“That isn’t true. Darling, it’s not true.”
“Would you lay down your life for him?”
“Do you mean now or after he’s born?”
“Either.”
“I don’t know.”
“There you are, then.”
“There you are then, nothing! It would be so easy for me to say yes—of course it would—but to really mean it…”
“I’d say yes and there wouldn’t be the slightest question of my not meaning it.”
“All right, if so. Perhaps you love him more than I do. In any case I won’t deprive him of somewhere to be born. We’ll find another house.”
“What?” she said. “In ten weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Rush us in there just the day before, you mean? You may not realize this but a woman likes to get things ready in advance, have a moment or two to gloat before the start of her contractions. Not merely the nappies and the bootees and the jackets and the vests. She even likes to have a room to put them in, with clean curtains at the windows and a scrubbed and polished floor and pretty lining paper in the drawers. Me, when I come out of hospital, I’ll be lucky to have a Pickford’s removal van to bring my baby home to!”
He shook his head, frowningly.
“Pickford’s aren’t always the cheapest. We’ll need to get estimates.”
“I will not bring my baby back to this!”
Suddenly she caught his hand, which still rested on her shoulder.
“Oh, Simeon, there was just the sweetest little room for Joel in that damned house! Do you remember how we pictured the cot against one wall and a little chest of drawers with a vase of flowers on it, and for some reason it was practically the only room without carpet but the way the sunlight fell across the floor it made us think of richly stained wood, golden and glossy, and of warm-looking Scandinavian rugs? I’m sorry I was bitchy to you. I’m not unsympathetic, I’m truly not. We’ll be all right. But whatever happens we must find somewhere for the baby. We must. That’s the only thing that truly frightens me.”
He did his best to reassure her.
“I wonder if we could appeal in any way?” he asked, finally.
“This house at Lee Green? Haven’t we already wasted enough time over it?”
“I suppose we have.” He added vehemently: “You’re right, of course; there has to be some purpose. It couldn’t just be so…so arbitrary. You couldn’t face life feeling it’s got no point—the wicked prosper, the unfortunate suffer, and that it’s all for nothing, without hope of any rhyme or reason or redress. No balance to it whatsoever. Nothing beyond the present pleasure or the present pain, the odd humanitarian impulse, the meaningless ambition to improve, achieve, create. The urge to make your mark, to leave a memory. Life without point is just so…”
“Pointless?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
They strolled gently on the Heath, had coffee at the cafeteria in Kenwood House. But though the day was warm and springlike and everyone seemed happy and everything looked good—ducks on sparkling lakes, primroses and crocuses, a few early daffodils—they couldn’t wholeheartedly enjoy it, not even in their more frenetic moments. Finally they called on the two estate agents who’d been most helpful to them during the previous September. There was a house they could go to see that very afternoon. They got as far as the first landing and for the second time that day Ginny was suddenly crying.
They ate a Chinese meal out, saw a film at the Playhouse, made love when they got home, but the only thing that could effectively ease their disappointment for more than fifteen minutes at a time was sleep; and even then it happened to be one of those Saturday nights when their landlady downstairs got drunk and had a long series of battles with her black lover, younger than she was, and doors were slamming and murderous threats being screamed until sometime after two when Simon telephoned the police. Not out of any real fear for anybody’s safety but out of sheer, bloody-minded, suicidal vindictiveness.
33
On returning to his sermon Simon found it difficult to concentrate; eventually decided that he needed exercise. At first he intended to take a brisk walk to Flixborough, go down through the woods and into the warren, then along the track where pheasants flew up out of the trees and where the mauve-tinted hills against a bright skyline reminded him of the smoky blue landscapes in American westerns. Yet as soon as he reached the foot of his driveway he turned in the opposite direction, barely aware that he was heading for Tiffany’s. He might have thought it absurd if he didn’t always try to act upon his instincts. Absurd because, after all, the church would surely have been a better place to pray, as would the warren, the wood, the track between the copses. Why did he feel impelled towards the disco?
