Ultimate Prizes Page 8

  What worries me is that idealists (in the colloquial sense) aren’t usually successful in life and I need to marry a potentially successful husband so that my social gifts can come into full play. But on the other hand perhaps the Church is the one place where idealists can be madly successful, with the result that the episcopal bench in the House of Lords is simply littered with idealists—like that extraordinary Bishop of Chichester, George Bell, who’s always saying we mustn’t be beastly to the Germans who aren’t Nazis, although how he expects us to separate the wheat from the chaff when they’re up in the sky bombing us to bits, I really can’t imagine.

  Oh, how I’d love to be a bishop’s wife! I’d run the episcopal palace very efficiently and organise gorgeous garden-parties for the diocesan clergy and give fascinating little dinner-parties for sixteen every week and I’d raise lashings of money for the Poor and dress very tastefully whenever I had to open a fete, and I’d wear wonderful hats when I visited the House of Lords to hear my husband speak—and I’d behave beautifully at Lambeth and Bishopthorpe whenever we were invited for a weekend with the Archbishops, because by that time I’d be well-educated and serious-minded and quite different from the ignorant creature I am now. I’m sure some future bishop must see my potential if only I can meet him—and I’m beginning to see him quite clearly now in my mind’s eye.

  I want a Liberal Protestant (definitely not an Anglo-Catholic or a neo-orthodox Protestant) with Modernist leanings, and he must be a few years older than me, but not too old, say around forty—in the prime of life—and being nouveau-riche myself I shan’t mind if he’s not blue-blooded so long as he speaks correctly and knows how to behave. He should be an Oxford man but a Fellowship of All Souls is not essential. (One can’t have everything.) He should have a deep voice—so masculine—and preach sermons which make me want to cry (I always cry when I feel spiritually uplifted) but he shouldn’t rant and roar. His manner should be cool, austere and dignified.

  I shan’t mind if he’s not handsome but he must have something about him which is irresistibly attractive—deep-set blue eyes perhaps (so heroic)—or a high forehead or broad shoulders or (most scrumptious of all) a very straight firm mouth which represents a MASTERFUL NATURE. I’ve never seen the point of pursuing the sort of man who allows a woman to trample all over him. Men must be men, otherwise why bother, one might just as well live with a woman. I’m sure there must be quite a few men in the Church of England or else it wouldn’t be such a powerful national institution, although bounders like Rollo always say that the men who are against fornication are always the ones who are incapable of it. But bounders like Rollo have no choice but to say that, have they? It’s the only way they can make their weakness look like strength.

  Well, Archdeacon dear, I’ll stop prattling now, but do write soon—don’t leave me in suspense for a whole week this time—and make sure you give me a few tips on how I can spot a neo-orthodox supporter at fifty paces and take immediate evasive action. Ever your devoted disciple,

  DIDO TALLENT.

  P.S. What is soteriology?

  I phrased my reply to this last question when I was shaving. I looked into the mirror at my deep-set blue eyes, my high forehead and my straight firm mouth and thought: My dear Miss Tallent, the word “soteriology” refers to matters pertaining to salvation, a state which may well elude you if you continue to write flirtatious letters to a married man …

  And I vowed to terminate the correspondence.

  But I didn’t. Instead I wrote:

  My dear Miss Tallent:

  I’m a clergyman, not a dictionary, so I shan’t waste time defining soteriology; I shall merely ask who’s been talking to you of soteriological matters! It sounds to me as if you’ve already brushed against a follower of neo-orthodoxy. Did he thunder that we’re all “under judgement”? If ever you hear this phrase, the odds are that you’re in neo-orthodox country and you should beat a quick retreat to more Liberal pastures.

