He had just had a great success. His church, St Finian’s, in one of the suburbs of Liverpool, had been the setting (thanks entirely to his efforts) for the performance of a rock Te Deum, performed by a group called the Grots, and composed by their lead guitarist. He had culled texts from the Bible, the Hindu sages, and William Burroughs, and set them to an ear-splitting score that made all the houses in the vicinity of St Finian’s near-uninhabitable for days during the rehearsals and performances. The young of the parish, many of whom had not shown their noses in church since their forcible christenings, had been recruited to bellow various simple phrases in chorus. And there had been an awful lot of publicity.
The Reverend Lambton’s face lit up in a child-like smile as he thought of how much there had been. The local papers had been full of it for weeks in advance, and one had had a whole-page interview with him, in which he had quoted the injunction to ‘Suffer little children’ (ignoring the fact that most of the performers were disconcertingly unchild-like). Then there had been the interview on the Today programme — surely the high-spot of his ministry to date. True, it had been cut to a minute and a quarter, and had included only his reply to the local critics and not his disquisition on the spiritual content of the work itself. This had made him sound defensive, which was a pity. But still, the BBC was the BBC — undoubtedly a National Forum. And the contacts he had made would be put to very good use in the future.
Of course there had been critics. Those who tried to do the work of the Lord in a modern, relevant, meaningful way, a way that spoke to today’s generation (he’d used all these phrases in the bit cut out of the broadcast) must expect ridicule and opposition. People had come along complaining about the pervasive odour in the vestry, which they said was certainly not incense. Then there had been the old woman who maintained she saw the Grots’ drummer urinating in the font. What fools these people made of themselves! Besides, they were the dying generations. His business was with the young in one another’s arms.
He was in the middle of a fatuous reverie, in which his own role hovered between that of boy bishop and leader of a new children’s crusade, when he heard the words ‘Rock Te Deum’ from the mouth of the youth next to him. He jerked to attention.
‘Dragsville,’ said the girl opposite, pulling down the edges of her mouth, and uttering a groan. The rest of the group sniggered, and went on to other matters.
A cloud seemed to have passed over the blue of Philip Lambton’s heaven.
• • •
All these, and others, were heading towards the Community of St Botolph’s, and towards the strange events that took place there in the late, hot days of July.
CHAPTER II
ASSEMBLING
THE BISHOP OF Peckham floated blandly from his carriage on the little local train from Leeds to Hickley and bestowed his ticket on the ticket collector as reverently as if it were a communion wafer. He was, in fact, thinking up jokes for his speech.
Once outside the station, his sense of the practicalities of life reasserted itself. His eye took in the grey-brown stone of Hickley, cast a glance of pastoral approval on the moorlands visible above the roof-tops, and then surveyed the waiting taxis. He turned around to appraise his fellow passengers who had got off with him. Most were bustling off towards town and home, but one was eyeing him hesitantly, as if uncertain whether to make the first gesture of approach. He was a tall, weighty young man, over-scrubbed and dressed in a light-weight suit, perilously close to sky-blue in colour. Probably American, thought the Bishop. Or, worse, Canadian. Still, it would halve the cost of the trip, however boring the conversation.
‘Are you for St Botolph’s?’ boomed the Bishop, and receiving a gesture of assent he ushered the eager young cleric towards the first of the waiting taxis.
‘I deeply appreciate your gesture,’ intoned the young man. ‘A truly Christian act.’
The Bishop had a sinking feeling that he was going to get the boring conversation without halving the cost of the fare.
This feeling was augmented as the taxi got under way. After introductions had been expansively performed the young man — whose name was Simeon P. Fleishman — began talking about the absorbing topic of the price of his rail ticket from London, doing laborious calculations involving different rates of exchange for the dollar. This done, he turned to the equally fascinating subject of fund-raising.
