Far, Far the Mountain Peak Read online

  Meanwhile John studied the white-painted bookcase which occupied most of the wall in front of him. It was crammed full of all sorts of interesting books; not the sort of things you’d have expected a vicar to read. There were vast, weighty tomes about biology, chemistry, genetics and human genes, psychiatry. Then, lighter and more populist things: White Holes: The Birth of the Universe?, The Case for Atheism. And very interesting books about exploration: Across the Dark Continent by Henry Morton Stanley, The Albert Nyanza by Samuel Baker, Missionary Travels by David Livingstone.

  Forgetting his misery, he got up to take a closer look and discovered books about mountain climbing: World Mountains by John Cleare, The Big Walks by Richard Gilbert. Then his eye caught a title called Young Explorers, also by Richard Gilbert. Curious, he pulled it out and flipped through the pages. It was about schoolboys climbing big mountains in far-off, exotic places: Iceland, Morocco, and even the Himalayas. He’d always imagined that only specially selected supermen went to places like that, people like Lord Hunt, Sir Edmund Hillary and Chris Bonnington. He found a photograph of a ferocious fang of rock called Kolahoi and then a photograph of a schoolboy standing on its airy summit. A wave of longing flowed out of him. That schoolboy was what he wanted to be like: tough, bold, able to scale fearsome mountains. But he never could be: he was just a dirty little bender and shit-stabber. Overwhelmed with shame and self-disgust, he replaced the book and sat down.

  ‘Is that all?’

  Steadman eventually returned with a steaming mug of cocoa.

  ‘Now, when you’re ready.’

  John sipped the soothing liquid. How could possibly mention that? It was so degrading. But… well, it had to come out some time! Screwing himself up tight, he prepared the ground.

  ‘Promise not to get angry. Please! Don’t shout at me! Don’t hit me. Promise!’ Oh God, it was back to being the dirty little weed who’d pissed his sleeping bag that night in Scotland two years ago! He was even using the very same words! The shame of it!

  ‘Of course not.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, it’s very bad. Very, very bad.’

  ‘It’s not a matter for the police is it? You haven’t gone and killed somebody, have you?’ That would be interesting!

  ‘No, it’s much worse than that. Much worse.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s so embarrassing. I’m so ashamed. So ashamed.’

  ‘Go on.’ This was getting juicier by the minute!

  With a huge effort of will, which reminded him of a power-driven wrench which fastened the nuts onto the wheels of cars in a garage, John told his story. It was awful, excruciating. Admitting to this man, your hero, the man you so desperately wanted to impress with your gung-ho manliness, that you were an unpermissible biological mutation. Worse than filling your pants in Assembly in front of the whole school…

  ‘I mean… I… well… I went and shafted him. I didn’t mean to. It just went and happened. Danny’s my best friend. Now he hates me. Now they all hate me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Is that all?’

  Silence. Tears flowing.

  A Little Theology of a Different Sort, From a Frustrated Missionary

  Steadman’s first reaction was disappointment. No high drama. No redeeming of a murderer’s soul. No weaning off drugs. No grand Dostoyevskian saga of sin and repentance. Just a silly little bit of adolescent smut, the sort of mucky triviality that was best hidden behind a locked lavatory door. Oh, the banality of it all!

  ‘And why do you think that’s so bad?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Well, it’s disgusting.’

  ‘But so are most bodily functions. As a trained biologist I know all about the animal side of human beings. We’re risen animals. We carry a lot of our animal behaviour with us. It’s neither good nor bad. It’s just there.’

  ‘A biologist? I thought you were a vicar.’

  ‘I am. But I was a research biologist before I took holy orders. But, tell me, why do you think that what you’ve done is so bad?’

  ‘Well, it’s sodomy and Mr Briggs says it’s so bad that it cannot be forgiven. God sends you to hell for it. Even Hitler wasn’t as bad as that.’

  ‘And just how does Mr Briggs know that?’

  ‘Well, he’s a Christian. He’s been saved. He reads the Bible and he knows what’s right and wrong. He goes to the Tabernacle in Ellesmere Road.’

