Absolute Truths

‘All right, old chap, check the story at your end, but make sure you keep me posted – and make sure you don’t delay too long or you’ll have all the hounds of Fleet Street baying at your door. Much better for you and everyone else connected with the Cathedral if those vulgar beasts are tastefully scooped by the Church Gazette.’

But before he could sketch further details of this nightmare, I diverted the conversation into another channel.

V

My afternoon committee meeting should have been of interest to me because it concerned my special subject, religious education, but by that time I hardly felt capable of concentrating on it. The committee’s title was The Church of England’s Working Party on Education in Theological Colleges, known as CEWPET (even as CUPID by the facetious new Bishop of Radbury), and I was the chairman. The meeting that day was to discuss an interim report which I was due to make to the Church Assembly later that month, and I intended to announce my unswerving belief that the purpose of theological colleges was to train men for the priesthood by giving them a thorough grounding in Christian history, doctrine, literature and liturgy so that they could proclaim the Gospel cogently and conduct a well-ordered service of worship. This aim might seem very obvious to an outsider, but within the Church fierce debates raged about reforming the traditional syllabus. It was all part of the general debate about how far the Church should modernise itself in order to speak intelligibly to twentieth-century man.

My opponent that day was inevitably going to be that most tiresome of my liberal opponents, the new Bishop of Radbury, whom I now knew was called Sunbeam, and I was far from surprised when, true to form, he made a shamefully florid speech in response to my opening remarks. As far as I could judge, he seemed to be advocating that we should all return to the educational standards of first-century Palestine.

‘… and why not abolish all exams? What’s the point of ordinands cramming their heads with facts which are irrelevant to this day and age? Who cares now about the quarrels of the Early Church? Would our Lord Jesus Christ have passed the university exams in theology? Would he even have passed Religious Knowledge at A-level? Why, I bet he wouldn’t even have wasted time sitting the exam! He’d have been out there in the world caring for people, relating to them, sympathising with them about poverty – political oppression – sexual injustice – oh, and while we’re on the subject of sex, I think we should bear in mind the inevitable ordination of women and put an end to this nonsense about making the theological colleges into single-sex ghettos like the colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. It’s my firm belief that women –’

‘No, really, Leslie,’ I interrupted, reflecting that Lyle would have been worrying by this time about my blood pressure, ‘before you start putting cooking and needlework on the curriculum, I’m going to rein you in. We’re still a long way from ordaining women, and fascinating though it may be to picture Our Lord wearing jeans and kicking the educational system in the teeth, I think we should face the fact that if Our Lord were here today he’d preach the Kingdom of God, just as he did two thousand years ago – he’d preach the absolute truths which never change, not the current fashions which are ephemeral. Now, if we can turn to the statistics showing the decline in candidates for A-level –’

‘Excuse me, Bishop,’ interposed the one woman on the committee, a thin woman draped in purple, ‘but I find these graphs confusing.’

‘Women can never understand graphs,’ I said, in such a state of irritation by this time that I failed to think before I spoke. ‘I’ve noticed that before.’

‘I must say, Bishop, I find that a surprisingly offensive remark, particularly coming from a man of your distinction!’

‘I do apologise, Miss Drew …’ I was indeed horrified to realise I had been discourteous to a lady.

‘Now, Charles,’ said the abominable Bishop of Radbury, ‘if you’d had sociology lessons during your own training for the priesthood, you’d have overcome the deficiencies of your public school education and achieved a more enlightened attitude to women – with the result that such a remark would never have passed your lips!’

‘If by an “enlightened attitude” you mean a belief that men and women are interchangeable,’ I said, ‘that’s nonsense. Truth is truth, and I’ve noticed that women on the whole are less comfortable with mathematical information than men. Of course I was wrong to say they can never understand it, and I apologise unreservedly to Miss Drew for that, but men and women are complementary, not identical – equal before God but nonetheless dissimilar – and it’s a liberal delusion to assume otherwise.’

‘Okay, fine,’ said Sunbeam brightly. ‘Why don’t you exercise your complementary masculine powers by explaining the graphs to Miss Drew? I’m sure we’d all welcome a shaft of enlightenment from our chairman.’

Very fortunately I had heeded Roger’s warning about the graphs and had managed to work out on the train a way of dismissing them when the subject of A-level statistics was under discussion.

‘To avoid controversy,’ I said at once, ‘and to ensure this meeting doesn’t last longer than the allotted time, why don’t we pass over the graphs altogether and turn to the statistics on page …’ I somehow succeeded in extricating myself from this tight corner, and the meeting ground on until I had the majority of the committee on my side at a quarter past four. After taking care to say a tender goodbye to the offended Miss Drew I retired with relief to the lavatory but faltered at the sight of Sunbeam at the urinal.

