The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  We took Stacy on in the belief that he had potential, that he would develop and improve. But we were deluding ourselves. The boy’s a disaster. If he stays there’ll inevitably be a pastoral mess of the worst kind: either he’ll make a catastrophic balls-up in treating a client or he’ll get engaged to please Nicholas and then go cottaging in secret when the strain of a live-a-lie life becomes too much for him.

  I foresee screaming headlines in the News of the World, the Archdeacon descending on us like the wrath of God and the Archbishop phoning the Bishop of London to ask just what on earth is going on in his charismatic backyard. The reputation of the Healing Centre would be tainted. Nicholas’s ministry could well be washed up, closed down, wiped out …

  Game, set and match to the Devil.

  Still reeling from this kick from the cloven hoof I regain control of my tongue but find I can only say feebly to Stacy: “Look, I don’t think we can profitably continue this conversation tonight. Let’s wait till Nicholas gets back before we explore the situation further.”

  I’m in such a pole-axed state that I forget Stacy’s longing to keep Nicholas in ignorance, and the result’s a disaster.

  “You can’t tell Nick!” yelps Stacy in panic. “You’ve got to treat every word of this conversation as confidential!”

  Triple-hell! Now I’m really stymied! But as a priest there’s only one response I can give, so I give it. “All right, Stacy,” I say. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, but I can’t stress too strongly that you should tell Nicholas everything before he receives feedback from other people and puts two and two together. How do you think you’re going to keep the incident at Sion College quiet? Not only is he in close touch with Tucker about our AIDS programme, but he sees several of the other priests regularly at the local clergy meetings.”

  But Stacy just says desperately: “I’ll talk my way out of that,” and dissolving into sobs again he bolts at last from the room.

  ***************

  (I’m getting fond of using asterisks to denote a horrifying hiatus.)

  Well, I try to calm down but it’s hard. My thoughts are scurrying all over the place. Surely Stacy doesn’t imagine he can stay at the Rectory for ever? It’s his second curacy and he’s due to be here three years. Then he’ll move on, just as a curate always should. But could he perhaps be seeing himself moving on not to a parish or a hospital chaplaincy but to a salaried job at the Healing Centre? We’d like to take on another priest some day, particularly now I’m getting older, and Nicholas has probably said as much to Stacy—who’s now dreaming of a permanent niche for himself at St. Benet’s. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Stacy must know his work leaves a lot to be desired, but obviously he’s sidestepped that knowledge by kidding himself all will be well so long as he tries to be a Nick-clone. Dear God, what a mess …

  If the situation wasn’t so dangerous it would be tragic, of course—tragic and pathetic. Poor little Stacy. But what on earth am I going to do?

  Unfortunately I must leave that question dangling as I have no idea how to answer it, and anyway it’s time to describe the second kick from the cloven hoof.

  Well, after Stacy’s bolted sobbing upstairs to the curate’s flat, I beetle to the kitchen, invade the refrigerator and eat three slices of mushroom quiche left over from lunch, a lettuce leaf, a small pot of coleslaw and a large bowl of rum raisin ice cream. I wash all this down with a double-whisky, generously diluted with repeated dashes of sodawater, and afterwards I feel more human. Back in the bedsit I soothe my nerves further by listening to Bach, and I’m just thinking that the possibility of sleep might not, after all, be remote, when I hear the doorbell ring.

  I glance at my watch. Half-past ten. Too late for a social call, but certainly not too late for a desperate soul, drunk, drugged, suicidal, homicidal or just plain homeless who fancies some Christian attention. I struggle into the hall. Can I manage for a few seconds without my crutches? Of course—if I’m more or less stationary. Setting them aside I grab the rounders bat which we keep by the front door and prepare for action. I’m hardly an illustration of the command “Love Thy Neighbour” at this moment, but there’s nothing particularly Christian about being foolhardy and although the City’s crime rate is low there’s always the chance of a priest-hating psychopath turning up. With my hand on the latch I peep through the spy-hole.

  Bad news.

  My visitor’s Francie Parker and she’s clearly off her rocker.

