Ultimate Prizes

by Susan Howatch

  Remembering my loss of temper earlier I winced, but at least I was able to console myself by recalling my subsequent ministry of reconciliation. How wrong Alex had been to assume that I was being short-changed in the bedroom! Even after sixteen years of marriage I was never deprived in that area—except on those occasions when Grace was in an advanced state of pregnancy or suffering from migraine or too exhausted to do anything but pass out. However, those exceptions were of no consequence, since one could hardly expect married life to be one long sex-romp. Even D. H. Lawrence had never tried to describe Mellors and Lady Chatterley with five children. My brother Willy had smuggled a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover into England after a holiday in Paris and I had read the book with interest, but personally I thought it was greatly inferior to Lawrence’s other work.

  Remembering that Lawrence’s own marriage had been childless, I began to think of Alex again. His childless marriage was certainly far from successful, and it occurred to me to wonder how far his own marital discomfort had influenced his interpretation of my dilemma.

  Alex had said lightly that no one knew much about his marriage, but I suspected I knew all too well what had gone on. Having married his intellectual opposite after a whirlwind courtship, it seemed clear that he had long since regretted his folly. Even with no children to distract her, his wife Carrie had been unable to master her increasing responsibilities as Alex had travelled rapidly up the Church’s ladder of preferment. In 1927, when he had been appointed Dean of Radbury, he had even been obliged to engage someone to keep her life in order, and it had been this companion, an icy virgin with a deceptively steamy appearance and a brain like an adding machine, who had run first the deanery at Radbury and later the palace at Starbridge. The companion had eventually left to get married, much to the Jardines’ fury, and since 1937 a variety of women had been hired and fired in the unending struggle to keep Carrie organised. Even now, when Alex was living quietly in a small village, Carrie was incapable of running her life without help. What a burden for any husband! Alex used to joke bravely about his ménage à trois, but I thought his marriage must be the height of dreariness.

  The one redeeming feature was that Carrie in her elderly way was still pretty. It had seemed logical to assume the Jardines enjoyed something which resembled a sex-life—how else could Alex have made his marriage tolerable?—but now I found myself wondering if the heart condition which had terminated his career had also terminated the intimate side of his marriage. Curiously enough he always seemed very fit, bursting with energy, but if he had been so quick to detect a nonexistent sexual frustration in my marriage it seemed logical to deduce he was no stranger to sexual frustration in his own.

  I sighed, feeling sorry for him, and with my anger finally conquered I succeeded in falling asleep.

  The next morning I was confused to discover that I still felt angry with him but for a different reason. I could accept that he had spoken out of the best of motives; I could even accept that he had been justified in feeling concern about Grace; but what I found hard to accept was the way he had conducted the interview. Displaying the delicacy of an elephant and the sensitivity of a rhinoceros, he had charged around trying to impose his conclusions upon me without regard for my willingness to accept them, and although such behaviour might possibly be forgivable when displayed by some well-meaning Victorian father, I thought it was quite unforgivable when displayed by a clergyman. I myself had no great pastoral gifts. My talent was for administration, but I knew enough about pastoral work to realise that when counselling someone in trouble one’s prime duty was to listen, not to make speeches, to nurture trust, not to destroy it. In some fundamental way my trust in Alex had been impaired by that bruising interview. I still admired him as a man; I still respected him as a friend. But I did not want to discuss my private life with him ever again.

  This was a disturbing conclusion, but fortunately in the early mornings I was always too busy to dwell on unpleasant thoughts. My first task was to make the tea. I always performed this chore because I felt that the least Grace deserved was a husband who delivered the early morning tea to her in bed. Having accomplished this ritual I withdrew to my dressing-room, read the office and meditated conscientiously on the appointed verses from the Bible. Being Low Church in inclination if not in practice—my services were carefully aimed at the middle-of-the-road moderate majority in the Church of England in order to avoid unfortunate controversy—I preferred to focus my spiritual exercises on the Bible before applying myself to my prayers.

  After this interval I shaved and dressed. Usually I wore my archidiaconal uniform, but if my engagements were informal—or if the weather was so hot that the wearing of gaiters became intolerable—I had enough courage to resort to a plain clerical suit. I’m not the kind of man who enjoys tripping around in an antiquated fancy-dress.

