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Authors: Susan Howatch
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deviant relations to God.
‘ Just a moment, please,’ said Lyle, bringing the silence to an end. ‘Let me see if my husband left a number where he can be contacted.’ Sitting down on the edge of the bed she muffled the receiver in the eiderdown and whispered to me: ‘It’s the chaplain at the hospital. Desmond Wilton’s been beaten up in his church. He’s unconscious, he needs an operation and the chaplain thought you ought to know about it.’
Crushing out my cigarette I began to struggle out of bed. ‘Yes, I can get in touch with him straight away,’ said Lyle. ‘Either he or the Archdeacon will be with you as soon as possible.’ She hung up. ‘Charles, surely Malcolm can cope with this?’
‘ I couldn’t possibly palm such a disaster off on my archdeacon.’
‘ Trust Desmond Wilton to get himself beaten up on your day off !’
‘Darling —’
‘ What was he doing anyway, getting himself beaten up? I just hope there’s no sinister explanation.’
I was appalled. ‘But Desmond’s been leading an exemplary life ever since he came to Starbridge! If we hadn’t been discussing homosexuality, it would never have occurred to you to make such a remark — and I refuse to believe there’s any truth in it!’
‘ Dear Charles,’ said my wife, slipping into a black silk negligée. ‘Such a very Christian nature.’
‘ It’s got nothing to do with any Christian nature I might have,’ I said, very heated by this time, ‘and everything to do with the fact that Desmond made a complete recovery from that spiritual breakdown he had in London. All right, I know you think the Bishop of London palmed him off on me, but even the best priests can have breakdowns and I absolutely defend my decision to give him a job in the diocese as soon as he’d recovered!’
‘ I know you’ll always defend it — and how good it is for me to be reminded that despite all my advanced liberal thoughts about homosexuals you’re still so much more compassionate and Christian towards them than I am! If I were a bishop nothing would induce me to employ a pathetic old priest who’d been beaten up while soliciting in a public lavatory ... Shall I try and track down Malcolm for you?’ she called after me as I headed for the bathroom.
‘ Yes, he ought to be told straight away, but say there’s no need for him to cancel everything and rush to the hospital. The chaplain and I’ll sort things out.’
Five minutes later, dressed in a black suit with a purple stock and pectoral cross, I emerged from my dressing-room to find that Lyle had picked up from the floor the casual, off-duty clothes which I had discarded earlier, made the bed and tracked down my archdeacon. ‘He’s making a visitation at Upper Stanwood,’ she informed me, ‘but I’ve left a message at the vicarage there.’
‘ Good.’ I turned to leave but on the threshold I hesitated and looked back. ‘I’m sorry I took evasive action when you started to talk about the prayer-group,’ I said. ‘I really would like to hear more about it. Maybe later — when I’m in neither a rush nor a post-coital torpor —’
‘ Of course. Later.’
I hurried away to the hospital.
III
When I had visited Starbridge in 1937, the year I had met and married Lyle, I had thought it more than lived up to its reputation of being the most beautiful city west of the Avon. In my mind’s eye I could still see it shining in the hot sunlight of that distant summer; I could remember how enchanted I had been by its medi eval streets, flower-filled parks and winding, sparkling river, how mesmerised I had been by the Cathedral, towering above the walled Close on a mound above the shimmering water-meadows. ‘Radiant, ravishing Starbridge!’ I had exclaimed to myself more than once during that crucial time, but that was all long ago, and Starbridge was not the city it had been before the war.
Why must unspoilt county towns inevitably change for the worse?
‘ Just a moment, please,’ said Lyle, bringing the silence to an end. ‘Let me see if my husband left a number where he can be contacted.’ Sitting down on the edge of the bed she muffled the receiver in the eiderdown and whispered to me: ‘It’s the chaplain at the hospital. Desmond Wilton’s been beaten up in his church. He’s unconscious, he needs an operation and the chaplain thought you ought to know about it.’
Crushing out my cigarette I began to struggle out of bed. ‘Yes, I can get in touch with him straight away,’ said Lyle. ‘Either he or the Archdeacon will be with you as soon as possible.’ She hung up. ‘Charles, surely Malcolm can cope with this?’
‘ I couldn’t possibly palm such a disaster off on my archdeacon.’
‘ Trust Desmond Wilton to get himself beaten up on your day off !’
‘Darling —’
‘ What was he doing anyway, getting himself beaten up? I just hope there’s no sinister explanation.’
I was appalled. ‘But Desmond’s been leading an exemplary life ever since he came to Starbridge! If we hadn’t been discussing homosexuality, it would never have occurred to you to make such a remark — and I refuse to believe there’s any truth in it!’
‘ Dear Charles,’ said my wife, slipping into a black silk negligée. ‘Such a very Christian nature.’
‘ It’s got nothing to do with any Christian nature I might have,’ I said, very heated by this time, ‘and everything to do with the fact that Desmond made a complete recovery from that spiritual breakdown he had in London. All right, I know you think the Bishop of London palmed him off on me, but even the best priests can have breakdowns and I absolutely defend my decision to give him a job in the diocese as soon as he’d recovered!’
‘ I know you’ll always defend it — and how good it is for me to be reminded that despite all my advanced liberal thoughts about homosexuals you’re still so much more compassionate and Christian towards them than I am! If I were a bishop nothing would induce me to employ a pathetic old priest who’d been beaten up while soliciting in a public lavatory ... Shall I try and track down Malcolm for you?’ she called after me as I headed for the bathroom.
‘ Yes, he ought to be told straight away, but say there’s no need for him to cancel everything and rush to the hospital. The chaplain and I’ll sort things out.’
Five minutes later, dressed in a black suit with a purple stock and pectoral cross, I emerged from my dressing-room to find that Lyle had picked up from the floor the casual, off-duty clothes which I had discarded earlier, made the bed and tracked down my archdeacon. ‘He’s making a visitation at Upper Stanwood,’ she informed me, ‘but I’ve left a message at the vicarage there.’
‘ Good.’ I turned to leave but on the threshold I hesitated and looked back. ‘I’m sorry I took evasive action when you started to talk about the prayer-group,’ I said. ‘I really would like to hear more about it. Maybe later — when I’m in neither a rush nor a post-coital torpor —’
‘ Of course. Later.’
I hurried away to the hospital.
III
When I had visited Starbridge in 1937, the year I had met and married Lyle, I had thought it more than lived up to its reputation of being the most beautiful city west of the Avon. In my mind’s eye I could still see it shining in the hot sunlight of that distant summer; I could remember how enchanted I had been by its medi eval streets, flower-filled parks and winding, sparkling river, how mesmerised I had been by the Cathedral, towering above the walled Close on a mound above the shimmering water-meadows. ‘Radiant, ravishing Starbridge!’ I had exclaimed to myself more than once during that crucial time, but that was all long ago, and Starbridge was not the city it had been before the war.
Why must unspoilt county towns inevitably change for the worse?
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