Scandalous Risks

‘I don’t see how I can be. As soon as you mentioned your revulsion towards Dame Julian’s description of Christ’s blood I sensed your blood, spattered all over your psyche, and I knew you were in pain.’

I boggled but recovered. ‘Here,’ I said, shoving my hand palm upwards across the table. ‘Read that and tell me more.’

‘I don’t do that sort of thing nowadays.’ But he glanced at my palm as if he found the temptation hard to resist. ‘Anyway I’m not trained in palmistry. I just hold the hand and wait for the knowledge.’

I grabbed his fingers and intertwined them with mine. ‘Okay, talk. You owe it to me,’ I added fiercely as he still hesitated. ‘You can’t just make gruesome statements and go no further! It’s unfair and irresponsible.’

Sullenly he untwined our fingers, set my hand back on the table and placed his palm over mine. There followed a long silence during which he remained expressionless.

‘My God!’ I said, suddenly overwhelmed by fright. ‘Am I going to die?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You’re going to live.’ And for one long moment he stared at me appalled before blundering out of the buffet in confusion.

III

I caught up with him just before he reached the carriage. ‘What the hell did you see?’

‘Nothing. I just don’t like meddling with psychic emanations, that’s all, and I promised my father I wouldn’t do it. If I seem upset it’s because I’m angry that I’ve broken my word to him.’ Diving into the carriage he collapsed in a heap on the seat.

Charley, who had been dipping into my copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, hastily shoved it aside but I paid him no attention. I remained in the corridor and stared out of the window at the smooth hills of the Starbridge diocese. The train was now hurtling towards our journey’s end.

‘Nick and I are down here for Easter, of course,’ said Charley, appearing beside me as the train slowed to a crawl on the outskirts of the city. ‘Nick stayed on after the end of term to begin the swot for his exams, and I delayed my return to Starbridge in order to make a retreat with the Fordite monks in London … Are you staying with the Aysgarths or are you heading for home?’

‘The former.’ As the train lurched over a set of points on its approach to the station I stepped back into the carriage and said abruptly to Nick: ‘Are we going to meet again?’

‘Oh yes. And again. And again. And again.’

‘What a terrifying prospect!’

‘No, it’s okay, you don’t have to worry. I’m benign.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘A recurring phenomenon which ought to be entirely harmless. Like Halley’s Comet.’

Finally I saw him smile. I noticed that he had good teeth, very even, and that when his mouth was relaxed he lost the air of solemnity conjured up by his spectacles. Again my memory was jogged, and as it occurred to me that he was as watchable as a gifted actor I at last solved the riddle of his familiarity. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Are you any relation of Martin Darrow, the actor?’

‘He’s my half-brother.’

I relaxed. Although I’m not averse to paranormal puzzles I much prefer mysteries that are capable of a rational explanation. ‘My mother’s mad on him,’ I said agreeably, ‘never misses an episode of his comedy series, stays glued to the TV. But surely he must be at least thirty years older than you are?’

‘My father had a rather peculiar private life.’

‘Come on, chaps!’ exclaimed Charley, plunging bossily back into the carriage as the train finally halted at the platform. ‘Get a move on! Nick, as you’ve only got a duffle-bag, could you give Venetia a hand with her suitcases?’

I stepped down on to the platform accompanied by my psychic porter. The sun was shining and far away in the distance beyond the train, beyond the railway yard, beyond the roofs of the mean little villas which flanked the tracks, I saw the slim straight spire of the Cathedral.

Blazing with energy Charley bounded ahead and by the time Nick and I emerged from the station he was bouncing towards the episcopal car, a black Rover, as Mrs Ashworth emerged from the driver’s seat. I knew now, six years after our first meeting, that she was the same age as Aysgarth, but on that day she looked more like forty-five than sixty-one. It was not only her slender figure which made her seem youthful but the smooth straight hair coiled simply in a bun; an elderly woman who has the guts to flout fashion by refusing a permanent wave really does deserve to look a long way from the geriatric ward.

Ever since our first meeting when she had boldly identified me as a femme fatale despite the massive evidence to the contrary, I had secretly labelled her my heroine and now, once again, my admiration for her was renewed. She was wearing a pale lilac-coloured raincoat, unbuttoned to reveal a straight grey skirt and a sky-blue blouse – unremarkable clothes, but on her they looked as if they had arrived by special messenger that morning from Paris. Her navy shoes, so different from the old ladies’ ‘support’ footwear which my mother favoured, were notable for the elegance of their stiletto heels. Mrs Ashworth might have turned sixty, but this boring fact had evidently long since been dismissed by her as trivial. Her triumph over the ravages of time was superb.

‘Hullo, Nicholas!’ she exclaimed warmly after she had given Charley a peck on the cheek, but I knew she was much more interested in me. ‘Venetia – what a surprise! I saw Dido Aysgarth earlier today but she didn’t mention they were expecting you at the Deanery.’

‘They’re not expecting me. To be quite honest, Mrs Ashworth, I’m not exactly sure why I’m here. I’m a bit bouleversée at the moment.’

‘How exciting! Come and have tea. I’ve got a prayer-group turning up later and there’s a visiting American bishop who comes and goes like the Cheshire cat’s smile, but at the moment I’m absolutely free.’

My spirits rose, and accepting her invitation with gratitude I slid into the back seat of the Bishop’s Rover.

IV

The South Canonry, where the Ashworths lived, was an early Georgian house far smaller than the old episcopal palace but still too large for a modestly-paid executive with a wife and two adult sons. The garden consisted almost entirely of labour-saving lawns; full-time gardeners were no longer an episcopal perk, and the Ashworths were aided only by a man who came once a week to civilise the lawns with a motor-mower. Mrs Ashworth hated gardening and kept no plants in the house. I always found the bare, uncluttered look in her home immensely appealing.

