Glamorous Powers (68 page)

‘Unless, of course,’ said Dr Ottershaw, ever courteous, ‘you have some very pressing reason to persist with your resignation.’

I somehow resisted the urge to wind him around my little finger. ‘It must be absolutely as you wish, Bishop. If I hesitate, it’s because I’m so acutely aware of all my past mistakes.’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Dr Ottershaw, seizing the chance to explain his decision. ‘You’re like a man who’s fallen off a horse and the best possible thing to do after such a disaster, as any equestrian will tell you, is to get back on again as soon as you’re fit to do so. In fact the way I see the situation is this: you’re going to have to live in that parish, and as things stand you’re living with the unhealed wound of all that dissension. So I feel I must give you the chance, for your own sake as well as for the sake of the parish, to attempt a ministry of reconciliation. Why don’t you have a shot at it and we’ll review the position in a further six months?’

‘Very well, Bishop,’ I said, meek as a model monk, but I was bitterly disappointed and this time it was I who resorted to the telephone to talk to Francis.

‘Ottershaw’s reached a difficult decision after much prayer,’ said Francis. ‘Who are you to say he’s mad as a hatter? What arrogance! Do I really have to remind you that we’re called to serve, not to run around whining: “I want, I want, I want,” like some detestable spoilt child? Pull yourself together, stop thinking selfishly and start reuniting that parish which you’ve successfully split from end to end – and don’t you dare try to
tell me that’s beyond the scope of your infamous glamorous powers!’

I rang off and slunk away.

The resumption of my curacy was, I think, one of the most difficult tasks I have ever faced in my career as a priest, but once I had vowed to be flexible and unobtrusive instead of intractable and flamboyant I found that after the first agonizing Sunday my ordeal was not as humiliating as I had feared. Drawing on my experience in the Navy when war-time conditions had often demanded a flexible approach to worship, I re-examined my task with as much detachment as I could muster and faced the fact that this particular flock in this particular corner of England at this particular time could best be spiritually nourished by being allowed to graze in their cherished conventional pastures. In times of great stress people need rituals which are familiar, and the parishioners of Starrington Magna, conservative by nature after generations of living peacefully in such a pleasant well-ordered corner of the world, had earned the right to draw strength from their traditions at this crucial moment in England’s history.

I could never have sunk into the bibliolatory of the Low-Church tradition; that would have been quite alien to my spiritual inclinations, but I thought I could descend to the moderate Protestant pastures from my Anglo-Catholic peaks without intolerably compromising my ideals. Those who grazed in those pastures formed the backbone of the Church of England. Professional churchmen might divide themselves into Evangelicals and Anglo-Catholics and engage in internecine strife but most laymen were uninterested in the finer points of theology and merely wanted to worship God without fuss. It was my task to nurture this simple, entirely admirable ambition, not to distort it, thwart it or even snuff it out by pigheadedly imposing my liturgical tastes on theirs. Setting aside my Anglo-Catholic
touches with a selfish reluctance but with a Christian resignation, I resumed my career at Starrington not as the village priest but as the local parson, and my reward came some weeks later when I overheard one formerly hostile lady say to another: ‘I think even dear Mr Wetherall would have approved of that service if he had been here.’

I had many requests for healing but I referred them to the Guild of St Raphael, the body which had been set up some years before to deal with all aspects of this ministry. I also had requests for exorcism but I referred these to the Bishop. It remained of great interest to the community that the unfortunate Higgins had completely recovered from his aberration; Dr Garrison continued to bluster that Higgins had killed the cow as a substitute for his wife during a psychotic episode brought on by family problems, but naturally I had the good sense to offer no comment.

Easter arrived. Martin came to see me again, and soon afterwards Ruth made her promised visit with the children. My grandson asked numerous intelligent questions about the Home Farm tractor, my grand-daughter insisted on sketching the chapel and Ruth herself was charmed by the Manor’s electrical carpet-sweeper, an instrument which was referred to as a ‘Hoover’. At one point I opened my mouth to declare that such modern material items were quite unimportant, but I realized just in time that such a remark would brand me as a priggish narrow-minded old codger. Instead I said how right it was that we should all occasionally pause to admire the mechanical marvels of the age.