  When I eventually left my dressing-room I headed for the nursery, where Sandy would be waking up, and put some toys in his cot to keep him quiet. By seven o’clock I had reached my study, where I aimed to put in an hour’s work before breakfast. On that particular morning I caught up with my sympathy letters—after three years of war one had to take great care that the sentiments expressed sounded genuine—paid a couple of bills and studied two archidiaconal files, one relating to new gutters for a church with a persistent damp wall and the other concerning a parish quarrel over a new font. I decided it would be prudent to ask the diocesan surveyor to look at the old gutters and even more prudent to ask the diocesan lawyers to advise on whether the font was, legally speaking, a font. The outraged churchwarden was insisting that it reminded him of a lavatory.

  I yawned. The archdeaconry was quiet. No fallen steeples, no dispute about plastic flowers on graves, no rural dean suffering from delusions of grandeur, no curate going berserk with choirboys, no vicar letting off Anglo-Catholic liturgical fireworks, no verger blowing his brains out. Finding myself with five minutes to spare before breakfast, I drew up a plan for my Sunday sermon and plucked a few pertinent quotations from my trusty memory. My brother Willy always said I had a mind like a vacuum cleaner; I can effortlessly absorb any information, from the sublime to the ridiculous, and regurgitate it, sometimes years later, with an efficiency bordering on the robotic.

  At breakfast I admired the new bow in Primrose’s hair, glanced at the headlines of The Times, read the latest letter from Christian at Winchester, answered the telephone, picked Sandy’s rusk off the floor twice and asked Alex if he intended to spend all day in the Cathedral library, where he was studying the records of his episcopate.

  “No, I’m having a rest from my autobiography today,” he said, surprising me. “I’ve decided to take a train to Starvale St. James and call on Lyle.”

  Lyle, now Mrs. Charles Ashworth, was the icy companion who had run the Jardines’ household so efficiently before her unwelcome defection to the state of matrimony in 1937.

  “She probably won’t want to see me,” Alex was saying as he idly applied marmalade to his toast, “but I thought it would be too ridiculous if I left the diocese without calling on her. I intend to arrive on her doorstep waving the olive branch of peace.”

  “Better late than never, but why not phone her first? Your olive branch will be wasted if you arrive on her doorstep and find she’s gone out for the day!”

  “I’ll take the risk. If I ring she might simply slam down the receiver—I can’t tell you what a tangle we all got into back in 1937—”

  “I always thought it sounded the most grotesque storm in a tea-cup and I can’t believe Lyle won’t welcome the chance to end the estrangement. Do you want a lift to the station?”

  He accepted the lift. I noted with compassion that he had bought expensive presents for Lyle’s two sons. Evidently he was anxious that his olive branch should be substantial.

  “Remember me to Lyle, won’t you?” I said. “As it happens I’ll be coming her way soon. An incensed churchwarden at Starvale St. James is complaining that the new font
looks like a urinal.”

  “Oh yes?” said Alex vaguely, and when he failed to smile I knew his thoughts were far away.

  Leaving him at the station I called at the diocesan office on Eternity Street to collect my special allowance of extra petrol coupons, suffered myself to be cornered by various officials who saw me as a channel to the Bishop, escaped into the High Street to buy cigarettes and finally parked my car in the old vicarage stables behind Butchers’ Alley just as the clock of St. Martin’s chimed the half hour. I was fractionally late for the morning conference with my curates, but to my relief I saw no bicycles parked outside the vicarage gate. I disliked my curates arriving ahead of me and looking insufferably virtuous as I walked into the room. Much better that they should arrive panting and apologetic while I was sitting coolly behind my desk.

  I opened the front door. I withdrew my key from the lock. And I paused, paralysed with shock, as my hand remained on the latch. I had heard a laugh in the morning-room where we received the parishioners who called on us, but this laugh belonged to no one who lived within the parish of St. Martin’s-in-Cripplegate. Automatically, without stopping to think, I blundered forward into the hall.

  Grace was saying: “That’ll be Neville. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just tell him you’re here.”

