Glamorous Powers, page 37
I knew from the beginning that it would be unwise for me to introduce a form of worship which reflected my High-Church inclinations into a parish where antipathy to Catholicism ran high, but when I embarked on my effort to stimulate my congregation I found I could not accept that the only Anglo-Catholic touch I was allowed to make was the reduced length of the sermon. Cautiously I introduced a few candles, and when no one objected I stealthily planted more. Still no one objected, and step by step I then began to incorporate further rich touches of Anglo-Catholic symbolism into my services. I took care to explain each innovation so that no one could accuse me of staging a mere pretty pageant, and for a while I thought I was encountering a miraculous conversion on all fronts to my belief that colourful ritual can aid devotion by making complex religious truths more accessible, but gradually rumours reached me of rebellion.
In the beginning no one made any pointed remarks except my bossy churchwarden Mr Pitkin who asked if it were true that I intended to install a statue of the Virgin and order my congregation to worship it. The worship of statues constitutes idolatry, Mr Pitkin,’ I said austerely, ‘and besides, although St Mary must be regarded by us with the greatest reverence, worship should be confined to the Trinity.’ I added to reassure him: ‘This is the English, not the Roman Church!’ and he retired satisfied, but I then made a fatal mistake. The following Sunday I announced during Matins that I intended to set aside a certain time each week for the hearing of confessions.
My purpose in making this move was not simply to gratify my longing to return to my work as a confessor; I still conducted a certain amount of spiritual direction by correspondence with men I had counselled as a monk so I was far from being wholly frustrated in this field. However I hoped that my gesture in offering myself as a confessor to my community might identify those who were in deep need of spiritual help yet had so far been too shy to come forward. Carefully I explained to the congregation that confession to a priest was not compulsory within the Church of England, but the very word ‘confession’ reeks of Popery to a certain type of Protestant, and I found I had opened the floodgates to a tidal wave of complaints about my ‘Romish’ practices.
In vain I insisted that the Anglo-Catholics did not recognize the Pope’s jurisdiction and that the English Catholic Church had all the advantages of the Church of Rome (the heritage of the Early Church, the rich liturgical tradition, the distinctive spirituality) and none of the disadvantages (the accretion of superstition and myth, the chaotic history of the Papacy, the despotic power of a leader who purported to be infallible). To my protestant congregation only the word ‘Catholic’ was audible, and the fact that the Anglo-Catholics were within the Church of England merely provoked the response: ‘What can the Church be corning to?’
I was accused of genuflection as if it were adultery, of facing east at the crucial point of the mass as if I were a Moslem praying to Mecca, of making the sign of the cross with the frequency of a magician performing a conjuring trick and of retaining my hold on the chalice as if I feared one of my communicants might run off with it. All my attempts at explanation – and naturally I was quite prepared to justify these alien practices – were brushed aside as the complaints thundered on. I had littered the church with ‘nasty Papist candles’. I had a thoroughly objectionable habit of referring to the service of Holy Communion as mass. (It was true that after seventeen years with the Fordites I did sometimes let slip the word ‘mass’ in public, but in fact the habits of one’s early years die hard and I usually had no trouble remembering to say ‘communion’ instead.) Then I was accused not only of reserving the sacrament; I was even accused of plotting to import a pyx, but fortunately I could deny this latter charge with a clear conscience since I had had the sense to realize that to introduce perpetual reservation at that stage would certainly have been to push my Anglo-Catholic luck too far. However I insisted that I would continue to reserve the sacrament for the sick, and my enemies, maddened by my firmness, roared back into the attack by accusing me of smuggling incense into the vestry; I had indeed planned to introduce incense into the services at Advent and had even gone so far as to order a censer, but when I saw that no one appeared able to pronounce the word ‘incense’ without a shudder my nerve failed and I protested that the incense was only for use in the village school’s nativity play.
In the midst of all this nonsense my confession-hour was overrun by my brigade of ladies, who saw it as a legitimate opportunity to talk to me alone, and the whole worthy experiment dissolved into futility.