  ***************

  Francie hasn’t been at St. Benet’s today. She had to go down to Kent to take her mother to hospital for an X-ray. Perhaps the strain of her absence from St. Benet’s has unhinged her—but maybe she would have become unhinged today anyway, whether or not she’d received her regular weekday fix of Nicholas Darrow.

  I know straight away she’s unhinged because her appearance is disordered. Francie’s an attractive woman and she normally dresses well, but at this moment her hair’s wild, she looks as if she’s wearing a nightdress under her open coat and I’ll bet her feet are clad only in slippers. I realise that either she wants to create the impression that she’s dashed straight out of the house after an outstandingly brutal assault, or else she’s so far over the edge that she has no idea she’s wearing the wrong clothes. But whatever’s going on she’s in crisis. Discarding the rounders bat I warily open the door.

  “Oh Lewis—”

  Now that we’re face to face it seems very clear to me that she’s not a terrified, beaten-up victim reeling to the Rectory for help. She’s rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed and mainlining on adrenaline—high as a kite no doubt, but I’d stake my reputation it’s not violence she’s high on. I’d also stake my reputation that I was right in my suspicions of Francie, Nicholas was wrong, and now we’re up to our dog-collars in a grade-A clerical nightmare.

  “Francie!” I exclaim, unable to decide what my opening sentence should be but knowing that these two syllables will buy me a little time to make up my mind. I clasp my small pectoral cross and pray for inspiration. None comes.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course—why not?” I say agreeably, waving her across the threshold. This may seem the height of recklessness, but I’m trying to be pragmatic; slamming the door in Francie’s face will hardly solve the problem. What I’ve got to do is to defuse her by diagnosing what’s going on and getting her to a doctor. After all, the likelihood is that I’m in no danger myself; it’s Nicholas she’s gunning for, not me.

  But while I’m reaching this sensible conclusion I’m intensely aware that Francie might be operating at a level which defies sensible conclusions. I am, after all, a former exorcist, and even though I retired from the ministry of deliverance after getting booted out of my last diocese I’m not suffering from amnesia on this particular subject. The fact is I could be in as much danger as Nicholas would be if he were now here at the Rectory; if the Devil’s annexed Francie’s personality, then all manner of atrocities could happen.

  But having acknowledged this most dramatic of possibilities, I decide it’s unlikely that Francie is, in the classical sense, possessed. I see none of the famous symptoms, and Francie’s certainly not vomiting all over me, wetting herself or going into a tail-spin at the sight of the cross on my chest. Much more probable is the theory that the Devil could be infiltrating the Rectory by riding on a mental disorder which was already present in her, and that means I’ve got to focus on the mental disorder, not the Devil, in order to figure out exactly how to handle this situation.

  At that point I switch modes of thought. I don’t stop thinking in the old-fashioned religious metaphors—that mental process is still continuing on one level of my mind and I keep a tight grip on my cross—but on another level I start thinking in the language of psychology. What sort of mental illness is Francie experiencing here? Is this just a neurotic acting-out or is it a psychotic episode? Is she a hysteric? Is this some sort of dissociated fugue? Or is she just pie-eyed while under the influence of a romantic love which h
as veered towards grand opera rather than soap opera? We all know how nutty people can be when they’re in love but we don’t normally judge them clinically insane and lock them up in a mental hospital until they feel better.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” I say pleasantly to Francie after this lightning review of diagnoses ranging from the melodramatic to the banal. “It’s warmer in there.”

  “Thanks!” Francie’s genuinely appreciative, perfectly friendly. “Oh Lewis, I’m so sorry to call so late—what on earth can you be thinking!”

  I try a touch of reality to see how she reacts. “I’m thinking you must be very cold in your nightgown and slippers.”

  “I was so terrified that I didn’t even stop to dress!”

