Henry and Cato (30 page)

Forgive me.

So lovingly,

ever yours

Colette

Henry whistled. Then he lay back on his bed and found that he was laughing. He stopped laughing. This was no laughing matter. Poor little Colette. But how immensely sweet and touching it was that she loved him, and he could not help being pleased, though he felt sad too to think he would have so soon to render her unhappy.

Cato Forbes, looking around guiltily, pressed the bundle well down into the pile of old bricks and cracked cement in the rubbish tip. He had wrapped the cassock up carefully in newspaper and tied it with string but the paper had burst now and the powdery cement was whitening the black cloth. He pulled more of the rubbish over it until it was hidden. A horrible smell rose from the cassock and mingled with the rotten and limy odours of the rubbish tip. Had he been going around smelling like that? Had he smelt like that in the presence of Beautiful Joe? When he had completely buried the bulky parcel he felt wicked and relieved, as if he had been burying a dead baby. No one had seen him. He dusted off his hands against each other and began to walk back across the waste ground.

Then he saw the kestrel. The brown bird was hovering, a still portent, not very high up, right in the centre of the waste, so intent yet so aloof, its tail drawn down, its wings silently beating as in a cold immobile passion. Cato stood looking up. There was no one else around upon the desert space where already, after the rain, upon the torn and lumpy ground, spring was making grass and little plants to grow. The kestrel was perfectly still, an image of contemplation, the warm blue afternoon spread out behind it, vibrating with colour and light. Cato looked at it, aware suddenly of nothing else. Then as he looked, holding his breath, the bird swooped. It came down, with almost slow casual ease, to the ground, then rose again and flew away over Cato's head. As he turned, shading his eyes, he could see the tiny dark form in its beak, the little doomed trailing tail.

‘My Lord and my God,' said Cato aloud. Then he laughed and set off again in the direction of the Mission.

He wondered what Joe would think of him in mufti. It felt very strange to be in ordinary clothes after wearing the black gown. Cato was transformed. He was dressed in a dark grey corduroy suit, and red and white striped shirt and red silk scarf, the property (temporarily borrowed) of Gerald Dealman, which he had found under some paper in the bottom of a wardrobe during some final tidying up operations at the Mission. Cato, in the unfamiliar garments, felt as if he were in fancy dress. He felt a kind of lurid shameless relief, more deeply a sense of guilt and shock. He was surprised to find how instantly eager he was to get rid of the old cassock and never see it again. Henry's precious cheque, now in his pocket, had arrived, but thanks to Gerald he need not immediately waste any of it on clothes.

At moments now Cato felt as if he must have gone mad. He had at last brought himself to write his formal letter of ‘resignation' to the head of his order. It had been extremely difficult and painful to bring himself to sit down and actually compose the letter. When it had been written he posted it quickly without re-reading. The technicalities of laicisation could wait. As far as he himself was concerned he was out. The matter was settled now between himself and ‘God' and the formalities would merely be a matter of courtesy to his former colleagues. What made him feel that he must be crazy was this: he had given up the most precious privilege in the world and he could not determine exactly when or exactly why he had decided to do it.

It has all dissolved, all faded, he thought, trying to find some image for his loss of faith. Had it been some weak substance then, some mere reflected picture? It has gone, hasn't it? he constantly asked himself. Yes, it had gone, that seemed clear. But what had he lost? His livelihood, his friends, his mode of being, his identity. But what else, surely something else had gone, surely
the
thing had gone? But the thing is no thing, he thought, is that not the point? What is it that hurts me so, that pains me as if I had committed some awful crime or made some awful mistake? He thought, God is nothing. God the Father, that is just a story. But Christ. How can I have lost Christ, how can
that
not be true, how can it, how can it?

