Glittering Images (39 page)

‘Charles, I’m just the porter with the trolley. I’m not here to criticize the quality of your luggage or to order which bag you should put down. My function is simply to offer you the chance to get rid of any bag which you don’t want to carry any more, but the decision to keep or discard each bag must be yours and yours alone.’

Having considered this I felt sufficiently reassured to say, ‘I’m not a fool. You wanted me to describe all this benign interest from the older men as paternal. You wanted me to admit that the one thing they all had in common was that they had no sons of their own. You wanted me to acknowledge that it’s no amazing coincidence that I always seem to have this kind of older man in my life. You want me now to concede there’s something wrong with my relationship with my father. But there isn’t. There really isn’t. We’re very fond of each other.’

‘Very well,’ said Darrow serenely. ‘We won’t bother to talk about your father. Let’s talk instead about all these father-figures you’ve accumulated over the years.’

‘What a bloody awful word “father-figure” is!’ I exclaimed, and with the word ‘bloody’ I felt the glittering image slip. A clergyman had a duty to avoid bad language. I suddenly realized my true self was trying to escape and I needed time to lock him up. I said to Darrow to divert him, ‘Are you a follower of Freud?’

‘Let’s just say I’m an interested observer.’

‘I think Freud’s rubbish. I refuse to believe all men are in love with their mothers and searching continually for father-figures.’

‘Is that what Freud actually says? However let’s forget Freud – and let’s forget that description “father-figure” which I agree is absurdly lugubrious. How would you yourself describe all these benign older men in your life?’

‘Well, obviously they’re a substitute for my father, I can see that, but that can’t be the whole explanation because my father’s attitude towards me is benign too.’

‘Do you think it’s possible,’ said Darrow, ‘that you simply enjoy being a son? If your relationship with your father is so good you may be unable to resist the urge to repeat it at every opportunity.’

This suggestion struck me as bizarre. Regarding him with suspicion I said austerely, ‘I hardly collect fathers for pleasure.’

‘Well, as a matter of fact it did occur to me that being the ideal son must be a somewhat time-consuming and tiring occupation.’

I laughed. ‘You’ll be telling me next I was so exhausted being a son that I didn’t have enough energy to face being a father!’

Darrow laughed too. ‘Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?’

‘Ridiculous!’ I traced a pattern on the wooden arm of the bench.

‘Perhaps it would be closer to the truth to say that your father didn’t make fatherhood seem an attractive occupation.’

‘That’s a ridiculous suggestion too. He’s always been wonderful.’

‘The ideal father?’

‘Well … He has his faults, of course, just as we all do, but by and large –’

‘He’s wonderful. I see. Now, Charles, there’s a question I’d like to ask but you may not wish to answer it. If you don’t –’

‘I wish you’d stop treating me as a hopeless neurotic!’ I said irritably. ‘Of course I’ll answer any question you care to ask – what do you think I’ve been doing since this interview began?’

‘It’s been a glittering performance,’ said Darrow.

I at once picked up the Bible, which I had been reading before he had joined me, and began to flick through the pages. Again the books streamed past my fingers: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua –

‘What’s this next question of yours?’ I said casually.

‘Are any of these benign older men like your father or is he in a class of his own?’

‘He’s nothing like them at all.’ I had reached the New Testament, and suddenly one verse rose straight from the page to meet me. ‘Strait is the gate,’ I read, ‘and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’

I closed the Bible carefully, very carefully, as if I feared it might shatter to pieces in my hands, and gently, very gently, I set the book down on the bench. Then I said to Darrow, ‘I’m not telling the truth. I’m sorry. Yes, there’s a likeness, a common denominator.’

‘The Church?’

‘No, my father’s an atheist. He sent me to Church of England schools but that was only because he’s so obsessed with what he calls “a good straight decent life”, and he wanted schools which laid stress on morality. The common denominator between my father and the father-figures,’ I said, ‘is that they’re all moral upright men.’

‘Your father’s beginning to intrigue me very much,’ said Darrow. ‘Do you think you could attempt a thumbnail sketch of his personality?’