  Meanwhile rest assured that if I meet a Liberal Protestant with the kind of Modernist leanings which would never damage his chance of episcopal preferment, I shall unhesitatingly point him in your direction! Professor Raven, I fear, is quite unsuitable, being not only a non-starter as a bishop (see my previous letter) but far too old for you (nearly sixty). He’s also a married man—and I’m afraid you really can’t go around chasing married clergymen. “There’s no future in that,” as a clever woman bent on capturing a future bishop might say, and I think on the whole you’d be best advised to look for a husband of your own age. Men of forty nowadays are usually either married or homosexual. And now to intellectual matters. Platonic Idealism is the father of our colloquial “idealism.” The Greeks believed …

  And for a further two pages I wrote fluently on the subject of Plato’s philosophy.

  I was just congratulating myself on conducting this exceedingly enjoyable correspondence with such faultless propriety—a correspondence which my perfect wife never once asked to see—when my harmless epistolary friendship began to swing stealthily out of control.

  I was invited by Lady Starmouth to spend a weekend at the Earl’s country house.

  3

  “Comfort, power, the applause and wonder of men—is there any Church in Christendom, or any Christian soul, not deeply tainted with these things?”

  CHARLES E. RAVEN

  THE CROSS AND THE CRISIS

  1

  I WAS GREATLY SURPRISED BY THE INVITATION. I HAD MET the Starmouths through Alex soon after he had appointed me his Archdeacon in 1937, but they had remained mere distant acquaintances, and although Lady Starmouth had a reputation for befriending clergymen, I had always suspected she found me too dull to merit her special attention. Certainly in her presence I had found it difficult to shake off a sense of social inferiority, which made me appear shy and awkward. Yet now for some reason Lady Starmouth had decided to take trouble with me. Moreover in the same post I received a letter from the Earl himself saying that he did hope I was free to accept his wife’s invitation as he was most anxious to hear me preach. Would I deliver a sermon at his local parish church? Now I was no longer merely surprised. I was amazed and excited. Lord Starmouth was one of the most influential laymen in the Church of England and always spoke on important Church matters in the House of Lords. If he wanted to hear me preach I was indeed being thrust into the ecclesiastical spotlight.

  “What an opportunity!” I exclaimed in jubilation to Grace.

  “It’s very exciting for you—and so kind of Lady Starmouth to invite us both,” said Grace, “but of course I can’t possibly go.”

  There was a silence. We were in the study where I had been opening the morning’s second post. As soon as I had read the vital letters, I had called Grace to join me.

  “It’s you they want,” she said in a rush as the silence lengthened. “They’re just inviting me out of politeness, and it would be much better if you went on your own.”

  All I could say was: “You’re coming with me.”

  “But the children—”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “But what on earth shall I wear?”

  “Buy whatever’s necessary.”

  “But the coupons—”

  “Steal them.”

  “Neville!”

  “All right, borrow them! I was just trying to make you understand how absolutely vital it is that you come with me! It would be the height of foolishness if you evaded this invitation—Lady Starmouth would almost certainly be sceptical about any excuse you might make, and if she feels she’s been snubbed, what kind of position do you think that would put me in?”

  “In that case we’ll have to take the children with us.”

  “Don’t be absurd! We can’t do that when the children haven’t been invited! We’ll have to leave them with Nora or one of your other friends.”

  “I don’t like to impose—”

  “No, but this is the one occasion where you must be ruthless—or if yo
u really can’t face tackling Nora I’ll tackle Emily. I’ve no scruples at all about imposing on my sister in urgent circumstances.”

  “I always feel so awkward about asking Emily to have the children when she has no children of her own—”

  “Nonsense—they’ll provide a welcome diversion from that dreary husband of hers! Now listen to me, Grace. I quite understand why you should feel this weekend will be an ordeal, but it’s an ordeal you’re perfectly capable of surmounting—all you’re being required to do is to look pretty and be polite. I’m not trying to throw you to the lions. I’m just trying to ensure you don’t miss out on an exciting and worthwhile excursion. Make up your mind you’re going to enjoy yourself! Why not? Why shouldn’t it all be great fun?”

