“You bet!” said Stacy. “Thanks for those biscuits, Alice—they were great!”
“I’ll give you some to take home,” I said pleased, and leaving Francie, lips pursed, in the sitting-room I led him to the kitchen.
“She’s hinting that I should offer to say a prayer,” said Stacy in a stage-whisper as I opened the biscuit tin. “Would you like that, Alice? I’ll keep it short and sweet, I promise, but it’ll get God nicely on the line if you want to have a chat with him later.”
I was so disarmed by this vision of a sociable deity waiting hopefully in heaven with a receiver in his hand that I said at once: “Okay—pray away!”
For the first time Stacy became very sober and well behaved. He crossed himself, clasped his hands, bent his head, closed his eyes and said with unimpeachable sincerity: “Almighty Father, look after Alice in her bereavement, and by the power of your Holy Spirit enable us, your servants at St. Benet’s, to look after her too. In the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord, Amen.”
I allowed a respectful pause to develop before I said politely: “Thanks. Very nice,” and dropped the remaining cookies into a plastic bag.
“Stacy!” called Francie from the hall.
“Come back to St. Benet’s soon,” said Stacy encouragingly to me, “and I’ll show you the photos of my sister Aisling’s wedding—and I’ll make you coffee to go with them.” He didn’t wait for a reply but dashed away, tipping a picture askew as his shoulder brushed the wall, and bounded out of the front door into the street.
Francie said apologetically: “He hasn’t been at St. Benet’s long. I’m afraid he’s a bit raw.”
“I thought he was sweet,” I said truthfully.
“Dear Alice!” said Francie, sighing in apparently genuine admiration. “Always so nice!” She gave me a quick hug before adding: “But I can’t possibly go without offering you further help—you’re going to have an enormous amount to do, clearing the house and moving to Eaton Terrace. Shall I come back tomorrow? I may not be able to escape from the Centre during the day but all my evenings are still free because Harry’s had to go on from Tokyo to Singapore.”
I’d already begun to wonder how I was ever going to be ready to begin life in Eaton Terrace by the end of the month.
“Thanks, Francie,” I said, deciding I couldn’t afford to be too proud to accept further help. “That’s very good of you.”
III
How I would have managed without Francie in the days that followed, I have no idea. Even though I didn’t have to organise the sale of the house, the bric-a-brac had to be sorted out, the junk in the loft had to be carted away and the surplus furniture had to be shed. In the end Francie took time off from the Healing Centre to help me deal with removal companies, second-hand furniture dealers and house clearance firms, and when I did finally move into the basement flat at Eaton Terrace it was she who tipped the removal men, bought flowers to bring a blaze of colour to the dark little sitting-room and on impulse took me out to supper at a bistro in Chelsea. By that time I liked her so much that I felt sad to think our paths would never cross again.
“Of course we’ll meet soon at St. Benet’s!” she declared when we said goodbye, but I was now more convinced than ever that I had to sever the connection with Nicholas. Whenever Francie had gossiped cosily about “Nick and Ros,” she had unwittingly underlined how stupid it would have been for me to involve myself further with him.
“I suppose we’re all a bit in love with Nick,” she had confided at one point. “He’s so magnetic, isn’t he? Such charisma, as everyone used to say back in the sixties! But he has a very quiet private life. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday he slaves away at St. Benet’s and never socialises. Then late on Friday night he scoots down to Surrey to spend the weekend with Ros—he always goes, nothing’s ever allowed to stop him, and it’s obvious that by the end of the week he simply can’t wait to see her again …”
After this conversation I spent some time feeling jealous of Rosalind the Wonder Woman, who was clearly one of those fabled creatures who “have it all”—stunning husband, stunning home, stunning career and (inevitably) stunning children—but so thankful was I to be neither homeless nor unemployed that it soon seemed ridiculous to envy her just because she had sensibly made the most of her good fortune in a world I could never enter. She’d been lucky in that world of hers, but now I’d been lucky in mine. I made up my mind to forget her—and that, of course, meant forgetting Nicholas as well. At least Francie’s information had spared me the torment of wondering when Lady Cynthia would invite him to dinner. Unavailable during the week he would be out of town every weekend.