And how can I not be a priest any more? That was a more manageable question, since there were so many practical problems involved in beginning to live without the priesthood. He was amazed at the ease with which he had got a job. This had not only been a good omen, it had somehow been an exercise of his new self, its will, its kind of satisfaction. It was the first ordinary good thing that had happened to him in his new life. The extraordinary good thing that had happened was of course Beautiful Joe's remarkable acquiescence in the idea of accompanying him. Whatever would it be like? And what had, so surprisingly to Cato, made up Joe's mind? Was it the idea, which had remained with the boy as something almost magical, of, perhaps indefinitely, sponging on Henry? Or was it, as Cato hoped, that Joe could now at last see how much Cato loved him? He did think that the boy had been impressed. And now: Joe who had never yet seen him without his cassock would be able to understand how absolutely free Cato had made himself so as to be bound again. He needs love, thought Cato, he wants love, every soul wants it. There is a simplicity here which human egoism is too devious to accept. Pure love can cure evil, ultimately nothing else can.

As he walked back across the waste land which was beginning to look so like a meadow in the sunshine he felt himself full of that power. All the pain was with him, the searing sense of loss and shame, but he felt filled with the power of love, as if a scarred body could, with all its scars, be glorified. He smiled at the image which had so spontaneously arisen. Not I but Christ. Now only I. There is only I to
be
Christ, thought Cato. And as he thought of Joe, who was soon to come to him at the Mission, his heart was so rent with love that he almost staggered, and a great passionate power seemed to be flowing into him out of the steaming ground: for he was not imagining it, the ground was actually steaming a little after the rain in the hot sun. Cato stood still and let the joy of loving anticipation lick him like a flame.

He had no long-term plans. He had told Joe that he would go north tomorrow to find them somewhere to live. The term did not begin for another fortnight. Joe had seemed to think it would be an adventure. Cato did not imagine that he would be able to keep Joe with him forever. He wanted to do two things, to convince the boy of his love, and to persuade him to learn a trade. Here Henry's money would certainly be of use, and Cato felt no qualms about asking for it. If necessary he would ask for more. He had faith that once Joe started to
learn
his intelligence would awaken and save him. Then, or sooner, Cato's part might be over. Meanwhile this comprised his task as a saviour and indeed his duty and Cato had ceased to have any doubts on the matter. About the details of their relationship Cato felt calmly agnostic. Love had led him in. Love would enlighten him from time to time as should be most expedient for him.

As he turned into the little truncated street, Cato saw a young man waiting just outside the Mission house. When he saw Cato he came towards him, and Cato recognized him as one of Brendan's students, a young ordinand. The youth was holding out a letter.

‘From Father Craddock.'

‘Oh, thank you,' said Cato.

He took the envelope and tore it open. Brendan had written upon a postcard:

I am sending this round by hand because I feel I should let you know at once that Father Milsom died last night. He spoke of you when he was dying.

How are you? Please come back here. Never mind about God. Just come. B.

Cato looked up into the mild slightly inquisitive eyes of the young ordinand.

‘Thank you for bringing this.'

‘Can I take a message back, a letter?'

‘No. Nothing. Well, wait a moment.' Cato took out a pencil and wrote on the inside of the torn envelope
I am going away with that boy. Good-bye.
He paused, looking at the words. Then added
Pray for me.
He folded the envelope over and handed it back.

‘Thank you, sir. I'll give it to Father Craddock.'

Cato stood alone in the street looking down at his shadow on the uneven pavement. He felt a pure pang of grief about Father Milsom. Would he have gone to see him, had he still lived? No, thought Cato, not for a long time at any rate. The telephone would always have been out of order for that communication. Poor old man. Yet also, lucky old man. He had not outlived the joy of his faith. If there was a heaven, Father Milsom was certainly there now.
Requiescit in pace. Lux perpetua lucet eo.
What a comforting idea. Only there was no heaven. Did I ever really believe there was? wondered Cato. He wished so much that he had written some sort of reply, some words of affection and thanks to Father Milsom's letter. He was still carrying the letter, now in the breast pocket of the corduroy jacket. He put Brendan's card away into the same pocket, and turned down the alleyway so as to enter the house from the back. Only as his hand touched the gate did something strike him out of the recent past. Brendan's pupil had called him ‘Sir'. He thought, it's a bit like when Caesar was angry and addressed the tenth legion as
Quirites
!

