Ultimate Prizes (45 page)

“What exactly is an archdeacon?” said the child to him abruptly.

“A very important clergyman, Miss Venetia.”

“A
clergyman?
Oh, we don’t have any of those here!” she exclaimed, and added severely to me: “We’re all agnostics in this family. Papa eats clergymen on toast for breakfast.”

“Grilled, fried or scrambled?”

She burst out laughing. The butler looked scandalised but recovered himself sufficiently to lead the way across the hall to an enormous pair of doors. In the niches nearby, muscular marble males toyed coyly with their fig-leaves.

Opening the doors, the butler announced grandly: “The Archdeacon of Starbridge, my lord,” and feeling like a Christian entering the Roman amphitheatre to meet his very own hungry lion, I stepped forward across the threshold to meet my fate.

4

The room was about sixty feet long and littered with an eclectic collection of furniture; eighteenth-century masterpieces of design stood cheek-by-jowl with overstuffed Victorian monstrosities. There were two magnificent fireplaces—more white marble—and a painted ceiling reminiscent of the dining-room of the Ritz where Dido and I had been invited to dine with Merry and her husband after our engagement had been announced.

At the far end of the room stood Lord Flaxton. As the doors closed quietly behind me he remained motionless and watched in silence as I embarked on my lengthy journey towards him.

It was a clever trick. I guessed he adopted it not merely to stress that he was the king of this particular castle but to gauge the staying-power of his callers. Exerting an iron will not to appear disconcerted, I ploughed steadily across a succession of vast carpets and only halted when I was six feet away from him. Then I looked him straight in the eyes and said in a firm polite voice from which all hint of nervous sycophancy had been ruthlessly excluded: “Good afternoon, Lord Flaxton. It’s kind of you to receive me at such short notice. I sincerely hope I may be of help to you in resolving your parish difficulty.”

Hooded dark eyes looked me up and down. A narrow mouth tightened for a second before relaxing into a subtle, charming smile. To my relief I realised I had made a favourable first impression.

“How do you do, Archdeacon.” He offered me a muscular handshake intended, perhaps, to repel any notion that he might be one of the effete members of the aristocracy, but by that time I needed no extra hint to convince me I was dealing with a tough customer. He was of medium height, but because he was so slim and held himself like a soldier he seemed taller than he was. I judged him to be about ten years my senior. In typical aristocratic fashion he was wearing shabby country clothes and looked like a rather cunning poacher.

“I’ve heard about you from the Starmouths,” he said. “I understand you were Bishop Jardine’s protégé. Now,
there
was a great man! Bold, brilliant, blindingly honest—what a fighter for truth! We need more men like that in the Church today and maybe now Fisher’s Archbishop of Canterbury we’ll get them. Do you know Fisher?”

“No, but I hear—”

“A very sound fellow, sensible and down-to-earth, not like that lunatic Bell who regularly drives us all mad in the House of Lords with his idiotic idealistic drivel. And Fisher’s fathered six sons—six! Anyone who can father six sons, wind up Archbishop of Canterbury and survive to tell the tale deserves a prize for indestructibility. How many sons have you fathered, Archdeacon?”

“Five.”

“Splendid! That’s what we need in the Church today—clergymen with balls. No limp handshakes, no idealistic bleatings, no damn Papist mumbo-jumbo—and I trust, Archdeacon, you’re not a High Churchman who’s sentimental about the Pope?”

“Certainly not, my lord.”

“Quite right too. England for the English, that’s what I say, and no kowtowing to a bunch of foreigners. Can’t understand these people who are soft on Germans and Italians—although that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the masterpieces of German literature or the grandeur of ancient Rome. How amazed those early Christian martyrs would be if they came to life today and discovered an age in which the Roman Empire was just a collection of ancient monuments and Christ was worshipped by millions!
Sic transit gloria mundi.
”

“With respect, Lord Flaxton,” I said, “I suggest the martyrs wouldn’t be in the least amazed. They believed in the ultimate triumph of eternal truth over worldly values.
Veritas filia tem-poris est.
”

Flaxton gave a delighted smile. “So you’re not a yes-man!” he said satisfied. “You’ve got the guts to stand up to a bigoted, bad-mannered agnostic who always likes to have his own way! Sit down, Archdeacon, and pray forgive me for keeping you standing while I put you through your paces. I have a feeling you and I are going to get on very well together.”

