The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  Somebody asked me if I was all right.

  “Absolutely fine,” I said. “No problems whatsoever.”

  The organ began to play quietly, and through my tears I saw for the first time how diverse the congregation was. In addition to the men in city suits there were young mothers with children, wrinkled old ladies, smart girls from the offices, women in fashionable clothes from some expensive patch of the West End. I also noted several camera-toting tourists, far off the beaten track, and even a yuppie with a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm as if he, like me, had been diverted on the way to lunch. The majority of these people remained onlookers, some obviously admiring, some more reticent, but all unable to tear themselves away as the minority made their way slowly up towards the altar. The woman in the second wheelchair was a stroke-victim like Aunt, and one side of her face was paralysed. I watched her with a growing incredulity. What did she think was going to happen? Did she imagine she was going to jump out of her chair and walk? I felt outraged. I also decided that this was the most embarrassing scene I had ever witnessed and that I wanted above all to leave.

  Yet I stayed. I found I had to go on watching Nicholas Darrow, so calm, so grave, so dignified as he went about his mysterious work. He was placing his slim, long-fingered hands on the heads of those who knelt at the altar-rail, his face tense with concentration, his whole body exuding an integrity which I instantly recognised and which somehow, by some mysterious force, pinned me in position. I could always have walked out on a charlatan. But I couldn’t turn my back with contempt on someone honest.

  My eyes filled with tears again and this time I started to weep. Immediately I was horrified by my lack of self-control. What would Aunt have said in the days when she could still speak? She had taught me that to show emotion in public was disgraceful.

  The image of Aunt suddenly filled my mind. What had Aunt ever done for me, a stranger might have asked, and the one answer I could never have given was: “Zilch.” Aunt had taken me in and brought me up—my great-aunt she was, the aunt of my foul mother who hadn’t wanted me—God, what a disaster my early life had been, but Aunt had intervened, spinster Aunt, once a hatchet-faced teacher in a grammar school, no one special, just another bossy old bag who could be both beastly and boring, but this particular bossy old bag had been there when she was needed and now I had to be there for her, just as she’d been there for me. Well, that was only fair, wasn’t it? I owed it to her. It was a matter of principle. I mean, one has to have one’s principles, doesn’t one, and even though I wasn’t bright enough to make a success of my education and even though I was so plug-ugly that I had to have baths in the dark (how I hated all that flab) and even though I was such a failure as a woman, unable to get married or even to lose my virginity—even though all these ghastly facts were true, I wasn’t entirely a write-off because I was trying, trying, trying to ensure she died with dignity in her own home. Yet I was beginning to hate her for taking so long to die. I knew I was. But that was because I was so done in through lack of sleep. Or was it? Maybe I was just afraid that in the end the money would run out and she’d wind up on the geriatric ward and then all my slogging would have been for nothing. Oh God, what a mess my life was, but there was no point in saying “oh God” like that as if calling on him would change matters. The situation could only change for the worse, and what had God ever done for me anyway? Zilch.

  I told myself I had to leave before I started to scream in despair, but before I could move a muscle I saw Nicholas Darrow touch the grey, bowed head of the stroke-victim in her wheelchair. The voice in my head instantly cried: “Oh, let her get up and walk!” But of course she didn’t and of course I’d been crazy to imagine such a thing was possible. The poor woman was quite unchanged—or so I thought, but when the wheelchair was steered back down the aisle I saw she was very, very far from being unchanged. Her dark eyes were luminous with joy and her lopsided ugly old face was radiant. With her twisted mouth she had managed to smile.

  I thought: bloody hell! And the next moment tears were not merely flowing but flooding down my cheeks. Then suddenly Francie was at my side again, the unknown friend providing comfort in an alien landscape, and I felt a bunch of Kleenex tissues being stuffed into my shaking hand.

  At that point I lost track of the service for a while; all I could do was reduce the tissues to a soggy wodge and say silently to myself over and over again in despair: oh, shit! Francie asked if I wanted to sit down and I shook my head, but I knew this wasn’t the wisest response. The world had become chaotic, devastating. I felt as if something had split the outer shell of my mind and revealed unspeakable horrors lurking in the primitive darkness below.

  At last I realised the service was ending. A hymn was being sung. That reminded me of my schooldays when we had sung hymns at morning assembly, and that memory in turn reminded me again of Aunt, spending her money without complaint to send me to a little private school in Kensington.

  The hymn finished. Wiping away my last tear I heard the silver-haired clergyman announce that counselling was available to anyone who wanted it; those in need could approach either the “priests” (how Aunt would have hated the use of that Romish word!) or the “Befrienders,” who wore St. Benet’s badges and would refer each person to the right qualified helper. At once I glanced around for Francie but she was busy with someone else. What a relief! By that time I wanted only to slip away and lose myself in the City’s lunch-time crowds.

