Scandalous Risks (20 page)

VII

Marina was on the phone as usual. I heard her voice as soon as I entered the house, and glancing into the drawing-room I saw she was lounging on the sofa, the telephone receiver tucked casually between her left shoulder and ear as she varnished her nails. She was wearing skin-tight white trousers and a turquoise shirt and looked like an actress in one of those Hollywood films where Rock Hudson is always chasing Doris Day across massive sets with minimal results.

‘But Don, of course I’m not interested in Michael!’ she was saying. ‘Dinner? Well, perhaps when I’m back in London, but I may be going to stay in Oxford, so ...’

I left her driving poor Don Latham round the bend, filched a glass of milk from the kitchen and retired to my room to wrestle once more with
Honest to God.
I had just read the sentence: ‘But he could use it to the spiritually sophisticated at Corinth with no consciousness that he must "demythologise" if he were to make it acceptable,’ and I had just realised I had no idea either who ‘he’ was or what ‘it’ could possibly mean, when Marina, fresh from her telephonic dalliance, wafted into my room.

‘I’ve now heard from everyone except Christian,’ she said fretfully. ‘I can’t think why he doesn’t ring.’

‘Marina,’ I said in my kindest voice, ‘if Christian were free to chase you as everyone else does, would you still be so anxious for him to phone?’

‘But Christian’s not like everyone else,’ she said earnestly. ‘He’s special.’

‘In some ways, certainly. But perhaps not in others. Does he still love Katie, do you think?’

‘He adores her. So do I. And she adores us — in fact we all adore each other, it’s so blissful, so perfect — and so miraculous too that I’ve at last found a man who only wants to offer me a pure romantic love! If all the other men only knew how fed up to the back teeth I get with their pawing and pouncing and groping The telephone rang. ‘Christian!’ shrieked Marina and pounded away to her grandmother’s bedroom to take the call on the extension.

I closed
Honest to God
and decided that Marina was either very ingenuous or else raving mad. What did Christian and Katie really think of this unsought third dimension to their marital life? Perhaps they thought Marina was a colossal bore bit were too kind to say so. Surely any normal, happily married young couple would fight shy of an entanglement which converted them into two sides of an eternal triangle? Moreover although Marina might be happy with her pure romantic love, it seemed unlikely that Christian would be so easily satisfied; most men took one look at Marina and were overpowered by lust. Why wasn’t Christian slavering at her feet? And why wasn’t Katie offering her a poisoned chalice instead of an affectionate friendship? I was quite prepared to believe that idyllic eternal triangles could exist (usually in France) between very sophisticated middle-aged people who by their past sexual excesses had become anaesthetised to the primeval pangs of jealousy, but this triangle between a young Oxford don and two charming, well-brought-up young Englishwomen could only make the mind boggle.

I was still allowing my cynicism free rein when I remembered that I too was a member of an eternal triangle – although of course my triangle was straightforward with no mystery about it whatsoever. Dido was mad and bad. My Mr Dean was privately sick and tired of her. The marriage was a mere formality. These facts had become obvious to me over the years and had been confirmed by my holiday in the Hebrides.

But the next moment I was recalling the queasiness which had assailed me that morning when Aysgarth had refused to talk about Dido. I knew the obvious explanation for his resolute silence was that as a devout Christian he was morally bound not to speak ill of his wife, but I knew too, as I looked back upon the incident with a cool, analytical eye, that I had wondered for a split second whether he might still care for her. I had dismissed the notion at once as preposterous, but that, I now saw, had been a mere reflex action, the fobbing off of an unpalatable possibility. Supposing the marriage was a little more complicated than I had always assumed it was? Even though they no longer had sex he might still wish to keep silent not, as I had blithely supposed, out of Christian duty, but out of a genuine affection. And as in my memory I heard Eddie say: ‘He married her because she amused him – and I think she still does,’ I was aware of the queasiness sliding back into the pit of my stomach.

Dimly I became aware that I was no longer alone in my bedroom. Marina had returned and was saying exasperated: ’Hey, wake up, Vinnie! Have you gone deaf? The call’s for you!’

‘Ah.’ I stood up automatically and then realised I had no idea what she was talking about. ‘How was Christian?’ I said, trying to conceal my confusion.

‘It wasn’t Christian.
The call
’
s for you!
’

The information finally registered. ‘Sorry!’ I said, trying to look intelligent, but I still felt as dazed as if I had been slammed on the head – or as if Aysgarth’s sedate little serpent, gliding along on his leash, had reared up to hiss straight in my face.

Outwardly casual but inwardly shattered by the twin demons of jealousy and doubt, I drifted past Marina to the telephone and discovered that my caller was none other than the Bishop’s wife, Lyle Ashworth.