5

“As you probably know,” said the Baron when we had arranged ourselves in the upholstered tubs which masqueraded as armchairs, “I own this village but I don’t have the right to appoint the incumbent. Until now this hardly seemed to matter, since I take care never to set foot in a church unless my social obligations require me to attend christenings, weddings and funerals. However, although I’m not a religious man, I’m an exceedingly moral one. Let no man say,” said Lord Flaxton, eyeing me sternly, “that I’m not exceedingly moral.”

I assumed an interested expression but made no comment.

“In my opinion,” pursued Lord Flaxton, “a parson in a parish such as this has an absolute moral duty to offer his flock comfort, reassurance and stability—and particularly now in this post-war world where so many of the pre-war certainties have been swept away. We live in a world of constant change, Archdeacon. As Heraclitus said—”

“Exactly. Can I conceivably be talking to a man who like myself attained a first in Greats?”

“You can, my lord. I’m a Balliol man.”

“I knew it! It takes a Balliol man to have the nerve to steal my Greek quotations and wave them in my face … Where was I?”

“A parson should represent stability in a world of change—”

“Ah yes. Well, I’m sorry to say this particular parson has no interest in offering his flock—my tenants, for whom I’m morally responsible—any comfort in religion. He’s been preaching heresy. And I don’t just mean he’s been cocking a snook at the Virgin Birth. I believe even bishops do that occasionally, and quite right too. No educated man could swallow such a fable.”

“Faith isn’t dependent on education, Lord Flaxton, although the intellect may well be expanded through faith. As St. Anselm said: ‘
Credo ut intelligam.
’ ”

“Those saints would say anything. Am I to understand you believe in the Virgin Birth, Archdeacon? What can Balliol be coming to!”

“My years at Balliol taught me to appreciate the finer points of scholarly criticism. For instance, the phrase ‘Virgin Birth’ can be capable of more than one interpretation. To the Jewish people two thousand years ago it might have meant no more than a first birth, a birth by a woman who’d never had a baby before. Alternatively a ‘virgin’ in this context may merely mean a young girl, and a sexual inference needn’t be drawn at all. So with all due respect I submit to you that you’re asking the wrong question. It should be not: ‘How can you believe in the Virgin Birth?’ but: ‘What does the term “Virgin Birth” mean in this particular historical context?’ ”

“But once you start splitting hairs like that, where are you going to stop? The ordinary parishioner in the pew doesn’t want split hairs! He wants certainty. He wants his parson to roar out from the pulpit: ‘Jesus Christ was begotten by God on the Virgin Mary, a girl with no sexual experience!’ ”

“With the very greatest respect, Lord Flaxton, may I ask how you know what the ordinary parishioner wants if you never enter a church except for the rites of passage?”

“My God!” said Lord Flaxton. “That’s cut me down to size!”

“I’m most extremely sorry if I’ve given offence—”

“You haven’t. Just food for thought. Very well, we’ll pass over the Virgin Birth—that’s not actually relevant at present anyway; damned Mellors hasn’t attacked the Virgin Birth. He’s saying Christ was just one of many long-haired prophets who ranted on and on about the imminent end of the world—like those modern lunatics who jump up and down on soap-boxes at Speakers’ Corner. He’s saying Christ got it all wrong, the world didn’t end and there was no resurrection. He’s saying that the disciples conspired together to invent the resurrection in order to give their rebel movement a new lease of life.”

“This sounds like a garbled version of Schweitzer’s
The Quest of the Historical Jesus
. It’s a powerful book but it was published many years ago and the general opinion now among scholars is that Schweitzer over-emphasised the eschatological side of Christ’s preaching. In other words, Christ wasn’t ‘just another long-haired prophet’ after all.”

