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‘Bother the infant,’ he said at last, glancing at his watch. ‘He’s cutting it very fine.’
‘What infant’s this?’
‘I doubt if you’d know him – he’s only twenty. He’s supposed to be staying tonight with us at the South Canonry.’ Again he hung out of the window in an agony of suspense but a moment later he was bawling ‘Hey!’ in relief and wildly waving his arm.
A tall, pale youth, earnest and bespectacled, appeared at the door and was hustled into the carriage. He wore very clean jeans and a spotless blue shirt with a black leather jacket. All he was carrying was a duffle-bag. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I got lost on the underground.’ Unaware that Charley and I knew each other he wasted no time looking at me but removed his glasses and began to polish them with an exquisitely ironed white handkerchief. In the distance the guard’s whistle blew and after a preliminary jerk the train began to glide out of the station.
‘Venetia,’ Charley said, remembering his manners, ‘this is Nicholas Darrow. Nick, this is the Honourable Venetia Flaxton.’
‘I find it more comfortable these days to drop the Honourable,’ I said. ‘Hullo, Nick.’
Replacing his spectacles he looked me straight in the eyes and at once I felt as if I stood in a plunging lift. ‘Hi,’ he said politely without smiling. His eyes were an unnaturally clear shade of grey.
‘Have we met before?’ said my voice. I sounded as unnerved as I felt, but I knew that the obvious explanation for my loss of poise – sexual bewitchment – was quite wrong. He was a plain young man. Yet somehow he contrived to be compulsively watchable.
‘No, we haven’t met,’ he was answering tranquilly, opening his duffle-bag and pulling out a book. It was Honest to God.
‘Nick’s father was principal of the Starbridge Theological College back in the ’forties,’ Charley said. ‘Maybe Nick’s jogging your memory of him.’
‘No, that’s impossible. I wasn’t involved in Starbridge ecclesiastical circles until the Aysgarths moved to the Deanery in ’fifty-seven.’
Charley obviously decided to dismiss my confusion as a mere feminine vagary. ‘Nick’s reading divinity up at Cambridge just as I did,’ he said, ‘and – good heavens, Nick, so you’ve bought Honest to God! What’s your verdict so far?’
‘Peculiar. Can it really be possible to reach the rank of bishop and know nothing about the English mystics?’
‘Maybe he can’t connect with them,’ I said. ‘I certainly can’t. I think Julian of Norwich’s description of Christ’s blood is absolutely revolting and borders on the pathological.’
The grave grey eyes were again turned in my direction and again I wondered why his mysterious magnetism should seem familiar.
‘Well, of course it’s very hard for a layman to approach these apparently morbid touches from the right angle,’ Charley was saying with such condescension that I wanted to slap him, ‘but if one takes the time to study the mystics with the necessary spiritual seriousness—’
‘You’re a church-goer,’ said Nick suddenly to me.
‘Now and then, yes.’
‘But you’re not a communicant.’
‘I watch occasionally.’ I was still trying to work out how he had made these deductions when Charley exclaimed in delight: ‘In college we debate about people like you! You’re from the fringes – the shadowy penumbra surrounding the hard core of church membership!’
‘I most certainly am not!’ I said, concealing my fury behind a voice of ice. ‘I’ve been christened and confirmed – I’m just as much a member of the Church of England as you are!’
‘But if you’re not a regular communicant –’
‘I’ve never been able to understand why chewing a bit of artificial bread and sipping some perfectly ghastly wine should confer the right to adopt a holier-than-thou attitude to one’s fellow-Christians.’
‘Shall I give you my best lecture on the sacraments?’ said Charley, allowing a sarcastic tone of voice to enhance his nauseous air of condescension.
‘No, read Honest to God and shut up. It’s narrow-minded, arrogant believers like you who give the Church a bad name.’
Charley flushed. His pale brown eyes seemed to blaze with golden sparks. His wide mouth hardened into a furious line. ‘If all so-called believers were a little more devout, we might have more chance of beating back sin!’
‘Who wants to beat back sin?’ I said. ‘I’m mad about it myself.’ And opening my bag I casually pulled out the famous unexpurgated Penguin edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
That closed the conversation.
The train thundered on towards Starbridge.
II
‘Sorry,’ said Charley to me an hour later. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. Since you don’t come from a religious family, it’s very praiseworthy that you go to church at all.’
‘Oh, my father’s devoted to religion,’ I said. ‘He just has trouble believing in God.’
‘So he didn’t mind you being baptised and confirmed?’
