The Enemy of the Good

by Michael Arditti

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘So what’s happened?’ he asked, muffling a note of panic.

  ‘I’ve been suspended.’

  ‘What? Why? Tell me.’

  ‘All in good time. I was just going to get out the deckchairs. Make the most of the sun.’

  ‘The sun can wait.’

  ‘So can the story. No use being idle! Now I’m unemployed, I mean to work on my tan.’

  Clement choked back his frustration as he helped Mike carry two heavy wooden armchairs from the shed, before fetching a rag to wipe away two smears of something white.

  ‘So, are you sitting comfortably?’ Mike asked once they were finally settled.

  ‘What is this? Some sort of game?’

  ‘I wish it were.’ His face suddenly clouded. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you before, but with all the shit you’ve been through it didn’t seem fair.’

  ‘But it is fair for me to dump everything on you?’

  ‘In a sense our problems are the same. The kids have been giving me flak on account of all the stuff in the papers.’

  ‘They read them?’

  ‘They save the cuttings! And the routine insults have got worse. The shirt-lifting, brown-nosing batty boy now has AIDS.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop there! If you say it’s your fault, I’m done.’ Clement kept silent but his thoughts were deafening. When he’d agreed to Mike’s requests to talk to the sixth form and take two school parties round his shows, he had warned him not to be too frank about their relationship. It was evident that his fears had been justified. ‘The Muslim kids are the worst. They claim your window proves that British churches are perverted.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you were forced to defend the C of E?’

  ‘There are limits! No, I abandoned the Treaty of Versailles and described how, whatever things may be like today, for centuries being gay was an integral part of Islamic culture. The class was in uproar but I stood my ground. I explained – quite coolly, I promise – that the only mention of homosexuality in the Quran comes in the story of Sodom.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ Clement said, brushing away a wasp.

  ‘And even if they believe that it was dictated to Mohammed by the Angel Gabriel, they have to acknowledge that language fluctuates. Arabic is very variable. The same word can mean to beat someone and to fuck him.’

  Clement pictured Rafik’s back and feared that the confusion was universal. ‘You told them that?’

  ‘Or words to that effect. Several kids complained to their parents, who in turn complained to Derek. The whole crazy business all over again. But this time it’s more serious. Two Muslim families removed their daughters from the class. They mounted a small – but noisy – protest outside the school gates.’

  ‘And you told me nothing?’

  ‘This isn’t about you!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I am. I’m all keyed up. Derek has launched an inquiry. I know I’m vulnerable after the warning he gave me earlier in the year.’

  ‘What warning?’

  ‘To keep to the curriculum. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But if he makes trouble, you can move elsewhere. Somewhere they’ll value your talents.’

  ‘Somewhere middle-class you mean? Preferably private?’

  ‘You’ve paid your dues. No one could blame you.’

  ‘How would you like to be told to stop painting all your saints and Jesuses and stick to landscapes or abstracts.’

  ‘Point taken. But I can’t bear to see you treated so shabbily.’

  ‘I know. And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But I’ve been in touch with the Union. They’ll sort things out.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Clement was racked with anxiety. It seemed that everyone around him was on trial. Rafik was waiting for the result of the Reconsideration and Mike for that of the Headmaster’s inquiry. Meanwhile, his own fate hung on the verdict of the consistory court.

  The hearing was fixed for the seventh of July. Mike drove him to Roxborough, setting off at six to beat the traffic, only to be held up by several emergency stops at roadside bushes. Despite Mike’s reminders that he was not in the dock but merely giving evidence, Clement was filled with foreboding, which intensified when they arrived at the cathedral to find the Dean less concerned with the prospect of defeat than the problem of accommodation in the court. Unlike Wells with its consistory room in the bishop’s palace, the Roxborough court sat in the vestry. The usual handful of spectators had swollen to over a hundred, most of whom would have to be turned away. The crowd was growing restive. One reporter had accused the Canon Precentor of attempting a cover-up, and another offered the Treasurer £500 for his seat. A newspaper that campaigned noisily for the protection of children had bribed two choirboys to sneak in and take photographs, prompting the Chapter Steward to call the police.