TWO

‘Brought up with the bells of Canterbury ringing in his ears, never doubting what he believes to be the essential truth of Christianity, [Robinson] has been led to ask some radical questions about his faith ... No question can be too radical, but one must ask whether the questions are rightly put, as well as whether they arc rightly answered, and still more whether the answers are not incomplete.’

JOHN LAWRENCE

The Honest to God Debate

cd. DAVID L. EDWARDS

I

‘Mrs Ashworth — what a surprise!’ I exclaimed, somehow pulling myself together. ‘How nice of you to phone!’

‘I meant to phone long ago,’ said my heroine apologetically, ‘but social events multiplied at just the wrong moment and then to cap it all Charles, poor love, had to do his stint of reading the prayers in the House of Lords — which always puts him in such a bad mood because if he travels up to London daily the journey exhausts him and if he stays up in town he gets cross thinking of the work he could be doing at home. Anyway he’s recovered now, I’m glad to say, and we were wondering if by any chance you were free to have dinner with us tonight.’

I was so intrigued by this glimpse of a rough edge to Dr Ashworth’s glass-smooth episcopal life that I was at last diverted from jealous speculation about Dido. I said promptly: ‘I’d love to come, Mrs Ashworth! Thanks so much.’

‘Splendid! Seven-thirty for dinner at eight? We’ll look forward to seeing you,’ said Mrs Ashworth, perfectly sincere but now exuding the deft social manner of a successful ‘Mrs Bishop’, and with her mission accomplished she set down the receiver.

II

By the time I returned to my room I could clearly see that my queasy plunge into the pit of doubt was an emotional vagary, perhaps some form of psychological reaction to my previous unflawed euphoria. It was, of course, quite inconceivable that my Mr Dean could still care for the monster. A saintly toleration would be the most a woman like that could ever expect from her husband — who, out of sheer chivalrous good taste, would never complain about her to the woman he loved. How could I ever have succumbed to that degrading pang of jealousy? Only by first allowing myself to flirt with the notion that in an eternal triangle all might not be quite as it seemed, but I was sure now that I knew exactly where reality lay. I had him to myself; Dido was irrelevant; the serpent was under control again.

Feeling infinitely better I began to plan what I should wear that evening at the South Canonry.

III I dressed with care in a plain green linen dress with cream-coloured accessories (belt, Italian shoes, bag, all matching) and spent half an hour applying my make-up in the hope that Mrs Ashworth would be impressed by my progress in making the best of myself. My horrible hair was at that ‘in-between’ stage, not short enough to be tidy, not long enough to be spectacular, but I curbed its yak-like tendencies by shoving it into a French roll and spearing it with an interesting metal object, somewhat like a miniature rake, which I had bought at Boots. Deciding that I could have looked better but that I could also have looked infinitely worse, I tottered off on my high heels to the South Canonry.

Mrs Ashworth was wearing a severely tailored navy-blue dress with a touch of white at the lapels, no jewellery and her sphinx-like smile. Her smooth, flawlessly dyed hair was immaculate and her creamy skin was a perfect example of subtle make-up. Only the unusually dark shade of her nylons hinted that she might need to cover up varicose veins, but otherwise her appearance, as always, constituted a triumph of art over age.

It was she herself who answered my ring at the front door. The episcopal cook-housekeeper, charwoman and secretary all lived out and had gone home before my arrival; the chaplain and the lay-chaplain had retired to their cottages nearby; the Bishop and Mrs Bishop were now free to pretend they were just like any other well-to-do elderly couple with two grown sons and a pleasant home in the provinces.

‘How well you look, Venetia!’ said my heroine, regarding me with approval. ‘Positively glowing – and how clever of you to choose cream accessories for that smart dress!’

My spirits soared. I felt as if I had been awarded high marks in a vital examination.

In the drawing-room the Bishop, evidently enjoying a day off, was wandering around in a dark suit, which seemed to shout SAVILE ROW from every seam, a snow-white shirt and a dark tie adorned with a motif which I (through lack of acquaintance with Cambridge University, perhaps) failed to recognize. I suddenly realised Dr Ashworth must have a private income. He looked much too glossy to be maintained on a clerical salary, even a clerical salary of episcopal dimensions, and his wife’s clothes too had the kind of simplicity which can only be achieved by a generous expenditure.

‘Venetia! How nice to see you!’ As he exuded his famous charm it was impossible to imagine him sulking about the chore of reading the prayers in the House of Lords, and suddenly I was more acutely aware than I had ever been of the gap existing between a private individual and his public persona. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come at such short notice,’ he was saying. ‘May I pay you the compliment of saying how delightful you look?’

‘Yes, please!’ I said, thinking how odd it was that the Bishop’s distinguished good-looks should leave me unmoved while the Dean could reduce me to pulp by a mere twitch of his sultry mouth. ‘Drink, Venetia?’ said Mrs Ashworth.

I requested a gin-and-tonic. Both the Ashworths were drinking sherry.

