Ultimate Prizes (50 page)

“I quite understand,” said Darrow soothingly and added without even a pause to search for the right words: “You’re saying that you feel it’s time for your psychological disability to be explored by your conscious mind so that a satisfactory adjustment can be achieved.”

“Exactly.” I felt better, safer, once we were using modern terminology, but then before I could stop myself I was saying: “He’ll destroy me if he’s not exorcised. I saw that clearly tonight. So I’ve got to destroy him before he destroys me.”

“It’s very important that you’ve adopted this positive attitude towards overcoming your difficulties. Very well,” said Darrow, still miraculously serene in the face of my disordered ravings, “let’s get down to business. Is it possible, do you think, that you can give me a synopsis of your meeting with Aidan? I need hardly stress that you’re under no obligation to reveal the secrets of the confessional, but—”

“I wasn’t in the confessional. We just talked.”

“I see. Nonetheless you may well have told Aidan things you’d prefer me not to know—”

“Since you already know what I did to Lyle when I was drunk and since I’ve just told you what I almost did to my sister-in-law when I was sober, why on earth should I suddenly become coy about my meeting with Aidan? I may be a spiritual wreck,” I said crossly, “and I may be sufficiently disturbed to resort to outmoded symbolism, but there’s still no need to conclude that I’m a certifiable lunatic!”

Darrow smiled and said: “Personally I think your use of that particular symbolism indicates the height of sanity. Why call a spade a gardening implement when you can call it a spade?”

“Darrow, you can’t
seriously
believe in demons—”

“No, of course not. Tell me about Aidan.”

Reassured I flexed my brain in the manner of a barrister about to sum up a complex case for the jury, and embarked on a description of my experiences in London.

5

I had just completed my account of the meetings with Aidan and was about to describe my encounters with my siblings, when Anne Darrow returned to the dining-room.

“Jon, you really are impossible! ‘Coffee in quarter of an hour,’ I said—”

“I’m sorry,” I said hastily. “This is all my fault.”

“No, it isn’t, it’s his. He takes on far too much and then throws the social niceties to the winds when he inevitably finds he doesn’t have time for them—it happens constantly! He’s very naughty.” Stooping over him as he sat in his chair she kissed the top of his head. “Lyle’s long since followed Charles up to bed,” she said, “and I’m tired of sitting in solitary splendour in the drawing-room. I suppose I’ve no hope of seeing you before midnight?”

“Well, perhaps it would be better not to wait up for me—”

“Those words are beginning to seem just a little too familiar, Father Darrow!”

“Yes, darling, and every time I utter them I give thanks they’re not grounds for divorce. I’m sorry I’m being so impossible.”

“I give up!” said Anne, kissing him again, and added: “Good night, Neville,” before withdrawing to the hall.

“Darrow, I feel guilty about imposing myself on you at such an inconvenient hour,” I said as soon as the door closed. “If you’d prefer me to come back tomorrow—”

“Aysgarth, you’re in crisis. Your need is desperate. You did absolutely the right thing to come here, and now you’re here you must stay. Do you really think I’d be capable of sending you away just so that I could have the pleasure of being in bed with my wife before midnight? What kind of a priest do you think I am?”

This was my personal tank rolling to the rescue again, unstoppable, undetectable, infinitely comforting. Relaxing in my chair I gave him a tentative smile in an attempt to signal my gratitude, and once more resumed my narrative.

6

Having recounted my meetings with my siblings, I told him about Bishop Bell, Lord Flaxton and Mellors. I even told him how I had calmed down Dr. Ottershaw by promising to make all the necessary enquiries into the proposed Theological College extension.

“I’m sure he was most grateful,” said Darrow wryly.

“His exact words were: ‘Whatever would I do without you, Neville?’ ”

“A very pertinent question!”

“Not half so pertinent as the question I must now ask you: Which direction am I supposed to take? I frankly confess I’m in such a muddle that I can’t see the wood for the trees. What does God now require of me?”

“What indeed! The first point to grasp, Aysgarth, is that neither you nor I, on the present evidence, can answer that question at this moment. I think Aidan was right. The future’s not going to fall into place until we’ve dealt with the past.”