‘Mind! He insisted on it! In his opinion all loyal English people ought to go through the initiation rites of the Church of England – it’s part of our tribal heritage, like learning about King Alfred burning the cakes and memorising the patriotic speeches from Henry V and singing “Land of Hope and Glory” at the last night of The Proms.’
‘This is most interesting, isn’t it, Nick?’ said Charley. ‘When one comes from a religious home one doesn’t realise what extraordinary attitudes flourish elsewhere.’
‘What’s so extraordinary about them?’ I said. ‘Isn’t the main purpose of our glorious Church to reassure us all that God is without doubt an Englishman?’
‘You’re teasing me!’ said Charley. But he sounded uncertain.
I suddenly became aware that Nick was gazing at me. I had intercepted his gaze more than once during our hour of silence, and as I caught him in the act yet again I demanded: ‘Why do you keep staring at me as if I’m an animal at the zoo?’
He lowered his gaze and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Sorry.’ His voice was almost inaudible. ‘It’s the aura.’
‘Nick’s a psychic,’ said Charley serenely as my jaw sagged. ‘That’s how he knew you were a church-goer but not a communicant.’
‘No, it wasn’t!’ said Nick angrily. ‘Her knowledge of Dame Julian suggested she was interested enough in Christianity to be a church-goer, and her repulsion towards the description of Christ’s blood suggested she was unlikely to take part in any symbolic ritual involving it. The deduction I made was completely rational and involved no psychic powers whatsoever!’
‘Okay, but you can’t deny you’re a psychic – think what a whizz you were at Pelmanism!’
‘Shut up, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I always thought it was such a shame when your father stopped you telling fortunes –’
‘Shut up, Charley!’ Jumping to his feet the youth heaved open the door into the corridor and stalked out in a rage.
‘It’s not my day, is it? said Charley with a sigh. ‘Why do I always put people’s backs up? I can’t understand it. I only want to be sociable and friendly.’
Leaving him brooding with touching innocence on his abrasive personality I prowled down the corridor to the buffet where I found Nick slumped at a table and sipping Coca-Cola. After buying some liquid which British Rail had the nerve to market as coffee I sat down opposite him.
‘Now look here,’ I said sternly, trying to take advantage of my years of seniority. ‘You’ve made a disturbing statement and I want an explanation. What’s the matter with my aura? Is it exuding gloom and doom?’
He failed to smile. He was a very serious young man. ‘No, turbulence,’ he said. ‘You must be very unhappy. You look so self-assured in your expensive clothes, and you talk so carelessly as if you hadn’t a worry in the world, but underneath you’re throbbing with pain.’
‘Supposing I were to tell you that you’re dead wrong?’
‘I don’t see how I can be. As soon as you mentioned your revulsion towards Dame Julian’s description of Christ’s blood I sensed your blood, spattered all over your psyche, and I knew you were in pain.’
I boggled but recovered. ‘Here,’ I said, shoving my hand palm upwards across the table. ‘Read that and tell me more.’
‘I don’t do that sort of thing nowadays.’ But he glanced at my palm as if he found the temptation hard to resist. ‘Anyway I’m not trained in palmistry. I just hold the hand and wait for the knowledge.’
I grabbed his fingers and intertwined them with mine. ‘Okay, talk. You owe it to me,’ I added fiercely as he still hesitated. ‘You can’t just make gruesome statements and go no further! It’s unfair and irresponsible.’
Sullenly he untwined our fingers, set my hand back on the table and placed his palm over mine. There followed a long silence during which he remained expressionless.
‘My God!’ I said, suddenly overwhelmed by fright. ‘Am I going to die?’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You’re going to live.’ And for one long moment he stared at me appalled before blundering out of the buffet in confusion.
III
I caught up with him just before he reached the carriage. ‘What the hell did you see?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t like meddling with psychic emanations, that’s all, and I promised my father I wouldn’t do it. If I seem upset it’s because I’m angry that I’ve broken my word to him.’ Diving into the carriage he collapsed in a heap on the seat.
Charley, who had been dipping into my copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, hastily shoved it aside but I paid him no attention. I remained in the corridor and stared out of the window at the smooth hills of the Starbridge diocese. The train was now hurtling towards our journey’s end.
‘Nick and I are down here for Easter, of course,’ said Charley, appearing beside me as the train slowed to a crawl on the outskirts of the city. ‘Nick stayed on after the end of term to begin the swot for his exams, and I delayed my return to Starbridge in order to make a retreat with the Fordite monks in London … Are you staying with the Aysgarths or are you heading for home?’
‘The former.’ As the train lurched over a set of points on its approach to the station I stepped back into the carriage and said abruptly to Nick: ‘Are we going to meet again?’
‘Oh yes. And again. And again. And again.’