I felt so enraged, so frustrated and so debilitated by these unedifying events that I actually sat down to pen a full confession to Francis, but the letter was never written.
The military police informed me that Martin had unsuccessfully attempted to commit suicide.
VIII
The suicide attempt had been half-hearted, no more than a cry for help from an actor unable to sustain his role, but in the military hospital the extent of his alcoholism was discovered and he remained a patient there for some weeks before his inevitable discharge from the Army. Of course I visited him but since we still seemed to be incapable of meeting without upsetting each other the psychiatrist in charge of his case deemed it wiser that I should temporarily keep my distance. I consoled myself with the thought that at least my son was being cared for in a safe place, but I was made very miserable by the incident and for a while all my other problems seemed trivial in comparison.
Anne was kindness itself to me throughout this agonizing time but I remained haunted by the anxiety that I might try her patience too far; I was sure the last thing she wanted was to see me crucified by the legacy of my first marriage, and I was also afraid that in my distress I might betray my horror of begetting more children who might grow up profoundly unhappy. Accordingly I drew a veil over my suffering to protect her from it and renewed my efforts never to weary her with any self-centred display of grief.
I did write a brief letter about Martin to Francis who replied with sympathy and urged me to visit him, but when out of a reluctance to discuss my other problems I declined to leave the parish at that time, I suspected Anne was relieved. London was still under heavy attack, and the Archbishop, bombed out of Lambeth Palace, had even withdrawn to Canterbury; I could not help but think critically of him for his retreat from the capital in such a time of crisis, but Dr Lang was an old man now and perhaps it ill became me to criticize him when I myself was safe in the country. As all the reports made clear, London had become a nightmare, and soon the nightmare was extended when the Luftwaffe at last turned aside to bomb the provincial cities. In mid-November the great cathedral at Coventry was smashed to rubble, but no bomb could destroy the spirit that dwelt there. Immediately a cross was fashioned from the scorched beams and a month later the Christmas service was broadcast to the nation from the ruins.
Meanwhile the citizens of Starbridge were anxiously eyeing their famous spire but Starbridge, unlike Coventry, was not an industrial centre and its cathedral remained intact, a symbol of the indestructible miraculously persisting in a world where destruction had become a way of life. I have always thought that one of the most demonic aspects of war is the way in which evil comes to be accepted as normal to such an extent that it is even woven into the mundane pattern of daily existence. I travelled around the parish with my regulation gas-mask and soon found I could sling it in my bicycle-basket with no more emotion than I expended in putting on my hat. I talked to the Home Guard, a jolly, friendly bunch of men, and found it easy to forget they had been licensed to commit murder. I spoke to air-raid wardens who enforced the black-out and never boggled at the possibility that a stray bomb could blow us all to smithereens. I embarked on a campaign to raise money for the victims of Coventry but soon ceased to be horrified by the revolting fact that these innocent civilians had been maimed by men deliberately pulling levers in machines travelling far above the earth. Insanity and normality went hand in hand, and as I approached the familiar Christmas festivities I saw my own private world reflecting the war in microcosm again, my dark stark problems flowing with a sinister invisibility alongside my comforting Christian routine.
With the help of Anne and the village schoolmistresses I staged a magnificent nativity play. A well-attended carol service, designed to cater to Protestant taste, followed the next day, and on Christmas Eve I decided I had earned the right to celebrate a midnight mass in the best Anglo-Catholic tradition. My devoted ladies, all of whom had become Anglo-Catholics, praised me fulsomely afterwards, but the wretch Pitkin was outraged and before the end of the year I had a visit from the Rural Dean, a round rubicund gentleman who supervised six parishes in my corner of the diocese and whom I found prowling around the altar one morning as if he were sniffing for incense. I gave him luncheon at the Manor, plied him liberally with vintage port and expected to hear no more from the authorities, but in the new year Aysgarth wrote to request an interview, and with a sinking heart I realized – too late – that my talent for disruption had landed me in the sort of trouble which any priest in his right mind would have been at pains to avoid.
