She returned on Sunday with some flowers from her garden in Islington and offered to take me to her local church, but when I declined she didn’t argue; she merely asked me to have lunch with her instead. I said no, sorry, I was too tired, and she didn’t argue with that response either. Instead after promising to be with me when the funeral director called, she again excelled herself by leaving me alone.
The funeral director was seen as planned on Monday morning and in the evening Francie returned to the cottage, this time accompanied by Nicholas, in order to review the arrangements. Nicholas talked about the service and Francie talked about the catering. Afterwards I was so exhausted that I barely had the strength to binge. I was also starting to worry about the expenses I was incurring, but I decided to postpone all thought of my dire financial situation until after the funeral.
Some of Aunt’s friends were still alive and no doubt there were numerous former pupils who remembered her, but during the long illness when she could no longer write, many had ceased to keep in touch. No more than thirty people turned up at the crematorium and less than twenty came back to the cottage, where I had spent many therapeutic hours preparing an elaborate buffet. I had been uncertain what to do about drink. Francie had said I shouldn’t feel obliged to serve alcohol, but providing only tea or coffee seemed an inadequate way to revive people after the grisliness of the crematorium, and in the end I had splurged at the supermarket on some white vin de pays. The thought of lapping up the surplus after the guests had gone had cheered me considerably. The only reason, I was sure, why I never normally drank to excess was because I could never normally afford to do so.
To my relief my mother had decided not to attend the funeral but had spoilt this wise decision by sending the most vulgar wreath adorned with a revolting message. (“Dearest Aunt Bea—In undying gratitude for all your great kindness to Darling Alice—all my love, the memory of your goodness will never fade from my memory …” And so on and so on. It really is disgusting what sentimental depths people will plumb when driven by a guilty conscience.)
I myself had ordered a small bunch of cut flowers, since I knew Aunt would have disapproved of any tasteless floral extravagance, and on the ribbon encircling the stems I pinned a card inscribed: “In memory of a woman of integrity. A.” I felt no need to drivel on about love and gratitude. Aunt had hated people stating the obvious. Aunt had hated so many things, funny old bag, but she would have liked the quiet, brief, dignified little service which marked her death. In the end the Church of England didn’t let her down in delivering her precise version of the great British tribal rite which she valued so highly.
Nicholas read some sentences from St. John’s Gospel at the start of the service, and later he read a longer excerpt. He had picked the excerpt himself and I had approved the passage without bothering to read it because I’d felt sure he would make the right choice. That was why, when I was finally listening to him reading the passage, I received such a jolt. “ ‘Let not your hearts be troubled,’ ” he urged, “ ‘neither let them be afraid,’ ” and as those words rang out in the chapel I saw he was looking straight at me with his clear light eyes. Then I found I wasn’t afraid, even though I had no job and no money and would soon have no home; I wasn’t afraid of the future because Nicholas was there in my present, and as soon as I realised this I thought longingly: if only he could be in my future too! But that was just another of my futile romantic dreams, I knew it was, just as I knew I was only toying with such a fantasy because Nicholas was looking so attractive, so compelling, and I hardly knew how to bear the fact that soon I would see him no more.
He worked hard that day. He not only gave me a lift in his car to and from the crematorium but he also paused at the cottage afterwards to mingle with the mourners. On the outward journey we said almost nothing, but to my surprise I found the silence comfortable and I suffered no nervous urge to break it. On the way back I did speak, chattering inconsequentially as I savoured my relief that the ordeal was over, but finally I screwed up the nerve to stem my verbal diarrhoea by asking: “Is there really a life after death?”
“All my experience suggests the alternative is too implausible.”
“But if Aunt’s now ashes, how can one talk of a resurrection of the body?”
“ ‘Body’ in that context is probably a code-word for the whole person. When we say ‘anybody’ or ‘everybody’ or ‘somebody’ we’re not just talking about flesh and blood—we’re referring to the complex pattern of information which the medium of flesh and blood expresses.”
