The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  After a while I heard myself say: “I know I can’t expect you to understand.”

  “My dear,” said Clare in such a gentle voice that my defences were finally annihilated, “of course I understand. You love Rosalind very much. That’s why it seems, doesn’t it, that you couldn’t possibly have done what in fact you did do. How could you ever have done such a thing, you’re saying to yourself, to the person you love best in the world, your lifelong friend, the mother of your children, your wife for the past twenty years? It’s quite literally unthinkable—so you unthink it, you deny it, you turn that powerful gift for hypnosis upon yourself and you will yourself to blot such a terrible question from your mind.”

  I had my elbows on the table by this time. I was shading my eyes with my hands. The mental pain was so excruciating that I wanted to slam my head against the wall until I lost consciousness. I managed to say: “Rosalind did upset me. But I’d been upsetting her for years and years—I’d upset her so much that she couldn’t take it any more. So all this is my fault, not hers.”

  Clare said nothing.

  “It’s my fault the marriage is in a mess,” I said. “It’s my fault I went out of control last night. What happened last night had nothing to do with healing and nothing to do with being an honest priest trying to serve God. I was just a wonder worker. The only person I wanted to serve was myself.”

  “And where is God now in all this?”

  I dug my fists into my eyes to dam the tears but said strongly: “With Rosalind. With the abused and exploited everywhere.”

  “God’s with the people who suffer, yes. And Rosalind’s not the only one who’s suffering here, is she?”

  I gave up trying to stop the tears. I abandoned my ruined defences. I stared at her ugly hands folded in front of me on the table as my voice said: “I don’t deserve any support from God after what I did.”

  “Maybe not, but God’s not interested in operating a brownie-point system—he’s only interested in loving and forgiving those who are brave enough not to deny what they’ve done, no matter how terrible, brave enough to be truly sorry, brave enough to resolve to make a fresh start in serving him as well as they possibly can.”

  Once again it proved impossible to reply. I sat there with the tears streaming down my face, and then just as I was thinking how utterly I was cut off from Christ the Healer, that shining, mysterious figure I had tried so hard for so long to follow, Clare reached out across the table and briefly covered my clenched fists with her scarred hands.

  IV

  I didn’t make a habit of crying. But in my work I saw people of both sexes weep as they wrestled with the cutting edge of reality, so I had no macho delusion that tears were only to be shed by women and children. Many men would have been embarrassed to cry in a woman’s presence, but Clare was so much more than just her gender; that was merely one aspect of her multi-sided personality, and to me it wasn’t the most interesting facet. I didn’t find her sexually attractive. What intrigued me was the way her considerable intelligence was perfectly integrated with her humdrum daily activities. She told me once she was as happy cooking for eight as she was reading the New Testament in Greek. All work was for God. Manual work could provide as much satisfaction as intellectual work. Everything was all of a piece. Life was balanced, rounded, whole.

  I admired this Benedictine attitude to life and could only regret how often I failed to live up to the Benedictine ideal. I was very far from being as well integrated as Clare. I had certain talents but they were mental and psychical. I hated working with my hands. It bored me. Over the years I’d tried many different kinds of manual and artistic activity—carpentry, carving, cooking, even knitting—but I was useless at all of them. In the end I found I could do no more than paint bad water-colours of Rosalind’s beautiful garden; it wasn’t much of a past-time but it was better than nothing. The boys thought this hobby was vaguely pansyish and that I was vaguely nuts. I’d never told them I’d once tried to buck the sexual stereotype by dabbling with knitting.

  I often wished I was musical, like Lewis. He worked hard but he knew how to switch off, either by listening to his CDs or by playing the church organ. Lewis was no workaholic. But I was forever fighting the urge to work till I dropped.

  I was also poor at domestic life, a failing which exacerbated my workaholic tendency. Without effort Clare—five years my junior but with the spiritual maturity of someone much older—had diagnosed these handicaps at the beginning of our relationship, and ever since had tried to help me achieve a more balanced life. Probably she had never approved of the way I had split off my family life from my work, but she had abstained from criticism. Meeting me as I was she saw me as I was. No wonder I had no conventional masculine hang-up about shedding tears in her presence! I didn’t have to keep up a front to preserve her illusions. Seeing me always in the light of truth she never had any illusions to preserve.

  When I had wiped away the last tear we talked further about the situation. She wanted to be sure she had fully understood the implications for my career in the event of a divorce.

  “Well, there’s no point in discussing that,” I said, “because I’m going to get Rosalind back. It’ll take a long time, I realise that, and it’ll require a lot of hard work on my part, but I’m willing to do anything to save the marriage.” And when she remained silent I added: “This is a call to integrate my family life and my working life, I see that so clearly now. I’ve got to redeem this disaster by using it as an opportunity to improve my marriage and make Rosalind much happier.”

  Clare made no comment on these statements but asked instead: “How would the Church authorities view the fact that your marriage is currently in difficulties?” As a Roman Catholic she was always cautious in her speculations about the rules, customs and general chaos prevailing in the Church of England. The messy open-endedness of our structures as we strive to accommodate the widest possible variety of opinions within the given parameters must so often seem weird to the Romans.

