LITMIR.BIZ

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fox. He never said anything so obvious as: “You’ve got to forgive the old boy in order to be at peace with his memory,” but he paved the way to forgiveness by persuading me to admit how much I’d have disliked being Abbot-General and how far more suitable you were for the job.’

      Francis leant back in his chair. Perhaps he thought his expression was merely quizzical but I found it cynical to the point of being offensive. ‘Why would you have disliked being Abbot-General?’

      ‘Too much administration. Too much vapid socializing with the upper echelons of the Church. Not enough time to counsel men outside the Order. Not enough time to meditate in solitude.’

      ‘A small price to pay, surely,’ said Francis, ‘for such enormous gratification to your self-esteem.’

      ‘My ego isn’t so insatiable as you seem to think! After my talk with Aidan I was happy enough to remain Abbot of Grantchester.’

      ‘But were you?’ said Francis. That’s the next big question, isn’t it? The world beyond our cloister has been turned upside down, the barbarians are at the gates and it’s a very unpleasant fact of life, as Machiavelli knew all too well, that war can be immensely stimulating. It kicks people out of their well-worn ruts, offers adventure and provides all manner of enthralling changes – unless, of course, one happens to be in a monastery. Then life becomes increasingly drab.’

      ‘I hope you’re not implying –’

      ‘Do you deny that the War’s been a depressing influence on your work? You lost one of your best young men the other day, didn’t you?’

      ‘Barnabas, yes. He’s gone into the Army.’

      ‘It’s always a harrowing experience to lose a good young monk. And meanwhile you still have more than your fair share of boring old drones – Augustine who falls asleep in choir, Denys the glutton – and what was the name of that monk you told me about once, the one who always has to wash his hands when the clock strikes noon?’

      ‘Clement. But a monastery wouldn’t be a monastery without its share of harmless eccentrics!’

      ‘Tedious eccentrics. And meanwhile there you are, active as ever but beached like a stranded whale in your Grantchester backwater –’

      ‘I hardly think you can describe a place which is only two miles from one of the great universities of the world as a backwater!’

      ‘Don’t try and tell me the War hasn’t affected Cambridge! My spies inform me that Air Force officers are now billeted in the Colleges and undergraduates are being sucked into the war machine – with the inevitable result that fewer people must be coming to the house to make a retreat or seek counselling. And meanwhile your tedious administrative tasks are increasing – all the irritating war-time regulations have to be mastered, interminable forms have to be filled in –’

      ‘Bernard likes doing all those sort of things.’

      ‘– and your frustration must be growing daily. What a contrast to the last war when you were on active service as a chaplain! Then you were making a positive contribution to the war-effort, but now all you can do is twiddle your thumbs in your Grantchester backwater amidst all your boring old men –’

      ‘That’s a gross misrepresentation!’

      ‘– and it would be only natural, wouldn’t it, if you occasionally longed to get out into the world and make some vital contribution to the fight to save England from the Nazis?’

      ‘But even if I went out into the world,’ I exclaimed, unable to resist the temptation to outshout him and falling straight into the trap he had constructed for me, ‘I couldn’t be a chaplain in the Navy again!’

      ‘No.’ For the second time Francis leant back in his chair and regarded me cynically. ‘You couldn’t. You’re too old, aren’t you? You’re sixty. Sixty! Jonathan –’ The trap sprang shut ‘– why didn’t you remind me that the day preceding your vision happened to be your sixtieth birthday?’

      I could only say stiffly: ‘I didn’t think it was important.’

      ‘No? Could you really regard it as just another birthday? When I was sixty last February I was so sunk in gloom that the old man had to shake me, metaphorically speaking, until my teeth rattled and remind me that to mope about one’s age is self-centred, futile and a prime example of that morbid introspection which can so seriously impair one’s spiritual health. But the old man wasn’t there to shake you till your teeth rattled, was he, Jonathan? He was dead – and that, of course, leads me to my last big question of the afternoon: exactly what effect has his death had on you? It seems to me that you’ve lost the one spiritual director who was capable of keeping you on the rails.’

      ‘That’s not true. Aidan’s always shown great skill.’

      ‘Aidan’s skill lay in translating the old man’s orders into action. Father Darcy ruled your career from the moment he removed you from Grantchester seventeen years ago, and perhaps now that you’re without him you’re beginning to feel lost, confused, adrift – even unbalanced –’

      This was a line of attack which had to be instantly terminated. ‘I must insist –’

      ‘No, indeed you must not! You’re not here to be dogmatic and opinionated!’ Francis, wielding his power with the efficiency of a giant cat bent on disembowelling his prey, was at his most formidable. In self-defence I assumed an expressionless silence, and as the pause lengthened I sensed Francis deciding how he might best complete my demolition. Finally he said in the most mellifluous voice he could muster: ‘I can see you’re a trifle upset, Jonathan. Would you like me to tell you a little fairy-story to help calm you down?’

      The giant cat was closing in for dinner. With a sinking heart I resigned myself to the inevitable.

      III

      ‘Once upon a time,’ said Francis, ‘there was a hero, but he wasn’t a prince as most heroes are in fairytales; he was a monk. At his christening long before he became a monk, two fairies were present. The good fairy gave our hero a range of unusual gifts which would one day make him an outstanding monk, but the bad fairy made him proud, arrogant, stubborn, wilful and opinionated. Our hero grew up and had an interesting career in the Church but it was blighted because despite his gifts the bad fairy’s curse made him unable to develop them to the full. However when he at last became a monk the miracle happened and he met his fairy godfather, the godfather who knew how to wave the magic wand so that all those nasty qualities bequeathed by the bad fairy could finally be overcome.

      ‘Our hero endured many vicissitudes but thanks to his fairy godfather, who constantly waved the magic wand, our hero flourished, became happy in his new life and eventually allowed himself to hope that he might climb right to the top of the monastic tree. But then one day a terrible thing happened: the fairy godfather retired to live in fairyland, and our hero suddenly found himself not only abandoned, deprived of the magic wand, but also blocked from reaching the top of the monastic tree.

      ‘Because he was a good monk he did his best to go on as usual, but slowly the bad fairy tiptoed back into his life and all those unfortunate flaws in his personality began to emerge again. Our hero became restless and dissatisfied. He fought to overcome these feelings by diverting himself with hard work, but this only made him exhausted and once the exhaustion began he slipped into a depression. Then slowly, very slowly, as life in the monastery became increasingly dreary, he began to think how nice it would be to abandon the soporific routine of his monastic life and ride off bravely, just as all heroes should, to join the great crusade against the Devil which was currently being waged in the world beyond the walls of his cloister.

      ‘But of course he knew he couldn’t leave the Order just to satisfy his own desires so he slogged heroically on – until a really terrible thing happened, so terrible that it sent him into a panic. He had a birthday, a particularly nasty birthday for a man, the sort of birthday which made him realize he wasn’t

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