My Name is Legion

by A. N. Wilson

  He knew that he had made a hash of editing the Sunday Legion. This was because of his various adopted personae, that of the would-be gent despised the newspaperman. He had therefore tried to produce a Sunday title which would appeal to his stuffier country friends. The deadly-dull result partly explained the catastrophic decline in circulation. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he was sacked.

  But this way of doing it – this ordeal by food and theology in the Savoy Grill – was more than he could stand. He had tried to match the proprietor course by course. When Lennox ate steak and chips for his first course, Mr Blimby had smoked salmon. Then there was a fish course – they both ate lobster salads. Then they ate the roast of the day – it was lamb today. Lennox told the man carving the joint that he had not given enough fat to Simon Blimby. By now, Mr Blimby was wondering which would come first, his being sick or his being sacked. It was at times like this that he cursed his size. Men of more normal dimensions could presumably simply eat more. At five foot two inches, and of a delicate build, he simply could not take as much food as larger men.

  ‘What are we expected to see with,’ Lennox was asking, ‘if it takes tens of thousands of years to evolve an optic nerve? No, no. This is a clear case of a device of such complexity that it is merely perverse to suggest that it was other than designed. And if designed … then … Shoot me down, Simon, shoot me down!’ he urged suddenly. ‘Tell me I’m wrong …’

  ‘Sal and I are keen supporters of our local parish church,’ said Mr Blimby after much clearing of his throat, ‘and therefore of course – of course we subscribe to the Creeds.’

  ‘What you ought to say,’ said Lennox; his eye stared disapprovingly at the large fatty morsel which Mr Blimby had tried to conceal beneath a cabbage leaf on the side of his plate. ‘You haven’t eaten …’ he said. ‘May I?’

  As he ate up Mr Blimby’s food, he explained to the small man what he should have said. A natural process, even one as complex as the construction of the optic nerve, did not imply the existence of anything personal behind it.

  ‘God himself doesn’t have to be personal. Did that ever occur to you?’

  ‘As I say, Sal … the parish … the Church of England.’

  ‘Christ, someone ought to put a bomb under the Church of England,’ said Lennox.

  ‘As they did under Hans Busch.’

  Mr Blimby harrumphed at his own witticism.

  ‘I liked your coverage of that,’ said Lennox. ‘The Sunday wrote an excellent leader – was that you?’

  Mr Blimby bowed his head in acknowledgement. The leading article in question had in fact been written by a young graduate in the leader writers’ office who would be fired when the two papers merged.

  ‘Anything we said in the past about not liking the fellow’s art … rule of law … support the police … No, it was a nicely balanced piece, including the sting in the tail, that a man like Busch, who was trying to put into concrete form the nonsensical post-modern philosophies of Foucault, had in a sense died as a martyr to his own beliefs. Had he not been an open admirer of Genet and the philosophy of crime as rebellion? No, it was a learned piece. What should I read if I wanted to start reading Foucault? He might have some interesting things to say about religion. No?’

  Mr Blimby stared open-eyed. No one had prepared him for this. He had thought it would just be the sack; then he’d be brave enough (or not) to murmur the name of Sal’s family solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn Fields who might ‘discuss terms’.

  ‘This story about the monk,’ said Mr Blimby gingerly, ‘Father Vivyan Chell …’

  ‘I’m glad you raised that. You see, when the two papers merge – and let’s cut the crap, Simon, you know why you’re here.’

  The proprietor wiped his plate with a piece of bread. He belched very gently, placed a napkin to his lips and sipped his Seven-Up.

  While the waiter cleared the table, Blimby was brave enough to say that he did not have room for pudding. Lennox Mark ordered double plum duff.

  ‘Cream or custard, sir?’

  ‘Both,’ he said curtly; his manner denouncing the tomfool character of the enquiry.

  ‘We’re here because of the Legion. We both want it to survive. The merger of the two papers is long overdue. I meant to do it when Tony left the Daily. That was what my instinct told me to do.’

  He often referred to Martina as his instinct in such sentences as the one he had just spoken.