  ‘By removing a chest, we’ll fit in another bench and we might sit two to a stall, but it’ll be a squeeze.’ The Dean’s well-padded frame quivered in alarm. ‘That wretched man! Hell-bent on making mischief! Aside from everything else, it’s costing us a fortune. We’ve had to call in specialist lawyers from London. Win or lose, the Chapter will be left to foot the bill.’

  Mike tried to cheer him with the thought that, whatever the costs, the case had brought so much free publicity that, once installed, the window would attract a flood of visitors. The Dean looked unconvinced and, after further execration of Major Deedes, he hurried off to consult the Steward, leaving Clement to kill time by giving Mike a tour of the cathedral. They lingered by the empty East window until, at a quarter to ten, Mike took his reserved seat in court. Clement made his way to the regimental chapel where, beneath the colours and blazons, he spent the morning waiting with his fellow witnesses, his attempt to lose himself in Balzac thwarted by the hiss from the Canon Theologian’s iPod. He met Mike for lunch in the cloister café but, after three reporters accosted him at the salad bar and a blue-rinsed woman told him to cut his hair, they fled for a surreptitious sandwich in the crypt. Safe from prying ears, he pressed for details of the proceedings.

  ‘There’s not a lot to tell. It’s pretty much like a Crown Court, with the same bowing and scraping, except not to “My Lord” but to “Worshipful Sir”.’

  ‘Have there been any big dramas?’

  ‘I wish! Forget about keeping me on the edge of my seat; it’s barely kept me awake. First Colonel Blimp – ’

  ‘He’s only a major.’

  ‘Hey, I’m on your side.’

  ‘A joke, I know. Sorry.’

  ‘I repeat, first Colonel Blimp and then a string of dog-collared worthies were examined about the nature of Church authority. No wonder Perry Mason never took on a case in a consistory court!’

  Having assured Mike that the best was yet to come, Clement was given a chance to prove it when he was summoned into court soon after lunch. The room was even smaller than the Taylor House tribunal, but it made up in grandeur for what it lacked in size. The fan-vaulted ceiling was more than thirty foot high and the Gothic windows were surrounded by intricate tracery. Despite the crush of bodies, the air was cool with a hint of damp. The four assessors sat in ancient stalls and the spectators on heavy oak benches, with the Chancellor, a retired judge, resplendent in cassock and preaching bands on an elaborately carved throne which, according to the Dean, doubled as a store for surplus surplices. Unlike the tribunal, the barristers for both promoter and defendant were wigged and gowned.

  Clement followed the usher to the witness box and took the oath with a show of confidence. Counsel for the Defence rose and asked him a series of questions about his background, work and previous ecclesiastical commissions, which he presumed were designed to establish his credentials, before turning to The Second Adam and, in particular, his conception and depiction of Hell.

  ‘Would you tell the Court on what authority you base your image?’

&
nbsp; ‘The story of the Harrowing of Hell has two main sources: the Gospel of Nicodemus, which is, of course, apocryphal, and the early Church Fathers, who were not. I’m loath to quote scripture in such an august gathering – ’

  ‘That is why you’re here, Mr Granville,’ the Chancellor interjected. ‘Try to shed your inhibitions. They don’t become you.’

  ‘I’ll shed as many as I can, my… Worshipful Sir.’ Clement thought he saw the ghost of a smile on the Chancellor’s lips. ‘There are very few references to Hell in the Old Testament and those that there are come late. It was a concept quite unknown to Abraham or Isaac or Moses or David. As for the New Testament, a glance at a concordance reveals twenty-three mentions and two distinct meanings. The first, Gehenna, is a place of absolute damnation where the ungodly roast in eternal flames; the second, Hades, an interim state that houses sinful souls between death and resurrection. Christ himself favours the latter, seeing it as a place of purification, when he declares in Mark Chapter 9 that “everyone will be salted with fire”. If the biblical writers failed to agree on a definition, shouldn’t we be permitted similar licence?’

