A Pure Clear Light (15 page)

‘And
those
are the times when you discover that faith, this simple thing,
is enough.
Yes. Is enough. Is everything. That the answer, the solution, can wait. That your ignorance is
assuaged
by your faith. Life, living, the world, is full of
x
’s and
y
’s and
z
’s because God has made it so. These unknowns, these mysteries, are the places where He hides from us so that we may seek Him: for in the searching is the true finding.

‘You see, it doesn’t truly matter whether or not we find all the answers to all the mysteries. What truly matters is the act of searching— the faithful searching. Next Sunday is the first in Advent, when we begin once again our great search, like the shepherds and the wise men before us, for the babe born in a manger: for the Word made flesh: the great central mystery of our Christian faith. Let us now remember then that in our true and faithful searching is our finding. We may not know the whole solution of this mystery— perhaps we never can, this side of the grave. We are not doing arithmetic, which is boring, and which leaves us speechless. No; we are doing
algebra
, with all its
x
’s and
y
’s and
z
’s: with all its unknowns. We live with the unknown, and even with the unknowable. But
by faith
we shall surely attain such knowledge as we can truly comprehend, by God’s grace. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.’ And, having crossed himself once more, he turned and descended from the pulpit.

56

Simon was looking at six-by-eight glossies, with CVs attached, of actresses.

Simon was going to stick his neck out: he wanted some beauties. He was a bit tired of quirky, clever-looking actresses. If only they’d been all as clever as they were said to look, that might have been something. We British distrust beauty, he thought; we’re suspicious even of prettiness. These girls would be nowhere in France or Italy. Just because some of our greatest actresses are plain doesn’t mean that all must be. Or that plain actresses will always be great; or even good. He was going to find some beauties who could act if it killed him. This thing was meant to be
noir
, wasn’t it? So he needed beauties. Who could act. He was going to put out a red alert first thing in the morning. Meanwhile it was Sunday and he was looking at six-by-eights of quirky clever-looking females who would never do. Not for him; not this time. ‘Have a butcher’s at these,’ he said to Flora. She put down her needlework and held out a hand.

‘Hmmm,’ she said; ‘hmmm, hmmm. I like this one best.’

Simon took the photograph and looked at it again. ‘Imagine that face under a hat,’ he said.

‘Is that the test?’ she asked. ‘Will she be wearing a hat?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Simon. ‘But I want hat faces.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Flora. ‘Hat faces.’ They thought of all those hat faces of the cinematographic past. ‘Maybe they don’t make them any more,’ she said. ‘Since women stopped wearing hats. Since everyone stopped wearing hats, except for very special occasions.’

‘There must be a few out there somewhere,’ said Simon. ‘And I’m going to find them.’ And he was. ‘Let’s go out,’ he said. The children had all gone out for the afternoon before them.

They went to Kenwood House, and almost forgot when it was time to fetch Thomas. They had to go like the clappers. He grinned at her. ‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’ he said, and she smiled guiltily back at him.

Thomas was waiting in front of the Kensington Odeon, where he’d been taken by the parents of a schoolfriend along with said friend, holding the hand of the female parent, who was looking harried, on the verge of irritation. Thomas himself was looking just a little anxious.

‘Do
please
forgive us,’ said Flora. Simon was waiting around the corner with the car. ‘We’re
abject.
’ That did the trick. Point to Mrs Beaufort.
Abject.
Thomas’s friend’s parents took their child home to a square in
echt
Kensington thinking that the Beauforts must be okay, really, even if they did live in Hammersmith. And then, it showed a certain self-assurance (just about as much as one ought to have, actually) to be late, just a little late, for a rendezvous of this kind. Furthermore, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Thomas himself. Thomas was a perfect little dear.

57

On the bedside table there was a shiny new copy of
Larousse
gastronomique.
‘What on earth is that door-stopper doing there?’ asked Simon, wide-eyed.

‘Well, it’s just my bedtime reading; you know.’

‘You’re joking, of course.’

‘No, I’m entirely serious. It’s fascinating. You know I told you I was going to learn to cook.’

‘I thought you said you were going to go to some classes.’

‘Yes, I am, too, but I thought first I’d better just do some limbering-up.’