  ‘It won’t be easy for you …’

  Blimby saw that this was his moment to mention the solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘Well, I’ve enjoyed myself at the Sunday …’ was all he could feebly manage.

  ‘That will make it all the harder for you to sack them all – your colleagues. That’s what I’m asking you to do. If you think you’ve got the balls for it,’ said Lennox. ‘Ah, lovely grub!’

  He began to spoon in plum pudding and custard with eager speed. Anyone watching him would guess he had not eaten for days.

  ‘If you think you can sit down and tell them all in the newsroom that they are fired … and I’m sorry to say that I can’t offer them generous redundancy money. Kurt’s done the necessary with the lawyers. We’ve been through each and every contract …’

  The miraculous, the joyous nature of the news began to dawn on Blimby. Through every part of his small frame he felt joy, like the sap rising in springtime in a miniature shrub.

  ‘And Derek?’ he asked mischievously.

  ‘Derek has frankly … let’s put it this way. He’s not a Legion man. You mention the Hans Busch explosion. You see, he just made the paper look bloody ridiculous. One minute he’s lambasting the guy as if he was Satan. Then, when he’s blown sky-high, he’s the marvellous avant-garde artist Hans Busch. Then there’s the Father Vivyan story. He’s badly bungled, badly. It’s a bit of a hot potato, that one. I can’t fill you in on the details, I’m afraid. I will, but …’

  ‘But Derek … Derek will be going?’

  ‘We can’t sack Derek,’ said Lennox, looking shiftily at Blimby. ‘We can’t afford to. But I’m making him your deputy on the new joint title.’

  All the pride and pleasure which Blimby had been feeling during the previous five minutes evaporated at once as the horrible fact dawned. He and Worledge, who had led quite separate lives producing two quite different newspapers, would now be working together on a daily basis. And, since Lennie had made him Worledge’s boss, he would have to live with all Worledge’s resentment and hatred. He stared blankly ahead of him.

  ‘I hope I can live up to your expectations,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Sure you can, Simon, sure you can.’

  Lennox lifted his glass of Seven-Up and clinked the one glass of claret which he had bought for his luncheon guest. ‘Here’s to the future of the Legion!’

  TWENTY

  ‘You’ll find him very much changed,’ said Monty Longmore. ‘I can’t describe it to you.’ He shoved a glass of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon across the kitchen table.

  ‘You mean he’s depressed?’

  ‘He even looks different.’

  Rachel sipped from her glass.

  ‘This stuff’s delicious.’

  ‘Isn’t it? It’s from a Rothschild winery. Discovered it at the Beefsteak. Told our local offie in Pewsey. Now we drink nothing else. No, the dear old thing …’ He reverted to his brother. Rachel had never been close to Monty, but whenever she had been to stay at Throxton with Kitty, he had been kindly. They had gone for walks together in the park, and they both enjoyed bridge.

  ‘We talk about something like this being a blow. It’s as if he’s been hit by something. I wondered whether he’d had a stroke, but he won’t see a doctor. The first week he was here, it was as if he was on holiday. He was positively high. As if he hadn’t taken in what had happened. Said he’d not had such a rest since he became a monk. Refused to have a bedroom, of course, at first. Said he’d just sleep in a chair in the library. Mrs Thorn put a stop to t
hat nonsense. Shoved him in the King’s Room and he slept for hours. We thought he was dead. Full of jokes and fun when he woke up. Lizzie and Jontie and the children came down that weekend. Charles came, too.’

  ‘How is Charles?’

  ‘Charles is …’ The father-in-law of Charles Henderson smiled wanly. ‘Well, we all miss Kitty.’

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘Less than five quid a bottle, too, which can’t be bad,’ he said, tapping the bottle of Los Vascos. ‘Viv, though, was life and soul. Played with the children. Romped about. He’s always liked that sort of stuff much more than I do. Perhaps he’d have been happier if he’d got married …’

  ‘Perhaps happiness wasn’t what he wanted in life.’

