Ultimate Prizes (48 page)

My endurance finally snapped. My iron self-control exploded into fragments. My clerical mask was blasted apart by the force of my rage. “
Her
suffering?” I shouted. “Yes, all she can think about is herself, but what about me? What about
my
suffering? And what about that poor dead baby which she rejected as brutally as if it was mere rubbish fit for an incinerator? I buried that child this morning. I buried
her son
. Yet did she so much as ask about the funeral when I visited her today? No, she did not! It was all ‘I —I—I—’ as usual, but you can tell her from me that I think it’s time she grew up and started thinking of other people instead of whining on and on and on about herself like some revolting spoilt child!”

I blazed into my study, slammed the door, wrenched the key around in the lock, shoved aside the Oxford Dictionary and reached for the whisky bottle—which was empty. I had forgotten I had finished the dregs to do myself a favour. Muttering an expletive which was an obscenity but not a blasphemy, I cuffed the dictionary back into place and headed for the sherry decanter in the dining-room, but the moment I left my study Merry waylaid me again in the hall.

“Honestly, I do think men are absolutely the frozen limit, I really do! Just because you have ten minutes’ pleasure thirty-nine weeks ago, Dido has to go through months of hell and nearly dies giving birth to your child—and what do you do to make amends? Damn all! You pop in and see her for a couple of minutes when you’ve nothing better to do, and then you have the infernal nerve to complain about the funeral! I’d have thought that in the circumstances the least you could do was organise the funeral without bothering her with all the gruesome details, and in my opinion it’s absolutely disgraceful that a clergyman of the Church of England should treat his poor sick wife with such an utterly
brutal
lack of feeling! In fact if you ask me—”

I drew back my arm to hit her. I actually swung back my arm and raised my hand. Her eyes widened. I heard her gasp of fear, and as the adrenaline blazed through me with a ferocious force I was overwhelmed by the vile black ecstasy of violence. But a second later from the top of the stairs Primrose called: “Daddy!” and the force died. Turning my back on Merry I wordlessly held out my arms to my daughter as she scampered down the stairs.

“Daddy, where have you been all afternoon?”

I had to hug her for ten silent seconds before I was capable of saying: “I went to a village called Flaxton Pauncefoot and met a little girl called Vanilla.”

“Like the ice-cream?”

“Yes, but in fact her name turned out to be Venetia …” While I talked I was moving into the dining-room, escaping from Merry, extracting a glass from the sideboard, reaching blindly for the decanter.

“Daddy, your hand’s shaking.”

“So it is.” I filled the tumbler to the brim. “Now I shan’t be able to drink the sherry without spilling it.”

“You could pretend you were a cat and try lapping.”

“True.” I stood looking at the sherry. I was trying to beat back my horror as I remembered that sinister surge of adrenaline. Of course I had to pretend it had never happened, I could see that clearly. Good clergymen never suffered from sinister surges of adrenaline, just as good Modernists never spoke of the Devil.

Aidan said in my memory: “It’s a question of facing the pain.”

I thought of my idealised world where sinners were just victims of circumstances who made little slips and guilt was a mere unprofitable reflex of the psyche. No need, of course, for a Liberal Protestant Modernist to soil his hands with the blood, sweat and tears which lay in wait for him on the neo-orthodox road to redemption. In his dream world everyone had a painless access to the forgiveness and compassion of Christ; everyone travelled a moonlit, rose-scented road which, as Mellors had put it with such crushing contempt, was perpetually flanked by a bunch of angels twanging harps.

I thought of Merry again, and as I thought of her I knew that I could not, either now or in the future, pretend the incident had never happened. That type of self-deception had been shattered for all time by the events of the past twenty-four hours. I had to use my Liberal Protestant idealism as a sword to slice away the lies, not as a shield to protect myself from the truths I was too terrified to face. There could be no more hiding among the red roses and the twanging harps as I distorted my faith to escape into a dream world. That road to repentance, that facile travesty of a highway, was no road to repentance at all.

