgive my hesitation, but I was thinking
for a moment of your suffering and feeling upset.’ I might have
said more, but when I saw Desmond’s eyes were shining with tears
again I gave him my blessing, promised to visit him later and fled.

Outside the hospital I sank down in the driving-seat of my car and grappled with the horrible thought that despite all my efforts
I had been a pastoral failure, but there was no time to grapple for
long. Raggedly I drove home for the next segment of my obstacle
race.

By the time I arrived at the South Canonry I had reviewed what
I had to do before leaving for London. I had to tell Edward, my
priest-chaplain, to talk to the chaplain at the hospital and make
sure Desmond received the sacrament daily. Then I had to phone
Nigel in Starmouth to tell him to dredge up an Anglo-Catholic
locum. Then I had to have a conference with Roger, my lay-
chaplain, about the Church House meeting and get him to explain
the graphs which I had failed to look at yesterday. Then I had to remember to take my formal uniform to London — I broke off to
wonder if my favourite frock-coat had come back from the cleaners.

Halting the car with a screech of the brakes I leapt out, hared
up the steps to the porch and flung wide the front door.

But the next moment I had stopped dead.

Standing stock still in the middle of the hall was none other
than the sinister priest who had reminded
me
of Elmer Gantry.