  ‘It’s what we all want – surely … Well, when the children went back to London, the house went quiet. You know what the old dump’s like when no one’s about. You remember that week you came down with Kitty. You were swotting …’

  ‘We were doing revision, or meant to be.’ Rachel laughed. ‘We were so cold, we got in bed together with all our clothes on and a bottle of …’

  Her words were interrupted by a shuffling of feet on the stone-flagged kitchen corridor. This was in itself a distressing signal. The long strides of Major Chell MC had been reduced to this slipper-shuffle.

  ‘Anyway, there’s plenty more of this stuff, so drink up,’ said Monty, emptying the remains of the bottle into Rachel’s glass.

  ‘I say, doesn’t a man get a drink in this place?’ asked Vivyan. Looking at Rachel, he said, a little shyly, ‘Hallo, old thing.’

  She had expected, from Monty’s warning, that Vivyan would be paler and thinner. If anything, he had put on a little weight and, whether as a result of country air or nightly potations in the kitchen, he had gained some colour in the face.

  She got up and did something she had never done before but which, she realized, she had very much wanted to do. She kissed him. As she did so, she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. He had lost some authority. He was now a man on the run. He responded to the kiss as if it was indicative of something other than affection: he looked fearful that she knew more than she was letting on; coming as she did from London, did she bring more bad news, more threats of police investigation or intrusions by the press?

  ‘How have you been?’ She was trying very hard not to cry as she asked the question.

  ‘We read aloud to one another, don’t we?’ said Lord Longmore. ‘Neither of us can stand the telly. I wanted The Heart of Midlothian again – do you remember, Mother read it to us?’

  ‘Mother could do Scottish accents,’ said Vivyan. ‘Monty’s rendition of Jeanie Deans was too much of a penance. We’re on The Eustace Diamonds at the moment.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Some of it’s good. Some of it’s rather twaddle,’ said the monk. ‘Ah. At last.’ And, being given a large glass of red wine, he gulped it greedily.

  ‘Now,’ said Monty. ‘Since we have company, I’ve done some cooking.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ with a strange faraway sadness in his eyes.

  After the lamb cutlets with tomatoes, which were eaten in the kitchen, the three of them went back to the little drawing room, which smelt pleasantly of woodsmoke. For Rachel, it was a room, with its frayed Aubusson carpet, its Reynolds of Sir Montague and Lady Chell, circa 1770, its rosewood bureau, its charming Adamesque commode, its family photographs scattered over the dusty grand piano, which evoked most powerfully her friendship with Kitty, and the hours they had spent there playing Scrabble or gossiping about their boyfriends. Monty settled in a low armchair beside the fire, from whose arms horsehair sprang in huge tufts. Vivyan, who seemed to be wearing some borrowed clothes – presumably his brother’s – an old grey suit whose trousers were much too short, and an open-necked blue shirt, sat beside Rachel on the sofa. All had mugs of coffee.

  ‘The Bishop has graciously written,’ said Vivyan.

  Monty looked up anxiously, as though he would prefer these things not to be discussed. It was unclear whether he feared that the subject would depress or excite his brother, or whether he disapproved of talking about it in front of a comparative stranger. Viv chose not to see his elder brother’s admonitory glance.

  ‘Very kind of him. Says I can say mass. I have been doing so anyway. It did not occur to me that I wasn’t allowed to – in the chapel here. He says, the Bishop, that I can’t say mass in public, or hear confessions or preach. In short, that I am suspended.’

  His mouth tautened as he said these, to him, manifestly extraordinary words.

  ‘General Bindiga constantly tried to shut me up; he never dared to. Lennox Mark would like to shut me up if he could …’

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing’ – these words from behind The Times.

  ‘But in the end, it was the dear old Church of England that managed to gag me.’

  ‘But it’s so unfair,’ said Rachel. ‘Can’t you appeal? Can’t a lawyer …’

  Oh, lawyers!’ He sighed. ‘At least here I have an altar, and I can say the office. I’m still a priest.’

  ‘Why is it important to say mass if no one can come?’ she asked.

  ‘I go,’ said the voice behind the newspaper. ‘Except when he gets up at five a.m. to say it in Swahili or some bloody language.’