  The silver-haired clergyman stopped speaking. Nicholas Darrow pronounced a blessing. The organ began to play again, and the next moment I realised that the clergy were processing down the central aisle to the back of the church in order to mingle with the departing congregation. I shrank back against the wall. Of course I had no intention of speaking to him; my pride absolutely forbade me to make such a pathetic exhibition of myself, and besides, I could never have drummed up enough courage. (Supposing he were to look at me and flinch with revulsion?) But at least I could stay in the background and watch.

  The music from the organ was being drowned by the rising tide of conversation, and by this time Nicholas Darrow had halted by the door which led into the porch. Effortlessly he shook hands, effortlessly he smiled, effortlessly he found the right words for everyone. “Drink a toast to St. Benet’s when you uncork that bottle!” I heard him say amused to the yuppie clutching the champagne, and then a second later he was talking to a young mother about the problems of her council estate in Tower Hamlets.

  At that point I found myself wishing I did have the nerve to talk to him, but what was there to say? I could hardly declare: “I don’t believe in religion or churchgoing or any of that sort of thing, but I believe in you—I believe you’ve got something so special that when you touch the severely disabled they become inwardly transformed—I believe what I’ve just seen with my own eyes, and that’s why I want you to visit my home. It’s because I know you could transform my aunt.” If I said all that I’d just sound nuts and Nicholas Darrow would be put in an awkward position as he figured out how to get rid of me, so I had to behave properly and sensibly, just as I always did in the world which existed beyond the walls of this church, and behaving properly and sensibly meant keeping my mouth shut, going home and pretending for ever afterwards that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

  Yet that other world, the world where I always behaved properly and sensibly and never made an exhibition of myself by crying in public, now seemed as far away as the other side of the moon, and the next moment I realised I was no longer shrinking back against the wall. I was moving towards Nicholas Darrow. I still didn’t see how I could bring myself to speak to him but that no longer mattered because I was sure now that if only I could touch him, no matter how briefly, I could magically siphon off some of his extraordinary power and pass it on to Aunt.

  What a fantasy! Yet at that moment it seemed a brilliant idea, quite the most inspired plan it was possible to imagine. Nearer and nearer I crept, inch by inch, a
nd all the time I was edging my way stealthily through the crowd I was drumming up courage by saying to myself: he’ll never know.

  When I finally reached him he was shaking hands with a gushing middle-aged woman. I could see her face shining with adoration, but the next moment she was hidden from me because I had moved directly behind him. I was very, very close now, so close that I could even see the faint hint of silver in the brown hair at the nape of his neck. The moment had come. I drew a deep breath. Then I raised my hand and laid my index finger gently, for a split second, between his shoulder-blades.

  All hell broke loose.

  As soon as he was touched he flinched as convulsively as if I’d knifed him, and spun round before I could recoil.

  “Who was that?” he demanded in a voice which silenced the crowd. “Who touched me?” And as we at last came face to face I saw that his light eyes were neither blue nor green but a brilliant shade of grey.

  III

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’ll go away—I won’t come back—I’ll never do it again, I promise—” I was gabbling in the manner of one of those respectable middle-aged women who are caught shoplifting. My face felt as if it were in flames. I tried to edge backwards but everyone in the crowd seemed to have been transformed into pillars and I found myself hemmed in. Tears streamed down my face again and although I scrabbled at once to annihilate them I felt horribly humiliated. What was happening to me? I couldn’t begin to work it out. All I knew was that I must be conjuring up an image of a drowned porpoise, and as soon as this revolting thought crossed my mind my humiliation became unbearable.

  “I hate myself,” I sobbed. “I hate myself, I hate myself—”

  He interrupted me. Reaching out he clasped my forearms with his long, strong fingers and said firmly: “It’s going to be all right. Believe me. It’s going to be all right.”

  Both my arms began to tingle.

  I fainted.

  IV

  When I regained consciousness a woman was stooping over me, a youngish woman, bottle-blonde, square-faced, kind-eyed. “It’s okay,” she said as my eyes focused on her. “I’m a doctor. You just passed out for a moment.”

  I said distinctly: “How bloody awful,” and blotted out the world by closing my eyes again.

  I heard her say to someone nearby: “Stacy’s taking his time getting that glass of water—anyone would think I’d told him to dig a well … Ah, here’s Nick again. Nick, she’s all right but don’t let her dash off—she ought to sit quietly for a few minutes.”

  “Right.” His fingers gently enfolded my hand and at once I opened my eyes.

  He was kneeling by my side, his face inches from mine. “You need some strong tea,” he said in such a practical voice that I felt a return to normality was not only possible but imminent. “Do you think you’re well enough yet to sit up?”

  The young red-headed clergyman had finally arrived with the glass of water. Levering myself into a sitting position I took a sip. The church had emptied, I noticed, but although I was relieved to be spared a large audience I was still speechless with embarrassment.

  Nicholas Darrow said casually, without any hint of condescension or annoyance: “What’s your name?”

  “Alice,” I said, “as in Wonderland.” If running away is impossible, one can always withdraw behind a mask of facetiousness.

  He smiled. Daring at last to look at him I saw the lines creasing the corners of his eyes. I also noticed he had very even teeth, unstained by nicotine. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you Wonderland,” he said amused. “I’m no wonder worker peddling magic. But I can provide you with an easy-chair in my office while you drink that tea I prescribed. Do you think you can now trust yourself to stand?”

