Absolute Truths (46 page)

I did not tell her everything. I never disclosed that Charley was
not my biological son. But I did tell her how I had come to marry
Lyle and what had happened to the people who had been involved
with us in 1937. By the time I had finished, Loretta and I were
sitting in the dining-room, lunch had been ordered and I had made
it clear who was paying the bill. It never occurred to me not to
suggest that we lunched together. The time was past one, I was
hungry and I had yet to hear the story of her conversion.

‘
... and there you were,’ Loretta was saying, having embarked on her narrative, ‘wholly committed to this religion which I’d long
since dismissed as a bunch of unsatisfactory myths for misfits,
morons and menopausal women –’

I said horrified: ‘But you never told me you regarded Christian
ity in that light!’

‘
Well, I wouldn’t, would I? Give me credit for a little tact!’

‘
So you were really an atheist and not just a vague theist?’

‘
More or less, yes. Anyhow, there you were –’

There I was, a priest, rolling around in the bracken –’

‘
Heather.’
·

‘
– and behaving like a participant in some pagan fertility rite – ·
surely you must have felt more contemptuous of Christianity than
ever?’

‘
Well, of course I realised that you didn’t normally make a habit
of seducing casual acquaintances! It was obvious to me too in
retrospect that you were all mixed up and barely responsible for
your actions.’

‘
But even so –’

‘
There were two facts which fascinated me. First, you were
sexually normal; that meant I couldn’t write you off as someone
who was using religion to compensate for an abnormal sexuality.
And second, you were a clever man who found Christianity intellectually satisfying, and that meant I couldn’t write you off as someone
whose belief involved putting his intellect on ice while he satisfied some emotional need. Now – as I told you in 1937 – you weren’t
the first priest I’d met who was sexually normal and intellectually
smart. I’d put that other priest out of my mind and rejected his God,
but when I met a second priest who
was
like that –’

‘
You began to wonder if God was trying to tell you something.’

‘
I certainly began to wonder if there was something about Chris
tianity I’d missed. So I took a look at it again – and when I tried
to be as detached and scholarly as possible, I was astonished that
earlier I’d dismissed two thousand years of accumulated wisdom about the most vital issues of life without bothering to study even
one aspect of that wisdom properly.’

‘
It’s a very common syndrome. Far too many people ignore the
intellectual side of Christianity.’

‘
Yet there’s no need to have a high IQ to be converted, is there?
I certainly preferred to take an intellectual approach because I’m
the way I am, but there are other approaches and I could have
been converted even if I’d been a peroxide blonde with the brains
of a louse. I saw eventually that a good religion resembles a lan
guage – it can be spoken by adults and children alike, by the
uneducated and the educated, the geniuses and the morons, and
like all languages it’s powered by metaphor, symbol and analogy
. Do you remember spinning me that analogy about how plants
respond to sunlight?’

‘No.’

‘
I must say, Charles, I don’t think your memory’s nearly so good
as mine!’

‘But what did I say?’

‘
Never mind. The point was that I thought: how powerful an
analogy can be! And once I’d started thinking of religion
as a
language which expresses truths so complex and profound that
they lie beyond the boundaries drawn by the logical positivists, I was hooked. I started reading in order to acquire the basic skills in this new language, and eventually I found that in order to gain
fluency I needed to go to a place where the language was regularly
spoken.’

‘And church-going’s made you fluent?’

‘
I’m still working on it. Parts of my grammar are still pretty
unorthodox.’

‘Which parts?’

‘Oh, the sex-parts, of course ... My, look at this smoked salmon! Doesn’t that look delicious?’

I agreed that it did. After the waiter had performed the ritual
with the pepper-pot I said: ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you more
to drink?’

‘
Not if you want me to discuss sex intelligently. Didn’t we eat
smoked salmon at that lunch in 1937?’

‘
Yes, we did. And I remember ordering a very good white
Burgundy —’

‘Pouilly-Fuissé, wasn’t it?’

