by James Runcie
‘I don’t see why I would burn his shop.’
‘Didn’t your threat mention “the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone”? There’s circumstantial evidence and there are also fingerprints. I note too that you are a keen gardener and that you have, over in that corner, what appears to be a plentiful supply of weedkiller, a substance which, as you almost certainly know, contains sodium chlorate, a highly flammable material.’
‘Why would I leave that lying around?’
‘You appear to leave everything lying around, Mr Trent, including some equally flammable nail polish remover. I don’t imagine that you were expecting a visitor.’
‘You’re lucky I let you in.’
‘An example of your Christian charity, no doubt.’
‘I lead a good life, Mr Archdeacon. I am a decent man. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.’
‘Fortunately, there is. This could all become awkward for you if and when the police step up their investigation. Even though there was not much damage at the antique shop, these letters don’t help your case. Certainly it might be difficult to explain any absence from work to your employer if the authorities come calling.’
‘I have holiday owed.’
‘Or your picture in the Daily Mirror; the paper you wrote to.’
‘They have promised anonymity. They’ll keep their word.’
‘I think they’d like to spin the story out for as long as possible. And you know the current thinking, that people who are most hostile to homosexuals harbour homosexual feelings themselves? As I have already established, you are not married.’
Sidney almost stopped himself at this point, realising his anger had turned to cruelty, but he was determined to extract as much information as possible so that he only had to come to this house once and never again.
‘I am a bachelor.’
‘Newspapers can make a lot of mischief with the word “bachelor”. You know the obituaries that state “he never married”. We all know what that means.’
‘I may not have met the right girl, yet. There was someone once but she lives in Cardiff. She’ll vouch for me.’
‘None of this needs to happen, Mr Trent. It can all go away.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘I am just thinking through what might happen if all this became public. You might destroy Leonard Graham’s career but you need to be careful that you don’t sabotage your own in the process. Neither the law, nor your employer, will take kindly to your behaviour.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘There is nothing to stop my going both to the police and to the Daily Mirror and accusing you of arson.’
‘How dare you?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Trent. I must have been extremely provoked.’
‘You are blackmailing me. You are just as guilty.’
‘Have a think about it, Mr Trent. Shall I take the money back or not?’
Sidney certainly felt guilty when he returned to Ely. He had lied and he had been menacing. His threats had bordered on illegality, he knew this, and he wondered how far his behaviour could be excused. Did the potential end justify the means?
He would have liked to talk to Leonard about it but it was too soon. He first needed to relay his news to Geordie, give him the information required and see to his Easter duties.
Not that these were few. As he prepared for the service on Maundy Thursday, the eve of the Last Supper and the washing of the congregation’s feet, Sidney thought about the importance of loyalty in the face of betrayal.
Jesus had been loyal to his disciples and faithful to God but did he need Judas to betray him? Had he, in fact, used Judas, as a means to an end, just as Sidney had deceived Nicholas Trent?
He went into the cathedral, knelt down and prayed amidst the gracefully decorated stone of Bishop Alcock’s Chapel. He asked for the forgiveness of his sins. Had he done the right things? Had he behaved in a way that befitted the dignity of the priesthood?
He questioned whether he was guilty of treachery in other areas of his life. Were his feelings for Amanda, for example, entirely honest? Was he betraying his love for Hildegard by being so close to his old friend?
He thought of the last time he had seen her and how she had been talking about Michelangelo and his friendship with Tommaso dei Cavalieri; did anyone worry whether it was sexual or not?
‘One can be intimate without being physical,’ she had said. ‘Like us, Sidney.’
‘I wouldn’t put our friendship on the Renaissance level.’
‘No,’ Hildegard had cut in. They hadn’t realised that she was in the room. ‘It’s more baroque.’
Sidney prayed again and tried to meditate on the complications of love. Surely it should be kept at its simplest. He loved God spiritually, he loved his wife physically and spiritually, and he loved everyone else differently but intensely: Amanda, Leonard, Geordie, Helena and Malcolm, Mrs Maguire, the dean and the fellow clergy. There was no dilution in the intensity of that love, no boundary. He just needed to be better; as a priest, as a friend and as a man.
As he made his way to the vestry, he remembered washing Hildegard’s feet before they were married. It was thirteen years ago. Perhaps that was the first time he had realised how much he loved her. If that was how much Leonard felt for Simon, then he had to do all he could to protect that love.
He recalled the words of St Augustine:
‘Love, and do what you will. If you keep silence, do it out of love. If you cry out, do it out of love. If you refrain from punishing, do it out of love.’
Later that night, a wooden hut that was home to St Albans Abbey Scouts, Guides, Cubs and Brownies was burned to the ground. Since the easily destroyed structure was located off Orchard House Lane, the opposite side of Holywell Hill from nearby Albert Street, it did not take long to realise who the culprit might be; not least because Nicholas Trent had lost his patience and warned Helena Randall that such an attack might happen if Leonard Graham (who provided instruction and encouragement for those working towards their Book-reader and Faith badges) remained in his post as a priest.