  So she’s still pushing the fantasy. But is she a hysteric who’s hypnotised herself into genuinely believing that what she says is true, or is she well aware that she’s lying in order to further a carefully constructed plan? I’ve no idea, but at least she’s not hearing voices which command her to kill every priest in sight; I’m tempted to discard the possibility that this is a psychotic episode. I’m also tempted to discard the possibility that she’s a hysteric. Francie’s never shown signs of having a hysteric personality—although I need to remember that a traumatic incident can induce uncharacteristic reactions even in people not normally vulnerable to dissociative states.

  “I’ll make you some tea,” I say, playing for time again as we enter the kitchen.

  “Lovely—but Lewis, aren’t you supposed to be convalescing? On second thoughts I mustn’t keep you up when you’re probably longing to rest! I’ll just go straight upstairs to Nick’s flat.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find it empty,” I say blandly. “If you’d been at the Centre today you’d have heard that he’s away on business.”

  This information really puts a spanner in the works. Glancing back over my shoulder as I fill the kettle I see the fury flash in her eyes before she regains her self-control and at that point I strongly suspect she knows exactly what she’s doing. But on the other hand, as I have to remind myself, she’d still be cross about Nicholas’s absence even if she’d hypnotised herself into a state which had little connection with reality.

  “Nick’s not here?” she demands incredulously, hardly able to comprehend such misfortune.

  “Unfortunately not, but never mind, Francie, I’m more than willing to help you! As soon as we’ve had tea I’ll call the police.”

  “Police?” This isn’t in the script at all. In a flash she sees she has to forget her plan to bed Nicholas tonight and concentrate on preserving the fantasy of the sadistic husband.

  “The man must be taken to court and charged with assault!” I say firmly. “He’s obviously so dangerous that no other option is possible!”

  “But Lewis, you don’t understand …” Her bosom heaves. She starts to weep. It’s Kleenex time again at the Rectory.

  I decide to take a risk and initiate another infusion of reality. “My dear,” I say in my dryest voice as I produce the Kleenex, “I’m afraid you must take it as settled that I understand all too well.”

  She flinches, staring at me not merely with anger but with a new rush of incredulity. Is this—can this be dear, sweet, kind, lovable Lewis, cuddly old priest, who never fails to be benign towards bouncy, flouncy Francie, the Befriender who’s always so charming and chic? That pushover Dr. Jekyll, she realises with horror, has suddenly transformed himself into a most formidable Mr. Hyde, and her brilliant scheme for seducing Nicholas is now in very serious danger indeed.

  “Sit down,” I order, waving a crutch at the kitchen table, “and let’s both observe a minute’s silence. I need to make the tea and you need to reconsider your position.”

  Silence falls, broken only by the sound of Francie’s tasteful sobs. I suspect she has no pressing inclination to cry; she’s too furious. But she feels she has to go through the motions in order to conjure up the image of a deeply wronged heroine.

  Meanwhile I’m reminding myself that I have to be very, very careful. I’m so keen to defuse Francie that I could wind up making a bad mess. What I want, of course, is for her to volunteer a confession and agree to accept medical help. What I don’t want is for her to retreat into some new dream-world where medical help has to be resisted at all costs—or where she hears a voice telling her that arch-villain Lewis Hall must be killed in order to protect and preserve Her Great Love. Dismantling fantasies can be the psychological equivalent of dealing with dynamite. I can almost hear the screams of a dozen psychiatrists begging me to go no further.

  “Now, Francie,” I say at last when the tea is made and we’re sitting facing each other at the kitchen table, “you mustn’t think I’m not willing to listen. Tell me, please, every detail of this latest brutal assault which, as usual, has left no visible marks. You have my full attention.”

  But she’s cleverer than I’d anticipated. She’s prepared some evidence, and as it’s evidence designed to be shown to Nicholas, it’s deposited in a most strategic location. Jumping to her feet she sheds her coat, tears down the straps of her nightdress and displays her breasts.

  Very nice. I’m exceedingly partial to breasts. These are a trifle scratched, but there’s nothing there I couldn’t overlook if I had other purposes in mind.

  “Where are all the bruises?” I demand. “Where are the welts and cuts? All I see is possible evidence that when your husband last made love to you he clawed instead of stroked! That certainly proves he needs to upgrade his sexual technique but it doesn’t prove he’s a wife-beater!”