I struggled to wrap my mind around this. “So you’re saying that flesh and blood are more or less irrelevant?”
“No, not irrelevant. Our bodies have a big impact on our development as people—they contribute to the pattern of information, and in fact we wouldn’t be people without them. But once we’re no longer confined by time and space the flesh and blood become superfluous and the pattern can be downloaded elsewhere … Do you know anything about computers?”
“No.”
“Okay, forget that, think of Michelangelo instead. In the Sistine Chapel he expressed a vision by creating, through the medium of paint, patterns of colour. The paint is of vital importance but in the end it’s the pattern that matters and the pattern which can be reproduced in another medium such as a book or a film.”
I tried to work out how Aunt would have replied. She had always held that life after death was nonsense. “I’ve heard it said,” I ventured cautiously, “that religion only came into being because people were so afraid of dying that they needed an excuse to believe life would go on afterwards.”
“Oh, that myth’s been disproved by modern scholarship! It turns out that religion was around for a long time before the concept of life after death evolved.”
I was so surprised that I exclaimed: “Thank goodness Aunt never knew that—she hated having to revise her opinions!”
“But as a woman of integrity wasn’t she interested in truth?”
“Yes, but she didn’t think truth had anything to do with religion.”
“We all have our religions,” said Nicholas. “We all have our ways of grappling with reality in order to make sense of our world. And didn’t you tell me that your Aunt’s religion was England—or rather, nineteenth-century English patriotism?”
I laughed before protesting: “But England’s real! You can touch it and measure it! Aunt didn’t believe in anything which couldn’t be touched and measured and verified scientifically.”
“And is patriotism something which can be weighed and measured and verified scientifically? And justice? And all those other qualities your aunt believed in so passionately?”
I couldn’t begin to imagine how Aunt would have replied to this, so I just said feebly: “But science is important!”
“It’s very important indeed. But it’s not the only window on reality.”
I suddenly realised he was parking, switching off the engine, and with a shock I saw we were back in Dean Danvers Street. Nicholas paused. He had turned to look at me. His right hand, still resting on the steering wheel, was perfectly still, the long fingers relaxed. His left hand was lying carelessly on his left thigh as he faced me, and the left thigh itself, shrouded with black cloth, was set at an angle which brought his knee within inches of mine. When I could no longer meet his eyes I stared down instead at the gap which separated us and knew it symbolised a gulf which could never be bridged no matter how kind to me he chose to be.
Casually he said: “Come and see me at St. Benet’s some time if you want me to help you find a more sympathetic doctor. I was disturbed to hear of your non-relationship with your GP.”
“Well, I don’t really need a doctor,” I said at once. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a diet won’t cure.”
“Okay, forget the doctor. But come and talk about food. Maybe you don’t need to diet at all.”
I was astounded. “How can you possibly say that?”
“Because
you may only need to change your life-style.” He paused before adding: “Think it over. I’d like to help if I can.”
“But I couldn’t afford—”
“There’s no charge. We’re funded by a charitable foundation and private gifts.”
For one long moment the romantic dream consumed me and I dreamed of a future which guaranteed me regular visits to St. Benet’s. But then I remembered the unbridgeable gulf and knew I could go no further. I had to fight against being lured on by well-meaning kindness into a world where he would always be unattainable. Better to be thankful for these few precious moments and then go on my way alone. I didn’t want to wind up as a pathetic groupie, hanging around St. Benet’s and becoming a nuisance, and I didn’t want to end up in a doctor-patient relationship with him either. I felt too strongly; I knew I could care too much. Either I met him as an equal in his own world or I didn’t meet him at all—and since the very notion of meeting him as an equal there was ridiculous I knew I had to wipe it from my mind straight away.
“It’s very kind of you to want to go on helping me,” I said politely, “and I’m very grateful, but I must stand on my own two feet now.” And in an attempt to divert us both from such a difficult subject I added lightly: “Does everyone at St. Benet’s behave as if even the most insignificant person has value?”
