Ultimate Prizes

by Susan Howatch

  4

  Nine weeks after that fatal dinner-party at the Bishop’s palace Starbridge remained intact, but Canterbury had been battered as a reprisal for the RAF’s formidable raid on Cologne at the end of May. In both cities the cathedrals remained standing, monuments to hope in a world demented with the lust for destruction. Hitler, bogged down in Russia but boosted by Rommel’s victorious manoeuvrings in the desert, had apparently in a fit of absent-mindedness turned over the Baedeker page which described Starbridge, but it was too soon to take our escape for granted, and meanwhile the ruins of Bath, York, Norwich, Exeter and Canterbury served to remind us of the nightmare which could still come true.

  “How wonderful it’ll be to escape from all thought of air raids for two weeks!” said Grace, but of course there was no real escape from the war. At the start of the school holidays, following advice from the Government, I warned the children about the dangers of playing with long metal tubes, metal balls with handles, cannisters which looked like thermos flasks, and glass bottles of every description. It seemed unlikely that we would come across unexploded bombs in the Lake District, but the Luftwaffe sometimes jettisoned their cargo in unexpected places, and I felt nowhere in England was completely safe.

  Meanwhile on a more mundane level Grace had been struggling with the bureaucratic regulations attending the issue of the new ration-book which was to replace at the end of the month the three ration-books already in use. Rationing was on the increase. The children were aghast to hear that the supply of sweets was about to be limited and as soon as the older boys returned from school they rushed out to splurge their pocket-money on tuppenny-ha’penny blocks of ration-chocolate in defiance of the slogan ONLY ASK FOR IT IF YOU REALLY NEED IT. Neither Grace nor I had the heart to stop them. All chocolates and sweets were being removed from the automatic machines, and at fetes and fun-fairs sweets were forbidden to be donated as prizes. The heavy hand of war-time government was closing upon us ever more tightly for the big squeeze, SAVE BREAD, we were exhorted, and given fifty different ways of serving potatoes, is YOUR PURCHASE REALLY NECESSARY? we were repeatedly asked, and when we arrived at the station to begin our journey north the first poster we saw was the Railway Executive Committee’s stern directive: DO NOT TRAVEL. I at once felt guiltily that we should have stayed at home after all.

  To my dismay I discovered that in a new burst of austerity the restaurant car had been withdrawn from the train, but fortunately Grace—perfect as always—had foreseen this danger and packed a picnic-basket. The children alleviated the tedium of the journey by guzzling biscuits, which for some reason were one of the few foods still in plentiful supply.

  I mention these details of life on the Home Front not merely to underline the essential dreariness of the war, punctuated as it was for us by the almost inconceivable horror of random murder by travel guide, but to show that I was living in an atmosphere of austerity and repression which drove better men than I to seek refuge in the insanity of a grand passion. I’m not offering an excuse for myself, and I’m certainly not suggesting my madness had its origins in a two-ounce sweet-ration and a shortage of bread, but when deprived in one area of life human beings tend to compensate themselves in another, and if a fully accurate picture of my crisis is to be drawn, an explanation of my insanity must include the drab stress of existence on the Home Front.

  A clergyman with a wife and five children can seldom afford the luxury of taking his family on holiday to a hotel, and even when the children were fewer in number I had found it less awkward as well as more economical to rent a neat, clean, spacious cottage near Woolacombe in Devon for our annual sojourn by the sea. I had discovered this idyllic retreat while exploring the advertising columns of The Church Gazette, and when in May I had embarked on a search there for a cottage in the Lake District, it had never occurred to me that I might not repeat my earlier success. Having spotted an advertisement which lyrically described an appropriate haven for my large family, I had written without a second thought to the owner to secure a booking.

  When we eventually arrived at this idyllic retreat after an exhausting journey on an erratic train, a bone-jolting excursion in a decrepit bus and a muddy walk up a lonely lane, I realised in rather less than three seconds that I had brought my family to a rural slum. The key lay under the front door-mat, just as the landlord had promised, but no other facility matched my expectations. Fortunately, since it was summer, the evening was light; the prospect of being obliged to master oil lamps and an old-fashioned kitchen range was bad enough, but in the dark it would have been intolerable. I can never understand why people become dewy-eyed and sentimental about the past. Life without gas, electricity and decent plumbing must have been one long unromantic round of time-consuming inconvenience.