‘You know, Charles,’ he said with an unexpected seriousness, ‘as a brother-bishop who wishes you well, I think you should ask yourself why you’re so keen to cling to these absolute truths of yours which keep you in such a conservative straitjacket. Personally I feel liberated by the modern view that everything’s relative and that there are no absolutes any more – but could it be that for some reason you find the idea of such liberation threatening?’

‘My dear Leslie, liberals like you can be as dogmatic as any conservative, and since relativism is simply an ideology like any other, maybe you should ask yourself why you’re treating it as one of the absolute truths you profess to despise! Why do you feel driven to rebel against order by embracing chaos?’

‘Good point!’ said Sunbeam cheerily. ‘You answer my question and I’ll try to answer yours!’

‘Obviously we must call this skirmish a draw,’ I said, satisfied that I had won it by pointing out to him that intellectually he was behaving like an adolescent. ‘By the way, before I rush off I must just ask you this: what can you tell me about a priest from your diocese called Lewis Hall?’

‘Hall,’ mused Sunbeam, adjusting his ill-cut, off-the-peg suit. (Naturally he refused to wear the traditional uniform.) ‘Hall, Hall – oh, Hall! Yes, he’s left the Radbury diocese now, much to my relief- he’s one of those embarrassing types who fancy exorcism. Apparently my predecessor Derek Preston gave him a bit of leeway but when I let it be known that I wasn’t standing for any of that kind of hanky-panky, Hall realised he had to seek fresh woods and pastures new … Don’t tell me he’s wound up in Starbridge!’

‘“Passing through” will probably be the final description of his activities. Was there any scandal attached to him?’

‘Isn’t any modern clergyman who dabbles in exorcism a scandal of unenlightenment?’

‘No, I meant –’

‘Oh, I know what you meant! No, Charles, he’s not a homosexual, and if he does run around with women on the quiet he takes care not to commit the ultimate sin of being found out. Did he tell you he was divorced?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case I’m surprised you’re sufficiently interested to ask me about him – although in my opinion the Church should welcome a divorced clergyman even if he was the guilty party and even if he’s remarried. We should welcome homosexuals more warmly too. I mean, are we Christians or aren’t we? Shouldn’t one love and accept people instead of persecuting and condemning them?’

I said: ‘Of course we must love people no matter what they’ve done, but we mustn’t forget that love should include justice for those who have been wronged by the sins of others – you can’t just pretend that sin doesn’t matter! Sin hurts people, sin destroys lives – haven’t you yourself ever suffered as the result of the wrong acts of others?’

Leslie Sunderland carefully finished drying his hands on the towel. Then he turned to face me and said: ‘Yes. But I’ve forgiven them.’

In the silence that followed I had the odd impression that someone was listening to us, but when I turned to look at the closed door there was no one there.

‘Well, never mind!’ said Sunbeam, casting aside his moment of extreme sobriety and becoming cheery again. ‘Someone on the bishops’ bench has to worry about sex, I suppose, but thank goodness it isn’t me because I’d rather worry about the Bomb and South Africa and the starving millions in India. So no hard feelings, old fellow – God bless …’ And he pattered off in his cheap slip-on shoes in order to be radically liberal elsewhere.

Having changed swiftly back into my Savile Row suit, I left Church House and took a taxi to Fortnum’s to meet Charley.

VI

I was late when I reached the restaurant but there was no sign of him waiting to greet me. Wondering what had delayed him, I sat down at a table.

Charley’s church, St Mary’s Mayfair, had been the centre of a rich, plush parish before the war, but now it stood in an area where many of the grand houses had been converted to commercial use with the result that the vicar’s ministry was mainly to the tourists, hotel staff and office-workers who swarmed daily through the neighbourhood. Charley was the curate. He had tried working in the East End of London but had disliked it, so when my friend the Earl of Starmouth mentioned to me one day in the House of Lords that there was a vacancy for a curate in his local parish I had encouraged Charley to apply for the job. After all, one can hardly get further from the East End than Mayfair.

Charley had quickly settled down. His aptitude for languages had proved useful with the tourists and hotel staff. His youth and energy had attracted the office-workers. His theologically conservative outlook had proved popular with the vicar and the few remaining aristocratic parishioners. Soon I had told myself that I no longer needed to worry about his career – and yet I had continued to worry, and I worried still. This was because although it was obvious to me that Charley had great gifts as a priest, he showed no sign of developing a mature personality which would enable him to use those gifts to the full.

