LITMIR.BIZ

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Overlooking this idyllic seascape stood an Edwardian house, not too big but solid and well-proportioned. Beyond a walled garden the brown-green moors, dotted with rocks, rose towards mountains capped by cloud.

      ‘Just like Wuthering Heights!’ remarked Primrose. True romantic isolation! All we need now is Heathcliff.’

      The front door opened as if on cue, and the Dean of Starbridge stepped out into the porch to welcome us.

      V

      Despite its remoteness the house turned out to be very comfortable, in that plain tasteful style that always costs a lot of money, and this comfort was enhanced by a married couple who did all the boring things such as cooking, shopping, cleaning and keeping the peat fires burning. At that time of the year in the far north the weather was still cold, particularly in the evenings, but having spent so much of my life at Flaxton Hall, where the heating was either non-existent or modest, I took the chill in my stride. In contrast, wretched Eddie was soon complaining of rheumatic twinges and saying that whenever he was in pain he was convinced he was going to die young.

      ‘In that case,’ said Primrose, ‘please do die now and save us from listening to any more of your moans,’ but at that point Aysgarth intervened, reminding Eddie lightly that life had been much worse in the POW camp on Starbury Plain and begging Primrose not to encourage anyone to die because it would be so annoying to have to cut short the holiday.

      Our days in the wilderness began with breakfast at nine. Eddie then walked to the village and collected the specially ordered copy of The Times; on his return he studied it for twenty minutes. Another brisk trot followed, this time up and down the beach, but finally he allowed himself to relax in the morning-room with The Brothers Karamazov.

      In contrast Aysgarth followed quite a different pattern of activity. After breakfast he sat in the drawing-room for a while and gazed at the sea. Then he dipped into one of his newly-purchased paperbacks (all detective stories) and read a few pages. More sea-gazing followed but at last he roused himself sufficiently to pen a letter to his wife. (‘The daily chore,’ commented Primrose to me once in a grim aside.) By the time the letter was finished Eddie had returned from the village but Aysgarth refused to read the newspaper in detail after Eddie had discarded it; he merely glanced at the headlines and tried to do the crossword. Despite his intellect he was very bad at crosswords, almost as bad as he was at bridge, and had to be helped by Primrose and me. The completion of the puzzle took at least twice as long as it should have done because we all spent so much time laughing, but once the last letter had been pencilled in Aysgarth invariably announced with regret: ‘I suppose I ought to take some exercise.’ He then staggered outside, inhaled deeply a few times and staggered back indoors again. As soon as the clock in the hall chimed twelve he declared it was time for drinks. Eddie, who preferred to abstain from alcohol till the evening, remained in the morning-room with The Brothers Karamazov but Aysgarth and I would swill champagne while Primrose toyed with her customary glass of dry sherry.

      At some time during the morning Primrose and I would have been out, either scrambling along the rocky coast or following the path up into the stark wild hills. It rained regularly, but since we always wore macks and sou’westers the weather was never a serious inconvenience. Besides, the rain never lasted long. When the sun did shine we continually marvelled at the colours around us: the sea was a sapphire blue, the waves bright white, the sands dark cream, the moors green-brown mixed with ash-grey rock. Primrose took numerous photographs while I tried to impress the scenes on my memory and wished I could paint. Often as we scrambled along the low cliffs we saw seals playing near the beach, and several times in the hills we glimpsed deer. There were never any people. As the days passed my sense of peace increased until I even began to wish I could have been one of those ancient Celtic saints, dedicated to a solitary life in a remote and beautiful place in order to worship God. At least I would have been spared the rat-race in London and the hell of attending the Great Party of Life as a wallflower.

      After lunch every day Aysgarth retired for ‘forty winks’, which usually lasted half an hour, Primrose and I read The Times and Eddie wrote letters. Then at three o’clock we departed with a picnic tea for an outing in the car. All over the long island we rambled; on two consecutive days we stopped on the road to Leverburgh at a point above the vast sands which stretched across the bay towards the distant range of blue mountains, and twice we visited the remote church at Rodel on the southernmost tip of Harris. Then I, who was so very bad at worship and so very reluctant to be ‘churchy’, found myself thinking of Jesus Christ, living thousands of miles away in another culture in another millennium, writing nothing, completing his life’s work in three years, a failure by worldly standards, dying an ignoble death – yet still alive in the little church at Rodel on the remotest edge of Europe, still alive for his millions upon millions of followers worldwide, not a despised, rejected failure any more but acknowledged even by non-Christians as one of the greatest men who had ever lived, etched deep on the consciousness of humanity and expressing his mysterious message of regeneration in that most enigmatic of all symbols, the cross.

      ‘What are you thinking about, Venetia?’ said that pest Eddie, ruining my rare moment of feeling religious as I stood staring at the church.

      ‘Elvis Presley,’ I said to shut him up. Eddie loathed pop music.

      By then I was missing my daily dose of the pops on Radio Luxemburg which seemed to be unobtainable in the Hebrides; perhaps the weather conditions were unfavourable – or perhaps Luxemburg was merely too far away. The BBC in those days devoted little time to musical trivia so my deprivation was severe, but on the other hand there was little time to tune into the wireless. When we returned from our picnic the moment had arrived for a gin-and-tonic for me, whisky for the men and another glass of sherry for Primrose. During dinner we sampled a claret or a white burgundy – or possibly, depending on the menu, both; Aysgarth was taking seriously his absent host’s invitation that we should help ourselves to his well-stocked cellar. After dinner we played bridge or, if we were feeling frivolous, vingt-et-un. Conversation, spiked by all the drink, sparkled. Even Eddie shuddered with mirth occasionally.

      ‘Father,’ said Primrose late one evening after Eddie had scooped the pool of matchsticks at vingt-et-un and Aysgarth had suggested a nightcap of brandy, ‘isn’t this holiday turning into a distinctly Bacchanalian orgy?’

      ‘I hope so!’ said Aysgarth amused.

      ‘So do I!’ I said at once. ‘Primrose, these poor clergymen spend months on end being saintly and strait-laced – why on earth shouldn’t they let their hair down on holiday?’

      That idiotic Eddie was unable to resist sighing: ‘“Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.”’

      ‘Well, I’m not dying yet!’ declared Aysgarth robustly. ‘I’ve still got a lot of living to do!’

      A chord twanged in my memory. ‘“I’ve gotta – whole lotta living to do!”’ I sang, imitating Presley. ‘“Whole lotta loving to do – and there’s-uh no one-uh who I’d rather do it-uh with-uh than you – COME ON, BABY!”’

      ‘Venetia!’ exclaimed Eddie, appalled by the vulgarity, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

      ‘Venetia!’ cried Primrose scandalised, casting an embarrassed glance at her father.

      ‘What a splendid song!’ said my Mr Dean naughtily, unable to resist the urge to shock them still further. ‘Does it come from the repertoire of those young men Pip likes so much?’

      ‘The Beatles? No, it’s an Elvis Presley number.’

      ‘Ah, Mr Presley! The Bishop thinks his records ought to be banned – which inevitably means they’re first-class fun. “Charles,” I said to him after I’d supported the publication of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, “the real obscenity in our culture isn’t sex. It’s violence.” But of course he refused to agree. Funny how Charles takes such a dark view of sex – it’s as if he can never forget some very profound sexual sin which affected him personally in some quite unforgettable way.’

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