Ungodly Faculties
Ungodly Faculties
A story by Joseph Baker
Work has no terrors for [Him],
since all the natural elements,
sky and fire and earth and sea,
obey his divine power.
- Cicero
Part One
IN WHICH WE MEET THE PRINCIPLE PLAYERS
‘You seem to have got to grips with the central ideas in Aquinas, but need to spend more time understanding how they fit into the wider context. Try re-reading the last book on my list. It is quite long winded, in its own way. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll find it helpful when you go back over your essay before next term’s exams. You may find the indexes - or should I say indices - useful. You may not. Read them nonetheless. If you have any questions do not hesitate to contact me. See you next week.’
*
‘Well, Romeo, another week, one less essay between now and the end of the year,’ Byron said to his friend as they padded along the corridors.
‘I suppose so,’ he replied ‘but I’m not finding them any easier. You’d think you’d get the knack by now.’
Byron didn’t reply. He was listening but only half-heartedly. He was more interested in the pictures on the walls. The new faculty building was unspeakably drab. Despite the inclusion of a series of architectural plans, which hung from the walls in plastic frames, the construction did little to inspire the students.
‘Now why do you suppose they put those up?’
‘The pictures? I reckon they were left over after the building was finished and the decorators were too lazy to find anything better,’ replied Romeo. ‘It’s the same as that pub in town. The one with the funny German lager.’
‘Do you fancy going for drink?’
‘Yes, why not? I’m finished for the week.’
*
The pub on the High Street was dimly lit but busy for the time of day. They ordered at the bar, which was sticky with spilt beer.
‘A pint of bitter and… What do you want, Byron?’
‘The same.’
‘Two pints of your finest bitter, please.’
They sat at a round table in the corner and talked.
*
Two hours later Romeo was cradling his head in his hands, his elbows sticking to the tabletop, whilst Byron did his best to look relaxed with a cigarette held in his fingertips. Outside, the sun had set and little groups were passing by the windows on their home, or into college for hall.
‘As I see it,’ said Byron, watching the smoke curl in the electric lights, ‘you’re taking it too seriously. If Henderson sets a high standard you just have to do you best. He doesn’t expect you to live up to it.’
‘That just makes it worse,’ Romeo countered. ‘I don’t live up to it and then feel worse because he looks down his nose at me.’
‘Of course, he’s had thirty years head start on you...’
‘To hear him speak you’d think he was born knowing the sum of human knowledge. When he explains things... it’s like he’s just going over a script in his head.’
Byron thought about this. ‘I guess he’s probably heard the same essays one way or another, every week for thirty years. You’d have to be pretty sharp to think of new answers each time.’
‘It’s pretty infuriating when you’re on the receiving end, though.’
‘He could be worse, of course,’ said Byron, turning to point his cigarette at Romeo. ‘As long as he doesn’t start each sentence with “as I have said many times before...”’
‘That’s not a bad impression.’
‘Well... I had tutes with him last year. Forthright’s ok once you know where he’s coming from.’
‘Forthright? Odd nickname.’
‘It’s not a nickname. ‘
‘Perhaps that explains it,’ said Romeo, easing himself up out of the bench seat and knocking over his glass, ‘what do you expect from a man called Forthright?’
*
Sitting alone, now, in the room he used for tutorials, an air of despondency settled over Forthright. He would never be published. It wasn’t that he was unoriginal, just that he lacked ideas: something to sink his teeth into. He was currently an aching academic void. It hadn’t been like this when he was younger; back then he was full of vim and vinegar. Ready to denounce those who disagreed with him. On paper only - he never had the guts for stand-up arguments. But in his own way he had been ready to take on the world. Now it was different. For one, he had the faculty to contend with: tweed corpses piling on top of him. A thousand years of scholarship to break through before he could begin to make a mark for himself. It was quite disheartening, really.
If only he could be content with teaching. It would be so easy to sit, day in and day out, listening to students’ essays and making the odd helpful remark. But it bored him to tears.
No. Writing was his only way out and he needed to do so sooner rather than later. He wasn’t so very old, by the standards of the institution, but he didn’t fancy the long haul. The increments by which his academic standing naturally increased with age were painfully small. A book in the next two years, he told himself, or else you’ll go potty.
*
In the subdued lighting of the dining hall, Romeo dissected his roast chicken opposite a group of third-year physicists who were arguing about how much vitamin c there was in a glass of orange juice. At the other end of the long central table, he could make out Byron flirting with first year lawyers. Spurning the overdone apple strudel, he plodded down into the bar for a smoke.
‘Lent is the cruelest term,’ suggested Dave the bar manager, as Romeo fumbled in his pockets for change.
‘Still no cask ales, I see,’ joked Romeo
‘I’ve told you,’ said Dave, pointing a stubby finger and blinking, ‘we’re already in the cellar. Where’d the barrels go, you tell me that?’
The ceiling of the bar, supported as it was by stone columns, was too thick for any sounds to filter down from the hall above, but the noise people made as they spread out into the quad reached Romeo at about the same time that Byron walked down the steps with a lawyer in each arm. Whispering something to one of them, he left them at the bar and joined Romeo, sliding his knees under the thick wooden bench and lighting a cigarette in one angular motion.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Rotten. I’ve now got indigestion as well as a headache.’
‘On the plus side, it will be summer soon. Thank you, darling,’ Byron said as a girl placed a drink in front of him before joining her friend at the pool table. They sipped their drinks in silence for a while.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
‘There’s nowhere to go at this time.’
‘There’s always somewhere,’ Byron replied as he led Romeo by the arm.
*
‘Welcome to flavour country, boys!’ Roger said, exhaling a lungful of smoke.
Roger was usually to be found sitting outside the politics library drinking Mecca cola. He now sat on the floor of his bed-sit with Romeo on the sofa and Byron lounging in a beaten armchair in the corner. Byron accepted the joint, dropping ash onto the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. He flicked it off.
Romeo looked from Byron to Roger. The two were remarkably similar in appearance, sharing the same dark hair and aquiline nose framed by prominent cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Whilst Byron favoured the classic jacket and slacks, Roger normally went for oversized jeans and hand-printed t-shirts. He had recently given into parental demands and been shorn of his dreadlocks but retained a selection of piercings that marked him out as a trader in imported narcotics and political activism.
The symbiosis of Roger and Byron had started at the same time as their respective courses. They seemed to have realised, instinctively, that whilst they were to move in completely different social circles, each was an invaluable link to areas of culture that the other didn’t have time to pursue fully. Thus, Byron kept Roger abreast of the latest plays, poetry and gossip and was repaid with the latest designer pharmaceuticals and fliers for club nights that his diurnal companions were either unable or unwilling to acquire. It was a case study in reciprocity.
‘Bit gloomy tonight, Rom?’ Asked Roger, returning from the kitchen with mugs of tea.
‘He’s still upset about his tutorials,’ commented Byron, between puffs.
‘Shit! That reminds me: I’ve got to finish an essay. Back in a tick.’
‘What he means,’ Byron explained as Roger dashed upstairs, ‘is that he has to finish copying out one that he’s got off the internet. Lazy cheat.’
‘So he’s a copywriter?’
‘Yes,’ Byron snorted out a smoky laugh. ‘He copies the copy. Here. You better finish this. I’m toasted.’
Part Two
ROMEO’S ESSAY ATTRACTS FORTHRIGHT’S ATTENTION & SUZIE ATTRACTS THE ATTENTION OF ROMEO
Romeo woke the next afternoon and did his best to wash the redness out of his eyes. Going over to his desk, he fingered the corner of this week’s essay sheet. Printed in the clumsy type of an ancient dot-matrix printer was “His work is left undone” and below it a list of suggested reading. Picking a pencil out of a plastic case, Romeo carefully wrote “best” between the “is” and the “left”. Smiling to himself, he pulled on his dressing gown and went to shower.
*
Romeo could never understand why it was that all his best ideas occurred to him on the toilet. After cleansing himself in the western fashion, he returned to his desk. Picking up his pen he turned to a new page in his notebook and began to write.
Premise 1 - it requires a perfect being to do perfect acts.
Premise 2 - He is the only perfect being and His only perfect acts.
Premise 3 - imperfect acts are unworthy of Him.
Premise 4 - a perfect being may create imperfect beings, but imperfect beings cannot give rise to the perfect.
Conclusion 1 - none but He can do His work.
Conclusion 2 - translations of the One Book are not valid examples of His word since they are human acts and therefore not perfect.
Conclusion 3 - as the One Book is not perfect, actions based on it cannot be known to be His work (inc. keeping the commandments?).
Conclusion 4 - only those acting under immediate direction from Him have religious authority.
Not a bad start. But as ever, Romeo dreaded the prospect of padding it out to two thousand words.
*
The enforced tranquility of the library was far from comfortable, but, once he stopped drumming his fingers, Romeo was soon lost in his work. He smiled as he composed paragraph after paragraph of loose prose and sucked his biro as he pored over the books on his reading list, copying relevant passages into his notebook.
