‘Not at all?’ I asked.
‘You know, this whole immortality bit’s been pretty well done to death. One’s got to take the historical angle. Immortality’s just a passing phase. Basically, it was thought up by the Victorians, especially the early Victorians, as a sort of guilt thing. They’d created the evils of the Industrial Revolution, they could sense what kind of ghastly bloody monster capitalism was going to turn out to be, and the only refuge from hell on earth they could think of was a new life away from the smoke and the stink and the cries of the starving kids. Whereas today, of course, now it’s beginning to get through people’s heads at last that capitalism just won’t do, that the whole bloody thing’s simply not on, and we can set about changing society so as to give everybody a meaningful and organic existence here on earth, well, we can put immortality back in the junk-room along with, oh, mutton-chop whiskers and Mr Gladstone and the Salvation Army and evolution.’
‘Evolution?’
‘Surely,’ stated the rector, simultaneously smiling hard and frowning hard and dilating his nostrils and blinking rapidly, one for each, perhaps, of his pieces of junk-room furniture.
‘Oh well … But what I don’t quite see is why these Victorians of yours were so keen on the idea of an after-life when they were so eaten up with guilt about what they’d been doing in this one. They’d have thought they’d be much more likely to end up in hell than in any sort of—’
‘Oh, but, my dear, that’s the whole point, do you see. They were mad about hell—it was going to be just like their public school, where they’d had the only really intense emotional experiences they were capable of. Caning and flogging and fagging and cold baths and rowing and slip-practice and a terrifying all-powerful old man always telling you what utter shit you were and how you were polluting yourself. They were off their heads about it, I promise you. You don’t imagine it’s a coincidence, do you, that this was the great age of masochism, chiefly in England but by no means confined to here?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘An age of masochism couldn’t be a coincidence.’
‘Well, hardly, could it? The whole thing’s absolutely basic to the capitalist psyche, love of pain and punishment and misery generally, all the Protestant qualities. If you wanted to be smart without being too superficial, you could say that the immortality of the soul was invented by Dr Arnold of Rugby— bit unfair on the old love, but there we are.’
‘Could you? But isn’t there a lot about it in the Bible? And a lot of stuff about pain and punishment in the Middle Ages? And hasn’t the Catholic Church always taken personal immortality very seriously?’
‘Let’s just take those points in order, shall we? There’s virtually nothing about it in the Old Testament, which has come to be generally recognized as the more uncompromising and more unsentimental of the two. Quite frankly, the Jesus of the Gospels can be a bit of a wet liberal at times, when he’s not taking off into flights of rather schmaltzy Semitic metaphor. As regards the Middle Ages, their devils and red-hot pincers and so on represented nothing more than a displaced enactment of what they wanted their enemies to suffer on earth. The Catholic Church, well … Simple pie in the sky, isn’t it generally agreed? I mean, you don’t think it’s an accident, do you, that they invariably give their support to backward and reactionary if not actually vicious régimes, like in Spain and Portugal and Ireland and—?’
‘Yes, I know the ones you mean. Well, I don’t know what I think. But you’ve certainly given me a most interesting exposition, Rector.’
‘Which I might advise you, Mr Allington, to think over at some more favourable time. It’s never pleasant to have one’s unquestioning beliefs put in their historical context, as I know from experience, I can assure you.’
‘What would you say if I were to tell you that I had evidence seeming to show that an individual had actually survived death in some form or other?’
‘I’d say you were off your …‘ On the Rev. Tom’s unworn face, the inbuilt look of petulance gave momentary place to a kind of wariness; over the last few days, I had seen something like it on most of the faces I knew well. ‘Uh, you’re talking about ghosts and so on, are you?’
‘Yes. Specifically, a ghost that gave me information, accurate information, that I couldn’t otherwise have known.’
‘Mm. I see. Well, off the top of the head I’d say that was a matter for your medical adviser rather than someone in my position. Uh, where is Jack? I don’t see him—’
‘He’s gone off to a patient. You mean I must be mad if that’s what I think has happened?’
‘Mm—no. But we are talking about, let’s say non-normal states of consciousness, aren’t we, by definition?’
‘Because by definition people don’t survive death. Of course.’
‘I say, do you think you could possibly get me another drink? I mustn’t get too pissed because I’m going to a rather exciting barbecue tonight in Newnham garden, but I think perhaps just one more shot, if I may.’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Bacardi and Pernod.’ He got a tacit ‘you fool’ into the intonation.
‘Anything in it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tomato juice or Coca-Cola or—’
‘Good God, no. Just ice.’
I passed the order to Fred, who closed his eyes for a moment or two before setting about it. He was having a deservedly unstrenuous time for once, the house being shut until the evening and the present party confined to Diana, David, three or four neighbours and my own family group, plus the rector, now staring into his glass and rotating it furiously before he risked a sip.
‘Is that all right?’
‘Sure. You mentioned God’s purpose just now,’ he said, showing a power of recall I disliked having to attribute to him. ‘Interesting point, in its way. I’m going to tell you that there’s more fantasy-building about God’s purpose, in the sense of people letting their unconscious drives come out into the open in a socially accepted way, than in any other belief area, except martyrdom, of course, which is more blatantly sexual. God’s purpose. Huh. I’m no more qualified than the next man to tell you what that is, or even if there is such a thing, which a lot of the younger people in the Church today would put a big bloody question-mark to. The trend undoubtedly is for a committed God to go the same way as the immortality of the soul, with a twenty- or perhaps a twenty-five-year consciousness-lag. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and have a word with those two smashing-looking dollies over there. It’s been a most—’
‘I’ll come with you.’
By chance (presumably), Joyce and Diana had put on virtually identical outfits for the funeraclass="underline" black barathea suit, white broderie anglaise shirt, black fish-net stockings, black straw hat. This made them look more than ever like sisters, even fraternal twins. While the rector dismantled Christianity for my benefit, or just as likely for his own, I had been observing them as they sat and talked together on the window-seat, and wondering if one or the other of them had brought up the impending orgy. It occurred to me now that I had forgotten to tell Diana that I had told Joyce that the idea had come from Diana in the first place, but I had hardly begun to move over to them, the rector slouching surlily at my side, before I saw that all was well. Well and to spare: their shoulders and knees were touching, each was slightly flushed in the face, and, in their different fashions, each gave me a glance of complicity, Joyce’s straight and serious, Diana’s with a little pretended shock and shame round the edges.