Absolute Truths. Susan Howatch
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The Times. Lyle filled my coffee-cup at intervals and provided hot buttered toast at exactly the right moment. ‘I do wonder what’s happened to Michael,’ she said after refilling my cup for the second time. ‘Will Dinkie break off the engagement straight away or will she wait until she has her claws into Robert Welbeck?’
But I did not want to think of Michael. Instead I retreated to the office where Miss Peabody, already informed by Lyle of my approaching visit to the hospital, was waiting to tell me how appalled she was by the news of Desmond’s assault. The typist had not yet appeared, but from the window I could see my chaplains pausing by the gate to finish their conversation before they turned up for work. At once I glanced at my watch, but they still had five minutes to spare before they were due to cross my threshold. Mentally shelving my standard lecture on punctuality I said to Miss Peabody: ‘Anything interesting in the post?’
‘Nothing urgent.’ Miss Peabody, a large woman of indeterminate age whose favourite colour was navy blue, adjusted her pince-nez before adding: ‘But there’s the most unusual letter from a divorced priest in the Radbury diocese who wants to work in Starbridge. He’s been in a mental hospital for some time.’
‘Draft a letter telling him kindly that I license neither divorcés nor lunatics.’
‘Oh, he wasn’t a patient, Bishop! He was in the mental hospital as a chaplain, but he says he feels he’s now being called to establish a healing centre in a parish setting.’
‘I don’t license charismatic wonder-workers either,’ I said, and then reflected with horror that this description could be applied to Jesus Christ. Rapidly I added: ‘Just tell him the Bishop has a policy of never licensing divorced priests.’
‘But Bishop,’ said Miss Peabody, whose resolute nature could sometimes lead her to sound like a nurse telling her charge that ‘Nanny knows best’, ‘he has the most glowing reference from the Abbot-General of the Fordite monks.’
This was indeed surprising. The Fordites were Anglican-Benedictines who represented the apex of the High-Church wing, and I would have expected their leader to be as opposed to divorced clergymen as I was. ‘Never mind the Abbot-General,’ I said, the recalcitrant charge determined to ‘talk back’ to Nanny. ‘Where’s the reference from the man’s bishop?’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘Exactly. The man’s obviously been sacked for improper conduct and is now trying to wriggle into another diocese by reviving an old connection with the Forditcs. Write to him at Radbury, Miss Peabody, and –’
‘Oh, he’s not at Radbury now, Bishop! He’s here in Starbridge and staying at the Crusader.’
‘Camping on my doorstep,’ I said, ‘will get him nowhere. In fact –’ I broke off as I put two and two together and made an astonishing four. ‘Wait a moment,’ I said slowly. ‘Wait a moment …’
Miss Peabody waited obediently, but so mesmerised was I by the notion that an English version of Elmer Gantry might be attempting to invade my diocese that when I spoke I could only produce a completely irrelevant question. It was: ‘How on earth can an unemployed priest afford to stay at the Crusader?’
‘I don’t know, Bishop – he doesn’t divulge his financial circumstances,’ came the unfalteringly serious reply. (Nothing a bishop said was ever judged irrelevant by Miss Peabody.) ‘But the letter is literate and suggests that he’s a gentleman.’
Ignoring this romantic notion that literacy and good breeding invariably coexist, I said abruptly: ‘I can’t possibly see him. It would be a waste of my time, particularly as it would be out of the question for me to license a divorced priest for parish work. Think of the comments I should get from the Mothers’ Union! No, no, Miss Peabody, write to the man and –’
The telephone rang. I was still so bemused by the manifestation of an Elmer Gantry in my diocese that I picked up the receiver before Miss Peabody could take the call.
‘Charles?’ said the suffragan Bishop of Starmouth, startled to speak to me without being delayed by an intermediary. Nigel Farr had by that time been assisting me in the south of the diocese for six years, and although I gave him a free hand to run Starmouth as he thought fit we kept in close touch and he always consulted me over problems of behaviour among the clergy. On that particular morning he was worrying about a curate who had been preaching sexual liberation behind his vicar’s back while running the parish youth club.
‘… and according to the enraged vicar there’s now an anonymous letter accusing the curate of flirting with a fourteen-year-old moppet.’
‘Almost certainly the product of another fourteen-year-old moppet who fancies the curate herself,’ I said, ‘but anything’s possible. What’s the vicar been doing while his curate’s run amok? Obviously their relationship has broken down – see the pair of them, reintroduce them to each other and drill it into that curate’s head that it’s his business to fight the permissive society, not to join it. No clergyman sanctions immorality in this diocese,’ I added, adding some familiar words out of habit as I glanced at my watch and shuddered at the prospect of my interview with Desmond. I suddenly remembered that the petrol tank of my car was almost empty – which would mean a stop on the way to the hospital – which in turn meant I had less time than I had thought. Truncating the conversation with Nigel I promised to phone him back later and replaced the receiver.
Immediately the phone rang again. This time Miss Peabody pounced. Meanwhile my chaplains had arrived and were milling around like a couple of dogs who needed to be taken for a walk. ‘Bishop, if I could just have a word with you about your visit to the alms-houses …’ ‘Bishop, if I could just see you about your meeting today at Church House …’ As I listened to this chorus with half an ear I suddenly realised Miss Peabody was saying: ‘Just a moment, Archdeacon, I’ll see if he’s available.’
I grabbed the receiver. ‘Malcolm?’
‘Good news, Charles. The police have arrested a man for the attack on Desmond. He’s a lunatic, just released from mental hospital, who’s got a phobia about Roman Catholic priests. When he walked into the police station this morning to confess, he told them he thought that St Paul’s was an RC church and that Desmond was one of the Pope’s flock.’
‘So he was quite unknown to Desmond?’
‘No previous connection whatsoever.’
‘Thank God. Talk to you later.’ I hung up and immediately, as my chaplains began to mill around me again, Miss Peabody said in her firmest voice: ‘Time for you to go to the hospital, Bishop.’ The typist had arrived red-nosed and was busy sneezing over everyone. Edging out of the room I promised my chaplains they would have my full attention on my return, and on reaching the hall I found that Lyle was already waiting with my hat and coat.
I said distractedly: ‘The car’s nearly out of petrol.’
‘No, it isn’t. I put some in while you were at the Cathedral.’
In the office the telephone was ringing again, and for one poignant moment I pictured myself back in Cambridge with nothing to do all morning but write about Hippolytus and Callistus.
‘Off you go, darling,’ said Lyle propelling me outside, ‘and don’t get bogged down with Desmond. It’s bad for your blood pressure when you fall behind in your timetable.’
I hurtled away down the steps to my car.
VIII
The sun was now shining but the air was still cold and the Cathedral had a hard, dense, sculpted look as it rose from the frozen grass of the churchyard. Above the central tower the spire narrowed to a pinpoint against an ice-blue sky. Leaving the Close by the main gateway I drove with dread to the hospital.
I had no doubt whatsoever that Desmond would have to be sacked, although obviously the sacking would have to wait until he had recovered from his