He couldn’t stop laughing, not for ages. She even began to look a little hurt; he had to make a real effort to stop.

‘I don’t think you’re very kind,’ she said.

He began laughing again. I love you, oh how I love you. ‘Come here,’ he said. But God, oh God, God help him: no: it wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t enough
; it wasn’t the same. What kind of terrible paradox was this? That the act was less convincing, less powerful, less real, less true, than the words? How could this be? He held her in his arms, silent, astonished, appalled. My love, my love. ‘Have you actually tried to cook anything yet?’ he said.

‘No; but I will.’

He could have laughed at that, too, five minutes ago, but nothing was funny any more. He felt at the moment that nothing could ever be funny again: that the sadness—almost horror—that he felt now would swamp his spirit forever. ‘You’re a funny girl,’ he said.

She looked up at him. ‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘Really, I’m not. I’m the least funny girl you ever met.’

That look in her eyes again: as candid, as guileless as those of an animal, or a very young child. He was speechless, truly speechless. He held her in his arms. This was just no good. This was just no
effing
good. They had reached another stage—without warning, without any prior knowledge that such a state of affairs could even be—another stage: the final stage. He suddenly knew this. There was nothing more beyond this: not for them. Not as things were. He’d reached the end of the ever-finer line, and arrived at a blank wall. There it was, right in front of his nose. So perhaps they could just go on existing in this stage, being together, here, up against this blank wall. Was that possible? It was going to have to be. ‘Shall we go out?’ he said. ‘Shall we go and have a drink in that brasserie?’ There was nothing else, not another damned thing, that he could offer her.

58

Flora was looking happy—he suddenly saw this—for the first time for—how long? months? years? This was, at any rate, the first time he’d noticed it: that she was looking truly happy; she was smiling, laughing, joking with Thomas and Nell while she cooked the dinner. And she looked pretty. She was his own lovely Flora, she was what he’d seen her to be, known her to be, from the earliest moment, at that idiotic ball, years ago.

When all the children were in bed he sat beside her on the sofa and put his arms around her. She went on stitching as best she could. ‘I’m trying to finish this one tonight,’ she said; ‘I’m so close.’ She had just a little more sky to do.

‘Well done,’ he said, ‘well done. Is that the lot?’

She stared at him, appalled. ‘Oh no! there are still three more to go! I’ll be just halfway.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t want to finish,’ he said. ‘You’ll miss it.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll have to begin something else. I don’t want to think about that now.’ No: it wouldn’t do to think about that now.

‘How’s your friend the Mother of God these days?’

She pulled a face. ‘The confinement is due in just over a fortnight,’ she said. ‘As you will have noted.’

‘Yes, I had.’

‘So you must know as well as I how she is.’

‘You never seem to mention the lady these days.’

‘I’m in another stage.’

‘I suppose you would be, at that. So, how’s it going, round at St Thing’s?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Truly?’

‘It’s nice.’

‘As you said before.’

‘Well, it is still.’

‘I suppose that’s something: still nice, after all these weeks.’

‘Yes, I should have thought so.’

‘What about that vicar?’

‘Freddy.’

‘
Freddy?

’ ‘Yes, Freddy.’

‘I love it.’

‘And his wife’s called Phoebe. He calls her Phoebes, when they’re alone together.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I took some jumble round the other day, to the vicarage. They’re having a jumble sale next Saturday. And he opened the door to me and called her. “I say, Phoebes,” he said, “Flora’s here with some jumble.” So there.’

Simon was laughing. ‘What a set-up,’ he said, and laughed some more.

Flora was laughing too. ‘I’m inclined these days to think that disestablishment would be a real pity,’ she said.

‘The joke would rather lose its edge,’ Simon agreed.

‘And not only that, either,’ said Flora.

‘Ah,’ said Simon. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about the rest.’

‘Perhaps you don’t know what you know.’

‘Or even what I don’t know.’

‘There you go.’

‘I hope you didn’t give them anything of mine,’ said Simon, remembering the jumble.

‘Of course not,’ said Flora. ‘All the same, if you could find time before the end of the week to sort out anything you don’t really need any more, or never wear—’

‘I need it all. I wear it all.’

‘All right,’ said Flora. ‘Okay.’

