The priest was fiddling with the curtain, scrunching up the cretonne in one hand. ‘In the end, I stopped expecting foolproof rational answers. And two things helped a lot. One was the Agony in the Garden, which is relevant today, of course, Good Friday. Christ suffered so desperately Himself then – not just the physical horror of sweating blood, which I believe is physiologically impossible, but the utter loneliness of being let down by His closest friends, and apparently abandoned by His Father. He begged God to take away the anguish, but God didn’t choose to hear, so He had to say “Thy will be done, not mine”, and I suppose in the end, that’s all that we can do. Do you know the El Greco painting, by the way?’
She shook her head, knew little about paintings, except those which hung at Brignor, mostly nineteenth-century watercolours of pious praying saints with lilies in their hands.
‘In my poor view, it’s the only painting of the Agony which really puts across the intensity of the suffering. The others may be moving, like the Giovanni Bellini, or majestic, like the Rembrandt, but they don’t give you that sense of total racking anguish. It’s not so much the figure of the Christ itself – the whole composition seems tormented. The rocks are very cruel and sharp, painted in these strange and lowering shapes, and the trees are bare and dead, and the sky looks really menacing, with a ghastly lurid light and a sense of things cracking up all round. And there’s this little band of men approaching on the right, already come to get their man, with their spears and torches reflecting back the moonlight, and the shadows on Christ’s robe look like gaping wounds themselves and …’
The priest’s plain face seemed transfigured by his fervour. Hilary could almost see the painting in her mind, could feel Christ’s suffering far more tangibly than she had managed yet, all day. Father Tovey seemed to have lived Christ’s Passion with Him, shared His last few days, interpreting them in his own new and vivid way – the Last Supper, the washing of the feet, and now the Agony. She looked up at him again, surprised to see a pouting blonde behind him on the wall, and not Christ sweating blood.
‘Careful, John, you idiot! You’ve just battered down a good two dozen tulips. Let’s push off to the sports field. It’s too dangerous here. We’ll break a window next.’
Hilary waited till the voices died away, ball bouncing still, footsteps slowly fading. ‘You said two things helped you, Father. What about the second?’
‘Oh, that’s much less dramatic – just the ordinary decent people I’ve met along the way. If I’m still a priest, and still worshipping a good God, that’s partly due to His creation, to the courage and compassion of parishioners and friends, and even total strangers. A good few of those people have suffered pretty terribly themselves, yet their desolation gives them greater sympathy with others. Because of suffering, they can somehow channel love – love of God, love of neighbour.’
Hilary glanced up at his hands, saw them in her mind, still wet and chapped from the washing of the feet. How could he be a fraud? His favourite word was ‘love’ and it was obvious that he lived the word himself. Perhaps he looked so tired and drawn because he’d been up all night helping a sick person, or counselling a potential suicide. She slumped back in her chair. ‘That’s another reason, Father, why I feel in sin. I just can’t love enough. I seem to be so critical, and wary, and sort of muddled up inside. I mean, I’ve just been to a workshop where everyone else could hug and touch and share – everyone save me, that is. I feel as if there’s this thick glass wall in front of me which prevents anyone from coming close, or me from reaching them.’
He crouched in front of her, as if pleading with her, forcing her to see his point of view. ‘That’s completely understandable. Your Order was extremely rigorous, if not downright punitive. I knew a girl who was going to enter Brignor, even spent a week there, but she just couldn’t take the training. Even now, it’s hardly modernised at all, and twenty years ago, it must have been archaic. You’ve been through a system which suppresses all your feelings, tries to break your spirit and your self, crush you, strip you, divide you from your body. Is it any wonder that you can’t respond? You will, I know you will. You need more time, that’s all.’