  Steadman leant back and sighed deeply. ‘The Tabernacle?’ he spluttered. ‘Not that lot!’

  John had touched an exposed nerve here. Professional status, territorial imperative, or just plain wounded vanity, call it what you would: it was all there. As a theology student Steadman had spent long hours – years even – chewing over the subtleties and inconsistencies of that extraordinary ragbag of violence, bigotry, racism, moral grandeur and deep human insight called the Bible. What did this word actually mean? Had its original impact been blurred in its translation from Hebrew into English via Greek and Latin? Linguistics, as he well knew from those intellectual drubbings at theological college, could be fiendishly complicated. Besides, the ancient Middle East was so utterly different from the modern world that it needed all the wiles of a trained anthropologist to even begin to penetrate it. How much of this passage was influenced by Egyptian Wisdom Literature and how much by Babylonian myth? He’d spent years on a PhD thesis on the relationship between the Pharisees and the Essenes, and having lost his way in a linguistic and anthropological jungle, had been forced to lay it aside for a while. Only last month had he completed it and submitted it for appraisal.

  Yet down at Ellesmere Road, those self-elected ‘saved saints’, simply swept aside the entire notion of scholarship. The whole Bible business could just as well have happened in a modern suburb of Boldonbridge. Forget about history and anthropology: throw it all in the bin! These people were lethal. They reduced everything to banality. They could destroy all he wanted to achieve. They could even destroy him.

  He became testy. ‘Now listen to me, young man,’ he snapped. ‘They’re not scholars. I am. The Bible isn’t a once-and-for-all series of instructions. It’s a very human document. It’s the ancient world talking to you. It’s full of all sorts of contradictions and misunderstandings.’

  ‘But isn’t it the word of God?’

  ‘Not quite. It’s words about God. It’s human beings groping their way towards God. Like you might do in a dark corridor when there’s no light. You know the general direction, but quite often you go the wrong way and trip up. There’s deep wisdom there, but you’ve got to know where to find it.’

  ‘Oh?’ John was becoming genuinely interested.

  ‘I mean, take the story of Adam and Eve. Of course it’s not literally true. Any fool knows that. It’s a Mesopotamian creation myth. But there’s deep thought lurking in it. In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve are small children, animals really. They frolic about and live for the moment. They are unaware of death and suffering. But when they eat from the tree of knowledge, they grow up and become aware of death and suffering. But they have been given the power of God. They have the ability to do something about it, but equally they can use that power to destroy themselves. But I digress. It’s an intellectual’s failing, you know.

  ‘Now, back to you. You’re thirteen years old and you’ve had a testosterone surge. It happens at your age. Your body suddenly pours eight hundred per cent more of the stuff into your bloodstream, and it can send you crazy. It’s like having a swill of vodka on an empty stomach. It can be difficult to control yourself, especially if – like you – you don’t know what’s happening to you.’

  ‘But doing it with another boy?’

  ‘That’s fairly normal. Inside you there are chemicals, some of which make you heterosexual – that’s what most people call
normal – and some which make you homosexual. The mix varies from person to person. Some people are more one way than the other. Often youngsters go through a homosexual phase until the chemicals even out. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It just happens. What you’ve got to do is learn to control it. Sexual urges are like violence and alcoholism. We’ve all got them, but for the sake of society as a whole, we’ve got to keep them in check. They’re a bomb inside you. They can blast everything to bits. I mean just think what would have happened if Danny had been a girl and you’d got her pregnant? Then you really would have been in trouble.’

  ‘But, if it’s normal, as you say, then why is everybody so angry with me?’

  ‘Firstly, because they are pig ignorant and don’t know anything about it. Secondly, because they have similar urges themselves and are frightened of them. They conceal their fear behind a mask of aggression. And thirdly, because of their primitive instincts. Here’s a biology lesson for you, Jonny boy. People – especially kids – are very like chickens. Aggression is part of their make-up. It’s necessary for survival if you are a caveman living in a small hunter-gather group on the dangerous savannahs of tropical Africa. Also they have an innate tendency to destroy anything among them that is weak or different; necessary to keep the gene pool up to scratch. It might have helped our ancestors to survive, but in the modern world it is very dangerous and can destroy us. It is a cause of war and crime. A convenient shorthand for it is Original Sin. It’s in all of us.