And so, on Good Friday, just after Sidney had returned exhausted from the three-hour service, Helena telephoned to say that she was going to break her story. She couldn’t make any direct accusation as there had not yet been an arrest but she had spoken to Keating and was going to start up her own fire.
‘What will all this do for Leonard?’
‘I’ve spoken to him and he’s had enough. He does not need to be named initially; but Hackford does. People might draw the odd conclusion, but I am afraid I can’t stop that.’
‘And what did he actually say?’
‘He wants it all to end, Sidney. We’ve got our man. Geordie’s on to it. It’s all over.’
‘Not for Leonard.’
‘He’s going to talk to you. He has a plan.’
‘I hope he knows what he’s doing. The Church of England is at its best when everyone behaves charitably and no one makes a fuss. Most things are best left behind closed doors rather than out in the newspapers. I don’t like it when we draw attention to ourselves.’
‘You’re one to talk, Sidney.’
‘This isn’t about me.’
‘No, it’s about Leonard; and he’s thought it all through. He’s made his own decision and I’m sure he’ll tell you what it is. I know he’s grateful. Just don’t expect him to do everything you say.’
‘But, Helena, it’s always so much easier when people obey me.’
‘For you, perhaps. But not necessarily for them.’
On Easter Day, Sidney preached about the supreme love of God; how the central truth of humanity is that we were created to love and be loved; that this was the genuinely integrating factor in human experience. As human beings, he argued, we are flawed and prone to make mistakes, to misinterpret love, misjudge it and fall prey to temptation, distortion and disaster. B
ut what Christianity did, through reconciliation, atonement and redemption, was to release us to love as we are meant to love. After the broken humanity of the Crucifixion, the Resurrection was nothing less than the re-creation of love itself.
Sidney had no qualms about giving it straight. People might think that he was some kind of clerical lightweight, easily bored, prone to distraction, and overexcited by the possibility of a chance to prove his skills as an amateur sleuth, but when he was asked to step into the pulpit and proclaim his faith and acknowledge the divine mystery – one that was far greater than any human mystery he had ever attempted to solve – his purpose was clear. This was his Easter message: that God is love, release is given, freedom is granted and alienation overcome through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
The dean congratulated him afterwards. It was, he said, about time Sidney showed the congregation what he was made of, and he was glad to see that it wasn’t cotton wool. ‘There’s muscle in you, Sidney, and there’s nothing better than a bit of muscular Christianity on Easter Day.’
The next morning, Geordie provided Sidney with a lift to St Albans. He had spoken to his colleagues in the Hertfordshire Constabulary and they were due to secure the arrest of Nicholas Trent on two counts of arson and one of ‘making an unwarranted demand with menaces’ under the 1968 Theft Act. Helena had provided written evidence and Simon Hackford had testified on Leonard’s behalf.
When confronted in his Albert Street home amidst cats, papers and insurmountable evidence, Trent complained that he had been ‘betrayed by that damned priest and his gang of friends’.
‘I have done nothing,’ said Sidney.
‘Like Pontius Pilate.’
‘It wasn’t Sidney that shopped you,’ Keating told him. ‘It was Helena Randall.’
‘The journalist?’
‘She got your story. You even confessed the recent arson to spruce it up a bit.’
‘I didn’t admit to the Scout hut.’
‘You implied that you had done it.’
‘I don’t think I did.’
‘At the very least you didn’t prevent her from drawing conclusions, shall we put it that way? And she taped your conversation; a recording she has given to me.’
‘This is not how things are meant to be.’
‘But that’s how they are, man. You sent threatening letters. You nearly burned down an antique shop. That was all bad enough; but then a Scout hut? What has that got to do with anything?’
‘Leonard Graham was going to talk to them about the Easter Monday pilgrimage. People come from all over the diocese. I read it on the abbey noticeboard.’
‘There could have been children in there.’
‘It was the night before. I made sure the place was empty. I just wanted to send a message to the sodomite.’
‘There are other ways of expressing an opinion.’
‘None that have made a difference. He continues in his pursuit of evil.’
Geordie sighed. ‘He is not “evil”. He is different.’
‘He should practise what he preaches.’
‘I have not heard him preach about anything other than love,’ Keating continued, assuming instant familiarity with Leonard’s doctrinal repertoire. ‘He loves one man, and one man only, and his private relationship has nothing to do with any of us.’
He turned to Sidney. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Sidney smiled. His friend was getting the message at last.
The following Tuesday, Amanda held her event at the British Museum. It involved the revelation of the Michelangelo drawing with some other contextual displays, the singing of the Britten sonnets and a reading by Ian McKellen.
She began with a quick speech about Michelangelo and the Renaissance theory of beauty. As Leonard and Simon Hackford sat closely together in the third row, and with Sidney behind them, she talked about the artist’s interest in Neoplatonism and how, despite his stunning rendering of the naked male form revealed in the recently discovered drawing, the essence of beauty did not consist of anything pertaining to the human form at all. According to Neoplatonists, such as Marsilio Ficino, it could reside in bodies, and shine forth from them, but in itself beauty was bodiless.