“But I want to deal with the future!” I said obstinately, anxious to postpone the ordeal of wrestling with my demon, but realising that I sounded like Sandy as he demanded a biscuit adorned with pale chocolate on both sides, I added in a milder tone: “Are you saying we can’t talk about Bell and Flaxton at all?”

“Oh, we can talk about them,” said Darrow agreeably, “but I don’t think we’ll get anywhere. We’ll quickly become bogged down in a mass of speculation.”

“How can you behave as if the meetings weren’t important? I feel as if I’ve been walloped by two separate sandbags!”

“Of course you do—and of course the meetings were important. But their significance may not lie quite where you think it does. Very well,” said Darrow, changing course as he decided the patient needed to be humoured, “let’s see what happens when we look at the future. Now what would you say actually took place at these meetings with Bell and Flaxton?”

“Two very different careers in the Church were sketched for me by two very different men. As far as I can make out, Bell must represent God and Flaxton must represent the Devil—although of course when I say ‘the Devil’ I don’t mean—”

“Don’t worry, Aysgarth, not even I see the Devil as a charming little imp with horns. But why should you automatically assume that Flaxton represents the Devil? After all, someone’s got to minister to the rich, and if, as it seems, you have some peculiar flair for getting on with the aristocracy, this may be just as important a gift as your ability to get on with German POWs.”

“Yes, but I feel Bell would fulfill all the dreams of my Liberal idealism—”

“That might not be a good thing at all,” said Darrow promptly. “If it can be argued that your idealism has impaired your ability to cope with the reality of sin and evil, it can also be argued that your idealism needs damping down, not stoking up. Stepping into Bell’s world could be risky for you. You’d be like an alcoholic who decided to go to work in a pub.”

“Surely you exaggerate! I admire Bell so much—and how could that be harmful? The truth is I feel I need a new hero in my life, an older clergyman who—”

“Excuse me, Aysgarth. I hate to sound as if I’m carping and sniping at every word you say, but I must be quite honest and tell you that in my opinion the very last thing you need to do at the moment is to escape from reality by adopting a hero. You may well need the friendship of an older clergyman of great spiritual wisdom, but in your case I think he should be retired and living quietly in obscurity. Otherwise you’ll be tempted to regard him as a prize, and the relationship will soon cease to be either real or productive or wholesome.”

“But aren’t I allowed to admire Bell at all?”

“By all means admire him, but don’t forget he’s not a saint and he has his faults. For instance, it seems to me he’s often much too stubborn—it’s almost as if he takes a perverse pleasure in putting people’s backs up. And then I feel he’s not at ease at running in harness—he likes to be out on his own, preaching his special message. It makes one suspect he was lucky to be passed over for Canterbury. Being head of the Church would have shown up his limitations; being Bishop of Chichester gives him full scope to display his remarkable gifts … But we’re digressing. To return to the subject of your future—”

“Darrow, I wouldn’t have thought it possible that you could make me even more confused than I was before this conversation began, but I’m beginning to feel as if—”

“You’re only confused because you haven’t answered my original question correctly. My original question, which was intended to bring you out of the world of dreams and into the world of hard facts, was: What actually took place during these meetings with Bell and Flaxton? And the correct answer is: Not much. Bell’s talked vaguely of European reconstruction and invited you to call on him, but as yet there’s been no offer of work. Flaxton’s bragged about his political connections and implied how much he’d enjoy being chums with a London churchman who could consistently cap his classical quotations, but in fact you’re still a long way from Westminster or St. Paul’s because Flaxton himself has no influence in the Church. We all know political influence can be crucial, but nowadays the politicians do at least try to work with the Church in a deferential manner. Mr. Attlee, I hear, is very scrupulous in the matter of Church appointments.”

“Flaxton’s obviously still romping along in the nineteenth century. But Darrow, if these meetings with Bell and Flaxton were inconclusive, does this mean—”

“Yes, let’s think about what it means. In my opinion the real significance of the meetings lies not in the fact that they’ve opened up miraculous opportunities for you. They haven’t. What they’ve actually done is to spell out to you your own particular gifts as a clergyman so that you have the chance to decide how you can use them with maximum effect in God’s service. For example, it’s now obvious that you’re not such a pastoral disaster as you always thought you were. You’ve been liberated from your—shall we use modern terminology?—your inferiority complex, which I suspect arose not only from your innate shyness but also from the fact that you’ve travelled a long way socially. I think it’s not without significance that this great pastoral success of yours took place among a group of people who stood right outside the English class system.”