Now the deeds of him who is the best can never be or have been other than the fairest
- Plato
The nature of man being dependent upon a higher nature, natural knowledge is not enough for his fulfilment; a certain supernatural knowledge is needed
- Aquinas
It was evening before Romeo switched of the light above him. He had, at the very least, filled several pages with passable material. For now, it would have to do. Pushing his notebook back into his rucksack he headed for the door.
*
As he left, he almost tripped over Roger, who was drawing in chalk on the library steps.
‘Careful, Rom.’
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Just killing some time. I’ve got a great idea for my next essay. What do you think of this?’ Roger adopted a rhetorical pose and began to read off from his mental script. ‘‘The current disillusionment with politics stems from the corruption of the tribal alpha male hierarchy. Whilst in days of yore the local fife could be challenged by anyone with a bigger sword, modern power structures hold back the strong, in favour of the corrupt political elite. The big gorillas have become flabby, since their muscles no longer secure any real power, except in circles unconnected to politics.’’
‘Pretty barmy,’ Roger.
‘Yeah, my tutor’ll love it. She loves anything involving machismo.’
‘And the gorillas?’
‘Them too. I’ve heard that her husband’s really hairy.’
*
Over the next two days Romeo’s essay took on form and he found himself refining his ideas and formulating them in the precise and formal way that was asked of him.
Thus as a sheep cannot be asked to interpret the shepherd’s directions, but merely to obey them, so neither can man be expected to do His bidding unless he is guided at each step by his direct command.
Not much of an ending, but it would do. Romeo folded the essay into a plain envelope and handed it in at the porter’s lodge to await collection.
*
Forthright Henderson did not consider himself a bad person. The way he saw it, the students were rehashing the ideas of history and so it was no further crime for him to take the essays submitted to him each week and sift them for material for his own writings. It was more like collaboration than stealing. That is how Forthright Henderson, M.A. (Cantab), saw it. Rather than letting ambition get the better of him, as a number of his colleagues did, he preferred to play a cautious game. He was content, for now, with having an article published in the right kind of journal every couple of years and overseeing the college art fund (it had taken him five years of patient hinting to get that post).
With his trademark air of comfortable repetition, he removed his bicycle clips and eased himself into the porter’s office to check his pigeonhole. Nothing, save for a bill for shoes and an essay.
In his study, Forthright dumped his effects into one of the two armchairs on either side of the fireplace and switched on his automatic tea machine. It had been a prize that he had won in a raffle five years ago. It made terrible tea; worse since his abortive attempt to teach it to make instant coffee. He was such a slave to his habits that the timer function would have come in handy - if only he could figure out the instruction manual. First he would have to find it of course. Some tutors are neat and tidy people, with immaculate rooms. Some tutors keep their papers in a small briefcase that they tidy out at the end of every term. Forthright was the other sort - the kind with a lava lamp on the mantle piece and compost heaps of essays piled on every flat surface. The acquisition of a filing cabinet has only made matters worse. It just made more space for the mess to accumulate in. Folders and journals formed drifts against it.
Armed with his weapons grade tea and protective scowl, he settled into the vacant armchair with his mail. The bill was for the regular repairs demanded by his brogues. He wrote a cheque and folded it neatly into the envelope with the bill. As for the essay - he had taught long enough to recognise it as such - it was a curious fascination that caused him to open it. He had given the same essays out each year for so long that it was the work of five minutes to read, mark and dismiss them.
As his eyes flickered down the printed sheets a premonition came over him. By the time he had finished reading it he was certain: there was something in this.
*
Under the dimpled, batwing canopy of the College Chapel, sweet music drifted through the mind of the Chaplain. Fortunately for him he was asleep; otherwise he would have been listening to the choir. On paper, they were the bright young hope of English church music. Why they couldn’t work together was a mystery of some importance. The Dean suffered under the delusion that the Chapel was the centre of College life and held regular meetings with the Chaplain and the organ scholar to remind them of this. They did their best - no one could say otherwise - but the choir resisted all efforts to make them perform as one. The basses seemed to regard it as their duty to be louder than anyone else. The altos turned up drunk. In no other college were there quite so many sopranos committed to bursting into tears every time they approached the correct note.
On the up side, the Chapel had never been so full. Somehow the discordant wailing drew the students like a fire alarm. The Chaplain suspected that they came to laugh, but in truth the choir had managed to spark a religious revival all of its own. Something in their agonised voices touched the soul and inspired a longing for salvation that mere sermons could not.
Romeo looked into the Chapel with rapt attention. In the dim light Suzie positively glowed. Her hair flowed golden over her choir gown as her pink mouth shaped the words of the hymn.
Though not religious, as a rule, Romeo had taken to visiting the Chapel, but unlike so many of his peers, it was only to see her. His ears strained to pick out her voice amongst the many as his eyes tried to bury into her to see what it was that caused him pangs of guilt every time he saw her. Suddenly fearful, he realised that she was looking straight at him. He dropped his eyes, embarrassed, but when he looked back up she was smiling - holding his gaze. Images of angels and of sex swam before his eyes as they locked with hers for a brief time. Romeo’s hands didn’t stop shaking until the Chaplain had dismissed him, along with the rest of the congregation, in a somnambulous blessing.
Outside, in the quad, Romeo was trying to make up his mind what to do with the rest of the evening when Suzie came up to him, sheet music held to her bosom.
‘Hi. I saw you in Chapel,’ she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t know why anyone comes anymore, with our singing.’
‘I thought you sang well. Beautifully.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. Aggie’s much better than I am. I’m just doing it because it’s easier than making excuses not to.’ She moved awkwardly - was she blushing?
‘Listen. What are you doing tonight?’ Romeo asked.
‘Essay. A thousand words to do before dawn.’
‘Oh... maybe another time then?’
‘Yeah.’
She turned and with small, light steps flowed out of the College gates and out of sight. With a deep breath, Romeo also moved on for the night.
*
Picking up the phone, Forthright dialed the number of the only publishing house at which he knew someone on the staff.
‘Hello? Is that Bertie? Henderson here. Yes. How are you? Still at the old word mill? Excellent. Listen, Bertie. Can I ask you a favour? Good. Could you possibly have a word with your managing editor and see if he’d be in the market for something on the value of religious behaviour? Yes. A new piece I’m working on. I can’t tell you too much about it now’ - Damn! That was the wrong thing to say - ‘but I’d appreciate it if you could test the water for me, so to speak. Okay. Great. I’ll speak to you then. Yes. Yes. Thanks, Bertie.’
Hanging up the phone it was all he could do not to rub his hands together and dance with glee. He allowed himself a brief chuckle, though, and went to the cupboard where he kept his sherry. This couldn’t have come at a better time, he mused as he spilt a little of the sherry and licked it off his wrist. Cash had been a bit tight lately; not too tight to pay the cobbler, but his sherry intake had had to reduce. If only he hadn’t joined in with that idiotic game of SCR cricket (an ad hoc version of the game invented by the biochemistry tutor involving a ruler and a wine cork). He had been forced to pay for the repairs to the Home Bursar’s trouser suit after he accidentally sent the wine cork spinning into her eye socket, causing her to stagger backwards, trip over and tear her jacket to ribbons on the horns of a stuffed ibex hung much too near the ground. It was a small blessing that the Dean didn’t ask him to repair the ibex as well. The poor, bodiless beast now bore a permanent look of cross-eyed malevolence and had been moved into the store room with countless other damaged bequeathences.
No, this new idea of his student’s - now Forthright’s own idea, of course - could not have come at a better time. Of course there were proofs to be written and sent to publishers. Advances to be demanded. Summaries to be drafted and speculatively sent to journals of modern theology.
Long ago, Henderson had realised a crucial difficulty in his branch of theology. It was impossible for him to make any money without writing a book. But to do so would require him to present a challenger to the One Book, on which all of his work was based. If the One Book is all one needs to achieve spiritual harmony, if it is the greatest repository of self-evident truths and useful advice on how to deal with the problems faced by all humanity, then why, dear boy, did you write yours? To Forthright’s amazement, this paradox did not seem to trouble his peers; something he attributed to defensive professional vanity on their part. At any rate, his desire for acclaim (and sufficient funds to keep him in sherry and shoe repairs) kept him going through the long nights in front of the electric fire. Career wise, there was all to play for.
A tinkle of fairground music drew him to the window. Looking down into the street he could see a blue and yellow ice cream van turning the corner, its music howling out like the bells of a large mechanical clock, evoking images of childhood lapsed into senility. It was scouring the city for children in need of lunchtime dessert. Forthright was sure that the diver must hate the music, but must be trapped by the convention - vital if he wanted customers. Perhaps I would be happier driving one of those vans, he thought. One of the happiest times of his life had been one summer when his mother had got him a job picking strawberries. He had hated the dirt under his nails and the sweat making his shirt stick to his back. But he was contented to stand or squat in the field, listening to the birds singing in the trees and plucking the rip fruit that stained his fingers with its light red juice.
Turning back to his room, he refilled his glass and sat down at his old electronic word processor. Better to get some of this down on paper before Bertie rings back. With any luck, he would be in clover within a month.
