Glamorous Powers (49 page)

Meanwhile the citizens of Starbridge were anxiously eyeing their famous spire but Starbridge, unlike Coventry, was not an industrial centre and its cathedral remained intact, a symbol of the indestructible miraculously persisting in a world where destruction had become a way of life. I have always thought that one of the most demonic aspects of war is the way in which evil comes to be accepted as normal to such an extent that it is even woven into the mundane pattern of daily existence. I travelled around the parish with my regulation gas-mask and soon found I could sling it in my bicycle-basket with no more emotion than I expended in putting on my hat. I talked to the Home Guard, a jolly, friendly bunch of men, and found it easy to forget they had been licensed to commit murder. I spoke to
air-raid wardens who enforced the black-out and never boggled at the possibility that a stray bomb could blow us all to smithereens. I embarked on a campaign to raise money for the victims of Coventry but soon ceased to be horrified by the revolting fact that these innocent civilians had been maimed by men deliberately pulling levers in machines travelling far above the earth. Insanity and normality went hand in hand, and as I approached the familiar Christmas festivities I saw my own private world reflecting the war in microcosm again, my dark stark problems flowing with a sinister invisibility alongside my comforting Christian routine.

With the help of Anne and the village schoolmistresses I staged a magnificent nativity play. A well-attended carol service, designed to cater to Protestant taste, followed the next day, and on Christmas Eve I decided I had earned the right to celebrate a midnight mass in the best Anglo-Catholic tradition. My devoted ladies, all of whom had become Anglo-Catholics, praised me fulsomely afterwards, but the wretch Pitkin was outraged and before the end of the year I had a visit from the Rural Dean, a round rubicund gentleman who supervised six parishes in my corner of the diocese and whom I found prowling around the altar one morning as if he were sniffing for incense. I gave him luncheon at the Manor, plied him liberally with vintage port and expected to hear no more from the authorities, but in the new year Aysgarth wrote to request an interview, and with a sinking heart I realized – too late – that my talent for disruption had landed me in the sort of trouble which any priest in his right mind would have been at pains to avoid.

I received Aysgarth in the vestry. A small paraffin heater alleviated the chill in the room, but apart from this one touch of luxury my surroundings were impressively spartan. If Aysgarth had expected to see me languishing in luxurious vestments
amidst a cloud of incense, he had been doomed to disappointment.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you like this,’ he said civilly when we were both seated. ‘After the Rural Dean reported that in his opinion the fuss was a storm in a teacup I was going to do no more than write you a letter, but since the Bishop himself has now received a complaint he’s suggested that it might be helpful if we had an informal talk.’ He paused before adding blandly: ‘When a new clergyman takes charge of a parish it’s important to iron out any initial difficulty as quickly as possible.’

‘I’m trying hard, I assure you, Archdeacon, to iron out my initial difficulty, but unfortunately Mr Pitkin doesn’t take kindly to being ironed.’

Receiving this good-natured comment with a repellent absence of humour Aysgarth said stiffly: ‘I’m sorry to hear you’ve fallen out with Mr Pitkin. It pays a parson to keep on good terms with his churchwardens.’

I was well aware of this obvious fact of clerical life and I disliked being treated as a parish novice by a man who was young enough to be my son. Abruptly I demanded: ‘What’s the exact charge against me?’

‘It’s said that you deviate frequently from the rubric’

‘But everyone knows the rubric isn’t strictly enforced nowadays!’

‘Nevertheless it represents the rules governing worship in the Church, and if you deviate from orthodox practice your opponents have a legitimate grievance against you. For example, I’m told that you present the chalice to the lips of the communicants instead of “into their hands” as the rubric orders –’

‘Would you like me to see the Bishop to reassure him that I’ve no intention of going over to Rome?’

Of course he hated being reminded that I had the Bishop under my thumb. I saw his hard mouth tighten but he kept his temper and merely continued to list the charges against me. One or two, like the example he had already cited, were justified. The rest were a tribute to Pitkin’s anti-papist paranoia.

