‘The human race is infinitely diverse.’ I glanced back over my shoulder at the house. ‘Well, now that we’ve seen the garden by moonlight perhaps we should –’
‘But I want to go down to the river! I want to sit on that wooden seat underneath the willows and have an enthralling discussion with you on the heroes of Victorian literature!’
I looked at the wild garden shimmering in the pale light. I looked at the willow trees, swaying against the night sky. I looked at the glittering water of the distant river. I looked into the land of countless fairy-tales where the hero is changed from a frog to a prince by the casual wave of a magic wand, and I said: ‘Well, all right. But only for five minutes.’
As I had already confessed to her, I liked to live dangerously.
III
The river curled around Starbridge in a loop to divide the city from the suburbs, but at the point where the water glided past the Cathedral Close there were no buildings on the opposite bank, only water meadows, woods and farmland. The inter-war building developments had taken place on the other side of the city where there was no river and no need to build expensive bridges. The water meadows and fields, owned by the Dean and Chapter, were leased to the nearest farmer and bore silent witness to the fact that Starbridge, though a county town, was not an industrial centre driven to expand in all directions. The countryside remained unspoilt beyond the river, and the line of willows at the bottom of the Bishop’s garden completed the illusion that we stood many miles from a city.
‘This was a great garden in Bishop Jardine’s day,’ I said as we sat down on the ancient bench by the riverbank. ‘But when the gardeners went into the army Dr Ottershaw had no alternative but to sanction a wilderness.’
‘Much more exciting! I think the garden in Tennyson’s Maud could have been a wilderness, all tangled and steamy and exotic –’
‘I wouldn’t have thought a modern young woman like you would be interested in Victorian literature.’
‘It was the only thing our stupid governess knew about.’
‘You never went to school?’
‘No, and if I had I’m sure I’d have run away and begun my outrageous society life much earlier – with the result that I’d now be worn out. In fact if I’d been the heroine of a Victorian novel –’
‘Oh, you’d have died of consumption by now, no doubt about that,’ I said, making her laugh, and we began to talk of all the literary heroines who had paid the price demanded by society for the flouting of convention.
The conversation glided on, just like the river, glinting, glittering, gleaming, a hypnotic pattern coalescing into a unity beneath the white bright slice of the moon. Time glided on too, the time which should have been spent in the drawing-room, and every few minutes I told myself we should return to the house. Yet I never moved. The fairy-tale in which I was travelling had become more clearly defined; I now realized I was enacting the role of a male Cinderella and that when the clock began to strike twelve I would be compelled to flee from my princess, but meanwhile I preferred not to think of those inevitable midnight chimes. I thought instead how amazing it was that I, entombed in my sedate cathedral city, should be enjoying a scintillating dialogue with a society girl, and beyond my amazement lurked the absurd satisfaction that I, Norman Neville Aysgarth, the son of a Yorkshire draper, should be conversing in a palace garden with a millionaire’s daughter who had danced with the former Prince of Wales. I always tried hard not to slide into the repellent snobbery of the social climber, and of course I knew a good clergyman should be quite above such embarrassingly worldly thoughts, but the night was very beautiful and Miss Tallent was very amusing and I was, after all, only human.
The metaphorical midnight arrived so suddenly that I jumped. Far away by the house Charlotte Ottershaw called: ‘Dido! What have you done with Neville?’ and I saw my fairy-tale draw to a close.
‘I’ve ravished him!’ yelled Miss Tallent, and added crossly to me: ‘What a bore! Now we’ll have to return to the drawing-room.’
‘And I must be getting home.’ In my imagination I heard Cinderella’s clock relentlessly chiming the hour.
‘Must you? Already? But why?’
The moment had come. I had reached the point in the fairy-tale when Cinderella had been reclothed in her rags after her unforgettable night at the ball. ‘Miss Tallent,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier but I’m hardly at liberty nowadays to keep late hours with charming young ladies. I have a wife waiting for me at my vicarage. We’ve been married sixteen years and have five children.’
For one brief moment she stared at me in silence. Then heaving a sigh of relief she exclaimed: ‘Thank God! Now I shall never have to worry about you pouncing on me, shall I? After all, what could possibly be safer than a married clergyman with five children?’
‘What indeed?’ I said, smiling at her, and that was the moment when I realized what a prize she was, so clever, so stimulating, so attractive, so rich, so celebrated and – most alluring of all – so utterly beyond my reach. The familiar powerful excitement gripped me; I was always deeply stirred by the sight of a great prize waiting to be won. Then I pulled myself together. This prize at least could never find its way into my collection. There was no other rational conclusion to be drawn. In my politest voice I said: ‘It’s been a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Tallent. I doubt if our paths will cross again, but I shall certainly pray that you find the happiness you deserve.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ She was aghast. ‘Isn’t it patently obvious that our paths are already divinely interwoven? As soon as you told me at the dinner-table that I was heroic I knew God had sent you to my rescue! Now look here. I want to begin a meaningful new life: I want to be good, I want to be wise, I want to be Christian. You can’t just say blithely: “I doubt if our paths will cross again,” and sail away into the night! Of course I know how busy you must be and naturally I wouldn’t want to take up too. much of your time, but if you could just write me a little spiritual note occasionally –’
‘But my dear Miss Tallent –’
‘You see, I feel I’ve reached the time of life when I simply must have a spiritual adviser. You can write and explain God to me – oh, and you must tell me all about Professor Raven and Bishop Bell and Archbishop Temple and all the really vital people whom I ought to know about – and that reminds me, talking of vital people, I’d simply adore to meet your wife. May I call at the vicarage tomorrow?’
I cleared my throat. ‘How kind of you to offer, but unfortunately my wife’s unwell at present. That’s why she didn’t accompany me this evening.’
‘What a pity! But perhaps next time I’m in Starbridge –’
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet you,’ I said, diplomacy personified, but I already knew that Grace wouldn’t care for Miss Dido Tallent at all.
IV
No doubt I have now succeeded in conveying the impression that I’m a sex-obsessed, claret-mad, world-fixated ecclesiastic who deserves to be defrocked without delay. One always runs the risk of creating a false impression when one sets out for the purest of motives – honesty and humility – to portray oneself ‘warts and all’; the warts have a habit of commandeering the artist’s canvas. Let me now try to redress the balance.
First, I doubt if I’m more obsessed by sex than the average man. I admit this mythical ‘man on the Clapham omnibus’, as the lawyers call him, probably spends too much time thinking about sex, but the point I’m trying to make is that I doubt if I’m in any way abnormal when I meet an attractive woman and find myself picturing gleaming thighs. Nor need these harmless fantasies signify a tendency to immoral behaviour. A childhood spent among ardent chapel-goers ensured that I learnt early in life about the wages of sin, and out