‘Chablis.’

‘Are you sure?’

No. Tell me more about your unorthodox grammar.’

‘
Well, I hesitate to say this to a bishop whose sobriquet
is
Anti-
Sex Ashworth, but I think there are worse sins than fornication.
Cruelty, for example.’

‘
Fornication often coexists with cruelty — or leads to it.’

‘
And when it doesn’t?’

‘
Then we start to talk about the exploitation of others and the
devaluation of the self — which
is
in fact just a more subtle form
of cruelty. It results in the maiming of people psychologically,
making it harder, if not impossible, for them to reach their poten
tial and find fulfilment.’

‘
I agree that promiscuity can only be ultimately demeaning, par
ticularly for women,’ said Loretta. ‘I’m sure any mature human
being would say that. But if you have a loving relationship which
involves mutual respect —’
’Why not make the commitment of marriage? Oh, of course
marriage can be perverted and debased, just like any other insti
tution, but at least when it’s undertaken in the right spirit it’s
rooted in reality, and at least it represents an ideal of commitment. Liaisons are usually rooted in self-deception and seldom represent
anything but an all-consuming self-centredness.’

‘
Okay, I concede we all need ideals to aspire to, and okay, I
concede liaisons can mask countless unpalatable realities, but what
about those times when the liaisons are reflecting a reality that’s
very palatable indeed? Take you and me, for instance. We’re
instantly compatible. That was obvious in 1937, and it’s just
as
obvious now as it was then. That’s not only something real; it’s
something good. So when we made love, the sex wasn’t just a
casual exploitation but an expression of genuine feeling.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Charles!’

‘
I’m sorry, but it’s not true! You’re looking back through rose-
tinted spectacles — and perhaps that’s necessary for you, perhaps
that’s your way of coming to terms with a painful experience,
perhaps I should say no more.’

‘
But Charles, there was this tremendous chemistry between us
and we both benefited from it!’

‘
In what way? The truth is that I used you, very selfishly, to
keep my problems at bay.’

‘
Okay, you used me. But I loved it! I was lonely and wanted
someone —’

‘
Exactly. I used you and you used me too — it was a mutual
exploitation which proved harmful to both of us. It was harmful
to me because I betrayed the vows Pd made at my ordination
and increased the self-disgust which led to my complete spiritual
breakdown. And it was harmful to you —
as
I sensed when I walked
away - because I only increased your loneliness and reinforced the d
read, which your husband had fostered, that men always let you
down and didn’t deserve any long-term commitment. Isn’t that
dread the real reason why you’ve never remarried?’

‘
Okay,’ she said, ‘
^y
ou win. But only up to a point. There was
exploitation on both sides, but there was also something else going
on — and if that something else hadn’t been going on we wouldn’t
be sitting here now, enjoying each other’s company and effortlessly
picking up the threads of our acquaintance after a twenty-eight-
year interval. I agree I may be looking back through rose-tinted
spectacles at our roll in the heather —’

‘Bracken.’

‘
— but the fact remains that it was a turning-point in my life
and much good came out of it ... By the way, I think you were
right about the wine back in 1937. It
was
a Chablis.’

‘
Of course it was! The perfect accompaniment for our grilled
trout!’

‘Grilled trout? But it was grilled sole!’

We began to laugh. We laughed so much that in the end Loretta
got hiccoughs and I had to order half a bottle of Chablis to aid
our digestions.

I was unable to remember when I had last enjoyed myself so
much.

By the time we had reviewed our lives since 1937, reminisced
about all the major events from Munich to the Kennedy assassina
tion and exchanged fascinating information about the books we
had written, the dregs were cold in our coffee-cups, and around
us
in the largest of the panelled reception rooms the waiters were
beginning to serve tea.

‘
If I eat any more before nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said
Loretta when I drew her attention to the availability of another
meal, ‘I shall be unable to wear anything but my muu-muu.’

