Blood Brotherhood

by Robert Barnard

  ‘Are you quiet for most of the time, then?’

  ‘Yes, by choice. We have no definite rule, but we mostly prefer to keep our conversation for those times.’

  ‘A lonely life.’

  ‘Perhaps, from one point of view,’ said the young man, who seemed prepared to give information, but remained non-committal whenever any expression of opinion seemed called for.

  ‘Why do people come here?’

  ‘Many reasons. As many reasons as we have brothers, perhaps. But we don’t pry into each other’s reasons. We would only talk about that if a brother desired to unburden himself.’

  ‘I see, yes,’ said Ernest Clayton, finding the young man an oddly unsatisfying companion. Since he volunteered nothing further, Clayton was obliged to turn back to the clerical impresario of St Finian’s.

  • • •

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ said Simeon P. Fleishman, with a lumbering patience, ‘that every single decent American citizen found the Watergate business deeply disturbing. Deeply disturbing. I think I may say they were quite as shocked as you were over here in Europe.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ spat out Stewart Phipps. ‘You all elected that crook with a record majority six months after the thing broke. I bet you voted for him yourself.’

  ‘I feel that every man’s vote is a matter between . . .’

  ‘I thought so. The point about Watergate that you haven’t understood yet is that it’s not just the Nixon crew who were implicated. It was every single American.’

  ‘I don’t quite accept your premise there, Mr . . . er . . . Phitts, and I must say that every American I know is bored to death with the whole Watergate business by now.’

  ‘All right. Then take the CIA . . .’

  With a sigh Simeon P. Fleishman prepared to take on himself the responsibility for having tried to poison Fidel Castro’s cigars.

  • • •

  The two bishops were very genial together.

  ‘Been rabble-rousing in Geneva, I take it?’ said he of Peckham.

  ‘I have been doing my bit, yes,’ said he of Mitabezi.

  ‘Screwing money out of us for terrorists by making us feel guilty, I suppose?’ said Peckham.

  ‘I rather think the Anglican delegation came feeling guilty already,’ said Mitabezi, with a glint in his eye.

  ‘No doubt. Led by Dilchester, weren’t they? No back-bone. No love of the fight. I shudder to think what the people who write to The Times will say.’

  ‘I wonder whether we don’t pay too much attention to the people who write to The Times,’ said Ernest Clayton, who had detached himself from his ecclesiastical Lew Grade and had joined the group.

  ‘What else can we do?’ said the Bishop of Peckham, with a nod to acknowledge Clayton’s existence and right to join the discussion. ‘They’re the only people who still come to church.’

  ‘I wonder why we do so much worse than other countries,’ said Ernest Clayton with a little bow in the direction of the Bishop of Mitabezi. ‘Our figures for regular worshippers are a positive embarrassment.’

  ‘Too many television channels,’ said the Bishop of Peckham. ‘It’s all a question of the amount of competition.’

  ‘The Americans do much better, and they have more,’ Ernest Clayton pointed out.

  ‘We in Africa believe the English went lazy when they lost their Empire,’ said the Bishop of Mitabezi. ‘Perhaps that has had its effect on church attendance too.’

  ‘You may well have a point there,’ said Clayton. ‘Post-imperial lethargy. And then of course there are all the people who blame the welfare state.’

  ‘Interesting to hear from the Scandinavians on that,’ said the Bishop of Peckham. ‘I wonder they’re not here.’

  ‘I believe it was rough on the North Sea today,’ said Ernest Clayton. ‘That could have delayed them if they were coming that way. Where exactly are they from?’

  They consulted their typewritten list of delegates.

  ‘Both from Norway,’ said the Bishop of Peckham. ‘No doubt that’s how they are coming. What odd names: Bente Frøystad — very curious. I suppose it’s the same as the Swedish Bengt. I remember several Bengts when we had the World Council meetings in Sweden.’

  ‘The other is even more unfortunate,’ said Ernest Clayton.

  ‘Randi Paulsen,’ said the Bishop of Peckham, with a great belly laugh. ‘Oh, goodness me, how unsuitable! Fancy a man going through life with a name like Randi?’

  ‘A woman,’ said a clear soprano voice behind him — quite softly, but it brought a sudden deathly hush to the whole assembly. The Bishop slowly wheeled himself round to face the arch opening into the dining-hall.

