At once Hoffenberg said: “Will you come back?” and as I saw his despair replaced by a slender thread of hope, I knew there was only one answer I could give him.
The most agonising moment of his long Good Friday came when his family was obliterated by the fire-bombing of Dresden in 1945. I had no words of my own to offer; I felt the convencional words of sympathy could only be an impertinence, but I drove to the camp, and when Hoffenberg said: “You’ve come to stand in silence at the foot of the cross, haven’t you?” I handed him a cutting which I had kept from a Fortnightly Review of 1939.
“The Church then ought to declare both in peace-time and war-time, that there are certain basic principles which can and should be the standards of both international social order and conduct,” Bell had written. “It must not hesitate, if occasion arises, to condemn the infliction of reprisals, or the bombing of civilian populations, by the military forces of its own nation. It should set itself against the propaganda of lies and hatred. It should be ready to encourage a resumption of friendly relations with the enemy nation. It should set its face against any war of extermination or enslavement, and any measures directly aimed to destroy the morale of a population.”
Hoffenberg read the cutting. Then he said: “Tell me more about him. Much more,” and I described Bell’s friendship with Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the young theologian of the German Confessing Church. Bonhoeffer had plotted against Hitler and been imprisoned. “A prisoner, just like me!” said Hoffenberg. “One day when the war’s over I shall go home and meet him.” But unfortunately this simple wish was never to be granted; just before the war’s end, Bonhoeffer was hanged by the Nazis. His last message was for George Bell.
“He said very clearly, twice, to the English officer who was imprisoned with him: ‘Tell him from me this is the end but also the beginning—with him I believe in the principle of our Universal Christian brotherhood above all national interests, and that our victory is certain.’ ”
“So he won!” Hoffenberg exclaimed. “He lost but he won—Hitler never defeated him!” Then he added confused: “No, that makes no sense. My English breaks down—and my German too.”
I had at that time in 1945 given little thought to Aidan’s “land of paradox,” but I recognised that Hoffenberg was groping to express a profound truth. “Perhaps you feel,” I said, “that Bonhoeffer’s friendship with Bell, which endured even to the scaffold, symbolises the unity of all men in Christ and the indestructibility of the Holy Spirit even in a world crucified by war.”
Hoffenberg thought for a long time but eventually said: “If God can be with Bonhoeffer on the scaffold, he’ll be in Dresden among the ruins.” He had to pause again to search for the right English words but at last he declared: “He’s a crucified God, sharing our Good Friday.”
Again the miracle happened and the reply arrived fully formed on my tongue. “Yes,” I said, “but never forget that Christians always look back at Good Friday from the perspective of Easter Day.”
I thought of that remark as the train drew into Horsham, and at once I found myself wondering how my own Good Friday would look to me when I could finally view it from the perspective of my new life. Easter Day was as yet unimaginable—but perhaps it always was unimaginable, to the man on the cross enduring Good Friday.
Hauling myself back from the inconceivable future to the intimidating present, I began to plan my approaching interview with Willy.
4
Willy’s school was housed in a mansion two miles south of Horsham in the tranquil Sussex countryside, and as the taxi rattled up the drive towards the front door I could see the humps of the South Downs shimmering in a bluish haze on the horizon. It was a long time since I had visited Willy in his lair and it was a long time since he had visited me in Starbridge. When Grace had been alive he had joined us every year for Christmas, but this tradition had now lapsed. I was well aware that Willy detested Dido and thought I was a fool to have married her.
I saw no need to announce my presence formally at the front entrance, so as the taxi drove away I padded around the dark Victorian walls to the section of the building known as “Kitchener.” This was Willy’s House, not a house in the conventional sense but a self-contained wing which fifty of the school’s two hundred boys could regard as home once the day’s lessons and games had been concluded. Willy occupied some grand gloomy rooms on the ground floor. All the walls, even the walls of the lavatory, were lined with books. Every mantelshelf was crammed with photographs, some of past pupils, some of my four sons; Willy took a great interest in his nephews and wrote regularly to Christian. A photograph of our father was also on constant display. Willy kept the picture on his desk. The silver frame was always highly polished.