‘
I’m becoming increasingly intrigued by this mysterious garment!’

‘
And I’m becoming increasingly kern to show it to you! Come
upstairs and have a scotch — I’ve got a bottle of Chivas Regal
stashed in my wardrobe alongside the muu-muu.’

At once I knew any hesitation would be disastrous so I said
lightly: ‘How very stylish! But I must keep a clear head for the
journey home.’ As I spoke I was glancing around at the waiters,
flitting from armchair to armchair with their cakestands and trays,
and suddenly the softly-lit room seemed so warm, so comfortable,
so luxurious that I shuddered at the thought of the long journey
through the dark to my deserted house.

Beside me Loretta murmured: ‘It’s okay. No one’s recognised
you.’

‘
I’m afraid I have to behave as a bishop whether anyone recog
nises me or not,’ I said automatically, but I continued to recoil
from the prospect of returning home.

There was a pause while Loretta stubbed out her cigarette but
finally she said: ‘I’m sorry. I should have realised you’d still be
much too bound up with Lyle to be in the mood for anything
but a light-hearted lunch, but I know from past experience that sometimes when one’s feeling very lonely, the company of an old
friend —’

I knew I had to interrupt her. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Lyle,’ I said abruptly, but this sounded unnatural, even callous,
as
if I
had already thrust Lyle entirely from my mind. Struggling to
express myself better I added: ‘Lyle’s sealed off, rather as she was
when I met you in 1937. It’s not that she’s unimportant. It’s just
that she’s unobtainable.’

Well, if we’re rerunning 1937 —’

We can’t. But that’s not because of Lyle. It’s because of you.’

‘
I guess you’re trying to say as tactfully as possible that you don’t
fancy mutton dressed up
as lamb.’

‘
You couldn’t be more wrong. I’m trying to say that although
I used you in 1937, I can’t use you like that again. Do you really
want me to prove myself a complete and utter hypocrite?’

‘Okay, let’s call it a day.’

‘
The truth is that after speaking so strongly against the abuse of
sex — and the abuse of women —’

‘
I know. Don’t worry. I understand.’

‘
— I can’t act in any other way, I’ve got no choice, I’m not a
mixed-up young priest any more, I’m a bishop — a
bishop —
and
there’d be no
excuse
for such abject clerical failure this time, it
wouldn’t just be disgraceful, it would be absolutely unforgivable —’

‘
Charles.’ She leaned forward and briefly put her hand over mine.
‘It’s okay,’ she said in the gentlest of voices. ‘I accept your decision
and respect you for it. It’s okay.’

Pulling myself together I said: ‘I’m Sony.’

‘
And there’s no need to apologise either.’ Rising to her feet she
added lightly: ‘Why do the British say "sorry" so often?’

‘
Tradition.’ I tried to speak equally lightly and failed.

‘
And why do the British always use "tradition" to excuse their
more irrational activities? No, don’t answer that, I’m in no mood
for a debate about culture ... Thanks for the lunch, Charles.’

‘
Thanks for the champagne cocktails.’ We were leaving the
drawing-room now, leaving the warmth and the soft lights and
the waiters with the silver cakestands, and as we stepped into the
hall I could
see
beyond the main entrance the grey light of that
dying afternoon. -
.. and let me wish you luck again with your book,’ Loretta
was saying. ‘Will you send me a British copy so that I can meet
the sexually lax Bishop Callistus before he appears in print in New York?’ And as she smiled she passed me one of those calling-cards
which have never gone out of fashion in America.

I stared down at the card but was too distracted to read the
address. I could only say: Will you send me your book on Rochester?’

‘The sexually lax John Wilmot? Of course!’

She was still smiling at me but I knew I could risk no kiss; I
did not even dare to risk clasping her hand. Slipping her card into
the inside pocket of my jacket I said rapidly: ‘I’m glad we met
again. Look after yourself.’ And then leaving the hotel I proceeded
to walk at high speed into the deepest possible trouble.