*
Friday night had come around once more like an old friend in need of support. A short walk out of town brought Romeo to Byron’s house and it was the host who answered the door.
‘Ah, Chuckles! Do come in’
With a flourish, Romeo was led into the house - a large one by student standards. As usual, he was the first to arrive.
‘Don’t worry. You can help me get ready,’ Byron said, handing him plates of tapenade and Melba toast. ‘Pop these on the coffee table in there and pick some music if you like. When the wazzocks arrive they’ll probably insist on rancid cheese.’
Browsing through the racks of CDs showed that Byron possessed plenty of this genre himself - but would of course insist that he wanted to be a good host and cater for his philistine guests. This from the man who owned the largest collection of Abba LPs outside of the organ scholar’s closet. Putting on a Dylan album, Romeo moved back to the kitchen to see if he could be of any more help. He found Byron labouring under the largest bottle of Pimms he had ever seen.
‘What do you think of this baby?’
‘Where the hell did you get that? It must contain a couple of gallons.’
‘It’s the special Jubilee edition Pimms No. 1,’ he hefted it onto the table, which creaked beneath the weight. ‘Liberated it from home last time I was there. Dads wouldn’t touch it and Mums is allergic to gin. Shame to waste it so...’
‘How many people are coming tonight?’
‘Enough to make a good dent in it, I hope. Otherwise I shall be forced to bathe in it.’ Byron mopped his brow, obviously excited by the giant bottle.
Three Dylan albums later, the party was fairly humming. The house was full of the sounds of tipsy chatter and the floor was rapidly becoming a carpet of beer cans. Out in the small garden at the back of the house Byron was presiding over the ceremony of the Pimms.
‘Is everyone ready? Davis, have you the tequila? Gemma, ready with that lemonade? On the count of three... Three!’
Romeo felt his liver twitch as the eight of them standing around the dustbin, that he had sterilised, began to pour. One held a full litre of gin that he was upending on the pile of chopped fruit at the bottom. Others were doing the same with bottles of vodka, tequila and lemonade. Two members of the rowing team held the Pimms between them as it gushed out into the foaming mixture.
‘Enough!’ Byron intoned once all but half of the Pimms had been sloshed into the bin. ‘Now for the final touch!’
He held aloft a bottle of champagne (won in a raffle) and, having sent the cork off into the night sky, emptied it from head height. As the last of the bubbles died away he dipped his finger to the potion and declared it fit for human consumption.
‘Everything in moderation,’ he advised as he filled a pint glass with the sweet brown nectar and lurched back into the house.
Later still, and now listening to a bad cover of ‘Free Bird’, Byron and Romeo watched as a first year law student tried to pole dance around the Pimms bottle.
‘Someone put some better music on,’ she whined.
‘Easy now. We don’t want anyone to get hurt,’ Byron chided. Then, aside to Romeo, ‘If she slips we’ll never get the bottle back. ‘Romeo will treat you to some boogie-woogie beats to make you shake you teats.’ turning to Romeo, ‘I’m far too sozzled to go near anything electrical.’
Swaying slightly as he went, Romeo weaved his way through the press of bodies. In the sitting room, Suzie was sitting talking with a couple of actors, still flush from their victory in drama cuppers. Romeo swallowed hard as he rifled through stacks of music, settling on Fairport Convention he turned back to the room and found himself alone with Suzie. Alone with Suzie and fumbling for a cigarette. No lighter. Uncool. Tuck it behind my ear? No - not cool enough to pull it off.
‘Would you like a light?’ Suzie was holding a plastic lighter towards him and smiling.
‘Thanks.’
He leant forward into the flame, his hair falling in front of his eyes. Self-conscious, he sat down next to her, gripping the front of the sofa with his hands, his body leant forward between his knees.
‘Enjoying the party?’
‘Yeah. Byron’s quite the showman, isn’t he?’ she replied, leaning forward so that their faces were level, facing the room.
‘He needs an audience. But probably deserves one.’
‘I never see you around College much. What do you do with yourself? If it’s not a personal question.’
‘No. I don’t know. I like going to the museums. Listening to music. Sleeping too much, I guess.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘On the plus side, I’m pretty much done for the term. Just a couple of essays left.’
‘Who’s your tutor?’
‘I’ve got Henderson for theology this term. Can’t get on with him.’
‘He’s definitely got a reputation. I heard that when he was an undergraduate he used to oversleep and his tutors had to wake him up, otherwise he’d have missed half his exams.’
‘I heard that too. Listen, enough of this small talk.’ Romeo turned on the sofa to face Suzie. ‘What do you say to dinner sometime?’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘Maybe,’ he smiled, confirming the fact, ‘but what do you say?’
‘I say we’ll see.’
Suzie eased herself off the sofa. ‘I think it’s time I got Gemma home before she gets drunk and pulls someone she regrets. I’ll see you around.’
That could have gone worse, Romeo thought as his cigarette burnt to the end and singed his lips. Coughing, he eased himself outside where Byron was umpiring some sort of fencing match between the two actors.
‘Easy, Brian! Spare his flanks! Spare them, I say, if you ever want him to polka again!’
Byron put his arm around Romeo’s shoulders and indicated the battling couple. ‘What a magnificent pair they are. They’ve been at it half an hour now and show no fatigue. They are playing the part admirably.’
‘Wankers,’ Romeo mumbled in response.
‘Oh, what’s wrong, Rom?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now now. You can tell your Uncle Byron. Wait, it’s not that Suzie is it?’ He put his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘Wonderful!’ Releasing Romeo’s shoulders, he leapt upon a garden chair that almost overbalanced. Raising his glass he proclaimed:
‘Gentlemen and ladies of the stage, the toast is ‘To Love’!’
*
Forthright Jean Henderson. The middle name was reflection of his Gallic heritage and his grandfather’s dying wish that his mother should ‘make the boy French’. As a toddler he had been draped in the Tricolor to pose for photographs. He shuddered to recall this nationalism, forced on him before he could walk. Seating himself at the word processor, he collected his thoughts and began tapping away.
The aim of any good book, of this type, must surely be to deliver on its title. Thus, in ‘the Value of Religious Behaviour’, I shall be putting across a new perspective on actions that are taken for the sake of belief and have their origin in the desire to live according to one’s faith.
Value of act = Impact x Adherence x Perfection
This was teetering on the brink of drivel, he knew, and might only make it to print in a rag like ‘Modern Deicism’. Still, it could only improve his standing in College. All of the other dons were too wrapped up in their own studies to take an interest, much less even read the work of their colleagues. In any case, it was common practice to choose so obscure a topic that one was freed from any threat of competition or review. Also, it reduced the likelihood of, say, spending five years up to your arms in muddy water only to find out that someone else had just published a definitive study of psychosexual dynamics in the fresh water mussel. As long as you could look a fellow in the eye and say ‘my work has value’, there was every chance that they would believe you.
Thumbing through some old notes that he had excavated from his filing cabinet - why had he draw so many pictures of naked women in the margins? - he found the following quote scratched in pencil:
Were I to be Him, I would most certainly be delighted that my creations were trying to please me. Furthermore, I can see no logical reason why this should not be the fact-case
- Swinebottom.
Swinebottom’s error is, upon reflection, one of letting the tail wag the epistemological dog. Our need to feel that there is value to our actions does not confer Value upon them. Nor, may we say, does the earnest hope that our actions will please Him bring us any closer to realising this hope.
This book was going to call for some serious sherry, Forthright thought as he slipped on his overcoat and headed for the off-license.
*
Eyes still puffy and blurred by the clear, viscous putty of a late night, Romeo lurched through the wooden gate at the edge of the hospital. Officially, students were not meant to take the shortcut, but he was going to be late as it was.
In the grounds of the hospital, facing the car park, was a bench, tethered to the ground by a chain. In strong winds the bench tipped over, held at sixty degree from the vertical by the chain at its corner. In the same way, the hospital itself acted as a safety cord - holding those who had been caught in life’s strong winds. At sixty degrees from vertical you cannot get up on your own. Of course, if the chain breaks, it will be of little inconvenience since the bench only overlooks the car park.
Romeo made it to the lecture a mere five minutes late, but he soon regretted turning up at all. Foghurst was the least inspiring lecturer he had and was already deep into a digression on the meaning of ‘holy’.
‘What I mean to say, er, is that we do not, necessarily, have to deny our own license to judge on what is holy.’
‘But I thought,’ baited a second-year student with blue hair, ‘that we had to reference Him to have a meaningful sense of what our judgments mean.’
Romeo lowered himself into a seat at the back of the hall and prepared himself for a tedious forty-five minutes. True to form, Foghurst was a full ten minutes before he plucked up the courage to mumble something about it not being important and went back to Bonaventure and ‘ladders to the superluminous’.
After the lecture ended, Romeo retraced his steps through the hospital for the demented and the temporarily freaked-out. The bench, he noticed, had been ripped free of its chain (breaking a cross-piece in the process) and turned so that it faced the trees at the edge of the car park.
