The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  I followed her as she blundered to the door. “Rosalind—”

  She crossed the hall. She reached the front door and dragged it open. She stumbled outside.

  I ran after her but stopped on the threshold.

  In the driveway Nicholas was scrambling out of the car. She ran to meet him, and as he hurried forward she ran all the way into his outstretched arms.

  For a moment I watched as she sobbed against his chest and he held her tightly.

  Then I returned to the beautiful kitchen and poured myself some more coffee with a shaking hand.

  18

  Crucial to all our teamwork is the interface of the medical and the spiritual. We are most unhappy that so much deliverance work, for example, is undertaken without medical support or insight, especially when there is a history of mental illness.

  GARETH TUCKWELL AND DAVID FLAGG

  A Question of Healing

  I

  They talked in the car for a long time. I sat on a chair in the hall and watched them through the window. Once the engine started up but I realised, when the car remained stationary, that they merely wanted the heater to run for a while. Five minutes later the engine was switched off.

  I returned to the kitchen, washed my coffee-cup and saucer, dried them and put them away in the cupboard. I was just folding the tea-towel when I heard the Darrows come into the house, and seconds later Nicholas was entering the kitchen on his own.

  “Alice.”

  He seemed calmer, as if some huge anxiety had been dispelled. “Thank you for coping so well,” he said. “I’m very grateful.” Then he added as he turned away: “I just want to fetch something from upstairs.”

  I wondered if I ought to offer to return to London by train, but before I could phrase the question he had disappeared. Obviously he was on the brink of a reconciliation with her. When the chips were down she had turned back to her oldest friend. No wonder he was calmer! He’d got what he wanted. I thought of the old-fashioned films where the hero and heroine concluded the story by walking off into the golden sunset.

  He remained upstairs for some time and when he returned I saw he was carrying a little black trunk, much scuffed, with N. DARROW printed in worn white paint on the lid.

  “We can go now,” he said.

  I made a big effort to sound as calm as he did. “If you’d rather I went home by train—”

  “Home by train? What do you mean?”

  “Well, if she’s asked you to stay—”

  “Oh, I see. How thoughtful of you, but no, we’ve said all there is to say for the moment, and anyway I must get back to town to hold the fort when Lewis goes off to meet Venetia.”

  “But surely Rosalind would prefer—”

  “Rosalind’s all right,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “She’s all right.” Making an enormous effort he managed to add: “Stacy did nothing which could have infected her.”

  “I thought … when she ran to you just now …”

  “It was the shock. I knew that in the end she’d be glad I was there.”

  I said nothing more. I had recognised the love which lay behind both his happiness that she’d turned back to him and his relief that she was safe. I thought of Lewis saying how durable the Darrows’ marriage was.

  We left the house. There was no sign of Rosalind and I was glad I didn’t have to watch them bidding each other a very temporary and very affectionate farewell. When we reached the car Nicholas put the little trunk carefully on the back seat, but I was too absorbed in the bleakest of thoughts to ask him why it was travelling with us.

  We drove away. The miles slipped past, and gradually I became aware of his tension returning. His hands gripped the wheel tightly again; he cleared his throat several times as if he wanted to speak but failed to find the right words; he frowned, wrinkled his nose and frowned again. At last, unable to stand the stress-symptoms any longer, I demanded: “What’s the matter?” and immediately he pulled the car over to the side of the road to park.

  “I want to talk to you about the hypnosis.”

  “I don’t need to know any more.”

  “But I need to know that you know how deeply I now regret what I did.”

  “Yes, you’ve already admitted you were ashamed.”

  “I talked it all out with my spiritual director, I made my confession to Lewis, I apologised from the bottom of my heart to Rosalind—”

  “In that case I can’t see why you want to rake up the subject again with me.”

  “It’s because I’m upset at the thought of you being shocked and disillusioned.”

  “I really wouldn’t worry about it, Nicholas. There are plenty of other women at St. Benet’s who are still eager to see you through rose-tinted spectacles.”

