monastic life, he was toying with the idea that Father Darcy’s death had been the mythical ‘final trigger’ which had sent me over the edge of sanity. Having suffered the delightful humiliation of being rejected by my mentor and the exquisite pain of failing to become the Abbot-General, I had realized that the Order now offered me nothing but an intolerably pain-free life at Grantchester, and unable to face a monastic future without my favourite sadist I was chafing to return to the world where with any luck I might acquire a wife who would beat me every night. How delicious! All I would have to do would be to buy a whip and a chain or two and then I could live happily ever after.
This atheistic vision of a maimed psyche so appalled me that I even wondered – and this was the final horror – if there could be a grain of truth in it. Surely if the theory were quite inapplicable I should be laughing at its absurdity? But my whole future was at stake. How could I laugh when the future I knew I had to have was now threatened with abortion? Indeed all thought of both present and future had suddenly become so agonizing that instinctively I took refuge in the remote past. Closing my eyes I reached up to clasp my mother’s hand as we walked down the garden to find Chelsea, serene elegant Chelsea who washed her paws so fastidiously before the sitting-room fire on the long winter evenings when my father read his books and my mother sewed in silence and I sat listening to her thoughts.
‘You and your cats!’ said my father to my mother. ‘In the old days you’d have been burnt as a witch!’ And the high clear voice which had belonged to me long ago said in panic: ‘They won’t burn her now, will they? I don’t want her dying and going away.’
My memory shifted. I felt Martin’s small sticky hand in mine and heard him say: ‘I don’t want you going away any more.’
I said aloud in 1940: ‘Martin –’
But then the light was switched off in my memory and stripping off my habit I went to bed and willed myself into unconsciousness.
XIII
‘We’ve discussed your relationship with your wife,’ said Francis, ‘we’ve inspected your relationship with your mistress and now today we’re going to examine your relationship with your children. What happened to them after your wife’s death?’
‘My mother-in-law took charge.’
‘I detect a lack of enthusiasm. How did you tolerate her living in your home?’
‘She didn’t live there. She took the children into her own home and I moved to bachelor quarters on the Naval base. But I wasn’t there much. I still spent most of my time at sea.’
‘Did the children mind not living with you?’
‘I told them that the quality of time fathers spent with their children was more important than the quantity.’
‘Are you good with children?’ said Francis idly, but I could feel his large sleek powerful psyche prowling around mine as he sought to induce a fatal relaxation. ‘Are you one of those gifted adults who always know what to say to anyone under sixteen?’
‘It depends on whether there’s any psychic affinity.’
‘And does such an affinity exist between you and your children?’
‘No. I can’t communicate with them without words as I used to communicate with my mother.’
‘Disappointing for you. How you must have longed for a couple of little replicas of yourself instead of these two people whom you obviously found so alien!’
‘You couldn’t be more mistaken. I despise parents who long for replicas – I consider such a desire indicative of gross selfishness and an inflated self-esteem.’
‘Aren’t you reacting rather strongly? It’s a very human trap for a parent to fall into, I’ve always thought, and it’s certainly not an uncommon one … However I won’t press that point; we already know from Father Darcy’s record that even if you didn’t long for replicas you were nonetheless capable of finding your children a disappointment. But what about your grandchildren?’ said Francis, sweeping on before I could argue further with him. ‘Any affinity there? I notice you never mention them, but perhaps that’s because you’re so sensitive about your age that you dislike being reminded you’re a grandfather.’
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