Part Three
IN WHICH A DEGREE OF STRESS IS FELT BY ALL
In his wood-paneled study, the organ scholar adjusted his bowtie in the mirror and pushed his hair into place. He liked the Dean and had they been of similar ages - who knows? But today he had something to ask of him. For as long as he could remember, he had loved their music and it would be the crowning moment of his fandom to play one of their numbers on the College organ. Of course it would have to be modified, rearranged somewhat to fit in with the hundred years of heritage that came with his position. But oh, to hear that melody reverberating off the stained glass... He slipped on his jacket and headed off to the Chaplain’s rooms.
The Chaplain always reserved his best Madeira for the bi-termly events when, after dinner in Hall, he invited a select group of faculty members back to his spacious rooms. In one sense, the guests represented a cross-section of the staff, being chosen, as they were, from across the academic spectrum: nowhere else in College would one find the modern linguists rubbing shoulders with the biochemistry master and the theologians. In another, more exact sense, those benefiting from the Chaplain’s hospitality were those of whom he approved. The Reverend Shoestring had no time for the mathematicians (who giggled in Chapel) nor for the English tutors, whom he considered to be satanic lesbians (the fact that he was half right on this account was purely a coincidence).
Forthright hoped that the corpulent frame of the Senior Tutor would hide him from the Chaplain as he guiltily sipped his wine, keeping one eye on the clock. He hated these occasions, but knew that it paid to make an appearance. Secretly, he hoped to catch the Dean alone to ask him to put in a good word, as a well respected author, with Plunkets (an equally well respected publishers). Unfortunately, the Dean was surrounded by physicists and showed no signs of moving. Without warning, the Senior Tutor drifted away from the fireplace leaving Forthright with no natural defenses between himself and the Chaplain, who was moving purposefully towards him with a decanter.
‘Henderson. Permit me to refresh your glass? We’ve not seen you in Chapel much lately.’ He said pouring another half-measure into each of their glasses.
‘You know how it is. Hard at work.’
‘Indeed I do. Up late at the grindstone. Hard to find a minute’s peace. But I think it’s always wise - healthy, even - to set aside time for matters of the soul.’
As he said this, the Chaplain cast a wary glance to where the organ scholar had moved in on the group with the Dean. Though not officially invited to these occasions, he had a knack of getting himself deep in conversation with someone before the Chaplain could politely ask him to leave.
‘So tell me, Henderson. What is it that you’ve been working on?’
‘A new book. Or at least I hope it will turn into one. A piece on the value of religious behaviour.’
‘Do go on. It sounds most edifying.’
‘Well, you see, I think that I can usefully contend that His direct sanction is needed to validate one’s actions.’
‘Oh, my...’ the Chaplain knocked back his glass and refilled it once more.
‘Reverend, I wonder if I mightn’t ask your advice on something that’s been bothering me a while?’
‘Of course. Of course. You know that’s what I’m here for,’ he said shepherding Forthright towards a corner of his room.
‘Well, I can’t help feeling that I’m in a professional bind, so to speak. I mean, the One Book is sacred to us. But it’s my job to write about it. And I can’t help feeling that every word I write detracts from the Original Message.’
‘How do you mean?’
At this point, Forthright drained his own glass and was duly topped up.
‘Well, if people are reading my work, they aren’t reading the One Book.’
‘I think I understand. I used to feel the same way about my sermons. Standing there, in front of my flock. Knowing that what I said had to be important - had to press the right buttons. I think the key thing is to have faith in what you are saying and let your heart guide your words.’
‘But the heart of man knows so little. I have faith in my Redeemer, but not in my own, or anyone else’s ability to write anything that is worthy in comparison to the One Book.’
‘We are all sinners. But ‘with the heart man believeth unto salvation’’
‘Surely we should try not to compound our sins, though, by doing things - for whatever reason - that may make matters worse. I guess that’s kind of the point of my book.’
‘You must remember,’ the Chaplain said, as he began to turn back to the room, that His work takes many forms. Dean, can I refresh your glass?’
His moleskin trousers riding up as he sat down, the Chaplain placed himself next to the Dean, who, still amidst the physicists, was clearly in full flow.
‘What’s really exciting is the interest that The Religious Times has shown in making a donation to the College - in deference to our high standards of theological scholarship. I wouldn’t be surprised if we could get you a new research assistant out of the funding. Ah, Chaplain, this will interest you. I had a telephone call this afternoon from someone at The Religious Times. Said that they were strongly considering us - that’s their words: ‘strongly considering’ - for a donation from their charity fund. It’s quite fortuitous. They said that, in their opinion, we had always retained the highest standards of moral probity in our work, and that counted as a major plus point in our favour.’
‘When you say “moral probity”, Dean?’
‘Well, they didn’t exactly spell it out for me. But the gist was that we, I mean the College, in all our years, have been the least controversial and provocative in our output.’
‘And when you say controversial...’
‘You know the stuff. Not questioning dogma. Being polite about Rome. Encouraging good deeds. That sort of thing.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Chaplain?’
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow, Dean, if that’s all right.’
At this point, the organ scholar decided to take advantage of the momentary lull in conversation.
‘Dean, I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard the song Dancing Queen?’
*
Romeo paced back and forth in his study - alternately clockwise and anticlockwise according to how the arguments left him disposed.
+ He is something we understand clearly.
- But it is something that we have to be taught: that He exists.
+ But there is a clear perception, nonetheless of what such a being would be like.
- But the phenomena we perceive do not alone point, necessarily, to Him.
+ He would provide a neat explanation for these phenomena.
- But He himself requires explanation, unless He is to be meaningless.
+ He gives a purpose to life, which would otherwise be meaningless.
- But there is nothing in life that demands that it should have meaning; other than our own subjective desire that it should have.
+ Many wise men believe in Him.
- But there were also plenty of intelligent Nazis. Being right in one sphere does not entail being right in another (e.g. Albert Speer who was undoubtedly a visionary architect).
+ His Son was a great man.
- Indeed he was, from what the One Book tells us. But was he the only great man? Was the Son infinitely greater than Gandhi? And are we not judging Him from a moral standpoint that He helped to establish?
+ Yet we all agree with these morals.
- But there are no moral/ethical rules that would apply in all situations.
+ The standards of an infinite being could encompass an infinite range of circumstances.
- Isn’t that the same as saying that an infinite range of actions could be right?
+ No. It is more like: there are certain actions that are right, but the permutations are infinite.
- But not all moral rules set down in the One Book agree with current views of what is right (e.g. we agree that it is generally bad to kill, but many people approve of abortion). Yet you have already suggested that our own moral views validate those of religion.
+ A unity of human beliefs is not necessary for his existence.
- But we must have some reason to think that He exists. Otherwise He would have the same status as fairies and goblins.
+ Fairies and goblins do not tell us why we are here.
- But neither would a tradition of creator-fairies. Nor would one of all-loving goblins...
At this point, Romeo collapsed onto his bed, exhausted. The debate would have to rage on another day.
*
The air was still in the cool of the Dean’s study.
‘Now, I do not want to startle you, Forthright,’ the Dean began.
‘Startle me?’ asked Henderson.
‘Yes. But you see I have heard that you have a piece of work in progress that discourages the idea of doing good deeds.’
‘Well, not exactly. As I was saying to the Chaplain last night, the central premise it that He alone...’
‘Forthright, I don’t know if you are aware, but The Religious Times is currently considering the college as a potential beneficiary of a substantial sum of money. ‘
‘No. Well, I may have heard about it. But-‘
‘I’m sure you can imagine how welcome this windfall would be. The positive impact that it would have on the standing of the college. The potential for increased conference takings.’
Henderson swallowed.
‘But what does this have to do with my new article?’
‘It is felt that your article might be a little too controversial. And may - how can I put this? - prejudice the college’s chances. It’s nothing personal. Just a case of bad timing. I know you wouldn’t want to rock the boat at a time when the college stands to gain so much.’
‘Well. I suppose not. ‘
‘And, of course, it is with this sort of income that we budget for all of our costs. Faculty included, Forthright. Faculty included.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Epilogue
ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL
‘Did you speak to Henderson, Dean?’ The Senior Tutor asked, later that evening.
‘Yes. I think he sees the proper course to take.’
‘From what I’ve heard, he was planning to carve out a little niche for himself with this new theory.’
‘Perhaps. But then he already has quite a nice little niche in college. Could be in your shoes in a decade or so.’
‘Fat chance of that. More wine?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s simply divine.’
‘Quite.’
*
Byron was toying with a yo-yo as Romeo approached him.
‘Don’t you have to go and see Henderson?’
‘No. Found a note in my pigeonhole. Says the essay’s the best he’s seen all term and I needn’t bother him ‘til next week.’
‘Excellent. This calls for a celebration.’
‘Sorry. Can’t. I’ve got a date.’
‘Never.’
‘Taking Suzie to the cinema,’ Romeo beamed.
‘The cute little lawyer? We’ll have to celebrate later, then. But not too much later, mind,’ Byron called out as his friend ducked out of the college gate.
‘Pigs may fly, and we shall hunt more prey anon.’ With that, and dragging his yo-yo by its string, Byron headed off to the bar.