“It’s a question of facing the pain,” said Aidan again. His voice rang out so clearly in my memory that for a second I thought he was standing beside me in the room. I even looked around, for fear I might be hallucinating, and as I did so I saw the window. It was open. Picking up the glass I carried it to the sill and flung the sherry into the garden.

“Gosh!” said Primrose. “Why did you do that?”

“Fancied it. Give the roses a boost.” I tried to collect my fragmented thoughts. I knew I was on the brink again. Facing Merry for dinner was obviously impossible. Somehow I had to get myself to Starrington Magna and grab Darrow, the lifeline, before my triple personality finally disintegrated.

“Darling,” I said to Primrose, “I’ve got to go and see Mr. Darrow, but I don’t remember eating since breakfast, so I think it might be a good idea to have a snack before I leave. Can you please raid the larder for me?” I felt I dared not leave the dining-room in case Merry waylaid me a third time in the hall.

Primrose made a successful foraging expedition and returned with two slabs of bread liberally endowed with Marmite, an apple, four water-biscuits and a glass of orange squash. “But don’t give the orangeade to the roses,” she said, “because if you don’t want it I’ll have it.”

We shared the squash. We also shared the picnic; although I wanted to eat in order to ward off the risk of suffering a dizzy spell at the wheel, I could manage no more than a few mouthfuls of bread. Finally after kissing Primrose, I scuttled through the empty hall, plunged outside into the cool still air of early evening and began, like a shipwrecked mariner, to swim for my life towards the shore.

  16  

“
The issue presents itself as a choice between alternate lines of conduct. It is our business to wrestle with it, giving full weight, if we can, to the emotional, intellectual and moral arguments for and against each possible course, and striving to see the whole dispassionately.
”

C
HARLES
E. R
AVEN
THE CREATOR SPIRIT

1

H
ALFWAY TO
S
TARRINGTON
I
HAD TO STOP THE CAR
. I
FELT
dizzy, just as I had anticipated, although whether this condition was caused by lack of food or by exhaustion I could not decide; having bounded around so busily for so long, perhaps it was inevitable that I should have run out of energy. I sat shivering behind the steering wheel and occasionally wiping the sweat from my forehead. By that time I would have given my eye-teeth for a triple whisky—or even better, a triple brandy. Could I stop at a pub? No, I was still wearing my archidiaconal uniform. I could only struggle on to Starrington—where Darrow would have measured the levels in the decanters. But at least there would be decanters. I pictured them longingly but still I remained shivering behind the wheel.

After a while I began to wonder if I had reached the moment of complete breakdown. My emotions seemed to be paralysed. I thought I must inevitably be terrified but I felt only a numbed tranquillity and I was reminded of Arctic explorers who died of hypothermia; there came a point, near death, when they no longer noticed the cold.

I tried to pull myself together. Was I or was I not a clergyman? This was surely the moment to attempt a quick prayer, but the only word that entered my consciousness was:
HELP
. How feeble! But even one word was better than nothing. Squeezing my eyes shut, I yelled
HELP
! at the top of my mental voice, but of course nothing changed. Opening my eyes I found that the cow in the nearby field was still chewing placidly on its cud. But on the other hand, what else had I expected? Surely not a phalanx of angels descending from the sky with a stretcher! Wiping the sweat from my forehead again I gazed at the cow and wondered what to do next.

After a while it occurred to me that my prayer had hardly been very reverent and that it had been the height of impudence to assume God would pay it any attention. I had to phrase a humble request for aid, but suddenly all I could think of was Aidan talking about prayer, Aidan telling me to remember Luther, Aidan easing the burden of my guilt and giving me the courage to fight on, and when, automatically reliving the memory of the most crucial point of our meeting, I stretched out my hand, I seemed to feel again the clasp of his fingers as he stepped into the wasteland beside me. The memory lit up my consciousness. Once more I sensed Christ moving through the closed door of the room to be at one with his disciples, and as Aidan’s fingers closed on mine I was finally able to summon the strength to drive on down the lonely road to Starrington.

2

Before I had even halted the car in the drive Darrow was opening the front door of the Manor and hurrying down the steps to meet me.