  She’s so furious now that she can hardly speak but she manages to hiss: “You swine! Of course everyone knows you’re a repressed homosexual who’s revolted by women!”

  “Oh yes?” I say vaguely. “Who’s ‘everyone’?” As I speak I’m moving to the corner of the room and activating the intercom. “Alice,” I say a moment later before Francie can dream up a reply, “come to the kitchen at once, please. Francie’s here, she’s very upset and I’m sure she’d like another woman to be present.”

  “No!” screams Francie, but the order’s been given. Panic-stricken she wrenches back the straps of her nightdress and drags on her coat. Her hands are shaking with rage and also, I sense, with shock. We could be approaching the moment when she’s too rattled to do anything except come clean.

  I decide it’s time to soft-pedal. “Sorry, Francie,” I say regretfully, reviving Dr. Jekyll. “Believe me, I have every sympathy for you in your distress, but if I’m to help you survive this very genuine ordeal, we’ve got to agree on what the ordeal actually is.” I metaphorically lob her a rope which she can use to haul herself to safety—if she doesn’t decide to use it to hang herself. “Is the damage internal?” I say earnestly. “Is the damage in fact not non-existent but so appalling that you can’t bring yourself to describe it?”

  She decides to hang herself. That’s sad. I was so hoping she’d reject this counter-fantasy and retreat into the truth. “Yes,” she says, remembering to sob again. “Yes, that’s it. The damage is all inside.”

  Do I snap the trap shut or not? I could say that in that case we should summon Val at once to gather the medical evidence for the police, but that proposal might well send Francie over the edge. Maybe I should back off and try to bring the confession to birth in some other way.

  I’m still reviewing my options when Alice walks in, charmingly rotund in a cherry-red dressing-gown. This is obviously my evening for being stimulated by women in various stages of undress, but I regret to say that by this time I’m too exhausted to appreciate such unexpected treats. Revving up some energy from somewhere I smile at Alice and say: “How good of you to come so promptly, but I suspect we may not need you here after all. Do we need Alice, Francie?”

  Francie shakes her head. She can’t look at Alice, and this is probably because Alice represents normality, the world of sanity which will somehow have to be re-entered when this gala performance comes to an end. I’m no
w quite certain that although Francie’s seriously nuts about Nicholas, so nuts that she requires treatment, she knows she’s fantasising about the wife-beating, just as she knows she can’t murder nasty old priests who are sceptical about her “ripping yarns.” Flipping back into the religious mode of thought I confirm to myself: no possession; exorcism unnecessary; the laying-on of hands, prayer and community support required during and after the appropriate medical treatment.

  And the Devil? He’ll back off once she enters the healing process because he’s not fundamentally interested in her at all. His interest is in the ministry of St. Benet’s, and he’ll look around for another Trojan horse to ride.

  “Thank you, Alice,” I say to my witness. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Alice, velvety eyes wide with bemusement and fascination, withdraws with reluctance.

  “All right, Francie,” I say, instantly becoming much cuddlier. “I know I’ve been behaving like a brute, but that’s only because I’m so anxious to help you and I can’t help you unless I know what the truth is here. Now, let me take your last allegation absolutely seriously in order to prove to you that I’m one hundred per cent committed to your welfare. Should we send for Val so that you can have an internal examination? You may well be severely damaged, and I’d be failing in my duty as a priest if I didn’t pull out all the stops to get you to a doctor.”

  I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve cracked it. Francie knows she can’t see a doctor, but she doesn’t blame me for urging this course of action, because (she thinks) I’m acting not out of scepticism but out of full-blooded Christian concern. The moment’s come when she has to abandon the fantasy of the internal injuries, but that’s a viable course of action now because I’m not going to be an unsympathetic brute, crowing over her humiliation, but a cuddly old priest panting to be pastoral—and isn’t there something immensely comforting about the thought that despite all the horrors of the present scene I’m still rooting for her so hard that I’m oozing empathy from every pore?