the back is a favourite spot. It’s known as “terror terrace”, isn’t that silly ?’
Lillie-Lysander had laughed.
‘I wonder if I could employ your services, old boy. My uncle is on his way out and he needs a father confessor badly. No, I’m not joking. I’ve been commissioned to find a priest. Incidentally, that’s the cleverest moustache I’ve seen in a long while. Not mass-produced, I trust?’
‘No. I had it specially made.’
At school Robin Renshawe had been his hero. Lillie-Lysander had admired Robin’s cleverness and droll sense of humour, his air of sarcastic knowingness, his cool manner, the ease with which Robin always managed to bluff his way through the trickiest of situations. Had lust, as St Augustine put it so dramatically, stormed confusedly within him? He was not sure. No, he didn’t think so. He had always had a low sex drive and that, coupled with his extreme fastidiousness, he considered a blessing.
Take no care for the flesh in its desires . St Augustine knew all about that kind of thing. Well, yes, quite. Now that he had turned forty, any vestige of desire he might have had for either man or woman had completely disappeared. Like Christ he had remained a virgin – the thought never failed to amuse him; he regarded that as another instance of his uniqueness. All of his energies for the past couple of years had been directed into his activities at the Midas. He found himself caring less and less what God made of it all – if indeed there was a God. It was a matter of genes, that was what they said anyway – you either had a God gene or you hadn’t . . . How then did one explain the fact that celebrating Mass in his gold-and-white robe some-times reduced him to tears? Odd.
Robin had seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘Such a marvellous stroke of luck, us meeting like that. I was thinking about you only this morning. They say there’s no such thing as coincidence. I do believe our paths were meant to converge. Come and have a drink . . . You would be perfect for the job . . . You aren’t a real priest, of course?’
‘I am.’ Lillie-Lysander giggled.
‘Good man. Well, it helps to have a mole in the citadel.’ Robin had ordered two double whiskies. ‘I’d be grateful if you kept me informed about what was going on in the old man’s mind.’
(Lillie-Lysander didn’t remember having said yes yet.)
‘I am not exactly persona grata at Ospreys. I must admit I am a trifle apprehensive about my future. My uncle thinks me not only dishonourable but without a trace of finer feeling. I am afraid that things might deteriorate. I want to know what’s going on, which way the wind is blowing and so on. As my uncle’s father confessor, you will be privy to his innermost thoughts and secrets. You will be his godly anchorman. He’s been given only two months at the most. I’ll make it worth your while. Can you start tomorrow? It’s in Oxfordshire – place called Ospreys.’
‘Ospreys? I believe I have heard of it.’
‘Excellent. Shall we drink to it?’
(How much money could Robin let him have? Could Robin provide him with regular supplies of morphine? Robin had hinted he had suppliers for ‘everything’ – a tan-talizing prospect.)
‘Ah.’ Father Lillie-Lysander gave a sigh of the deepest satisfaction as he felt himself relax more and more . . . and more. ‘The Holy Spirit is upon me,’ he murmured blasphemously, his lips curved in a ridiculous grin.
The morphine – Papaver somniferum ! (He made it sound like a benediction.)
At last . . . At last. (He must speak to Robin . . . Break the news . . . What would Robin do?)
Strangely enough, Father Lillie-Lysander’s last thought before he passed out was of Miss Ardleigh. There was something that wasn’t right about her. He was an old thesp and he was ready to swear that that blonde hair of hers – What a delicious sensation – it felt like being in the centre of a giant centrifuge!
Down-down-down – light
Lillie-Lysander had laughed.
‘I wonder if I could employ your services, old boy. My uncle is on his way out and he needs a father confessor badly. No, I’m not joking. I’ve been commissioned to find a priest. Incidentally, that’s the cleverest moustache I’ve seen in a long while. Not mass-produced, I trust?’
‘No. I had it specially made.’
At school Robin Renshawe had been his hero. Lillie-Lysander had admired Robin’s cleverness and droll sense of humour, his air of sarcastic knowingness, his cool manner, the ease with which Robin always managed to bluff his way through the trickiest of situations. Had lust, as St Augustine put it so dramatically, stormed confusedly within him? He was not sure. No, he didn’t think so. He had always had a low sex drive and that, coupled with his extreme fastidiousness, he considered a blessing.
Take no care for the flesh in its desires . St Augustine knew all about that kind of thing. Well, yes, quite. Now that he had turned forty, any vestige of desire he might have had for either man or woman had completely disappeared. Like Christ he had remained a virgin – the thought never failed to amuse him; he regarded that as another instance of his uniqueness. All of his energies for the past couple of years had been directed into his activities at the Midas. He found himself caring less and less what God made of it all – if indeed there was a God. It was a matter of genes, that was what they said anyway – you either had a God gene or you hadn’t . . . How then did one explain the fact that celebrating Mass in his gold-and-white robe some-times reduced him to tears? Odd.
Robin had seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘Such a marvellous stroke of luck, us meeting like that. I was thinking about you only this morning. They say there’s no such thing as coincidence. I do believe our paths were meant to converge. Come and have a drink . . . You would be perfect for the job . . . You aren’t a real priest, of course?’
‘I am.’ Lillie-Lysander giggled.
‘Good man. Well, it helps to have a mole in the citadel.’ Robin had ordered two double whiskies. ‘I’d be grateful if you kept me informed about what was going on in the old man’s mind.’
(Lillie-Lysander didn’t remember having said yes yet.)
‘I am not exactly persona grata at Ospreys. I must admit I am a trifle apprehensive about my future. My uncle thinks me not only dishonourable but without a trace of finer feeling. I am afraid that things might deteriorate. I want to know what’s going on, which way the wind is blowing and so on. As my uncle’s father confessor, you will be privy to his innermost thoughts and secrets. You will be his godly anchorman. He’s been given only two months at the most. I’ll make it worth your while. Can you start tomorrow? It’s in Oxfordshire – place called Ospreys.’
‘Ospreys? I believe I have heard of it.’
‘Excellent. Shall we drink to it?’
(How much money could Robin let him have? Could Robin provide him with regular supplies of morphine? Robin had hinted he had suppliers for ‘everything’ – a tan-talizing prospect.)
‘Ah.’ Father Lillie-Lysander gave a sigh of the deepest satisfaction as he felt himself relax more and more . . . and more. ‘The Holy Spirit is upon me,’ he murmured blasphemously, his lips curved in a ridiculous grin.
The morphine – Papaver somniferum ! (He made it sound like a benediction.)
At last . . . At last. (He must speak to Robin . . . Break the news . . . What would Robin do?)
Strangely enough, Father Lillie-Lysander’s last thought before he passed out was of Miss Ardleigh. There was something that wasn’t right about her. He was an old thesp and he was ready to swear that that blonde hair of hers – What a delicious sensation – it felt like being in the centre of a giant centrifuge!
Down-down-down – light
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