Thirteen

I’m sorry if you were caught unawares, sir, but then that’s the joy of these walks: you can never be sure where they’ll lead. Of course if you wish to lodge a complaint that’s your privilege; but I can assure you that it will be nothing compared to the one I’ve lodged against myself. You’ll find the address and telephone number on the back of the leaflet. And if anyone else should require one, I’ve a stack in my briefcase. They also give full details of all our – their other tours. And for a complete change of scene, might I recommend Mysteries and Mistresses of Mayfair or Leafy and Literary Hampstead? Although I’m afraid that unless you can put together a party, you may have to wait until spring.

This is where I leave you. For anyone wanting to use public transport, simply carry straight on down the main road and you’ll come to Aldgate East tube station, as well as a regular bus service to both the City and the West End… It only remains for me to thank you for choosing to walk with ‘Famous Feet’.

 

I know you were worried for me, although you’d hate to have to admit it; just as I’d hate to have to admit to any dependence on you. But the analysis isn’t all one-way. I can read your mind too; and its drift was painfully predictable. You were convinced he’d prove another Jack – or even a combination of both of them. But your cynicism does you no credit. You must learn to be more trusting. Though it can hardly help to be stuck in this airless room all day long listening to so many sad, sick stories. You ought to go out more: enjoy yourself: meet some new people… Oh Lord! What am I…? That’s just what… Oh Lord!

Do you mind if I stroll about? I’m sorry if it distracts you, but I find it impossible to sit still. I have to listen to my body… Yes, it was me who said that. I’ve finally found my own unique language. Unique but universal: anyone can understand it; you don’t need a dictionary, or a degree, or a course in Esperanto. It’s the language of the body; it’s the language of love… I lie down with my love; I lay down my love. ‘A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts…’

The Bible is such an amazing book: not only a well of wisdom but an encyclopaedia of emotion; and there’s not one it fails to comprehend. I used to be embarrassed by the Song of Solomon. I felt it rather let the side down, as if it had slipped in courtesy of some less than scrupulous editor and was far more suitable for a Hebrew Scheherazade than an Anglican priest. But I was so wrong. If the Bible is a revelation of God’s purposes, then the most precious of all is his gift of love. ‘And the leopard shall lie down with the kid…’ And I lie in bed next to Mark; and he breathes so strongly and resolutely, although without the least suspicion of a snore. And his breath is as hot as his blood: passionate and powerful like a blazing fire – but safe: a fire to warm your hands by, not to burn down a house.

Mark: such a fine name, don’t you think? A firm no-nonsense name: the name of the first and my favourite gospel, and the patron saint of the Edensor village church. It suggests accuracy: arrows hitting their mark; achievement: a man of mark; elegance: a mark of distinction; foresight: mark my words. It’s a name you can’t mimic or shorten: a name that’s sufficient unto itself: a truly Christian name.

I wish you had the chance to meet him. You have a lot in common – at any rate he has a degree in psychology. I find that rather alarming. I keep wondering when he’ll see through me. But I’ve no need to worry; it’s all past history. He’d have to be a historian, not a psychologist – no, an antiquarian: it’s ancient history. It bears not the slightest relation to the man I am now.

He continually asks me about myself. I suppose it must be the training. I was afraid I’d ramble randomly; but I’ve found it remarkably easy to put my life into some sort of shape. And credit where it’s due: whatever else, you have shown me a way into my story. I’m no longer just an unconnected muddle; I’ve a beginning and a middle and the beginnings of an end.

Not that I’ve told him everything. I never even mentioned Christ until I realised that Vange had pre-empted me and so I had no choice but to come clean – no, that’s not the right phrase at all. And then I emphasised the theological discipline rather than the vocational training, as though my concern were essentially academic. I was afraid that if he knew the truth, he’d lose interest. And at that moment I set more store by his good opinion than my own.

But my fears proved unfounded. He finds my faith a constant amusement. He sees Catholic ritual as the epitome of the homosexual sensibility and me as something from the pages of his favourite novelist: Ronald Firbank. As I’d never heard of him, I couldn’t tell whether to feel flattered. So he lent me his collected edition. Although so far any connection seems wilfully opaque. It’s strange, but the more people you know, the more books you have to read in order to understand them. I always assumed it would be quite the opposite. I suppose it’s what’s meant by life imitating art.

His favourite poet was also new to me: Thom Gunn… You must be beginning to think we make love in a library. And yet you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s just that in bed the other night, whilst he was kissing me but before the kisses became all-embracing, he began to recite one of his favourite poems and then asked me to do the same. I realised that the only two I knew by heart were The Wreck of the Deutschland and Gray’s Elegy; neither of which felt especially apt. So I rolled over and stopped his mouth; he revelled in my taking the initiative. While I resolved to buy an anthology of love-lyrics and study them religiously – no, amorously – from Anon right through to the present day.

