Brian and Adam retired a little way with their drinks, Adam, who never called Brian ‘Daddy’ or anything of that sort, said, ‘Why is the moon sometimes there at night and sometimes there during the day?’
‘Because it’s going round the earth while we’re going round the sun.’
‘But how exactly?’
‘Oh heavens - it’s - I’ll look it up.’
Brian sat down and banged his coffee cup on to the table. He had just heard that economies at the Town Hall were likely to bring his job to an end.
Hector said timidly to Anthea, ‘Shall we go and see the sculpture exhibition in the Botanic Gardens or the Ennistone Art Society in the Hall?’
Anthea said, ‘You go, I’ll join you there.’ She wanted to go and make her peace with Tom.
‘But which?’
‘Which what?’
‘Which exhibition?’
‘Oh, the Art Society, it’s still raining.’
Gabriel had arrived. She swept in, in dripping mac and black sou’wester, and plumped down at Brian’s table.
‘You’re late,’ said Brian.
‘She’s gone.’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘Stella. She disappeared while I was out shopping. She left a note just saying she felt she should go and not to worry.’
‘Well, she’s been with us long enough and we weren’t doing her any good.’
‘But where’s she gone to?’
‘If you don’t know I certainly don’t.’
‘She can’t have gone back to George!’
‘I don’t see why not. Anyway it’s none of our business.’
‘Suppose she kills herself?’
‘She won’t.’
Gabriel burst into tears.
‘Oh stop that! Come on, we’re going home.’
Vernon Chalmers, Director of the Institute, sitting in his office in the Annexe, was startled by a sudden uproar which seemed to come from the direction of Diana’s Garden. He thought at first that some sort of fight or riot must have broken out. Then he realized it was a sound of laughter. He got up from his desk and went to the window.
Tom McCaffrey, emerging clothed into the abating rain, heard the same sound. Anthea caught him up. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Anthea, what’s up?’
‘Let’s go and see.’
Tom took her hand for a moment and they ran along the edge of the pool.
A small crowd had gathered near Lud’s Rill. Tom, racing ahead, saw the following strange sight, Emmanuel Scarlett-Taylor, his clothes soaked and dripping, dancing about in helpless frustration inside the railing which surrounded the spring.
What had happened was simple. Emma, disturbed by the memory of his dog, was filled with a sudden desire to approach the little fount and feel how hot the water really was. It was easy enough, stepping upon a nearby stone, to vault in. Getting out was another matter. There was nothing inside to step on, and the railings, breast high, had spiked tops curving inwards. Enraged at his own folly, and now provoked by the laughter of spectators, he ran from place to place, peering through his rain-spotted glasses, trying to find somewhere to put his foot, then attempting to draw himself up by placing his hands on top of the curving rails. They were too high, he was not strong enough. The encouragement of the spectators became more ribald. An authoritative figure strode forward: it was Nesta Wiggins in her bikini. She shouted, ‘Stop laughing, help him!’, which prompted more laughter. But there was nothing that Nesta could do. Emma refused her proffered hand. She ran off crying, ‘Get a ladder!’
Tom roared with laughter. Then he hurried on and, reaching the enclosures, knelt down, thrusting one sturdy knee through the railings. Emma ran to him, put one foot on his knee, gripped one of the rails at the top, and leapt to freedom. Clapping and cheers greeted his escape. Crimson with chagrin, Emma had already set off for the exit.
Tom ran after him. ‘You’ve left your umbrella behind. Shall I get it?’
Emma walked on in grim silence, and Tom followed him out, laughing again.
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘No.’
‘Come, anything counts as belief these days.’
‘No.’
‘So you’re an odd sort of priest.’
‘Yes.’
‘You reject God?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not enough to reject him, you must hate him.’
‘Do you hate him?’
‘I abominate the concept.’
Father Bernard said, ‘So do I,’ but in a whisper.
‘Why do you whisper, do you think he’s listening?’
‘I don’t believe in a personal God.’
‘You mean “God” isn’t a name?’
‘But I believe in a spiritual reality.’
‘What does “reality” mean here, what is “spiritual”, could you give examples?’
It was Tuesday and Father Bernard had called at Hare Lane at ten o’clock as instructed. He had avoided the Institute in the interim so as not to ‘spoil’ the meeting, to which he looked forward with a ridiculous excitement and alarm. (He never swam on Sundays as an act of abstinence. He once gave up swimming for Lent and suggested to his appalled congregation that they should do likewise.) On arrival at the philosopher’s house he had been dismayed to find John Robert all ready to go for a long walk. Father Bernard, who had lost the athletic tastes and talents of his youth, disliked long walks and could scarcely envisage having any sort of difficult conversation while in motion (he was slightly deaf). Now Rozanov was talking of going across the Common and out into the country. The priest marked his displeasure by asking for some safety pins and fussily pinning up the hem of his cassock. He was determined not to go out into the country, and hoped (rightly as it turned out) that once they were talking he could lead John Robert along an easier route. He therefore suggested that since he had to pay a brief pastoral visit at Blanch Cottages (a lie), they should go by West-wold and the Glove Factory and the Roman bridge and through Victoria Park and Druidsdale and thus to the Common and thus (as far as Father Bernard was concerned) back to Burkestown. John Robert agreed and they set off at first in silence, with John Robert walking uncomfortably fast, and had crossed the bridge when John Robert kindly remembered that the priest had forgotten to call at Blanch Cottages. Father Bernard, rather ashamed, went back to pay a pointless call on Miss Dunbury, leaving that blameless lady puzzled and scrutinizing her conscience. By now they had entered the outskirts of Victoria Park, walking at the slower pace which Father Bernard had resolutely imposed upon the philosopher.
‘For instance, are you saved?’
‘What does that mean?’ countered the priest.
‘Answer first.’
‘No, of course not!’
‘When I was young,’ said John Robert, ‘people used to ask me that, as if it were a simple question. I even thought I understood it.’
‘Did you think you were saved?’
‘No, but I thought my mother was. People meant salvation by magic, being totally changed.’
‘In virtue of a cosmic event, as explained by St Paul.’
‘The cosmos would have to shudder and shake to change a single man.’
‘So you think we can’t change?’
‘Paul, what a genius, to see that the crucifixion was the thing that mattered, what courage, to make the cross popular! The Gospels are so self- Important and pompous — ’
‘Pompous!’
‘“And he passed over into Galilee.” No! In Paul we hear the voice of a thinking man, an individual.’
‘A demon, I think.’
‘He had to invent Christ, that required demonic energy. I envy Paul. But don’t you believe in salvation without God? What do you offer to your flock? Or do you tell them lies?’
‘What indeed?’
‘Enlightenment and so on?’
‘When I think of such matters I feel humble and afraid.’
‘I don’t believe you. What do you do about it ?’