Ultimate Prizes. Susan Howatch
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Sandy,’ and retired to examine the picture of Peter Rabbit which hung on the far wall. After a while I glanced back over my shoulder and when I saw he was watching me I exclaimed: ‘How quiet you are! Well done!’ At that point he smiled and allowed his eyes to close. I was still taking another long look at Peter Rabbit when I heard the welcome sound of even breathing and knew I could safely creep away.
‘The Kraken sleeps,’ I said to Grace as I joined her in our bedroom. By this time she was dry-eyed but very pale.
‘How on earth did you do it?’
‘I let him know who was the boss. Sometimes I think you’re too soft with him.’
‘I’m not soft with him! I’m just a normal loving mother, and if you’d ever had a normal loving mother yourself –’
‘My mother adored me.’
‘Well, I suppose she did in her own peculiar way, but –’
‘Grace, is this really the moment to start talking about my mother?’
‘It’s never the moment to start talking about your mother!’
‘Then why drag her into the conversation?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–’ Once more Grace dissolved into tears.
Guilt smote me. ‘My dearest love … forgive me …’ Sinking down on the bed I kissed her in despair but when the tears continued I announced: ‘I’m going to say my prayers,’ and escaped to the dressing-room. For ten seconds I concentrated on breathing deeply. Then having steadied my nerves I stripped off my clothes, stood naked in the middle of the floor and stretched myself until my muscles ached. This manœuvre also proved soothing. When I shed my clerical uniform I felt younger, more flexible, possibly more light-hearted, certainly more adventurous. Perhaps women undergo a similar psychological liberation whenever they shed their corsets.
Having donned my pyjamas I said my prayers at a brisk pace, gave the Bible a thoughtful tap, stared into space for two minutes and came to the conclusion that my next duty was to embark on a ministry of reconciliation. Accordingly I extracted the necessary item from the locked box at the back of the wardrobe and returned to the bedroom.
Grace had dried her eyes. That boded well. She had also brushed her hair. That boded well too. Grace had long straight dark hair which during the day she wore twisted into a coil on the top of her head. That was how she had worn her hair when her mother had first allowed her to abandon her pigtails, and I had never allowed her to wear it in any other way. During the 1920s she had wanted to cut her hair short but I had said: ‘Why destroy perfection?’ and the crisis had passed. Later, in the 1930s, she had wanted to curl her hair, but that idea too I had refused to countenance; I had always felt that Grace’s delicate Edwardian look was the last word in beauty and elegance. She was five foot four inches tall, a height which was perfect because even when she was wearing high-heeled shoes there was no risk of her being taller than I was. Even after bearing five children she was still remarkably slender and graceful – not quite as slender as she used to be, certainly, but then one really can’t expect one’s wife to look like a young bride after sixteen years of married life.
As soon as I returned to the bedroom she said in her calmest, most sensible voice: ‘Darling, I’m very, very sorry. How boring for you to come home to such a tiresome scene! How was the dinner-party?’
I was conscious of a relief of gargantuan proportions. My wife was being perfect again. All was well. ‘Oh, dreadfully dull,’ I said, sliding into bed and giving her a kiss. ‘I envied you missing the meal. There was a most extraordinary custard which was supposed to have had an egg in it.’
‘What sort of an egg?’
‘Mrs Ottershaw wasn’t saying.’ I switched off the light.
‘Was Charlotte there?’
‘Yes. With a friend.’
‘A man? How exciting! I do hope Charlotte gets married!’
‘Unfortunately it was just another Wren. And General Calthrop-Ponsonby was there, still breathing fire against the Boers, and Mrs Dean was holding forth about the Girl Guides as usual while her husband tried to convert me to Crisis Theology or neo-orthodoxy or whatever one wants to call the latest variation on the theological rubbish fathered by Karl Barth –’
‘How glad you must have been to get home!’
‘I’m always glad to get home,’ I said, unbuttoning the flies of my pyjamas.
‘Darling, I really am sorry I was so awful earlier –’
‘No need to say another word about it. We’ll ring down the curtain on the scene, pretend it never happened and celebrate your splendid recovery. At least … you have recovered, haven’t you, darling?’
‘Oh yes!’ she said at once. ‘I’m fine now. Everything’s absolutely fine, just as it always is.’
A vast relief overwhelmed me again as I prepared to bring my ministry of reconciliation to a triumphant conclusion.
It never even occurred to me that I might be grossly deluding myself.
‘First loves do not always keep their glamour.’
CHARLES E. RAVEN
Regius Professor of Divinity, Cambridge, 1932–1950 A Wanderer’s Way
I
I had just stubbed out my post-coital cigarette when I heard the front door close in the distance and realized that Alex had returned from the palace. Beside me Grace had already fallen asleep. Leaving the bed I pulled on my discarded pyjamas, grabbed my dressing-gown and padded downstairs to attend to my guest.
Alex had paused to read the headlines of the Starbridge Weekly News which had been delivered that morning and abandoned on the hall chest. He was a man of medium height, just as I was, but we had different builds. I’m stocky. He was thin as a whippet and as restless as a cat on hot tiles. His thinning grey hair was straight, sleek and neatly parted. His ugly yellowish-brown eyes radiated an impatient vitality which was defiantly at odds with the heavy, sombre lines about his mouth. As always he was immaculately dressed.
‘Would you like some tea before you turn in, Alex?’
‘A corpse-reviver would be more appropriate! Why on earth did Ottershaw invite that old bore Calthrop-Ponsonby?’
‘I think he feels sorry for him.’
‘How typical! Ottershaw would even feel sorry for a man-eating tiger who wanted to eat him for breakfast … How’s Grace?’
‘Sleeping.’
‘Hm.’ He dropped the newspaper abruptly on the hall chest. ‘Can we go into your study for a moment, Neville? I’ll decline your kind offer of tea but there’s something I’d like to say to you.’
Obediently I led the way across the hall. I was anxious to return to bed as I was now very tired, but Alex was not only my present friend but my past benefactor and I always made every effort to oblige him.
I had first met him in 1932 when he had become the Bishop of Starbridge. Having long since decided that it was best to live in the South if one wanted to Get On and Travel Far, I had pulled all the Oxonian strings at my disposal and sought ordination from Alex’s predecessor Dr Hargreaves who had been scholarly, moderate in his Protestantism, tolerant of Modernist thought – and in fact exactly the type of leader I had had in mind when I had been called to enter the Church. Eventually I had become a curate in a village only two miles from Starbridge, and every morning I had been able to look out of my bedroom window at the distant Cathedral spire as it soared