Knocking on the door of his study I called: “Willy?” but when there was no reply I walked in, dropped my bag and sank down in the swivel-chair behind the desk. Then I remembered that Willy kept excellent sherry. I thought of Aidan, advising me not to drink, but I was still wrestling with the most powerful temptation to ignore his advice when a bell rang somewhere to herald the end of the morning’s lessons. A minute later Willy was walking into the room.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing parked in my chair? And why are you looking as Brutus must have looked before Philippi? Has someone died?”
“Yes.”
“Dido?”
“No. The baby.”
“Oh.” Willy opened the door of the sideboard and revealed not one but three decanters in addition to a full bottle of whisky. “Have a drink.”
“No, thanks. Temporarily abstaining.”
“How sordid! Obviously you’re in some sort of demented state, but I can’t quite see why. Of course it’s a great pity about the infant, that goes without saying, but it didn’t live long enough for you to get fond of it, did it, and no doubt Dido’ll soon produce another to put matters right.”
“I got very fond of him. And since he was unique he’ll be irreplaceable, no matter how many children Dido has in future.”
“Oh God, I’ve said the wrong thing. Look, change your mind and have some of this first-class claret! I usually only offer it to the headmaster—”
“I called the baby Arthur because I looked at him and remembered Father. That never happened with the others.”
“You mean he looked like Father?”
“Newborn babies never look like anyone.”
“That’s what I thought. Emily looked like nothing on earth.”
“I’ve just visited Emily—I had tea with her.”
“My God, when that woman dies I swear they’ll find the word TEA engraved on her heart! Why are you suddenly rushing around Balham and Horsham in order to call on your neglected siblings?”
“That sounds as if you’ve taken offence, just like Emily, because I haven’t been in touch lately! Willy, I’ve had the most terrible year and I just haven’t had the time to—”
“Oh, stop being so stupid! I’m not about to flounce around pouting just because you haven’t had time for the social niceties recently! Now sit down, take this glass of claret and tell me exactly what’s going on—no, wait a minute. Let me first deal with the dining-room. They’ll be expecting me to say grace.”
He made an abrupt exit and returned five minutes later with two plates of cottage pie on a tray.
“I’m not hungry, Willy.”
“Well, you ought to be, especially after drinking tea with Emily. Let me pour you another glass of claret.”
“No, I won’t have any more.”
“I’m beginning to be seriously worried about you! If you can no longer drink more than one glass of my best claret—”
“Willy, I want to talk about Father, Mother and Uncle Willoughby.”
“That confirms it. You’re off your head. Now, don’t worry, Neville—being mad isn’t necessarily a handicap in the Church of England—”
“Shut up. Listen, Will, this is very important. If those three people were characters
in a play, how would you describe them?”
“Am I allowed to ask why you’re posing this bizarre and apparently mindless question?”
“No. Just answer it.”
“Very well, I see Father as Hamlet, Uncle Willoughby as Falstaff and Mother as—who else?—Lady Macbeth.”
“Uncle Willoughby as Falstaff?”
“Of course. When I look back now at the nightmare years I can see he was just a pathetic buffoon with a witty streak. All that vulgar social-climbing! And all that ridiculous talk of winning the prizes! How you fell for it all I’ll never know, but there you were, throwing yourself heart and soul into the role of Prince Hal—”
“There’s no need to resort to mockery just because you chose not to compete with me!”
“Of course I chose not to compete—I came to see what bloody rubbish it all was! Why, any schoolmaster can tell you that prize-giving’s quite the most boring day of the year. Life’s not about the day when you win the prizes—it’s about all the days in between.”