  ‘That is precisely what we are here to determine,’ the Chancellor replied. ‘Pray continue.’

  ‘The Church’s position on Hell has changed – I’d like to say, matured – over the years. The Victorian theologian, FD Maurice, was sacked from his chair at King’s for refusing to teach a belief in eternal damnation. Yet the most recent doctrinal statement of the Church of England declared – and I quote – that “Hell is not eternal torment but it is the final and irrevocable choosing of that which is opposed to God.”’

  ‘So are we to understand that in the window you are using the image of Hell metaphysically?’ Counsel asked.

  ‘No, I’m using it metaphorically… even paradoxically, by suggesting that a place that doesn’t exist is given a reality by the people – the religious authorities – who claim that it does.’

  After further questions in a similar vein, Counsel for the Defence sat down to be replaced by Counsel for the Promoter, his thin veil of deference failing to mask his disdain. Commending Clement’s photographs of the finished window, he asked about the differences between design and execution, in particular the three clerical figures who confined Adam to Hell.

  ‘Contrary to the reports, I never set out to deceive anyone,’ Clement said. ‘It’s a technical matter and may be difficult for laymen to comprehend – ’

  ‘Please try to enlighten us, Mr Granville,’ Counsel said.

  ‘The differences between a sketch and a finished work can be huge, especially in the case of stained glass. The sketch is exactly that: a sketch, not a blueprint. Even if it were possible, it would be disastrous to include all the detail and simply scale it up in a mechanical way. Delacroix put it best when he said that the drawing is a rehearsal, the painting a performance.’

  After thanking him for his eloquence with a sniff that suggested the opposite, Counsel asked about the portrayal of the naked Christ. ‘I’ve been accused of eroticising Christ. A charge I vehemently deny,’ Clement replied. ‘On the contrary, I’m offering a corrective to a view that has gained a dangerous stranglehold on the Church. The most misleading description of Christ I know is St Jerome’s “a virgin born of a virgin”. I’m not interested in whom Jesus may or may not have slept with’ – he took pains not to alienate the court – ‘but with the implications of Jerome’s remark. Jesus was a man, and sex is one of God’s greatest gifts to us. To reject it in favour of a bloodless chastity is in a very real sense to reject God.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve given your Christ – I say your because, as has become abundantly clear, the authority for the depiction is nonexistent – such large genitalia?’

  ‘I don’t wish to be frivolous – ’

  ‘Oh please,’ Counsel said smoothly, ‘don’t stop now.’

  ‘But size is in the eye of the beholder. What to you may be large seems to me to be quite average.’ He was pleased to be rewarded with a titter. ‘Are we to suppose that Our Lord was under-endowed? Look at Michelangelo’s David, so monumental in most respects, so modest in that. I don’t intend to make the same mistake in this window.’

  ‘But why – and this, Worshipful Sir, is the key question – does he have to be naked at all?’

  ‘I agree; it is the key question. And I’m delighted to have the chance to address it. You’ve accused me of lacking authority. So I’d like to turn to my own field and cite the many Renaissance portraits of the Virgin pulling up her baby’s robe with a flagrancy that, were she to repeat it today, would earn her a visit not from the Wise Men or the Shepherds but the Social Services. Several revered Old Masters, among them Holbein the Elder, Giovanni Bellini and Correggio, go further and depict the infant Jesus with an erect penis. Of course this is a familiar phenomenon in babies. It may also be a symbol of Jesus’ potency. But above all it’s intended to contrast with Adam, whose first act after the Fall was to cover himself. Speaking personally, I reject the doctrines of both the Fall and Original Sin. In this window, however, I’m concerned not with my own position but the Church’s. It is therefore not only doctrinally correct to portray a naked Christ; it would be incorrect to portray him in any other way. In consequence of Original Sin, our genitals are our pudenda, literally our organs of shame – from the Latin pudere: to be ashamed.’ He seized the opportunity to goad the classically educated counsel. ‘But Christ was born without sin, so he has nothing to be ashamed of. He has no more need of clothes than Adam in Eden.’