- The End -
A story by Joseph Baker
Work has no terrors for [Him],
since all the natural elements,
sky and fire and earth and sea,
obey his divine power.
- Cicero
Part One
IN WHICH WE MEET THE PRINCIPLE PLAYERS
‘You seem to have got to grips with the central ideas in Aquinas, but need to spend more time understanding how they fit into the wider context. Try re-reading the last book on my list. It is quite long winded, in its own way. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll find it helpful when you go back over your essay before next term’s exams. You may find the indexes - or should I say indices - useful. You may not. Read them nonetheless. If you have any questions do not hesitate to contact me. See you next week.’
*
‘Well, Romeo, another week, one less essay between now and the end of the year,’ Byron said to his friend as they padded along the corridors.
‘I suppose so,’ he replied ‘but I’m not finding them any easier. You’d think you’d get the knack by now.’
Byron didn’t reply. He was listening but only half-heartedly. He was more interested in the pictures on the walls. The new faculty building was unspeakably drab. Despite the inclusion of a series of architectural plans, which hung from the walls in plastic frames, the construction did little to inspire the students.
‘Now why do you suppose they put those up?’
‘The pictures? I reckon they were left over after the building was finished and the decorators were too lazy to find anything better,’ replied Romeo. ‘It’s the same as that pub in town. The one with the funny German lager.’
‘Do you fancy going for drink?’
‘Yes, why not? I’m finished for the week.’
*
The pub on the High Street was dimly lit but busy for the time of day. They ordered at the bar, which was sticky with spilt beer.
‘A pint of bitter and… What do you want, Byron?’
‘The same.’
‘Two pints of your finest bitter, please.’
They sat at a round table in the corner and talked.
*
Two hours later Romeo was cradling his head in his hands, his elbows sticking to the tabletop, whilst Byron did his best to look relaxed with a cigarette held in his fingertips. Outside, the sun had set and little groups were passing by the windows on their home, or into college for hall.
‘As I see it,’ said Byron, watching the smoke curl in the electric lights, ‘you’re taking it too seriously. If Henderson sets a high standard you just have to do you best. He doesn’t expect you to live up to it.’
‘That just makes it worse,’ Romeo countered. ‘I don’t live up to it and then feel worse because he looks down his nose at me.’
‘Of course, he’s had thirty years head start on you...’
‘To hear him speak you’d think he was born knowing the sum of human knowledge. When he explains things... it’s like he’s just going over a script in his head.’
Byron thought about this. ‘I guess he’s probably heard the same essays one way or another, every week for thirty years. You’d have to be pretty sharp to think of new answers each time.’
‘It’s pretty infuriating when you’re on the receiving end, though.’
‘He could be worse, of course,’ said Byron, turning to point his cigarette at Romeo. ‘As long as he doesn’t start each sentence with “as I have said many times before...”’
‘That’s not a bad impression.’
‘Well... I had tutes with him last year. Forthright’s ok once you know where he’s coming from.’
‘Forthright? Odd nickname.’
‘It’s not a nickname. ‘
‘Perhaps that explains it,’ said Romeo, easing himself up out of the bench seat and knocking over his glass, ‘what do you expect from a man called Forthright?’
*
Sitting alone, now, in the room he used for tutorials, an air of despondency settled over Forthright. He would never be published. It wasn’t that he was unoriginal, just that he lacked ideas: something to sink his teeth into. He was currently an aching academic void. It hadn’t been like this when he was younger; back then he was full of vim and vinegar. Ready to denounce those who disagreed with him. On paper only - he never had the guts for stand-up arguments. But in his own way he had been ready to take on the world. Now it was different. For one, he had the faculty to contend with: tweed corpses piling on top of him. A thousand years of scholarship to break through before he could begin to make a mark for himself. It was quite disheartening, really.
If only he could be content with teaching. It would be so easy to sit, day in and day out, listening to students’ essays and making the odd helpful remark. But it bored him to tears.
No. Writing was his only way out and he needed to do so sooner rather than later. He wasn’t so very old, by the standards of the institution, but he didn’t fancy the long haul. The increments by which his academic standing naturally increased with age were painfully small. A book in the next two years, he told himself, or else you’ll go potty.
*
In the subdued lighting of the dining hall, Romeo dissected his roast chicken opposite a group of third-year physicists who were arguing about how much vitamin c there was in a glass of orange juice. At the other end of the long central table, he could make out Byron flirting with first year lawyers. Spurning the overdone apple strudel, he plodded down into the bar for a smoke.
‘Lent is the cruelest term,’ suggested Dave the bar manager, as Romeo fumbled in his pockets for change.
‘Still no cask ales, I see,’ joked Romeo
‘I’ve told you,’ said Dave, pointing a stubby finger and blinking, ‘we’re already in the cellar. Where’d the barrels go, you tell me that?’
The ceiling of the bar, supported as it was by stone columns, was too thick for any sounds to filter down from the hall above, but the noise people made as they spread out into the quad reached Romeo at about the same time that Byron walked down the steps with a lawyer in each arm. Whispering something to one of them, he left them at the bar and joined Romeo, sliding his knees under the thick wooden bench and lighting a cigarette in one angular motion.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Rotten. I’ve now got indigestion as well as a headache.’
‘On the plus side, it will be summer soon. Thank you, darling,’ Byron said as a girl placed a drink in front of him before joining her friend at the pool table. They sipped their drinks in silence for a while.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
‘There’s nowhere to go at this time.’
‘There’s always somewhere,’ Byron replied as he led Romeo by the arm.
*
‘Welcome to flavour country, boys!’ Roger said, exhaling a lungful of smoke.
Roger was usually to be found sitting outside the politics library drinking Mecca cola. He now sat on the floor of his bed-sit with Romeo on the sofa and Byron lounging in a beaten armchair in the corner. Byron accepted the joint, dropping ash onto the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. He flicked it off.
Romeo looked from Byron to Roger. The two were remarkably similar in appearance, sharing the same dark hair and aquiline nose framed by prominent cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Whilst Byron favoured the classic jacket and slacks, Roger normally went for oversized jeans and hand-printed t-shirts. He had recently given into parental demands and been shorn of his dreadlocks but retained a selection of piercings that marked him out as a trader in imported narcotics and political activism.
The symbiosis of Roger and Byron had started at the same time as their respective courses. They seemed to have realised, instinctively, that whilst they were to move in completely different social circles, each was an invaluable link to areas of culture that the other didn’t have time to pursue fully. Thus, Byron kept Roger abreast of the latest plays, poetry and gossip and was repaid with the latest designer pharmaceuticals and fliers for club nights that his diurnal companions were either unable or unwilling to acquire. It was a case study in reciprocity.
‘Bit gloomy tonight, Rom?’ Asked Roger, returning from the kitchen with mugs of tea.
‘He’s still upset about his tutorials,’ commented Byron, between puffs.
‘Shit! That reminds me: I’ve got to finish an essay. Back in a tick.’
‘What he means,’ Byron explained as Roger dashed upstairs, ‘is that he has to finish copying out one that he’s got off the internet. Lazy cheat.’
‘So he’s a copywriter?’
‘Yes,’ Byron snorted out a smoky laugh. ‘He copies the copy. Here. You better finish this. I’m toasted.’
Part Two
ROMEO’S ESSAY ATTRACTS FORTHRIGHT’S ATTENTION & SUZIE ATTRACTS THE ATTENTION OF ROMEO
Romeo woke the next afternoon and did his best to wash the redness out of his eyes. Going over to his desk, he fingered the corner of this week’s essay sheet. Printed in the clumsy type of an ancient dot-matrix printer was “His work is left undone” and below it a list of suggested reading. Picking a pencil out of a plastic case, Romeo carefully wrote “best” between the “is” and the “left”. Smiling to himself, he pulled on his dressing gown and went to shower.
*
Romeo could never understand why it was that all his best ideas occurred to him on the toilet. After cleansing himself in the western fashion, he returned to his desk. Picking up his pen he turned to a new page in his notebook and began to write.
Premise 1 - it requires a perfect being to do perfect acts.
Premise 2 - He is the only perfect being and His only perfect acts.
Premise 3 - imperfect acts are unworthy of Him.
Premise 4 - a perfect being may create imperfect beings, but imperfect beings cannot give rise to the perfect.
Conclusion 1 - none but He can do His work.
Conclusion 2 - translations of the One Book are not valid examples of His word since they are human acts and therefore not perfect.
Conclusion 3 - as the One Book is not perfect, actions based on it cannot be known to be His work (inc. keeping the commandments?).
Conclusion 4 - only those acting under immediate direction from Him have religious authority.
Not a bad start. But as ever, Romeo dreaded the prospect of padding it out to two thousand words.
*
The enforced tranquility of the library was far from comfortable, but, once he stopped drumming his fingers, Romeo was soon lost in his work. He smiled as he composed paragraph after paragraph of loose prose and sucked his biro as he pored over the books on his reading list, copying relevant passages into his notebook.