“Hullo,” I said, hauling myself nonchalantly out of the driving-seat. “Sorry to drop in on you without warning like this. Should have phoned but I left home in rather a hurry.”

“Are you all right?”

“Absolutely fine. A little tired, but … absolutely fine. Not drunk. Gave the sherry to the rose-bush. Probably grow into a tree. Sorry, not making much sense, feel a trifle disconnected …” I had to lean for support against the car.

“I was afraid you’d had an accident,” said Darrow. “I phoned your house just after you’d left so I knew you were on your way, and when you didn’t turn up—”

“Ran out of steam.” I managed to abandon the car and take a few unsteady steps across the gravel. “But it didn’t matter, not in the end, because I created some more steam
ex nihilo
, as Lord Flaxton would say. I did ask God for some extra steam, just a little puff or two, but I didn’t ask properly and He didn’t hear so I had to do it myself. But that’s all right, doesn’t matter, God helps those who help themselves—”

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” said Darrow, paying scant attention to my idiotic drivel in the vastness of his relief. “I was seriously worried. I kept praying you’d remember Aidan.”

I slumped instantly against the first object I could find. It was the frame of the front door. When I could speak I said: “Could you repeat that last sentence, please?”

He repeated it and added: “Whenever I was exhausted at Ruydale, the memory of Aidan’s kindness would always give me the strength to go on.”

“Well, I’ll be … Sorry. Extraordinary coincidence. Temporarily dumbfounded.” I sagged a little harder against the doorframe.

Darrow, who seemed taller than ever, gently steered me across the threshold into the hall. I felt a little worried that he should be so quiet and earnest and concerned. Patients become nervous when confronted by such a sinister gravity; they begin to hanker for their healthier days, when their doctors bounced around being arrogant nuisances.

“You present me with an interesting problem, Aysgarth,” Darrow was saying. “I’m very unwilling to offer you a drink but nevertheless I’m tempted to prescribe a stiff brandy.”

“Yes, please. Just one. Very nice.” I looked for something new to lean on and found the bannister. “No more moonlight,” I said, “no more roses. No more angels twanging harps. But a little drop of brandy wouldn’t go amiss at all.”

Before Darrow could comment, a door opened nearby and his wife, Anne, who had always been so kind to Grace, bustled into the hall. She was a statuesque brunette of thirty-eight, with a determined jaw and the bossy air of a successful businesswoman. Although reputed to run the Manor’s estate with a most lucrative efficiency, she was clever enough to play down this masculine skill and cultivate a somewhat eccentric femininity. She wore plain, well-cut clothes, so plain and well-cut that they probably cost a fortune, and avoided heavy make-up in order to show off her excellent skin. At dinner-parties she was notorious for wearing at least one of her large collection of diamond trinkets; the juxtaposition of the lavish stones and the lush skin was curiously alluring. Naturally I had often wondered, just as one inevitably does when one considers one’s female acquaintances, what she was like in bed, and I had long since formed the suspicion that she was probably very hot stuff indeed. After all, Darrow would hardly have bothered with a woman who was frigid. Having spent seventeen years in a monastery, he would have been certain to prefer a rocket to a damp squib.

“Neville!” she was exclaiming as she crossed the hall towards us. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived!” She turned to her husband. “So much for your premonitions, darling! Here he is, safe and sound, and looking remarkably well, considering all the ghastliness he’s been through! Neville, I was so sorry to hear …” And she embarked on a few brisk but well-chosen words of sympathy about the baby.

I suddenly realised that she was wearing not only a diamond necklace but diamond earrings, and as the knowledge dawned on me that I was interrupting a dinner-party I became aware of the murmur of conversation beyond the open dining-room door.

“… and anyway, it’s lovely to see you!” Anne was saying warmly. “Come and have a drink. We’ve finished eating and the men are about to start on the port.”

In confusion I said: “I’m sorry, I had no idea I was interrupting a dinner-party.”

“Oh, I thought you knew! Charles said he met you yesterday. He and Lyle are staying with us for a few days before going off on holiday to Devon.”