The kitchen door was unlocked and Cato went in and closed it behind him. He went over to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror he used for shaving. He saw as in a picture his head, the striped shirt, the red scarf. It was a long time, it occurred to him, since he had looked at himself in this way. He had shaved carefully and combed his roughly cut hair. He looked much younger. There was a ridiculous almost perky air. Funny Face Forbes. Old Pudgie. He smirked at himself.

‘Why it's
you.
I couldn't think who this chap was, gawping at himself in the mirror.' Beautiful Joe had come in behind him.

Embarrassed, Cato turned. Joe, in a short black military-style leather jacket, looked about fourteen. His face had a youthful scrubbed look, his hair had been clipped a little shorter, damped, perhaps greased, and combed into two stiff curves behind his ears. Cato felt suddenly as if they were strangers again. It was an exciting feeling.

‘Hello, Joe. I hope you like the gear.'

Joe, still staring, sat down at the table in silence.

Cato began to feel uneasy. ‘Well, Joe—'

‘Is this some sort of bloody joke?' said Joe.

‘What is?'

‘The get-up. You've no idea how bloody funny you look. Only I'm not laughing.'

‘The gear belonged to Father Dealman—'

‘The gear! I'd be laughing only I'm crying! You look just about ready for Southend Pier.'

‘I suppose it is a bit of a shock.'

‘You can say that again!'

‘But my dear Joe, I told you I was leaving the order, I told you—'

‘I didn't believe you.'

‘Maybe you do now!'

‘I didn't believe you would leave. I don't believe it.'

‘Well, have a bloody try,' said Cato, sitting down at the table.

‘And you've never used bad language to me before.'

‘If you call that bad language!'

‘It is for you. But perhaps you'll go to the bad now. Failed priests always do.'

‘Well, maybe they do. We'll have to see in this case, won't we. Let's have a drink. I've got some wine here.'

‘You'll take to drink.'

‘Joe, just stop drivelling, will you. Can't you face the fact that I'm simply an ordinary person like yourself?'

‘No, I fucking can't.'

‘And now we're quarrelling just like two ordinary people and isn't that rather wonderful? We're just two ordinary men at last. I want to help you, but I don't want to be some sort of false saint in your life. I simply love you. And I couldn't say it then, I had to leave to say it. Christ, can't you see?'

‘Can't
you
see?' said Joe. He suddenly bit his lips into a straight line and frowned down at the table as if he were about to cry.

Cato looked at him carefully. ‘Joe, my dear, you've got to help me. We may have to get to know each other again, differently. All right. This hasn't been an easy change for me, and it won't be easy. But if you love me—'

‘I never said I loved you,' said the boy, still staring at the table where he was following the lines of the wood with his finger.

‘You can learn to. I can do enough for both to begin with.'

Joe looked up. He said, ‘Father, you're like a child. You don't know about the awful things.'

‘Joe, you're wrong, I do know about the awful things. And listen, you must stop calling me “Father”.'

‘What am I to call you then?'

‘Don't you know my name?'

‘No.'

‘Cato.'

‘
What?
'

‘Cato.'

‘How do you spell it?'

‘CATO'.

‘That's a bloody funny name. Is it Italian?'

‘No, it's Roman. You'll get used to it. You'll get used to—'

‘No, I won't. I'm going to go on calling you “Father”. Nothing else makes any sense between us.'

‘But I'm not a priest any more! I gave it up because of you—'

‘That's not true.'

‘It's partly true, I've—'

‘Partly true! Everything about you is partly true.'

‘I've made myself free of everything else so that I can be with you, so that we can go away and start a new life together. We will do, Joe, won't we—I'll work and you'll train—and I shan't worry you—'

‘I'm not coming,' said Joe.

‘What on earth do you mean? You said you would.'

‘I thought it would be different. I thought that rich chap would support us.'

‘But he will! Look, he sent a cheque.' Cato put Henry's cheque on the table.