She shrugged impatiently. She’d had so much time already, done so little with it. ‘It can’t be just the convent, Father. I’ve just met another nun – a Sister Mary Lucian, and she quite put me to shame. She’s so free and uninhibited and …’
‘Hold on a second, Hilary. I know Sister Lucian. Her Order’s different altogether, far more up to date. And it’s a teaching Order, anyway, so her pupils keep her on her toes, and then she meets parents all the time, and goes out and about to educational meetings and conferences and so on. Of course she’s more relaxed. You were a contemplative, totally enclosed, and in one of the strictest Orders left in Britain – left anywhere, for that matter. You must believe me, Hilary, you’re doing very well.’
‘I’m not, Father, honestly. I’m totally confused. I don’t know what I think, or even if I’m still a nun or not. I mean, if I am, or want to be, then why am I so negligent? I’ve stopped attending Mass, except on Sundays, I haven’t been to Confession since the first week in December and …’
‘All those are healthy signs. It’s probably good for you to start letting up a bit, after twenty years of strain and grind. You said yourself you were becoming over-scrupulous, and it’s as wrong to be obsessional as it is to get too lax. You should be gentle with yourself, you know, love yourself a little more. If you don’t love yourself, how can you love God, or anybody else?’
Love – that word again – and one which kept leading back to Ivan. If this were confession, which in a sense it was, however casual and informal, then she ought to mention Ivan. She longed for the privacy of the confessional box, where the priest couldn’t see her face, where the darkness would hide her blushes, as she struggled to explain what had happened in the Alexander lessons, what had happened to her body, to her mind. There was silence now outside, only the faint snort of a chain saw droning from the far side of the campus. She longed for the intrusive thud of feet again, to mask her voice, make it sound less tremulous. She feared Father Tovey’s own voice might sharpen in rebuke, but it stayed gentle, unperturbed.
‘God made our bodies, Hilary, as well as just our souls. There’s nothing wrong with experiencing certain feelings, or even doing certain things, so long as we’re not harming anyone else.’
‘But he was … homosexual, Father.’ The word seemed so embarrassing, almost worse than Della’s ‘poofters’.
‘I know. I understood. That’s sad for both of you, but hardly sinful, surely. You did nothing wrong, as far as I can see, and as regards your friend, well, many doctors nowadays believe that homosexuality is a matter of biology, or chemistry. If God made gays that way, then we must love them as they are, try to help them.’
He reached forward, took her hand. ‘But first we must help you. God doesn’t want you crushed, Hilary, or racked with guilt, or broken. If He called you once, then He called you as an individual person, and that unique and special person is still very precious to Him, very dearly loved. You must have confidence, that’s all. You’re attractive and well-dressed, and obviously a caring decent person, and intelligent and …’
She hardly heard the rest. She was aware only of his hand on hers, the intense and vital pressure of its grip. If it had happened any earlier, she would have been shocked and disconcerted, but she could accept it now as an act of Christian love. He was trying to show her that she mattered, to him as well as to God; trying to give her that confidence he had already said she needed. He moved a little closer, put his arm around her. She tensed at first, almost automatically, had to fight the urge not to shrink away, remembering Robert’s arm, that sense of being crushed and threatened, in danger from a man. But this was something different – just a simple loving gesture from a holy man of God. Reverend Mother Molly had done the same with the two men in the group, both young attractive men. There was no flirtation in it, o
nly spontaneous human warmth, a warmth she lacked herself, yet deeply craved. It was all part of the healing, the need to fuse soul and body, which would make man whole and holy, and had been divided for too long.
She let herself relax, realised with a slowly mounting pleasure that the arm felt good, that she was actually in contact with another human being, and in contact not just physically, but mentally. There was a sense of real release in the fact she’d shared so much with him, had managed to communicate. The word startled her a moment. Communicate. Not bread and wine this time, but something nurturing and precious just the same. The pressure of his arm felt strange, the closeness of his body. Miraculously strange. He found her attractive, thought she was well-dressed. She had received compliments before, from Ivan, Robert, Liz, but never from a priest – God’s representative. It was because he was a priest that she could allow herself to break the years and years of rigid separateness, which had forbidden any touch at all, any reaching out of either mind or body. She must be less relentless with herself, do what he advised, stress God’s love, instead of her own sin. Already she could feel God’s grace restored to her, His warmth across her shoulders. Yet she still craved absolution, formal forgiveness from His minister on earth.