Indeed, when he got there he found that any of those other settings would have been preferable, almost beyond doubt. He hadn’t expected serenity, not precisely, but he certainly hadn’t expected to find men and machines so busily at work. Not merely had the place been cleared of debris, they were putting down a whole new surface: the smell of fresh tar lay sweetly on the air.
A short and heavily built man in a grey suit was standing to one side surveying the nearly finished work. He recognized Simon—although they’d never met—and walked cheerfully towards him.
“Afternoon, vicar! This is going to look pretty good, eh? We’ve been meaning to do it for years. Disgusting, the state it had got itself into!”
There were about twenty bystanders observing the activity. One of them was using his movie camera.
“Howdy do, by the way? My name’s Champney. No need to tell me yours!”
A puffy hand was offered for a clammy handshake.
“And we’re going to tart it up in other ways, too. Great wooden tubs of flowers all round the perimeter, big ones I mean, too heavy for anyone to steal. That’ll add a nice bit of colour, make it almost like a park!” He laughed at his own little joke.
Simon, who was anxious only to make his getaway, gave a nod but said nothing.
“You know, thanks to you a lot of people are going to want to take a gander. Or largely thanks to you. Well, let me put it this way. I’ve never been a one for going to church, I make no bones about that, yet there are plenty who still get comfort out of being religious and I can understand them feeling drawn here. Of course I can. They’ll come in their coach parties from all over. May even have to make appointments!”
An intolerable suspicion entered Simon’s mind. “Surely you’re not thinking of charging an entrance fee?”
“What? Just to take a dekko at an old car park? Oh, if only you could show me how!” The burly fellow slapped himself on the thigh. “No, of course not, vicar, and you wouldn’t want it that way, I can tell. But at the same time you’ve got to admit how they’d be disappointed if they couldn’t get a nice cup of tea or a hot dog or a burger to perk them up after a hot and dusty journey, or ice cream and toffee apples for the kids. And ditto if they couldn’t get themselves a little souvenir to remind them of their visit? We’re going to have a big van here from Saturday and there’s going to be T-shirts you can buy (tell you what, vicar, we’ll be proud to present you with one, that’ll be our pleasure) and peak caps and enamel badges—yes and painted mugs and tea towels too—it’s all going to be great, a real crowd-pleaser. To be honest, it hadn’t occurred to me but if you’re not busy on Saturday afternoon around two and could put in an appearance and maybe sign a few autographs…oh, I can tell you, that would go down a proper treat as well. We could have placards printed. We’ve already got streamers and bunting and raffle tickets.”
“I can say one thing. You haven’t wasted your time.”
His dryness of tone went unperceived. “Well, no one deplores a recession as much as yours truly but at least it does mean you can get things done a bit quicker. Let me put it this way. Every cloud has a silver lining if you’re really bent on finding it.”
“But don’t you need a licence for all this?”
> Mr Champney gave a huge, slow-motion wink. He put one stubby forefinger to the side of his nose.
“Well, how about it, then, for Saturday afternoon—eh, vicar? I believe we could promise you a not unacceptable little gift to go in your collection plate. Not to forget about the T-shirt either. You’ll be wanting the large size I should think?”
Simon did not pray for restraint. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “I’ll have to consult my diary of course. It will mean my postponing a couple of weddings; that’s easy. But I think it may be Saturday I’m down for card tricks and a little bit of magic in front of the public library. They want me to saw a woman in half and make some rabbits disappear—that kind of thing. Then as a climax they’d really like another angel or the Virgin Mary; should I suggest we saw her in half? In any case I’ll have to keep you posted about the subsequent performance times.”
“Remember, though,” said Mr Champney, chuckling, “that I’ll need to tell the signwriters.” Simon didn’t even say goodbye. He went striding off towards St Matthew’s.