  ‘I sometimes say mass in Hausa. I don’t know Swahili … Why do I do it? It gives a strength which nothing else does … You don’t want to hear all this.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘If you ask me, do I understand the mass in the same sense that we were taught by the novice-master all those years ago?’

  ‘What’s a novice-master?’

  ‘When I joined the order, I had to go to our mother-house at Kelvedone for two boring years. First I was a postulant: that’s when they test to see if you are capable of bearing the rigour of monastic existence. Then you start the training proper and you are a novice. The novice-master trains you. He’s your personal trainer, if you like. He’s preparing you not only to be a monk but to be a priest. In our community we were all made to read books – oh, Gregory Dix, The Shape of the Liturgy. I wonder if it’s still read? We were taught a really very mechanical view of the mass; you know, it had to be said and done in exactly the right way.’

  ‘Did they teach you that it was really the Body and Blood of Christ?’

  ‘Well, that’s the essence of it.’

  ‘It sounds like the Catholics. Sorry. You have to understand, Vivyan, I was brought up as a Jewish atheist and I’m …’

  ‘And you still are?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m very nearly one. Not a Jewish one, but an Anglican one. You can’t see the total unfairness of life, the absolute arbitrariness of suffering, the triumph of evil and injustice, without being an atheist. And certainly most of the arguments for the existence of God are ropy, to say the least.’

  ‘They don’t stand up at all,’ said Rachel vehemently.

  ‘Maybe they’re not meant to.’

  ‘Meant by whom?’

  ‘Maybe our forebears felt by instinct that there were gods or that there was one true God. This instinct formed itself into religion, or several religions. It’s after people have practised a religion that they begin to make religious philosophy and try to make sense of it all. The rituals come first, the philosophy second. Those deep instincts that goodness is not something we invented for ourselves, that it is there independent of our ability to attain it, irrespective of how many people deny it. You could have the whole Third Reich with all its power and all its deadly attractiveness designed to tell you that it was a good thing to send a child to a gas oven; but every single person on this planet would know that it was evil. That’s what makes me hold on. We did not invent the rules …’

  ‘But Bonhoeffer, in his Ethik, seems to be saying something subtly different. Isn’t he saying that the truly good person must be prepared to sacrifice some pure, unsullied notion of his own virtue – tear up the rule-books, in fa
ct …’

  ‘Rule-books are not the same as the Good,’ said Vivyan. ‘Bonhoeffer was hanged because he followed Christ. That led him to do what was illegal, what was bad in the shame-culture of Nazi Germany – he was prepared to abandon his own purity, to that degree, yes. But he never lost hold of his idea of good and evil. It was the authorities who had lost their moral sense, as they always do. Christians are always anarchists, always against the system. We’re not saying Joshua Bindiga is as bad as Hitler, and we’re certainly not saying that Lennie Mark is as bad as Hitler. But they are both bad men, because they knew what the Good was, and they have let themselves lose sight of it.’

  ‘Aren’t you just saying … no, that’s not fair. I was going to ask what made you so certain that you were right and they were wrong.’

  ‘Rachel – I’ve seen the slave boys, I’ve seen the welts on their backs where they have been repeatedly beaten, I’ve seen their fathers and uncles half-starved and dying from overwork in the copper mines. I’ve met men and women who have been tortured …’

  ‘Okay – I know.’

  ‘And you know? Lennie Mark is not quite a lost soul. Hey!’

  He had suddenly become animated by an idea.

  He stood up, and she was reminded, by his gaunt, overexcited features, of those moments in the Sherlock Holmes stories when the great detective is at last on the trail of the truth, though bumbling Doctor Watson does not yet see it. Was this why she was in love with him (or whatever she was)? Because Vivyan Chell reminded her of Sherlock Holmes?

  ‘Hey!’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The boy – the poor, disturbed boy. Peter. You are the go-between. I did not see it before now. You could go to Mercy. Ask her the story. Tell her I said that I don’t mind how much you are told. There are things I can’t tell you, and things I can’t say, my dear. I hope you understand that. But equally, that poor disturbed boy needs help. And he needs rescuing from any further exposure in the media. And funnily enough, Lennie needs rescuing from himself. How do you get on with Lennie?’