“All right, let’s not fight. I still don’t understand how you can see Uncle Willoughby as Falstaff when you’ve always agreed with me that he was a villain, but—”
“I still agree with you. Falstaff was an old rogue. But on the other hand he hardly stood in the same category of villainy as Iago or—”
“Talking of Iago and remembering Desdemona and Othello, do you feel in retrospect that Mother, Father and Uncle Willoughby formed some sort of peculiar triangle?”
Willy looked intrigued but doubtful. “I don’t think so. Isn’t incest rather a daring theory for a clergyman?”
“Good heavens, I’m not talking about incest! I’m talking about … well, I’m not exactly sure what I’m talking about, but how did Mother keep the peace between those two men who must have been so incompatible?”
“That’s easy. She had Father under her thumb and Uncle Willoughby in her pocket. She was Lady Macbeth before the sleepwalking phase.”
“Let’s forget Lady Macbeth for the moment. Why do you see Father as Hamlet?”
“How else would you describe a doomed romantic intellectual who got mixed up with the wrong woman, made a balls-up of his business and wound up a corpse in the final act?”
“Oh, I see. I wondered if you were putting forward the theory that Father, like Hamlet, toyed with the idea of suicide.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Why should you think I’m being ridiculous? If Father knew he was bankrupt—”
“I think he would have welcomed the bankruptcy as a chance to abandon his life in Yorkshire and go off to Africa to be a missionary. Can’t you just see him preaching pantheism to the natives? And Mother would have adored it—endless opportunities to be bossy, plenty of servants to wait on her, a constant supply of black nurses for the children—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m not convinced. Willy, I’ve never been able to bring myself to speak about this to you before—in fact I’ve never been able to speak about this to anyone—but I’ve secretly thought for years and years and years that—”
“—that Mother had murdered him. Funny you should say that. I could never bring myself to speak of it either while we were little, and then of course as soon as I was grown up I saw the idea was too absurd to mention. I thought she’d killed him because she didn’t want any more pregnancies! I concede murder’s a rather extreme form of contraception, but when I was a child and had no idea other remedies were available—”
“Willy, I think Father committed suicide.”
“Yes, well, of course children often retreat into fantasy when they’re intolerably distressed, but … Wait a minute. Did you say ‘think’? Did you use the present tense? Are you seriously trying to tell me—”
“Yes.”
“But my dear Neville, what possible grounds could you have for thinking such a thing?”
“After Father died I heard Mother whispering to Uncle Willoughby: ‘No one must ever know he took the laudanum.’ ”
Willy stared at me.
“Don’t you remember Tabitha warning us about Mother’s sleeping draught?” I said. “Don’t you remember her telling us we must never take any for a prank because if we took too much we’d never wake up?”
Willy continued to stare.
“Well, naturally,” I said, “after Father died and I heard Mother say in horror: ‘No one must ever know he took the laudanum,’ I realised there was only one conclusion to be drawn.”
Willy finally regained the use of his tongue. “Rubbish!” he said angrily. “Father would never have deliberately abandoned us like that—but how typical that you, with your melodramatic Victorian streak, should have come to such a preposterous conclusion!”
“Then how would you explain those words of Mother’s?”
“Very easily, with rational down-to-earth common sense! The obvious explanation is that Mother didn’t want everyone in Maltby to know Father drugged as well as drank.”
“But he didn’t!”
“No, but the point is that people would think he did if they found out he’d died after taking laudanum that hadn’t been prescribed for him.”
“But why should he have taken the laudanum in the first place?”
“Oh, I daresay he purloined Mother’s supply every now and then when he wanted to get a good night’s sleep. Why not? God knows, if I’d been married to Mother I’d have grabbed every drink and drug in sight!”
“But Willy—”
“What beats me is not that you’re flirting with this idiotic theory—after all, the history of philosophy is littered with clever men who flirted with idiotic ideas—but that you’re trotting it out now, of all times. What on earth’s this got to do with poor little Arthur?”
“I can’t explain fully, but I’m in a big muddle at the moment and I’ve reached the stage where in order to make sense of the present I have to sort out the past.”