“But what about the resurrection?”

“The theory that the disciples got together and manufactured a fiction doesn’t actually correspond with the evidence—which must include, of course, their transformed lives. Is Mellors disputing the empty tomb?”

“Disputing it? He’s bloody well abolished it! His last sermon concluded with the words: ‘So what does it really matter what happened two thousand years ago?’—at which point the congregation walked out and the churchwardens decided to seek my help. And quite right too! You can’t have a clergyman saying it doesn’t matter what happened two thousand years ago! That’s not playing the game at all! The man must be instantly removed and defrocked!”

“Excuse me, Lord Flaxton, but I assume I’m right in thinking you’ve heard none of these sermons yourself? It’s just possible that Mellors has been quoted out of context and misinterpreted.”

“Now look here, Aysgarth. A good decent sensible clergyman who plays the game shouldn’t lay himself open to misinterpretation. We’ve had trouble with that man before, you know. Took to drink after his wife died. In my opinion he should have been sacked then, but that old Bishop’s as soft as butter; all he did was forgive him—and what sort of episcopal behaviour is that, I’d like to know?”

“I believe they call it Christian, my lord.”

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then Flaxton gave a short bark of laughter and exclaimed: “Floored again! You’re a formidable man, Archdeacon. Where do you come from?”

“Yorkshire.”

“And what did your father do?”

“He ran a draper’s shop.”

“A draper’s shop!” Flaxton was entranced. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you? And when did you first realise you were called to minister to the rich?”

“Minister to the—”

“No, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! It’s quite obvious that with your first-class education and iron nerves you’re uniquely qualified to be a missionary to the upper classes. Why aren’t you hammering on the pagan doors of Mayfair and Belgravia?”

“Well, I—”

“And don’t you dare give me a sermon about how all clergymen are obliged to serve the bloody poor! My dear Aysgarth, never mind the unfortunate inhabitants of the East End slums—they’ll always have a stream of masochists fighting to minister to them, but who ministers to the ghastly crowd of bone-idle, self-centred, hard-drinking adulterers who languish in the spiritual desert of the West End? Time-servers who know how to simper over a tea-cup! Yes-men who tell their pampered parishioners exactly what they want to hear! Fund-raisers who know how to ingratiate themselves with those who hold the purse-strings! It’s enough to make a decent agnostic puke. The able men slip away into the bishoprics and deaneries, the saints get siphoned off into the slums, and we’re left with the damned dregs! Now, if
you
were Vicar of St. Mary’s Mayfair … but of course you wouldn’t want to be a mere vicar after your years as an archdeacon. Maybe a canonry at St. Paul’s … or Westminster … I’ll have a word with the Prime Minister. I get on well with Attlee even though I’m no socialist. He’s an old Haileyburian. Civilised. Not like some of the horrors you find nowadays on the Government front bench … Now, where were we? Every time you trounce me in debate I go off at a tangent—”

“Mellors’ drinking after his wife’s death.” I hardly knew what I was saying. The words “St. Paul’s” and “Westminster” were still ringing in my ears, and for a moment, as I remembered Sydney Smith’s famous reference to heaven, I felt as if I were eating pâté de foie gras to the sound of trumpets.

“… and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s taken to drink again,” Lord Flaxton was saying. “Nor would I be surprised to hear that there was woman-trouble in the offing. If a clergyman’s hitting the bottle and preaching heresy, can fornication be far behind?”

“Possibly not, although I believe hitting the bottle tends to depress the sexual appetite. But do we know for certain that he’s hitting the bottle again?”

“To be strictly truthful, no, we don’t. But like Hobbes I take a pessimistic view of mankind.”

“I’m sorry to hear your agnosticism doesn’t have a more uplifting effect on you, my lord. Very well, I’ll call now at the vicarage and report to you in due course. I regret that you’ve been troubled, but on behalf of the Bishop I’d like to thank you for drawing the matter to his attention.”