‘There’s nothing more tiresome,’ Romaine had said to me not long before, ‘than an elderly bore who looks down his nose at today’s way of life. One of my friends said to me the other day: “If only we could turn the clock back to the halcyon days of the nineteenth century!” And I said: “Oh yes – child prostitution, public hangings and women dying ‘en masse’ in childbirth. Wonderful!” That shut him up pretty quickly, I can tell you.’

I enjoyed seeing Romaine for our weekly games of chess not
only because he amused me but because he had regular news of Charles who was now in North Africa. Charles also wrote to me, but tended to confine himself to spiritual matters; Romaine offered more diverse news. One day in that spring of 1942 he showed me a letter in which Charles had written: ‘Now that you know Darrow better perhaps you won’t be surprised when I tell you that he’s the reason why I can face the future with confidence. When I last saw him he was so serene, so absolutely untouched by any profound anxiety, that I knew I was going to be all right. I felt that he must have received some psychic foreknowledge that we would meet again; if he’d had any premonition of disaster he couldn’t possibly have maintained that remarkable serenity of his.’

I read the letter. I looked at Romaine. I heard his unspoken question, and at once I saw that Charles’ mistaken belief would protect him no matter what ordeals lay ahead. Quite unwittingly, by the grace of God who had covered my terror with tranquillity, I had ensured that Charles had the psychological strength to cling to life in circumstances where other men would die. I said to Romaine: ‘He’ll be all right.’

‘Well, one never really knows, does oner’ said Romaine, tucking the precious letter carefully away in his breast-pocket again. ‘And the Middle East is hardly a garden-party nowadays.’

I said no more. It would have been wrong to behave like an infallible prophet, but I remembered how I had predicted the attack on Pearl Harbor with such accuracy and suddenly I knew with the absolute certainty of a successful psychic that Hitler’s General Rommel would never take Tobruk.

I was still savouring this reassuring foreknowledge when my life as a curate came abruptly to an end. An ecclesiastical plough in the form of Dr Ottershaw plucked me from my monotonous parish furrow and once more I found myself travelling to Starbridge.

‘My dear fellow!’ said Dr Ottershaw. ‘I had absolutely no idea! Do forgive me – what could you have thought? If I’d only known – I do so reproach myself – I said to my wife: “How could I have got in such a muddle?” and she said: “All too easily,” which was so true but I confess I felt more mortified than ever. I do hope I’m not going senile.’

I was by this time accustomed to Dr Ottershaw’s elliptical conversation when he was flustered. I said mildly: ‘Do you feel you’ve offended me in some way, Bishop? I assure you I’ve been quite unaware of it.’

‘Dear me, what a relief! You see, I had no idea –
no idea
– what had happened at Ruydale. I thought you’d been the Prior! How could I have made such a mistake? I remember when you first came here to dinner I asked you about your career as a monk and I could have sworn you said you were the Prior – although perhaps you only said: “I could go no higher,” meaning that the Abbot was bound to be succeeded eventually by a fellow – Yorkshireman –’

A ray of light dawned. Still adopting my mildest voice I said: ‘Please don’t worry about it, Bishop. It’s not important.’

‘But my dear fellow, that’s just it – it’s vital! I’ve been informed not only that you were the Master of Novices but that a high proportion of your men went on to become priests! Well, of course as soon as I heard that I telephoned Cyril Watson at Starwater Abbey and he said that in the opinion of the late Abbot-General you were one of the most gifted teachers in the Order. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” I cried and he said astonished: “But I assumed you already knew!” Well! I nearly had apoplexy but when I’d recovered I saw at once that God Moves in Mysterious Ways and that no doubt this delay has been All For The Best.’ Dr Ottershaw enunciated the crucial words in such a way that I knew he had mentally assigned them capital letters.

‘Yes, of course,’ I murmured, not entirely sure what proposition I was confirming. ‘Of course.’

‘If I’d known then what I know now,’ said Dr Ottershaw, rushing on, I might have been tempted to throw your parish to the winds and scoop you over here straight away, but that wouldn’t have been right. I had to give you the chance to pour oil on the troubled waters.’ He sighed happily before adding: ‘You will come, won’t you?’