‘What a terrifying prospect!’
‘No, it’s okay, you don’t have to worry. I’m benign.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘A recurring phenomenon which ought to be entirely harmless. Like Halley’s Comet.’
Finally I saw him smile. I noticed that he had good teeth, very even, and that when his mouth was relaxed he lost the air of solemnity conjured up by his spectacles. Again my memory was jogged, and as it occurred to me that he was as watchable as a gifted actor I at last solved the riddle of his familiarity. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Are you any relation of Martin Darrow, the actor?’
‘He’s my half-brother.’
I relaxed. Although I’m not averse to paranormal puzzles I much prefer mysteries that are capable of a rational explanation. ‘My mother’s mad on him,’ I said agreeably, ‘never misses an episode of his comedy series, stays glued to the TV. But surely he must be at least thirty years older than you are?’
‘My father had a rather peculiar private life.’
‘Come on, chaps!’ exclaimed Charley, plunging bossily back into the carriage as the train finally halted at the platform. ‘Get a move on! Nick, as you’ve only got a duffle-bag, could you give Venetia a hand with her suitcases?’
I stepped down on to the platform accompanied by my psychic porter. The sun was shining and far away in the distance beyond the train, beyond the railway yard, beyond the roofs of the mean little villas which flanked the tracks, I saw the slim straight spire of the Cathedral.
Blazing with energy Charley bounded ahead and by the time Nick and I emerged from the station he was bouncing towards the episcopal car, a black Rover, as Mrs Ashworth emerged from the driver’s seat. I knew now, six years after our first meeting, that she was the same age as Aysgarth, but on that day she looked more like forty-five than sixty-one. It was not only her slender figure which made her seem youthful but the smooth straight hair coiled simply in a bun; an elderly woman who has the guts to flout fashion by refusing a permanent wave really does deserve to look a long way from the geriatric ward.
Ever since our first meeting when she had boldly identified me as a femme fatale despite the massive evidence to the contrary, I had secretly labelled her my heroine and now, once again, my admiration for her was renewed. She was wearing a pale lilac-coloured raincoat, unbuttoned to reveal a straight grey skirt and a sky-blue blouse – unremarkable clothes, but on her they looked as if they had arrived by special messenger that morning from Paris. Her navy shoes, so different from the old ladies’ ‘support’ footwear which my mother favoured, were notable for the elegance of their stiletto heels. Mrs Ashworth might have turned sixty, but this boring fact had evidently long since been dismissed by her as trivial. Her triumph over the ravages of time was superb.
‘Hullo, Nicholas!’ she exclaimed warmly after she had given Charley a peck on the cheek, but I knew she was much more interested in me. ‘Venetia – what a surprise! I saw Dido Aysgarth earlier today but she didn’t mention they were expecting you at the Deanery.’
‘They’re not expecting me. To be quite honest, Mrs Ashworth, I’m not exactly sure why I’m here. I’m a bit bouleversée at the moment.’
‘How exciting! Come and have tea. I’ve got a prayer-group turning up later and there’s a visiting American bishop who comes and goes like the Cheshire cat’s smile, but at the moment I’m absolutely free.’
My spirits rose, and accepting her invitation with gratitude I slid into the back seat of the Bishop’s Rover.
IV
The South Canonry, where the Ashworths lived, was an early Georgian house far smaller than the old episcopal palace but still too large for a modestly-paid executive with a wife and two adult sons. The garden consisted almost entirely of labour-saving lawns; full-time gardeners were no longer an episcopal perk, and the Ashworths were aided only by a man who came once a week to civilise the lawns with a motor-mower. Mrs Ashworth hated gardening and kept no plants in the house. I always found the bare, uncluttered look in her home immensely appealing.
As I was almost the same age as Charley I had been invited to the house occasionally in the past along with various Aysgarths and other young people in the diocese, but the visits had been infrequent and I had never come to know the Ashworths well. Neither had my parents. My father respected the Bishop’s intellect but found Ashworth was fundamentally unsympathetic to his sentimental, old-fashioned brand of humanism. Whereas Aysgarth was tolerant of agnostics Ashworth seemed hard put to conceal his opinion that agnosticism was an intellectual defect – and there were other differences too, as we all discovered over the years, between the Bishop and the Dean. Aysgarth was gregarious with an apparently inexhaustible supply of good humour, whereas Ashworth, behind his cast-iron charm, was a very private, very serious man. Laymen like my father dubbed Ashworth ‘churchy’ – that sinister pejorative adjective so dreaded by clerics – but Aysgarth was unhesitatingly labelled ‘one of us’. Ashworth, isolated to some degree by the eminence of his office, was held to resemble Kipling’s cat who walked by himself; his close friends had been left behind in Cambridge in 1957, and perhaps this was one of the reasons why he was so close to his wife. It was widely observed how well attuned they were to each other. They seemed to generate that special harmony which one finds more often among childless couples, the harmony of two people who find each other entirely sufficient for their emotional needs.
