Susan Howatch - Glamorous Powers

‘I’ve reached the conclusion that we must make a completely different approach to this problem of yours,’ Francis was saying. ‘As things stand we’re now firmly entrenched behind fixed positions and no further progress is possible, so we must abandon our survey of the recent past, I think, and turn to the more distant past in our quest for enlightenment.’

Dutifully I said: ‘Yes, Father,’ and assumed an interested expression.

‘What I now want to do,’ pursued Francis, changing the nib of his pen, ‘is to compare your new alleged call to leave the Order with your old call to enter it and uncover the common denominators.’

I was sufficiently startled to exclaim: ‘But there aren’t any!’ However I added at once: ‘I’m sorry. That’s not a helpful attitude and I must do my best to be more constructive.’

Francis said after an eloquent pause: ‘Thank you, Jonathan.’ Throwing the old nib in the wastepaper basket he dipped his pen in the ink and wrote at the top of a new page of foolscap: ‘THE CALL TO BE A MONK’. Then he undid the ribbon which bound my file and opened the folder to reveal the earliest entry.

‘The first point of interest about your original call,’ he said, ‘is that it’s poorly recorded, but I suspect I know why. You were accepted as a postulant by your predecessor in the Abbot’s chair at Grantchester, and we all know now that dear old James Reid, God rest him, was so soft-hearted that he welcomed into the Order almost anyone who knocked on his door. I’d wager your call was never comprehensively investigated. In the end that didn’t matter, since your call was genuine, but no doubt when you quickly became so disruptive poor James thought he’d made a disastrous mistake.’

I felt obliged to say: ‘He did stand by me – even when I came to blows with the Master of Novices James resisted the demands that I should be thrown out. When he called in Father Darcy it wasn’t because he wanted to get rid of me but because he thought the poltergeist activity demanded a first-class exorcist.’

‘How Father Darcy must have enjoyed himself! But as soon as he met you, he knew James was right about your potential, didn’t he? So he didn’t investigate your call in detail either. He was much too busy shaping your future to waste time burrowing into your past.’ Francis picked up a page from the file and added: ‘Let me read you part of James’ opinion recorded after his preliminary interview with you in 1923 when you were still outside the Order. He writes:

‘“Jon tells me that he’s wanted to be a monk ever since his wife died in 1912. He loved his wife very dearly and they had nine happy years of marriage which were blessed by the gift of two children: Ruth (born 1904) and Martin (born 1905). Jon is clearly devoted to his children and during the eleven years since his wife died he has worked hard to support them even though his call to the cloister was becoming increasingly strong. He tells me that despite his happy marriage he realized that a life of domesticity, charming and rewarding though it might be in many ways, proved difficult to combine with his unusual and distinctive spirituality, and when his wife died he knew he must remain celibate in order to serve God best. He is also convinced that in the world he will always be tormented by the temptation to marry to satisfy his carnal inclinations, and he believes that only in a monastery will he be able to serve God without distraction and develop his spiritual gifts to the full. In my opinion he is patently sincere, mentally well-balanced despite his psychic powers and is obviously a man of high intelligence and considerable pastoral ability. In the past he has been led astray by a desire to exploit the glamour inherent in those psychic powers, but I believe that with sufficient training and dedication a truly charismatic power can be developed for the service of God. I told him I would accept him as a postulant, and I believe that in time he will prove a considerable asset to the Order.’”

Francis closed the file. For a long moment we looked at each other in silence. Then he said mildly: ‘Jonathan, I don’t want to appear cynical but it sounds to me as if you manipulated that unworldly man with all the skill your “glamorous powers” could command. During those nine years of happy marriage, what exactly happened which made you feel the trip to the altar was the one journey you never wanted to repeat?’

‘James spells out the truth clearly enough,’ I said. ‘I came to realize that despite my successful marriage I could serve God best without the distraction of family life.’

‘But was your marriage really so happy as James apparently believed it was?’

‘No, of course not. My marriage was like the vast majority of marriages; sometimes it was heaven and sometimes it was hell. Betty and I enjoyed the heaven, survived the hell and on the whole rubbed along very tolerably together. I certainly felt I was entitled to present the marriage to James as a success.’

‘Tell me about the times when the marriage was hell.’

‘You’re most unlikely to understand how unimportant our difficulties really were. If you’d ever been married yourself –’

‘Oh, good heavens!’ Francis was suddenly at his most theatrical. He groaned, shaded his eyes with his hand and twisted his mouth into a mournful grimace. ‘I did hope I’d never hear a monk of your calibre try to trot out that hoary jibe of the snide layman. If you’re not careful you’ll drive me to trot out the equally hoary jibe of the Roman Catholic priests that the onlooker sees most of the game.’

Despite my tension I laughed and apologized.

‘I can see I must tiptoe up to this delicate subject by another route,’ said Francis. ‘How did you meet your wife?’

‘After I was ordained in 1903 I went to work at the Mission for Seamen in Starmouth, and a week later I met Betty in the park. She saw me, failed to look where she was going and stumbled over a patch of uneven ground. Naturally I rushed to assist her.’

‘Just like a romance from Mudie’s Library. What was her background?’

‘Her father owned a tobacconist’s shop.’

‘Dear me, how awkward! What did your schoolmaster father think of your desire to marry below your station?’

‘How could he complain? He’d married a parlourmaid – as Father Darcy never ceased to announce to all and sundry whenever he wanted to rub my nose in the mud and induce a spirit of humility.’

‘Am I to deduce that you married a working-class woman because you wanted a wife who was just like your mother?’

‘No, you can forget your obsession with Freud and deduce that I married a working-class woman because I couldn’t afford to marry a lady on my modest salary as a chaplain.’

‘If you had no private means I’d have thought that any marriage would have been out of the question for a young man of twenty-three. Surely your father advised you to wait!’

‘My father was a quiet scholarly man who didn’t find it easy to talk to me – indeed I both mystified and frightened him. His predominant reaction to my desire to marry seemed to be relief that I wanted to settle down.’

‘And your confessor – who, of course was none other than dear old James himself at our recently-founded Grantchester house – what did he think of your decision?’

‘He was the one who urged me to marry as soon after my ordination as possible.’

Francis said dryly: ‘It’s amazing how dangerous these unworldly holy men can be. However I mustn’t be too harsh on poor old James – after your shady career at the Varsity I suppose it was inevitable that he should doubt your ability to stay chaste for long … Did you continue to see him regularly between your ordination in 1903 and your entry into the Order twenty years later?’