This seemed a reasonable request and I thought I could grant it without difficulty. ‘Why not?’ I said, looking him straight in the eyes to show I was undaunted, but I was setting out at last, although I did not realize it, on my harrowing journey to the heart of my glittering image.

‘My father’s very truthful, very frank,’ I said. ‘He resembles Jardine in detesting hypocrisy but he doesn’t have Jardine’s intellect or sophistication. My father despises glamour; he thinks it’s bad form, pretentious. He’d distrust that
nouveau-riche
aura of the fast social traveller which makes Jardine so interesting in his palace. My father hasn’t the slightest desire to travel socially because he likes life exactly where he is; he thinks that to be a member of the English middle classes is to belong to the best caste in the world.

‘At the same time within that caste he’s very ambitious. He founded his firm on his own and wound up thirty years later with sixteen partners and a first-class reputation. He’s only just retired. Of course Peter and I went to the best schools and of course we all lived in the best part of Epsom. My parents still live there. My mother has higher social aspirations than my father, but although he’s always scathing about anyone with a title he wouldn’t want the aristocracy abolished because he thinks England should remain quite unchanged. He despises the working classes
en masse
but he’s kind to them as individuals – he’s good to his servants, good to his employees at the office, because he thinks that’s his duty.

‘My father’s very keen on duty. He thinks that’s what being a middle-class English gentleman’s all about; one has a duty to work hard, live a decent life, deal honestly in business, set an example to the community and stand by one’s family. He despises inefficiency, sloth, slovenliness, disloyalty, crime, immorality and cruelty to animals. He keeps a black Labrador called Nelson and drives a black Rover. He could afford a Daimler but he’d think that was pretentious. My mother gets livid with him on that subject and compensates herself by making regular shopping expeditions to Harrods. “What a nasty pretentious-looking piece of nonsense!” he said when she bought her new fur coat, but in fact he secretly likes her to look smart and expensive because that symbolizes his success – which of course he’d never dream of bragging about; that wouldn’t be the done thing at all.

‘When I was appointed Lang’s chaplain my mother bragged about it to her friends and couldn’t even complete a sentence without mentioning the word “archbishop”, but my father just said, “My son’s got an interesting post. He’s a sort of private secretary. Useful start to his career.” But he was very pleased. He said to me, “Better than wasting your time in a bloody vicarage somewhere in the back of beyond,” and then he said: “For God’s sake don’t get drunk or fool around with some girl and get sacked.” When I got the headmastership of St Aidan’s he said, “A bit young, aren’t you?” but he was thrilled. He said, “Important step up the ladder. But don’t let it go to your head – no airs and graces, no drinks you don’t need, no stupid flirtations. Never forget that pride comes before a fall.”

‘Later when I published my book my mother was soon boasting away as usual and even told my aunt how much money I had been paid on the advance, but my father overheard her and was furious. He thinks any public talk about money is vulgar, but in private he likes to know every financial detail. He said to me, “I suppose the book will only sell a few copies,” but when I told him it could make money as a text-book he lapped up all the figures. However he wouldn’t let my mother keep my book permanently displayed on the drawing-room table. “Not the done thing,” he said. “Flashy. I won’t have it.” And he put the book away in the bookcase. My mother was so livid that they had a row – the first row they’d had over me for years – but she had to give in eventually.

‘They used to have rows over me when I was small. He said she pampered me too much and she said he didn’t pamper me enough. I don’t mean they had rows in front of me when I was a child – that would have been bad form – but once or twice I listened at the keyhole.

‘When they had the row over my book they had the row in front of me – rows are apparently permissible in the presence of adult offspring – and finally my mother called him a brute and burst into tears. My father said, “Stupid woman. Storm in a teacup,” and stumped off to his study to read the
Daily Telegraph.
My father doesn’t read
The Times.
He thinks it’s pretentious. He likes the
Daily Telegraph
for the sport and the business news. He doesn’t read much, only the occasional biography. “I shan’t read that,” he said when I gave him a copy of my book. “Not my cup of tea.” But late that night I went to his study and found him reading it. “Can’t think how anyone takes Christianity seriously,” he said. “Amazing how those Early Church people survived. Personally I’d have thrown the whole damn lot to the lions.” He read the whole book and said, “Quite interesting but a pity they couldn’t have printed it on better paper.” That was high praise, coming from him.