  And, Jonny boy, you are different from the others. I’ve often wondered why you are at Beaconsfield. You talk differently from the others, and that can cause hostility for a start. Also, you’re abler than the others, better at things than most of them, and they resent that. When things go wrong you’re a natural target.’

  ‘But why does Mr Briggs hate me? I’ve always tried to be good. I don’t muck about in the PE lessons like some of the other kids. I always do my best for his rugby team. Not like Billy Nolan who just fools about. You’d think he’d like that. And he’s always going on about Rickerby Hall, that posh prep school I was at. I mean, what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘My dear fellow, people often hate you not for anything that you’ve ever done, but because of what you are. Mr Briggs has been taught at his teacher training college that the upper classes who send their kids to posh prep schools are the enemy. So, having come from Rickerby Hall, you are the enemy.’

  ‘But that’s pathetic!’

  ‘Of course it is, but that’s what the world is like. At the posh public school I was at we hated all state school pupils. Why? Because they weren’t us. People have to have something to hate. Hatred is a great bonding force. It makes for social cohesion. After all, Hitler needed the Jews. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it. But don’t worry too much, the present thing will blow over. It’s you today, it’ll be somebody else tomorrow.

  Anyway, sex isn’t the only thing in life. Not unless you’re very stupid, that is, and you should feel sorry for people like that. Life can be very hard for them. But you’re lucky. You’ve got a lot going for you. Put your energy into things like sport and mountain climbing. Don’t get obsessed with sex. And, a final word, just remember that if God didn’t exist, we’d have to invent him just to save ourselves from ourselves.’

  Silence followed. All very reassuring. John had never thought of this before. A step into the adult world – the forbidden fruit from that tree of knowledge?

  Then suddenly he slipped back into childhood. He became that small boy of two years ago on that Scottish campsite who’d had a nightmare and run into Mrs Watson’s tent, frantic for attention. It was as if he’d been climbing up a steep hillside, grasped at a rock near the summit, only to go tumbling down to the bottom.

  ‘Yes, but what’s going to happen to me?’ he wailed. ‘I’ve been expelled and my father will send me back to Greenhill where they’ll beat me up like they did before. I’m so frightened! I’m so frightened!’

  He began to sob like a small child. ‘I thought Mrs Watson was my mum. I thought she liked me. But now she’s turned against me. I’ve no one. I might as well throw myself in the river!’

  ‘Throw myself in the river!’ Corny, melodramatic plea for attention? Yes! But, nevertheless, Steadman was loving it.

  After a brilliantly promising academic career, he had gone into the Anglican Church determined to achieve great things. A vision of his hero, John Henry Newman, had floated before him. But he would go further. In this increasingly secular world, he would reconcile science and religion. He would staunch the flow of unbelief by proving the validity and necessity of Christianity. It was a mission for which he had been specially chosen. Heady stuff, indeed; but things hadn’t worked out that way. He’d found himself shunted into a dreary suburb, surrounded by banal and unreceptive minds. Sidelined. Marginalised.

  ‘You’re a real brain box,’ the man who lived in the flat below him had said one day, ‘So why are you doing a job like this? I mean vicars are way out of date now. All this God stuff is only for old ladies and the odd nutter. Intelligent people don’t waste time on it.’

  Now here was his chance to prove his usefulness. To prove that, far from being an outdated superstition, Christianity really did matter. That hint of suicide added just that extra bit of spice. He could get somewhere with this kid. It could be the start.

  But there was something else lurking there, something he hardly dared to admit even to himself. This boy was attractive. And quite possibly ‘one of us’. But control yourself, my man! Down that path lies ruin: exposure, ridicule, prison, labelled as a paedophile, shame and degradation. Help this poor creature, yes, but resist the Demon that whispers unmentionable things into your ear; or, rather, stirs up testosterone in awkward places.

