you.’
‘Then I shall merely conclude the interview by asking you to reflect further on the fact that Martin plunged you into a severe emotional disturbance. The question you should ask yourself, I think, is not: “Was this emotional disturbance the direct cause of my vision?” Of course you’re determined to believe that question can only be answered in the negative. So perhaps it would be more profitable if you asked yourself instead: “Exactly why was I so disturbed by Martin’s disclosure? What did it mean to me on the profoundest psychological level?” You might also ask yourself if there was any hidden significance in the fact that you later began to dwell with a great intensity on the memories of your marriage. For example, when you were manipulating those memories in a certain way were you merely seeking a release from tension, or were you perhaps expressing a desire to recapture a time when you were leading such an active sexual life that your wife was annually pregnant?’
I stared at him. ‘Are you implying that subconsciously I felt so disappointed in Martin that I was smitten with the urge to go out into the world and beget a son to replace him?’
‘You find that an unlikely explanation of your vision?’
‘I find it ludicrous!’
Francis twirled his glasses. I was reminded of an angry cat swishing his tail.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said at once. ‘That was disrespectful. But I must insist that Martin’s still my much-loved son and I’ve never – never – felt so dissatisfied with him that I’ve longed for a replacement.’
Francis twirled his glasses again and swept open my file. It took him some seconds to reach the passage he had in mind but eventually he found it and paused to look at me. ‘I’d like to read you an extract from Father Darcy’s report on the Whitby affair,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find that it’s remarkably pertinent to our present conversation.’ And clearing his throat he read in a studiedly neutral tone: ‘“Jonathan then became very distressed. He said: ‘I suddenly saw myself as a layman would see me – a pathetic middle-aged monk, starved of women, deprived of a normal masculine life, who was crying, actually crying over a cat.’ Then Jonathan said: ‘Suddenly I hated my life as a monk, hated it – I wanted to chuck it all up and fuck every woman in sight. I thought: here I am, still only fifty years old and feeling no more than forty; I could be out in the world with a young second wife; I could have another daughter, a daughter who wasn’t forever reminding me of Betty – and best of all I could have another son, a son who wasn’t an actor, a son I could talk to, a son who wouldn’t constantly torment me with anxiety. What am I doing here?’ said Jonathan. ‘Why am I living this impossibly difficult life?’ And I said: ‘You’re here because you’re called to be here. You’re here because God requires you to serve him in this hard difficult way. You’re here because if you weren’t here your personality would disintegrate beneath the burden of your weaknesses. You’re here because it’s the only way you can survive.’ Then he broke down and cried: ‘But how do I bear it?’ and I answered: ‘Think of the novices who have so recently been entrusted to your care. Think of others, not yourself, and you’ll find not only liberation from the dark side of your soul but fulfilment of your ability to do great good and live in harmony with your true self.’ After that I made him kneel down and I laid my hands on his head and at last the demonic spirit of doubt departed and he was healed.”’
Francis closed the file. Then still using his most neutral voice he said: ‘And there you have it all: the emotional disturbance, the profound difficulty with your celibacy, the desire to leave the Order and beget a second family – and finally the healing by the one man who was able to keep you on the spiritual rails, the man who’s no longer here to give you the help you so obviously need.’ He allowed a long silence to develop before adding casually: ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday and I always try to spend the hour between four and five in meditation. But come here directly after supper, Jonathan, make a new resolution to tell me no more lies and then we’ll have our last talk before you depart on Monday morning.’
XI
‘I’m worried about your weekly confession,’ he said when we met the following evening. ‘Of course you could make one of your bowdlerized confessions to Timothy, but I really feel that would be most unsatisfactory and as I’m reluctant that anyone else in the Order should know about your crisis I find I’ve no alternative but to volunteer my own services as a confessor. I needn’t remind you of your right under the Order’s constitution to decline to make confession to your superior; if you find my suggestion unacceptable I’ll ask Ambrose to hear you, but if you could somehow see your way towards waiving your constitutional right I admit I’d be greatly relieved.’
I could not help but sympathize with him in his predicament. ‘You forget that Father Darcy ordered Aidan to be my confessor after the Whitby affair,’ I said. ‘I’m well used to making my confession to my superior.’
‘Quite. But one of the vows I made to myself when I became Abbot-General was that I wouldn’t ride rough-shod over the monks’ constitutional rights as often as Father Darcy did. However if you’re willing to waive this particular right without being coerced …’
He allowed me time to prepare, and retiring to the chapel I recalled the episodes of pride, anger and falsehood which had punctuated my life that week. Then I returned to his office and the difficult exercise began. I was surprised when it proved easier than I had feared. He kept unexpectedly quiet, refraining from all the obvious comments, and gradually I began to respect his refusal to gloat over me while I was vulnerable. With a certain amusement I wondered if this compassionate behaviour arose not from his desire to be a good priest but from his instinct to act like a gentleman; I could well imagine him deciding that the waiving of my constitutional right was a sporting gesture which demanded that he should be equally sporting in return.
I was granted absolution and assigned a very moderate penance. I thought Father Darcy would have judged this much too soft and perhaps Francis too was afterwards convinced he had erred on the side of leniency, for as soon as we embarked on our final conversation he became waspish.
‘I want to end these talks where we began – with your vision,’ he said abruptly.‘There’s one glaring omission in your account, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that omission is.’
‘It wasn’t revealed to me what I’m to do when I leave the Order.’
‘If you leave the Order.’
‘If I leave the Order. I’m sorry.’
‘If this vision is from God,’ said Francis, examining a well-manicured fingernail in an elaborate charade of nonchalance, ‘wouldn’t you have expected to receive at least a hint about what you’re supposed to do next?’
Cautiously I said: ‘I believe further enlightenment will be forthcoming.’
‘How wonderfully convenient.’ Francis held his left hand at arm’s length and gave the chosen fingernail another meticulous inspection. Then suddenly he discarded the mask of nonchalance, leant forward purposefully across the desk and said: ‘Now listen to me, Jonathan. You cannot – and I mean cannot – ignore your intellectual faculties in favour of a woolly-minded mysticism when your future has to be considered; you should remember that the best mystics have all been distinguished by their sane practical attitudes to life. As soon as you return to Grantchester pull yourself together, confront the reality of this alleged call of yours and try to visualize what kind of life would be waiting for you outside the Order. You’re a sixty-year-old priest. You’ve been out of circulation for seventeen years. At first you’re inevitably going to find the world confusing, exhausting, depressing and – for the most part – uncaring. Of course we know you can always find work. We know I can always ring up the Archbishop and say: “Oh, by the way, Your Grace, my best abbot’s about to leave the nest – find him a nice little nook in some cosy Cathedral Close, would you?” We know you’re not going to be reduced to eating bread-and-dripping in a sordid lodging-house in between bouts of waiting in the dole-queue, but Jonathan, if you’re