This truth had never before occurred to me. When I had finished boggling at him I said: “So what you’re saying is—”

“I’m saying your horizons have been expanded. You no longer have to feel you can only serve God successfully as an administrator. But on the other hand—and this is a point which appears to have completely eluded you—it’s also been emphasised what an effective administrator you are. ‘Whatever would I do without you?’ Dr. Ottershaw exclaims as you step forward for the umpteenth time to iron out his difficulties. You’ve been so busy considering Bell and Flaxton, Aysgarth, that you seem to find no significance in Dr. Ottershaw’s heartfelt paean of praise.”

“That’s because paeans of praise from Dr. Ottershaw are nothing new.”

“Yes, but their significance in this context is that it’s neither Bell nor Flaxton but Ottershaw who actually has the greatest power to influence your future. Of course he must have been mentioning you for some time to the people who matter. I don’t pretend to have a direct telephone line which enables me to eavesdrop on the counsels of these exalted gentlemen, but I’d assume they’d be saying something like: ‘Let Aysgarth see the old man out and steer the new man in. By that time he’ll be in his late forties and ripe for a plum preferment.’ ”

“But I’m not sure I want to go on as an archdeacon.”

“The point is that you wouldn’t be going on in the same way. Your liberation from the inferiority complex means you’d be much more effective in the pastoral work—and there’s a fair amount of pastoral work attached to the office of archdeacon, isn’t there? It’s not all attending diocesan committees and inspecting churches and keeping Dr. Ottershaw organised.”

“That’s true.” I thought of Mellors. Then I said: “I don’t deny it would be nice to sit tight and wait for the plum preferment to drop into my lap. Certainly a little while ago I’d never have dreamed of doing anything else. But nevertheless—”

“You want to work for Bell. That’s fine. It’s always helpful to know what one really wants. But Aysgarth, what you want isn’t necessarily going to be what God wants. You may at present not have the perspective to see—”

“You’re telling me politely that I’m deluded.”

“Certainly not!” Darrow was scandalised. “I’m telling you politely that since we have insufficient information at present to discern what God wants, all talk of what you want—although very interesting—really doesn’t get us very far. And now, having proved to you, I hope, that at present the future can only be a clouded mass of speculative theories—”

“Another possible future is that I fail to survive my marriage and get kicked out of the Church for heavy drinking and adultery after a steamy session in the divorce court.”

“That’s yet another speculative theory, I agree, but personally I don’t believe we should waste any more time ruminating on things which may never happen. Let’s try to get to grips now with the things that
have
happened—let’s talk about those meetings with your brother and sister. I’ll start by posing the same question that I posed before: What do you think actually took place here?”

“What happened,” I said gloomily in a fit of despair, “was that I felt like Alice adrift in a looking-glass world where all my preconceived ideas were turned inside out.”

“Excellent!” said Darrow delighted. “Well done! Now we’re really beginning to make progress …”

7

“What happened,” said Darrow, “was obviously what Aidan hoped would happen: You managed to uncover new facets of an exceedingly complex reality, with the result that you’re now much closer to the truth.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said dryly, “but I’m still completely at sea. All I can think is: Everything Emily and Willy said was true—and yet at the same time everything they said was false.”

“But that’s good—we’re now in what Aidan calls the land of paradox, and that means we’re very close to the truth. Now let’s try and grope our way forward. Can the paradox be illustrated? Can you give me a specific example of this truth-falsehood—or was the impression of paradox much more general and diffuse?”

“No, I can think of specific instances. For example, Emily and Willy were convinced that my parents’ marriage was a disaster, but I don’t remember it as a disaster at all. I remember my parents being happy, joking and laughing together. So I’m sure the view of a disastrous marriage must be false. Yet at the same time I can understand why Willy and Emily take this view. All the childbearing affected my mother’s health and she was capable of being a very demanding invalid. As for Father … well, he must have been a disappointment to her in some ways. She would have wanted a successful husband like Uncle Willoughby … So you have a situation where both partners of the marriage could have wound up unhappy—and maybe they did; maybe I’ve just blotted out what I don’t want to remember.”