With a faultless display of common sense I resolved to devote myself single-mindedly to my amazing job in Belgravia.
IV
At first I was so overwhelmed, adjusting to my new life, that I could do little in the evenings after stacking the dishwasher except eat rum raisin ice cream and gawp with glazed eyes at the television screen. (Lady Cynthia had included a video with the TV—a most generous bonus.) However, eventually I became relaxed enough to draw up a very beautiful diet-sheet, the low-calorie meals all highlighted in serene pastel colours. This artistic masterpiece I fixed to the door of the refrigerator in my flat and afterwards I felt very hopeful and positive.
Meanwhile I had adjusted to the Polo, found the supermarket in the King’s Road, mastered the kitchen appliances and tamed the monster Mortimer, whose special dogfood was delivered weekly from Harrods. Sad-eyed, shrill-voiced and tyrannical, he soon realised Lady Cynthia got cross whenever he confused me with his Harrods rations, so after our initial unpleasant encounters he kept his teeth to himself. Lady Cynthia supervised his meals, thank God. All I had to do was keep his food-plate clean and see that his bowl of water was topped up. A week after my arrival I catered for my first dinner-party (pear and Stilton soup, red mullet and red pepper tart, crème brûlée aux kiwis) and the eleven guests ate everything in a gratifying display of greed. The next day I overheard her saying to someone on the phone: “I’ve found this marvellous cook, but you’ll never guess how I got hold of her! Through Nick Darrow’s church magazine! Trust Nick to turn up a miracle when required …”
By this time I was burning to know why Lady Cynthia visited the Healing Centre “now and then,” as Francie had put it, and I hoped I might eventually be enlightened by Lady Cynthia’s “treasure,” Mrs. Simcock, who came to the house four times a week to clean, wash and iron; she also supervised the window-cleaner during his visits, provided cups of tea for the man whom the gardening firm sent to tidy the back garden and walked Mortimer around Eaton Square every day before she went home.
Mrs. Simcock was sinewy, sharp-eyed, snobbish and devoted to Lady Cynthia, Mrs. Thatcher and the Queen. She would arrive at the house in Eaton Terrace in a designer coat (cast off by Lady Cynthia), very high-heeled shoes, and spectacles with diamanté trim, but she always worked in a track-suit and trainers; only the diamanté spectacles were worn throughout. Having decided that I wasn’t snooty, Mrs. Simcock was becoming increasingly confidential over elevenses.
I learnt that Lady Cynthia’s husband had died five years ago (“Drink,” said Mrs. Simcock with relish) and that her elder son, Billy, lived in an institution as he was severely autistic. (“Barmy,” said Mrs. Simcock with the unthinking cruelty of someone who has never experienced mental illness and never expects to.) I also learnt that the younger son, Richard, who worked for an oil company in Aberdeen, had recently married a Scottish girl. (“Not good enough for him,” said Mrs. Simcock aggrieved. “She’s got an accent and the best people up there don’t have accents. Look at the Queen Mum.”) I did suggest that Lady Cynthia was probably not expecting her son to marry a Bowes-Lyon, but Mrs. Simcock just retorted: “And why not, I’d like to know? She’s good enough for anyone!” And that was when I discovered that Lady Cynthia was indeed the daughter of a duke, not the offspring of a mere marquess or earl. But her big mistake, I was gloomily informed, w
as that she had married beneath her as the result of a grand passion when she was too young to know better.
“Not only was he just the second son of a clergyman,” said Mrs. Simcock with utter contempt, “but his grandfather was a draper—and from Yorkshire!” (I wasn’t sure why Yorkshire made matters so infinitely worse, but assumed it was because Mrs. Simcock, a true southerner, hated anything north of Watford Gap.)
Still yearning to uncover Lady Cynthia’s connection with St. Benet’s I said purposefully: “I suppose Lady Cynthia became interested in the Church when she married into a clerical family.”
“Oh no, dear, her husband was an atheist and all he wanted to do was kick the Church in the teeth. A real mess he was—nice-looking but a mess. When he was alive they lived in Flood Street—that was after the Duke died and Lady Cynthia inherited her share of the loot. Before that she and Dr. Aysgarth lived down the Fulham Road somewhere—I didn’t know her in those days, but I worked for her in Flood Street. Then after Dr. Aysgarth kicked the bucket she moved here.”