  Clement concluded his testimony and stood down. He glanced at Mike who gave him the thumbs up, which he trusted was obscured from the assessors. He was the final witness and the Chancellor announced that the Court would adjourn until ten the next day. He felt a distinct sense of anticlimax as the Dean, equilibrium restored, rushed up to congratulate him on the excellence of his answers, followed by the Treasurer and Canon Librarian in tandem, who heaped praise on the window which they had at last had a chance to see ‘in its full glory’. Unwilling to point out that ‘full glory’ was precisely what could not be seen in photographs, he thanked them and escaped to join Mike.

  ‘So, are you ready to hit the bright lights of Roxborough?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Are you kidding? This is strictly a forty-watt town. Let’s go to the hotel.’

  They crossed the close to the Choirman’s Arms, where Clement had provisionally booked a room. Repeated bruises from the low-lying beams blinded Mike to its old-world charms, but they both admired the ornate Jacobean four-poster. After a quick meal in a dining room crawling with journalists, they fled back upstairs to enjoy an evening of mindless channel-hopping, fortified by the minibar.

  ‘People have lived and died in this bed,’ Clement said as he emerged, spearmint-fresh from the bathroom.

  ‘And a lot else besides,’ Mike replied with a smile that set the tone for a night which, whether because of Clement’s relief or the romantic setting or, simply, their unusually large intake of whisky, was the most passionate that they had enjoyed in months. Clement realised with delight that he was fulfilling both the Chancellor’s wish that he should shed his inhibitions and his own claims for the godliness of sex.

  The next morning, the desire for privacy outweighing Mike’s scruples, they ordered breakfast in bed before returning to the cathedral, where the crush inside the court was even greater than the day before. Judicious shuffling allowed Clement to perch beside Mike on an already packed bench. The Chancellor declared himself eager to press ahead. With no further witnesses to call, he invited both counsels to make closing speeches before summing up with a discernible bias towards the defence. The assessors – four pillars of the local community, two clerical and two lay – retired to consider their verdict. Clement wished he could share Mike’s certainty that it was a foregone conclusion, but he was afraid that the Roxborough laity would prove to be representative of Middle England in ways beyond the map. In the event, the assessors found unanim
ously for the Dean and Chapter. The Chancellor thanked them for their diligence and dismissed the case.

  ‘I trust,’ he concluded, ‘that the window will now be installed at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘I’ll say Amen to that,’ Clement said, finding to his dismay that he had said it out loud.

  The Chancellor withdrew and Mike turned to Clement with a pumpkin-sized grin although, in deference to the court if not the cathedral, he gave him only a playful hug. The Dean’s handshake was more emphatic and was swiftly followed by the limp, fleshy, clammy and cold hands that Clement had identified on first meeting the Chapter. There was no sign, however, of the calloused palm of Major Deedes, who had stormed out of the room, destroying all hope of reconciliation. The Dean promised to ring Clement with a revised timetable, before leaving for a press conference. Even before the room had emptied, two cleaners began to replace the vestry furniture as routinely as stagehands changing a set.

  He returned to London where, true to his word, the Dean called the next morning to arrange the transportation of the window and to schedule the dedication service for the fourth of September.

  ‘Which is perfect because you’ll still be on holiday,’ Clement told Mike.

  ‘I may be on permanent holiday by then.’

  Clement checked that the rest of his family were free. His mother requested front-row seats, claiming wryly that it was from deafness as much as pride. Susannah assured him that the date was in her diary, adding that he had saved her from a trip to Dover to wave a television gardener off on a Channel swim. Carla announced that, now that her pilgrimage to Nepal had been postponed, it would be the high point of her year.

  ‘It’s a good thing you’re my brother-in-law.’

  ‘Why? I thought I’d singularly failed in that department.’

  ‘Most artists like me to keep out of sight. Less danger of sharing the glory.’

  ‘It’s our baby, sis,’ he said, his horror only partially relieved by her laugh.