  But Grace only said in despair: “How I wish we’d never left Willowmead!” and I heard her stifle a sob as she rushed from the room.

  2

  “I didn’t mean it, Neville—of course I didn’t mean it—I just feel nostalgic about Willowmead sometimes, that’s all …”

  I had followed her to our bedroom where she had retreated to calm down, and as we faced each other we could hear the charwoman talking good-naturedly to Sandy as she worked in the drawing-room below us. Primrose was at nursery school as usual. I was supposed to be on my way to a diocesan committee meeting, and I was acutely conscious of the clock ticking on the bedside table as I was obliged to delay my departure.

  “I know how much you loved Willowmead,” I said, “but we’ve been happy in Starbridge too and we’re going to go on being happy here.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  “To be honest, I find the Starmouths intimidating as well. But one can’t spend one’s life cowering in corners just because one feels socially inferior!”

  “No, of course not. Will there be a maid, do you think, to unpack our suitcases? I don’t want anyone seeing my darned underwear.”

  “In that case I’ll tell the servant we don’t require help with the unpacking. Now, Grace, stop worrying yourself into a frenzy, there’s a good girl, and make up your mind you’re going to be strong, brave and resourceful!”

  “Yes. All right. I’ll try,” she said, but my heart sank as her shoulders drooped.

  Willing myself not to despair, I hurried off to my meeting at the diocesan office on Eternity Street.

  3

  Starmouth Court stood not, as might be assumed, near the port of Starmouth, in the south of the diocese, but eighteen miles from London in the county of Surrey; the Earl’s connection with Starmouth was lost in the mists of antiquity. When we eventually arrived at our destination on a sunlit Saturday morning in July, I was just as horrified as Grace to discover not a friendly country house but a tall stout elderly mansion of forbidding proportions. Accustomed though I was to calling at the various grand houses in my archdeaconry, I had never been invited to stay the night in these places and the thought of being a guest in the Starmouths’ overpoweringly dignified country seat made me feel for a moment like a fallen woman obliged to take refuge with a formidable maiden aunt.

  Built high on a hillside, the house was surrounded by trees and approached by a long winding drive which strained both our nerves and the engine of the chauffeur-driven motor which our hostess had sent to meet us at the station. “ ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came,’ ” I muttered to Grace before the Dark Tower was revealed as the plump Queen Anne palace. I allowed myself one quick shudder before resolving fiercely to appear self-possessed. “Isn’t it exactly like the country house in a detective story?” I murmured to Grace with a heroic attempt at nonchalance. “I foresee corpses in the library, a sinister butler lurking behind the green baize door and Hercule Poirot hovering in the shrubbery!”

  But Grace was too terrified to reply.

  We were admitted by a stately footman to a hall the size of a tennis court. Vast pictures of men in togas were suspended from points so remote as to be barely visible. An enormous arrangement of flowers stood in what appeared to be a pseudo-Greek vase. Then I realised there was nothing pseudo about the vase. It had that dim ancient look which is impossible to reproduce, and it reminded me of countless visits to the British Museum on wet Saturday afternoons in my childhood when Willy and I, boarded out with strict Methodists, had taken refuge once a week in the sights of London.

  “Nice flowers,” I said casually to Grace in an automatic effort to signal to the footman that I found the hall itself too mundane to merit a comment. “Very well arranged.”

  I had barely finished speaking when a door banged, footsteps pattered swiftly in our direction down a distant corridor, and the next moment someone was bursting joyously into the hall. A familiar peal of laughter rang out. A well-remembered voice cried: “Welcome to Starmouth Court!” And with horrified delight I recognised my disciple.

