Bishop of Woolwich 1559–1969Writing about Honest to God in the Sunday Mirror, 7th April 1963.
I
After staying the night in Primrose’s flat, I caught a train the next morning to my country home at Flaxton Pauncefoot, a village which lay ten miles from the port of Starmouth in the south of the diocese. Here I sorted out some appropriate clothes for the holiday, selected a couple of books and dumped my current stock of dirty laundry on the housekeeper who returned it, faultlessly washed and ironed, that evening. Nowadays there are very few advantages in being a member of the aristocracy, but at least one never has to worry about laundries. Nor does one have to waste time shopping for food or sweating over a hot stove. I said to the housekeeper: ‘I’d like baked beans on toast with a poached egg on top, and tell Pardoe to look out a half-bottle of that nice St Julien, the one with the picture of the purple vineyard on it.’ That solved the problem of dinner.
Afterwards, greatly fortified, I phoned my mother to inform her I would be heading for the Hebrides, retired to the blue drawing-room where the television set lurked behind a fire-screen, and watched the latest episode of the comedy series Down at the Surgery in which two doctors have their virtue constantly assailed by a stream of diverse nymphomaniacs. The elder doctor was played by Martin Darrow with a professional deftness which prompted me to giggle so hard that I dropped cigarette ash all over the floor. He was far better looking than his young half-brother, but nevertheless I was conscious of the strong resemblance between them. I wondered idly what their father, the ancient hermit, thought of his elder son’s career as a television star.
The next morning I extracted my red MG from the stables, heaved my bags into the back and returned to Primrose’s flat. I had remembered it was Sunday but somehow I managed to arrive too late to attend matins, so taking advantage of the spring sunshine I lounged on the seat in the Deanery’s garden as I waited for everyone to return from the Cathedral. Unfortunately Primrose and the Dean stayed on for the sung Communion service. I should have remembered that possibility and removed myself, but I was still lolling in the sunshine when Dido turned up to torpedo me.
‘So there you are, Venetia! Primrose was under the impression you’d be back in time for matins. I do think you might have telephoned to say you’d be late, but then that’s the upper classes, isn’t it, my dear, always expecting the entire world to fall into step beside them, and personally I’ve always been devoutly thankful that I was merely the daughter of a self-made Scottish millionaire and irredeemably nouveau riche because at least I was taught consideration for others from the cradle. Now –’ She paused for breath as she parked herself purposefully on the bench beside me ‘– I’m so glad I’ve got the chance for a word alone with you, because I think it’s time that an intelligent, honest older woman – and as you know, my dear, I always pride myself on my candour – I think it’s time,’ said Dido, without even pausing for breath after this parenthesis, ‘that I gave you a piece of sensible and I hope not unaffectionate advice – because of course I’m very fond of you, Venetia, just as Stephen is, although I do see all your little faults and foibles rather more clearly than he does, because darling Stephen’s so noble that he always sees the best in everyone, whereas I, being a realist – and I’m always being complimented on my realism – I, being a realist,’ said Dido, battling her way out of the jungle of this monstrous sentence, ‘take a much more pessimistic view of humanity, and having been a rich young girl myself I know all about the pitfalls waiting to ensnare rich young girls who drift around without any proper direction – which brings me to what I want to say.’
I raised an eyebrow and looked hopeful.
‘What you have to do, my dear, is not simply to drift hither and thither like a piece of flotsam – or is it jetsam? – on the sea of life while you dabble in antiques and publishing or sidle off on little holidays to the Hebrides with an elderly clergyman who really should have known better than to invite you – although, of course, I do understand that darling Stephen, so soft-hearted, only wanted to be kind – but I’m afraid he didn’t stop to think, did he, that suggesting a holiday was actually only offering you a way of escaping from your problems, and what you really have to do, Venetia my dear, is not to escape from your problems but to face them. To put matters absolutely candidly, if you can’t find a husband you must find a suitably worthy cause to which you can devote your energies, and quite honestly – and I know it’s unfashionable to say this, but since I always believe in calling a spade a spade –’
I raised the other eyebrow and looked even more hopeful.
‘– I think you need to find God. I began my search for God when I was about your age – it was after my favourite sister died – and once Pd started I was always so cross with myself that I’d never started before because religion’s so absolutely fascinating and I can’t understand why it’s not taught properly in schools, especially when they go to such lengths to teach useless things like algebra and hockey. Anyway, once I’d started looking for God I met Stephen and lived happily ever after, and I think the same sort of thing might happen to you if only you could stop being so self-centred. As it happens I know the most wonderful clergyman in London who specialises in spiritual direction, and I’m quite certain that if I were to ring him up and tell him about you –’
‘How terribly kind of you, Mrs Aysgarth, but I’m afraid I’ve absolutely had it with London.’
‘Oh, that won’t last, you’ll go back, you’re a London person. Now my dear, I do hope you’re not thinking that darling Stephen will give you spiritual direction in the Hebrides, because Stephen’s not at all spiritual on holiday, he just likes to sit around eating and drinking and reading detective stories, and I honestly think he’d be most put out if you started chatting to him about God. Anyway, Stephen really can’t start giving spiritual direction to young girls, even here in Starbridge, because he’s much too busy running the Cathedral and keeping the Chapter from murdering each other, and even if he wasn’t much too busy he prefers to exercise his pastoral skills these days among men – and usually German men, as Eddie Hoffenberg will be the first to tell you. And talking of Eddie, I do think you might be kinder to him, he’s such a nice man and he’s had such awful tragedies in his life and he just doesn’t deserve to have you and Primrose poking fun at him behind his back. God only knows what the two of you will get up to in the Hebrides – I can just see you egging each other on and smirking in corners—and in fact to be quite candid and to cut a long story short, I think this holiday is a thoroughly bad idea for all concerned. Why don’t you and Primrose run off to Cornwall and leave those two clergymen to recharge their spiritual batteries in peace?’
‘I don’t think Primrose would care for that idea at all, Mrs Aysgarth.’
‘Oh, Primrose! If that girl were to spend a little less time doting on her father and a little more time being nice to Maurice Tait her life would be vastly improved – and so, God knows, would mine! In fact in my opinion you’d be doing us all the biggest possible favour, Venetia my dear, if you lured Primrose away to – no, not Cornwall, too unoriginal, how about the French Riviera? Take her to your sister’s villa at Juan-les-Pins!’
‘I don’t like the French Riviera.’
‘Well, you certainly won’t like the Hebrides. Dr Johnson thought it was quite awful, he told Boswell so.’
‘I don’t like Dr Johnson.’
‘Venetia dear, don’t you think you’re being just the teensiest bit negative?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Aysgarth. It really is so kind of you to worry about my spiritual welfare, and I’ll think very carefully about everything