This time he had no instinct; simply felt the church might be the proper place to go.
“Instinct!” he exclaimed, bitterly.
Had he thought that he was listening to the voice of God?
St Matthew’s was unlocked.
Of course—he’d forgotten what day it was—a meeting of the Mother’s Union in the large vestry.
He could imagine the level of excitement showing itself in there, the way each member must have been storing for the common pool all her reactions, impressions, speculations. He’d be surprised if attendance this afternoon wasn’t setting a St Matthew’s record. He decided to go into the Lady Chapel: the part of the church where he was most likely to remain unseen.
Unfortunately, however, before he could reach it Mrs Lorrimer came from the direction of the lavatory and caught sight of him as she teetered through the darkening nave on her way back to the vestry. She put her hand to her heart and gave a cry.
“Oh, Simon! How you startled me!”
“I’m truly sorry. I should have—”
“But thank heaven it’s you.”
“I really do apologize.”
“No, I mean thank heaven you’ve arrived in the church right now. Thank heaven you’re here.”
He had to remind himself that an important part of the vicar’s role was to be of service, if possible, at any moment he was needed. He turned towards Mrs Lorrimer, with her immaculate blonde hairdo and overpainted face (she was a woman in her late seventies), and waited patiently.
“We have a little crisis on our hands!”
She spread her own scarlet-nailed hands (he had often thought: well, bully for her, at least she does try) in a broad, despairing gesture that one would have believed deliberately comedic if Mrs Lorrimer had ever shown much sense of humour. Even allowing for the heels, she stood five-foot-nothing, weighed down by stress and hairdo, and looked every inch a tragedienne.
“Is anybody ill?” he asked quickly.
“It’s too bad, it really is.”
“Tell me, Mrs Lorrimer.”
“We all feel so upset.”
“Please tell me what the trouble is.” He had half started towards the vestry but thought it better he should go prepared. His forbearance had seldom been so resolute.
“Simon,” she said, “I still can’t believe this. The unholy cheek of it! The Family Circle has been using the Mother’s Union teacups!”
“What!”
She repeated it, with a gratified look at seeing him so aghast; although she had known, of course, he would be.
“Mrs Lorrimer,” he said. “Half the world is at war and half the world is starving. There’s earthquake, pestilence and flood; man’s inhumanity to man is everywhere apparent; we’ve all been told what we can do about it but no one seems to give a fig. Damn the Mother’s Union teacups!”
And he turned abruptly and walked out of the church.
That was on the Thursday afternoon.
34
On the Sunday morning St Matthew’s was fuller than it had ever been, whether at Christmas, confirmations, inductions, anything. People were standing four or five deep along the back wall and were also closely crowded into the vestibule, with the doors between this and the church wedged open. The press was there, so was TV. People who hadn’t worshipped in years were there, people who had never worshipped, people who didn’t live in Scunthorpe. Giving his sermon for once from the pulpit Simon felt a little like an emperor, or a baritone, gazing out across the rippling expanse of the marketplace or else the Coliseum: row upon row of upturned and expectant faces from the chairs and from the pews. Further back a tiptoe impression, of ears and necks and bodies craning out towards him. Hardly any shuffling, or clearing of the throat. A long moment of almost incredible stillness before he began.
In fact, he’d thrown away the sermon he had started on the previous Thursday and been working on until Geraldine’s call had interrupted him. Afterwards, he had never gone back to it. (In the meantime he had written, partly as a form of escape, three more chapters of his Life of Christ. He thought it was going well; he had even found a title for it—Firebrand!) Now, although he had obviously rehearsed all the points he intended to put across in his sermon, he had no notes in front of him, nothing to indicate the proper progression of his argument. He was hoping to rely as far as he could on the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.
He spoke rather slowly and with many pauses.