“I should hope so,” said Nicholas dryly, withdrawing his hand from the wheel and opening the door. “We’re supposed to be following a man who believed everyone was special, even those on the margins of society who feel themselves despised and ignored.” And scrambling out of the car he began to feed coins into the meter.
Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know why but I at once hated myself for not controlling my emotions properly. Aunt would have been appalled. Furtively using my cuff as a handkerchief I heaved my bulk from the passenger seat, grabbed my keys from my bag and somehow managed to open the front door.
X
Well, I got over that bout of stupidity, of course I did, there was so much to do, food to take out of the fridge, wine to uncork, people to talk to—I didn’t have time to give way to turgid emotions, did I, I had to keep up appearances, behave as Aunt would have wished, see that everything was done properly. Anyway, I was brought down to earth soon enough when I opened the first bottle of the wine and found it tasted like paint-stripper. That was a bad start. I noticed that Nicholas only had one sip from his glass and only two of the hors d’oeuvres which I had so enjoyed preparing. When he refused a third I was stupid enough to ask: “Is something wrong with them?” although I knew there wasn’t because the other guests were tucking in happily enough and I myself had already put away at least six. In reply he said: “I’m afraid I never eat and drink much when I’m on duty in a clerical suit,” which I thought was a clever excuse, putting the blame on clerical etiquette, but I was still oppressed by a sense of failure.
He left half an hour later, but he didn’t leave me without a memento of St. Benet’s; when I went out into the hall to see him off he surprised me by producing from his raincoat pocket an advance copy of the church’s monthly magazine. “Hot from the presses!” he said with a smile. “I brought it because there’s an ad in the back which might interest you. Someone’s looking for a cook.” And before I could comment he had wished me good luck and was gone.
It was as if he knew that the quickest goodbye would be the easiest for me to bear.
XI
By two o’clock everyone had departed and I was left in the kitchen with the last plate of hors d’oeuvres and several bottles of the paint-stripper. I did have another go at drinking the stuff—getting drunk to blot out the pain of parting from Nicholas seemed to make excellent sense—but the taste was so revolting that I abandoned this project and finished off the food instead. When I finally paused to read the St. Benet’s magazine I found I had a craving for something sweet after all the savouries but I was clean out of rum raisin ice cream. Opening a packet of golden syrup biscuits instead, I began to thumb my way through the magazine to the advertisements at the back.
“Painter/Decorator, experienced, good refs …,” “Carpenter, no job too small …” Where did all these small-time tradesmen come from in the opulent square mile of the City? I supposed they lived in Tower Hamlets, the deprived borough to the east—or perhaps in Islington, the socially mixed borough to the north … My glance travelled on down the column, “CAT LOST, Clerkenwell Green area, favourite haunt St. James’s churchyard …” I sighed, both for the lost cat and for beautiful Orlando, now deceased, “ACCOMMODATION WANTED …” I skipped this section and zeroed in on “SITUATIONS VACANT,” but the first advertisement hardly seemed suitable. “Lady, semi-disabled, requires Christian woman to live in, light cooking, other help kept …” I was sure I didn’t qualify as a Christian, and “light cooking” would hardly test my Cordon Bleu skills, but what was this next one? “Cook wanted, live in, non-smoker, SW1 area, must be able to cook delicious low-calorie dishes in addition to sophisticated cuisine for dinner-parties, references essential, salary to be negotiated, those without a Cordon Bleu need not apply …”
I was so intrigued that I forgot the biscuits and polished my glasses to make sure I’d read the ad correctly. I myself lived in SW1, the eastern end which, apart from the little Georgian enclave around Smith Square, was hardly considered a choice area of the City of Westminster. But beyond the council estates of Page Street and the charity housing around Perkin’s Rents, beyond the market on Strutton Ground and the church at Rochester Row, lay Pimlico, where the yuppies now exercised their Porsches, and north of Pimlico lay the cream-and-white magnificence of Belgravia, the classiest part of SW1. A person who could afford to keep a live-in cook—not a cook-housekeeper but a cook—and imperiously demand a Cordon Bleu qualification (which meant the salary would be more than peanuts) wouldn’t be living in Perkin’s Rents and doing her shopping on Strutton Ground. Nor would she be renovating some tired terrace house in the Pimlico Grid and making shopping trips to Sainsbury’s, Nine Elms. She’d be living in Belgravia, possibly in one of the Eatons—Eaton Place, Eaton Terrace, maybe even Eaton Square—and doing her shopping in Harrods Food Hall.
