Scandalous Risks. Susan Howatch

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      I was still savouring my relief that the crisis had ended when I learnt that a new cloud had dawned on the ecclesiastical horizon. Calling on us the next day Aysgarth confessed his fear that an old adversary of his might be appointed bishop of Starbridge.

      It was six o’clock. (Aysgarth always timed his visits to coincide with the possibility of refreshment.) My mother was attending a committee meeting of the Royal Society of Rose-Growers. Once again my father and I joined forces to support our harassed cleric.

      ‘Have a whisky, my dear fellow,’ said my father kindly. ‘We’ll pretend you’re not wearing your clerical collar and can drink spirits with a clear conscience. Who’s this monster who might be offered the bishopric?’

      ‘Oh, he’s no monster!’ said Aysgarth hastily, sinking into the nearest armchair as my father added soda-water to a shot of scotch. ‘He’s just someone I’d be happy never to meet again.’ ‘Your sworn enemy!’ I said, reading between the Christian lines.

      ‘Don’t be facetious, Venetia,’ said my father. ‘This is serious. Do you have no power of veto, Aysgarth? Surely the Dean and Chapter are always consulted about the appointment of a new bishop?’

      ‘Unofficially, yes, but officially we have to take the card we’re dealt – and bearing in mind the fact that I’ve only just won the deanery by the skin of my teeth I’m hardly in a position to raise even an informal objection to this man.’

      ‘But who on earth is he, for God’s sake?’

      ‘The rumour bouncing off the walls of Church House,’ said Aysgarth after a huge gulp of whisky, ‘is that Charles Ashworth’s been approached for the job.’

      ‘Oh, him! In that case you’ve nothing to worry about. He’ll never take it.’

      ‘I know he’s already turned down two bishoprics, but this could be the one bishopric he’s unable to refuse. He’d rank alongside the bishops of London, Durham and Winchester – there’d be a seat available immediately in the House of Lords – he’d be only ninety minutes by train from the centres of power in the capital – and as if all these advantages weren’t sufficient to seduce him, he’d have the challenge of pulling the Theological College together, and he’s an expert on theological education.’

      ‘I’ve never heard of this man,’ I said. ‘Where’s he been hiding himself? What’s he like?’

      ‘Oh, he’s the most charming fellow!’ said my father with enthusiasm. ‘Very keen on cricket. A first-class brain. And he’s got a nice little wife too, really a very nice little wife, one of those little women who listen so beautifully that they always make a man feel ten feet tall –’

      ‘The Reverend Dr Charles Ashworth,’ said Aysgarth, ignoring this sentimental drivel as he responded to my demand for information, ‘is Lyttelton Professor of Divinity at Cambridge and a Canon of Cambridge Cathedral.’

      ‘So what’s wrong with him?’

      ‘Nothing. We’re just temperamentally incompatible and theologically in different camps.’

      ‘Maybe he’ll turn down the job after all!’ I said brightly after we had all observed a moment of heavy silence. ‘Why did he turn down the previous bishoprics?’

      My father commented: ‘Being a bishop isn’t every clergyman’s idea of heaven,’ and Aysgarth said: ‘Ashworth preferred life in his academic ivory tower.’ However as soon as this statement had been made he modified it by adding rapidly: ‘No, I shouldn’t say that. Ashworth came down from his ivory tower in ‘thirty-nine when he volunteered to be an army chaplain. That was something I never did. Then he was a prisoner of war for three years. I never had to endure that either. After the war he did return to academic life but not, I’m sure, because he wanted to escape from the world. He must have felt genuinely called to resume his career of writing and teaching, and I’m sure this call is why he’s turned down the previous bishoprics.’

      ‘So why should his call now change?’

      ‘Because the offer’s alluring enough to make him wonder if God might have other plans for him.’

      ‘Let’s get this quite straight, Aysgarth,’ said my father, always anxious to eliminate God from any conversation. ‘Have you actually had a row with this man or is this just a case of polite mutual antipathy?’

      ‘In 1946,’ said Aysgarth, ‘we had such a row that he smashed his glass in the fireplace and stormed out of the room.’

      ‘Impossible!’ said my father, balking at the thought of a clergyman behaving like a Cossack. ‘Ashworth’s such a charmer! What on earth was the row about?’

      ‘The theology of redemption and the theology of the Incarnation.’

      ‘Impossible!’ said my father again. ‘Two highly intelligent men going berserk over theology—of all subjects! No, no, Aysgarth, I refuse to believe it, you must be romancing!’

      ‘I assure you I’m not – although to be fair to Ashworth,’ said Aysgarth with an effort, ‘I should explain that at the time he was obviously still suffering from his experiences as a POW.’

      Unable to restrain my curiosity I asked: ‘What exactly do you mean when you talk about the theology of redemption and the theology of the Incarnation?’ but my father at once cried imperiously: ‘Stop!’ and held up his hand. ‘I refuse to allow theology to be discussed in my drawing-room,’ he declared. ‘I value my collection of glasses too highly. Now Aysgarth, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. Ashworth’s not going to bear you a grudge just because you once drove him to behave like a hooligan during some bizarre tiff, and besides, you’re now both such distinguished Christian gentlemen! If you do indeed wind up living in the same cathedral close, then of course you’ll both have no trouble drawing a veil over the past and being civil to each other.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Aysgarth blandly, but he downed the rest of his scotch as if he still needed to drown his dread.

      II

      The appointments were eventually announced within a week of each other in The Times. Ashworth did accept the bishopric, although it was whispered on the Athenaeum’s grapevine that he nearly expired with the strain of making up his mind.

      ‘I think I must now give a little men-only dinner-party for him and Aysgarth at the House of Lords,’ said my father busily to my mother. ‘It might be helpful in breaking the ice if they met again in a plain, simple setting without a crucifix in sight.’

      ‘Anything less plain and simple than that baroque bastion of privilege would be hard to imagine,’ I said, furious at this new attempt to relegate me to the side-lines, ‘and why do you always want to exclude women from your dinner-parties?’

      ‘Don’t speak to your father in that tone of voice, please, Venetia,’ said my mother casually without pausing to glance aside from the flowers she was arranging. ‘Ranulph, you needn’t be afraid to hold the dinner-party here; Dido won’t come. When I telephoned yesterday to enquire how she was, her companion said she was still accepting no invitations.’

      ‘And besides,’ I said, turning over a page of Punch, ‘if СКАЧАТЬ