style="font-size:15px;"> ‘The name Neville reminded her of Mr Chamberlain.’
‘But what was she doing calling you by your Christian name when you’d only just met her?’
‘Oh, society people have very peculiar manners these days. Like people in show business.’
‘Well, it all sounds very fast to me! Why, she even said she talked to you on your own for half an hour in the garden!’
‘Only about Victorian literature.’
‘But what did everyone think when you disappeared for half an hour with a society flirt?’
I cleared my throat. ‘I think that designation’s a little uncharitable, Grace. Not even a society girl’s beyond redemption.’
‘Don’t tell me she wants you to redeem her!’
I cleared my throat again. ‘Well, as a matter of fact she did show signs of wanting a complete change of direction. I’ve promised to write her a line or two in response to any queries she may have about spiritual matters.’
‘Honestly, Neville! I wouldn’t have thought you could be quite so naïve!’
‘And I wouldn’t have thought you could be quite so catty and cynical!’
Grace suddenly drooped as if all the strength had drained out of her. Immediately I hated myself. ‘My dearest love –’ I took her in my arms – ‘I know it all seems highly irregular, but what’s a clergyman to do when he’s asked for spiritual advice? He can’t refuse to give it simply because the person in search of help is someone with whom he’d never normally associate!’ I kissed her before adding: ‘Of course I’ll show you every letter.’
‘Don’t be silly. You know that’s not necessary.’ She clung to me briefly before turning away with the abrupt comment: ‘The curates have arrived.’
‘Bother the curates.’ I grabbed her back into my arms and said in my firmest voice: ‘I love you very much – as I trust I proved to you last night – and for me you’ll always be the only woman in the world. Why on earth should I even look twice at a saucy little piece of nonsense like Dido Tallent?’
That indeed was the question.
IV
Alex returned at noon after bearing his olive branch to the village of Starvale St James where Lyle had rented accommodation a year ago. She normally lived in Cambridge, where before the war her husband had been a canon of the Cathedral and a theologian at the University, but after Ashworth had been sent overseas with his regiment Lyle had preferred to retreat temporarily to the country so that her young children would be in a safer place. Ashworth had an elderly friend in Starvale St James – none other than the irate churchwarden who was now persecuting me about the font – and Lyle, already familiar with the diocese after her years with the Jardines, had decided she ran less risk of being lonely there than elsewhere in the English countryside.
When Alex returned I had just finished speaking on the telephone to the Bishop, who was in a flap about the proposed prisoner-of-war camp on Starbury Plain. It was by no means certain that we would be allowed any contact with the prisoners but the Bishop felt we should at least plan as if some form of pastoral work, no matter how limited, would be permitted. However unfortunately the camp, if built, would stand in the other archdeaconry, and the other Archdeacon, Hubert Babbington-French, was now openly proclaiming that the only good German was a dead German. No wonder the Bishop was in a flap; it wasn’t every day he had to deal with an eminent cleric bent on bawling out unchristian slogans. Obviously the idiotic Babbington-French would have to be steered away from the wretched Huns, but I had a nasty feeling that the Bishop in his despair was planning to steer me towards them. I was willing to do my duty and attempt to behave in a Christian manner towards even the most repulsive Nazi, but the prospect was far from enthralling, particularly when we were all waiting to see if Hitler opened his Baedeker guide at the wrong page. I was now privately very worried indeed about the prospect of an attack on Starbridge, for my vicarage was in the centre of the city, but Grace, following the example of the Queen, had said that the children stayed with her and that she intended to stay with me – and I, of course, had to stay at St Martin’s. I could only thank God we had a good air-raid shelter and pray that Hitler, diverted by the fighting on the Eastern Front, lost interest in reading travel guides.
I was just wondering if I should hold daily services at lunch-time to cater for all the city workers who would be experiencing a strong compulsion to pray for deliverance, when the door of my study opened and Alex strode in. There was a spring in his walk, a smile on his face and a carnation in the buttonhole of his smart lounge suit.
‘Do I deduce that the hatchet was safely buried?’ I said amused after we had exchanged greetings.
‘I think it would be more accurate to say that we managed to ease the hatchet into a coffin to await a full burial later – but at least that’s a step in the right direction! We sat in the garden and drank tea for twenty minutes.’
‘Only twenty minutes?’
‘She had to attend a committee meeting of the Women’s Institute. But she sent her love to Carrie, so it would seem the ice is definitely broken.’
‘Splendid! And what did you think of her boys? That little Charley says he wants to be a clergyman.’
‘So he told me.’ Alex, who had been pacing around the room in his usual restless fashion, now stopped jingling the coins in his pockets and started eyeing the telephone. ‘I’d so much like to tell Carrie about the meeting,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if I put through a call on your extension upstairs?’
‘Not at all – go ahead,’ I said, and embarked on a letter to the Red Cross about the parish food parcel for British prisoners of war.
I was half-way through this task when I was interrupted by the arrival of my diocesan bête noire, a clergyman named Darrow about whom I shall say more later. I mention him now only because it was at this time that he began his career at the Theological College in the Cathedral Close, a fact which became of considerable importance to me in 1945 after I had almost committed adultery.
On that morning in 1942 when Darrow arrived without warning on my doorstep and breezed arrogantly into my study, the Theological College was in the midst of a crisis because of the wartime shortage of staff, and on the previous evening at the palace Alex had been able to provide Dr Ottershaw with the vital information that Darrow had had experience in the training of clergymen. Darrow had had experience in many other clerical fields too – driving archdeacons well-nigh round the bend was only one of his more esoteric activities – but now is not the moment to expand on his buccaneering career in the Church. His purpose in calling at the vicarage that morning was to thank Alex for recommending him to the Bishop, but he wound up by delivering an insufferably priggish lecture on the theme that the ultimate prize for any priest – as a bigoted Anglo-Catholic he always called clergymen ‘priests’ – could only be union with God.
‘How did I manage to keep a civil tongue in my head?’ demanded Alex as soon as Darrow had stalked out. ‘I must be getting saintly in my old age! And to think that according to Lyle her husband remains one of Darrow’s most devoted admirers!’
‘Ashworth’s busy being an army chaplain in North Africa. If he was trying to run an archdeaconry where Darrow was on the rampage, he’d
