Mystical Paths (22 page)

· Poor old bastard.

But when all was said and done he was still manipulating me merely by proffering the truth as he saw it, the truth which by focusing on a lost vocation neatly excluded all such messy topics as sex, drink and binges in transvestite bars. I was very conscious that Christian had emerged from the conversation tragic, doomed yet sanitised.

‘ .. and now,’ Dr Aysgarth was saying, slipping back into Aysgarth model A, the genial idealist whose garden was perpetually lovely, ‘before we join the others for tea, do bring me up to date on the friends you shared with Christian! How’s the beautiful Marina? And that splendidly curvaceous young American lady called after the toy motor cars — how’s Dinkie? And let me see, who else is there ... ah yes! How’s Venetia?’

‘I haven’t seen any of them recently, sir, except Marina.’

‘Is she really going to marry that young rake Michael Ashworth?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Poor Charles!’ sighed Dr Aysgarth, unable to resist taking a swipe at his old enemy — or was he merely driven to convince himself that his garden was still far lovelier than the Bishop’s? ‘He’s had such problems with his sons! I did feel so sorry for him when Charley ran away from home and Michael was thrown out of medical school.’

I never hesitated. I was fond of my Uncle Charles, and thistough, convoluted little gardener, so manically weeding all the horrors from his messy herbaceous border, was a stranger to me. I knew where my loyalties lay. ‘But those disasters are all past history, aren’t they?’ I said. ‘Michael’s doing so well in the BBC now and Charley’s all set to be a big success in the Church.’ Silence.

I’d detonated my last H-bomb.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ I mumbled, scuttling to the door, ‘I won’t stay to tea. But many thanks for the lunch.’

He just looked at me.

I fled.

III

I drove my Mini-Cooper to Dorking, the nearest town to the Aysgarths’ film-set village, and after buying a Coke I sat drinking it in the car-park which faced Box Hill. I found myself reflecting how magnificent Surrey must have been in the old days before it was tarted up by rich London commuters. Then it occurred to me that I was behaving like one of those antiques who had boomed earlier that the country was going to the dogs. Obviously I needed to escape from this seductive corner of England before I started reciting chunks of Our
Island Story
in Dorking High Street. The only problem was that I was unable to decide where to go next.

I wanted to see my friend Venetia, but I thought she would inevitably be out on a Saturday evening, and I was also wary of returning to London in ease I succumbed to the impulse to loaf around one of the branches of Burgy’s. I thought of going home, but I couldn’t face my father who would at once intuit that I had ignored his advice to leave Christian’s mystery alone.

I had another think. I did have a wide circle of acquaintances, but I felt I needed to be somewhere very moral, very safe, and I couldn’t at that moment recall a safe, moral acquaintance who would welcome an uninvited guest cadging a night’s lodging. I wondered whether I should descend on the headquarters of the Fordite monks, but they were too moral, too safe, and I feared they could only depress me. There was Martin — a real last resort — but he would be at the theatre playing Sir Anthony Absolute and I might wind up at Burgy’s while I waited for him to come home. I flirted with the idea of a hotel, but God only knew what I would get up to there; the mere thought of a raven-haired chambermaid in black stockings made me want to tear off my jeans.

Finally I had a brain-wave. Charley-the-Prig Ashworth now had a parish at Fairlight Green on the Surrey-Hampshire border. I knew I could always dump myself on Charley, and no one could be safer, more moral and (unlike the Fordites) more easily managed by a sex-crazed ordinand on the loose. It did occur to me that the person I really couldn’t manage was myself, but I decided I’d sort out that problem once I had solved the mystery surrounding Christian.

I studied my road-map. Then I headed west out of fake-farmhouse country to the Hampshire border.

IV

Fairlight Green was a sprawling place situated on some bleak heathland. I drove past a couple of new office-blocks, rising like tombstones on the edge of the town, entered a Georgian high street and wound up on a council estate without having found the church. Backtracking to the centre of the town I finally spotted a Victorian hulk standing near a run-down cinema on the road parallel to the high street. Not exactly a picture-book parish. But better than a slum. I wondered how Charley was getting on.