Before I could even gasp with horror Darrow said smoothly: “Aysgarth and I have business to discuss. We’ll give the port a miss and go straight to the library.”

“Oh no!” I said at once, driven by all manner of complex feelings. “Of course I must say hullo to the Ashworths—what on earth would they think if I didn’t?”

“Aysgarth—” began Darrow, but I refused to let him finish.

“A glass of port would be delightful!” I said firmly to Anne. “Just what I need to cheer me up after a long hard day!” And turning my back on Darrow, who was shaking his head in a paroxysm of disapproval, I rushed forward, eager as a lemming, to the disaster which lay waiting ahead.

3

The first person I saw as I entered the room was Lyle. She was wearing her hair longer; it cascaded around her shoulders in a series of subtle waves. Her sleek black dress was unadorned by jewellery so that she appeared to be saying silently to Anne: “You can dress yourself up like a Christmas tree, but I don’t have to.” As our glances met she gave me the kind of look one would normally reserve for dead cod on a fishmonger’s slab.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ashworth,” I said.

“Good evening, Archdeacon.” Not even Garbo could have sounded more ravishingly aloof.

“Hullo, Aysgarth,” her husband was saying casually as my feet carried me forward to the nearest chair. “I thought it wouldn’t be long before we met again.”

“Congratulations on your gift of prophecy!” As I sank down in a chair on his side of the table, I was aware that he had made no move to offer me his hand, but then why should he? After a good dinner he was probably feeling too relaxed to bother with the formalities.

“We were sorry to hear of your loss,” said Lyle, immaculately polite. “We do hope your wife’s now on the road to recovery.”

“She is, yes. Thank you.” Having mentally flailed around for another topic of conversation, I found myself saying rapidly to the man beside me: “How are your boys?”

“How nice of you to ask!” To my relief Ashworth was suddenly all charm. I was reminded of my first meeting with him long ago in 1940 when he had effortlessly exuded his privileged southern background, his public school education and his ecclesiastical success. I could still remember my instinctive pang of envy and resentment. I had had to fight hard for my success; Ashworth would merely have glided up the ladder. He was one of those people who quite obviously have no family problems, no career difficulties and certainly no personal crises. No matter how arduous his experience as a POW he would slough it off without difficulty and slide elegantly back into his role of the charming academic theologian marked out long since for high preferment. I could well imagine him being offered a bishopric before he turned fifty.

“Charley goes to prep school this autumn,” he was saying in response to my enquiry, “and Michael’s still at kindergarten.”

“They must have grown since I last saw them.” It was a banal comment but I could think of no other. I was too busy trying to avoid looking at Lyle.

“When in fact did you last see them?” said Ashworth with interest.

“Well …” I suddenly realised I was again on the brink of mentioning Alex.

“I don’t remember when he last saw Michael,” said Lyle, “but he saw Charley at the Jardines’ house a few days before the funeral.”

“Ah yes,” said Ashworth, once again producing his most charming smile, and added to me: “My wife’s now told me exactly what happened at that funeral.”

I felt as if I had fallen off a cliff. No lemming could have experienced a longer drop.

“That must have been such a harrowing experience, Lyle!” Anne was exclaiming sympathetically. “Both the Jardines were so devoted to you, weren’t they?”

“They were like parents. I suppose that’s why I found it difficult to talk of the funeral afterwards, even to Charles.”

“Well!” said Darrow, suddenly deciding to intervene. Having closed the door he now opened it again as a signal to the ladies. “Anne?”

“Yes, of course.” She turned to Lyle. “Let’s leave the men to their port and Church gossip. Coffee in the drawing-room in quarter of an hour, Jon, and no interminable ramblings tonight, please, about Reinhold Niebuhr, D. R. Davies, ‘Uncle Tom Cobley and All.’ ”

“Very well, darling,” said Darrow meekly. Anne was the only person on earth who could boss Darrow around and meet with no resistance. Usually I found this a fascinating spectacle, but at that moment I was in such a state of shock that I barely noticed it. I was acutely aware of Lyle ignoring me as she left the room.