‘I wondered, Father, if you could give me absolution? I know this isn’t quite confession, but …’
There was a sudden thumping on the door. She sprang away, darted to the window, feeling instant though irrational guilt. She heard the door creak open, two male voices talking; kept her back turned, as if she wasn’t there.
‘Okay, I won’t be long, Paul. Just two minutes, right?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
The door clicked shut again. The priest approached her, touched her shoulder. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now. Don’t worry, we’ll talk again – we need to. It’s wrong to rush these things and the Healing Service starts in just ten minutes. In fact, I’m late already. They’ve been wondering where I am.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father, really. I should have …’
He smiled. ‘No more guilt, remember. Try to stamp out all those “shoulds” and “sorrys” – and all those “Fathers”, too. If you call me Simon, like everybody else does, then we can talk more freely, as two equal human beings.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she began again, bit her words back, had the grace to laugh.
He grinned himself. ‘That’s better. You’ve got a lovely smile – just use it more, all right? And by the way, why don’t you attend that Healing Service? It’s for healing of the soul, as well as just of sickness, and a marvellous way of making your new start.’
‘Yes, I will,’ she said, and added shyly, ‘Simon.’
Chapter Seventeen
Hilary sat drowned and trapped in Babel, nine hundred mouths around her emitting weird unearthly noises, which were swelling to a tidal wave of sound. She could recognise no words. Sudden plangent yodellings rose above soft and crooning wails; strings of babbled syllables with no meaning and no end echoed and resounded through the hall. She couldn’t run away this time – she was trapped right in the middle of a close-packed middle row, beads of sweat sliding down her back. She was frightened of the sound, frightened of its power, its sheer hurting whooping volume; her sense of being the one and only mute amongst a hall of trumpet-tongues. It was as if she had blundered into a foreign country where the natives spoke a completely alien language and spoke it in a roar. The noise kept rising, falling, fading to a whisper, then reverberating out again. Each time it dwindled, she dared to hope. It would stop now, spare her, restore the hall to silence, but no – some individual voice would suddenly take up the cry again, rise to a crescendo, as a squall of other voices swooped around it. There was a strange harmony about the sound, an insistent soaring rhythm, as if some invisible conductor were keeping everyone in time.
‘Stop!’ she whispered soundlessly. ‘Please, God, let them stop.’ The noise had reached an even higher pitch now, a new intensity, as voices wailed and keened against a descant of low and rhythmic moans. Then suddenly it did stop – dramatically, abruptly, as if a switch had been turned off – no tardy voice left lingering, or finishing a cadence, just instant shut-off, silence.
‘What was that?’ Hilary spoke in a dazed whisper, inquiring of the plump young girl beside her, who had already held her hand, introduced herself as Karen, Born Again.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ Karen looked incredulous, almost pitying. ‘You’ve never heard singing in tongues before?’
Singing in tongues. Of course! How could she have not realised? She’d heard so much about it, read exuberant accounts of it in all the Catholic papers, knew it was one of the most important gifts claimed by Charismatics from the Spirit. And yet she had expected something different, something far more spiritual, not that jungle noise which bordered on hysteria.
Karen nudged her suddenly. ‘Look! There’s Danny Greaves. He’s really famous. He’s raised people from the dead.’
‘Which one?’ she whispered back. There were eight men on the stage now, one in cowboy boots and lanyard, none at all in priestly garb, though according to the programme six of them were ministers, including Pastor Danny Greaves.
‘Ssh! He’s speaking now.’
A tall lean man in glasses, dressed totally in cream, from his expensive three-piece suit to his shirt, tie, socks and shoes, walked down to the footlights, raised his arms. ‘Let every eye now close and every hand be raised, as we welcome the Holy Spirit down into this room. Alleluia!’
