Absolute Truths (88 page)

As we reached the bridge at the end of Eternity Street I saw a
telephone kiosk ahead and asked Hall to stop; I had remembered
that someone was waiting for me at home, and when I spoke to
Charley he was relieved to hear I had acquired a chauffeur. By an
enormous feat of self-control he restrained himself from asking all
the obvious questions.

The journey continued. Neither Hall nor I spoke. The little car
rattled and roared like a bad-tempered mule in an ill-fitting harness,
but eventually, as we passed the last street-lamp, we saw the white
ribbon of the road curling up the moonlit valley towards the villages of the north. At Starrington Magna the main street was deserted except for the cluster of cars around the pub.

‘Drop me at the gates of the Manor,’ I said. ‘There’s a door in the wall on the other side of the grounds, but that’ll be locked.’

Hall halted the car, took the torch from the glove compartment
and said: ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘
No, you won’t. If you came you’d have to hang around outside
the cottage because Jon only has one room.’ I took the torch, and
leaving him wreathed in a disapproving silence I set off on my journey through the grounds.

The moonlight intermingled with the darkness of the woods, just
as the candles in the Cathedral had intermingled with the darkness
of the choir, and as I saw the extravagantly beautiful pattern that
was formed I remembered the opening verses of St John’s Gospel
which described the light sent by God to shine in the darkness and guide flawed humanity along the path to eternal life, that
mysterious temporal metaphor which embraced redemption and
salvation and a mode of being which triumphed over time.

I thought too, as I reached the brink of the dell and saw the
chapel shimmering below me in the shadows, that the more flawed
one was, the more difficult it became not merely to stick to that
path but to see it as it unfurled towards that lasting happiness and
fulfilment which human beings found so elusive — and indeed a
perfect journey, ensured by the perfect alignment of the ego with
the inner self where the immanent God dwelt, would have been
difficult to imagine if Christ had not been sent to show us the
way, yet there he still was, a timeless image, the man who was
wholly human yet so God-centred that he was wholly divine, and he was himself the way to that kingdom of values, those absolute
truths, which gave all creation meaning.

‘
"Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto
life,"‘ Christ had said, and as I followed the path which zig-zagged
downhill into the dell I thought how my own path through life
had twisted and turned during my years as a priest; I thought how
I had squeezed through that strait gate only to wander from that
narrow way as my damaged self steered me in a multitude of wrong
directions, but now I was crawling back, my new self-knowledge
forming the compass which guided my return journey.

‘
High and wide is the gate which leads to self-deception and illusion, but for those seeking truth strait is the gate and narrow
the way and brave is the man who can journey there,’ Jon had said
to me long ago in 1937, and now it seemed that 1937 was once more encircling me; I could almost see 1965 running backwards
to meet it, because here I was again, on my way to a crucial meeting
with Jon, and the narrow way was once more unfolding past
his door.

The blinds were drawn so I was unable to see through the windows. Reaching the door I called out to Jon to announce myself, just as I always did before rapping on the panels, and seconds later we were face to face.

I said: ‘I had to see you. I had to tell you that everything’s fallen
into place’ at last and I see what I must do to make a new begin
ning.’ And as I moved past him I think I was not entirely surprised
— and I was certainly not in the least displeased — to find that Aysgarth was once again sitting by the window.

‘
Sorry to clutter up your spiritual path,’ said Aysgarth, hauling
himself at once to his feet. ‘Despite the fact that I had plenty of
better
things to do this evening, I found I had to come out here
and have my hand held. I must be finally going off my head.’

Needled into taking the tough line which Aysgarth found so stimulating, Jon said tersely: ‘Be quiet and sit down.’

‘But since Charles obviously wants a private audience –’

‘
If Charles has a vision of a new beginning, it’s not impossible
that you appear in it. Maybe he has something to say to you.’
Turning to me he added in a mild voice: ‘Take your time,
Charles, and don’t be distracted by Neville’s nervous facetiousness.
We’ll keep a short silence while you sit down and focus your
thoughts.’

In the pause that followed I was aware of a variety of small
sounds – the crackle of burning wood in the grate, the creak of
the cupboard door as Jon extracted the folding chair, the ticking
of the clock on the shelf above the fireplace – and I found myself
more conscious than ever of the room’s special serenity. The cruci
fix over the bed glinted in the soft light from the lamps. The faded
colours of the books on either side of the fireplace seemed to flow
into each other in the manner of an abstract painting. Even the
striped fur of the cat on the hearth merged harmoniously with the
muted colours and subtle patterns. I glanced again at my com
panions. Aysgarth was drawn and tired, the pouches heavy beneath
his eyes and the lines deep about his mouth, but Jon, standing
with his back to the light, seemed little changed since the day in
1937 when we had first met.

I broke the silence. To Aysgarth I said: ‘Jon’s right. I do have
something to say to you. I want to say I’m sorry I’ve been a bad
bishop, not helping you as you deserved, not treating you with
sufficient compassion and understanding when you got into diffi
culties back in 1963, not making any real attempt to repair the
damage which made friendship impossible. I’m sure my successor
will be a lot more use to you – and a lot more Christian – than
I’ve been.’