Now the deeds of him who is the best can never be or have been other than the fairest
- Plato
The nature of man being dependent upon a higher nature, natural knowledge is not enough for his fulfilment; a certain supernatural knowledge is needed
- Aquinas
It was evening before Romeo switched of the light above him. He had, at the very least, filled several pages with passable material. For now, it would have to do. Pushing his notebook back into his rucksack he headed for the door.
*
As he left, he almost tripped over Roger, who was drawing in chalk on the library steps.
‘Careful, Rom.’
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Just killing some time. I’ve got a great idea for my next essay. What do you think of this?’ Roger adopted a rhetorical pose and began to read off from his mental script. ‘‘The current disillusionment with politics stems from the corruption of the tribal alpha male hierarchy. Whilst in days of yore the local fife could be challenged by anyone with a bigger sword, modern power structures hold back the strong, in favour of the corrupt political elite. The big gorillas have become flabby, since their muscles no longer secure any real power, except in circles unconnected to politics.’’
‘Pretty barmy,’ Roger.
‘Yeah, my tutor’ll love it. She loves anything involving machismo.’
‘And the gorillas?’
‘Them too. I’ve heard that her husband’s really hairy.’
*
Over the next two days Romeo’s essay took on form and he found himself refining his ideas and formulating them in the precise and formal way that was asked of him.
Thus as a sheep cannot be asked to interpret the shepherd’s directions, but merely to obey them, so neither can man be expected to do His bidding unless he is guided at each step by his direct command.
Not much of an ending, but it would do. Romeo folded the essay into a plain envelope and handed it in at the porter’s lodge to await collection.
*
Forthright Henderson did not consider himself a bad person. The way he saw it, the students were rehashing the ideas of history and so it was no further crime for him to take the essays submitted to him each week and sift them for material for his own writings. It was more like collaboration than stealing. That is how Forthright Henderson, M.A. (Cantab), saw it. Rather than letting ambition get the better of him, as a number of his colleagues did, he preferred to play a cautious game. He was content, for now, with having an article published in the right kind of journal every couple of years and overseeing the college art fund (it had taken him five years of patient hinting to get that post).
With his trademark air of comfortable repetition, he removed his bicycle clips and eased himself into the porter’s office to check his pigeonhole. Nothing, save for a bill for shoes and an essay.
In his study, Forthright dumped his effects into one of the two armchairs on either side of the fireplace and switched on his automatic tea machine. It had been a prize that he had won in a raffle five years ago. It made terrible tea; worse since his abortive attempt to teach it to make instant coffee. He was such a slave to his habits that the timer function would have come in handy - if only he could figure out the instruction manual. First he would have to find it of course. Some tutors are neat and tidy people, with immaculate rooms. Some tutors keep their papers in a small briefcase that they tidy out at the end of every term. Forthright was the other sort - the kind with a lava lamp on the mantle piece and compost heaps of essays piled on every flat surface. The acquisition of a filing cabinet has only made matters worse. It just made more space for the mess to accumulate in. Folders and journals formed drifts against it.
Armed with his weapons grade tea and protective scowl, he settled into the vacant armchair with his mail. The bill was for the regular repairs demanded by his brogues. He wrote a cheque and folded it neatly into the envelope with the bill. As for the essay - he had taught long enough to recognise it as such - it was a curious fascination that caused him to open it. He had given the same essays out each year for so long that it was the work of five minutes to read, mark and dismiss them.
As his eyes flickered down the printed sheets a premonition came over him. By the time he had finished reading it he was certain: there was something in this.
*
Under the dimpled, batwing canopy of the College Chapel, sweet music drifted through the mind of the Chaplain. Fortunately for him he was asleep; otherwise he would have been listening to the choir. On paper, they were the bright young hope of English church music. Why they couldn’t work together was a mystery of some importance. The Dean suffered under the delusion that the Chapel was the centre of College life and held regular meetings with the Chaplain and the organ scholar to remind them of this. They did their best - no one could say otherwise - but the choir resisted all efforts to make them perform as one. The basses seemed to regard it as their duty to be louder than anyone else. The altos turned up drunk. In no other college were there quite so many sopranos committed to bursting into tears every time they approached the correct note.
On the up side, the Chapel had never been so full. Somehow the discordant wailing drew the students like a fire alarm. The Chaplain suspected that they came to laugh, but in truth the choir had managed to spark a religious revival all of its own. Something in their agonised voices touched the soul and inspired a longing for salvation that mere sermons could not.
Romeo looked into the Chapel with rapt attention. In the dim light Suzie positively glowed. Her hair flowed golden over her choir gown as her pink mouth shaped the words of the hymn.
Though not religious, as a rule, Romeo had taken to visiting the Chapel, but unlike so many of his peers, it was only to see her. His ears strained to pick out her voice amongst the many as his eyes tried to bury into her to see what it was that caused him pangs of guilt every time he saw her. Suddenly fearful, he realised that she was looking straight at him. He dropped his eyes, embarrassed, but when he looked back up she was smiling - holding his gaze. Images of angels and of sex swam before his eyes as they locked with hers for a brief time. Romeo’s hands didn’t stop shaking until the Chaplain had dismissed him, along with the rest of the congregation, in a somnambulous blessing.
Outside, in the quad, Romeo was trying to make up his mind what to do with the rest of the evening when Suzie came up to him, sheet music held to her bosom.
‘Hi. I saw you in Chapel,’ she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t know why anyone comes anymore, with our singing.’
‘I thought you sang well. Beautifully.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. Aggie’s much better than I am. I’m just doing it because it’s easier than making excuses not to.’ She moved awkwardly - was she blushing?
‘Listen. What are you doing tonight?’ Romeo asked.
‘Essay. A thousand words to do before dawn.’
‘Oh... maybe another time then?’
‘Yeah.’
She turned and with small, light steps flowed out of the College gates and out of sight. With a deep breath, Romeo also moved on for the night.
*
Picking up the phone, Forthright dialed the number of the only publishing house at which he knew someone on the staff.
‘Hello? Is that Bertie? Henderson here. Yes. How are you? Still at the old word mill? Excellent. Listen, Bertie. Can I ask you a favour? Good. Could you possibly have a word with your managing editor and see if he’d be in the market for something on the value of religious behaviour? Yes. A new piece I’m working on. I can’t tell you too much about it now’ - Damn! That was the wrong thing to say - ‘but I’d appreciate it if you could test the water for me, so to speak. Okay. Great. I’ll speak to you then. Yes. Yes. Thanks, Bertie.’
Hanging up the phone it was all he could do not to rub his hands together and dance with glee. He allowed himself a brief chuckle, though, and went to the cupboard where he kept his sherry. This couldn’t have come at a better time, he mused as he spilt a little of the sherry and licked it off his wrist. Cash had been a bit tight lately; not too tight to pay the cobbler, but his sherry intake had had to reduce. If only he hadn’t joined in with that idiotic game of SCR cricket (an ad hoc version of the game invented by the biochemistry tutor involving a ruler and a wine cork). He had been forced to pay for the repairs to the Home Bursar’s trouser suit after he accidentally sent the wine cork spinning into her eye socket, causing her to stagger backwards, trip over and tear her jacket to ribbons on the horns of a stuffed ibex hung much too near the ground. It was a small blessing that the Dean didn’t ask him to repair the ibex as well. The poor, bodiless beast now bore a permanent look of cross-eyed malevolence and had been moved into the store room with countless other damaged bequeathences.
No, this new idea of his student’s - now Forthright’s own idea, of course - could not have come at a better time. Of course there were proofs to be written and sent to publishers. Advances to be demanded. Summaries to be drafted and speculatively sent to journals of modern theology.
Long ago, Henderson had realised a crucial difficulty in his branch of theology. It was impossible for him to make any money without writing a book. But to do so would require him to present a challenger to the One Book, on which all of his work was based. If the One Book is all one needs to achieve spiritual harmony, if it is the greatest repository of self-evident truths and useful advice on how to deal with the problems faced by all humanity, then why, dear boy, did you write yours? To Forthright’s amazement, this paradox did not seem to trouble his peers; something he attributed to defensive professional vanity on their part. At any rate, his desire for acclaim (and sufficient funds to keep him in sherry and shoe repairs) kept him going through the long nights in front of the electric fire. Career wise, there was all to play for.
A tinkle of fairground music drew him to the window. Looking down into the street he could see a blue and yellow ice cream van turning the corner, its music howling out like the bells of a large mechanical clock, evoking images of childhood lapsed into senility. It was scouring the city for children in need of lunchtime dessert. Forthright was sure that the diver must hate the music, but must be trapped by the convention - vital if he wanted customers. Perhaps I would be happier driving one of those vans, he thought. One of the happiest times of his life had been one summer when his mother had got him a job picking strawberries. He had hated the dirt under his nails and the sweat making his shirt stick to his back. But he was contented to stand or squat in the field, listening to the birds singing in the trees and plucking the rip fruit that stained his fingers with its light red juice.
Turning back to his room, he refilled his glass and sat down at his old electronic word processor. Better to get some of this down on paper before Bertie rings back. With any luck, he would be in clover within a month.