  “My dear Alice—”

  “Oh, shut up, for God’s sake, and stop worrying about the state of your image!”

  “But it’s you I’m worried about, not my image! I’m worried in case—”

  “Forget it. Okay, maybe I was shocked, but so what? I’ll get over it, I’ll recover, I’m not some delicate little flower doomed to shrivel up at the first frost of winter—and I’m not so naive that I don’t know we’re all capable of doing frightful things. I discovered that when I was looking after Aunt and not getting enough sleep and feeling at the end of my tether. I used to look at her and want to … well, not exactly murder her, but at least hit her to vent my despair.”

  “But you never did. We may all be capable of doing frightful things but that doesn’t mean we have to do them.”

  “I might have done something frightful if she’d lived longer. When you enabled her to die with dignity you also saved me from hitting rock-bottom.” I paused to try to sort out my feelings. “I thought I no longer saw you through rose-tinted spectacles,” I said, “but perhaps deep down I still wanted to think of you as infallible—not exactly sinless but someone who would always do the right thing and never be tempted to behave like a—like a—” I held back from the ultimate put-down.

  “Like a wonder worker,” said Nicholas.

  “Yes. You see, after Aunt died, when I knew I was horribly fallible, I wanted you to be infallible in order to make amends for the messiness of life—”

  “People often want that of clergymen.”

  “But it’s not fair, is it? Poor clergymen! How difficult it must be for them to be burdened with so many people’s unreal expectations! I can see now why you love Rosalind so much. She sees you not as an impossibly perfect hero but as the man you really are.”

  “She certainly has no illusions about me, but—”

  “I’m glad that in the end you were finally able to talk. You’ll both be all right now, won’t you?”

  “Maybe. By the grace of God. Yes, I hope so.”

  I tried to feel glad that they were reconciled. At least a new wife wouldn’t be coming to live at the Rectory; at least, if Lewis was right, Rosalind would abandon her plan to live in London and the Darrows would resume their old routine of marriage on weekends. But although I realised this was the best outcome I could hope for—the outcome which would enable me to stay on at the Rectory—I still felt desolate.

  Drearily I said: “Can we drive on, please, Nicholas?” and without another word he edged the car forward again into the traffic.

  II

  We crossed the river, which looked like undulating metal beneath the white winter sky, and headed north past St. Paul’s into Cheapside. As it was a Saturday traffic was light and we skimmed with ease into Egg Street and across the cobbles to the church.

  Lewis was about to depart for his lunch with Venetia; at breakfast Nicholas had again insisted that he should keep the engagement. Leaving the two men talking in the hall I went downstairs to my flat to tidy myself and when I returned to the main floor after a brief onslaught of tears I found Nicholas on his own in the kitchen.

  “Has Lewis been fending off the press?” I asked, turning away quickly in the direction of the refrigerator to hide
my pink-rimmed eyes. Opening the door I stared inside, looking for sandwich fillings.

  “There’s been no reaction. The police have obviously written the death off as a run-of-the-mill suicide. But I daresay the inquest will catch the press’s attention.”

  I removed from the fridge some cold chicken and cheese. It was only when I reluctantly turned towards him again that I saw he had placed on the table the little black trunk from Butterfold.

  “I want to show you something,” he said.

  I set down the food containers.

  Opening the box he lifted out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper. The bundle was laid gently on the table. The tissue paper was equally gently parted. To my astonishment I found myself looking at an ancient teddy-bear, bald in places and dressed in a faded blue jumper. A faint odor of mothballs emanated from the open trunk as Nicholas ran his finger lightly over the bear’s beautiful glass eyes.

  “I kept him for my sons,” he said, “but I never gave him to them. I shut him up in that box and hoarded him in the attic. I thought I did that because I loved him, but I was wrong. Real love has nothing to do with the desire to hoard and control, and what I thought was love was just an obsession with what he represented to me.”

