Free The Keys of the Kingdom by A. J. Cronin Page B

Thursday: Fine day; memorable adventure with Rusty Mac , and leave it. But even our incisive Adminstrator of Studies admitted the virtue of my breed – conscientiousness – when he said to me, after his lecture: “Chisholm! I suggest you keep a diary. Not of course for publication,” – his confounded satire flashed out, – “as a form of examen. You suffer, Chisholm, inordinately, from a kind of spiritual obstinacy. By writing your inmost heart out … if you could … you might possibly reduce it.”
    ‘I blushed, of course, like a fool, as my wretched temper flared “Do you mean I don’t do what I’m told, Father Tarrant?”
    ‘He barely looked at me, hands tucked away in the sleeves of his habit, thin, dark, pinched in at the nostrils and oh, so unanswerably clever. As he tried to conceal his dislike of me, I had a sharp awareness of his hard shirt, of the iron discipline I know he uses unsparingly upon himself. He said vaguely: “There is a mental disobedience …” and walked away.
    ‘Is it conceit to imagine he has his knife in me because I do not model myself upon him? Most of us do. Since he came here two years ago he has led quite a cult of which Anselm is deacon. Perhaps he cannot forget the occasion when, at his instruction to us upon the “one, true, and apostolic religion” I suddenly remarked: “ Surely, sir, creed is such an accident of birth God can’t set an exclusive value on it.” In the shocked hush which followed he stood nonplussed, but icy cold. “What an admirable heretic you would have made, my good Chisholm.”
    ‘At least we have one point in common: agreement that I shall never have a vocation.
    ‘I’m writing ridiculously pompously for a callow youth of eighteen. Perhaps it is what is named the affectation of my age. But I’m worried … about several things. Firstly, I’m terribly, probably absurdly, worried about Tynecastle. I suppose it’s inevitable that one should lose touch, when one’s “ home-leave” is limited to four short summer weeks. This brief annual vacation, Holywell’s only rigour, may serve its purpose of keeping vocations firm, but it also strains the imagination. Ned never writes. His correspondence during my three years at Holywell has been effected through the medium of sudden and fantastic gifts of food: that colossal sack of walnuts for instance, from the docks, in my first winter, and last spring, the crate of bananas, three quarters of which were over-ripe and created an undignified epidemic amongst the “ clergy and laity” here.
    ‘But even in Ned’s silence there’s something queer. And Aunt Polly’s letters make me more apprehensive. Her dear inimitable gossip about parochial events has been replaced by a meagre catalogue of, mainly, meteorological facts. And this change in tone arrived so suddenly. Naturally Nora hasn’t helped me. She is the original postcard girl, who scribbles off her obligations in five minutes, once a year, at the seaside. It seems, however, centuries since her last brilliant Sunset from Scarborough Pier and two letters of mine have failed even to produce a Moon over Whitley Bay. Dear Nora! I shall never forget your Eve-like gesture in the apple loft. It’s because of you that I anticipate these coming holidays so eagerly. Shall we walk again, I wonder, to Gosforth? I have watched you grow, holding my breath – seen your character – by which I mean your contradictions – develop. I know you as someone quick, shy, bold, sensitive and gay, a little spoiled by flattery, full of innocence and fun. Even now, I see your impudent sharp little face, lit up from within as you indulge your amazing gift of mimicry – “taking off” Aunt Polly … or me – your skinny arms akimbo, blue eyes provoking, reckless, ending by flinging yourself into a dance of gleeful malice. Everything about you is so – human and alive, and – even those flashes of petulance and fits of temper which shake your delicate physique