56
r
Scuffed Boots
this was not the case at all. His world did not open, but rather closed, and he was trapped inside the vicarage with nothing to take away his bewilderment and grief. He was angry that his father should abandon him in such a place. And yet how could he blame his father? He suffered stomach-aches and three times peed inside his bed.
He did not like the Strattons' house. He did not like its damp, its mould, its sour smell of rotting thatch which became confused, in his later memory, with the idea of failure and disappointment. The Strattons were kind to him, but it was a tense household. He did not understand it. It was full of clocks that struck hours when there were none to strike. It was nervous and on edge, and although he was certainly coached in the Articles, the two most common subjects were money and the Bishop of Exeter. No one said he was a burden on the household, and yet he could not help but be aware of it. Each night he prayed to God to give the Strattons money, and sometimes thoughts leaked into his prayers, like coarse newspaper leaving its imprint on something clean and white, and because of these thoughts God must know he wished to be somewhere else. His map shrank. The myopic fog descended around its boundary fences. Outside this border he could see the soft fuzzy massings of the Plymouth Brethren's smocks. He brought the full force of his guilt to those silent unfocused faces. He imagined hooded brows, twisted lips, judgemental eyes. He wondered if he had been tricked by the devil. He skulked inside the vicarage and hid behind the privet. He pretended an interest in gardening so that he would not have to accompany Mrs Stratton when she went out on to the fuzzy Downs to distribute largesse (withered carrots that she could not really spare) to those Baptists whom she insisted on claiming as "our little flock."
On an errand to the post office he saw a large white shape which metamorphosized into Mrs Williams and then chased him with a stick.
Once, above Combe Pafford (sent to find Mr Stratton who was, anyway, lying snoring in the bed upstairs) he met his father carrying buckets. This was later, around the tenth Sunday after Trinity. They had not seen each other in over two months. There was a strong wind blowing. It pushed against their mouths and left them stricken, winded. His father had shrunk. He seemed a good three inches shorter. The skin beneath his eyes was like a wound that had healed-it was ridged and livid. He had white dry spittle caked on the corner of his mouth. His father stopped. He put down the buckets. Oscar did not look inside them. He knew the delicate tentacles of anthea were now
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Oscar and Lucinda
forbidden him and he would not learn the names of these or see them through the microscope.
"Hello, little Oscar," his father said.
"Hello, Papa."
"I pray for you, little Oscar. Do you pray for me?"
"Yes, Papa."
Theophilus attempted a smile, but it could not hold firm and was sucked back under the shelter of the beard. He nodded, stooped, picked up the buckets and set off along the path towards his cottage, and such was the wind that, although he had seemed to approach silently, the sounds of his clanking buckets as he departed tortured his son's ears for longer than seemed possible. Theophilus knew that his son now assisted the Anglican at the socalled Eucharist. He wore a red cassock and white surplice and held the silver salver of blessed wafers. This image haunted him, continually. There was not an hour when he did not see it ten times, in detail, in his mind's eye. But now, above Combe Pafford, he carried away the vision of his son's boots. They were scuffed and scratched and gone white at the toes. They were not cared for. The lace of the right boot had been broken and had not been replaced-it was tied up in a mean little knot three eyelets short of the top.
18
The Thirty-nine Articles
"When you are before the Provost of Oriel," said Mr Stratton, "it will not be pleasant like this." He gestured around the area of grass he had scythed. Indeed, it was pleasant. It was the third Sunday after Trinity and warm and sunny. If there were thistles in amongst the grass they did not show. The sundial was at last rescued from its wilderness and showed the hours. Butterflies cast light, lopsided shadows. Mr Stratton lay on his rug upon the grass and 58
The Thirty-nine Articles
shaded his eyes with his hand as he peered towards Oscar.
Oscar sat on a straight-backed chair. He had been invited to share the rug, but he preferred to sit with his face in shadow.
'It will be pleasant in its own way/' said Mrs Stratton who had stood up again and was pacing up and down-she could not seem to help herself-inside the hedge. "It will be pleasant in its way. You will take tea."
"It will be pleasant," agreed Mr Stratton, "but they have not forgotten Dr Pusey, you know. They will be rigorous in their examining."
"They will be rigorous," agreed Mrs Stratton, "but they will notsurely not, Hugh-expect a parrot."
Mr Stratton grunted-his back was bad-he could not find a good position. "At Trinity, perhaps."
"But not at Oriel."
"No."
"And he must not expect, Hugh, it will be like his catechism. He must know the land around the subject as it were. Do you understand me, Oscar?"
"Yes," said Oscar. His trousers were cutting in between his legs. He was growing out of the clothes he had arrived in. House martins flew to and fro above his head to their nest inside the gable of the house.
He did not like it when Mrs Stratton started talking, as she often did, about the "land around the subject." When she spoke like this she would-she was doing it now-begin to pace. Oscar saw this land in his mind's eye-it was full of swamps and ditches. There were areas of tall grass and thick mist. You could get lost in the land that Mrs Stratton was so keen for him to enter. He wished only to believe in the Thirty-nine Articles of Faith. He was ready to believe in them as he believed in the Bible. And when Mrs Stratton wished to drag him out into the marshy "land around the subject" he would sit up straight in his chair and stretch his face into a smile. Mrs Stratton picked up her big blue skirt in one hand as she strode across the rough, scythed grass. She did not seek to confuse her husband's pupil. She merely wished to question whether divine grace is directly given or whether it must be sought from scripture. Her husband sipped barley water. The pupil smiled at her attentively. Mrs Stratton was very happy. Oscar's smile was a mask on his face. He tried not to hear a word the woman spoke. She brought doubt and argument. He wanted only certainty. He blocked her out. He silently recited 59
Oscar and Lucinda v
the Athanasian Creed, the Nicene Creed, the Apostles' Creed.
Mrs Stratton galloped across the "land around." She sought the high ground, then abandoned it. She plunged into ditches and trotted proudly across bright green valleys. She set up her question, then knocked it down-she argued that her own question was incorrect. She set a light to it and watched it burn. Divine grace, she now proclaimed, was neither sought nor given. Oscar's face hurt from smiling.
Mrs Stratton walked as far as the quince tree and then came back to proclaim that divine grace was to be proposed by the Church and proved by the individual. She argued brightly with her husband on this point, waving her hands up and down as if conducting music. Oscar found it almost unbearable, and yet-it was obvious-the Strattons were enjoying themselves immensely. Mr Stratton called for Mrs Millar to brew fresh tea on three occasions and did not once worry about how much they had left and how long that might last. Mrs Stratton said that we must use our judgement in the determination of doctrine. She also said it was a sin to doubt.