distance a pub and a bridge with a few Tudor houses and a thatched cottage or two. You’ve never seen such moribund boredom. Henry seemed amused at my reaction.
We reached the barge by balancing across the plank. Henry led down to the single log cabin. He had it arranged quite neatly, a folding bed, and a small unlit galley stove. He lit a candle stub, apologizing.
‘I keep meaning to get one of those gas bottles,’ he told me, ‘but they always need filling. We must celebrate first.’ He poured a drink for us in enormous tumblers, rum and orange. ‘Martha understands my need for solitude.’ We sat opposite each other andlistened to the river sounds entering the cabin. I glanced out at the anglers but none had moved. They sat there like troglodytes, watching their strings and the still water, a real ball. Riveting.
‘Er – look – Henry,’ I began. Somebody had to get it over and done with. ‘This Grail thing.’ I launched into a summary of the endless rumours, the wasted searches, the endless time expended on red herrings. ‘It isn’t just the Grail,’ I finished. ‘It’s a million other precious things.’
‘I know all that, Lovejoy,’ he said. He refilled our tumblers. ‘And I’m grateful for your frankness.’
Funny, but the old chap didn’t seem abashed.
‘The chances of anybody ever finding an object like the Grail are . . .’
‘About the same,’ he put in, smiling, ‘as finding the Cross?’
‘Well, St Helena rather pushed her luck,’ I said. That gave him one more grin.
‘I know what you must be thinking, Lovejoy.’ He leaned back reflectively. ‘That age or mental instability has deranged me. But I do have it. The Grail, I mean. It is real. Actual. Material.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Henry!’ I rose and paced the narrow cabin. ‘This relic game’s overdone. All right – I give you there must have been some object, a pottery cup or glass –’
‘Pewter,’ Henry corrected gravely. ‘It looks like pewter.’
‘Right. Pewter, then.’ I rounded on him. ‘Whatever. But relics were an industry. Do you know how many places have been founded on the faintest hints of hearsay? Even –’
‘I know, Lovejoy.’ He sat watching me and sippinghis rum. ‘Everything from Christ’s milk teeth to hair and foreskin. The Centurion’s spear, Magdalene’s linen cloth, Peter’s sandals –’
‘Do you know,’ I said rudely, ‘that owning a relic – real or otherwise – was such an attraction that . . . that when Francis was dying at Assisi, they even had to put an armed guard on the poor bugger so he wasn’t torn to pieces of premature relic? It was a game, Henry,’ I ended wearily. ‘A sad demented game.’ My glass was empty. ‘And nowadays the game’s over.’
He filled my glass to the brim, chirpy as ever. ‘I’ve been looking for somebody like you for some years, merely to inspect the object. Confirm what it is.’
I thought about that. ‘What if I say it’s junk?’
‘Supposing,’ he said, ‘an object, worthless in itself, was the focus of veneration for millions of people. Would that be – indeed,
could
it be – merely junk? Ever?’ He shook his head with certainty. ‘There is such a thing as sanctification by use, by belief. Loving,’ he added, ‘is the practice of love. Love is loving. There are no half measures, no staging-posts to love. It’s not a noun, Lovejoy. It’s an active participle.’
‘Henry,’ I said resignedly, ‘you’re beginning to sound like me. All right, I surrender. Where’s your crummy old tin cup?’
He insisted on pouring still more for us both. I was having a hard time keeping up with the old blighter. ‘I’ll show you. Not today, but I promise.’ He jerked his Adam’s apple up and down under the tilted bottle.
I don’t remember how long we stayed there. I vaguely recall some angler banging on the cabin roof shouting we were ruining the fishing match, but both Henry and I were sloshed and singing by
We reached the barge by balancing across the plank. Henry led down to the single log cabin. He had it arranged quite neatly, a folding bed, and a small unlit galley stove. He lit a candle stub, apologizing.
‘I keep meaning to get one of those gas bottles,’ he told me, ‘but they always need filling. We must celebrate first.’ He poured a drink for us in enormous tumblers, rum and orange. ‘Martha understands my need for solitude.’ We sat opposite each other andlistened to the river sounds entering the cabin. I glanced out at the anglers but none had moved. They sat there like troglodytes, watching their strings and the still water, a real ball. Riveting.
‘Er – look – Henry,’ I began. Somebody had to get it over and done with. ‘This Grail thing.’ I launched into a summary of the endless rumours, the wasted searches, the endless time expended on red herrings. ‘It isn’t just the Grail,’ I finished. ‘It’s a million other precious things.’
‘I know all that, Lovejoy,’ he said. He refilled our tumblers. ‘And I’m grateful for your frankness.’
Funny, but the old chap didn’t seem abashed.
‘The chances of anybody ever finding an object like the Grail are . . .’
‘About the same,’ he put in, smiling, ‘as finding the Cross?’
‘Well, St Helena rather pushed her luck,’ I said. That gave him one more grin.
‘I know what you must be thinking, Lovejoy.’ He leaned back reflectively. ‘That age or mental instability has deranged me. But I do have it. The Grail, I mean. It is real. Actual. Material.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Henry!’ I rose and paced the narrow cabin. ‘This relic game’s overdone. All right – I give you there must have been some object, a pottery cup or glass –’
‘Pewter,’ Henry corrected gravely. ‘It looks like pewter.’
‘Right. Pewter, then.’ I rounded on him. ‘Whatever. But relics were an industry. Do you know how many places have been founded on the faintest hints of hearsay? Even –’
‘I know, Lovejoy.’ He sat watching me and sippinghis rum. ‘Everything from Christ’s milk teeth to hair and foreskin. The Centurion’s spear, Magdalene’s linen cloth, Peter’s sandals –’
‘Do you know,’ I said rudely, ‘that owning a relic – real or otherwise – was such an attraction that . . . that when Francis was dying at Assisi, they even had to put an armed guard on the poor bugger so he wasn’t torn to pieces of premature relic? It was a game, Henry,’ I ended wearily. ‘A sad demented game.’ My glass was empty. ‘And nowadays the game’s over.’
He filled my glass to the brim, chirpy as ever. ‘I’ve been looking for somebody like you for some years, merely to inspect the object. Confirm what it is.’
I thought about that. ‘What if I say it’s junk?’
‘Supposing,’ he said, ‘an object, worthless in itself, was the focus of veneration for millions of people. Would that be – indeed,
could
it be – merely junk? Ever?’ He shook his head with certainty. ‘There is such a thing as sanctification by use, by belief. Loving,’ he added, ‘is the practice of love. Love is loving. There are no half measures, no staging-posts to love. It’s not a noun, Lovejoy. It’s an active participle.’
‘Henry,’ I said resignedly, ‘you’re beginning to sound like me. All right, I surrender. Where’s your crummy old tin cup?’
He insisted on pouring still more for us both. I was having a hard time keeping up with the old blighter. ‘I’ll show you. Not today, but I promise.’ He jerked his Adam’s apple up and down under the tilted bottle.
I don’t remember how long we stayed there. I vaguely recall some angler banging on the cabin roof shouting we were ruining the fishing match, but both Henry and I were sloshed and singing by
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