I’m head over heels in love; I’m head over heels in life. And most of all I’m in love with his kisses. I never cease to wonder at their richness. How could I have done without them for so long? His mouth is so much deeper and wider than I’d ever have imagined… I sometimes feel like Jonah inside the whale. Is that normal? I’ve no means of comparison – only of delight. Jack never kissed me. His body was more open than any human being’s had a right to be; and yet his lips always remained tightly shut.

I love his nakedness… Jack was his clothes; his nakedness was quite superficial. There was no eroticism; he had to supply that with his whips and leather. The fetish was the message. And his body was as hard as his heart. Try as I did, I could never make him soften. It was like trying to draw blood from a stone. He once told me he’d lose all self-respect if he ever ‘came’ with a client. What a perverse way to measure self-respect, I thought. And yet it was no more so than mine.

But Mark’s brought me more self-respect than I’d have believed possible: and in the most unexpected way. I always thought that if anyone ever did love me, it would be for some quality of my mind or spirit; but he refutes that entirely and claims it’s my body that fascinates him. According to him it’s an amazing adventure playground: with its swings and slides and climbing frames… not to mention the trampoline. And I find the idea thrilling although the image inaccurate. It makes me sound like a child when I’m a fully grown, no, finally growing man.

So I’m beginning a new life, and how appropriate that it will soon be Christmas. This year I won’t have to rack my brains for New Year’s resolutions; I’ll have to struggle to pare them down. And in my new life I’ll be surrounded by new people. Mark’s giving a dinner party on Saturday for me to meet a few of his friends. Vange is coming with her girlfriend, Gaia. To be truthful I’m quite terrified; I almost wish I could fall ill… No, anything but that! I’m not superstitious; but I know better than to tempt fate.

There’s one guest I’m even more apprehensive of meeting, particularly as he’ll also be a host: Adrian, Mark’s flat-mate. I haven’t told you anything about him; but then initially Mark said nothing to me-Though don’t worry; it’s all quite above board. They ‘lived together’ for six years; and when that broke up a couple of years ago they continued to live together without the inverted commas. In one sense I find it reassuring: if my body should ever cease to be an adventure playground, Mark won’t cease to be a friend. And yet it’s also rather threatening: like stepping into a half-dead man’s shoes.

He’s flying home on Thursday from Holland, where he’s spent the past month studying the latest trends in contemporary dance. He used to be a dancer himself, before he tore the hamstring which hamstrung his career, and re-emerged to found the London International Dance festival, or LID. For all I know you may be a devoted balletomane; I rarely venture beyond the grand tier at Covent Garden. Although after everything he’s told me, I long to repair the loss.

And yet, while I can’t help but commend his loyalty, I could wish that he’d cite him a little less often. After all, I don’t quote Jonathan morning, noon and night – but then the relationship was hardly the same. And I can scarcely expect to have become the most important person in his life after a mere eight days. I’d certainly find it hard to respect anyone so fickle. And yet what does that make me? He’s already by far the most important in mine.

Above all, he’s given me back my future: which is the most perfect paradox. I’ve often tried, though without much success, to define my vocation. I even recall a few strained attempts here. But at last I can accept the conventional wisdom which sees it most simply as a gift of love. For that in its widest sense is what he’s enabled me to discover. And so now more than ever I’d like to put it to the test. I want to celebrate the Eucharist. I want to baptise babies. I want to bless couples of all persuasions…

But that’s just it: because of my own persuasion, I know that I can’t. I’m sure I’ve no need to remind you of the current cravenness of the Church of England. When it comes to love, the Broad Church is still so narrow-minded. Even the bishops are forever falling over themselves to appease the bigots. And yet it’s their authority which at my ordination I’d have to bind myself to obey.

Jonathan used to declare that he’d have to cross his fingers when he came to take the vow to uphold the Thirty-nine Articles; which in his view were too many by half. But then he was a born fighter, ever ready to defend his cause; whereas I intend to lead a quiet life. And yet I refuse to live a lie or at any rate one life in the vicarage and another in the vestry: squeezing my identity into a pigeon-hole and hanging my sexuality on a hook.

No, now that I’ve discovered my gift of love, I’m determined to give it full expression; which I can do far more naturally loving Mark than staying celibate with Christ. And I shall be a priest in my heart, which is no empty form of words, since I no longer see the priesthood as a special case, let alone a special caste. On the contrary, the priesthood of all believers has never felt more real.

So I’ve written to both Father Leicester and my Director of Ordinands explaining my decision to withdraw from training. Which in turn removes the need for my coming here. I know you’ll consider it premature, but I’m convinced it’s for the best. I wouldn’t like you to think I’m not grateful for all you’ve done. It’s just that the time for reflection has passed; I now have to live. And if you don’t mind I’d rather leave straight away. I hate goodbyes; I’ve already said far too many. But then perhaps that’s another word we should restore to its primal meaning: and so ‘God be with you’, and God bless.