  He paused to stroke the patchy fur. “He represented security to me,” he said at last. “I loved him because he was so predictable. He always had the same expression, his joints always moved in the same way, he was always there, unquestioningly, when I needed him. My parents … well, I didn’t see much of them when I was young. My mother had her estate to run and my father had his ministry. I had a devoted nanny but she was frightened when the psychic side of my personality began to develop, and I was frightened too. When you know that the world can be shot through at any time by abnormality—by paranormality—you crave the normal, the predictable, the safe. When I was a child, I had my bear. When I grew up … Well, I thought I’d put Bear away, but I hadn’t. I was still hankering after the normal, the predictable, the safe—and I suppose I found all those things, in a way. But there were a lot of things I didn’t find. Things I tried not to think about. Things I tried to believe weren’t as important as security.”

  He moved the joints of the bear’s arms and turned the head a couple of inches, as if testing the perfect predictability which had enthralled him. “And now I’ve got a problem,” he said. “I’ve come to realise that I’ve got to stop hoarding my bear but the whole weight of the past is pressing on me and I still find it so very hard to let him go. That’s because I’m bound to worry about him so much. If only I knew he’d be all right … in a good home … well cared for … appreciated … cherished … But he’s past his first youth, isn’t he? Is he really capable of having a new life, or will he just wind up dumped in a dustbin after being kicked around by the wrong owner?”

  I took the bear and examined him. Beneath the faded jumper his fur was thick and golden. “I think he could be made almost as good as new,” I said encouragingly. “Some soap and water—perhaps a touch of dry-cleaning fluid here and there—”

  “Would that be safe? I don’t want his fur ruined—”

  “I’m sure it would come up very nicely and he’d look years younger. It’s a pity about the bald patches, but I can cover them up by making him some new clothes—a little pair of jeans, perhaps, and a T-shirt with ST. BENET’S embroidered on it—yes, that’s it, I’ll make him very contemporary and then he’ll be a bear all set to enjoy the 1990s!”

  “He’d still have to find the right home.”

  “Put him in Reception for a week, and someone reliable is bound to find him irresistible. I honestly don’t believe this is quite such a problem as you think it is.”

  “No?”

  “No. Have faith! And think of poor Bear, shut up in a box for so long! I do understand how difficult it must be for you to let him go, but I’m sure you’re making the right decision.”

  Throughout this extraordinary conversation I was trying to work out why, in this time of crisis, Nicholas had chosen to focus on such an irrelevant and trivial object, but although the obvious answer was that he had finally snapped under all the strain, I saw no other sign that he had freaked out. That meant the rescue and restoration of the bear was neither irrelevant nor trivial, but the significance of the scene remained a mystery. I then wondered if his determination to “put away childish things” was symbolic of a new maturity, achieved by his reconciliation with Rosalind. It was hard to imagine Nicholas being less than mature in his personal relationships, but perhaps, as Rosalind had been his childhood friend, some childish element had lingered on into their marriage until it had finally caused the recent troubles. With the childishness now cast out, the marriage would be all set for repair and renewal.

  While I was working out this explanation I altered the bear’s legs into a sitting position and arranged him in a place of honour on the dresser. I was just about to ask Nicholas what he wanted to do with the little black trunk when there was an interruption.

  Someone rang the doorbell.

  “At best that’ll be Gil Tucker,” said Nicholas, “and at worst it’ll be a reporter from the News of the World.”

  “Do you want to escape to your flat?”

  “No point. If it’s the press they’ll never go away until I’ve appeared in person to say ‘no comment,’ and if it’s Gil Tucker I want to see him. I’ve got a hunch it’s Gil.”

  But his hunch misled him. Psychics can’t always get it right. The moment he opened the front door I heard a woman’s voice exclaim richly: “Nick—darling!” and I realised with utter horror that our visitor was Francie Parker.

