Читать книгу Scandalous Risks - Susan Howatch - Страница 39
Оглавление‘The universe, like a human being, is not built merely to a mathematical formula. It’s only love that gives you the deepest due to it.’
JOHN A. T. ROBINSON
Suffragan Bishop of Woolwich 1959–1969
Writing about Honest to God in the Sunday Mirror, 7th April 1963
I
The next day was Sunday and Aysgarth had earlier mentioned that he would be celebrating Communion in the dining-room at eight. Since Eddie and Primrose would inevitably attend the service I had decided I should make the effort to join them, but when Primrose woke me I realised, as my hang-over hit me between the eyes, that my virtuous decision would have to be revoked.
‘There’s something so wonderfully moral about alcohol,’ observed Primrose as I pulled the bed-clothes over my head with a groan. ‘Punishment always follows excess.’
I could have murdered her, but by that time I was too enrapt with my memories of the previous evening to bother. She departed unscathed and immediately the door closed I sat up, ready for Day One of my new life. I tossed off the necessary potion to soothe my liver. Then I flung back the curtains and exclaimed: ‘A celestial day has dawned for Venetia Flaxton!’ Outside it was raining, but who cared? The view, wreathed in shifting mist, seemed more romantic than ever. Sliding back into bed I lit a cigarette, hummed a verse of Presley’s ‘I Need Your Love Tonight’ and prepared for a delicious hour of meditating on the object of my desire.
It was immediately obvious that I could never speak of my love. Since nothing could come of my grand passion there could be no conceivable point in disclosing my feelings, and besides, there was no one in whom I could confide – except Mrs Ashworth, but I could hardly babble to the wife of a bishop about my new-found adulterous lust for a dean.
Having reached this conclusion I perceived a second obvious truth: not only would I have to keep my mouth shut but I would have to rise to great thespian heights to conceal my secret. No one must ever guess the truth because no one would ever understand the height and breadth and depth of my well-nigh incinerating desire. I pictured my siblings sniggering: ‘Poor old Venetia! A crush on an elderly clergyman – whatever will she think of next?’ And as for Primrose … but no, the mind boggled. I had to carry the precious secret to my grave, but I could accept this necessity because I was so happy. I had been granted the power to love; nothing else mattered, and indeed to have wanted more would have been disgustingly greedy. Since it was quite impossible that Aysgarth could fall in love with me it was pointless to hope that my passion might be reciprocated, but I would be blissfully content with his continuing avuncular friendship, and so long as I could live near him, see him regularly and have the occasional little chat about God or Eternity or whatever else might interest him, my life would be indescribably rich and fulfilling.
So be it. I would still die virgo intacta, but having experienced passion on a cosmic scale I could at least tell myself that my years in the world hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
With a sigh I stretched myself luxuriously and decided I was in paradise.
II
My next task was to choose what to wear for Day One of my new life, but all my clothes now seemed so dreary, no more than a drab mass of browns, beiges and moss-greens. Then I remembered the red sweater which I had bought on impulse when I had visited Marks and Spencer’s to replenish my stock of underwear; I had just had a row with my father and was feeling aggressive, but now the scarlet seemed to symbolise not aggression but passion. I selected the sweater and eyed a pair of earth-coloured slacks. Did I dare wear trousers on a Sunday? Yes. I was in the mood to take a scandalous risk. My mother had brainwashed me into thinking slacks were vulgar on any day of the week, but I had long since realised they suited me. I have longish legs and not too much padding around the hips. It was true that I was usually at least seven pounds overweight, but we can’t all be the Duchess of Windsor.
I brushed my horrible hair and clipped it severely behind my ears to curb its tendency to billow around my head in a frizz. Then I slapped on some powder and went wild with the mascara which normally I reserved for evenings. My mother believed only fallen women wore eye make-up during the day, but Mrs Ashworth had confirmed my suspicion that this piece of folklore was out of date. I tried to recall whether Mrs Ashworth herself wore eye make-up but the memory eluded me. Dressing the part of a bishop’s wife, Mrs Ashworth was the kind of clever woman who would spend half an hour making herself up to look as if she was not made up at all.
Did I wear lipstick? No. Lipstick was going out of favour. The ‘look’ consisted of emphasising the eyes and hair. Jewellery? No, quite inappropriate for a Sunday morning in the Hebrides, and anyway I had decided to emulate Mrs Ashworth’s uncluttered simplicity of style. Was I ready? Yes. For anything. Forgetting my liver, which was still feeling a trifle battle-scarred, I sailed downstairs for breakfast just as the clock in the hall chimed nine.