  Primrose, stupefied by tiredness, began to wail that she was hungry. Christian, after a speedy reconnaissance, reported: “There appears to be no lavatory. Shall I start digging a hole in the garden?” Grace said: “I think I have a migraine coming on,” and sank down on the nearest chair. Sandy, who had been asleep in her arms, was woken by this abrupt manoeuvre; he promptly started to scream. James said: “I don’t want to go to the lavatory in the garden,” and Norman commented gloomily: “I wish we were in Devon.” Setting down the heavy suitcases which I had been carrying, I dredged up my last ounce of strength, tossed off a quick prayer for divine support and prepared to perform any miracle not contrary to the laws of physics.

  Grace was ordered to lie down on the moth-eaten material which covered the sofa. Christian was dispatched to make a second attempt to find something which resembled a lavatory. Norman and James were sent upstairs to make the beds. Primrose was given an apple, left over from our picnic lunch, and put in charge of Sandy. In the picnic-basket I also found a half-eaten roll which I stuffed into Sandy’s mouth to keep him quiet. Then having assembled some logs from a pile which I found outside the back door, I lit the kitchen range with the aid of an old newspaper which I found on the filthy floor of the larder. As I morosely watched the feeble smouldering of the logs I tried not to remember that a mere week ago I had been dining in the height of luxury at Starmouth Court.

  “I’ll make some tea,” said Grace, struggling nobly from the sofa.

  “No, you stay exactly where you are.” I filled the kettle, found the ration we had brought with us and unearthed a teapot from a cupboard which stank. Meanwhile Christian had returned to report the existence of a privy and Norman was shouting from upstairs that there were no sheets but plenty of blankets. We appeared to be making progress.

  “Take the suitcases upstairs and start unpacking,” I said to Christian. “Do Sandy’s first.”

  “That infant smells as bad as the privy,” remarked Christian, who was fastidious.

  “Why do you think I told you to unpack his bag first? We need a clean nappy.” I had taken a plate from the cupboard and was now busy extracting some Spam from a large tin.

  “I’ll find the nappy,” said Grace, making a new effort to struggle to her feet.

  Sandy started to roar again.

  “I simply can’t understand,” observed Christian languidly, “why infanticide isn’t more common.”

  “What’s infanticide?” said Primrose as Christian and Grace trailed away upstairs together.

  “Baby-killing, my love.” I opened two large cans of baked beans just as the kettle showed signs that it might one day come to the boil. Sandy was still roaring but when I gave him a baked bean he spat it out. Turning back to the table I found that the Spam was being investigated by a mouse. Without thinking I snarled: “Bugger off, you bally blighter!”—a response which avoided blasphemy (just) but was hardly a fitting exclamation for a clergyman. In a paroxysm of rage I hurled a spoon, but the animal merely frisked down the table-leg and scampered to safety across the floor. Primrose screamed. Sandy stopped crying and immediately began to chant: “Bugger, bugger, bugger!” with zest. (Why is it that small children have such an unfailing talent for pick
ing up bad language?) Seconds later Christian, Norman and James, all waving nappies, clattered down the stairs to inform me that Grace had had to rest again as she was feeling faint.

  “Well, don’t just stand there waving nappies as if they were Union Jacks! Get some cotton wool and the talcum powder—and some lavatory paper might be useful too, if one can judge by the smell—”

  “There isn’t any lavatory paper,” said Christian.

  “Nonsense, there must be.”

  “I don’t feel very hungry,” said Norman, eyeing the Spam. “This conversation’s putting me off my food.”

  “Rubbish—stop being so feeble!” I said with a robust good humour which bordered on the saintly. “Is that the spirit which built the Empire?”

  “Daddy,” said Primrose, “I think the mouse went to the lavatory on the table.”