There was a pause while we both gave up pretending to eat cottage pie and Willy drank deeply from his glass of claret. Finally he said: “I’m exceedingly sorry—though not, I confess, entirely surprised—to hear you’re in a muddle. Since you volunteer no information I certainly don’t intend to pry, but I can’t help thinking you’re talking like an addled romantic who’s convinced the past is riddled with deep dark secrets of an enthralling and complex nature. But it isn’t, There’s no mystery about the past, and no complexity either. The past is merely prosaic—and that’s the truth, pure and simple.”
“Ah!” I said. “But as Oscar Wilde wrote in The Importance of Being Earnest—”
“Poor Oscar simply wanted to be amusing. I tell you, there’s no mystery about the past, Neville. None at all.”
“Then could you be very kind and explain to me what on earth was going on?”
“Why not?” said Willy affably, reaching for the decanter, and this time, no longer able to resist the temptation, I held out my glass for a refill.
5
“The truth, pure and simple,” said Willy, “is that Father died of liver failure, just as the coroner said. Of course that old rogue Uncle Willoughby talked to us about cirrhosis and tried to make out that Father was a drunkard, but quite obviously he was motivated by malice. The most likely explanation of the tragedy is that Father had a weakness in the liver which drinking—any drinking—aggravated.”
“I can remember him drinking quite a bit—”
“So can I, but can you remember him roaring drunk? I certainly can’t, and I refuse to believe he was an alcoholic even though he was trapped in that appalling marriage which would have driven even the most devout abstainer to hit the bottle—”
“You honestly see the marriage as appalling?”
“Well, of course it was appalling! I’d have thought that was obvious in retrospect. What could it have been like for a sunny-natured sensitive man like Father to be obliged to live with a female who spent all her time exuding a noxious miasma from a chaise-longue?”
“Emily takes a very different view. She sees Mother as a tragedy queen victimised by men.”
“What complete and utter balls! The truth about Mother is that she was absolutely frightful. A lot of mothers are; it’s not unusual—you should see some of the horrors my boys have to put up with! It’s only romantics like you who think that all women are instinctively brimming over with mother-love—and how you’ve preserved that illusion after years of maternal neglect in the nursery, I can’t imagine!”
“Mother wasn’t good with small children, I agree, but she was willing enough to brim over with mother-love later on.”
“God alone knows what she was brimming over with,” said Willy, “but in my opinion it certainly wasn’t mother-love. She washed her hands of me, gave Emily hell and had that peculiar flirtation with you that all ended in tears—”
“But Willy, if Mother was really so frightful, why did Father marry her?”
“My dear Neville, good men regularly marry frightful women; it’s one of the great mysteries of life. Of course I’m well aware that you think I’m an ignoramus about such matters because my sexual experience has been limited to onanism ever since that ghastly encounter you egged me into up at Oxford—”
“I didn’t egg you into anything!”
“Oh yes, you did! You bragged about how you’d lost your virginity to a Woolworth’s shopgirl, so naturally I felt I had to lose mine too—except that I couldn’t—”
“Well, you can’t blame me for that!”
“God knows who I blame, sometimes I wish I’d been born bloody queer, at least I’d know then where I stood—in the cupboard alongside all the other social outcasts—oh God, what a bloody bore sex is, how we all stand it I’ll never know. Anyway as I was saying, I’m well aware that you think I know nothing about women, but I’m neither wholly blind nor wholly stupid and I can recognise the women like Mother who make a profession of giving men hell.”
“She never gave Uncle Willoughby hell.”
“That was because she knew he’d biff her on the nose if she tried. My God, what a thug that man was! But I’m beginning to see why you played Prince Hal to his Falstaff. You were so angry with Father for (so you thought) abandoning us, that you adopted Uncle Willoughby in revenge—and that’s why you remained dedicated to chasing the prizes even when you were grown up and old enough to know better.”
Ultimate Prizes Page 34