He was now heading for his twenty-seventh birthday, but his lack of control over his volatile temperament still suggested an adolescent secretly ill-at-ease with himself. All too often he was high-handed, didactic and tactless. Strong on oratorical fireworks and teaching the faith, he was weak on empathising with others and far too rigid in his theological views – but of course the ability to empathise with others and to be a flexible thinker without compromising one’s integrity are the fruits of maturity. Too often Charley seemed to me more like sixteen than twenty-six.

When I had expressed my worry to Jon he had pointed out that some men take longer to mature than others, but I had begun to think that in Charley’s case the delay was abnormal. After all, I reminded myself, he had done two years of National Service and spent three years as an undergraduate; he had been out and about in the world for some time, so what was now holding him back? But although I often asked myself this question I found I never arrived at a satisfactory answer.

For a moment I recalled this mystery when Charley erupted into Fortnum’s that afternoon and hurried over to the table where I was waiting for him; slim and small, he looked so much younger than his years. I cheered myself with the reflection that at least he was mature enough to dress properly and avoid looking a mess. His short dark hair was combed and smoothed. His pale brown eyes blazed with energy. He was breathless, an indication of how hard he had tried to arrive on time, but he was smiling, delighted to see me.

‘Dad! So sorry I’m late, but …’ After he had produced his very acceptable excuse for keeping me waiting we shook hands, sat down and ordered tea. I then asked him about his work, and when he began to talk about the Lent sermons he was planning I became so interested that I quite forgot about my arduous meeting at Church House. I even forgot to enquire why he was so anxious to see me, but eventually, after the waitress had deposited our tea on the table and promised to return with the hot buttered crumpets, I remembered to ask what was troubling him.

‘Well, the first thing I want to talk to you about is Michael’s behaviour,’ said Charley, grabbing a sugar-cube to stave off his hunger-pangs. ‘But please don’t accuse me of telling tales behind his back. I’m acting solely with his welfare in mind, and the truth is his ghastly girlfriend hasn’t been faithful to him. So if he’s crazy enough to marry her –’

‘He isn’t. The engagement’s off.’

‘Oh, thank goodness! Actually I didn’t think he could possibly be serious since I hear on good authority that he hasn’t been faithful to her either. He’s been secretly plunging around with yet another girl from that awful Marina Markhampton’s dreadful set –’

‘Charley, repeating gossip really isn’t a suitable occupation for a priest.’

‘I know, but Michael’s such a chump about girls that I can’t help feeling concerned – and it’s Christian to be concerned, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘And if I tell you everything you can pray for him too, and that must be better than just me praying alone. Anyway, this new girl he fancies is called Holly Carr, and as a matter of fact she’s rather nice – I met her at that party Venetia gave last November – so maybe Michael will marry her, who knows, but he shouldn’t sleep with her first. It’s quite wrong to treat a nice girl with such absolutely unbridled contempt.’

I said nothing.

‘Well, aren’t you going to condemn Michael for carrying on with two girls at once?’

‘Since you know my views on such behaviour I hardly think it’s necessary for me to repeat them.’ Telling myself that Charley’s unedifying behaviour sprang from his insecurity as an adopted son and that any attempt to reprove him for being a priggish sneak would only make that insecurity worse, I made a big effort to change the subject.

‘Talking of Venetia,’ I said, ‘have you seen her since she was kind enough to invite you to that party in November?’

‘It was her husband who invited me – Venetia herself always behaves as if she finds me repulsive, and every other girl I meet reacts in the same way. It makes me want to bang my head against the wall in sheer despair.’

With dismay I realised that I had given him yet another opportunity to dramatise his insecurity. Charley had never had what was nowadays described as ‘a steady girlfriend’. I regarded it as another symptom of his immaturity. ‘Don’t talk such nonsense!’ I said, trying to sound robust. ‘You may not be classically handsome, but –’

‘Actually my utter failure with women brings me to the second thing I want to talk to you about. I think I’m being called to be a monk.’

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with our plate of hot buttered crumpets.

VII

Few bishops could have claimed to be a more loyal supporter of the monks and nuns in Anglican orders than I was, but it is a fact of life that parents want their children to marry and procreate. This is obviously such a deep-rooted human desire that one might call it a biological absolute truth, and it explains the surge of disappointment felt by parents when for whatever reasons their children abstain from marriage. I know there are Roman Catholic cultures where parents consider it an honour if their child chooses a celibate life, but I have noticed that the child is usually one of a large family and can be spared without too great a sense of loss. I did not have a large family of children. I had two sons and I wanted neither of them to be cut off from the complex dimensions of human fulfilment which I had experienced as a husband and father.