It soon turned out that, to the Reverend Fleishman, the social role of the Church in the modern world meant little more than ways of screwing money out of the congregation, ways which were — even to so modern a bishop as the Bishop of Peckham — breathtaking in their grasp of the principles of high finance, in their capitalist daring, and in their sheer rapacity.
‘We believe,’ mouthed the Reverend Fleishman earnestly, ‘that since God’s day is one seventh of the full week, true Christians should be willing to donate to their place of worship one-seventh of their weekly income.’
‘Good God,’ said the Bishop. ‘And do they?’
‘There is some reluctance to acknowledge the full spiritual force of the argument,’ admitted Simeon P., ‘but we are unremitting in getting the message across, and it’s gratifying to be able to report that some do, some do.’
‘You must be rolling,’ said the Bishop, who enjoyed calculated descents into the vernacular. ‘What on earth do you do with it all?’
A shade flitted briefly over the piercingly honest eyes of the Reverend Fleishman.
‘It goes to the refurbishment of the edifice,’ he said, ‘and to the enhancement of the community appeal of our particular Christian message.’
Flim-flam, said the Bishop to himself. Aloud he asked: ‘And your church is . . . er . . . the Episcopalian?’
‘We call ourselves the Church of the Risen Jesus,’ said the young man, ‘but basically we’re non-denominational.’
The subject was one of great appeal (and some suspicion) to the Bishop, but he was prevented from making any theological explorations of Simeon P. Fleishman’s faith by their arrival outside the impressive wooden gate of St Botolph’s. While the young man looked on disinterestedly the Bishop haggled over the exorbitant fare, got it reduced by twenty per cent, and added no tip. The scruples of the middle-class laity were not for him, and he was sure that the Lord (to use a convenient formula) would be no more pleased to see His servants swindled outside His door than any other good host. Finally he emerged from the taxi with a benign sense of good work done, and a nagging feeling that he ought to have had his share of the American’s non-denominational pickings.
As the taxi driver did a disgruntled U-turn and drove off, the Bishop and Simeon P. stood for a few moments in silence, stretching their legs in the sunshine and gazing along the impressive length of the Community walls, winding their irregular way across the purple moorlands almost as far as the eye could see.
‘This sure is peaceful,’ said the Reverend Fleishman in a reverent tone. ‘Mighty peaceful. Kind of medieval.’
‘Edwardian, dear boy, if not later,’ said the Bishop firmly. ‘A refuge from guzzling and womanizing.’
‘That would be Edward the . . .’ said the Reverend Fleishman tentatively, obviously wanting to get things right for some future edition of his parish magazine or company statement. But the Bishop decided he had had enough, and tugged at the bell.
As they waited in the heat, they were joined by a lean and hungry-looking figure which pedalled furiously up to the gate and dismounted from his cycle with almost military precision. Stewart Phipps shook hands briefly with the two of them, obviously recognizing the Bishop (who flirted with all the political parties, and occasionally contributed witty and paradoxical pieces to some of the same journals as the Reverend Phipps, though the editors never regarded his pieces as sufficiently committed, and only printed them on account of his mitre). This done, Stewart Phipps stood a little aside, eyeing Simeon P. from his sharp, hooded eyes, which proclaimed with anticipation: An American. He’ll have to defend himself all
right. What shall I get him on? Vietnam; CIA; Ronald Reagan; Greece; Watergate; Hoover; Bay of Pigs . . .
He blinked in ecstasy as the list of topics on which any stray American could be arraigned stretched out to infinity in his mind’s eye. The Bishop, watching him, read his thoughts all too accurately and shook his head: oh dear, a fanatic, an enthusiast, a Savonarola. What a pity that religion so often made people so intense, so unpleasantly committed. What bores they became!
Then the wooden gates of the Community of St Botolph’s swung open and they entered into the walled enclosure.