‘I can’t urge you too strongly to stick to the rubric in future,’ concluded Aysgarth at last despite my vigorous defence of my rights as a Catholic within the Church of England, ‘and I’d also urge you to make your peace with the hostile minority by soft-pedalling the Anglo-Catholic touches for the time being. In a rural parish like this it’s vital to acknowledge the strong conservative bias in your congregation by making changes slowly. Of course I’m willing to allow for the fact that you’ve no previous experience in a rural parish, but –’

‘Thank you, Archdeacon, but there’s no need for you to sweeten your reproof with a coating of sugar. I trust,’ I said, inwardly seething with rage, ‘that I’m capable of acknowledging my errors with a proper spirit of humility. I’m sorry you’ve been troubled by this matter. I shall do my best to see you’re not troubled again.’

That terminated the conversation but I could see I had once more annoyed Aysgarth by adopting a tone which would have been better suited to admonishing recalcitrant monks. I wished then that I had been less inflamed with angry pride but the damage had been done and I knew we had wound up enemies again.

My career as a parish priest seemed to be going from bad to worse.

I felt deeply depressed.

After Aysgarth had departed I wanted only to return home to seek solace in the chapel but instead I had to face a bunch of my ladies who arrived five minutes later for a committee meeting. We were due to discuss the arrangements for an evening of entertainment in the church hall to raise money for wounded airmen, but as usual at such committee meetings the conversation continually soared off at irrelevant tangents as my ladies fell increasingly in love with the sound of their own voices. I squeezed a couple of decisions out of them with a ruthlessness
which I fear they enjoyed and then terminated the proceedings by announcing my obligation to visit the alms-houses.

The women drifted away, still gossiping, and I was just preparing to follow them when I heard a loud groan resounding in the nave. Hurrying from the vestry I found the new cleaner, Mrs Purvis, doubled up over her mop and pail halfway down the central aisle. My ladies, clucking in sympathy, were anxious to help but the sufferer could only gasp that there was nothing they could do.

I strode down the aisle, the ranks parted and poor Mrs Purvis, quite immobilized by pain, at once turned scarlet with embarrassment.

‘It’s my lumbago, Vicar.’ (I was often granted this title as a courtesy.) ‘I mean no disrespect but I can’t move. I’m ever so sorry.’

I felt as if someone had injected me with a drug which delivered instantaneous amnesia. I forgot the humiliating interview with Aysgarth, my unhappiness in my ministry and my misery over Martin. I was aware only that I was being offered the most alluring of challenges and beyond the challenge I sensed an admiring audience was already poised to restore my self-esteem.

‘Where exactly is the pain, Mrs Purvis?’ Kneeling beside her I put a reassuring hand on her arm.

‘Low down in my back, sir – oooh, it’s ever so awful, worse than childbirth –’

I touched her at the base of her spine. ‘Here?’

‘That’s it – oooh! I can’t get up, truly I can’t –’

‘Never mind about getting up for the moment. Just keep in a position which gives you the least pain.’

‘I feel ever such a silly –’

‘Never mind about that either. Just concentrate on getting into the best position … That’s it. Now try to relax as far as you possibly can. Relax your arms first … and let the relaxation spread up your arms to your neck … and slowly, very slowly, inch by inch down your back … Good … And breathe calmly … deeply … Excellent! Now Mrs Purvis, I want you to
concentrate very hard on that part of your body where the pain is and picture the pain as a big red glass ball which you want me to smash. Close your eyes and you’ll be able to picture it better … Can you see it?’

‘Oooh yes, sir – a beautiful red glass ball with air bubbles in it –’

‘That’s your pain. Concentrate very hard on it, very, very hard, so hard that your mind aches – and now picture me raising a hammer to smash the glass to pieces. Are you concentrating? Concentrating hard – as hard as you possibly can? Good. Now picture me raising the hammer. I’m going to count to five and when I say SMASH the ball’s going to shatter. Ready?’ I prayed silently. ‘One … Two … Three …’ I increased the intensity of the prayer’… Four … Five – SMASH!’

‘Oooh!’ gasped Mrs Purvis.