By taking the argument away from physical representation and the human form, Sidney wondered whether Amanda was making a directly personal point, diverting the attention of her audience from any thoughts about Michelangelo’s homosexuality and the physical manifestation of his feelings towards a younger man. She talked about a descending hierarchy of beauties; from the absolute beauty of God, through the beauty of the angels, to the delights of the soul and finally ending with the fairness of the human form. The more we ascend, she explained, the more beauty is without form; the closer to earth the more defined in shape beauty becomes. The ultimate aim of art, like that of love, is to reach for the shapeless origin of all shapes, the essence of beauty.
‘Doesn’t sound much fun,’ Simon Hackford whispered to his companion.
Not long after, Leonard asked Sidney if they could talk. As well as going over the recent case, it was clear that he had something else to say. He paced up and down the room, as if sitting down would weaken his resolve. ‘I’ve decided to leave the Church,’ he said.
Sidney had not expected such certainty. ‘Please, Leonard. There’s no need to do this.’
‘I’ve given it a good deal of thought.’
‘I’m sure you have. That’s what makes you such a good priest.’
Leonard stopped at the window, unable to meet Sidney’s eye. ‘Please don’t try and talk me out of it. I want to live my life in the open, without hypocrisy. It’s what Dostoevsky called “a freer freedom”.’
‘You could take some more time to think this through, Leonard.’
‘You will remember in The Brothers Karamazov, Father Zosima spoke of hell as “the incapacity to love”?’
‘I can’t recall the passage exactly,’ Sidney replied.
‘I don’t want to live a life apart; one of pretence in which Simon and I are only able to see each other in secret, unable to express any affection in public, deceiving both friends and faithful. I cannot hide a love which contains such intimacy that it is almost telepathic; and I only want to share my life with those who will accept us as we are. That is the nature of friendship, isn’t it, to walk alongside, as Christ did? Otherwise we are hypocrites.’
‘Have you lost your faith, Leonard?’
‘Not at all. I am still a believer. I just cannot be a priest.’
‘There are many clergy like yourself.’
‘Yes – and many of them hide their true feelings, as well you know. Don’t ask; don’t tell. I’m not sure I want to live like that.’
Sidney sat down. Leonard was not asking for his advice. He had made up his mind. Now it was a question of practicalities. ‘What will you do with your life?’
‘So many things; I will help Simon in his business. I think I’ll study for the PhD that I always meant to do.’
‘On Dostoevsky, I imagine?’
‘I’ll have to get my Russian back up to scratch. And I’ll take up a hobby. I think I’d like to learn more about roses, if that doesn’t sound too fanciful. Simon’s been teaching me; how to graft and so on. I find their beauty so consoling.’
Sidney smiled. He may not have been able to keep up with Leonard’s Dostoevsky but he knew his Shakespeare:
‘ . . . earthlier happy is the rose distill’d
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.’
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I think. You always did know what to say, Sidney.’
‘You will be such a loss to the Church.’
‘But not, I hope, to my friends.’
‘Never that.’
‘I will still try to lead a good life. I don’t intend to go to the dark side. But I can also pray and I can help others; people who are afraid, victims of prejudice. Perhaps I can do
more outside the Church than I ever could as a priest.’
‘And you will do well, Leonard.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I think you know, just as I do, that human loving, however odd it may seem to some, and however differently it might appear from socially accepted norms, is always a pale, imperfect and sometimes distorted reflection of the love of God.’
‘I will still walk in His light.’
‘You will. Because whenever we see love or find love – love that seeks faithfulness, acts tenderly, is patient and good and kind and true – then we are glimpsing, and reaching out for nothing less than the eternal love that is at the heart of our faith.’
‘Thank you, Sidney, for all that you have done.’
Sidney rose from his chair. It was time to go home. ‘I should thank you for all that you have taught me. I am humbled by you, Leonard.’
‘Don’t. You will make me cry again.’
‘I will try to be a better priest in your absence; and I will try to make the Church a more caring and a more tolerant place.’
Leonard reached out and the two men grasped each other by both hands. ‘St John of the Cross once wrote: “In the evening of our life, we shall be judged by our loving.”’
‘Goodbye, Leonard. But not for long.’
* * *
Sidney was back in Ely by the middle of the afternoon. It had rained while he had been away but the clouds had cleared and there was enough blue in the sky to patch a sailor’s shirt. On the Dean’s Meadow, above the host of white and golden daffodils, the trees were coming into leaf. This was the greening of the year, the beginnings of buttercups, clover, docks and nettles. He could see the first buds on the roses in the gardens and wondered if one of them, climbing across a ruined medieval wall, was a ‘Rambling Rector’. It was a pity to be sad on such a beautiful day. It made him feel ungrateful.
These had been strange times for his friends; with Ronnie Maguire’s return and death, Amanda’s divorce, and Leonard leaving the Church. Sidney needed to get back to his wife and child but, before he did so, he could not help but stop to take in the spring, and worry about all those he loved; their hopes and doubts, their faults and frailties.