  4

  “Did you know she was going to be here?” demanded Grace as soon as we were alone in the bedroom which had been assigned to us, but my stupefaction was so obviously genuine that she never doubted my denial. Moving to the window, I saw that the room was placed at the back of the house and overlooked a formal garden which unfolded upwards in a series of terraces before rolling out of sight over the summit of the hill. On the lowest lawn twin rows of classical statues eyed each other across a sward dotted with croquet-hoops. The sun was still shining radiantly, reminding me that I felt much too hot.

  “She should have told me,” I said as I automatically took advantage of the opportunity to remove my clerical collar. “Why on earth didn’t she mention it in her last letter?”

  “I suppose she thought it would be fun to surprise you.” Grace was already unpacking her darned underwear before a servant could materialise, like the genie of the lamp, between her and the open suitcase.

  “I don’t like those sort of surprises.” I began to roam around the room. The brass bedstead gleamed. Lifting the counterpane I absent-mindedly fingered the very white sheets.

  “I suppose they’re real linen,” said Grace. “And look at those towels by the washstand! Can they possibly be linen too?”

  “Must be pre-war. But expensive things always look new for years.” I stared around at the room’s luxury, so subtly sumptuous, so tastefully extravagant, and before I could stop myself I was saying: “I suppose you’re still wishing you hadn’t come.”

  “Oh no!” said Grace at once. “Now that the adventure’s begun I’m enjoying myself—in fact I’m sure you were right and it’s all going to be great fun!”

  I did realise that Grace was belatedly exercising her intelligence, but I found I had no desire to consider the implications of this new canny behaviour. I merely smiled, gave her a grateful kiss and began to unpack my bag.

  5

  Everyone was very kind to Grace, who despite her tortuous self-doubts was as capable as I was of being socially adept in unfamiliar circumstances. Certainly no one was kinder than Dido, who lavished attention on her to such an extent that I was almost ignored. More than once I told myself conscientiously how relieved I was that my disciple was on her best behaviour; it seemed all I now had to do, in order to survive the weekend with my clerical self-esteem intact, was to stick close to my wife and keep my eyes off Dido’s legs, which seemed to shimmer like erotic beacons whenever I glanced in her direction. I even thought in a burst of optimism that I might soon be able to write off my embarrassingly carnal preoccupation with Dido as an example of that well-known phenomenon, the middle-aged man’s vulnerability to the charms of youth. However, although I was keen to reduce my feelings to a trivial inconvenience, I suspected I was still too young to be in the grip of a middle-aged malaise. Or was I? If my diagnosis was correct I could only shudder. If I was like this at forty, what would I be like at fifty? I had a fleeting picture of myself at sixty, an elderly lecher surrounded by young girls, and it was not at all a cheering vision for a churchman who had always been anxious to Get On and Travel Far.

  The weekend gathering at Starmouth Court was hardl
y “smart” in society’s sense of the word, although Lady Starmouth ensured that the atmosphere was friendly and cultivated. In addition to my disciple, who was on a seventy-two-hour leave, the guests consisted of a residentiary canon of Radbury Cathedral and his wife; a contemporary of the Earl’s from the House of Lords; a bossy lady of uncertain age who worked in London for Jewish refugees and who talked of Bishop Bell with the enthusiasm women usually reserve for film stars; an etiolated civil servant from the Ministry of Information; and the Starmouths’ youngest daughter, Rosalind, who had been a debutante with Dido in 1933; her husband was now serving with the Army in India. I soon felt confident that I could hold my own in this company, even with the Canon, who was at least twenty years my senior, but nonetheless I was careful to temper my growing self-confidence with a quiet unassuming manner. Alex had warned me more than once that the upper classes disliked a newcomer who was too strident.

  “Whatever you do,” I said to Grace as we changed for dinner on the night of our arrival, “don’t mention to that bossy Miss Wilkins, who’s obviously in love with Bishop Bell, that I may be having contact with German prisoners in the future at the new camp on Starbury Plain. Once one starts discussing the Church’s attitude towards Germans, Bell’s name’s bound to come up and I don’t want to get involved in any conversation which is politically controversial.”