‘It’s my jumble,’ said Simon, ‘and I’m going to keep it. So, you’ve reached the jumble-donating stage. There’s Anglican for you. Can’t get in much deeper than that.’

‘You can,’ said Flora, ‘and I have: I’m going to help out at the sale itself. Nell’s going to come with me; Janey’s still thinking about it.’

‘Well, I suppose I’d better plan to do something manly with Thomas, then,’ said Simon, ‘while you girls are jumbling.’

‘That’s the idea. Get him macho-ed up ready for Fergus.’

‘
What?

’ ‘The school holidays start next week so Fergus is going to be coming here every day; we’re minding him for Louisa. And for Robert, come to that.’

‘I must say that seems frightfully good of you, Flora.’

‘I suppose I simply am frightfully good. What an affliction.’

‘We’ll have to try and find a cure.’

‘Going to church might do it.’

‘Yes. I’ll keep a watch. You actually mean to go on with it then, do you?’ He wasn’t laughing any more; he wasn’t even smiling.

‘It
is
a good way of recycling old clothes.’

‘Oh well in that case.’

‘That’s my feeling.’

Simon was in truth more reassured than not by the news about the jumble: Flora could hardly be contemplating an eventual withdrawal, with the objective of re-grouping in the Church of Rome, if she was not only contributing to, but actually helping with the sale of, the Anglican jumble. ‘You’re not making a cake as well, are you?’ he asked her.

‘They did mention the possibility, in a general sort of way,’ she said; ‘but I explained to Phoebe that I didn’t really have the time.’

‘Ah,’ said Simon, struggling to keep a straight face; ‘I hope she excused you willingly.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Flora hastily. ‘She understood perfectly. She’s a working mum too, you see.’

‘Oh really? You mean, as well as being Mrs Vicar?’

‘Oh yes. As she said, they need the loot.’

‘So what does she do?’ What did clergymen’s wives do—secretarial work? nursing?

‘She’s a theologian,’ said Flora. ‘She’s a don at King’s College London.’

‘Oh I see,’ said Simon. ‘Of course.’

‘Look!’ said Flora. ‘It’s finished!’ And she held up the piece of tapestry, one day to be a dining-chair seat-cover: a silent creamy mollusc shell before a stormy froth-fringed sea.

59

‘How’s your autonomy?’

‘It seems all right to me.’

‘As long as you’ve been remembering to look.’

‘I haven’t had time actually to look, but I’m sure if anything were amiss I’d know soon enough.’

‘I’ll leave it with you then.’

‘By definition.’

‘I’m going to be a bit tied up over the next few weeks or so. I suppose you are too.’

‘I hadn’t particularly looked at the next few weeks or so.’

‘Christmas, you see.’

‘Oh that.’

‘Major festival.’

‘Even the stockmarket pulls down the shutters.’

‘Had you any plans?’

‘Mother.’

‘Oh, right.’

She sat up and lit a cigarette. ‘Then there’s New Year,’ she said.

‘Always that.’

‘I’ll be away for a fortnight around then,’ she went on; ‘skiing.’

‘Another of Rupert’s shows, I suppose?’

‘Rupert
et al.
Chalet party.’

‘I can just picture it.’

She shrugged, as it were dismissively; ‘It’s nice up in the mountains,’ she said. ‘I love snow.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yes. Will you miss me?’

‘No. I’ll be too busy. Will
you
miss
me
?’

‘No. I’ll be too busy too.’

‘That’s settled then. Shall we have another meal together, at the end of the week, say—for—’ ‘Yes, why not.’

‘We might go to that place of ours on Thursday night; can you manage that?’

‘Yes, I can manage that.’

Then they would come back here again, electrified by the particular charge that was built up only in these circumstances, of being in a public place together. There was so little scope for improvisation, so very little. Here they were, just the two of them, dancing their mystical dance together unwitnessed, unannounced. It had a certain purity, of course. It had an awful purity. It remained to be seen whether they were, whether the dance itself was, great enough for the circumstances; grand enough to sustain the glare of that awful purity.

60

Lydia and Louisa were in Soho again eating salt-beef sandwiches. ‘Although I shouldn’t,’ said Louisa. ‘I’m meant to be on a diet.’