“But how did Lady Cynthia get interested in the Church?” I persisted, not in the least interested in all these classy locations and desperate to get my investigation back on course.
“Well, I expect she started believing in God, dear, some people do. Strange, isn’t it, I’ve never been able to see it myself—although mark you, if I had an alcoholic atheist for a husband I’d be right there hammering on the door of the nearest church and screaming for admittance just to spite him. But of course Lady Cynthia’s never spiteful, just saintly. My God, when I think what she had to put up with from that man—and she was so loyal, always standing by him—”
“I suppose being religious gave her the strength to cope.”
“Daughters of dukes don’t need religion for that, dear. Strength’s inborn. But I’ll say this for the Church: at least it gave her a holiday from that man every Sunday! She used to go to St. Luke’s Chelsea when she lived at Flood Street, but now she goes to St. Peter’s Eaton Square and if you ask me they’re bloody lucky to have her.”
In triumph I saw my chance. “What about that church in the City—St. Benet’s?”
“Oh, that one! Yes, that’s run by an old friend of hers, I know him, he came to Flood Street regularly while Dr. Aysgarth’s liver was packing up for the last time. Name of Darrow. Peculiar,” said Mrs. Simcock thoughtfully, “but nice-natured. Nowadays he helps her with Mr. Billy the Barmy—once a year she takes Mr. Billy to some sort of special healing service at St. Benet’s. Of course it never cures him but it makes her feel better. Funny thing, religion …”
I pondered on this information but felt it could only be a partial explanation of the St. Benet’s connection. Francie had certainly given me the impression that Lady Cynthia appeared there more than once a year.
I don’t know whether Mrs. Simcock’s stories about the tragedies in Lady Cynthia’s life triggered the explosion of upsetting thoughts which, I can now see, had been gathering in my unconscious mind since Aunt’s death, but on the day after my first dinner-party I sank fathoms deep into depression and started weeping in the lavatory, sobbing in the supermarket and generally giving way to the kind of emotional behaviour which Aunt had always loathed. In a paroxysm of grief I tore up my diet-sheet and made myself a Black Forest gateau, but that lapse just made me more depressed than ever, and the next morning, when I came within an inch of pranging the Polo, I realised it was time to start facing up to the cold hard facts of life. Supposing I lost my job, my home and all my new security? I had to treat the situation as an emergency and get help straight away.
With great reluctance, unwilling to re-establish the connection but seeing no easy alternative, I phoned the Healing Centre and asked to speak to Francie Parker.
V
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s very normal to get a reaction at this stage. Come over here as soon as you can and I’ll be waiting with the coffee.”
Shuddering with relief I headed for the tube station at Sloane Square.
As soon as I reached the reception area of the Healing Centre Francie led me into a very small, very private room and plied me with coffee while I destroyed numerous Kleenexes and reflected dimly, as I made fruitless attempts to check my tears, how much I hated myself for such a humiliating loss of control.
“… and I even tore up my diet-sheet!” I bawled, finally sinking into bathos. “It was so beautiful—I’d worked it all out, right down to the last calorie—I’ve been reading all these marvellous low-cal cookbooks because Lady Cynthia likes to weight-watch when she’s not entertaining—and now everything’s ruined because all my will-power’s gone and the only thing I can do is eat Black Forest gateau and rum raisin ice cream—”
“Hey, this sounds really upsetting.” Francie, to her eternal credit, remained dead serious, demonstrating that there were times when a stunted sense of humour could even be described as an asset. “I’m so sorry, Alice.”
I shed some more tears while Francie heroically maintained her sympathy, but having vented the worst of my misery I was at last able to pull myself together. “Okay,” I said. “I feel better after letting all that out. I’ll be all right now. Thanks for listening.”
“Hang on,” said Francie quickly as I hauled myself to my feet. “Now that you’re here, why don’t you have a quick word with Nick?”
“Oh no,” I said at once. “No, I wouldn’t dream of bothering him.”