  “The Archdeacon might drop in for a chat if he heard I had marital trouble,” I said, “and I’m sure the Bishop would make time to see me if I asked for help, but I’m not a career priest, always on the prowl for the next big promotion, and the hierarchy tends to leave mavericks like me well alone. So long as I’m not running around with an underage girl or abusing clients at the Healing Centre, nobody’s going to be asking for my head on a platter.”

  “Not even if you divorce?”

  “Priests tend to survive divorce nowadays, particularly when there’s been no scandal and the priest has done his best to keep the marriage going. The real problem is when a divorced priest wants to remarry … But why are we still talking of divorce when I’ve told you it definitely isn’t on the agenda?”

  “Because we know divorce is on Rosalind’s agenda and that means we can’t pretend the possibility of a final break-up doesn’t exist. I admire, of course, your commitment to your marriage and your desire for a better integrated life, but in my admiration I mustn’t turn a blind eye to reality.”

  The implication was that I shouldn’t either. Instinctively I tried to impress her by being practical. “I’m all for facing reality,” I said, “and now that we’ve discussed the present situation, can we talk about what I should do next?”

  “First of all you must make your formal confession to a priest. I know it sounds very Roman to say ‘must’ when the Church of England prides itself on saying ‘may,’ but in these particular circumstances—”

  “No need to sound apologetic. I’m an Anglican Catholic who believes in regular confession to a priest even when the confession’s going to be hell, but can I confess to Lewis? Or would that be a cop-out?” I usually went to the Fordite monks to make my confession, but the idea of recounting the previous evening’s events to yet another person was hard to bear.

  Clare paused to consider my request. “It would be a cop-out to use Lewis if you hadn’t first made a comprehensive confession to me,” s
he said at last, “but you have. However, there’s still a danger in using him. He could be sentimental about you, and you could use his sentimentality to manipulate him.”

  “He’s too sharp to allow that.”

  “Is he? Lewis’s weakness, so you’ve told me, is his attitude to women. He’s also immensely fond of you. Unless you vow before God to be utterly honest you could wind up in a situation where you confess what you did to Rosalind in euphemisms and Lewis colludes with you by implying that she asked for it.”

  “I promise you that won’t happen.”

  “Reassure me by pretending I’m Lewis and saying exactly what you did to Rosalind last night.”

  “I abused and exploited her.”

  “Those are euphemisms. Try again.”

  “I …” But the word refused to be spoken.

  “If she suffered it,” said Clare, “you can say it.”

  “Right. Yes. I raped her. I raped her,” I repeated distinctly, and tried to block off the resulting agony by adding at once: “I’ll say that to Lewis, I promise.” Just articulating another sentence stopped me hearing that terrible word echoing in my mind, but the pain was still excruciating.

  “After the confession,” said Clare, as if sensing how much I needed her to keep talking, “you should think much more about what God’s purpose is for Rosalind and how you can best help her fulfil it. It strikes me that you’re so consumed with your fear of losing her that all you can think of is your own threatened ego. It’s very natural for the wounds caused by your mother’s death to be reopened by this present situation, but try to keep in mind the fact that fear is one of the strongest forces which cuts us off from God—you must fight the temptation to build a wall around yourself and hide behind it. Remember too that the best kind of love is always unselfish, not consumed with the ego’s demands but with the desire to help the beloved. I would recommend that you make a short retreat—straight away if possible—so that you can think and pray about all this in the necessary depth, without distraction.”

  “I’ll go to the Fordite monks.”

  “Fine, yes, that’s good. In a familiar place the stress will be minimalised.”

  “At least it’ll give Rosalind a break from me.”

  “To be honest, I think you each need a break from the other. Try at least a couple of weeks apart and see how the situation looks when you’ve both cooled off.”

  “You mean I should suggest to Rosalind that she returns to Butterfold?”

  “I’ve got a hunch that in addition to making a short retreat this is the most practical thing you can do. Rosalind will regain her equilibrium more quickly once she’s reunited with her garden, and that’ll benefit you as well as her. The last thing you want now is for her to have a breakdown and be incapable of seeing you for months.”

  I flinched. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, think of it now—and pray for her. Pray for her constantly. Pray that she recovers from the trauma, pray that she’s enabled to set aside her anger, pray that she’s granted a respite from … Ah yes! Do you see now why she locked herself in Benedict’s room? She wasn’t just driven by anger, was she?”

  I shook my head.

  “What was the other emotion driving her?”

  With great difficulty I said: “Fear.”

  “Yes, now that you can acknowledge what you did you can also see how frightened she must have been, so pray, please, that she’s granted a respite from this fear of hers. Then you must pray for yourself. Your main task, as I see it, is to reopen the channel to God which your own fear has closed down. You need to pray for understanding, and understanding can’t take place in a closed mind. Try to prise your mind open again by asking certain questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “What exactly is the nature of this powerful feeling you have for Rosalind? Why precisely is this woman, who shares none of your interests, so vital to you? What’s actually been going on in your marriage? Has it helped you to serve God, and if so, in what way? Has this marriage helped Rosalind to serve God, or does her refusal to involve herself in your ministry signal that the marriage, as it stands at present, has blocked her spiritual journey? And finally …” She paused thoughtfully. At once I felt sure this last question was to be the most important.