  “Bugger, bugger, bugger!” shouted Sandy.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said Norman, bolting for the back door.

  “Who taught Sandy to say ‘bugger’?” demanded Christian in delight as he searched the kitchen cupboards for lavatory paper.

  “Daddy, did you hear me? I said: ‘I think the mouse—’ ”

  “Yes, my love. Pass me that rag hanging by the sink, please.”

  “Neville.” Looking up I saw Grace, white as a winding-sheet, in the doorway. She was carrying the cotton wool and the talcum powder. “I’ll change Sandy.”

  “Very well,” I said, deciding that this was the moment when I would be ungrateful if I continued to refuse my wife’s noble offers of help, “but afterwards you’re to go straight to bed—and let’s hope there are no bed-bugs.”

  “I simply can’t understand how The Church Gazette could have allowed—”

  “It’s not the fault of The Church Gazette. One can’t expect them to inspect all the properties they advertise. The fault was mine for not immediately realising that ‘old-world charm’ meant ‘no modern conveniences.’ ”

  “Gaudeamus igitur!” cried Christian, flourishing a roll of toilet paper.

  “Christian, stop behaving like a precocious undergraduate and stir the baked beans. James, go outside and see if Norman’s finished being sick.”

  “Is Norman ill?” said Grace alarmed.

  “Daddy,” said Primrose, “what are bed-bugs?”

  “Bugger, bugger, bugger!” shouted Sandy with zest.

  Grace reeled. “Sandy! Christian, did you—”

  “No, Mother, not guilty, absolutely not. I say, these beans look a bit odd—”

  “Here’s Norman,” said James. “I think he might be dying.”

  “I feel terrible,” said Norman, looking like death.

  “It’s always so metaphysically interesting,” mused Christian, very much the Winchester scholar, “when feelings so precisely mirror appearances.”

  “Shut up, you great big beastly brute!” yelled Norman.

  “ENOUGH!” I barked as Grace started swaying in the doorway. “Grace and Norman—go to bed at once before you both pass out. Christian, make the tea. James, start spooning out the baked beans. Primrose, bring over those plates from the dresser. Sandy—” I sighed and reached for the toilet paper. There were times when even I, a devout clergyman dedicated to preaching the joys of family life, was obliged to admit that being a husband and father could leave a lot to be desired.

  5

  “Why can’t Sandy learn to do without nappies?” asked Primrose later when the Spam and baked beans had been consumed. “I gave up nappies when I was much younger than he is.”

  “All babies are different, my love.”

  “You may think you’re clever,” said Christian to Primrose, “but I walked, talked, gave up nappies and translated the Iliad well before my first birthday.”

  “Show-off!” retorted Primrose, who was a girl of spirit.

  “Did he really, Daddy?” said James worried.

  “No, of course not!”

  James, who was nine, had begun to realise that he was not so clever as his older brothers, and I knew he was mortified that he never came top of his class. Unlike Christian and Norman, he would never lighten my financial burdens by winning a Winchester scholarship, but I thought in the end he would be happy enough; he was popular with his contemporaries and keen on cricket. In some ways he was the son with whom I felt most at ease. His sunny nature made him restful and his normality provided a soothing contrast to the intellectual pyrotechnics displayed by his more gifted brothers. In my judgement he was on course to becoming a thoroughly decent, presentable young man and I was very pleased with him. So much for James.

  Primrose, now sitting next to me in her privileged position as the Only Daughter, was approaching her fifth birthday and would one day, I thought, prove to be a brilliant conversationalist; already she was fascinated by language and never missed an opportunity to expand her vocabulary. Since for a woman intelligence is less important than looks, I spent much time worrying that she might wind up a blue-stocking, and it was with relief that I noted she showed signs of turning into a delectable blue-eyed blonde. I foresaw a splendid career ahead of her as a wife and mother, a prospect which filled me with paternal pride. So much for Primrose.