“But it’s his job to bother when people are in situations as tough as yours, Alice! He wouldn’t grudge you the time no matter how busy he was. Let me just see if—”
“No, absolutely not!” I grabbed a handful of tissues for the journey home.
“Okay,” said Francie hastily, startled by my fierceness, “but won’t you at least keep in touch to let me know how you’re getting on?”
“Yes, of course. Thanks again, you’ve been wonderful,” I said, anxious to show her she wasn’t unappreciated, “but now I must go. There’s shopping to do—things to cook—and anyway I mustn’t take up any more of your time.”
Hurrying out of the little interview room I blundered down the corridor to the reception area—and there, helping himself to coffee from the machine, was Nicholas Darrow.
V
“Oh, there you are!” he said nonchalantly. “I was hoping you’d turn up. Do you have a moment to tell me how you’re getting on with Mortimer?”
Well, I could hardly have said no, could I? It would have been so rude, and besides … all my will-power had evaporated. It was like opening the door of the freezer and seeing the tub of rum raisin ice cream; I knew that just a couple of spoonfuls were guaranteed to make me feel so much better.
Naturally there was no disguising my emotional state. I could picture my bloodshot eyes and blotched face, and it occurred to me, as I nodded my head to accept his invitation, that even a dead cod on a fishmonger’s slab would have looked more appealing.
Seconds later I was again sinking down in the chair which allowed his desk to hide half my body from him, and he was closing the door of his consulting-room.
“I had a reaction this morning from all the stress,” I said, feeling driven to explain my cod-like appearance, “but Francie’s been great. I’m fine now.”
He never queried this statement. He merely said: “I’m glad you felt you could turn to her for help. How’s the job?”
“Brilliant! I cooked dinner for twelve last night. It was great fun.”
“Is Mortimer still getting his food from Harrods?”
“They deliver every week.”
“If I were you, I’d slip him a supermarket dog-biscuit every now and then. Give the poor chap a break.”
I smiled, and when I finally dared to look at him I saw he was smiling too. He was wearing a very clean blue shirt, perfectly ironed—one of those modern clerical shirts where the collar is just a token strip of white plastic, barely visible—and he was also, I noticed with astonishment, wearing jeans. On all our pre
vious meetings he had been so conventionally dressed that I had automatically classified him as a mainstream clergyman despite his unusual ministry, but now it occurred to me that he might be just as off-beat as Lewis Hall—not exactly a rebel and certainly not a rogue, but someone who was highly original, perhaps even a touch eccentric. But on the other hand, what did I know about clergymen? Perhaps nowadays hordes of them wore jeans whenever they weren’t conducting services. I could well imagine Aunt declaring that the Church of England was going to the dogs by tolerating such informality, and tears filled my eyes again as I remembered her.
I took off my glasses and began to polish them. “I keep thinking of Aunt,” I said to Nicholas, now visible only as a blur, “but they’re good thoughts. It was so wonderful at the end. Thanks to you.” Putting the glasses on the desk I groped in my bag for a tissue. “I’m glad she was able to die in peace at last. I’m glad I’m relieved of the awful worry and strain of those last months. But I miss her. And I miss my nice little home in Dean Danvers Street and the market at Strutton Ground and Big Ben chiming the hours and Orlando’s grave in the garden—”
“Ah yes, the handsome cat.”
“He had such a beautiful grave … I planted a rose-bush …” The tissue was soggy now. As I clenched my fists I pictured it being condensed to pulp in my palm. “But I mustn’t be sentimental,” I said. “Aunt despised sentimentality. And I don’t want to be ungrateful when I’ve got so much to be thankful for—Lady Cynthia, a new home, a good job—oh, I do know, believe me, just how lucky I am! Aunt hated people who couldn’t count their blessings.”
“I feel I know exactly what your aunt thought about all kinds of things,” said Nicholas wryly, “but what do you yourself think, Alice? Now that you’re free to take charge of your life, what territories are you going to explore and what shape will your journey take?”
“I can’t explore anything until I’ve lost weight. But that’s okay, I’ll do that once I’m settled, I don’t need any help on that one, I’m fine.”
The Wonder Worker Page 8