his College and we attended matins in Christ Church Cathedral. It was after this that I felt sufficiently self-assured in his company to say: ‘Since you’re a church-goer, I suppose your decision not to be ordained had nothing to do with a loss of faith.’
‘I don’t usually go to church. But I happen to be fond of that Purcell anthem they sang this morning.’
I was so startled by this confession that I was glad he gave me no chance to comment. To tell the truth,’ he added, ‘I never intended to be ordained. I read theology just to please my father.’
Automatically I heard myself say: ‘But how on earth did you break the news to him that you weren’t going on to theological college?’
‘I said something like: “Brace yourself – tough news – I’m not going to be ordained.” And he said: “Oh dear. Never mind, we can’t all be Archbishop of Canterbury. Have a drink and tell me what you intend to do instead.”’
‘What a fabulous father!’ I exclaimed impressed, but Christian merely said: ‘I doubt if he was surprised. I think he’d already worked out that my decision to read theology was my way of discharging any filial obligation I had to follow in his footsteps.’
‘Even so,’ I said, ‘he took it very well. If I decided not to be ordained, I believe my father would sink into a depression and die.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She –’
‘Oh God, no, I’m sorry, she’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she died when I was fourteen.’
‘I was fifteen when my mother died,’ said Christian. ‘It was absolute bloody hell. However, at least your father never remarried. Count your blessings.’ And when I heard the edge to his voice I knew he hated his stepmother.
I heard from her three weeks later. I was at home, trying to work out how I could trade in Lynda (my first girl, acquired in a frenzy the previous summer after my encounter with Marina in the punt) and take on something with longer legs. I was just fantasising for the umpteenth time about Dinkie when Morgan, one of the Community, banged on the door of my private sitting-room and said: ‘The intercom’s not working and that crazy wife of the Dean of Starbridge is on the phone screeching for you. Are you in or out?’
I opened the door. Morgan was an ex-pop-singer who was now trying to write an opera about God in order to justify the free meals which he received as a member of the Community, but I didn’t mind him. He was harmless. The members of the Community who drove me up the wall were Rowena and Agnes, the wives of the ex-monks, Mark and Luke. I detest bossy old bitches who think priggishness is part of the Christian way of life.
‘Okay, I’ll take the call,’ I said, intrigued by Morgan’s news, and moved to the bedroom, where I kept the phone.
‘Nicholas my dear,’ said Mrs Dean the instant I announced my presence, ‘this is Dido Aysgarth – as that peculiar man who answered the phone may or may not have told you, and really, I can’t think why your father has to surround you with a bunch of cranks instead of engaging some motherly soul who would be a proper housekeeper, but then there’s the problem of the garden, isn’t there, and gardeners are almost impossible to obtain nowadays as I well know. Nevertheless it seems unwise to rely on religious maniacs, such a tragedy your mother died young, although she worked so hard running that estate that it’s hardly surprising she had a massive stroke and personally I think women should stick to being wives and mothers and leave the masculine work in this world to men – and talking of men, my dear, Christian’s coming down next weekend with his family and since he’s taken a fancy to you he’s insisting that I invite you over for Sunday lunch, and I thought what a good idea because it’s years since you’ve seen Elizabeth and although she’s only fourteen she’s very mature – and in my opinion quite ravishing as well as utterly brilliant – but of course I’m prejudiced as I’m her mother, and talking of parents, I almost hesitate to ask for fear of hearing bad news, but how is that poor old father of yours?’
‘Very well.’
‘So sad your mother’s death unhinged him. All right, Nicholas, we’ll look forward to your visit, Christian will be so –’ And she hung up, cutting herself off. Probably she continued to talk even after the receiver had been replaced.
It says much for my desire to see Christian that I turned up at the Deanery despite the outrageous style of the invitation. Unfortunately I at first had no chance to talk to him. Mrs Aysgarth was ruthless in clamping down on my efforts to escape from Nymphet-Elizabeth, Starbridge’s very own version of Lolita, and when I did succeed in heading for the seclusion of the lavatory, Sandy-the-Greek-Freak waylaid me in the hall. I was just wishing I were a hundred miles away when Christian came to the rescue and bore me off for a stroll around the Close.
As we passed the South Canonry where the Ashworths lived he said: ‘Are you really psychic or is that just a fantasy of Marina’s?’
‘I get a bit of foreknowledge occasionally.’
Hearing my guarded tone he realised I was nervous of ridicule and at once he sought to reassure me. ‘I ask purely out of friendly curiosity,’ he said, ‘not hostile scepticism.’
‘I’m not good at talking about it. In fact my father says I shouldn’t talk about it, because in his opinion there are many futures and not all of them come true. You’ve got to allow for man’s free will, you see, so when I do experience foreknowledge –’ I repressed a shudder at the memory of Marina’s party ‘-I always have to remind myself that the disclosed future may never happen.’
‘But presumably it does sometimes happen, and that’s extraordinary in its implications, isn’t it? It would seem to support Plato – to suggest that the world we know is only the shadow of another world, the real world where all time is eternally present. How can one see the future unless time, as it’s popularly understood, is an illusion? What a kick in the teeth for modern philosophy, refusing to acknowledge any reality other than the one we perceive with our senses!’
‘My father says modern philosophy is wholly unreal, just the spirit of the Enlightenment reaching its inevitable dead end. My father says the logical positivists prove only one thing: that it’s possible to have a brilliant intellect and still wind up a spiritual ignoramus out of touch with ultimate reality.’
‘I’d like to talk to your father,’ said Christian, ‘but I hear he doesn’t see anyone new nowadays.’
‘Oh, he’d see you, I’m sure,’ I said at once, ‘if I were to ask him.’
Would he? Then if you could mention my name I’d really be most grateful. Like the spirit of the Enlightenment, I seem to have reached a dead end.’
I stared at him in astonishment, and when he saw my expression he said rapidly: ‘I’ve got everything a man could wish for, of course. But I feel I need a wise man like your father to give my life a new direction for the future.’
This statement at least I could understand. Anyone could benefit from skilled spiritual direction, even those whose lives were successful and happy. My father had never confined himself merely to counselling the troubled in order to help them to pray; a considerable part of his ministry had consisted of advising those who were doing well in their journey along the spiritual way and wanted to sustain their progress. So I didn’t automatically assume that Christian had severe personal problems. In fact I thought it far more likely that he had reached a point where his secession from the Church bothered him and he was keen to re-examine whatever beliefs he still retained.
‘I’ll speak to my father as soon as I get home,’ I promised, pleased by the opportunity Christian had given me to repay his kindness, but to my dismay my father refused to see him.
‘I’m not interested in Aysgarth’s over-educated sons who are now finally realising that intellectual prowess is no substitute for spiritual growth.’
‘But