  Framed in the archway his eye caught, first of all, Father Anselm, whose grave aplomb seemed for once to be somewhat ruffled, and then the members of the Norwegian delegation. There could be no doubt that not one, but both, were of the female sex.

  CHAPTER III

  MEN AND WOMEN

  FATHER ANSELM led the Norwegian delegation first to the Bishop of Peckham, who gave them a look of puckish delight. Father Anselm regarded him sourly, and almost immediately went into a huddle with Brother Dominic by one of the arches leading to the main hall. The Norwegian delegation then proceeded round the group, introducing themselves, and finally landed up under the benign bulk of the Bishop of Mitabezi, who seemed quite unembarrassed by their arrival, and perhaps even appreciative. The rest of the delegates took their first relaxed intake of breath since the newcomers had appeared in the doorway and began to think over their position. Brother Dominic had now disappeared, and, responding to an infinitesimal nod from Father Anselm, the Bishop of Peckham glided out into the great hall, where they put themselves in a corner out of sight of the delegates, though not of the assembled brothers, who were looking in their direction with considerable curiosity evident on their faces.

  ‘You realize,’ said Father Anselm urgently, ‘that the presence of women within the Community’s walls is totally against all the rules of our order — and absolutely unprecedented?’

  ‘Of course, my dear chap, naturally,’ said the Bishop, rather surprised at having to soothe the awesome head of the Community. ‘But it’s Church House you must quarrel with, you know. I’ve had nothing to do with making up the list of delegates.’

  ‘I quite understand that,’ said Father Anselm, obviously struggling to regain total equanimity. ‘But Church House said that you were to be regarded as the unofficial leader of the symposium. I look to you to make a decision as to what we should do, now that they are here.’

  The Bishop pondered for a moment. The situation appealed greatly to his sense of humour, and to his sense of the dramatic too (he was a governor of the National Theatre, and had always taken the lead in his theological college’s annual play). The situation was pregnant with further piquant possibilities, and really there seemed no good reason why, once there, the newcomers should not be allowed to remain.

  ‘We should look terrible fools if we just told them to leave,’ he said. ‘Think how the Sunday papers would laugh if they got hold of it. Surely there can be no harm in their staying?’

  ‘I give no opinion on that,’ said Father Anselm, compressing his thin lips. ‘I merely ask for directions. What are we to do with them, if they are allowed to stay?’

  ‘You haven’t shown them to their rooms?’ Father Anselm shook his head, a pained expression on his face. ‘I suppose we could always find them rooms in Hickley,’ the Bishop mused.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Father Anselm; ‘but the sort of comment that would be aroused might be regrettable.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Having them coming and going every day for the discussions would be worse than having them here all the time. Well, as far as I can see, the best thing to do would be to treat them like any other delegate, and square it with your flock.’ He gestured in the direction of the little groups of brothers, who quickly turned their heads away, as if oblivious of their presence.

 
‘Put them in the visitors’ wing, do you mean?’ said Father Anselm. ‘With the rest of the delegates?’

  ‘Well, after all, why not?’ said the Bishop. ‘Damn it all, we are clergymen.’

  • • •

  Ernest Clayton had watched the arrival and introduction of the Norwegian delegation with a rich amusement that he did not allow to spread beyond his eyes. The reactions of the other participants in the symposium had been a picture, for an amateur in human nature like himself: the dim, elderly brother had regarded them with a bemused horror, as if they were the culmination of a series of shocks with which the modern world had battered his old head; the other brothers had looked sour and suspicious; the American had not seemed to register that there was anything amiss, while Stewart Phipps and Philip Lambton, who obviously knew the rules of the place, had both seemed rather pleased than otherwise; the Bishop of Mitabezi had beamed an even more unambiguous welcome and had then taken them spontaneously under his wing, especially Bente Frøystad.

  For although the Norwegian delegation were both female, one member was undoubtedly more female than the other. Bente Frøystad was a healthy girl with a splendid figure, and a forthright, determined manner. Her open face owed nothing to make-up and everything to a good constitution and plenty of exercise. One could understand the Bishop’s frank, boyish appreciation, though one also got the impression that she was a girl of very decided views, one whom it would not do to cross, either in an argument or a fight.