‘When I was awarded my doctorate he said, “Well, don’t expect me to call you doctor. As far as I’m concerned doctors are rogues who charge too much for trying to put their patients in coffins, and thank God you never wanted to dabble in medicine.” My mother loved me being a doctor and she begged me not to mind about my father’s attitude – she said his aversion to doctors had developed even before I was born and there was no hope of changing him. It was easier when I became a canon. “Damn silly title!” said my father. “How long do I have to wait before I can call you Bishop?” That was when I knew how pleased he was. Then he said, “You’re doing rather well, aren’t you? Amazing! Well, if you’ve got to be a damn clergyman at least I have the satisfaction of knowing you’re a successful one.
Well done, Charles!
” he said, and smiled at me.

‘I’ll never forget that. I was so overcome I couldn’t speak. But the next moment he was saying: “Now don’t make a mess of it. Keep your nose to the grindstone. Stick to the straight and narrow, watch your alcohol consumption and don’t make a fool of yourself over some bloody woman. All your faults and weaknesses won’t go away just because you’ve got some fancy clerical title and can put the letters DD after your name.” My mother overheard that last sentence and she was livid. She shouted, “How dare you talk about faults and weaknesses when he’s standing there good as gold in his clerical collar?” and my father lost his temper. He said, “Stupid woman, treating him like a saint! Can’t you see all that religious rubbish is just an act? He’s only in it for the glamour and the play-acting!”

‘Well, I wasn’t going to let him get away with that but I was in such a state that all I could do was shout, “You bastard! You
bastard!”
and then my mother started to scream and I tried to hit him but she got herself between us and sobbed, “No – please – I can’t bear any more suffering – ” and my father yelled, “
Shut up, you stupid woman!”
and slapped her and I tried to hit him again but she flung her arms around me and I had to hold her because she was sobbing so violently, but I said to my father, “That was the damndest thing you could possibly say to me and the damndest attitude you could possibly adopt to her and I’d like to take her right out of this house this instant!” And he said, “Take her away and good riddance – at least I’ll still have Peter.” And somehow that was the last straw. I shouted, “I’m so bloody sick of bloody Peter always being your bloody favourite –
damn
bloody Peter!” and my mother started screaming again but my father just said, “Disgraceful language to use in front of a woman. You’re not much of a clergyman, are you, whenever you forget to put on that glamorous act! Well, you never take
me
in, not for a moment,” and he slammed the door of his study in my face.

‘I banged on the panels but he’d turned the key in the lock and although I begged him to let me in he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even reply and I felt absolutely rejected, utterly cut off – and I hadn’t done anything except protest against his insults! I couldn’t bear it, but I couldn’t go on banging at the door because my mother was so upset, weeping and weeping, and so I tried to comfort her by saying I really would take her away but that horrified her. She said, “But I couldn’t possibly leave! What would everyone think?” and she said, “We’ve got to keep up appearances. Nobody must ever know.” Then she cried again but finally she said, “We’re really very happy – he’s just a little difficult now and then, that’s all, but you mustn’t think he doesn’t love us both and you must never think he’s not terribly proud of your success.” I said, “He’s got a very funny way of showing it, and if he thinks I’m coming back here to be insulted in future he’s made a big mistake.”

‘That was last year, last September. I haven’t been back. I asked my mother to visit Cambridge but she refused because she was afraid people might think it odd if she came without him, and she has this obsession with keeping up appearances. That’s why there’s been no divorce, of course. My mother would be too frightened of scandal ever to risk an affair, and my father … well, he’s not the sort of man who plays around with women. He’d think that vulgar and cheap. Adultery’s for cads and bounders, not for strict, strong-principled men like him. I can imagine him thinking to himself: I vowed to be faithful to that woman and I’ll be faithful to her even if it kills me – and even if it kills her.