Ultimate Prizes. Susan Howatch
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yawned. The archdeaconry was quiet. No fallen steeples, no dispute about plastic flowers on graves, no rural dean suffering from delusions of grandeur, no curate going berserk with choirboys, no vicar letting off Anglo-Catholic liturgical fireworks, no verger blowing his brains out. Finding myself with five minutes to spare before breakfast I drew up a plan for my Sunday sermon and plucked a few pertinent quotations from my trusty memory. My brother Willy always said I had a mind like a vacuum cleaner; I can effortlessly absorb any information from the sublime to the ridiculous and regurgitate it, sometimes years later, with an efficiency bordering on the robotic.
At breakfast I admired the new bow in Primrose’s hair, glanced at the headlines of The Times, read the latest letter from Christian at Winchester, answered the telephone, picked Sandy’s rusk off the floor twice and asked Alex if he intended to spend all day in the Cathedral library, where he was studying the records of his episcopate.
‘No, I’m having a rest from my autobiography today,’ he said, surprising me. ‘I’ve decided to take a train to Starvale St James and call on Lyle.’
Lyle, now Mrs Charles Ashworth, was the icy companion who had run the Jardines’ household so efficiently before her unwelcome defection to the state of matrimony in 1937.
‘She probably won’t want to see me,’ Alex was saying as he idly applied marmalade to his toast, ‘but I thought it would be too ridiculous if I left the diocese without calling on her. I intend to arrive on her doorstep waving the olive branch of peace.’
‘Better late than never, but why not phone her first? Your olive branch will be wasted if you arrive on her doorstep and find she’s gone out for the day!’
‘I’ll take the risk. If I ring she might simply slam down the receiver – I can’t tell you what a tangle we all got into back in 1937 –’
‘I always thought it sounded the most grotesque storm in a teacup and I can’t believe Lyle won’t welcome the chance to end the estrangement. Do you want a lift to the station?’
He accepted the lift. I noted with compassion that he had bought expensive presents for Lyle’s two sons. Evidently he was anxious that his olive branch should be substantial.
‘Remember me to Lyle, won’t you?’ I said. ‘As it happens I’ll be coming her way soon. An incensed churchwarden at Starvale St James is complaining that the new font looks like a urinal.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Alex vaguely, and when he failed to smile I knew his thoughts were far away.
Leaving him at the station I called at the diocesan office on Eternity Street to collect my special allowance of extra petrol coupons, suffered myself to be cornered by various officials who saw me as a channel to the Bishop, escaped into the High Street to buy cigarettes and finally parked my car in the old vicarage stables behind Butchers’ Alley just as the clock of St Martin’s chimed the half hour. I was fractionally late for the morning conference with my curates, but to my relief I saw no bicycles parked outside the vicarage gate. I disliked my curates arriving ahead of me and looking insufferably virtuous as I walked into the room. Much better that they should arrive panting and apologetic while I was sitting coolly behind my desk.
I opened the front door. I withdrew my key from the lock. And I paused, paralysed with shock, as my hand remained on the latch. I had heard a laugh in the morning-room where we received the parishioners who called on us, but this laugh belonged to no one who lived within the parish of St Martin’s – in-Cripplegate. Automatically, without stopping to think, I blundered forward into the hall.
Grace was saying: ‘That’ll be Neville. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just tell him you’re here.’
I plunged across the morning-room threshold. Grace, who had almost reached the door, hastily recoiled. As our visitor sprang to her feet I saw us all as three puppets jerking on the ends of some exceedingly erratic strings.
‘Hullo Stephen!’ said Dido, whose memory I had, of course, been conscientiously suppressing all morning, and gave me a bold, bright, impudent smile.
‘Good morning, Miss Tallent,’ I said, rigid with rage behind my clerical collar. I was acutely aware that Grace was wearing her oldest dress, the one she only wore around the house, and that she looked faded, fatigued and unfashionable. In contrast Dido, seemingly poured into her sleek naval uniform, looked saucy, sexy and scintillating. I could have slapped her.
Suddenly I became aware of Sandy’s presence. In the profound silence which followed the formal exchange of greetings he staggered across the floor and offered me one of his toy bricks.
‘Thank you, Sandy.’ I took the brick and gripped it so hard that my fingers ached. Then in a passable attempt to achieve a smooth social manner I said to Dido: ‘How kind of you to call, but I’m afraid you must excuse me. I have an urgent meeting now with my curates.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of troubling you when you’re so busy!’ exclaimed Dido with that wide-eyed candour which I found so fatally compelling. ‘I just called to leave my card and enquire if your wife was better.’ Giving Grace her warmest smile she added confidentially: ‘You didn’t miss much at the Bish’s dinner-party – your husband was the only redeeming feature.’
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go!’ said Grace, scooping up Sandy.
‘No, I’ll answer it –’
‘No, it’s all right, Neville –’
We collided in the doorway before Grace succeeded in escaping into the hall.
‘I’m obviously causing chaos as usual,’ said Dido. ‘I’ll leave at once.’
I realized I was still holding Sandy’s brick. It was bright red, the colour of violence, volcanic fire and technicolour blood. It also matched Dido’s lipstick. Setting the brick down on the table with meticulous care I somehow managed to say to Dido in my politest voice: ‘If you feel you must go, then I shan’t try to detain you, but I apologize if you’ve been made to feel unwelcome.’
‘Oh no, your wife was charming! We got on terribly well!’
‘Miss Tallent –’
‘Oh, I do wish you’d stop calling me that! Why don’t you call me Dido, just as everyone else does?’
‘I’m most flattered that you should wish to be on such friendly terms with me, but I’m afraid a clergyman has a duty to be formal towards a young lady he’s known less than twenty-four hours.’
‘But I’m sure Jesus would have called me Dido without a second thought! He never bothered to be formal with the good-time girls!’
I opened my mouth to say coldly: ‘I fear I can only consider that remark to be in excessive bad taste,’ but the words were never spoken. To my horror I realized I was smiling. ‘You’re outrageous!’ I exclaimed in despair. ‘What on earth am I going to do with you?’
‘But don’t you remember? You’re going to be my spiritual guide and write me uplifting letters!’
‘But my dear Miss Tallent –’
‘You didn’t think I was serious, did you? You didn’t think I meant what I said, but I swear to you I’m deeply in earnest and absolutely desperate. I know you think I’m stupid and frivolous and not worth bothering about, but –’
‘Everyone’s worth bothering about. But don’t you think your local clergyman would be better placed than I am to give you the guidance you need?’
‘That celibate fish? He’s only fit to be lightly grilled on both sides and served to the congregation with parsley sauce!’
I made a quick decision, the kind of quick decision capable administrators make, a cool practical decision untainted by emotional involvement. There was no doubt this girl was genuinely distressed and adrift. It seemed reasonable to suppose she was suffering