by Ian Sansom
‘Breakfast can wait, Sefton. Not good to be always thinking of your stomach, man. We have a book to write. Besides, we have an appointment.’
‘With?’
‘A Reverend Swain. Bit of background on local religious matters. Come in handy, won’t it?’
I hurried after him as he made his way through the tables.
‘No time for the Virgin this morning, alas,’ he said, ostensibly to me, but in fact to anyone – which was everyone – who cared to listen, over their eggs and bacon. ‘Best to leave that sort of matter to the professionals. Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary can handle her.’
I smiled at the breakfasters placatingly, and made a hasty exit.
And so that morning we resumed our work on the County Guides and visited the Reverend Richard Swain, in the neighbouring parish of Morston. ‘He’s certainly dressing the part, anyway,’ said Morley, after our visit. ‘I’d certainly cast him in the role, wouldn’t you?’ Swain was indeed the very image of the clergyman, done out in black cassock and collar, ascetically thin, though simultaneously jowly, and completely bald, except for a couple of pure white angel-wing tufts of hair hovering over his ears and above such a vast expanse of ecclesiastical forehead that the upper part of his face seemed in fact to overhang the lower part, as if the mind were making a bid over the body for predominance. ‘Pop a zucchetto on him and rig him out in purple and you’d almost mistake him for a Renaissance Pope, wouldn’t you?’ remarked Morley. Indeed you would, though the rectory was a rather less than papal residence, being distinguished only by the bright shine of its shiny brown paint on its every lincrusta surface, and the deep sad brownness of the furniture cramming the brown room, with its brown upright piano and brown fireplace, before which the Reverend Swain sat while speaking to us. The place even smelled brown; and Morley later named the reverend ‘Father Brown’. (Morley was, as is well known, a great admirer of Chesterton, and had debated with him on a number of occasions, though in private he rather deprecated his conversion to Catholicism, which he regarded as a sign of mental and spiritual weakness.)
‘Terrible, terrible loss to the Church,’ said Swain, who had that curious habit that clergymen sometimes have of leaning the head to one side when talking, in the manner of someone listening rather than speaking, which one presumes is intended to imply empathy and understanding, but which does also rather unfortunately give the appearance of mental incapacity. As he spoke he also fiddled with various pieces of pipe-smoking apparatus arrayed on the desk before him. It was like speaking with an elderly, pipe-smoking, holy orangutan, Morley later remarked.
‘Indeed,’ said Morley, having solemnly offered the reverend his condolences on our arrival. ‘You knew him well?’
‘Very well, sir. Yes. Very, very well.’ Swain also had a habit of puffing out his chest as he spoke, as though working a set of bellows. ‘We were at college together,’ he puffed, his hands occupied with removing shag from a pouch and tamping it into a pipe plucked from a rack.
‘Really? And where was that, might I ask?’
‘Oxford,’ said Swain, searching for matches. ‘I was studying Theology. He was Mods and Greats.’
‘Ah. Of course,’ said Morley, as if this explained everything. ‘Which college?’
‘Balliol.’ Matches found, the reverend set the tobacco alight, and with a few strong draws the pipe was set to full steam ahead.
‘Balliol College, Oxford,’ said Morley. ‘“The tranquil consciousness of an effortless superiority,” is that right?’
‘I believe it is, Mr Morley, yes,’ said the reverend guardedly, through a haze of smoke.
I must have looked more than usually puzzled, because Morley took a moment to explain.
‘Asquith,’ he said. ‘On Balliol.’
‘Ah.’
‘You’ll have to forgive him, Reverend. Sefton here’s a Cambridge man.’
‘Forgiven, of course,’ said Swain, nodding beneficently towards me. ‘And you, Mr Morley? You strike me as more Cambridge than Oxford. Am I right?’
‘Alas, I can claim no alma mater,’ said Morley. ‘No mother to nourish me or to give me succour, I’m afraid. I had to raise myself.’
‘I see. Not a university man. Pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, then?’