‘Alleluia! Alleluia!’ The entire congregation took up the cry, as a forestful of arms shot up, Karen’s almost first. Hilary didn’t shut her eyes; there was still too much to see – not just the seven healers, who were standing in a semicircle behind the Reverend Danny Greaves, lips moving as they prayed; but also the scarlet-shirted band, dressed identically and showily in black trousers, red bow ties. It was a different band from yesterday’s, more a full-scale orchestra, which included piano, cellos, violins, already playing soft romantic music. Both band and healers were hemmed in by banks of flowers – plastic flowers in plastic pots with shrill-green plastic leaves: blue tulips, purple roses, stiff and waxy lilies, too tall for their pots. And beyond them, as a backdrop to the stage, was a huge white screen with blown-up coloured pictures flashing on and off, mostly of Christ’s miracles: Christ healing Jairus’s daughter, Christ driving devils out, Christ raising Lazarus from the dead. Christ was fair, with ringlets and blue eyes, and appeared to be wearing lipstick.
Hilary glanced nervously around her. She’d been looking out for Simon since the service started an hour or more ago, but there was still no sign of him. Every other eye was closed, every face devoutly rapt. She shut her own eyes, guiltily, tried to concentrate on what Pastor Greaves was saying.
‘The Spirit is now with us. He will heal our pain and sickness, heal our doubt and fear. Brothers and sisters, I have experienced His power in my own life. Just last year, my eldest son, Nigel, fell off a rock ledge when he was mountaineering in Wales. He was black and blue, with severe concussion and several badly fractured bones. The doctors said they doubted he would live. We prayed all night, laid hands on him, and when Nigel woke next morning, there was not one single mark on his whole body, not a scratch, not a bruise. He sat up and asked for Shreddies – that’s his favourite cereal – Shreddies and fried eggs. And where is he now, this very moment? Climbing that same mountain ridge in Wales!’
The applause was deafening, drowned the violins, which had been gently throbbing as he told his story. Hilary tried to clap with more conviction. Cries of ‘Praise the Lord!’ were exploding all around her, people whispering to each other in excitement, admiration.
‘God didn’t want my boy to die. He died Himself, this very afternoon, to take away our suffering. Brothers and sisters, He died to heal our slipped discs, our arthritis, our duodenal ulcers, our angina. He died to heal our broken marriages, our broken nights, our lonely vigils with the whisky or the Valium. He is with
us now – look at Him! – walking up and down the rows, laying on His hands. When He touches you, respond. God has given us emotions, so let Him see them, show Him how you feel.’
Hilary shifted in her seat, nervously aware of how far back the exits were. She had deliberately decided to sit up near the front, to prove her commitment, her desire for healing, wholeness; but also to be close to Simon, whom she assumed would be participating. He must be in the crèche, instead, where they were carrying out individual healing sessions, which were offered as an alternative for those with private problems, or who needed personal counselling. He would be marvellous as a counsellor, supportive, sympathetic. She should have gone herself, except he’d urged her to attend the public service. Perhaps he hadn’t realised quite how stagy it would be, how histrionic, rowdy.
She looked back at the healer, who seemed to catch her eye, be talking just to her, one finger pointing straight in her direction. ‘If He lifts your depression, sing with joy to thank Him. If He restores your faith, let the whole hall know. Right, all close your eyes again and I’m going to ask the Lord to start His miracles.’
The pastor’s voice had changed, now deeper, more dramatic, as he sank down on one knee. ‘Yes, the Spirit of God is moving, moving in this room. There’s a woman in the thirteenth row who was involved in a car crash seven years ago and has suffered serious back pain ever since. That pain is going from her back – it’s going now – it’s gone! She’s just felt that pain leave her back and shoulders. You know who you are. Can you get up from your seat, please? That’s it. Has the pain gone?’
An ecstatic cry of ‘Yes!’, as an elderly woman in fawn slacks and a green home-knitted cardigan clumped up to the stage.
Devils, for a change Page 30