and pray for the grace to do better. It was only after this ritual had been performed that Jon and I tried to work out how to cleanse the poisoned atmosphere and mend the fractured community.
Jon never held a session which Aysgarth and I both attended, but he suggested to each of us that the Bishop, Dean and Chapter should all make a habit of praying together, and when he judged that the moment was right I held a meeting at the South Canonry. Here it was agreed that for six months all five of us would attend matins daily and all five of us would participate together in the early service of Holy Communion at least once during the week. I also suggested that once a month we all met at the South Canonry to discuss any contentious issues in a calm atmosphere over coffee.
Life improved. The coffee meetings were a failure, since everyone was so nervous of a quarrel that nothing contentious was ever discussed, but at least afterwards the Canons were more willing to confide in me whenever Aysgarth drove them to distraction. Meanwhile the daily attendance at weekday matins had become a successful routine and we all stayed on for Communion on Wednesdays. This agreed pattern of worship should have meant that Aysgarth and I were free to abandon our game of spiritual one-upmanship, but I noticed that whenever I chose to exceed the agreed pattern and stay on for an additional Communion service, he usually stayed on too. However I thought it best to try to believe this was because of changed spiritual needs and had no connection with our old rivalry.
I must at this point give credit where credit is due and admit that Aysgarth worked just as hard as I did to eliminate the spiritual decay which had affected our community. He kept himself sober, behaved immaculately with young women and worked hard to raise money to restore the Cathedral’s crumbling west front. It was then I realised that Aysgarth’s principal talent, the one which outshone all the others, was for survival.
It would be untrue to say we became friends, but we did make elaborate attempts to be pleasant to each other. ‘And bearing in mind our temperamental incompatibility,’ I said to Jon, ‘even elaborate attempts to be pleasant must represent some sort of modest spiritual triumph,’ but Jon immediately became very austere.
‘I agree it’s a triumph,’ he said, ‘but it’s certainly neither modest nor spiritual. It’s a gargantuan triumph of the will fuelled by pride and self-deception, and all that’s really happening is that you’re passing off a spurious affability as a Christian virtue. Phrases such as “temperamental incompatibility” and “modest spiritual triumph” actually fail to describe or explain anything that’s going on here.’
I was baffled. ‘But Aysgarth and I are temperamentally incompatible!’
‘I see no evidence of that. You’re both intelligent men capable of strong passions and deep commitment. In fact I don’t see you as incompatible at all, temperamentally or otherwise – you’ve actually got a lot in common. You’re both well-educated men in the same line of business. You both enjoy fine food, good wine and the company of attractive women. You’re both devoted to your children.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Your present attitude to Aysgarth says a great deal about your desire to behave like a good Christian, but very little about your desire to take the essential Christian journey inwards and examine your soul to work out what’s going on there. Perhaps if you were to take another look at the writings of Father Andrew, who was not only a modern master of the spiritual life but a man of immense humility and psychological insight …’
I did meditate on the passages Jon marked for my attention, but I regret to say I did not like Aysgarth any better afterwards. I could only redouble my efforts to treat him in the most Christian way I could devise.
It had been arranged that we should take the short service of matins together on that particular morning in February, I recited the office and leading the prayers, he reading the assigned passages from scripture, and when I entered the vestry of the Cathedral shortly before half-past seven I found he was waiting for me. I assumed that the three Canons had already taken their seats among the congregation in St Anselm’s chapel.
‘Hullo, Charles! Tiresome sort of weather, isn’t it?’
‘Very dreary. I hope it doesn’t snow and disrupt the trains.’
‘Going anywhere special today?’
‘Just nipping up to town for a committee meeting at Church House.’
‘Rather you than me!’
This concluded our opening round of pleasantries and was, as a golfer might say, par for the course. Aysgarth smiled at me benignly. When I had first met him long ago in 1940, he had been reserved, serious and not unappealing in his appearance despite that lean and hungry look which is always supposed to indicate an oversized ambition. Now, many double-whiskies and many sumptuous dinners later, he was stout and plain with a racy social manner which bordered constantly on frivolity. Being short, he was probably grateful for his thick hair which added a few precious tenths of an inch to his height. The hair was off-white and untidy, calling to mind the fleece of a bedraggled sheep. His blue eyes were set above pouches of skin in a heavily lined, reddish face, and his thin mouth, suggesting obstinacy, aggression and a powerful will, marked him as a forceful personality, someone who had no hesitation in being ruthless when it suited him. For some reason, which must remain one of the unsolved mysteries of sexual chemistry, women consistently found this tough little ecclesiastical gangster attractive. The phenomenon never ceased to astonish me.
As I took off my coat I carefully embarked on a second round of innocuous conversation. ‘How very kind of you, Stephen,’ I said, ‘to give Charley lunch yesterday.’
‘Not at all,’ said Aysgarth, following my example and toiling to be agreeable. I had thought he might make some comment on the lunch and perhaps even mention Samson, but he asked instead: ‘How’s Michael? Dido told me he came down to see you yesterday.’
I quickly moved to protect my Achilles’ heel. ‘Oh, Michael’s fine, couldn’t be better!’ I said, taking care to exude the satisfaction of a proud parent. ‘How’s Christian?’
Christian, Aysgarth’s eldest son and the apple of his eye, was a don up at Oxford.
‘Oh, doing wonderfully well!’ said Aysgarth at once. ‘I’m so lucky to have sons who never give me a moment’s anxiety!’
Instantly I grabbed hold of my temper before I could lose it, but it was still difficult not to shout at him: ‘Bastard!’ I knew perfectly well that Aysgarth was remembering Charley, running away from home, and Michael, being flung out of medical school, while the Aysgarth boys had journeyed through adolescence without ever putting a foot wrong. Aysgarth had four sons from his first marriage, all of whom were highly successful and utterly devoted to him.
‘Is Christian working on another book?’ I enquired politely, but I was unable to resist adding the barbed sentence: ‘I hope I’ll find it more original than his last one.’
‘Ah, but the influence of classical Rome on medieval philosophy isn’t quite your subject, is it, Charles?’ said Aysgarth, delivering this lethal riposte without a second’s hesitation. ‘If you’d read Greats up at Oxford, as I did, you’d find that Christian’s scholarship was more within your intellectual reach.’
The worst part about Aysgarth, as I had discovered to my cost in the past, was that he was a killer in debate. One entered an argument with him at one’s peril, but of course, as Jon would have instantly reminded me, I had no business getting into an argument with Aysgarth at all.
Fortunately