‘That’s one way of putting it, certainly.’ Morley stood up a little straighter at this point, and I could hear the slight crackle of resentment, though it may have been his shoe leather. We had not been invited to sit, and so remained standing before the reverend, like supplicants.
‘Well, well done you,’ said the reverend, peering up at Morley. ‘Well done you. This country needs more people like you, sir. Wouldn’t you say, Cantab?’ I assumed he was referring to me. ‘Can’t all be left to us, can it? All of us, pulling together. Cooperating. It’s what made us the nation we are today, is it not?’
‘I’m sure it is,’ I said.
Puff, puff went the pipe.
‘Personally, I’m a great believer in self-improvement. Although I don’t entirely approve of the profession of journalism, Mr Morley, I have to say.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Reverend.’
‘Nothing against you personally, you understand.’
‘Of course.’
‘A man such as yourself has to try to make his way somehow. But we all have choices, Mr Morley, don’t we? Hardly a profession for a gentleman – journalism.’ He made the word ‘journalism’ here sound remarkably like a rhyming synonym for ‘communism’, and was making the fatal mistake of ragging Morley. I did think for a moment of warning him. But then decided to leave him to his fate. Any intervention was pointless: the poor reverend was sweeping towards Niagara Falls in a barrel.
‘I might perhaps boast of some small few accomplishments, Reverend,’ replied Morley, who was keeping his powder dry, ‘but I would certainly never dream of counting myself a gentleman.’
‘No. Well.’ The Reverend Swain leaned back in his chair, clearly believing himself to have established proper rank. ‘Do I rightly detect you’re a local?’ He wagged a finger.
‘That’s correct,’ said Morley.
‘Ah, yes. I have an ear for it, you see,’ said the reverend, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. ‘A musical ear, you might say. Tuned in, and what have you. And the study of the ancient languages, of course. One acquires a certain sensitivity, through one’s education and long study.’
‘Of course. And do I rightly detect that you are also Norfolk born, Reverend?’
The long-studying reverend looked shocked. He shrank back in his chair rather. Removed the pipe from his mouth. Certainly to me he sounded thoroughly pure-bred, cut-glass and bell-tinklingly OK. But I was not Morley. And neither was the poor reverend.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he agreed. ‘Or “Do I am, boy,” should I say?’ He put on a broad Norfolk accent, which caused Morley to grimace. ‘Do I am, boy. Do I am. But how could you tell, Mr Morley?’
‘Just … hints,’ said Morley. ‘There are always hints, Reverend, aren’t there? If one listens carefully.’
‘Quite so,’ said Swain. ‘Quite so.’ He adopted a prayerful look and his angel-wing tufts of hair rose slightly, as if in thoughtful praise.
‘Though I have to admit,’ said Morley, ‘that – unlike you – I am not blessed with a musical ear, nor do I have your sensitivity derived from the long study of the ancient languages.’
‘A good guess, then, eh?’
‘You could say that,’ Morley continued, ‘though a guess based on my own – admittedly modest and non-varsity – studies and observations over a number of years, that the Norfolk accent tends to be characterised mainly by the lengthening of vowel sounds, the merging of syllables – “going” becomes “gorn” and etcetera – along with more specific phonological variations such as, often, pronounced yod-dropping and h-dropping, as well as larger intonational features such as the characteristic rise at the end of the sentence, all features captur
ed clearly by Dickens, of course, as you will know, in his portrayal of the Yarmouth fishermen, the Peggottys in David Copperfield, and perfectly clear and apparent in your own speech, Reverend, if one pays attention, beneath your very fine Oxford veneer.’
‘Hmm.’ Swain’s clerical dignity seemed not only ruffled, but crumpled. He laid his pipe down in an ashtray. ‘Hoist by my own petard, Mr Morley.’
‘Indeed, Reverend. Or branded on the tongue.’
‘Quite.’
‘The poor deceased reverend wasn’t local, though, was he?’
‘No,’ agreed the Reverend Swain, more than happy to change the subject. ‘He’d come and stay occasionally, while we were at Oxford.’
‘And after Oxford?’ said Morley.