‘Come where, Bishop?’

‘Oh good heavens, I’ve omitted the crucial explanation! I really must be going senile, but perhaps I’m simply dazed by my unexpected good luck. My dear fellow, haven’t you heard about our crisis at the Theological College here in the Close?’

‘As a matter of fact Father Watson did mention –’

‘As the result of the war the shortage of teachers has become so acute that the Principal’s now saying he’ll have to close the College unless he has at least one more experienced priest who can not only shoulder the burden of teaching but also assist with the spiritual direction –’

‘Spiritual direction!’

‘Yes, just up your street, isn’t it, but of course I didn’t know you had the right teaching experience. Quite obviously you’re heaven-sent! I must arrange an interview with the Principal at once.’

By this time my curiosity had triumphed over my elation. ‘Before you do that, Bishop,’ I said swiftly as he reached for the telephone, ‘may I ask who eventually told you that I’d been the Master of Novices at Ruydale?’ I knew Francis was more than capable of intervening on my behalf, but I had expected no intervention until I had served the full six months allocated to my ministry of reconciliation at Starrington.

‘It was the most remarkable coincidence,’ said Dr Ottershaw cosily, forgetting the telephone and settling down to gossip. ‘My predecessor Dr Jardine is visiting Starbridge at present and staying with the Aysgarths. Jardine always took a keen interest in the Theological College when he was Bishop so naturally he asked how it was faring and when Aysgarth told him about the crisis he
said: ‘The solution’s sitting right here in your diocese,” and began to talk of your achievements at Ruydale. Oh, he knew all about you! Apparently he’d been obliged to search for a spiritual director once for a young clerical acquaintance of his who was in deep trouble, and you were recommended to him by –’

‘Yes, I remember the case. So Dr Jardine’s back in Starbridge! I wonder why.’

‘He’s been busy looking up some of the official papers relating to his episcopate – did you know he was writing his memoirs? They say the Archbishop – no, Lord Lang we must call him, mustn’t we, now that he’s retired with a peerage – they say Lord Lang can hardly sleep a wink at night for fear of what the book may contain! Jardine, as I’m sure you remember, had a very singular approach to the truth.’

‘Very singular.’

‘Not that I wish to criticize him in any way,’ said Dr Ottershaw hastily, ‘and really how fortunate it is that he should have turned up in Starbridge at the exact moment when I needed his help! But I’m jumping the gun – here I am, talking as if I’ve already captured you and I haven’t even given you the chance to decline the offer! How arrogant of me! But I do hope you don’t feel God has other plans for you.’

‘Now that I’ve had the chance to pour oil on the Starrington waters I hope I can make some contribution, no matter how small, to the welfare of the Theological College,’ I said with a humility which would have satisfied even Father Darcy’s exacting standards. ‘I’m happy to serve wherever you think I’m needed, Bishop.’

‘Splendid!’ said Dr Ottershaw. ‘What a load off my mind! You must see the Principal without delay.’ And expelling a vast sigh of relief he once more reached happily for the telephone.

Two hours later after my interview with the Principal I walked from the Cathedral Close to the church of St Martin’s-in-
Cripplcgate and knocked on the door of the vicarage nearby.

‘I’ve just been offered a post at the Theological College,’ I said as I entered Aysgarth’s study, ‘and since I hear the offer stemmed from information provided by your guest I thought I’d call to thank him. I also called to say, of course, that I hope you and I will find it easier to be civil to each other now that I’m not busy turning an exemplary parish into an archdeacon’s nightmare.’

Aysgarth gave the shy smile which was so much at odds with his brutal mouth. He said: ‘You’ll have noticed that I’ve had no complaints since you resumed your curacy. But I’m glad you’ve finally accepted work commensurate with your gifts.’ He turned aside adding: ‘I’ll call Dr Jardine,’ but the summons proved unnecessary. The next moment the door opened and in walked the former Bishop of Starbridge, flaunting his premature retirement by wearing an immaculately cut grey lounge-suit, a daring tie, an elegant fob-watch and – horror of horrors – a carnation in his buttonhole.