Tom Harpur 4-Book Bundle. Tom Harpur
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eyebrows jumped up and down as he began: “The Church has always been opposed to f-f-f-f-f-fornication!” The producer was holding his breath and on the edge of his seat, but Ramsey continued on, beaming like a cherub.
The Archbishop had consented to give me an interview over sherry after his TV appearance. At the end of the questions I told him I was an Anglican priest. He looked at my casual dress, a turtleneck sweater and tweed jacket, and quipped: “My, what an excellent disguise!”
In fact, I had first met him ten years previously, in 1962, while doing the year of postgraduate study at Oxford. I was walking up the High Street one October afternoon when just ahead of me I made out the figure of a stockily built man all in black who looked like the sheriff in a TV western. He was wearing gaiters and a frock coat together with a wide-brimmed hat. With his back to me, it was impossible to see the white clerical collar, but as I drew closer I could tell from his shape and the locks of bushy white hair fringing his neck that it was none other than Canterbury himself. I fell into step beside him and, plunging in, told him my name and that I was a visiting student priest from Canada. I can only describe the look in his eyes as one of startled alarm. He managed to mutter something about how nice it was to see me, but it was obvious from his body language that he wanted nothing to do with this philistine from the colonies who had dared to interrupt his reverie without a formal introduction. Suddenly he spied an opening in the walls on our right and, with a stuttered reference to “somebody I must see immediately” and a wave of his black arm, he darted down Magpie Lane beside Oriel College with the alacrity of someone trying to avoid a rattlesnake. Later, when I told some English clergy friends about my chance meeting, their merriment knew no bounds. Apparently it just wasn’t done for anyone to walk up to the Archbishop of Canterbury without having been at least spoken to first or introduced.
Ramsey was a great gift but also a challenge to the media, not only because of his style but because he knew well how to deal with reporters when he wasn’t keen on talking. In 1975 I was in England attending a conference of doctors and theologians on non-medical healing. After it ended I went to London to meet the Dalai Lama at a press conference and, perusing one of the papers, I learned that Ramsey was to attend a reception at Brompton Oratory the following day. Since there was a considerable debate at the time over the ordination of women in the Anglican Church, I decided to go in the hope of either talking with the Archbishop or setting up an interview for later in the week, and perhaps doing a news story for the Star.
I arrived late at the reception and was told by an antique verger that everybody was downstairs. I walked down to the large church basement wearing a trench coat and carrying my tape recorder, in search of His Grace. People were trying to navigate from conversation to conversation while holding cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes. Looking about, I spied Ramsey sitting all alone at the head table, with an empty teacup and a plate with crumbs on it. I walked over boldly and was about to introduce myself when he looked up suddenly, got me in focus, held up his cup and saucer, and said: “How very kind of you . . . a little milk and sugar, please.” There was nothing I could do but go and fetch his tea.
When I took it over to him, he immediately dropped his eyes and seemed to withdraw inside himself into a world of his own. Coughing slightly, I quickly asked whether we could talk on the record for a few minutes. He gazed up very benignly and said he was much too busy with the reception just then to give his attention to so important an issue as women’s ordination, and he returned to his tea with Buddha-like concentration. Daring to interrupt once more, I asked whether I could call his secretary in the morning and arrange an interview for later that week. The enormous brows did pushups and he said twice, “Don’t count on it.” And with that he rose, collared a nearby Greek Orthodox prelate and became instantly engaged in a ferocious dialogue. I knew I was beaten. I had a cup of tea, climbed the stairs and reluctantly went out into the London fog.
During the summer of 1978, the bishops of the Anglican Church met at Canterbury, England, for the Lambeth Conference. The sessions were held at Canterbury University, up on a hill overlooking the ancient cathedral, but most of the religion journalists and some of the bishops stayed at hotels in the old city itself. I was covering the event for the Toronto Star and was lodged at the centuries-old Queen’s Head Tavern. The ground floor of the topsy-turvy two-storey building was the site of a very busy pub. My room, reached by way of a crooked set of stairs and a winding wood-panelled hall with a roof so low I was always in danger of increasing the size of my bald spot, was comfortable enough, but the floor, walls and closets all slanted in the most alarming fashion. One evening I had a couple of bishops up for a drink. As I put a glass for Archbishop Lewis Garnsworthy on the small table, only his quick reflexes saved it from sliding onto the floor. To my embarrassment, none of the closet doors would stay closed. No matter how firmly shut, after a moment’s pause and with the creaking of antique hinges, out they swung at you again.
Of course, this was before the era of computers and cellphones. Getting messages and stories back to the Star was a nightmare. There was one phone in the building other than the manager’s, and that was in the entrance to the pub below. One night, having written what I thought was a front-page story on women priests, and after waiting in line for the phone, I tried to dial the long-distance operator. You could hardly hear for the din of singing, shouting and banging glasses coming from within. When I did get through, the operator told me that the British post office workers and thus long-distance operators were working to rule over a labour grievance and it would be some time before we could get a line. Meanwhile, others behind me were starting to make noises about it being time they had a “go” at the phone. Then, inspiration struck. I told the operator to call me back when we had a line free, and then I put an “out of order” note on the phone. Eventually the manageress spotted the note and asked me what I was doing. I explained my dilemma and she said, “Come to my office. You can use my phone.” To my delight, I got an international line at once. I finally was answered by a familiar voice in the Star’s newsroom. But before I could get the words out, he said: “Hey Tom, that’s a terrible connection. Call back on another line.” Click! And he was gone. I almost cried with frustration. It was nearly two hours before I got through again and was finally able to dictate the piece. I don’t know if it made page one or page sixty.
During my two-week stay at the Queen’s Head two of my teenage daughters came to England for a holiday and we were able to spend a few days together in Canterbury. The hotel moved us to newer rooms at the rear of the second floor. I learned very soon that the rooms were directly above what was called the Golden Bar section of the pub. It was a rather sad episode with a bidet that caused my embarrassment. The girls had never seen a bidet before, and were amused by turning the tap on and off to see how it worked. What neither of them noticed was that the tap continued to trickle after it was shut off and, worse, that the plug was rusted in place. We went off to dinner and returned two hours later to find a stream of water flowing under the door of the room. I could hear sudden shouts and raucous laughter from the bar downstairs. We went inside to a mess with water everywhere. Just then there was a furious thumping at the door and the manageress thundered: “Whatever in the world is going on in there?” When she saw the extent of the flooding, she ran for her husband to fetch a plumber and for the hired help to bring mops and pails. “You should see what you’ve done downstairs,” she shrilled. “You’ve ruined the Golden Bar!”
Sheepishly, I descended to the bar area. Water was dripping down a series of light bulbs above the bar, having blown them all out. Some had popped in a mini-explosion and lay in puddles. One of the bishops’ wives, also staying there and who had imbibed somewhat freely, was catching the murky liquid in a cocktail glass and challenging all comers to drink “a Queen’s Head cocktail.” I retreated from the semi-dark pub as quickly as I could and discovered my bags being moved to yet another room.
I was not the only one who disgraced himself at Lambeth in 1978. There was an awkward moment at the special garden party at Buckingham Palace for the bishops and their wives. Normally, the attitude of British churchmen towards journalists is that of those who bask in their secure superiority to “lesser breeds without the law,” but at the last minute the reporters covering Lambeth had been invited to join the gala affair. We went through the palace gates, past a series of guards and footmen of various ranks, each of whom inspected our invitations, and then through the