Absolute Truths. Susan Howatch
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last one.’
‘Ah, but the influence of classical Rome on medieval philosophy isn’t quite your subject, is it, Charles?’ said Aysgarth, delivering this lethal riposte without a second’s hesitation. ‘If you’d read Greats up at Oxford, as I did, you’d find that Christian’s scholarship was more within your intellectual reach.’
The worst part about Aysgarth, as I had discovered to my cost in the past, was that he was a killer in debate. One entered an argument with him at one’s peril, but of course, as Jon would have instantly reminded me, I had no business getting into an argument with Aysgarth at all.
Fortunately the entry of the verger put an end to this serrated conversation, and when I was ready we were led silently through the Cathedral to the chapel where the daily services were held.
I could not help thinking that my visit had begun on a singularly unfortunate note.
Much depressed I prayed for an improvement.
VI
The congregation stood up to greet us as we entered St Anselm’s chapel, and I saw that all three residentiary Canons were in the front row. The most senior was Tommy Fitzgerald, who had once confessed to me that Aysgarth was the only man he had ever wanted to punch on the jaw, and next to this normally unpugnacious Anglo-Catholic stood Paul Dalton, who had once told me he hardly knew how to face a Chapter meeting without having a nervous breakdown. On the far side of this normally stable churchman of the Middle Way was the newcomer to Starbridge, Gerry Pearce, whom I had selected for his staying power after his predecessor, a crony of Aysgarth’s, had decamped to London as a direct result of the 1963 crisis. Gerry was a moderate Evangelical who had spent some years as a missionary in an unpleasant part of the world before returning to England for the sake of his growing family; I had poached him from the Guildford diocese where he had passed five arduous years persuading the affluent middle-classes that there was more to life than making money in London. Coming from an affluent middle-class area of Surrey myself I was in a position to appreciate his achievement.
I did not care greatly for Tommy Fitzgerald, an unmarried fusspot who in his own way could be just as pigheaded as Aysgarth, but I liked Paul Dalton, who had read divinity long ago at Cambridge, just as I had, and who was so devoted to cricket that he seldom left his television set when a test match was being broadcast. Apart from a tendency to wander off the point in diocesan committee meetings, Paul’s most tiresome habit was to complain how difficult it was to remarry. Since his wife’s death he had tried hard to find a suitable replacement, but he had never found anyone who matched his rigorous specifications. Lyle said he did not want to remarry at all but merely felt obliged to go through the motions of pretending that he did, but having been obliged to listen to Paul’s confidential opinions on the subject I knew that unlike Tommy Fitzgerald he was not happy as a celibate.
Beyond the three Canons who were gathered in the chapel that morning I recognised the Vicar of the Close, who conducted the day-to-day pastoral work for the Dean, and in the same row I noted three retired clergy and my two chaplains, all of whom lived nearby. A couple of devout laymen from the diocesan office and half a dozen equally devout elderly women formed not only the remainder of the congregation but the loyal core of the Cathedral’s band of regular worshippers.
I was about to conclude my quick inspection of those present when I saw there was a stranger among us. This was very unusual. As I have already indicated, few people chose to attend a weekday ‘said’ matins on a dark winter’s morning, and usually the Starbridge visitors who attended church during the week preferred to pass up matins in favour of Holy Communion at eight. I gave the stranger a sharp look, and as if sensing my interest he raised his head to stare straight into my eyes.
I blinked, taken aback. He was a priest, but a sinister one: swarthy, blunt-featured and built like a pugilist. His remarkable eyes, black and hypnotic, were set deep in shadowed sockets, and as soon as I had registered their potential power to cast a spell I found myself thinking: that man’s big trouble. And I wondered which bishop had the ordeal of keeping him in order.
The service started. When Aysgarth read the first lesson I stole another glance at the visitor and wondered if my instinctive distrust had been unjustified. He was conservatively dressed in a well-cut suit. His clerical collar was thick enough to look old-fashioned and his black stock was adorned with a small gold cross, hinting at an Anglo-Catholic churchmanship. The extreme respectability of his clothes formed a bizarre contrast to his sinister countenance and his curious aura of … But I could not quite define the quality of the aura. I could only think again: that man’s big trouble. And I could imagine not only all the women in his home congregation being disturbed by his powerful presence, but far too many of the men as well.
Towards the end of the service I briefly mentioned Desmond’s disaster and proposed that we all observe a moment of silence to pray for his recovery. Intercessions were usually made at the Communion service, but I felt that Desmond’s case should be presented to that tightly knit matins congregation. With the exception of the stranger we all knew each other and we all knew Desmond. In such circumstances I thought my request would call forth a particularly solid shaft of prayer.
After the service I adjourned to the vestry with Aysgarth for the short interval between matins and Communion, and soon we were joined by the three Canons.
‘Who was that man?’ demanded Tommy Fitzgerald.
But no one knew.
I asked: ‘Did no one introduce themselves?’
‘He gave us no chance,’ said young Gerry Pearce. ‘He stayed on his knees and kept praying.’
‘An Anglo-Catholic,’ said Aysgarth neutrally. ‘I noticed the pectoral cross.’
‘Talking of Anglo-Catholics,’ said Paul Dalton, ‘what a shocking piece of news that was about poor old Desmond …’
Desmond was discussed in suitably muted tones for a couple of minutes. Then since it was not the morning when we all attended the Communion service, the group dispersed. Gerry and Paul drifted away to their homes for breakfast. Tommy, who was that month the Canon ‘in residence’, responsible for the services, wandered off to make sure the new verger had set out the right quantities of wine and wafers. Only Aysgarth lingered, waiting to see what I was going to do. ‘Staying on, Charles?’ he enquired casually after Tommy had disappeared. ‘What about that train to London?’
‘I’m not leaving until I’ve seen Desmond.’ Making an enormous effort I forced myself to say: ‘I’m afraid our conversation earlier wasn’t one of our best efforts. I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologise. Entirely my fault. I’m sorry too.’
How hard we were both trying to be Christian! And what a stilted, awkward job we were both making of it! In despair I wondered if I was even fit to receive the sacrament, but I knew this descent into gloom was unjustified. I repented of my earlier burst of anger; I wanted to attend Communion; I needed the comfort of the sacrament as I faced the long, arduous day which lay ahead.
In silence I returned to the chapel, and in silence Aysgarth, not to be spiritually outdone, padded along by my side.
I wondered what Jon would have said, but decided I was much too depressed to want to imagine.
VII
The stranger nipped out so smartly at the end of the service that he still managed to avoid introducing himself, but everyone had noticed him and everyone wanted to know who he was.
‘Any news?’ said Lyle, bringing me my eggs and bacon as I finally reached the dining-room.
‘Stephen and I bared our teeth at each other.’
‘That’s not news, that’s just history repeating itself. Did you tell Paul that I’ve found yet another possible wife for him?’
‘I’m afraid I forgot. I was diverted by an unknown priest who looked like an English version