  Randi Paulsen on the other hand . . . The Reverend Clayton considered. She seemed to be a variant of a type he knew in England, a type that had been more frequent in his youth than it was today. Frøken Paulsen was pinched and angular, and carried herself with a stiff correctness about the shoulders, as if she wanted you to forget that she had a body. She wore a cardigan and skirt in the sort of pretty pastel shade much favoured by women’s magazines twenty years ago. Her face was small and forgettable, but she wore the expression of self-satisfaction affected by the unco guid, and her eyes shone with suspicion of the intentions of men.

  Both girls affected to be quite unconscious that their presence in the Community was in any way unusual, but Ernest Clayton felt sure that both were perfectly well aware of the fact — and he suspected that they were both enjoying it, in different ways.

  ‘We in Norway are very conscious of the needs of the developing nations,’ Randi Paulsen was saying virtuously in her correct, lifeless English to the Bishop of Mitabezi, who was looking at Bente Frøystad. ‘We in my own parish have collected several thousand crowns, and we have adopted a mission school and a hospital in Africa. It gives everyone in the parish such a special interest in your continent, and it is so sweet to be able to tell the little ones in my Sunday class . . .’

  But she was interrupted in mid-sweetness and light by Father Anselm, who had returned with the Bishop of Peckham, and now sternly proposed to show them to their rooms. Ernest Clayton could see that the Bishop of Peckham was thoroughly delighted by the whole business.

  ‘Quite a turn-up for the book, eh?’ he boomed at the Bishop of Mitabezi. ‘That dented our friend Anselm’s gravity, what?’

  ‘A very pleasant surprise,’ said Mitabezi.

  ‘Especially one of them, eh? But we’ll have to be discreet, you know —’ at this point he broke off, seeing an expression of naïve protest on the Bishop of Mitabezi’s face, as if he had been suspected of contemplating something he hadn’t even begun to contemplate. ‘I don’t mean in conduct, of course,’ said the Bishop of Peckham hurriedly, looking round appealingly to all the other delegates, ‘that goes without saying — no, I mean we’ll have to be discreet when we get outside again. Mum’s the word, you know. The papers would laugh themselves silly if they got hold of it. The fact is, Church House has made a frightful bloomer, perfectly frightful, and I’m going to have to blow them up in no uncertain terms when I get back to London. It’s lucky it’s they who’ve made asses of themselves, but that is all the more reason to be discreet.’

  They all nodded sagely, though Clayton was still not sure whether Simeon P. Fleishman had understood. He had just stood there through the speech looking solid, earnest, and — yes, sinister. Then Clayton’s eyes were caught by the elderly brother, standing unnoticed in a corner. His eyes were still dim and bleary, his hearing apparently uncertain, but he seemed about to come forward and make a protest: he had raised his hands in a gesture of distress and had taken a step forward when the middle-aged brother, his face expressing friendly concern, went over to him, drew him away into a corner, and apparently soothed him. The incident went quite unnoticed by the rest of the delegates.

  Shortly afterwards the Norwegian contingent returned, and a great bell clanged for dinner.

  • • •

  The meal was only a moderate success, the Reverend Clayton thought. The guest table was set on a dais at some distance from the rows of tables occupied by the resident brothers, but all the guests were conscious of a wave of — something — disapproval perhaps? wafting in their direction. The brothers, who had been talked to by their spiritual leader, seemed quite ostentatiously unaware of the alien presences at the guest table, though Clayton’s sharp eyes caught one or two surreptitious peeps in that direction. Father Anselm, after asking the Bishop of Peckham to say grace, remained silent for much of the rest of the meal, in dignified disapproval.

  Randi Paulsen was seated next to the Bishop of Mitabezi. This was not at all how he had planned things. He had done his best to secure Bente Frøystad, but he had been outmanoeuvred by the Bishop of Peckham. Mitabezi had taken his defeat in a Christian spirit, merely vowing that he wouldn’t be outdone again by that sort of nifty footwork. Meanwhile he smiled benignly on Frøken Paulsen, who was still on the subject of the developing nations, and was giving an all-too-full account of Norwegian missions in various unattractive parts of the globe.

  When her sacchrine monotone finally faded into silence, the Reverend Stewart Phipps, who was seated on her left, said in his harsh voice: ‘And how many coloured immigrants have you in Norway?’