‘Our paths diverged.’
‘You lost touch?’
‘Entirely. Yes. Absolutely and entirely.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘But your paths later converged again?’
‘Indeed, sir, and behold and lo! we ended up in adjacent parishes.’
‘Quite a coincidence,’ said Morley.
‘Yes. We make our plans, Mr Morley. But God sometimes has other plans. Don’t you find?’
‘“Man proposes: God disposes,”’ said Morley.
‘Indeed. Shakespeare.’
‘Virgil, I think you’ll find,’ said Morley. ‘Dis alitervisum?’
Swain licked his lips. ‘Yes. Well done. You really are a veritable mine of … curious information, Mr Morley, aren’t you?’ He glanced at me, with an expression seeking, I thought, some conspiratorial disdain. I smiled beneficently back. ‘You remind me of a chap I was at school with. Great one for memorising trivia. You know. Cricket scores and what have you. Could recite parts of Wisden. Parrotface, we called him; the cruelty of young boys, Mr Morley, eh? He ended up as a music-hall mnemonist, as far as I recall.’
‘Dis aliter visum,’ said Morley.
‘Milton?’
‘Virgil, actually, Reverend. No longer on the curriculum at Oxford, clearly?’
‘I was not a classical scholar, Mr Morley. I studied Theology.’
‘Common tellurian, I would have thought, Reverend, especially for a man with the benefit of a long education in the ancient languages.’
The Reverend Swain stopped leaning his head at this point, and looked at Morley square on and direct. ‘You’re here to ask me about your book, Mr Morley, isn’t that correct? The County Guides, or whatever they’re called.’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d like to begin. I’m afraid I really don’t have long.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Church business. You understand. One’s time is not one’s own.’
‘Of course,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps we should go, and call another time.’
‘No,’ said the reverend, ‘no, no. Best to get it out of the way, now you’re here. I can spare you a few minutes.’ He began his pipe routine again.
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said the reverend, dismissing Morley’s thanks with a papal wave of the hand.
‘We shouldn’t have imposed upon you at this difficult time.’
‘Yes. Well. It is a difficult time.’
‘Of course,’ said Morley. ‘My condolences again. The loss of a friend.’
‘Indeed. We were preparing a paper together, actually, on the doctrine of Original Sin.’
‘Really?’ said Morley. ‘A fascinating subject. The inborn legacies of Adam’s transgressions.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘Limited atonement versus general atonement. Total depravity versus human ability.’
‘Theological debate has moved on rather since John Calvin, I think you’ll find, Mr Morley.’ The reverend smirked rather at this, I thought.
‘I’m sure it has, Reverend, and I am of course only an amateur rather than a professional theologian, though I assume the fundamental question remains.’
‘Well, it rather depends which fundamental question you have in mind, Mr Morley.’ He gave a thin little laugh. ‘There are several fundamental questions, I think you’ll find.’
‘I was thinking of the gap between who we might be, and who we are, Reverend. Perennially troubling question that, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is, yes.’
‘Anyway, the reverend was clearly a learned man, like yourself?’
‘He was. We were bound together, I suppose, by our time at Oxford.’
‘I see. Though presumably in later life you didn’t see exactly eye to eye on all matters theological?’
‘Well … There were some differences, of course.’
‘Such as?’
‘He had rather clear-cut ideas about things.’
‘Such as?’
‘He was … very much a sheep and the goats sort of a Christian, Mr Morley.’
‘By which you mean?’
‘He was of the evangelical persuasion, with socialistic leanings.’
‘I see. And you are not?’
‘I am, shall we say, otherwise inclined, Mr Morley.’
‘Indeed. I guessed as much.’ Morley glanced around the room, and I glanced with him, noticing for the first time the many portraits of the saints, and of the death of Thomas Becket, the good deeds done by St Christopher, St George on his horse, the Seven Acts of Mercy, the Death of Our Lord, and a large portrait of the Blessed Virgin.