‘Oooh!’ gasped my ladies as I grasped Mrs Purvis’ shoulder with one hand and pressed hard on the base of her spine with the other.

‘Oooh!’ gasped Mrs Purvis again, shocked into straightening her back. That felt ever so funny, Vicar!’

‘But you can move now.’

Mrs Purvis was stupefied. ‘So I can!’ She turned her body gingerly from side to side. ‘Well, I never!’ She was enrapt. Her honest countrywoman’s face was aglow with gratitude. ‘That’s a miracle, that is!’

I made no comment but merely helped her to her feet before advising her to go home and rest.

‘Yes, sir – thank you, sir – oh, just wait till I tell all my neighbours! Doctor can never do a thing for my lumbago, never, nothing he gives me for it ever does any good at all!’

I looked at my ladies. They were as breathless and shining-eyed as the monks who had witnessed the recovery of Whitby. Finally someone said in a hushed voice: ‘It
was
a miracle, wasn’t it, Father?’ and at once I answered: ‘Nonsense! Pain can often disappear spontaneously if the sufferer is relaxed and confident,’ but even as I spoke I could see that none of them believed me.

I shuddered at the memory of Father Darcy, but the terrible
truth was, as I knew all too well, that for the first time since I had embarked on my curacy I felt genuinely happy as a country priest.

‘The line between a quack and a scientific healer is not always easy to draw.’

W. R. INGE
Dean of St Paul’s 1911–1934
A Pacifist in Trouble

‘Might this be a sign about your new call?’ was Anne’s immediate reaction that evening to the tale of Mrs Purvis.

‘Not necessarily.’

Anne remained fascinated but I sensed her thoughts moving more cautiously. ‘
Was
it a miracle?’

‘Good heavens, no! Of course there’s a perfectly rational explanation. Mrs Purvis was deeply embarrassed that she should have been caught in such a ridiculous position, and the pain would have been aggravated by her excessive tension. As soon as I had helped her to relax, the pain eased sufficiently to enable me to terminate the spasm by using a mild form of hypnosis. I need hardly add that I haven’t cured her of the lumbago – she’ll get another spasm sooner or later. All I did was alleviate the symptoms of a particularly unpleasant attack.’

Anne said after careful consideration: ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that.’

‘There’s certainly nothing wrong “per se” in alleviating Mrs Purvis’ pain. The complications are going to set in when other people ask me to cure their aches and pains.’

‘Well, if the prospect troubles you – and it obviously does – why don’t you go to Francis and ask his advice?’

‘It’s so hard to find the time to go to London.’

‘Surely you could find the time if you wanted to! I think it
would do you good to unburden yourself to Francis about Martin and Pitkin and – oh good heavens, I nearly forgot to ask! What happened when Neville Aysgarth called on you today?’

I gave her a colourless account of the unpleasant scene in the vestry and she exclaimed angrily: ‘Of course Aysgarth follows his mentor Dr Jardine who never had any sympathy with the Anglo-Catholics!’

I forced myself to say: ‘In a very real sense our conversation wasn’t about Anglo-Catholicism. It was about my inexperience as a parish priest.’ With a superhuman effort I managed to add: ‘He had a point. I’ve probably introduced too many changes too quickly.’

Seeing that Aysgarth had upset me Anne became angrier than ever. ‘But think of all you’ve achieved! You’ve electrified the parish!’

‘Yes – like a bolt of lightning which splits a tree in two,’ I said, but unfortunately this reply, intended as a light remark, emerged as a bitter comment and at once I was furious with myself. It would never do to bore her by moaning about my lot. ‘Isn’t it an irony,’ I remarked, trying to dismiss the subject with good humour, ‘that the English, who pride themselves on maintaining the most elaborate ceremonial in so many areas of public life, have this extraordinary mass-antipathy to any elaborate ceremonial in religion?’

Anne laughed but said with an unexpected earnestness: ‘Darling, I can see how depressed you are by all this bigotry, and I really do wish you’d cheer yourself up by slipping up to London for a couple of days’ undiluted Anglo-Catholicism –’