20
I didn’t think I was getting anywhere. Mr Markby didn’t seem to want to have a word with Lucy. Nothing I said to her about the danger of ending up inside stopped her from lifting small bits and pieces of other people’s property and giving them to me, with the sort of proud look I used to see on my Aunt Dot’s cat when it brought in a dead bird and laid it on the carpet.
Whenever I told Lucy what I thought about it she said she was doing it for my sake ‘so we could share a common experience’. I tried to tell her that we weren’t really sharing anything. What I did was serious business which brought in a decent wage that paid the rent and would take us on holiday to Ibiza later, while what she did wouldn’t keep us in hot dinners. She just went away with a smile and stopped listening. It seemed to me I only had one place to go and there was only one person who might have a bit of clout with Lucy. She went to work on the bus every day, having nowhere to park in Oxford Street, so I took the Polo from its resident’s parking place and headed off in the direction of Aldershot.
I found Lucy’s mum in the palace, about one of the smallest palaces in the country I’d say, wandering vaguely from room to room, but when she asked me to join her in a ‘snifter’ I had to refuse politely and ask where my girlfriend’s dad might be found. It turned out he was in the cathedral, preparing for a special service on ‘Family Values’ to be broadcast over the radio next Sunday.
I’d never been in a cathedral before, never much in a church if it comes to that. The one in Aldershot seemed to be very cold and grey and there were rows and rows of empty chairs. Around the walls were statues of dead people lying on marble boxes with their legs crossed, sometimes with their feet on little dogs. Up at the far end there were lights and a bit of activity. Some man was fixing up a mike and others were having a conversation. An organ somewhere stopped and started and a row of young kids was going through a song, over and over and bit by bit in a way which would drive you bananas if you had to listen to it too long.
I stood blinking in the shadows for a minute and then I spotted Lucy’s dad in the back row of the chairs. He was wearing a sort of long black skirt arrangement and scribbling away in a notebook as though there was no tomorrow.
‘Terry!’ I have to say he gave me a great welcome as I made my way towards him down a row of empty chairs. ‘You’ve come to church! There’s more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth - well, I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?’
‘Actually I haven’t come to church.’
‘You’ve come to cathedral. It’s just another house of God. What’s the matter? Are you afflicted by any sort of doubt?’
He was smiling a lot, a good-looking older guy with very white teeth and a strong smell of aftershave.
‘I haven’t come to church really,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to find you.’
‘And here I am.’ The bishop spread out his arms as though he’d performed some sort of miracle just by being there. ‘With God’s help I’m here for you today, Terry. What’s your trouble?’
‘It’s not my trouble exactly. It’s your daughter’s.’
‘You mean Lucy?’
‘Yes, I do mean Lucy.’
‘What sort of trouble? Overdrawn at the bank? Can’t find the rent? Lucy’s always been a little vague about money.’
‘She’s not vague about it now. In fact she’s been stealing some of it.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ He was still smiling, as though I’d made a joke.
‘Money and other things. Snuff boxes. Bits of silver. One time it was a pair of binoculars. That’s what I came to tell you, Mr Purefoy.’
‘Bishop Purefoy.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t really matter. Now what is it you’re trying to tell me?’
‘That your daughter’s a thief, Bishop Purefoy.’
‘How very interesting.’ He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward as though he didn’t want to miss a word of what I was saying.
‘She steals things and I’m afraid she’s going to get caught because she’s had no training.’
‘And you say she’s just started.’
‘Just recently, yes.’
‘Classic!’ he said. ‘It’s a classic situation!’
‘You mean a lot of bishops have thieving daughters?’
‘No. Not that. Not that at all. God sent Jesus down to redeem our sins and then sent Freud down to explain them. Oh, I’m sorry,’ Lucy’s dad seemed suddenly embarrassed, ‘I don’t suppose you know much about Freud!’
As a matter of fact he was wrong. Not having spent what seemed like years in a cell reading books, he made the usual mistake of thinking I didn’t know much about anything. I knew enough about Freud to be sure he had nothing to do with our present discussion. All I said was, ‘I don’t think it takes much explaining.’
‘Oh yes, it does. You see, you’re the thief, Terry.’
‘I’ve got to admit that.’ I didn’t want to go into further detail.
‘You’re the thief and not Lucy.’
‘Me and Lucy. I just told you.’
‘You told me because that’s what you want to believe. You probably need to.’
‘I don’t want to believe it. In fact I’d far rather not believe it.’
‘You’d rather not have it, this guilt. So of course this is where our old friend Freud comes in.’
Freud, I thought, was no old friend of mine and I only wished he’d keep out of it. But I couldn’t stop the bishop, who was now rubbing his knees in excitement.
‘It’s a classic case! The transference of guilt!’
‘Transference of what?’
‘You don’t like your guilt. That’s all perfectly natural. Guilt’s not a very nice thing to have. Like gastric flu or sciatica. Anyway, you don’t want your guilt, of course you don’t, so you hand it on to my daughter.’
‘But I came down here to see you. So you could help. Isn’t that what they’re there for, bishops?’
‘Of course you need help and I’m going to help you, Terry. Claude Dauncey, author of God on the Psychiatrist’s Couch, lives in Guildford. Brilliant man! You can mention my name when you ask for an appointment.’
There was a burst of music and the kids up by the altar started singing again. The bishop stood and told me, ‘Robin Thirkell came to see me with some ridiculous story about Lucy stealing old coins from Christopher Smith-Aldeney. No doubt you’d been spreading rumours. My advice to you, Terry, is to keep your guilt to yourself. Oh, and get an urgent appointment with Claude Dauncey. Now I must go and see to our “Family Values” special service. Next Sunday on Radio 4, if you happen to be listening. It’s all God’s work.’
After he’d gone I sat for a while looking at the grey walls and marble boxes full of old bones. I thought that Lucy’s dad knew a good deal about Freud and God, but he didn’t seem to have much understanding of his daughter.