‘He was interested in what he would have called “social issues”, Mr Morley. Very influenced by the work of Estlin Carpenter. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?’ said Swain, hoping to score a few points off Morley. He couldn’t know, of course, that Morley had heard of everyone, had always read them, and more often than not had met them and was their dearest friend.
‘The sociology professor?’ said Morley.
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘We have corresponded.’
‘Ah, well,’ said the Reverend Swain, rather disappointed. ‘You’ll be familiar with his ideas about religion and social work.’
‘Indeed.’
‘A big influence on our dear friend the reverend.’
‘I’m sure he was a good parish priest?’
‘He was indeed, Mr Morley. A … paragon.’
‘Of course. Anyway, we probably shouldn’t take up any more of your time, Reverend.’
‘Well … No. Perhaps not. Parish business. Very pressing.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Perhaps another time?’
‘Indeed, at your convenience.’
Swain rose and walked us towards the door. I noticed that beneath his cassock he wore a pair of cherry-red trousers; they flashed as he moved, as if he were wading through communion wine.
Morley paused at the door. ‘I do wonder, just before we go, if you could clear up a theological debate I was having with my young friend on the way here.’
We were not, needless to say, as far as I was aware, having any theological debate of any kind on the way there.
‘I’m sure I could do my best, Mr Morley,’ said Swain, nodding, clearly keen to return to the comforts of his pipe and his priestly duties.
‘Prompted, I suppose, by this troubling matter of the death of the reverend.’
‘Troubling indeed.’
‘Yes. We usually think of suicide as a voluntary death, isn’t that right, Reverend?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But what if it is, in fact, an involuntary death?’
Swain glanced quickly at Morley, I thought, in a manner that suggested extreme anxiety. His angel-tufts of hair twitched.
‘I’m not entirely sure I understand, Mr Morley.’
‘Well, we were wondering, my companion and I, in our ill-informed way, whether the reverend’s suicide would count properly as suicide, theologically speaking, if it were, shall we say, prompted?’
‘Prompted?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not su
re I understand, Mr Morley.’
‘If he were … invited, or pressured into taking his own life. A bullet in the post, as it were, suggesting an honourable way out. Would that be suicide? We couldn’t agree.’
‘I’d say it’s probably a … grey area,’ said Swain.
‘Grey areas being a theologian’s speciality, of course,’ said Morley.
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Swain.
‘So what do you think?’
‘There would probably be a number of possible interpretations,’ said Swain.
‘We couldn’t think of any biblical examples, could we, Sefton?’
‘No,’ I agreed, even though I had no idea what Morley was talking about.
‘Can you think of any, Reverend?’
Swain coughed nervously. ‘Biblical suicides that fall into that category, you mean?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, there is most famously of course our friend Judas, perhaps the most interesting example.’
‘Ah yes, of course,’ said Morley. ‘Traditionally depicted, I think I’m right in saying, with his bowels gushing out, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Swain. ‘That’s correct, although I think you’ll find that in the biblical account, having hanged himself, Judas is described merely as having fallen and “burst asunder”.’
‘Ugh,’ I said involuntarily, remembering horrible scenes in Spain.
‘A little self-control, please, Sefton,’ said Morley.
‘Indeed,’ said Swain, who was warming to his subject. ‘And, furthermore, in Apocryphal and pseudo-Apocryphal writings Judas is said to have been thrown over the parapet of the Temple and dashed into pieces.’
‘Any other examples that come to mind?’ asked Morley.
‘Yes, well. I suppose if we wend our way back into the Old Testament, we have Samson’s destruction of the Philistines in the temple of Dagon.’
‘Yes. I did wonder about that, though presumably it would count as an act of vengeance, rather than suicide, would it not?’ asked Morley.
‘Yes,’ said Swain. ‘Probably. And Ahitophel, of course, hanged himself, after the defeat of Absalom. Zimri, following the capture of the city of Tirzah. And you will recall, Mr Morley, that we are told that when the Philistines and the Israelites clashed on Mount Gilboa, Saul, having fought bravely for as long as he could, fell upon his own sword. His armour-bearer doing likewise.’