  Ignoring the outstretched hands of the doctor and the redhead, I scrambled to my feet and followed him.

  V

  Nicholas led me through the vestry and down the stairs into an area which had once formed the crypt of the church. To my astonishment I found myself in a large, brightly lit room which might have been the reception area of a doctor’s office. The decoration was in soft, muted colours, very restful, and each item of the teak furniture seemed perfectly designed for the space allotted to it.

  Bewildered I said: “What’s all this?”

  “The St. Benet’s Healing Centre. I specialise in the traditional Christian ministry of healing, and that means I work hand in hand with orthodox medicine. Val, the doctor who looked after you just now, has a branch of her National Health practice here, and we have our own psychologist too.”

  As he spoke I was absorbing more details. I realised we had entered the Centre through a route reserved for the staff and that the glass swing doors, now facing me, formed the official entrance; they opened on to a flight of steps which led up into the churchyard. An assortment of plants made me aware that the reception area was not without natural light. The windows, set high up in the walls, were at ground level. Various signs directed visitors to a number of destinations, but apart from the intriguing arrow marked MUSIC THERAPY, these signs failed to register in my brain. I was too busy noticing the comfortable chairs, the table with the magazines and the grey-haired receptionist sipping coffee behind her desk.

  “This is Pauline,” said Nicholas to me. “Friday lunch-time’s quiet for her as everyone’s at the healing service and I have no fixed appointments directly afterwards. I like to leave time to see people who come to the service and stay on.” And having put me at ease by implying I wasn’t wrecking his busy schedule, he asked the receptionist to make us some tea.

  On the other side of the area was a door marked CONSULTING ROOM ONE, and when I followed him inside I found myself in more austere surroundings. Waist-high bookshelves stretched along one wall. A desk and swivel-chair were placed beneath the high window. A small round table flanked by two easy-chairs stood in one corner, and two matching chairs were parked in front of the desk.

  “Have a seat,” said Nicholas, closing the door.

  “Where do you want me to sit?”

  “Where you’ll feel most comfortable.”

  I chose one of the chairs parked by the desk.

  “And where would you like me to sit?” he asked, surprising me.

  “Oh, behind the desk,” I said at once. “In the swivel-chair.” I had already worked out that once we were seated the desk would hide the lower part of my body.

  As we settled ourselves I noticed that above the bookshelves was a portrait in oils of a striking blonde with dark blue eyes and a beautiful mouth, delicately painted but suggesting strong emotions effortlessly concealed.

  “What an interesting picture!” I said, having stared at it for so long that some comment seemed to be required. Of course I’d instantly guessed who she was.

  “My wife says a photograph would have represented her more faithfully,” he said, “but I myself think the artist’s captured the essence of her personality.” As an afterthought he added: “Sometimes the essence of a personality is hard to perceive. In fact sometimes it’s heavily masked by the physical appearance.”

  Below the level of the desk my left hand tried to push in the roll of fat which bulged over my intestines and I found myself picturing how I must have looked to him when I was unconscious. So appalled was I by this thought that I didn’t hear his next sentence and had to ask him to repeat it.

  “I was asking why you touched me just now in the church.”

  I made the obvious reply. “How did you know I had?”

  He smiled, but although he averted his eyes I didn’t think he was embarrassed. I sensed he was merely concentrating on the task of explaining his eerie awareness in the most prosaic language available. All he said in the end was: “I felt the power go out of me.”

  The words had an oddly familiar ring, as if I had heard them long ago in a different context, but I refused to be diverted by an
uncertain memory. Intrigued I said: “What power?”

  “The healing power. It doesn’t originate with me—I’m just the equivalent of a channel, although the word ‘channel’ gives too passive an impression. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that all human beings have a certain healing energy which can be jacked up by the main source of the power.”

  “But what’s the main source?”

  “God.”

  “Oh.”

  We fell silent. I can see now that he had wanted me to reveal my position on religion and my lack of comment was as eloquent as a five-minute speech.

  “Christians like me are different from magicians,” he said tranquilly at last. “Magicians like to believe they’re the masters of the healing powers—they like to believe that they can bend nature to their will.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, we’ve no room here for ego-trips and personality cults. Our call’s to serve, not to dictate and control.”

  I said “Oh” again but this time I sounded more respectful. He was talking about integrity. That was something I could understand, and even though the religious view was alien to me I could share his belief that pride and arrogance were destructive while a clear-eyed modesty kept one honest.

  “I’m saying all this,” Nicholas was adding, “because newcomers to St. Benet’s are often overwhelmed by the healing service, even though we try to keep it low-key and unsensational, and often they feel there’s some sort of magic going on. But there isn’t. It’s just that healing can trigger unfamiliar emotional responses, particularly when past wounds are exposed.”

  “You mean—”

  “I’m saying that although it must have been both embarrassing and unpleasant to faint in public, there’s no need to reproach yourself for what happened. If anyone was to blame it was me.”