IX
I received Aysgarth in the vestry. A small paraffin heater alleviated the chill in the room, but apart from this one touch of luxury my surroundings were impressively spartan. If Aysgarth had expected to see me languishing in luxurious vestments amidst a cloud of incense, he had been doomed to disappointment.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you like this,’ he said civilly when we were both seated. ‘After the Rural Dean reported that in his opinion the fuss was a storm in a teacup I was going to do no more than write you a letter, but since the Bishop himself has now received a complaint he’s suggested that it might be helpful if we had an informal talk.’ He paused before adding blandly: ‘When a new clergyman takes charge of a parish it’s important to iron out any initial difficulty as quickly as possible.’
‘I’m trying hard, I assure you, Archdeacon, to iron out my initial difficulty, but unfortunately Mr Pitkin doesn’t take kindly to being ironed.’
Receiving this good-natured comment with a repellent absence of humour Aysgarth said stiffly: ‘I’m sorry to hear you’ve fallen out with Mr Pitkin. It pays a parson to keep on good terms with his churchwardens.’
I was well aware of this obvious fact of clerical life and I disliked being treated as a parish novice by a man who was young enough to be my son. Abruptly I demanded: ‘What’s the exact charge against me?’
‘It’s said that you deviate frequently from the rubric’
‘But everyone knows the rubric isn’t strictly enforced nowadays!’
‘Nevertheless it represents the rules governing worship in the Church, and if you deviate from orthodox practice your opponents have a legitimate grievance against you. For example, I’m told that you present the chalice to the lips of the communicants instead of “into their hands” as the rubric orders –’
‘Would you like me to see the Bishop to reassure him that I’ve no intention of going over to Rome?’
Of course he hated being reminded that I had the Bishop under my thumb. I saw his hard mouth tighten but he kept his temper and merely continued to list the charges against me. One or two, like the example he had already cited, were justified. The rest were a tribute to Pitkin’s anti-papist paranoia.
‘I can’t urge you too strongly to stick to the rubric in future,’ concluded Aysgarth at last despite my vigorous defence of my rights as a Catholic within the Church of England, ‘and I’d also urge you to make your peace with the hostile minority by soft-pedalling the Anglo-Catholic touches for the time being. In a rural parish like this it’s vital to acknowledge the strong conservative bias in your congregation by making changes slowly. Of course I’m willing to allow for the fact that you’ve no previous experience in a rural parish, but –’
‘Thank you, Archdeacon, but there’s no need for you to sweeten your reproof with a coating of sugar. I trust,’ I said, inwardly seething with rage, ‘that I’m capable of acknowledging my errors with a proper spirit of humility. I’m sorry you’ve been troubled by this matter. I shall do my best to see you’re not troubled again.’
That terminated the conversation but I could see I had once more annoyed Aysgarth by adopting a tone which would have been better suited to admonishing recalcitrant monks. I wished then that I had been less inflamed with angry pride but the damage had been done and I knew we had wound up enemies again.
My career as a parish priest seemed to be going from bad to worse.
I felt deeply depressed.
X
After Aysgarth had departed I wanted only to return home to seek solace in the chapel but instead I had to face a bunch of my ladies who arrived five minutes later for a committee meeting. We were due to discuss the arrangements for an evening of entertainment in the church hall to raise money for wounded airmen, but as usual at such committee meetings the conversation continually soared off at irrelevant tangents as my ladies fell increasingly in love with the sound of their own voices. I squeezed a couple of decisions out of them with a ruthlessness which I fear they enjoyed and then terminated the proceedings by announcing my obligation to visit the alms-houses.
The women drifted away, still gossiping, and I was just preparing to follow them when I heard a loud groan resounding in the nave. Hurrying from the vestry I found the new cleaner, Mrs Purvis, doubled up over her mop and pail halfway down the central aisle. My ladies, clucking in sympathy, were anxious to help but the sufferer could only gasp that there was nothing they could do.