  ‘All right! All right!’ he said to the attention-seeking heap of misery on the settee. ‘We’ll sort things out. You’re not alone. There are people who’ll help you. Meanwhile you just stay here while I do a little arranging. Feel free to look at the books. There’s some that might interest you.’

  When the boy tried to embrace him, he pushed him gently aside. Physical contact could set off a chain reaction that might have unforeseen results! Then he went into his bedroom and picked up the telephone. First he rang Dorothy Watson to find out what was going on.

  No Longer an Emotional Woman?

  At that precise moment Dorothy Watson was suggestible. Walking home through the calm and friendly sunshine that afternoon, she’d been fixed in ‘Mrs Watson, Professional Teacher’ mode. Realistic, hard-bitten, fully in control of her emotions. Having taken a tough decision, she’d felt relieved; proud of herself, indeed, as if she’d just passed a difficult exam. Nobody could call her an ‘Emotional Woman’ now. If only Lawrence could have seen her!

  She entered the silent house. Looking into John’s room, she found it empty. He had gone, leaving an unmade bed and a scatter of books and videos on the floor. Then she saw the book about world railways that she’d given him for his birthday and a lump came into her throat. In the hall outside she noticed the expensive plate he’d given her that celebrated Christmas two years ago… and then the even more expensive plate he’d given her last Christmas and next to it his painting of Loch Nevis and a fantastically sheer Sgurr na Ciche that she’d had specially framed. All part of the irretrievable past, now! Her child, her only child, the one she’d longed for and cherished… gone, leaving a silent and empty void behind him. Suddenly she burst into tears.

  Then the telephone rang. It was Steadman.

  ‘Look, I’ve got young Denby round here. He’s in quite a state. What’s going on?’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you?’

  ‘In a muddled sort of way, yes. But, frankly, isn’t it all rather an over-reaction? I mean, the whole business seems rather trivial to me.’

  The condescending tone needled her. Steadman was a great vicar, but he was
so pushy, so tactless… give him half an inch and he’d take five miles. If you weren’t careful, he’d end up running your school for you. It was a matter of credibility.

  The ‘Hard-Bitten Professional’ mode began to revive. ‘Mr Steadman, I really can’t have homosexuality in my school. In the opinion of my staff….’

  ‘You mean in the opinion of James Briggs.’

  ‘Well, he was the one who saw the incident.’

  ‘And you take his views seriously? A mere PE teacher from St Martin’s College?’

  Vintage Steadman, this! Under his breezy bonhomie there lurked an intellectual snob of formidable proportions. First-class degree from the University of Cambridge versus certificate from St Aiden’s Teacher Training College. Hackles rose.

  ‘Mr Steadman, as Headmistress of Beaconsfield School, I have to take hard decisions in the interests of my school. It is my duty to run this school as I see fit.’

  ‘And you think it’s fit to destroy a fatherless and motherless thirteen-year-old who’s had a silly accident, do you?’

  This was too much. Steadman overstepping the mark as usual! Dorothy slammed the receiver down.

  End of Argument. Or Was It?

  End of argument. Or was it? That insight with which she had been blessed – or cursed? – began to nibble away at her. Why was it so difficult to run a small school? She’d had a ghastly day. That morning she’d had an indignant and self-righteous Mr Fleetwood sounding off in her study: ‘My boy. My lad. I can take a lot of things, Mrs Watson, but not benders or child abusers. You really gotta do sommat!’ And so on for over an hour.

  Had she been a weak and emotional woman by letting him ramble on like that? Him, a brassy and coarse garage owner who flogged dubious second hand cars to gullible would-be machos who fancied themselves as budding Fangios? And, what was more, let his thirteen-year-old son watch luridly pornographic videos?

  Oh Dolly, you weak woman! Massaging your ego by picking on a soft target like little John Denby! You’re no better than Billy Nolan who picks on vulnerable juniors to get a bit of corridor cred! Call yourself a headmistress!