myself unable to express what bothered me most. With renewed panic I grabbed the next most bothersome subject on my list. ‘I mean, the Theological College seems to be useless to me at the moment, and … well, the truth is I don’t honestly think, to put the matter in a nutshell, it can help me in –’ I hesitated but forced myself to add ‘– in this muddle.’
‘My dear Nicholas!’ said the Bishop again, professional charm still well to the fore but his genuine concern now so strong that he quite overlooked the signpost provided by my last three words. ‘But how can the College be useless? It’s the most splendid place – I’ve entirely preserved it from the decadent spirit of the age!’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles. Excuse me, sir, but I think that could be the problem: it’s so well-preserved it’s dead. Of course I’m not suggesting it should go all trendy and liberal like some of the other theological colleges –’
‘I should think not indeed!’
‘– but I do wish the staff were allowed to talk about relevant things sometimes, I mean things that are relevant to Real Life – like, in a manner of speaking, sex. It seems sort of, well, weird to go on and on about Church history and dogmatics yet never once mention –’
‘Dear me, you young men of today with your passion for “relevance”! But tell me this: what makes you so sure that what you think is relevant isn’t instead just a passing fashion? Who makes the judgement on what’s relevant, and how is that judgement made? Subjective judgements made under the influence of passing fashion are dangerous, Nicholas. One must keep one’s gaze fixed on absolute truths, not relative values.’
‘Sex looks like a pretty absolute truth from where I’m standing, Uncle Charles.’
“Well, of course it does!’ said the Bishop, shifting ground quickly in order to extricate us from the theological quicksands. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young!’ Suddenly he got down to business. ‘Okay, I get the message,’ he said, very trendily for a conservative prelate. ‘Girl-trouble, isn’t it?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re strongly attracted to a girl and you want to go to bed with her.’
‘Um.’ The situation was now so delicate that I could only hold my breath and pray for courage.
This is a very, very difficult problem,’ said the Bishop, finally casting aside the glittering public persona and speaking straight from the heart with profound sympathy. ‘Far be it from me to underestimate it. As you know, I wholly disapprove of fornication, but I’m also wholly aware how tempting it is to indulge in it. I shan’t regale you with all the familiar arguments because you’ll have encountered them numerous times before – you’ve read Austin Farrer on continence, I assume?’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles.’
‘And Archbishop Ramsey on sex and society?’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles.’
Then since Farrer and Ramsey are better priests than I am I can hardly hope to improve on what they say as they spell out the Christian point of view. So let me take a purely pragmatic – one might almost say worldly – approach. I’ve never been called to celibacy. At various times during my life this has created severe problems for me, but let me now attempt to share the fruits of my experience with you.’
Clever old Uncle Charles, knowing perfectly well that the ruminations, no matter how truthful, of two saints like Farrer and Ramsey were of little practical use to someone battling away against maxi-erections. With bated breath I waited to sample the fruits of his experience.
‘Fornication,’ said the Bishop with superb self-confidence and a total lack of embarrassment, ‘is like Russian roulette – by which I mean it can be tremendously exciting. It gives you all sorts of thrilling delusions about how dashing and masculine you are, but unfortunately the reality is that you may wind up destroyed. Now, that’s not thrilling, that’s not dashing, that’s not even a boost to the masculine ego. It’s just very silly and a tragic waste. Of course you may get away with your adventure; it’s always possible to survive Russian roulette. But why be immature enough to take such a mindless risk once you’re grown up? There’s more to life than getting hooked on adrenalin –’ the Bishop certainly knew how to turn on the trendy vocabulary; moving in the world of television had evidently taught him a thing or two ‘– and smashing up your future for the sake of a night of pleasure just doesn’t make sense, not if you’ve got anything that resembles a brain.’
This was fine but he was only telling me what I already knew. What I really wanted him to tell me was how to muzzle the maxi-erection so that it only occurred with the right girl; or in other words, I wanted to know how I could stop being hooked on Tracy and start being hooked on Rosalind.
‘… and I need hardly point out to a young man of your intelligence,’ he was adding, ‘that fornication is worse than Russian roulette because a person other than yourself is also involved in this potentially suicidal gamble. Don’t risk it, Nicholas. Wait for marriage. It may be the toughest exercise in self-restraint that you’re ever called to make, but very often the most worthwhile things in life can only be achieved with considerable effort by people who have the strength and wisdom to act as mature human beings, not selfish children.’
I nearly tied my tongue in a knot in my haste to say: ‘Right. Actually I’m getting married. In fact I’m unofficially engaged.’
‘You are? But that’s wonderful – how very exciting!’ said the Bishop, sagging with relief. ‘Who is she? Do I know her?’
‘Rosalind Maitland.’
‘Oh, an excellent girl – what a splendid choice! And how pleased your father must be!’
‘Um.’
Wait a minute – you’re signalling there’s a fly in the ointment – ah yes! Now I see what you were driving at: you’re strongly tempted to try a spot of premarital sex.’
‘Well –’
‘No, hang on, I’m on the wrong track again, aren’t I? I’m talking too much – time for me to shut up and listen. Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s bothering you?’
This was the moment I had been dreading. ‘Well …’ But disclosure was now impossible. After his resounding approval of Rosalind I could hardly admit I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I should have been about marrying her. And I certainly couldn’t admit that it was not Rosalind Maitland of Starrington Magna whom I found sexually irresistible but Tracy Dodds of Langley Bottom. A long and desperate silence ensued.
‘I’ve got it!’ said the Bishop suddenly. ‘You’ve sown a few wild oats and your conscience is troubling you. Well, of course young men do sow wild oats, even young men who want to be ordained; we’re all liable to succumb to temptation, even the best of us. You’ll remember St Paul’s words, of course. “Let him who thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles.’
What you have to do now, Nicholas, if you repent – and I’m sure you do or you wouldn’t be here seeking my help – is to put the wild oats firmly behind you, set yourself a high standard of conduct for the future and ask God’s grace to enable you to be a first-class husband to Rosalind. Getting married to an excellent girl who loves you
