calcified, God became more and more rationalized, more and more finite, more and more only a part of a supernatural cosmos. The movement known as modernism was an attempt –”, and so on. The rest is in praise of the modernist heretics of the late nineteenth century. Enough said.’
In the silence all three held, a last dribble of organ music stirred beyond the window, which was St Sebastian prickling with praetorian arrows. The sound and the stained glass spoke of the happy days when right stood out as sharply as the stuck limbs of the martyr, when all the clergy were tediously orthodox, when minds roamed free of the influence of mass media, and none of the vagrants who knocked at presbytery kitchens had heard of Marx.
‘He writes very strongly,’ Maitland admitted, a little amazed despite himself. ‘All young men write vigorously and overstate their case.’
‘He’s a young man, is he?’ His Grace asked, not altogether with sympathy.
Boyle went hunting for a potted biography at the rear of the paperback.
‘It doesn’t say anything here, I don’t think.’
‘Oh, it’s a young man,’ Maitland insisted. ‘A person can tell from the style. Besides, the idea isn’t original. It’s surely stolen from Tillich, the theologian.’
‘Tillich,’ the prelate wondered. ‘I’m not familiar …’
‘He’s a Protestant, Your Grace.’
‘My God. Oh well, the world’s opening up, I suppose.’ His Grace suddenly went sour at the corners of the mouth. ‘Come on, Dr Maitland, surely you can help. Catholics are Catholics, all of one mind. Des and I are Catholics and we ask you, a Catholic, for assistance. Surely that’s easily enough given. I could demand it, you know.’
Now if he did, a voice that was wisdom or sense or fraud told Maitland, a clean breast would be the only possibility. But he’s too genial for it to come to that.
‘I know, Your Grace,’ Maitland said.
Boyle announced softly, ‘I can’t help but admit it’s a disappointment.’
‘We must all bear our crosses,’ said Maitland, incipient irony having, as yet, merely made him paler than usual.
But Boyle was provoked back to his notes, finding it hard to believe that Maitland was properly informed on Quinlan’s full range of malice. ‘“Whilever the Church – ”,’ he read.
‘Mr Boyle,’ Maitland called to him, ‘if you continue to attempt to embarrass me in front of His Grace, I’m sure to lose my temper.’
‘James, there’s no need …’ said the archbishop.
With a small chirping noise of regret, Boyle tidiedthe pages and cocked an eye at the top of page one. Then he closed the folder and placed the book on top. The front cover creaked open and revealed paragraphs underlined in red and marked with symbols, each symbol meaning a distinct grade of heresy.
‘I mustn’t keep you, Your Grace. I think that’s all we wanted to discuss.’
‘We’ll have to let the matter lie, Des. I suppose we can’t win all the arguments.’
But Maitland was damned if he was going to be shamed, though his hands trembled slightly.
‘May I say, Your Grace, that if we persist in starting the wrong arguments, we’ll never win any.’
The ringed hand bunched itself. ‘Come now, James, you mustn’t expect men of good faith not to protest when they see need of it.’
‘I don’t want to seem arrogant, Your Grace, but it’s possible that Quinlan is a man of good faith protesting where he sees need of it.’
‘Without ecclesiastical permission?’ asked His Grace, and Maitland shook his head and hung it. ‘Could you stay a moment, James?’
Slowly and as if coerced to it, Boyle was drawing on a thick overcoat. As he buttoned it, both the archbishop and Maitland rose, and he genuflected and cursorily bussed the ring. As president of the Knights, he was accustomed to this exercise.
‘Des,’ His Grace told him, ‘you know how much I respect and value the support of the Knights. As I say, though, perhaps we must let the fight
In the silence all three held, a last dribble of organ music stirred beyond the window, which was St Sebastian prickling with praetorian arrows. The sound and the stained glass spoke of the happy days when right stood out as sharply as the stuck limbs of the martyr, when all the clergy were tediously orthodox, when minds roamed free of the influence of mass media, and none of the vagrants who knocked at presbytery kitchens had heard of Marx.
‘He writes very strongly,’ Maitland admitted, a little amazed despite himself. ‘All young men write vigorously and overstate their case.’
‘He’s a young man, is he?’ His Grace asked, not altogether with sympathy.
Boyle went hunting for a potted biography at the rear of the paperback.
‘It doesn’t say anything here, I don’t think.’
‘Oh, it’s a young man,’ Maitland insisted. ‘A person can tell from the style. Besides, the idea isn’t original. It’s surely stolen from Tillich, the theologian.’
‘Tillich,’ the prelate wondered. ‘I’m not familiar …’
‘He’s a Protestant, Your Grace.’
‘My God. Oh well, the world’s opening up, I suppose.’ His Grace suddenly went sour at the corners of the mouth. ‘Come on, Dr Maitland, surely you can help. Catholics are Catholics, all of one mind. Des and I are Catholics and we ask you, a Catholic, for assistance. Surely that’s easily enough given. I could demand it, you know.’
Now if he did, a voice that was wisdom or sense or fraud told Maitland, a clean breast would be the only possibility. But he’s too genial for it to come to that.
‘I know, Your Grace,’ Maitland said.
Boyle announced softly, ‘I can’t help but admit it’s a disappointment.’
‘We must all bear our crosses,’ said Maitland, incipient irony having, as yet, merely made him paler than usual.
But Boyle was provoked back to his notes, finding it hard to believe that Maitland was properly informed on Quinlan’s full range of malice. ‘“Whilever the Church – ”,’ he read.
‘Mr Boyle,’ Maitland called to him, ‘if you continue to attempt to embarrass me in front of His Grace, I’m sure to lose my temper.’
‘James, there’s no need …’ said the archbishop.
With a small chirping noise of regret, Boyle tidiedthe pages and cocked an eye at the top of page one. Then he closed the folder and placed the book on top. The front cover creaked open and revealed paragraphs underlined in red and marked with symbols, each symbol meaning a distinct grade of heresy.
‘I mustn’t keep you, Your Grace. I think that’s all we wanted to discuss.’
‘We’ll have to let the matter lie, Des. I suppose we can’t win all the arguments.’
But Maitland was damned if he was going to be shamed, though his hands trembled slightly.
‘May I say, Your Grace, that if we persist in starting the wrong arguments, we’ll never win any.’
The ringed hand bunched itself. ‘Come now, James, you mustn’t expect men of good faith not to protest when they see need of it.’
‘I don’t want to seem arrogant, Your Grace, but it’s possible that Quinlan is a man of good faith protesting where he sees need of it.’
‘Without ecclesiastical permission?’ asked His Grace, and Maitland shook his head and hung it. ‘Could you stay a moment, James?’
Slowly and as if coerced to it, Boyle was drawing on a thick overcoat. As he buttoned it, both the archbishop and Maitland rose, and he genuflected and cursorily bussed the ring. As president of the Knights, he was accustomed to this exercise.
‘Des,’ His Grace told him, ‘you know how much I respect and value the support of the Knights. As I say, though, perhaps we must let the fight
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