Aysgarth
said blankly to Jon: ‘What’s he talking about?’

Jon said without expression: ‘Charles has apparently decided to resign the bishopric.’

‘But he can’t do that!’ In his stupefaction Aysgarth sounded as
outraged as a scientist who had obtained an apparently impossible
result in the laboratory. ‘He must be mad!’

I ignored this unflattering reaction. ‘There’s only one thing more
I want to say,’ I added to him, ‘and that’s this: it’s all right about
Lyle. I know you regret that incident in 1945 and I do now accept
your apology. I’m only sorry I’ve been so unforgiving for so long.’

For the first time I saw Aysgarth, that killer in debate, at a loss
for words. In confusion he turned to Jon, but Jon had evidently
decided to adopt an iron neutrality; he gave Aysgarth no clue
about a possible response.

‘
I mean what I say,’ I said in case either of them should be
harbouring any doubts.

‘
Well, don’t just sit there like a deaf-mute!’ said Aysgarth furi
ously to Jon. ‘Open your mouth and tell him!’

‘Tell him what?’ said Jon, maddeningly obtuse. ‘Tell him you’re grateful to be forgiven for your behaviour in 1945?’

‘
No, no, no – well, I mean yes, of course I’m grateful – thank you, Charles – but what I meant was you’ve got to make it clear
to him that he can’t possibly resign, he’s needed, he’s the one
person who can look after the Chapter as they wait for the new
dean!’

‘
New dean?’
I shouted.

Aysgarth finally abandoned his attempt to recruit Jon to do his
talking for him and said rapidly to me: ‘I’m resigning. I accept
that I’ve failed at my job and that I’m unfit to run a great cathedral.
I’m extremely sorry that I’ve caused you so much trouble, and I
shall pray that after my departure you’ll finally be able to establish some peace in the Close at last.’

After a pause I said to Jon: ‘He’s offered to resign.’

‘Yes.’

Having confirmed that I had not finally succumbed to the
grossest of hallucinations I turned back to Aysgarth and
announced: ‘I refuse to accept your resignation.’

‘
It’s not being offered to you,’ said Aysgarth smartly, recovering
a fragment of his debating skill. ‘Since the deanery is a Crown
appointment, the person who must receive my resignation is the
Prime Minister.’

‘
I’m still your father-in-God,’ I said equally smartly, rising to
the debate. ‘I forbid you to resign.’

‘
That still sounds as if you’re trying to usurp the power of the
Prime Minister! "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s"!’ retorted Aysgarth, now fully recovered.

‘
Bugger the Prime Minister!’ I turned to Jon. ‘You’ll wear that
fence out if you sit on it much longer — what’s your opinion of
all this?’

‘
I must confess I’m very surprised to hear you advocating bug
gery, Charles.’

It then proved impossible not to laugh. The atmosphere light
ened. Finally Jon declared: ‘You’ve both made the most splendid
progress and I’m no longer ashamed to be in the same room
with you!’ And he beamed from ear to ear before announcing his intention to make us some tea.

‘
I’ve drunk enough of your tea to launch Noah’s ark,’ said Ays
garth pithily. ‘Is there really nothing else on offer?’

‘
Since I’m now feeling exceptionally indulgent,’ said Jon, ‘and
since you both look a trifle exhausted, I shall prescribe some med
icinal brandy. Charles, don’t dream of refusing it,’ he added, tem
porarily releasing me from my promise to abstain and giving the
release in an oblique manner which respected the privacy of the
confessional. ‘I know you’ll want to refuse but I shall overrule
you.’ He pottered away to the kitchen.

‘
I suppose it’s too much to hope for Rémy Martin,’ muttered
Aysgarth to me, ‘but I do hope the brandy’s not Spanish.’

‘Fortunately I’m not in the mood to be snobbish.’

‘On second thoughts neither am I.’

We waited. Eventually Jon returned with a tray of three glasses,
all barely bigger than thimbles. Each glass contained a very small measure of brown liquid.

‘
What are we supposed to do with that?’ demanded Aysgarth.
‘Inhale it?’

‘Thank you very much, Jo
n,’ I said hastily. ‘
A splendid symbolic gesture.’

‘I’m by no means opposed to alcohol,’ said Jon severely, ‘but it
has to be drunk at the right time and it must be drunk in moder
ation. Father Darcy used to say —’

Aysgarth and I both sighed gustily.

Jon was too surprised to complete the sentence.

‘
If you’ve got to rattle on about that hero of yours,’ said Ays
garth, having knocked back his brandy in a single gulp, ‘tell us
how he would have resolved this impasse which Charles and 1
have apparently reached. Should we both resign? Or should neither
of us resign? Or should only one of us resign — and if so, which
one should it be?’

Jon staged a quick recovery. ‘Father Darcy,’ he said at once, ‘would without doubt have reminded you both that you’re here
to serve God, not yourselves — and so the question becomes nor
simply: what should we do? But: what does God now require of
us?’

We all contemplated one another.

Of course no one answered the question.

As Dean Inge once wrote: ‘The silence of God has always been
a great trial to mankind.’