I decided I could take to life in Belgravia very happily, but did I have any hope at all of nailing such a glittering prize? Normally I would never have considered applying for anything so upmarket. Rich, beautiful people, I had always told myself, would never want to employ someone who couldn’t mirror their glamour. However … I paused to examine my pre-conceived ideas. Someone who advertised in a church magazine wasn’t going to be a run-of-the-mill rich bitch, and someone who advertised in the St. Benet’s magazine was possibly not going to be a bitch at all. Perhaps she too believed everyone had value, and besides … would Nicholas have mentioned the job to me if he’d felt I had no chance of getting it?
A second later it dawned on me that he’d wanted me to apply—which in turn meant he’d seen no reason why I shouldn’t be successful. Perhaps he’d even seen me as ideally suited to work for this person—but no, I was getting carried away by my dream of living within a stone’s throw of Harrods’ Food Hall and I had to return to earth at once.
By this time I was in such a state of nervous excitement that I had to have yet another golden syrup biscuit. Almost immediately I paid the price for all my bingeing that day, and as soon as I’d finished vomiting I crawled upstairs, flopped on my bed and passed out in utter exhaustion.
XII
When I awoke an hour later I knew I had to call the advertiser immediately before I started bingeing again out of sheer fright. Marching downstairs I grabbed the magazine, reached for the telephone and started dialling.
The woman answered on the first ring. I pictured her reclining on a couch in a sumptuous drawing-room while sipping tea—Lapsang Souchong, perhaps—from a Crown Derby cup. Beyond the tall Georgian windows the trees of Eaton Square would be swaying in an exquisitely delicate breeze.
“Hullo?” It was certainly an aristocratic voice,
soprano and self-confident, and the manner proved to be aristocratic too, pleasant but steely, making me wonder if her charm was only skin-deep. A polite conversation ensued, effortlessly shaped by this formidable female. It was hard to guess how old she was. She could have been in her thirties but the effortless way in which she directed the interrogation made me suspect she was considerably older.
“What’s your connection with St. Benet’s?” she demanded sharply after asking the essential questions about my qualifications.
“The Rector conducted my aunt’s funeral today.”
Of course she didn’t offer her condolences. What was Aunt to her? She didn’t know me, and the idea that she might make an effort to observe the conventions of middle-class politeness obviously never entered her head. Instead she exclaimed with pleasure: “Ah, so you know Nick!” and for the first time I heard the genuine warmth in her voice.
Briskly she said: “Very well, this is the situation: I have a house in Eaton Terrace—the Eaton Square end—and there’s a tiny flat in the basement for a live-in employee, just a bedroom, sitting-room, bathroom and kitchen. I have the most wonderful cleaner, a treasure who comes in almost every day, so apart from the cooking you wouldn’t have to do anything except clean up after yourself in the kitchen—oh, and keep the basement flat spick-and-span, of course. I like to entertain a lot but otherwise there’s only me to cater for—I’m a widow and my children are grown up. I go away now and then, and while I’m away I’d expect you to act as a caretaker—which is why I advertised in Nick’s magazine; I’ve got to get the sort of person who’s absolutely honest, even when she’s unsupervised, and I decided my best course was to trawl a Christian community and ask the priest’s opinion of whoever turned up in the net … Nick didn’t mention you, by the way, when I placed the advertisement last week.”
The Wonder Worker Page 6