Indeed the fact that Charley was my adopted son only made me more anxious that he should wind up a married man with two-point-three children – or whatever current statistics rated the norm for a middle-class Englishman in the mid-twentieth century. If he deviated from this norm I knew I would feel that despite all my efforts I had failed to bring him up properly – and I did not want to think I had failed in any way with Charley. I needed Charley to be a success. It justified all the hardship I had endured in the early years of my marriage. Like his hero-worship of me, his success was part of my reward.

Telling myself that this new crisis was merely a manifestation of his continuing immaturity, I fought back my panic and toiled to appear mildly surprised. I said: ‘Isn’t this a trifle sudden?’

‘Yes, but it’s abundantly clear to me now that I’ve no hope of serving God properly unless I’m in an all-male environment and soaking myself in asceticism.’ Apparently unconscious of any irony he took a most un ascetic mouthful of hot buttered crumpet.

Still immaculately courteous I enquired: ‘But what’s driven you to abandon all hope of marriage?’

‘The realisation that I’m desperately in love with a married woman who finds me repulsive.’

‘You mean –’

‘Yes. I’m besotted with Venetia,’ said Charley, again referring to the young woman who had been Lyle’s protégée. ‘I think of her constantly. I dream of her. I toss and turn in bed every night until I’m drenched in sweat –’

Much relieved to receive this new evidence that Charley was sexually normal I said dryly: ‘How very inconvenient.’

‘Inconvenient! Dad, I can’t tell you – words fail me – it’s impossible for me even to begin to describe the quality of my erections –’

‘Dear me.’

‘– and they always come at exactly the wrong moment! Never in all my life have I experienced such –’

‘I’m sure they’re most remarkable. But Charley, I suspect the real question here is not why you should have fallen in love with Venetia but why you should always be falling in love with women who are unavailable for marriage. After all, Venetia isn’t the first of these hopeless passions of yours, is she? There was the married lady-dentist when you were up at Cambridge – and then there was that nun who gave those lectures on the mystics –’

‘Those were just adolescent infatuations. This is the real thing – and what slays me, Dad, is that I could have married her when she was single back in 1963! If only –’

‘You weren’t sufficiently interested or you’d have done something about it. Obviously it wasn’t meant that you and Venetia should marry.’

‘Well, I couldn’t possibly marry anyone else, and since all women are now a torment, reminding me of what I can’t have, what other choice do I have but to become a monk as soon as possible?’

‘If you’re called to be a monk I’ll eat my mitre, but don’t listen to me, I’m just a married bishop. I’ll ask Jon if he’d be willing to see you.’

Charley groaned and sighed and bit deep into his second crumpet, but this suggestion seemed to satisfy him and I realised he was much happier now that he had acted out his feelings in such an exasperatingly self-indulgent manner. I felt wrecked, of course, but I had long since discovered that feeling wrecked was an occupational hazard of parenthood, nothing to get excited about. I assumed I would eventually recover.

I was still trying to calm myself by predicting my inevitable recovery when Charley said in a low voice: ‘If I don’t go into a monastery I might wind up making a mess of my private life,’ and I heard at last the genuine cry for help which in my distress I had failed to recognise earlier.

At once I said: ‘Of course you won’t make a mess of your private life! I’ve brought you up, you’ve modelled yourself on me, you’re going to be fine.’

Charley looked relieved, as if I had recited a magic incantation guaranteed to keep all disastrous futures at bay, but I was aware that a shadowy uncertainty was trying to rise from some burial-ground deep in my mind. I could not analyse this uncertainty. It merely hovered for a second in my consciousness before I blotted it out.

Pouring myself some more tea, I began to calculate which train I could catch from Waterloo.

VIII

At Waterloo I telephoned Lyle. ‘I’m getting the six-fifteen,’ I said. ‘Have a stretcher waiting at the station.’

‘Did you murder that ghastly Bishop of Radbury?’

‘Not quite. But I feel in the mood to murder our Mr Dean.’

‘Don’t tell me Jack’s prize piece of gossip involved Stephen!’

‘Imagine the worst and multiply by ten. Darling, I’ve got to see Jon before I explode with the force of an H-bomb and devastate the diocese. Can you ask Edward or Roger to take the Rover to the station so that I can drive straight to Starrington?’

‘Oh Charles, don’t overdo it! You’ve been rushing around all day long –’

‘I’ll have a nap on the train. Oh, and phone the Community at the Manor, would you, to tell them I’m coming – I want to make sure the door in the wall is unlocked.’

The operator came on the line to demand more money. Hastily I said to Lyle: ‘See you later,’ and hurried away on my journey to the one man who was always able to restore my sanity whenever I wanted to retreat to the nearest lunatic asylum.

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