  Sandy, now dozing against my chest, was going to be very clever, perhaps even as clever as Christian. When he was not indulging in his fondness for vulgar language he was capable of stringing together sentences of extraordinary quality for a child who was still little more than a baby. His latest masterpiece, delivered that day on the train, was: “Peter Rabbit has great sartorial elegance but I prefer the coat worn by Benjamin Bunny.” Of course Christian had taught him the phrase “sartorial elegance,” but Sandy’s remarkable achievement lay not only in pronouncing the words but in using them correctly. I judged a Winchester scholarship inevitable and was already basking in delight. So much for Sandy.

  Norman, now upstairs as he battled with his malaise, was twelve years old and engaged in a non-stop contest to prove he was as clever as his older brother. If James was the son with whom I felt most relaxed, then Norman was the son with whom I could most obviously sympathise; I too had spent my childhood in a non-stop contest with my older brother. It was a contest which I had won but which I suspected Norman was destined to lose, although he remained far too clever to give me cause for anxiety. He never failed to receive glowing school reports which made me sigh with satisfaction. So much for Norman.

  Finally there was Christian, now sitting opposite me at the far end of the table. What can I say to convey the unique quality of this, the most extraordinary member of my family? I could never write “so much for Christian” at the end of a brief description of him, because no brief description could convey more than the bare bones of his personality. Perhaps I can best capture the aura of glamour he exuded by stating that Christian was the idealised son which men so often dream of fathering but so rarely ever do. Christian was the self I would like to have been, a genetic miracle, my own self glorified. Exceptionally clever, blessed with the gift of reducing every classics master he encountered to a stunned admiration, talented at games, popular with his contemporaries, he was fifteen years old, still growing and evidently destined to be not only charming, witty and accomplished but tall, dark and handsome.

  I regarded him with a deep, fierce, utterly private devotion which I was quite unable to articulate. I could be demonstrative with Primrose because men were allowed to show affection towards their daughters, but with my sons I had a horror of indulging in any behaviour which might be judged sentimental. The kindly authority I exercised had never included barbarous physical punishment, but no matter how much I wanted to demonstrate my affection I was unable to do more than produce an air of mild good will. In Yorkshire we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves—and perhaps too I could never quite forget Uncle Willoughby declaring in 1909 that a sentimental father who slobbered over his male offspring was the kind of fool who inevitably wound up in an early grave.

  “Daddy …”

&n
bsp; I returned to 1942 with a jolt. “Yes, James?”

  “After the war ends, what will happen to the newspapers? There won’t be any more news, will there?”

  “There’ll be blank pages edged in black,” said Christian, “to mark the utter cessation of journalism. But who says the war’s going to end? As far as I can see it’s all set to go on for ever.”

  “Nonsense!” I said roundly. “Think of Napoleon! Once he attacked Russia he was finished—the British Army merely had to mop him up at Waterloo.”

  “I wish the British Army would start mopping up Rommel in the desert.”

  “Daddy,” said Primrose, “why aren’t you in the Army?”

  “The Bishop said he couldn’t spare me from my work in Starbridge. Not all clergymen are called to serve God in the Army, even in war-time.”

  Christian said suddenly: “Do you ever regret abandoning your pacifism after Munich?”

  “Sometimes. I still believe pacifism is intellectually consistent with Liberal Protestantism, but unfortunately Herr Hitler doesn’t leave much room for intellectual consistency.”

  “I’m beginning to think it’s Liberal Protestantism which doesn’t leave much room for intellectual consistency. How can you play down evil and maintain your optimistic view of the universe when you’re confronted with a catastrophe like Nazism? I mean, what do you do with someone like Adolf Hitler? You can’t simply pat him on the head, cite the compassion and forgiveness of Christ and say cosily: ‘Go thy way and sin no more!’ ”

  I was much taken aback. I had to remind myself that fifteen-year-old adolescents were notorious for questioning their parents’ views. “I’ll tell you exactly what you do with someone like Hitler,” I said abruptly. “In practical terms you fight him. And in spiritual terms you pray for him and remember that there’s a divine spark in every human being.”

  “But isn’t that hopelessly idealistic? Isn’t that out of touch with the reality of the evil going on here? Try talking to the Jews about Hitler’s divine spark!”