to take lots of liquid in hot weather.’
Jardine remarked: ‘Maybe I should take lemonade regularly to prevent irascibility after an arid morning in my study. I’ve just been reading the latest crop of letters on the Marriage Bill from people who think I was the clergyman in charge of Edward VIII’s wedding, and I’m now wishing more fervently than ever that my deplorable namesake had been called by any name other than Jardine.’
This was a skilful attempt to manipulate the conversation back within the bounds of normality, but before a more relaxed atmosphere could be established Mrs Cobden-Smith swept in. ‘Willy, George won’t eat that horsemeat. Do you suppose – oh my goodness, what’s going on? Carrie dear, you simply must make more effort! I know the heat’s trying, but –’
‘Amy,’ said the Bishop, ‘would you kindly stop addressing my wife as if she were an Indian peasant ripe for civilization by the British Raj?’
‘Well, really, Alex!’
‘Mrs Cobden-Smith,’ said Miss Christie with unprecedented charm, ‘I wonder if you’d be terribly kind and help me take Carrie upstairs to lie down? You must have had such a broad experience of heatstroke in India and I’d so value your advice – should we call the doctor?’
‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, greatly mollified, ‘but perhaps she does need to lie down. Come along, Carrie.’
The chaplain then chose an unfortunate moment to rush into the room with bad news. ‘Bishop, the Archdeacon’s on the phone again and he’s in a frightful panic!’
‘Oh, hang the Archdeacon!’ exploded the Bishop. ‘And hang that abominable instrument the telephone!’ But he seized the chance to make a swift exit from the chaos caused by his irritability.
VI
I was surprised how quickly order was restored. Coaxed by Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine drank all her lemonade and said she felt better. The Starmouths arrived, and while they debated what to drink I could hear the Cobden-Smiths discussing George who presently made a lacklustre entrance. Miss Christie summoned the butler to replenish the lemonade jug, but before I had the chance to speak to her about our outing four guests appeared from various corners of the diocese and all opportunity for private conversation was curtailed.
Lunch passed smoothly if tediously. I busied myself by being sociable with a large matron whose favourite topic of conversation was the Mothers’ Union, and although Miss Christie never looked in my direction I occasionally caught Lady Starmouth’s sympathetic glance across the table.
However, by half-past two the party had dispersed and I was preparing in my bedroom for a country excursion far removed from a clerical duty. Off came my clergyman’s uniform. Having pulled on my coolest informal clothes I unbuttoned my shirt at the neck, adjusted the angle of my hat and once more turned to survey my image in the long glass. Immediately I wondered if I had gone too far with the informality; I fancied I looked like a commercial traveller taking a rest from hawking some dubious product, but when I decided to wear a tie I felt much too hot. Shoving the tie back in the drawer I undid the top button of my shirt again and made up my mind that I looked exactly what I was: an off-duty clergyman about to take a pretty woman for a drive in the country.
But then I looked in the glass and saw the spy beyond the clergyman, the image beyond the image, and beyond the spy was yet another man, the image beyond the image beyond the image. Reality blurred; fantasy and truth became inextricably intertwined. I told myself I had imagined the distant stranger but as I felt my personality begin to divide I covered my face with my hands.
Sinking to my knees by the bed I whispered: ‘Lord, forgive me my sins. Deliver me from evil. Help me to serve you as well as I can.’ After that I felt calmer, and when I glanced again in the glass I found that the off-duty clergyman was now the only visible image. He was wearing a severe expression as if to stress that I had no business to let the heat addle my brain, and immediately erasing all morbid thoughts from my mind, I set off to meet Miss Christie.
‘Experience has made it certain that the clergyman’s wife must either throw in her lot unreservedly with her husband’s difficult and distinctive career, and reap her reward with a range and depth of personal influence which are unequalled in the case of any other married woman, or she must separate herself from his work and life with consequences ruinous both to his success and to her own credit, and, we must add, to the happiness of both.’
HERBERT HENSLEY HENSON
Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 The Bishoprick Papers
I
Miss Christie was wearing a pale-green short-sleeved frock, which exposed her slim arms, and flat white sandals, which emphasized her slender ankles. Other fleshier curves were erotically concealed beneath the prim cut of her frock. She was sheltering beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.
‘Trying not to be recognized?’ I said as we met in the hall.
‘I might ask you the same question!’
‘Well, at least you haven’t said –’
‘– “Oh, how different you look out of your clericals!”’
We laughed, and as I led the way outside to my car it occurred to me that if Miss Christie could cope with every conceivable crisis in an episcopal household she could cope with a Doctor of Divinity who was mad enough to be afraid of his own reflection. Conscious of relief, happiness, nervous anticipation and sexual desire in pleasantly stimulating proportions I decided the afternoon was going to be a success.
Miss Christie suggested that we might drive to Starbury Ring, a megalithic stone circle high on the Downs, and after she had directed me out of the city we headed up the valley to the north. The surrounding hills curved with a voluptuous smoothness in the limpid afternoon light. Leaving the main road we passed some farms and once were trapped behind a slow-moving cart, but otherwise nothing deflected our attention from the steadily unfolding views.
Suddenly Miss Christie said, ‘I ought to take Mrs Jardine for a drive like this. It would do her good. We could even take a picnic and disappear for an entire afternoon.’
‘What about the Bishop?’
‘Oh, I’d leave him behind. He hates eating alfresco. His idea of relaxation is to write a letter to The Times.’
‘I hear that was how he made his name before he became Vicar of St Mary’s, Mayfair.’
‘Yes, he didn’t have much else to do when he was a chaplain in North London.’
I saw the chance to pursue my investigation. ‘No one’s yet explained to me,’ I said, ‘why he was living in such obscurity before the translation to Mayfair. What happened to him after he was ordained?’
‘He was given a parish in this diocese – in the slums of Starmouth. He stayed there for seven years and made a success of it, but it was desperately hard work and in the end his health broke down.’
‘That