Considering that the marriage was successful, people found it immensely interesting that the two sons should have undergone such obvious problems: Charley had run away from home when he was eighteen while later Michael had been thrown out of medical school. However, these embarrassing episodes now belonged to the past. Charley had been rescued, sorted out and replaced on the rails of conformity, while Michael had been steered into the employment of the BBC with happy results. Why Charley should have run away from home no one had any idea, but Michael’s hedonistic behaviour was universally attributed to a desire to rebel against his father’s puritanical views on sin.
‘There’s a screw loose in that family somewhere,’ Dido would say darkly, ‘you mark my words.’
The irony of this statement was that Aysgarth had the biggest possible screw loose in his family – Dido herself – yet all his children were turning out wonderfully well. This fact must have been very galling to the Ashworths as they struggled to surmount their problems at the South Canonry.
When I arrived at the house that afternoon I was immediately soothed by its well-oiled serenity. The drawing-room was notably dust-free and arranged with a tidiness which was meticulous but not oppressive. A superb tea was waiting to be served. The telephone rang regularly but was silenced almost at once by the Bishop’s secretary in her lair by the front door. Dr Ashworth himself was out, fulfilling an official engagement, but if he had been present he too would have been running smoothly, just like the house. I could remember him appearing during my past visits and saying to his wife: ‘What did I do with that memo on the World Council of Churches?’ or: ‘Whatever happened to that letter from the Archbishop?’ or: ‘What on earth’s the name of that clergyman at Butterwood All Saints?’ and Mrs Ashworth, indestructibly composed, would always know all the answers.
After tea Charley went upstairs to unpack, Nick wandered outside to tune into the right nature-vibes – or whatever psychics do in gardens – and Mrs Ashworth took me upstairs to her private sitting-room. Unlike my mother’s boudoir at Flaxton Hall there were no dreary antiques, no ghastly oil-paintings of long-dead ancestors, no boring photographs of babies and no vegetation in sight. The air smelt celestially pure. On the walls hung some black-and-white prints of Cambridge and a water-colour of the Norfolk Broads. The only framed photograph on the chimney-piece showed her husband as an army chaplain during the war.
‘Sit down,’ said Mrs Ashworth, closing the door. ‘Now that we’ve got rid of the men we can relax. Cigarette?’
‘I do like this room,’ I said, accepting the cigarette and sinking into a comfortable armchair. ‘It’s all you, isn’t it? Everything’s your choice. All my life I’ve had to put up with revolting inherited furniture and now I’ve finally reached the point where I’m determined to have a place of my own.’
‘Splendid! All young people need to express themselves through their surroundings. You should have seen Michael’s room when he went through his Brigitte Bardot phase!’
‘I bet Charley puts up all the right pictures,’ I said, not daring to ask what the Bishop had thought of the Bardot pin-ups.
‘Fortunately Charley only has space on his walls for books. My former employer Bishop Jardine left Charley his entire theological library – no doubt because Charley always said he wanted to be a clergyman when he grew up … But let’s get back to you. So you’re seeking a room of your own! But why seek it in Starbridge?’
‘I’m not sure that I will – I’ve only drifted down here because I’ve got a standing invitation to use the Put-U-Up sofa in Primrose’s flat. I’m such a drifter, Mrs Ashworth! I despise myself for drifting but I don’t seem able to stop. It’s as if I’m marking time, waiting for my life to begin, but nothing ever happens.’
‘When will you consider that your life’s begun? At the altar?’
I was grateful for her swift grasp of my dilemma. Well, I know marriage shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of a woman’s life, but –’
‘It certainly was before the war. Perhaps this is a case where “the more things change the more they remain the same”.’
‘I think it must be. As I see it, I really do have to get married in order to live the kind of life I’d enjoy, but here I am, almost twenty-six, and I’m beginning to think: supposing I never marry, never win respect and status, never stop drifting – I could wind up wasting my entire life.’
‘A nightmarish prospect.’
Terrifying. And then I start to feel desperate – desperate, Mrs Ashworth, I can’t tell you how desperate I feel sometimes – and now I’m convinced I’ve got to act, got to get out of this rut –’
‘Well, it sounds to me as if you’re making progress at last! You’re looking for a place where you can express your real self; you’ve embarked on an odyssey of self-discovery … Do you have to worry about money?’