  III

  I suffered a second of total confusion. Francie was supposed to be “on ice” until Monday, entirely preoccupied with the husband who had just returned from his business trip to Hong Kong. Driven by an appalled curiosity and an acute concern for Nicholas I peeped out into the hall.

  Francie had streamed over the threshold and was about to enter the study. She was wearing a smart black coat but as I watched she shed this onto the nearest chair and revealed a tight V-necked red sweater and a shiny black leather skirt. Her breasts, shoved high by some amazing push-up bra, were looking as if they couldn’t wait to jump out of both the bra and the V-neck. She was clacking along in high-heeled glossy boots and looked like a bad actress playing a Hollywood hooker.

  Nicholas glanced across the hall and motioned me to join them. I glided forward, pausing only when I reached the threshold of the study.

  “… and of course I just had to come the moment I heard the news,” Francie was saying. “Stacy! Suicide! My dear, I was shattered!”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “Rosalind phoned just now.”

  I saw Nicholas’s left hand clench shut as he realised he had forgotten to warn Rosalind of her best friend’s duplicity.

  “—and Rosalind was gutted, darling, simply gutted. She rang to beg me to say nothing to anyone about—why, Alice! What are you doing, loitering in the doorway like that? Anyone would think you were trying to eavesdrop!”

  “Alice doesn’t need to eavesdrop,” said Nicholas evenly. “She knows everything there is to know about this situation, and she came with me this morning when I went to Butterfold to tell Rosalind about Stacy.”

  “Really? But how odd.” Francie’s head turned slowly as she gave me another look. Her eyes were glittery, febrile, mad. As my scalp prickled I instinctively stepped across the threshold in order to be closer to Nicholas.

  “What else did Rosalind tell you?” Nicholas was asking, and although he kept his voice calm I knew he was afraid that Rosalind, in her shock, had admitted far too much.

  “Oh, we didn’t talk for long because she was so upset—my dear, she even accused me of trying to egg her on when she decided to seduce Stacy! As if I’d ever do such a wicked thing! But of course I forgave her because she was crucified with guilt, poor darling, and not thinking clearly.”

  “What exactly did
she say?”

  “She said she’d bedded Stacy—well, I told you she was planning to do that, didn’t I? I told you last night in the Abbey!”

  “I remember, yes. Did she say anything else?”

  “Oh, she said he was impotent, which I must say was hardly a huge surprise, but that explains the tragedy, doesn’t it, because obviously he killed himself out of frustration and remorse and the whole disaster was Rosalind’s fault. Honestly, Nick, I hate to say this, as she’s my oldest and dearest friend, but the sooner you’re shot of that woman the better.”

  “And that was all she said?” Nicholas obviously wanted to make sure that Rosalind, focusing on the seduction, had never mentioned the possibility that Stacy had been infected with HIV. It would be one less detail to worry about at the inquest.

  “What else was there to say? Oh, you mean did she talk of divorce—no, she didn’t, but since she’d put her wicked plan into operation, there was nothing more to add, was there? Obviously she’s still gasping to be rid of you, but don’t worry, darling, because I’m now poised to take over. I’ve just put my own utterly brilliant plan into operation!”

  Five terrible seconds passed before Nicholas was able to say: “What plan?”

  “My plan! My own utterly secret, utterly inspired, utterly stupendous plan which I’ve been working on for months and months! I—” She broke off as she became aware of my presence again. “Oh Alice dear, do run along, there’s a good girl! I really must talk to Nick on his own now!”

  “Humour me, Francie,” said Nicholas lightly, signalling me to stay. Obviously the last thing he wanted was a scene with no witness. “Alice is in my confidence, as I’ve already explained, and I’d like her to be present. You don’t really mind, do you? After all, Alice is one of your most devoted admirers—she always says she’ll never forget how kind you were to her after her aunt died.”

  Francie preened herself. Pride streamed forth from her in a swirling black tide. “I was wonderful, wasn’t I?”