In the eleventh century (he said) a woman called Richeldis thought that the mother of Jesus appeared to her, asking her to build in Norfolk a replica of the holy home in Nazareth, so that the replica might become a place of pilgrimage. This miracle was never authenticated: Richeldis was the wife of a squire: in those days you didn’t doubt the lady of the manor. But most people have probably heard about Our Lady of Walsingham.
Yet that happened nearly a thousand years ago. Ask anyone to tell you about any more recent manifestation in this country, authenticated or not, and the chances are they’re going to be stumped. I know I should be.
I wonder if in years to come, when we’ve all passed into history, many will have heard about what happened here in Scunthorpe, eleven days ago.
Of course, I wonder if that question isn’t purely academic. Because…will there be anyone left at that time either to have heard of it or not to have heard of it? Impossible to speculate about a point so far in the future, the point at which we’ve all passed into history, or what at any rate we now speak of as history. After all, I’m talking of a period that could be as much as two whole years away. Or even three.
I take it there’s nobody here who doesn’t know what happened in Scunthorpe eleven days ago? You notice I don’t say “what is alleged to have happened” which seems to be a general favourite with the media? I say simply “what happened”.
Right, then, we’ll assume there’s nobody who hasn’t been informed of it, informed of it with varying degrees of wit or impartiality or credence. Some people have been amazed and as a consequence inspired. Some have been uncertain. Some have been entertained. But how many do you know who in the past few days have been talking about that and about nothing else?
Or put it differently. How many do you know who’ve simply carried on in the same old way with the same old preoccupations: the state of their health, their finances, the weather, the government, sex, diets, football, motorbikes, a new car? The boredom of work, the boredom of leisure. Getting the front room decorated. Anything worth watching on the box?
Or—again. How many do you know who in the past few days have actually gone down on their knees and prayed about this thing; or stood at the kitchen sink with their hands deep in soapsuds and prayed about it; or sat on the lavatory and prayed about it; prayed to be shown where the dividing line comes between faith and gullibility?
Come to that, how many of you yourselves have actually asked for guidance, deeply and honestly, with more than just the passi
ng, wistful, intermittent gesture? Have you, I wonder? Or you—or you—or you? Is it worth as much as twenty minutes a day, this thing that happened here in Scunthorpe? This miracle? I wonder what proportion of us could say with a clear conscience that it was?
Is it worth as much as ten?
What is religious faith? It’s the acceptance of a truth which can’t be proved by the process of logical thought. We accept it because we have the authority of the Church and of the Scriptures, because we have the experience of God within ourselves and within each other. But there’s obviously a world of difference between that and gullibility.
We’re gullible, of course, if we’re easily deceived or cheated. And no one can deny that there’s plenty of that around, the intention to deceive or cheat. We find it in politics, we find it in the press, we find it in the Church. Inevitably, it comes down to the individual: the politician, the journalist, the vicar. So this is the question which you now have to ask yourselves: do you think the present vicar is out to deceive and cheat you? Or do you think, a shade more charitably, he’s just a dope, a credulous old duffer who, himself, could be conned into almost anything? And if you do think that—you who belong to St Matthew’s—well, how long have you thought it?
Because, naturally, there’s always the chance I’ve been bamboozled. And, naturally, there’s always the chance I’m wanting to bamboozle you. Why? Because maybe I hope to become famous, cause a stir, find myself in a position of some power? You can’t ignore it. I could have all the wrong reasons for standing here and saying all the things I’m saying. Of course I could. I could have as little interest in my church and in my parish, not to mention my country or anything beyond it, as…well, as I feel, for instance, that our current MP has in his current constituency. Merely a stepping stone to something better: that’s how I may regard St Matthew’s and Crosby and all of you now present. And remember, too, you shouldn’t automatically trust a man simply because he warns you he may not be trustworthy. You see, you just don’t know. You can’t be sure. Yes, naturally, plausible neurotics can be found in the Church, the same as in any other walk of life.
Such Men Are Dangerous Page 19