• • •
The buildings of the St Botolph’s Community were clustered towards one corner of the great immured area. They were heavy, neo-Romanesque, but not uninviting. They looked, at any rate, substantially built, and this pleased the Bishop of Peckham who, like Canon Chasuble, was particularly susceptible to draughts. The little irregular cluster included a chapel, a substantial barn, and a big central construction, irregular and with several wings. Here, doubtless, was where the brothers ate, slept, and meditated. There was an impressive walk of poplars between these buildings and the gate, and away to the side were lawns and flourishing gardens. Beyond them were the moors.
It was along this avenue of poplars that the clerical trio were now led. A middle-aged brother in brown robe and sandals had opened the gate, and once he had nodded a brisk greeting to them he had set off at a good pace, leaving them to follow as they might. Simeon Fleishman whispered a query to the Bishop about the type of tree, and received the answer: ‘Yorkshire pine!’ Then the brother in front opened the door into the main building, which led them straight into the dining-hall — a high, impressive room, oak-beamed, high-windowed, and with some simple tapestries on the stone walls. It looked rather large for the current number of brothers, but clean, wholesome and pleasant. Heavy tables ran down about a third of it, laid with earthenware pottery and white napkins. The middle-aged brother, like a well-routined civil servant, paused to let the visitors admire the effect for a few seconds, murmured ‘The Great Hall’, and then nodded them in the direction of the far end. They had time to notice various small rooms, opening off from the hall through a sort of cloister, no doubt places where smaller groups could congregate conveniently. They, like the hall, were for the moment empty. Then they plunged into an ill-lit corridor and finally landed up outside another heavy door.
‘Father Anselm will see you at once,’ said their guide, who opened the door and then scurried off down the corridor. The Bishop, who felt he might have been introduced more ceremoniously, pushed firmly at the door and went in first.
The man who met their eyes was in the act of getting up from behind a massive oak table which served him as a desk. Of other furniture in the room there was but one simple chair, though there were heavy cupboards along the walls. In a dark alcove, nearly hidden from the casual visitor but espied by the sharp eyes of the Bishop, there stood a telephone. The Bishop was not one to be over-impressed by what he regarded as the mummeries of monastic life. Father Anselm looked as if his natural inclination would be to acknowledge his visitors’ arrival only by a grave inclination of the head, but the Bishop bustled forward, hand outstretched, and he submitted to shaking it with good grace. More reluctantly he allowed himself to be caught up in an enthusiastic commercial-traveller’s handshake with the Reverend Fleishman. Stewart Phipps stood aside, watching, and to him Father Anselm inclined his head, and received in reply a brusque nod.
Father Anselm was undoubtedly impressive. He wore only the same simple robe as the other brother who had led them to him, but his appearance was altogether more arresting. Tall, bearded, erect, he looked out on to the world, or that part of it which came to him, with an invincible gravity. His blue eyes were searching, yet unfathomable: he seemed to see, without offering anything of himself to be seen. His voice when he spoke was quiet, baritone rather than the expected bass, but strong and individual.
‘You are all most welcome,’ he said, looking from one to the other as if registering through them how the world was progressing.
‘I’m sure we’re going to find it a remarkably interesting experience being here,’ said the Bishop (unaware how truly he spoke). ‘I presume our American friend here is not too well acquainted with communities of this sort.’
‘I hope we can provide a congenial atmosphere for your discussions,’ said Father Anselm, half inclining his head towards Simeon Fleishman. ‘These symposia are valuable times for us, though infrequent.’
‘It sure is peaceful here,’ said Fleishman, who seemed unable to get beyond that simple idea. Father Anselm bowed his distinguished head gravely, and no one saw his mouth twitch.
‘I gather some members of the Community will be joining us in our discussions, is that not so? We’ll look forward to that,’ said the Bishop. His manner was breezy, less intimidated than the others by Father Anselm’s awesome presence.
‘Yes, one or two who have shown a special interest. I hope they will be able to bring a slightly different perspective from the other participants.’ Father Anselm paused. ‘I trust you will forgive what you may regard as naïvety, even ignorance. We are, as you will understand, very cut off here at St Botolph’s.’