*
Friday night had come around once more like an old friend in need of support. A short walk out of town brought Romeo to Byron’s house and it was the host who answered the door.
‘Ah, Chuckles! Do come in’
With a flourish, Romeo was led into the house - a large one by student standards. As usual, he was the first to arrive.
‘Don’t worry. You can help me get ready,’ Byron said, handing him plates of tapenade and Melba toast. ‘Pop these on the coffee table in there and pick some music if you like. When the wazzocks arrive they’ll probably insist on rancid cheese.’
Browsing through the racks of CDs showed that Byron possessed plenty of this genre himself - but would of course insist that he wanted to be a good host and cater for his philistine guests. This from the man who owned the largest collection of Abba LPs outside of the organ scholar’s closet. Putting on a Dylan album, Romeo moved back to the kitchen to see if he could be of any more help. He found Byron labouring under the largest bottle of Pimms he had ever seen.
‘What do you think of this baby?’
‘Where the hell did you get that? It must contain a couple of gallons.’
‘It’s the special Jubilee edition Pimms No. 1,’ he hefted it onto the table, which creaked beneath the weight. ‘Liberated it from home last time I was there. Dads wouldn’t touch it and Mums is allergic to gin. Shame to waste it so...’
‘How many people are coming tonight?’
‘Enough to make a good dent in it, I hope. Otherwise I shall be forced to bathe in it.’ Byron mopped his brow, obviously excited by the giant bottle.
Three Dylan albums later, the party was fairly humming. The house was full of the sounds of tipsy chatter and the floor was rapidly becoming a carpet of beer cans. Out in the small garden at the back of the house Byron was presiding over the ceremony of the Pimms.
‘Is everyone ready? Davis, have you the tequila? Gemma, ready with that lemonade? On the count of three... Three!’
Romeo felt his liver twitch as the eight of them standing around the dustbin, that he had sterilised, began to pour. One held a full litre of gin that he was upending on the pile of chopped fruit at the bottom. Others were doing the same with bottles of vodka, tequila and lemonade. Two members of the rowing team held the Pimms between them as it gushed out into the foaming mixture.
‘Enough!’ Byron intoned once all but half of the Pimms had been sloshed into the bin. ‘Now for the final touch!’
He held aloft a bottle of champagne (won in a raffle) and, having sent the cork off into the night sky, emptied it from head height. As the last of the bubbles died away he dipped his finger to the potion and declared it fit for human consumption.
‘Everything in moderation,’ he advised as he filled a pint glass with the sweet brown nectar and lurched back into the house.
Later still, and now listening to a bad cover of ‘Free Bird’, Byron and Romeo watched as a first year law student tried to pole dance around the Pimms bottle.
‘Someone put some better music on,’ she whined.
‘Easy now. We don’t want anyone to get hurt,’ Byron chided. Then, aside to Romeo, ‘If she slips we’ll never get the bottle back. ‘Romeo will treat you to some boogie-woogie beats to make you shake you teats.’ turning to Romeo, ‘I’m far too sozzled to go near anything electrical.’
Swaying slightly as he went, Romeo weaved his way through the press of bodies. In the sitting room, Suzie was sitting talking with a couple of actors, still flush from their victory in drama cuppers. Romeo swallowed hard as he rifled through stacks of music, settling on Fairport Convention he turned back to the room and found himself alone with Suzie. Alone with Suzie and fumbling for a cigarette. No lighter. Uncool. Tuck it behind my ear? No - not cool enough to pull it off.
‘Would you like a light?’ Suzie was holding a plastic lighter towards him and smiling.
‘Thanks.’
He leant forward into the flame, his hair falling in front of his eyes. Self-conscious, he sat down next to her, gripping the front of the sofa with his hands, his body leant forward between his knees.
‘Enjoying the party?’
‘Yeah. Byron’s quite the showman, isn’t he?’ she replied, leaning forward so that their faces were level, facing the room.
‘He needs an audience. But probably deserves one.’
‘I never see you around College much. What do you do with yourself? If it’s not a personal question.’
‘No. I don’t know. I like going to the museums. Listening to music. Sleeping too much, I guess.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘On the plus side, I’m pretty much done for the term. Just a couple of essays left.’
‘Who’s your tutor?’
‘I’ve got Henderson for theology this term. Can’t get on with him.’
‘He’s definitely got a reputation. I heard that when he was an undergraduate he used to oversleep and his tutors had to wake him up, otherwise he’d have missed half his exams.’
‘I heard that too. Listen, enough of this small talk.’ Romeo turned on the sofa to face Suzie. ‘What do you say to dinner sometime?’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘Maybe,’ he smiled, confirming the fact, ‘but what do you say?’
‘I say we’ll see.’
Suzie eased herself off the sofa. ‘I think it’s time I got Gemma home before she gets drunk and pulls someone she regrets. I’ll see you around.’
That could have gone worse, Romeo thought as his cigarette burnt to the end and singed his lips. Coughing, he eased himself outside where Byron was umpiring some sort of fencing match between the two actors.
‘Easy, Brian! Spare his flanks! Spare them, I say, if you ever want him to polka again!’
Byron put his arm around Romeo’s shoulders and indicated the battling couple. ‘What a magnificent pair they are. They’ve been at it half an hour now and show no fatigue. They are playing the part admirably.’
‘Wankers,’ Romeo mumbled in response.
‘Oh, what’s wrong, Rom?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now now. You can tell your Uncle Byron. Wait, it’s not that Suzie is it?’ He put his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘Wonderful!’ Releasing Romeo’s shoulders, he leapt upon a garden chair that almost overbalanced. Raising his glass he proclaimed:
‘Gentlemen and ladies of the stage, the toast is ‘To Love’!’
*
Forthright Jean Henderson. The middle name was reflection of his Gallic heritage and his grandfather’s dying wish that his mother should ‘make the boy French’. As a toddler he had been draped in the Tricolor to pose for photographs. He shuddered to recall this nationalism, forced on him before he could walk. Seating himself at the word processor, he collected his thoughts and began tapping away.
The aim of any good book, of this type, must surely be to deliver on its title. Thus, in ‘the Value of Religious Behaviour’, I shall be putting across a new perspective on actions that are taken for the sake of belief and have their origin in the desire to live according to one’s faith.
Value of act = Impact x Adherence x Perfection
This was teetering on the brink of drivel, he knew, and might only make it to print in a rag like ‘Modern Deicism’. Still, it could only improve his standing in College. All of the other dons were too wrapped up in their own studies to take an interest, much less even read the work of their colleagues. In any case, it was common practice to choose so obscure a topic that one was freed from any threat of competition or review. Also, it reduced the likelihood of, say, spending five years up to your arms in muddy water only to find out that someone else had just published a definitive study of psychosexual dynamics in the fresh water mussel. As long as you could look a fellow in the eye and say ‘my work has value’, there was every chance that they would believe you.
Thumbing through some old notes that he had excavated from his filing cabinet - why had he draw so many pictures of naked women in the margins? - he found the following quote scratched in pencil:
Were I to be Him, I would most certainly be delighted that my creations were trying to please me. Furthermore, I can see no logical reason why this should not be the fact-case
- Swinebottom.
Swinebottom’s error is, upon reflection, one of letting the tail wag the epistemological dog. Our need to feel that there is value to our actions does not confer Value upon them. Nor, may we say, does the earnest hope that our actions will please Him bring us any closer to realising this hope.
This book was going to call for some serious sherry, Forthright thought as he slipped on his overcoat and headed for the off-license.
*
Eyes still puffy and blurred by the clear, viscous putty of a late night, Romeo lurched through the wooden gate at the edge of the hospital. Officially, students were not meant to take the shortcut, but he was going to be late as it was.
In the grounds of the hospital, facing the car park, was a bench, tethered to the ground by a chain. In strong winds the bench tipped over, held at sixty degree from the vertical by the chain at its corner. In the same way, the hospital itself acted as a safety cord - holding those who had been caught in life’s strong winds. At sixty degrees from vertical you cannot get up on your own. Of course, if the chain breaks, it will be of little inconvenience since the bench only overlooks the car park.
Romeo made it to the lecture a mere five minutes late, but he soon regretted turning up at all. Foghurst was the least inspiring lecturer he had and was already deep into a digression on the meaning of ‘holy’.
‘What I mean to say, er, is that we do not, necessarily, have to deny our own license to judge on what is holy.’
‘But I thought,’ baited a second-year student with blue hair, ‘that we had to reference Him to have a meaningful sense of what our judgments mean.’
Romeo lowered himself into a seat at the back of the hall and prepared himself for a tedious forty-five minutes. True to form, Foghurst was a full ten minutes before he plucked up the courage to mumble something about it not being important and went back to Bonaventure and ‘ladders to the superluminous’.
After the lecture ended, Romeo retraced his steps through the hospital for the demented and the temporarily freaked-out. The bench, he noticed, had been ripped free of its chain (breaking a cross-piece in the process) and turned so that it faced the trees at the edge of the car park.
