sun was now shining but the air was still cold and the Cathedral had a hard, dense, sculpted look as it rose from the frozen grass of the churchyard. Above the central tower the spire narrowed to a pinpoint against an ice-blue sky. Leaving the Close by the main gateway I drove with dread to the hospital.
I had no doubt whatsoever that Desmond would have to be sacked, although obviously the sacking would have to wait until he had recovered from his ordeal. One simply cannot keep priests who persist in hoarding pornography and in consequence risk embroiling the Church in scandal. I would do my best to help Desmond overcome his problems; I would arrange the best medical care, the best spiritual direction, the best possible form of early retirement. But there was no question of allowing him to continue at St Paul’s. I was all too aware that Malcolm and I had had a very lucky escape from disaster. To let Desmond remain in his job would have been the height of foolishness.
It was precisely because I knew Desmond had to be sacked later that this visit to the hospital promised to be such an ordeal for me; I knew I had to conceal the decision to sack him in order to offer him something which resembled pastoral care, and as I reluctantly prepared to hide behind the public persona which Jon called my glittering image, I found that shame was mingling with my dread. Dissimulation is not a comfortable course for a bishop to take, even when the purpose is to be kind to a sick man in hospital.
On arrival I was directed to a distant ward and found Desmond in a long room with a dozen other patients. The nurse on duty had warned me that because of the injuries to his jaw he was unable to talk, but despite this warning I was still shocked when I saw him. Heavy bandages hid most of the bruises but the flesh around his eyes was dark and swollen. Normally Desmond had rosy cheeks which in combination with his round blue eyes and lack of hair gave him a resemblance to an affable baby. The brutal destruction of this innocent appearance seemed unforgivably cruel. I found it hard not to flinch.
‘How very sorry I am to see you like this, Desmond,’ I said, drawing up the visitor’s chair and sitting at his bedside. ‘What a terrible thing to happen.’ And I took his hot, damp hand in mine.
His eyes filled with tears, and at once I found the scene so distressing that I hardly knew how to endure it. I realised he was reminding me of my POW days and the men who had been beaten up, but I realised too that I had to blot out all thought of the past in order to deal with the present. Tightening my grip on his hand I said quickly: ‘It’s all right, I know you can’t speak and I know you can remember nothing about what happened. I’ve just called to tell you the man was a mental patient who had never met you before, so there’s no need to torment yourself with the thought that you were attacked by someone you knew who had a grudge against you.’
Desmond was now struggling to blink back his tears, and I found this pathetic attempt to keep a stiff upper lip for his bishop almost intolerably touching. Speaking more rapidly than ever I said: ‘And don’t worry about the parish. The Archdeacon will see that mass is celebrated every day – and yes, we do realise that Father Pitt is only fit enough to take the occasional service. I intend to seek Bishop Farr’s help in finding a locum – Starmouth is more of an Anglo-Catholic stronghold than Starbridge, as you know.’ I realised as I spoke that I had forgotten to mention the problem to Nigel when we had discussed the fourteen-year-old moppet, so I made a mental note to telephone him as soon as I returned home. ‘The point is,’ I heard myself saying, ‘that you must have all the time you need to get fit again, and your prime task now is to focus on making a good recovery.’
A single tear trickled down Desmond’s cheek as he lost the battle to beat back his emotion. I suspected guilt was now mingling with all the pain and shock, guilt that he was not worthy to receive kind words from his bishop. Repressing a shudder at the thought of the pornography and somehow keeping my voice calm despite the hellish level to which the scene was sinking, I asked: ‘Does the chaplain know you like to receive the sacrament every day?’
He shook his head.
‘I’ll make sure he’s told. Now … shall we take a moment to pray?’
He achieved a nod. I then had the task of framing some appropriate sentences, but I was in such a state of distress by this time that my creative powers failed me and I found myself falling back on a prayer I had used as a POW. This upset me still further, but with an iron will I clamped down again on the harrowing memories and followed the prayer with a recitation of the matins’ collects. I was wondering if I should offer the laying-on of hands. Many sick people find this sacramental gesture comforting, but I had my doubts about whether I should attempt it in this case. Jon was keen on the laying-on of hands but always said it should never be attempted in a situation where there was a marked ambivalence of feeling. This was because the darker side of the ambivalent emotions would block the healing power of the Holy Spirit, with the result that only the negative feelings of the ego would be communicated.
In the end I thought: better safe than sorry. So I made no sacramental gesture, but still my anxiety remained at a high level. I was now wondering if Desmond was seeing the attack as a punishment for his sins, and I knew I should take time to demolish this superstitious dread. God, after all, hardly requires someone else to beat us up. We are only too busy beating ourselves up by committing wrong acts which have unpleasant consequences.
‘Desmond,’ I said after concluding our prayers, ‘I can’t leave without making sure you don’t misinterpret this appalling crime. First, although we can’t deny that God has created a world in which random violence takes place, we can be certain he never wills this random violence to happen. And second, we can be certain that because he never wills suffering he’ll strive always to redeem it by bringing good out of –’ I broke off. I had realised that for Desmond good was not going to come out of evil because as the result of the assault he was going to lose the job which constituted his entire life. But now was obviously not the time for a complex meditation on the mystery of suffering. Now was the time for a good bishop to speak with confidence in order to reassure Desmond as he deserved. I had to offer certainties, not doubts. ‘– by bringing good out of evil,’ I concluded firmly. I stood up as I added: ‘Forgive my hesitation, but I was thinking for a moment of your suffering and feeling upset.’ I might have said more, but when I saw Desmond’s eyes were shining with tears again I gave him my blessing, promised to visit him later and fled.
Outside the hospital I sank down in the driving-seat of my car and grappled with the horrible thought that despite all my efforts I had been a pastoral failure, but there was no time to grapple for long. Raggedly I drove home for the next segment of my obstacle race.
By the time I arrived at the South Canonry I had reviewed what I had to do before leaving for London. I had to tell Edward, my priest-chaplain, to talk to the chaplain at the hospital and make sure Desmond received the sacrament daily. Then I had to phone Nigel in Starmouth to tell him to dredge up an Anglo-Catholic locum. Then I had to have a conference with Roger, my lay-chaplain, about the Church House meeting and get him to explain the graphs which I had failed to look at yesterday. Then I had to remember to take my formal uniform to London – I broke off to wonder if my favourite frock-coat had come back from the cleaners.
Halting the car with a screech of the brakes I leapt out, hared up the steps to the porch and flung wide the front door.
But the next moment I had stopped dead.
Standing stock still in the middle of the hall was none other than the sinister priest who had reminded me of Elmer Gantry.
‘Nothing blinds us to the true and living image of God except the false man-made idol, worldliness.’
AUSTIN
