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‘Trying not to be recognized?’ I said as we met in the hall.
‘I might ask you the same question!’
‘Well, at least you haven’t said –’
‘– “Oh, how different you look out of your clericals!”’
We laughed, and as I led the way outside to my car it occurred to me that if Miss Christie could cope with every conceivable crisis in an episcopal household she could cope with a Doctor of Divinity who was mad enough to be afraid of his own reflection. Conscious of relief, happiness, nervous anticipation and sexual desire in pleasantly stimulating proportions I decided the afternoon was going to be a success.
Miss Christie suggested that we might drive to Starbury Ring, a megalithic stone circle high on the Downs, and after she had directed me out of the city we headed up the valley to the north. The surrounding hills curved with a voluptuous smoothness in the limpid afternoon light. Leaving the main road we passed some farms and once were trapped behind a slow-moving cart, but otherwise nothing deflected our attention from the steadily unfolding views.
Suddenly Miss Christie said, ‘I ought to take Mrs Jardine for a drive like this. It would do her good. We could even take a picnic and disappear for an entire afternoon.’
‘What about the Bishop?’
‘Oh, I’d leave him behind. He hates eating alfresco. His idea of relaxation is to write a letter to The Times.’
‘I hear that was how he made his name before he became Vicar of St Mary’s, Mayfair.’
‘Yes, he didn’t have much else to do when he was a chaplain in North London.’
I saw the chance to pursue my investigation. ‘No one’s yet explained to me,’ I said, ‘why he was living in such obscurity before the translation to Mayfair. What happened to him after he was ordained?’
‘He was given a parish in this diocese – in the slums of Starmouth. He stayed there for seven years and made a success of it, but it was desperately hard work and in the end his health broke down.’
‘That often happens to clergymen in sordid parishes,’ I said, and the next moment I was remembering my friend Philip’s accusation that I lived in an ivory tower. Some guilty impulse drove me to add: ‘However, you mustn’t think I speak from experience. I’m afraid my ministry’s always been among the affluent.’
‘Christ preached to the rich as well as the poor, didn’t he?’ Miss Christie said composed. ‘And Dr Jardine says that spiritually the rich can be just as impoverished as any family on the dole.’
I glanced at her with gratitude but she was looking out of the side-window at the curving hills. After a pause I said, ‘Tell me more about Dr Jardine – what happened when his health broke down?’
‘On the doctor’s advice he resigned his living and borrowed the money to take a long holiday. The rest helped but he still didn’t think his health could stand the strain of another parish so he decided to do some writing and research at Oxford. I expect you know he’s a Fellow of All Souls. However his financial difficulties in those days were so acute that he had to have some sort of benefice, and finally the Warden of All Souls got him this obscure hospital chaplaincy in North London – the living was in the gift of the College.’
‘I gather Dr Jardine had considerable family obligations in Putney.’
‘He was supporting his father, his stepmother and his two sisters,’ said Miss Christie drily. ‘Although he didn’t starve he was hardly well nourished. However the chaplaincy suited him – the hospital was very small, no more than a large alms-house, and as there wasn’t much work to do he used to spend the days in the middle of the week up at Oxford. He wrote some articles, preached various guest-sermons – he already had a reputation as a preacher – and sent letters regularly to The Times. Eventually, without Dr Jardine’s knowledge, the Warden of All Souls approached Mr Asquith, who was then Prime Minister, and asked him if something could be done to improve the situation since it was obvious that Dr Jardine’s health was quite restored. Mr Asquith had been enjoying the letters to The Times and he immediately remembered that the new vacancy at St Mary’s was in the gift of the Crown.’
‘That’s what we clergymen call an edifying story,’ I said. ‘After many vicissitudes the good get their reward.’
‘I can’t see why you should sound so envious,’ said Miss Christie as if she felt she had been too friendly and was now obliged to redress the balance. ‘You’re obviously in line for the choicest of bishoprics.’
‘You think so?’ I said. ‘I’m flattered. But do you honestly believe I’m fit to be a bishop just because I’ve published a book on the Early Church and can survive at Cambridge Cathedral without quarrelling with the Dean?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to judge your fitness, Dr Ashworth. I leave that to God and Dr Lang.’
I knew I had to demonstrate that I was not prepared to tolerate an asperity drummed up by a guilt that we should be getting on so well. Grinding the car to a halt I switched off the engine, swivelled to face her and demanded, ‘Why the hostility?’
She went white. At first I thought she was white with anger but then I realized she was white with alarm. When she protested, ‘I’m not hostile!’ I said at once, ‘No – so why pretend?’ and leaning forward I kissed her on the mouth.
This was fast behaviour for a gentleman on a sedate afternoon drive with a lady he had known less than twenty-four hours, and for a clergyman the behaviour was so fast that I felt I was travelling at the speed of light. Indeed my speed so stunned Miss Christie that for the first five seconds after our lips touched she behaved as if she were paralysed. Five seconds is a long time when two mouths are joined in a kiss. However on the sixth second the response came, and contrary to my expectations the response was far from hostile. Her mouth opened beneath mine. At once I pulled her closer, but the next moment she was shoving me aside and with reluctance I let her go. Her face was no longer white but a pale pink. I had no idea what colour my face was but I felt as if I had run a hundred yards at high speed, and my mind was swirling not only with thoughts of empty champagne glasses but with images of bright swords, dark tunnels and other ambiguous objects blighted for all time by Freud.
Miss Christie smoothed her skirt – which I had not touched – and as she did so I noticed that she wore a signet-ring on the third finger of her left hand. Finally she said, ‘We met yesterday for the first time. We’re not even on Christian-name terms. Aren’t you behaving a little curiously for a clergyman?’
‘At least I now know you well enough to call you Lyle.’
‘Dr Ashworth –’
‘My name’s Charles. Yes, of course I’m behaving curiously for a clergyman, but whenever someone makes a remark which implies a clergyman should be some sort of stainless-steel saint I want to quote Shylock’s speech from The Merchant of Venice – you know the one, the speech where he says he bleeds and suffers just as other people do –’
‘Well, I wasn’t implying –’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘Dr Ashworth –’
‘Charles.’
‘– I’m afraid I’m simply not a candidate for a whirlwind romance –’
‘No, don’t pretend you’re not interested in me! I saw you listening with bated breath last night when Lady Starmouth asked if I had a wife!’
‘I –’
‘Look.’ I adopted