As the Reverend Fleishman seemed again about to comment on the peace of the place, as if he’d expected something more like a railway terminal, the Bishop cut in with: ‘But of course you in this order are not entirely shut off from the world, are you?’
‘No, no,’ said Father Anselm. ‘The brothers may, at certain hours on one day of the week, go outside. But few do. I myself take a newspaper to keep some contact with the world around me, and anyone may borrow that. Few do. We are, you may say, closed by choice rather than by our vows. Hence, as I say, our views may seem to you naïve or ill-informed.’ He paused and looked around them, and seemed to register that they were all, especially the Reverend Phipps, somewhat travel-stained. ‘But I forget, you will want to go to your rooms. Perhaps we may meet in the chapel for Evensong at five o’clock.’
He rang a little bell, and another brother, younger than the first, fair-haired and stern, came from an inner room and led the way out to the corridor again. As they left, Father Anselm again inclined his head, and no one seemed quite sure what to do in reply.
‘Goodness me,’ said the Bishop, who had been more impressed by the interview than he liked to be by his fellow-churchmen. ‘There is something medieval about it, after all.’
• • •
Ernest Clayton was feeling moderately full of well-being: he had enjoyed his first sight of St Botolph’s and its glorious position; he had enjoyed — for a rectory in Lincolnshire offers few opportunities for novelty and surprise — his meeting with Father Anselm; he had liked his simple cell-like room, with its narrow bed and two shelves, nothing more; he had enjoyed the singing of Evensong in the austere but elegant chapel. And now he was rather enjoying the little gathering that was to lead to the first meal in that splendid dining-hall.
True, Philip Lambton wouldn’t have been the first choice to chat to as a general rule, with his fatuous cult of youth, which seemed more than ever foolish to the Reverend Clayton after his experience with the hitch-hiker that morning. Still, at least one knew to avoid him in future — unless, as sometimes happened at gatherings of churchmen, everyone else proved equally avoid-worthy. But surely this was not likely to prove the case this time? Father Anselm was clearly an interesting man, if he would come down off his spiritual mountain; the Bishop of Peckham was (to put it no higher) a sprightly mind, and one met few enough of those these days; the Bishop of Mitabezi, even, offered the prospect of an interesting chat to one whose parents had been missionaries, and whose earliest memories were of scrubbed mission-houses in India and congregations in incongruous dark suits and pinafores. The Reverend Clayton clutched his glass, which contained a barley drink that was far from unpleasant, and might with luck turn out to be mildly alcoholic, and decided that he had a lot to be thankful for.
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They were gathered in one of the smaller rooms, separated from the dining-hall only by a couple of archways: through them he could see the brothers congregating before their meal, some apparently chatting brightly to each other, others seemingly sunk in meditation. There were three brothers in the side room with the delegates to the symposium: one was Brother Dominic, the fair young man who had shown him and the other delegates to their rooms — polite but unforthcoming, with cold eyes; the second was the one who had met him at the gate, a nondescript man in his late thirties, weak-eyed and round-bellied; the third was very old indeed, and seemed more than a little unsure of what was going on. What could he contribute to a symposium on the role of the Church in the Modern World, the Reverend Clayton wondered?
He tore himself away from Philip Lambton, who had launched into an account of further plans to desecrate his church in the cause of adolescence, and turned to the young brother who was standing near, slightly apart, and quite self-contained.
‘Remarkably pleasant surroundings you have here,’ he said.
‘We think so,’ said Brother Dominic. Both lapsed into silence.
‘I suppose we are not really seeing them as they usually are, though,’ said Ernest Clayton.
‘No, no,’ said the young man, ‘things are very different as a rule.’ He seemed to be holding something back — perhaps that he heartily wished them all gone. In which case, why was he participating in the symposium?
‘How do you spend the greater part of your day?’ asked Clayton. ‘How do you divide it up?’
‘Most of it in prayer or work. But of course we also have the various observances, and we converse before meals.’
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