  I plunged across the morning-room threshold. Grace, who had almost reached the door, hastily recoiled. As our visitor sprang to her feet, I saw us all as three puppets jerking on the ends of some exceedingly erratic strings.

  “Hullo, Stephen!” said Dido, whose memory I had, of course, been conscientiously suppressing all morning, and gave me a bold, bright, impudent smile.

  “Good morning, Miss Tallent,” I said, rigid with rage behind my clerical collar. I was acutely aware that Grace was wearing her oldest dress, the one she wore only around the house, and that she looked faded, fatigued and unfashionable. In contrast, Dido, seemingly poured into her sleek Naval uniform, looked saucy, sexy and scintillating. I could have slapped her.

  Suddenly I became aware of Sandy’s presence. In the profound silence which followed the formal exchange of greetings he staggered across the floor and offered me one of his toy bricks.

  “Thank you, Sandy.” I took the brick and gripped it so hard that my fingers ached. Then in a passable attempt to achieve a smooth social manner I said to Dido: “How kind of you to call, but I’m afraid you must excuse me. I have an urgent meeting now with my curates.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of troubling you when you’re so busy!” exclaimed Dido with that wide-eyed candour which I found so fatally compelling. “I just called to leave my card and enquire if your wife was better.” Giving Grace her warmest smile, she added confidentially: “You didn’t miss much at the Bish’s dinner-party—your husband was the only redeeming feature.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll go!” said Grace, scooping up Sandy.

  “No, I’ll answer it—”

  “No, it’s all right, Neville—”

  We collided in the doorway before Grace succeeded in escaping into the hall.

  “I’m obviously causing chaos as usual,” said Dido. “I’ll leave at once.”

  I realised I was still holding Sandy’s brick. It was bright red, the colour of violence, volcanic fire and Technicolor blood. It also matched Dido’s lipstick. Setting the brick down on the table with meticulous care, I somehow managed to say to Dido in my politest voice: “If you feel you must go, then I shan’t try to detain you, but I apologise if you’ve been made to feel unwelcome.”

  “Oh no, your wife was charming! We got on terribly well!”

  “Miss Tallent—”

  “Oh, I do wish you’d stop calling me that! Why don’t you call me Dido, just as everyone else does?”

  “I’m most flattered that you should wish to be on such friendly terms with me, but I’m afraid a clergyman has a duty to be formal towards a young lady he’s known less than twenty-four hours.”

  “But I’m sure Jesus would have called me Dido without a second thought! He never bothered to be formal with the good-time girls!”

  I opened my mouth to say coldly: “I fear I can only consider that remark to be in excessive bad taste,” but the words were never spoken. To my horror I realised I was smiling. “You’re outrageous!” I exclaimed in despair. “What on earth am I going to do with you?”

  “But don’t you remember? You’re going to be my spiritual guide and write me uplifting letters!”

  “But my dear Miss Tallent—”

  “You didn’t think I was serious, did you? You didn’t think I meant what I said, but I swear to you I’m deeply in earnest and absolutely desperate. I know you think I’m stupid and frivolous and not worth bothering about, but—”

  “Everyone’s worth bothering about. But don’t you think your local clergyman would be better placed than I am to give you the guidance you need?”

  “That celibate fish? He’s only fit to be lightly grilled on both sides and served to the congregation with parsley sauce!”

  I made a quick decision, the kind of quick decision capable administrators make, a cool practical decision untainted by emotional involvement. There was no doubt this girl was genuinely distressed and adrift. It seemed reasonable to suppose she was suffering from that particularly debilitating confusion which so often follows a severe bereavement: an appalled recognition of her own mortality and a consequent questioning of her way of life. With the right help this self-examination could lead to a vital spiritual growth. Who was I to regard her with such un-Christian cynicism because she had spent too many years as a mindless society girl? In a very real sense Dido’s tasteless comment about Jesus had hit the mark of truth. He would never have walked past her with his nose in the air, and since I was one of his followers neither should I.

  Abruptly I altered course. “Very well,” I said, adopting a crisp authoritative tone. “If you honestly believe I can help you I’ll answer your letters—but on one condition. You must address me as ‘Archdeacon,’ I must address you as ‘Miss Tallent’ and our correspondence must be a model of propriety.”