I strode down the aisle, the ranks parted and poor Mrs Purvis, quite immobilized by pain, at once turned scarlet with embarrassment.
‘It’s my lumbago, Vicar.’ (I was often granted this title as a courtesy.) ‘I mean no disrespect but I can’t move. I’m ever so sorry.’
I felt as if someone had injected me with a drug which delivered instantaneous amnesia. I forgot the humiliating interview with Aysgarth, my unhappiness in my ministry and my misery over Martin. I was aware only that I was being offered the most alluring of challenges and beyond the challenge I sensed an admiring audience was already poised to restore my self-esteem.
‘Where exactly is the pain, Mrs Purvis?’ Kneeling beside her I put a reassuring hand on her arm.
‘Low down in my back, sir – oooh, it’s ever so awful, worse than childbirth –’
I touched her at the base of her spine. ‘Here?’
‘That’s it – oooh! I can’t get up, truly I can’t –’
‘Never mind about getting up for the moment. Just keep in a position which gives you the least pain.’
‘I feel ever such a silly –’
‘Never mind about that either. Just concentrate on getting into the best position … That’s it. Now try to relax as far as you possibly can. Relax your arms first … and let the relaxation spread up your arms to your neck … and slowly, very slowly, inch by inch down your back … Good … And breathe calmly … deeply … Excellent! Now Mrs Purvis, I want you to concentrate very hard on that part of your body where the pain is and picture the pain as a big red glass ball which you want me to smash. Close your eyes and you’ll be able to picture it better … Can you see it?’
‘Oooh yes, sir – a beautiful red glass ball with air bubbles in it –’
‘That’s your pain. Concentrate very hard on it, very, very hard, so hard that your mind aches – and now picture me raising a hammer to smash the glass to pieces. Are you concentrating? Concentrating hard – as hard as you possibly can? Good. Now picture me raising the hammer. I’m going to count to five and when I say SMASH the ball’s going to shatter. Ready?’ I prayed silently. ‘One … Two … Three …’ I increased the intensity of the prayer’… Four … Five – SMASH!’
‘Oooh!’ gasped Mrs Purvis.
‘Oooh!’ gasped my ladies as I grasped Mrs Purvis’ shoulder with one hand and pressed hard on the base of her spine with the other.
‘Oooh!’ gasped Mrs Purvis again, shocked into straightening her back. That felt ever so funny, Vicar!’
‘But you can move now.’
Mrs Purvis was stupefied. ‘So I can!’ She turned her body gingerly from side to side. ‘Well, I never!’ She was enrapt. Her honest countrywoman’s face was aglow with gratitude. ‘That’s a miracle, that is!’
I made no comment but merely helped her to her feet before advising her to go home and rest.
‘Yes, sir – thank you, sir – oh, just wait till I tell all my neighbours! Doctor can never do a thing for my lumbago, never, nothing he gives me for it ever does any good at all!’
I looked at my ladies. They were as breathless and shining-eyed as the monks who had witnessed the recovery of Whitby. Finally someone said in a hushed voice: ‘It was a miracle, wasn’t it, Father?’ and at once I answered: ‘Nonsense! Pain can often disappear spontaneously if the sufferer is relaxed and confident,’ but even as I spoke I could see that none of them believed me.
I shuddered at the memory of Father Darcy, but the terrible truth was, as I knew all too well, that for the first time since I had embarked on my curacy I felt genuinely happy as a country priest.
THREE
‘The line between a quack and a scientific healer is not always easy to draw.’
W. R. INGE
Dean of St Paul’s 1911–1934
A Pacifist in Trouble
I
‘Might this be a sign about your new call?’ was Anne’s immediate reaction that evening to the tale of Mrs Purvis.
‘Not necessarily.’
Anne remained fascinated but I sensed her thoughts moving more cautiously. ‘Was it a miracle?’
