Susan Howatch - Mystical Paths

‘Ah, there you are!’ said Christian, walking into the room a second later. ‘I was afraid you’d already gone. This hasn’t been much fun for you, has it? Marina’s very bold in bringing together widely differing age-groups, but it’s a risky strategy for a hostess to adopt.’

‘I didn’t mind.’ I pawed at a mink stole and finally found my jacket. ‘It was okay.’

‘Was it? You look a bit green.’

Too many sausage rolls –’

‘– and not enough champagne!’ he said laughing. To my surprise he added: ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t have much chance to talk to you – I think you were probably the most original person in the room and I always admire originality. Come to Oxford to see me if ever you can tear yourself away from the Other Place!’

And then as he smiled straight into my eyes, the Force blasted back across my psyche and I thought: you’ll die young.

‘We sin because we are part of a sinful situation …’

MICHAEL RAMSEY

Archbishop of Canterbury 1961–1974

Canterbury Pilgrim

He died two years later in the summer of 1965. I met him only three times after that first encounter, but those meetings ensured I became involved in the mystery of 1968. They all took place within weeks of Marina’s party.

I was anxious to respond to his invitation to Oxford, so as soon as my second-year exams were finished I wrote him a note which read: ‘Dear Dr Aysgarth, If you have a moment to spare I’d like to ask you how far Joachim of Flora’s philosophy predates Karl Marx’s theory of history. I could come up to Oxford any time now. Yours sincerely, N. DARROW.’

In reply he wrote back: ‘Dear Nick, How nice to hear from you! Now that term’s ended and my undergraduates have finished having nervous breakdowns, I’m free as air. Come up for the weekend and we’ll pull Joachim to pieces! Yours, CHRISTIAN.’

I went up for the weekend. He had an unexpectedly large house in North Oxford, a fact which reminded me that Katie came from a wealthy family. There was a tousled garden with a bumpy tennis court in the middle of it. The house was comfortable, but its youngest inhabitants, two little Aysgarths aged five and two, ensured that it was not oppressively tidy. I knew little about children in those days, but these girls seemed unusually bright and well-behaved. An au pair female pitter-pattered in the background but Katie did most of the cooking herself. The food was Frenchified but plentiful. I ate voraciously and remembered to offer to help with the washing up. Katie said no, no, but was pleased I had volunteered. Christian said no, no, and bore me off to his study for mind-stretching conversations about Joachim of Flora, but since people kept dropping in and the phone kept ringing, our discussions tended to be fragmentary.

I was impressed by the Aysgarths’ popularity and even more impressed by their ability to remain unflurried by the numerous interruptions. A successful partnership, I thought, a well-suited couple. I forgot that obscure moment of tension between them at Marina’s party.

On the Sunday of my visit Christian showed me around his College and we attended matins in Christ Church Cathedral. It was after this that I felt sufficiently self-assured in his company to say: ‘Since you’re a church-goer, I suppose your decision not to be ordained had nothing to do with a loss of faith.’

‘I don’t usually go to church. But I happen to be fond of that Purcell anthem they sang this morning.’

I was so startled by this confession that I was glad he gave me no chance to comment. To tell the truth,’ he added, ‘I never intended to be ordained. I read theology just to please my father.’

Automatically I heard myself say: ‘But how on earth did you break the news to him that you weren’t going on to theological college?’

‘I said something like: “Brace yourself – tough news – I’m not going to be ordained.” And he said: “Oh dear. Never mind, we can’t all be Archbishop of Canterbury. Have a drink and tell me what you intend to do instead.”’

‘What a fabulous father!’ I exclaimed impressed, but Christian merely said: ‘I doubt if he was surprised. I think he’d already worked out that my decision to read theology was my way of discharging any filial obligation I had to follow in his footsteps.’

‘Even so,’ I said, ‘he took it very well. If I decided not to be ordained, I believe my father would sink into a depression and die.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She –’

‘Oh God, no, I’m sorry, she’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she died when I was fourteen.’

‘I was fifteen when my mother died,’ said Christian. ‘It was absolute bloody hell. However, at least your father never remarried. Count your blessings.’ And when I heard the edge to his voice I knew he hated his stepmother.

I heard from her three weeks later. I was at home, trying to work out how I could trade in Lynda (my first girl, acquired in a frenzy the previous summer after my encounter with Marina in the punt) and take on something with longer legs. I was just fantasising for the umpteenth time about Dinkie when Morgan, one of the Community, banged on the door of my private sitting-room and said: ‘The intercom’s not working and that crazy wife of the Dean of Starbridge is on the phone screeching for you. Are you in or out?’

I opened the door. Morgan was an ex-pop-singer who was now trying to write an opera about God in order to justify the free meals which he received as a member of the Community, but I didn’t mind him. He was harmless. The members of the Community who drove me up the wall were Rowena and Agnes, the wives of the ex-monks, Mark and Luke. I detest bossy old bitches who think priggishness is part of the Christian way of life.

‘Okay, I’ll take the call,’ I said, intrigued by Morgan’s news, and moved to the bedroom, where I kept the phone.

‘Nicholas my dear,’ said Mrs Dean the instant I announced my presence, ‘this is Dido Aysgarth – as that peculiar man who answered the phone may or may not have told you, and really, I can’t think why your father has to surround you with a bunch of cranks instead of engaging some motherly soul who would be a proper housekeeper, but then there’s the problem of the garden, isn’t there, and gardeners are almost impossible to obtain nowadays as I well know. Nevertheless it seems unwise to rely on religious maniacs, such a tragedy your mother died young, although she worked so hard running that estate that it’s hardly surprising she had a massive stroke and personally I think women should stick to being wives and mothers and leave the masculine work in this world to men – and talking of men, my dear, Christian’s coming down next weekend with his family and since he’s taken a fancy to you he’s insisting that I invite you over for Sunday lunch, and I thought what a good idea because it’s years since you’ve seen Elizabeth and although she’s only fourteen she’s very mature – and in my opinion quite ravishing as well as utterly brilliant – but of course I’m prejudiced as I’m her mother, and talking of parents, I almost hesitate to ask for fear of hearing bad news, but how is that poor old father of yours?’

‘Very well.’

‘So sad your mother’s death unhinged him. All right, Nicholas, we’ll look forward to your visit, Christian will be so –’ And she hung up, cutting herself off. Probably she continued to talk even after the receiver had been replaced.

It says much for my desire to see Christian that I turned up at the Deanery despite the outrageous style of the invitation. Unfortunately I at first had no chance to talk to him. Mrs Aysgarth was ruthless in clamping down on my efforts to escape from Nymphet-Elizabeth, Starbridge’s very own version of Lolita, and when I did succeed in heading for the seclusion of the lavatory, Sandy-the-Greek-Freak waylaid me in the hall. I was just wishing I were a hundred miles away when Christian came to the rescue and bore me off for a stroll around the Close.