style="font-size:15px;"> ‘What a ghastly phrase! That’s the sort of jargon people in trade use when they tell a customer that some important item’s going to be out of stock for six months! Now stop being so beastly pompous, Archdeacon dear, and let me tell you that your sermon this morning was quite wonderful and I was so proud of you and I felt so spiritually uplifted that I soaked two entire handkerchiefs! Isn’t life absolute heaven?’
Without a second’s hesitation I said: ‘Yes, I feel as if it’s spring again after a long dull winter!’ And having delivered myself of quite the most reckless remark any married clergyman could have uttered to a flirtatious young woman, I abandoned my Bible on the parapet of the wishing-well and impulsively clasped both her hands in mine.
‘Passion cannot be eliminated: it can be kept uncontaminated, be sublimated, as the jargon of today would say.’
CHARLES E. RAVEN
Regius Professor of Divinity, Cambridge, 1932–1950 A Wanderer’s Way
I
The clasp lasted three seconds. Then, releasing her, I found myself muttering idiotically: ‘Sorry. Most unedifying. Thoroughly unseemly,’ and those adjectives, so well-worn by an earlier generation of clergymen, added an air of bathos to my horrified reaction; with a few antique words it seemed I had turned a silly slip into melodrama. Finally, to pile indignity upon indignity, I began to blush, and turning my back on Dido I grabbed my Bible from the parapet of the wishing-well. I instinctively knew that my hands should be fully occupied before they succumbed to a second catastrophic urge to wander.
‘Dearest Stephen!’ said Dido enthralled. ‘Why on earth are you apologizing? I can’t see anything wrong with an affectionate hand-clasp between friends!’
All I could say was: ‘You promised not to call me by that name.’ I was still unable to look at her.
‘Archdeacon dear, please don’t be so upset! Of course I adore you passionately, but why should sex ruin our beautiful friendship? I’d never go to bed with any man unless I was married to him, and as I can’t marry you, you’re absolutely safe. Meanwhile you can have no possible desire to go to bed with me – how could you when your wife’s so much prettier and nicer than I am? – so that takes care of beastly old sex, doesn’t it, and leaves us free to enjoy our glorious romantic friendship as you guide me along my spiritual way!’
‘Miss Tallent,’ I said, ‘before I met you I’d have thought it impossible that a woman should be both very sophisticated and very naïve. May I congratulate you on achieving such a remarkable paradox? But I’m afraid the time has come when you must set your naïvety aside.’
‘Oh, I adore it when you’re being so stern and austere! Now Archdeacon dear, stop looking as if you’d like to spank me and calm down for a moment. I’m not in the least naïve; I’m the last word in down-to-earth common sense. If I don’t misbehave with you – and I’ve no intention of doing anything which would wreck our beautiful friendship – how can you misbehave with me? Adultery’s a two-way street.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Not entirely. Theologically speaking –’
‘Oh good, I did so hope there’d be a fascinating theological angle – how delicious!’
‘Miss Tallent –’
‘Dearest Archdeacon, don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone now so that you can glue together your shattered nerves, and I shall keep a chaste distance from you for the rest of the weekend, but when you get home do write and explain all the theological aspects of adultery!’
‘I won’t have time. I’m leaving on Wednesday for my holiday in the Lake District.’
‘Will you send me a postcard?’
‘No, that would be quite improper.’
‘But you’ll pray for me!’
I said in a voice of steel: ‘I pray regularly for all the souls in my care,’ but to my horror I realized I was smiling at her.
‘Well, so long as God’s brought into the situation we can’t go far wrong, can we?’ said Dido, smiling radiantly in return.
‘I think you’d better leave, Miss Tallent, before I really do give way to the urge to spank you.’
With a laugh she danced away from me across the rose garden.
II
Collapsing on the wrought-iron garden-seat, where earlier Lady Starmouth had declared with such incomparable style how very hard it was to be a clergyman, I clutched my Bible as if it were a life-belt and forced myself to face the unspeakable. I had fallen in love. Hitherto I had believed that only irrational women could succumb to the full force of an amour fou, yet here I was, collapsed in a heap, almost asphyxiated by the reek of red roses, and shivering with desire from head to toe. This was no middle-aged inconvenience. This was a passion of the prime of life. Nothing like it had ever happened to me before. I was appalled.
Automatically I started recalling my seven-year courtship of Grace, but although I had embarked on this period of my life in a fever of calf love my feelings had matured into a solid reliable devotion and I had never experienced the suspension of my rational faculties. On the contrary, I had plotted my marriage campaign with military precision, calculating down to the last farthing when I would be able to afford the trip to the altar, scheming how I might win my future father-in-law’s consent while I was still so young, rehearsing the necessary speech to my mother until I was word-perfect. By no remote stretch of the imagination could I describe myself as having been demented with love. In fact in the light of my present madness I was almost tempted to wonder if I had ever really loved Grace at all – but that was an insane thought which only indicated the disintegration of my reason. Of course I had loved Grace. I had adored her. She had been exactly the kind of wife I knew I had to have.
‘Such a fetching girl!’ said my mother benignly in my memory. ‘So quiet and refined – and with a hundred and fifty pounds a year of her own! Darling Neville, I couldn’t be more pleased …’
The memory terminated. Wiping the sweat from my forehead I pulled myself together and resolved to fight this monstrous insanity which had assailed me. Why was I loafing amidst the nauseating stench of roses and thinking of my mother? That was hardly constructive behaviour. I had to start planning how I could cover up the disaster as efficiently as a cat burying a mess, and while I was engaged in this vital task I had to pretend to the whole world – but especially to Grace – that I was my sane, normal self.
That was the moment when I remembered our forty-eight-hour second honeymoon which was due to take place before we embarked on our family holiday. Common sense, liberally garnished with a strong instinct for self-preservation, now told me that this was not the time, in the sixteen-year-old history of my perfect marriage, to spend forty-eight hours entirely alone with my wife. My most sensible course of action was to hide from her among the children as I shored up my defences and made myself impregnable to the violent assaults of my irrationality.
Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees I clasped my hands, squeezed