  ‘As many as we can absorb,’ said Randi Paulsen virtuously. ‘At the moment we have a complete ban on immigration, until we can ensure a proper standard of housing and so on for every immigrant. We feel sure this is the most responsible approach.’

  ‘Charity begins abroad, obviously,’ said Stewart Phipps. ‘A new variant of telescopic philanthropy, that.’

  Randi Paulsen looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  The Bishop of Peckham was getting on much better with Bente Frøystad — so well as to arouse some resentment in the breast of Philip Lambton, who was on her other side and hardly able to get a word in, other than enthusiastic offers of condiments. The Bishop had already discovered that Frøken Frøiystad was hoping to be ordained next year, and that Frøken Paulsen was already in fact the incumbent of a small parish in Western Norway. The Bishop was a committed supporter of the ordination of women, in so far as he could ever commit his magpie intellect to any one side of a question. He made sprightly fun of his opponents in the Anglican debates on the question.

  ‘Of course the poor things are all Papists in spirit, without the guts to go the whole hog,’ he ended up. ‘In their heart of hearts they agree with Pope Paul that true women’s liberation takes place over the cradle and the kitchen sink.’

  ‘Certainly we in Norway have been surprised at how slowly things seem to have gone over here,’ said Bente Frøystad.

  ‘Never be surprised when things go slowly in Britain,’ said the Bishop. ‘We are the nation of the go-slow. And for every one with-it clergyman —’ he cast a significant, quick glance in the direction of Philip Lambton, and couldn’t help drawing in his breath in a gesture of distaste — ‘there are hundreds of neolithic monstrosities who have sleepless nights if they see a girl in shorts going round their church, and compose fulminations on the subject for their parish magazines. My goodness, the British Army is liberal-minded and up-to-date compared to the o
uter reaches of the Church of England!’

  ‘That is very true,’ said Philip Lambton from Frøken Frøystad’s other side; ‘I could tell you some things about the attitudes of my bishops . . .’ And accordingly he did. The Bishop of Peckham, having lost the initiative for the moment, and having little curiosity about the misdeeds of his fellow bishop, concentrated on his food: good plain English fare, cooked by someone with a flair. It was solid and satisfying, as a meal in a country hotel used often to be before the war. If this was standard fare at St Botolph’s, then the Community certainly did themselves well. The meal was served by brothers from the kitchen quarters, quiet and nondescript; the portions were substantial, but there were no second helpings (the Reverend Fleishman established that). At the end of the meal, Father Anselm, at the Bishop of Peckham’s request, said a short grace, and then they all withdrew to the little side room for coffee.

  Here everybody began to relax considerably. It was a relief not to be sitting in the shadow of the assembled brothers. It occurred to Ernest Clayton that what was unnerving about them was that ordinary men — not Father Anselm, of course, but middle-of-the-road men — seemed to lose all individuality as soon as they got out of their everyday clothes into the monks’ habit. It was as if our identity amounted to no more than the shade of a sports jacket, the stripe of a tie. For most of the delegates the unpleasant thing about sitting in the company of the brothers was the suspicion that most of them were imagining future orgies of shocking proportions in the guest quarters, thanks to the unprecedented female invasion of the Community. Most of the delegates had little doubt that a monk’s imagination, when it got to work, would paint reality in the most unlikely brilliant colours, due to his long deprivation.

  The fact that Father Anselm withdrew along with his flock also seemed to lighten the atmosphere. His air of un-breachable gravity was impressive, but hardly companionable. Coffee was waiting for them in the side room, they served themselves and each other, and this helped to break any remaining ice. Then they settled down into cosy little groups. The Bishop of Mitabezi, wiser in his generation, this time secured Bente Frøystad, on the pretext of wishing to thank her for the sterling support of the Norwegian delegation at the recent World Council meeting (though he hadn’t bothered to give thanks for this to Randi Paulsen) and also for the splendid work of the Norwegian missions throughout Central Africa (though in fact he had just heard about these for the first time from Frøken Paulsen). But the Bishop was not allowed to keep her to himself: he had to share her with Philip Lambton, Brother Dominic and Simeon P. Fleishman. The Bishop of Peckham sighed at the waste of Bente Frøystad on such inferior clerical material, but he submitted with Christian resignation and did his duty by Randi Paulsen, assisted by Ernest Clayton and the aggressive Stewart Phipps.