  “And finally,” said Clare, looking me straight in the eyes, “ask yourself this: what is the significance of Bear?”

  “Bear?”

  “Bear.” She gave me one of her wintry smiles and added on a lighter note: “By the way, while on the subject of animals, how’s the cat?”

  “Doing well.” I was still floundering around in my childhood memories. “Alice is very good with him.”

  “And Alice herself? How’s she?”

  “Fine. Benefiting very much from life in a community.”

  “Good.”

  “I wish Rosalind could understand me when I talk of community,” I said impulsively, “but she’s too much of an individualist to listen.”

  “Is she, Nicholas? But you know all about being an individualist, don’t you? Didn’t you describe yourself only a moment ago as a maverick who was happy to operate outside the Church’s traditional career structures?”

  I was silenced.

  “Beware of projection,” said Clare wryly. “Beware of projecting onto Rosalind all those qualities of your own which don’t conform with your ideal image of yourself. And while we’re on the subject of that community life of yours in the City, let’s take a closer look at it. You actually have to hold yourself apart from those who work at the Centre, don’t you? A certain detachment is essential for people in your position. And although you’re sharing a house with three other people, how far is it a real community? For perfectly valid reasons you have to maintain a certain distance between Alice, the woman living under your roof, and Stacy, the pupil you’re trying to train. I suspect that your only real relationship is with Lewis, but a relationship between two men who each happens to fill a need in the other—for a brother in your case and for a son in Lewis’s—doesn’t constitute a community.”

  This was tough talk. I bent my head and started to examine my fingernails one by one.

  “And now let’s take a look at Rosalind,” said Clare. “Let’s take a look at this individualist who you say is incapable of understanding what the word ‘community’ means. Butterfold is a large village, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she lead an isolated life there, seeing no one?”

  “No. She has a lot of friends there. She was a power in the W.I. before her business took off. She goes to church with me every Sunday.”

  “She relates well to her community, it would seem.”

  “Yes. Okay, you’ve made your point—”

  “Her idea of community, perhaps, is a little different from yours. But whose idea of community is actually closer to the ideal?”

  I had run out of fingernails to examine. Too bad we didn’t have ten fingernails on each hand. I could have used some more fingernails at that point.

  “Assuming Rosalind isn’t entirely without community skills,” said Clare when I was unable to reply, “perhaps I might add some further questions to those you need to ask yourself. First of all, why is she unable to relate to your world at St. Benet’s? How far have you really tried to make her feel welcome? You had no hesitation in asking her to give up her own community, but what did you offer her in return?”

  “I did suggest she got involved with St. Benet’s but she just said she wasn’t churchy. I then tried to explain that we were a dynamic organisation on the cutting edge of reality but she still wasn’t interested.”

  “But Rosalind herself is now grappling with that cutting edge of reality—so what’s your dynamic Christian enterprise doing to care for her as it’s cared for Alice?”

  “You can’t force help on people who don’t want it.”

  “You’re saying it’s Rosalind’s fault that she feels your community has nothing to of
fer her?”

  “No, I’m saying …” But by this time she had me in such a tangle that I had no idea what I was saying. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Rosalind’s very disturbed,” I said. “She’s going through a mid-life crisis. One has to make allowances for her, and I don’t want to blame her for anything.”

  “Nicholas, last night was Rosalind the only one who was very disturbed?”

  Silence.

  “And are we really so sure we know whom this mid-life crisis belongs to?”

  Another silence.

  “Of course we must be careful to make the distinction,” said Clare briskly, “between the mid-life crisis and the Second Journey. The Second Journey usually begins in mid-life and is a time of profound spiritual growth; it’s characterised by the desire to let go of youth and move on to explore the rewards and challenges of middle age. The mid-life crisis, on the other hand, is characterised by the desire to cling to a lost youth, the refusal to move on to the next stage of life, and an arrested spiritual development. The symptoms include not just the well-known tendency to have a love affair with someone much younger, but the clinging to a symbol of youth—a sports car, perhaps, or some other much-loved significant object which should have been set aside long ago … But why am I telling you all this? I’m sorry! Of course you know it all already—the subject must constantly come up with your clients.”

  “Yep. Sure. You bet.” I was so mesmerised by this time that all I could do was sit in my chair like a robot and grunt phoney Americanisms.

  Clare rose to her feet. “Come and see me again after you’ve made your retreat,” she said. “I hope I’ve managed to clarify your thoughts and provide some profitable lines for meditation, but I’ve exhausted you now and you need to rest. Do cancel your engagements and withdraw to the Fordites as soon as you possibly can.”

  I nodded and levered myself clumsily to my feet. “Thanks. Sorry I … Sorry I was so … Sorry—so stupid sometimes …” My voice trailed away.

  Giving my hand a quick clasp she said: “You’ll be very much in my prayers. Now go home and talk to Lewis.”