Out of curiosity I took a look in the church porch and found it peppered with notices of parish activities. Clubs abounded. Flower rotas flourished. Lectures were threatened throughout Lent. Bible classes were trumpeted. Overseas missions weresupported. An impressive list of services was flaunted. Could Charley conceivably be coping unaided with all these activities? I stared at the titles of the Lent Lectures and noted in particular the defiant: ‘Liberal-Radical Fallacies: an Evangelical Response’. Here was someone who was obviously determined to fight the zeitgeist till he dropped. But when did he ever get time to pray or meditate or merely stare at the nearest wall? I could see he deserved a prize for effort, but I began to feel worried about him.

Next to the church was a large house, also Victorian, and beside the freshly-painted front door was a highly-polished brass plate inscribed THE VICARAGE. I noted the tiny front garden complete with trim lawn and weeded flowerbeds. Did he even get time for gardening? It hardly seemed possible, but how else could one explain the lack of weeds and mown grass? Feeling as if I were about to encounter a superhuman being from another planet, I warily pressed the front doorbell.

The door flew open. ‘Come in, come in!’ sang Charley before his jaw sagged in surprise. Evidently he had been expecting a caller. (When
did
he get time to pray?) ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat — Nick Darrow!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a splendid surprise! I thought you were my parish magazine delivery team — which would have been awkward as this month there are so many enclosures that the magazines have to go out in envelopes to make sure nothing gets lost, and I haven’t yet finished envelope-stuffing. Come on in and give me a hand!’

An envelope certainly seemed a proper object to stuff. Feeling mentally flattened by all this dynamism I drifted round-eyed over the threshold and was swept into a reception room where quantities of paper were strewn in stacks across a long table.

‘I’ll just put the kettle on,’ said Charley. ‘You’d like tea, wouldn’t you? And I’ve got a smashing cake which one of the Mothers gave me yesterday before the MU outing. Tell you what: you start stuffing, and I’ll whip up the feast.’

I started stuffing. At intervals I tried to picture myself being such a sizzling parish priest, but my imagination failed me. After a minute I felt inadequate. After two minutes I felt depressed. After three minutes I wanted to bolt to the nearest branch of Burgy’s.

‘Here we are!’ cried Charley, setting down a tray on the table. ‘Milk and sugar? Or have you given up sugar for Lent?’

‘No, newspapers. I wouldn’t miss sugar. Charley, can those really be cucumber sandwiches?’

‘Yes, I just tossed them off as an afterthought as I was waiting for the kettle to boil.’

‘You’re amazing!’ I felt so weak I had to sit down. ‘Everyone’s amazing!’ He beamed at me. Wonderful to see you! How are you? All set for the big day?’

‘What big day?’

‘Ordination, fat-head!’

‘Oh, that. Yes. Charley, is it possible for me to stay the night?’ I really had to curb the urge to bolt for the nearest Burgy’s.

‘Of course you can — what fun! Now, I’ve got a prayer-group meeting at six and a Bible-class at eight —’

‘On a Saturday evening? Isn’t everyone out enjoying themselves?’

‘Of course! We have a wonderful time here, plenty of coffee, lots of laughs, stimulating conversation, fascinating things to talk about, challenging things to do — I think during Lent one should always offer an exciting spiritual alternative to the cinema or the pub, so —’

‘Great. Well, don’t worry about me, Charley, I won’t get in your way, I’ll just meditate in your spare-room.’

‘Oh, but I can’t have you feeling shy and left out! And you’d really enjoy our prayer-group. Last week we accidentally got into the most interesting discussion of the Asians from Kenya and the Race Relations Bill — oh, and talking of race, wasn’t it terrible about Martin Luther King?’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He was assassinated! Good heavens, Nick, have you given up TV and radio along with the newspapers?’

Well, I’ve been sort of preoccupied lately ...’ Having allowed my voice to trail away I absent-mindedly disposedof a cucumber sandwich while
_,
Charley chattered on, eating cake and stuffing envelopes with remarkable manual dexterity. He was small but he had a neat, slim, well-proportioned figure. His dark hair was cut unfashionably short, his wide mouth reminded me of Donald Duck and his extraordinary eyes, almost golden in colour, seemed to be perpetually blazing with enthusiasm. He was thirty years old now and still unmarried but girls had never been high on his list of priorities. Poor old Charley. Rather a loser in that respect, but that was obviously God’s will, forcing him to sublimate his sex-drive and pour all his energy into the task of being an outstanding parish priest.

The doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of the delivery gang — all young, eager and female, all regarding Charley with shining eyes. I blinked, wondering whether my imagination was running riot, but no, Charley was a success with these girls, they thought he was the hottest item in Fairlight Green. Extraordinary. It really was amazing what a bit of black cloth and a clerical collar could do.

One of the girls wore tall white leather boots and a mini-skirt which only just covered her bottom. I couldn’t think how Charley controlled himself. I couldn’t think how I controlled myself. I couldn’t think how I was ever going to control myself.

Locking myself in the downstairs lavatory I gave way to a bout of despair.

V Well, I got over that. Had to get over it. No time to do anything else. I stuffed some more envelopes, washed up the tea-things while Charley made some essential phone calls, attended the prayer-group session (interesting, but not to my taste), ate supper (delicious mixed grill whipped up by Charley in double-quick time) and joined the Bible class. This was astounding. The subject was the famous ‘hinge’ of St Mark’s Gospel when Jesus began to talk of future suffering, and Charley brought to life each verse of that crucial passage by providing an exegesis which was both erudite and mesmerising. The class — all ages, all social groups, all enrapt — even clapped at the end.

I wondered if he would remember me when he was Archbishop of Canterbury, but I was sure he would. I could picture him heaving open the door of Lambeth Palace and exclaiming: ‘Nick! What a splendid surprise! I’m just off to consecrate a bishop, have tea with the Queen and make a speech at the House of Lords, but come in and make yourself at home ...’ God only knew what would have happened to me by then, but if skirts weren’t lowered by at least six inches soon my only hope of serving God properly would be to join the Fordite monks. What a prospect! As a loner I disliked community life, and how my father had endured a monastic existence from the age of forty-three to the age of sixty remained a mystery to me. And how had he coped with chastity from the time his first wife died until the time he entered the Order — an interval of eleven years? That was an even bigger mystery. Perhaps he had had little lapses occasionally, but no, that was inconceivable. My father was so dedicated, so gifted, and his call to be a priest was so strong that God would have automatically granted him the power to be chaste ... I felt like banging my head against the wall in despair.

‘Phew!’ said Charley, having wrung the last hand, accepted the last compliment and closed the front door after the last parishioner. ‘So much for that! Now let’s have some tea and biscuits before I toss off my sermon for evensong tomorrow. I don’t usually leavé it so late in the day but what with two funerals this week and the MU outing and the insurance man turning up out of the blue to inspect the lightning conductor on the church roof — and then of course I’ve had all the Easter services to plan —’

‘If I were in your shoes I’d be unconscious. Charley, can I use your phone?’

I called the Manor. Rowena said my father was very depressed and had bandaged his hands more heavily than everto conceal the eczema. He had eaten no lunch and hardly any dinner. When was I coming home?

‘Tell him I’ll write,’ I said. ‘And tell him I’m safe with Charley Ashworth at Fairlight Green.’ I gave her the number of the vicarage, beat back a twinge of nausea and returned to the kitchen where my host soon diverted me from frightening thoughts about my father’s health. ‘Let’s hear all your news!’ Charley urged, offering me a packet of Lincoln Cream biscuits as I sat down opposite him at the table. ‘Dad mentioned to me on the phone last night ...’ Uncle Charles had revealed the existence of my engagement which now seemed to be as official as if it had been printed in the Court Circular of
The Times.

‘
Many congratulations!’ sighed Charley. There’s nothing I’d like more than to get married, and I’ve only left it so long because I’ve been terrified of marrying the wrong girl. I’ve got this neurotic fear of winding up with some gorgeous creature who can only talk about the weather. Bishop Jardine did that and it was a disaster.’

‘Poor old Jardine. Wasn’t he your godfather or something, Charley?’

‘No, he just took an interest in me because Mum had been his wife’s companion for years.’ Charley paused to munch his biscuit before announcing: ‘I do want a gorgeous creature, but she must be a gorgeous creature with a brain. I dream of a girl who’s well-educated, glamorous, warm, dynamic — someone with the capacity to be a good Christian, a sex-symbol, a loyal partner, a devoted mother and a cordon bleu cook who can discuss the symbolism of William Blake while whipping up a Grand Marnier soufflé with one hand tied behind her back.’

‘Lead me to her.’

‘Ah, but you’ve got Rosalind!’

‘Yeah. Charley,’ I said, finally unable to resist retreating into the one subject which kept my despair at bay, ‘what did you think of Christian Aysgarth?’