  “That’s three conditions, not one! But never mind, I accept them all with rapturous gratitude.” She smiled radiantly at me. “Goodbye, Archdeacon dear. I’m off to the post office to buy a large supply of stamps.” And leaving me wondering how on earth I could have been quite such a fool, she sailed triumphantly from the room.

  3

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “But she’s famous! She almost married that millionaire—and then there was the film star—and everyone knows she flirted with the Prince of Wales!”

  “I don’t find that sort of thing very interesting.”

  “Well, she obviously found you very interesting indeed! Why in heaven’s name did she call you Stephen?”

  “The name Neville reminded her of Mr. Chamberlain.”

  “But what was she doing calling you by your Christian name when you’d only just met her?”

  “Oh, society people have very peculiar manners these days. Like people in show business.”

  “Well, it all sounds very fast to me! Why, she even said she talked to you on your own for half an hour in the garden!”

  “Only about Victorian literature.”

  “But what did everyone think when you disappeared for half an hour with a society flirt?”

  I cleared my throat. “I think that designation’s a little uncharitable, Grace. Not even a society girl’s beyond redemption.”

  “Don’t tell me she wants you to redeem her!”

  I cleared my throat again. “Well, as a matter of fact she did show signs of wanting a complete change of direction. I’ve promised to write her a line or two in response to any queries she may have about spiritual matters.”

  “Honestly, Neville! I wouldn’t have thought you could be quite so naive!”

  “And I wouldn’t have thought you could be
quite so catty and cynical!”

  Grace suddenly drooped as if all the strength had drained out of her. Immediately I hated myself. “My dearest love”—I took her in my arms—“I know it all seems highly irregular, but what’s a clergyman to do when he’s asked for spiritual advice? He can’t refuse to give it simply because the person in search of help is someone with whom he’d never normally associate!” I kissed her before adding: “Of course I’ll show you every letter.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know that’s not necessary.” She clung to me briefly before turning away with the abrupt comment: “The curates have arrived.”

  “Bother the curates.” I grabbed her back into my arms and said in my firmest voice: “I love you very much—as I trust I proved to you last night—and for me you’ll always be the only woman in the world. Why on earth should I even look twice at a saucy little piece of nonsense like Dido Tallent?”

  That indeed was the question.

  4

  Alex returned at noon after bearing his olive branch to the village of Starvale St. James, where Lyle had rented accommodation a year before. She normally lived in Cambridge, where before the war her husband had been a canon of the Cathedral and a theologian at the University, but after Ashworth had been sent overseas with his regiment Lyle had preferred to retreat temporarily to the country so that her young children would be in a safe place. Ashworth had an elderly friend in Starvale St. James—none other than the irate churchwarden who was now persecuting me about the font—and Lyle, already familiar with the diocese after her years with the Jardines, had decided she ran less risk of being lonely there than elsewhere in the English countryside.

  When Alex returned I had just finished speaking on the telephone to the Bishop, who was in a flap about the proposed prisoner-of-war camp on Starbury Plain. It was by no means certain that we would be allowed any contact with the prisoners but the Bishop felt we should at least plan as if some form of pastoral work, no matter how limited, would be permitted. Unfortunately the camp, if built, would stand in the other archdeaconry, and the other Archdeacon, Hubert Babbington-French, was now openly proclaiming that the only good German was a dead German. No wonder the Bishop was in a flap; it wasn’t every day he had to deal with an eminent cleric bent on bawling out un-Christian slogans. Obviously the idiotic Babbington-French would have to be steered away from the wretched Huns, but I had a nasty feeling that the Bishop in his despair was planning to steer me towards them. I was willing to do my duty and attempt to behave in a Christian manner towards even the most repulsive Nazi, but the prospect was far from enthralling, particularly when we were all waiting to see if Hitler opened his Baedeker guide at the wrong page. I was now privately very worried indeed about the prospect of an attack on Starbridge, for my vicarage was in the centre of the city, but Grace, following the example of the Queen, had said that the children stayed with her and that she intended to stay with me—and I, of course, had to stay at St. Martin’s. I could only thank God we had a good air-raid shelter and pray that Hitler, diverted by the fighting on the Eastern Front, would lose interest in reading travel guides.