Mass being over, he processed himself off the scene, took off his glittering vestments, and reappeared in his black cassock at the west door of the church in case anyone wanted to talk to him. Three of his communicants were there, Hector Gaines, Benning (whose first name was Robert) and Diane. Father Bernard made a bee-line for Benning, who was thin and large-eyed and looked touchingly starved, and shook him by the hand. ‘Glad to see you again, Bob. Do we call you Bob?’
‘Bobbie,’ said the youth, blushing a little and holding on to the priest’s hand.
‘That’s good,’ said Father Bernard, briskly releasing him. ‘Come again, won’t you, Bobbie. Church is home.’
He turned to Diane, giving a friendly wave to Hector, which indicated to that intelligent fellow, with whom the priest was on close and amicable terms, that he did not want to talk to him just now.
Hector and Benning turned away together into the cold morning wind which was blowing a little rain.
‘Rum jerk,’ said Bobbie.
‘Who?’
‘The parson.’
‘He’s a very nice jerk,’ said Hector, ‘and he knows a lot of things.’
They continued to walk together, Hector thinking about Anthea Eastcote (to banish whose image he had been hoping to enlist clerical assistance), and Bobbie Benning wondering gloomily how on earth he was to go on teaching a subject which he had lately realized was far too difficult for him.
Father Bernard turned a switch at the door, darkening the altar lights, leaving only the red sanctuary light, and led Diane back down the aisle. They sat side by side, the priest holding her hand, kneading it gently. ‘Well, little one?’
Diane squeezed his hand, holding it for a little longer, then letting it go and drawing back. She found the priest attractive but utterly strange; he was so unlike other men, so devoid of the coarseness which men had. She liked touching him but was always nervous in case George, whose absent presence always haunted her, should suddenly appear from behind a pillar. She valued her friendship with Father Bernard, especially since George tolerated her church-going.
In reply to the priest’s question, Diane, still overwrought by the emotions attendant upon receiving the sacrament, began to cry.
‘Now, now, stop it, you can, have a bit of courage.’
‘Courage! I’m nothing, I’m a jelly. A jelly can’t have courage.’
‘A jelly can pray.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Be quiet and breathe God. Seek help. Ask and it shall be given. Knock and it shall be opened.’
‘Ask what, ask who?’
‘If you really ask, you are certain to be answered. You must fight your own demon with your own Lord. He knows. Lo, thou tellest my flittings, put thou my tears in thy bottle.’
‘I’m so worried about George,’ said Diane. ‘I’m so miserable for him. He isn’t really so bad, it’s just a myth people keep going. All right, he did push that man out of the window — ’
‘I hadn’t heard that one.’
‘It was an accident, he didn’t mean to, and I don’t believe he tried to kill his wife like they say — ’
The priest had heard various recitals of George’s misdeeds. They varied considerably. It was true that people wanted to think ill of him. Of course Father Bernard was interested in George, in what Brian called his ‘predatory’ way, but he found this lost sheep very difficult to think about, as if what he thought was constantly falsified at the start. His heart, usually a trusted guide, did not guide him here. He would never have said so to Diane, but he was afraid of George. He sensed something unusual in him, a sort of liberated malice. Yet this too could be an illusion.
‘If only he’d stop drinking,’ she said, ‘he’d get better. Oh I do wish you’d do something for George.’
The priest stared at her with his light luminous shining eyes. He was feeling tired and hungry. He had been in the church fasting since five-thirty. He said, ‘I can’t.’
‘You can. Summon him. Order him to come and see you.’
‘He wouldn’t come.’
‘He would. It’s just the sort of thing that would amuse him.’
‘Amuse him! You think he’d come to scoff and remain to pray?’
‘Once you started talking to him — ’
‘George is beyond me,’ said the priest. ‘I’d better not meddle.’ He snapped his fingers softly.
There was a familiar scraping sound, then a loud creaking, then a metallic clang. It was the west door opening and shutting. Father Bernard moved a little away from his penitent. His eyes, accustomed to the dim light, were dazzled for a moment by the gleaming reds and blues of the tall judging Christ, who, leaning upon his sword, was represented in the west window. A heavy tread, a bulky form was coming down the aisle. Father Bernard rose to his feet.
John Robert, his vision even more affected by the sudden change from light to dark, made his way towards the risen figure which was slightly illuminated by the sanctuary light, and in spite of the different garments which it was now wearing, recognized it as the man who had been pointed out to him at the Baths by Bill the Lizard. He approached the priest and said, ‘Rozanov.’
This sound, muttered in John Robert’s odd voice, might have conveyed nothing were it not that Father Bernard had, on the same occasion, had the philosopher pointed out to him by several people.
‘How do you do,’ said Father Bernard, ‘I am Father Bernard, the Rector, I am glad to see you.’ His heart made itself felt, large and warm. ‘This is Mrs Sedleigh - perhaps you already — ’
Diane had now also risen. She had of course never met John Robert, though she had occasionally seen him. She stood in breathless trembling panic like a doe which has suddenly smelt the close proximity of a lion. (There was actually a musty animal odour coming from the philosopher which Father Bernard’s fastidious nostrils had also detected.) This big man, who had come so alarmingly near to her, held George’s fate in his hands, the power of life or death. As Diane shuddered with this sudden intuition she wondered, does he know who I am? (In fact he did not.)
John Robert nodded. Diane murmured that she must go and went, her light swift feet tapping almost noiselessly upon the tiles as she ran toward the west door.
Father Bernard waved vaguely after her. He was feeling rather dismayed himself. He felt surprised, embarrassed, anxious, shy, and obscurely frightened.
‘I should like to ask you something,’ said Rozanov, his voice coming through clearly now.
‘Surely, wait a moment, let’s have some more light.’
The priest moved softly, with a rustle of his gown, to the nearest switchboard, and illuminated a side chapel containing a Victorian picture of Christ at Emmaus.