As I was almost the same age as Charley I had been invited to the house occasionally in the past along with various Aysgarths and other young people in the diocese, but the visits had been infrequent and I had never come to know the Ashworths well. Neither had my parents. My father respected the Bishop’s intellect but found Ashworth was fundamentally unsympathetic to his sentimental, old-fashioned brand of humanism. Whereas Aysgarth was tolerant of agnostics Ashworth seemed hard put to conceal his opinion that agnosticism was an intellectual defect – and there were other differences too, as we all discovered over the years, between the Bishop and the Dean. Aysgarth was gregarious with an apparently inexhaustible supply of good humour, whereas Ashworth, behind his cast-iron charm, was a very private, very serious man. Laymen like my father dubbed Ashworth ‘churchy’ – that sinister pejorative adjective so dreaded by clerics – but Aysgarth was unhesitatingly labelled ‘one of us’. Ashworth, isolated to some degree by the eminence of his office, was held to resemble Kipling’s cat who walked by himself; his close friends had been left behind in Cambridge in 1957, and perhaps this was one of the reasons why he was so close to his wife. It was widely observed how well attuned they were to each other. They seemed to generate that special harmony which one finds more often among childless couples, the harmony of two people who find each other entirely sufficient for their emotional needs.

Considering that the marriage was successful, people found it immensely interesting that the two sons should have undergone such obvious problems: Charley had run away from home when he was eighteen while later Michael had been thrown out of medical school. However, these embarrassing episodes now belonged to the past. Charley had been rescued, sorted out and replaced on the rails of conformity, while Michael had been steered into the employment of the BBC with happy results. Why Charley should have run away from home no one had any idea, but Michael’s hedonistic behaviour was universally attributed to a desire to rebel against his father’s puritanical views on sin.

‘There’s a screw loose in that family somewhere,’ Dido would say darkly, ‘you mark my words.’

The irony of this statement was that Aysgarth had the biggest possible screw loose in his family – Dido herself – yet all his children were turning out wonderfully well. This fact must have been very galling to the Ashworths as they struggled to surmount their problems at the South Canonry.

When I arrived at the house that afternoon I was immediately soothed by its well-oiled serenity. The drawing-room was notably dust-free and arranged with a tidiness which was meticulous but not oppressive. A superb tea was waiting to be served. The telephone rang regularly but was silenced almost at once by the Bishop’s secretary in her lair by the front door. Dr Ashworth himself was out, fulfilling an official engagement, but if he had been present he too would have been running smoothly, just like the house. I could remember him appearing during my past visits and saying to his wife: ‘What did I do with that memo on the World Council of Churches?’ or: ‘Whatever happened to that letter from the Archbishop?’ or: ‘What on earth’s the name of that clergyman at Butterwood All Saints?’ and Mrs Ashworth, indestructibly composed, would always know all the answers.

After tea Charley went upstairs to unpack, Nick wandered outside to tune into the right nature-vibes – or whatever psychics do in gardens – and Mrs Ashworth took me upstairs to her private sitting-room. Unlike my mother’s boudoir at Flaxton Hall there were no dreary antiques, no ghastly oil-paintings of long-dead ancestors, no boring photographs of babies and no vegetation in sight. The air smelt celestially pure. On the walls hung some black-and-white prints of Cambridge and a water-colour of the Norfolk Broads. The only framed photograph on the chimney-piece showed her husband as an army chaplain during the war.

‘Sit down,’ said Mrs Ashworth, closing the door. ‘Now that we’ve got rid of the men we can relax. Cigarette?’

‘I do like this room,’ I said, accepting the cigarette and sinking into a comfortable armchair. ‘It’s all you, isn’t it? Everything’s your choice. All my life I’ve had to put up with revolting inherited furniture and now I’ve finally reached the point where I’m determined to have a place of my own.’

‘Splendid! All young people need to express themselves through their surroundings. You should have seen Michael’s room when he went through his Brigitte Bardot phase!’

‘I bet Charley puts up all the right pictures,’ I said, not daring to ask what the Bishop had thought of the Bardot pin-ups.

‘Fortunately Charley only has space on his walls for books. My former employer Bishop Jardine left Charley his entire theological library – no doubt because Charley always said he wanted to be a clergyman when he grew up … But let’s get back to you. So you’re seeking a room of your own! But why seek it in Starbridge?’

‘I’m not sure that I will – I’ve only drifted down here because I’ve got a standing invitation to use the Put-U-Up sofa in Primrose’s flat. I’m such a drifter, Mrs Ashworth! I despise myself for drifting but I don’t seem able to stop. It’s as if I’m marking time, waiting for my life to begin, but nothing ever happens.’

‘When will you consider that your life’s begun? At the altar?’

I was grateful for her swift grasp of my dilemma. Well, I know marriage shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of a woman’s life, but –’

‘It certainly was before the war. Perhaps this is a case where “the more things change the more they remain the same”.’

‘I think it must be. As I see it, I really do have to get married in order to live the kind of life I’d enjoy, but here I am, almost twenty-six, and I’m beginning to think: supposing I never marry, never win respect and status, never stop drifting – I could wind up wasting my entire life.’

‘A nightmarish prospect.’

Terrifying. And then I start to feel desperate – desperate, Mrs Ashworth, I can’t tell you how desperate I feel sometimes – and now I’m convinced I’ve got to act, got to get out of this rut –’

‘Well, it sounds to me as if you’re making progress at last! You’re looking for a place where you can express your real self; you’ve embarked on an odyssey of self-discovery … Do you have to worry about money?’