Part Three
IN WHICH A DEGREE OF STRESS IS FELT BY ALL
In his wood-paneled study, the organ scholar adjusted his bowtie in the mirror and pushed his hair into place. He liked the Dean and had they been of similar ages - who knows? But today he had something to ask of him. For as long as he could remember, he had loved their music and it would be the crowning moment of his fandom to play one of their numbers on the College organ. Of course it would have to be modified, rearranged somewhat to fit in with the hundred years of heritage that came with his position. But oh, to hear that melody reverberating off the stained glass... He slipped on his jacket and headed off to the Chaplain’s rooms.
The Chaplain always reserved his best Madeira for the bi-termly events when, after dinner in Hall, he invited a select group of faculty members back to his spacious rooms. In one sense, the guests represented a cross-section of the staff, being chosen, as they were, from across the academic spectrum: nowhere else in College would one find the modern linguists rubbing shoulders with the biochemistry master and the theologians. In another, more exact sense, those benefiting from the Chaplain’s hospitality were those of whom he approved. The Reverend Shoestring had no time for the mathematicians (who giggled in Chapel) nor for the English tutors, whom he considered to be satanic lesbians (the fact that he was half right on this account was purely a coincidence).
Forthright hoped that the corpulent frame of the Senior Tutor would hide him from the Chaplain as he guiltily sipped his wine, keeping one eye on the clock. He hated these occasions, but knew that it paid to make an appearance. Secretly, he hoped to catch the Dean alone to ask him to put in a good word, as a well respected author, with Plunkets (an equally well respected publishers). Unfortunately, the Dean was surrounded by physicists and showed no signs of moving. Without warning, the Senior Tutor drifted away from the fireplace leaving Forthright with no natural defenses between himself and the Chaplain, who was moving purposefully towards him with a decanter.
‘Henderson. Permit me to refresh your glass? We’ve not seen you in Chapel much lately.’ He said pouring another half-measure into each of their glasses.
‘You know how it is. Hard at work.’
‘Indeed I do. Up late at the grindstone. Hard to find a minute’s peace. But I think it’s always wise - healthy, even - to set aside time for matters of the soul.’
As he said this, the Chaplain cast a wary glance to where the organ scholar had moved in on the group with the Dean. Though not officially invited to these occasions, he had a knack of getting himself deep in conversation with someone before the Chaplain could politely ask him to leave.
‘So tell me, Henderson. What is it that you’ve been working on?’
‘A new book. Or at least I hope it will turn into one. A piece on the value of religious behaviour.’
‘Do go on. It sounds most edifying.’
‘Well, you see, I think that I can usefully contend that His direct sanction is needed to validate one’s actions.’
‘Oh, my...’ the Chaplain knocked back his glass and refilled it once more.
‘Reverend, I wonder if I mightn’t ask your advice on something that’s been bothering me a while?’
‘Of course. Of course. You know that’s what I’m here for,’ he said shepherding Forthright towards a corner of his room.
‘Well, I can’t help feeling that I’m in a professional bind, so to speak. I mean, the One Book is sacred to us. But it’s my job to write about it. And I can’t help feeling that every word I write detracts from the Original Message.’
‘How do you mean?’
At this point, Forthright drained his own glass and was duly topped up.
‘Well, if people are reading my work, they aren’t reading the One Book.’
‘I think I understand. I used to feel the same way about my sermons. Standing there, in front of my flock. Knowing that what I said had to be important - had to press the right buttons. I think the key thing is to have faith in what you are saying and let your heart guide your words.’
‘But the heart of man knows so little. I have faith in my Redeemer, but not in my own, or anyone else’s ability to write anything that is worthy in comparison to the One Book.’
‘We are all sinners. But ‘with the heart man believeth unto salvation’’
‘Surely we should try not to compound our sins, though, by doing things - for whatever reason - that may make matters worse. I guess that’s kind of the point of my book.’
‘You must remember,’ the Chaplain said, as he began to turn back to the room, that His work takes many forms. Dean, can I refresh your glass?’
His moleskin trousers riding up as he sat down, the Chaplain placed himself next to the Dean, who, still amidst the physicists, was clearly in full flow.
‘What’s really exciting is the interest that The Religious Times has shown in making a donation to the College - in deference to our high standards of theological scholarship. I wouldn’t be surprised if we could get you a new research assistant out of the funding. Ah, Chaplain, this will interest you. I had a telephone call this afternoon from someone at The Religious Times. Said that they were strongly considering us - that’s their words: ‘strongly considering’ - for a donation from their charity fund. It’s quite fortuitous. They said that, in their opinion, we had always retained the highest standards of moral probity in our work, and that counted as a major plus point in our favour.’
‘When you say “moral probity”, Dean?’
‘Well, they didn’t exactly spell it out for me. But the gist was that we, I mean the College, in all our years, have been the least controversial and provocative in our output.’
‘And when you say controversial...’
‘You know the stuff. Not questioning dogma. Being polite about Rome. Encouraging good deeds. That sort of thing.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Chaplain?’
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow, Dean, if that’s all right.’
At this point, the organ scholar decided to take advantage of the momentary lull in conversation.
‘Dean, I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard the song Dancing Queen?’
*
Romeo paced back and forth in his study - alternately clockwise and anticlockwise according to how the arguments left him disposed.
+ He is something we understand clearly.
- But it is something that we have to be taught: that He exists.
+ But there is a clear perception, nonetheless of what such a being would be like.
- But the phenomena we perceive do not alone point, necessarily, to Him.
+ He would provide a neat explanation for these phenomena.
- But He himself requires explanation, unless He is to be meaningless.
+ He gives a purpose to life, which would otherwise be meaningless.
- But there is nothing in life that demands that it should have meaning; other than our own subjective desire that it should have.
+ Many wise men believe in Him.
- But there were also plenty of intelligent Nazis. Being right in one sphere does not entail being right in another (e.g. Albert Speer who was undoubtedly a visionary architect).
+ His Son was a great man.
- Indeed he was, from what the One Book tells us. But was he the only great man? Was the Son infinitely greater than Gandhi? And are we not judging Him from a moral standpoint that He helped to establish?
+ Yet we all agree with these morals.
- But there are no moral/ethical rules that would apply in all situations.
+ The standards of an infinite being could encompass an infinite range of circumstances.
- Isn’t that the same as saying that an infinite range of actions could be right?
+ No. It is more like: there are certain actions that are right, but the permutations are infinite.
- But not all moral rules set down in the One Book agree with current views of what is right (e.g. we agree that it is generally bad to kill, but many people approve of abortion). Yet you have already suggested that our own moral views validate those of religion.
+ A unity of human beliefs is not necessary for his existence.
- But we must have some reason to think that He exists. Otherwise He would have the same status as fairies and goblins.
+ Fairies and goblins do not tell us why we are here.
- But neither would a tradition of creator-fairies. Nor would one of all-loving goblins...
At this point, Romeo collapsed onto his bed, exhausted. The debate would have to rage on another day.
*
The air was still in the cool of the Dean’s study.
‘Now, I do not want to startle you, Forthright,’ the Dean began.
‘Startle me?’ asked Henderson.
‘Yes. But you see I have heard that you have a piece of work in progress that discourages the idea of doing good deeds.’
‘Well, not exactly. As I was saying to the Chaplain last night, the central premise it that He alone...’
‘Forthright, I don’t know if you are aware, but The Religious Times is currently considering the college as a potential beneficiary of a substantial sum of money. ‘
‘No. Well, I may have heard about it. But-‘
‘I’m sure you can imagine how welcome this windfall would be. The positive impact that it would have on the standing of the college. The potential for increased conference takings.’
Henderson swallowed.
‘But what does this have to do with my new article?’
‘It is felt that your article might be a little too controversial. And may - how can I put this? - prejudice the college’s chances. It’s nothing personal. Just a case of bad timing. I know you wouldn’t want to rock the boat at a time when the college stands to gain so much.’
‘Well. I suppose not. ‘
‘And, of course, it is with this sort of income that we budget for all of our costs. Faculty included, Forthright. Faculty included.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Epilogue
ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL
‘Did you speak to Henderson, Dean?’ The Senior Tutor asked, later that evening.
‘Yes. I think he sees the proper course to take.’
‘From what I’ve heard, he was planning to carve out a little niche for himself with this new theory.’
‘Perhaps. But then he already has quite a nice little niche in college. Could be in your shoes in a decade or so.’
‘Fat chance of that. More wine?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s simply divine.’
‘Quite.’
*
Byron was toying with a yo-yo as Romeo approached him.
‘Don’t you have to go and see Henderson?’
‘No. Found a note in my pigeonhole. Says the essay’s the best he’s seen all term and I needn’t bother him ‘til next week.’
‘Excellent. This calls for a celebration.’
‘Sorry. Can’t. I’ve got a date.’
‘Never.’
‘Taking Suzie to the cinema,’ Romeo beamed.
‘The cute little lawyer? We’ll have to celebrate later, then. But not too much later, mind,’ Byron called out as his friend ducked out of the college gate.
‘Pigs may fly, and we shall hunt more prey anon.’ With that, and dragging his yo-yo by its string, Byron headed off to the bar.
- The End -
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