‘I bumped into your father the other day in the House of Lords,’ said the Bishop, pouring out an austere measure of gin. ‘He very kindly gave me dinner.’

I tried not to look too surprised. My father, loyal to Aysgarth, was not in the habit of showering Dr Ashworth with impromptu hospitality at Westminster.

‘He asked after you, of course,’ said the Bishop, creating a lavish waterfall of tonic before handing me my glass, ‘and I felt rather guilty that I couldn’t give him more news.’

‘But I’ve written my parents a line every week since I’ve been at the Chantry!’

‘Yes, he said he was grateful to know you were still alive but he was anxious for more details.’

‘Parents are so inquisitive,’ said Mrs Ashworth casually, offering me a cigarette. ‘They simply can’t help themselves. Michael says it’s a terrible failing.’

‘Oh, but my parents aren’t normally inquisitive at all!’ I said, very suspicious now of my father’s uncharacteristic behaviour and wondering in alarm if he was on the brink of interfering in my affairs. ‘As I’m the youngest of six, they’d exhausted their capacity for being inquisitive long before I was born.’

‘Heavens, Lyle!’ said the Bishop, giving me a light for my cigarette. ‘Where would we be now if we’d had six children?’

‘In the grave,’ said Mrs Ashworth, exercising a deadpan humour, and added without a pause: ‘Charles did his best to reassure your father, Venetia. I don’t think you need worry too much.’

‘Perhaps not, but I’d better pour a little oil on the troubled waters.’ Obviously my father, having concluded I was drifting along aimlessly as usual, was revving himself up to intervene on a grand scale. ‘I’ll ring my mother. I suppose I should have phoned before but I was waiting until I had some interesting news to impart.’

‘Maybe I can provide it!’ said Dr Ashworth, finally sitting down. ‘I was very struck by your disclosure yesterday that you’re looking for a job in Starbridge. Would you by any chance be interested in working for me on a part-time basis?’

I nearly dropped my glass.

‘Charles is anxious to write a book,’ said Mrs Ashworth, following on from her husband with such effortless fluency that I was reminded of a pair of acrobats pirouetting together on the high wire, ‘and since his secretary’s seriously overworked he feels he can’t ask her to take on such a substantial new project.’

‘I’d pay the top rate, of course,’ the Bishop chimed in with such perfect timing that I even began to wonder if the dialogue had been rehearsed. However, I came to the conclusion that it was not the dialogue but the stylish marital double-act which had been rehearsed, time and again, in the past whenever the Bishop and his wife had worked together on a scheme dear to both their hearts. ‘I can’t say for certain how long the job would last,’ Dr Ashworth was adding, ‘but I’d estimate a minimum of three months.’

‘How very exciting!’ I said, finally finding my tongue. ‘Am I allowed to ask what the book will be about?’

‘I intend to demolish
Honest to God
by John Robinson, the Bishop of Woolwich.’

I nearly dropped my glass again.

‘Charles adores demolition work,’ said his wife serenely. ‘His first book demolished the Arian heresy. He’s never looked back since.’

‘Super!’ I said. It seemed the safest banality to utter.

‘The biggest difficulty about this job from your point of view,’ resumed the Bishop, conveying moderate anxiety by a slight furrowing of the brow, ‘is that as I’ll be dictating the book in my spare time your hours will be somewhat irregular, but my wife tells me you dislike the conventional nine-to-five routine so perhaps you’ll take this snag in your stride. It would be easier if I could dictate into a dictaphone, but I’ve never been able to establish a satisfactory working relationship with a machine.’

‘So like a clergyman!’ murmured his wife. ‘Always has to have an audience when he holds forth.’

‘Nonsense!’ said the Bishop good-humouredly. ‘The truth is machines encourage verbosity, whereas if one talks to human beings one has to stick to the point or else they fall asleep. I shall depend very much on the quality of your reaction,’ he added to me with a smile, ‘in order to gauge how accurately I’m hitting the nail on the head.’

‘Robinson’s supposed to be writing for the intelligent layman, benign to the Church and interested in theology,’ said Mrs Ashworth, ‘and Charles wants to do the same. Then he remembered you’d heard of
Soundings
and knew the meaning of
metanoia,
so –’

‘– so I realised you’d be ideal for the job,’ said the Bishop, turning on the full force of his charm as the Ashworth double-act pirouetted gracefully to its finale on the high wire. ‘Do say you’ll take it on!’

I had a quick think. At least episcopal employment would stop my father barging into my new life and accusing me of drifting. And the job would without doubt give me the best possible reason for remaining in Starbridge; any embryonic suspicions would be instantly annihilated. I had a brief vision of Aysgarth, listening with avid amusement as I recounted every detail of the Bishop’s fulminations against
Honest to God,
and the next moment my mind was made up. Returning Dr Ashworth’s smile I said with sincerity: ‘Thanks so much, Bishop – I’m immensely flattered. When would you like me to start work?’