The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  “You?”

  “But of course! I was the one who hit the roof and made you the focus of everyone’s attention! No wonder you were so shocked you passed out!”

  “Yes, but … I’m sorry, I still don’t quite understand what happened. Why did you react like that?”

  “I was exhausted. The healing service always depletes me, rubs me raw so that my awareness is magnified. I think what happened when you touched me was that I knew you were in desperate need yet I felt I had no strength left to help you—and that in turn triggered a panic reaction.”

  I said stupefied: “But how could you possibly have known I was in desperate need?”

  “By using my common sense. If your need had been less desperate you’d have collared me and demanded a private audience. As it was, you were so overwhelmed by this problem of yours—whatever it is—that you were beyond words altogether.”

  I said slowly: “I hadn’t realised I was so desperate.”

  “That suggests you’ve been living with the problem for so long that you’ve grown to think of it as a normal part of life. Are you going to tell me now what the problem actually is? After making such a hash of our introduction I feel the least I can do to make amends is to listen if you want to talk!”

  I was still trying to find the words to thank him when the receptionist arrived with my medicine, the strong tea.

  VI

  “Put a spoonful of sugar in it,” said Nicholas when we were alone again. “It’ll accelerate your recovery.”

  I would have helped myself to two spoonfuls but I didn’t want to appear greedy. Restricting myself to one I said with care: “I don’t want to bother you when you’re exhausted.”

  “I’m better now. The adrenaline’s flowing again.”

  “But even so, I should probably just go on bearing the burden by myself—”

  “That’s for you to choose, of course, but don’t forget that this is a place where people can set down their burdens and get some rest.”

  Again my memory was jogged. “You’re paraphrasing some quotation or other,” I said. “I must have heard it at school long ago. I went to this small private school in Kensington and I hated it but I had to pretend I liked it because Aunt was making a financial sacrifice to send me there. I had this aunt,” I said rapidly, “this great-aunt who brought me up. She taught history at a GPDST school south of the river, but I couldn’t pass the exam to go there, I wasn’t clever enough. That was such a disappointment to her but she refused to let me go to the local comprehensive. She didn’t like comprehensive schools. In fact there were a lot of things she didn’t like—foreigners, the Labour Party, Roman Catholics, the tabloid press, bad manners, pierced ears, long hair on men, bell-bottom trousers, Coronation Street, Concorde, policemen with beards, litter, hamburgers and cruelty to animals. She was a real old battle-axe. She didn’t go to church. She said the Church of England was okay for the rites of passage because that was Tradition, but otherwise churchgoing was a waste of time—England was her religion really, I suppose, and she didn’t have room for another. She didn’t believe in God. But she believed in a Christian education because—” I stopped, diverted. “Wait a minute,” I said finally identifying the memory which had been niggling me. “That’s the New Testament you keep paraphrasing.”

  “It’s an occupational reflex. Why did your aunt believe in a Christian education?”

  “She said it was part of England’s culture and that those who ignored it would end up culturally illiterate. She believed in morality too and said free love was designed by men to do women out of their rights. She never minced her words. In fact she was beastly to me sometimes, but I know that was all my fault for being such a disappointment to her. I wasn’t the sort of child she could be interested in; I wasn’t clever or pretty. ‘You’re devoid of charm!’ she said once when I was depressed. I felt so awful letting her down after she’d done so much for me. She sent me to one of the best cookery schools to get my Cordon Bleu—she always tried to get the best for me, I suppose she thought it was her moral duty because I can’t think why else she would have bothered. She talked a lot about moral duty—and about integrity. That’s why she hated watching the politicians who were slimy on TV. ‘They’ve got no integrity!’ she’d say. ‘They wouldn’t recognise the word even if it was displayed in lights at Piccadilly Circus!’ Well, she stuck by her moral duty to me, I’ll say that for her. She was a bloody-minded old bag, but she was all-of-a-piece and she practised what she preached.”

  Nicholas merely said: “When did she die?”

  “A month ago after the last stroke—except that she hasn’t physically died because her heart’s still beating. She’s still alive,” I said in despair, and pressed my clenched fists against my eyes to smother the tears.

  VII

  I told him about the succession of strokes which had slowly destroyed her health. I told him of my struggles with the Social Services to get some measure of nursing help during the day so that I could continue to work part-time to pay the bills. I told him how Aunt’s capital, always a modest sum, was now dwindling fast, especially since I had been obliged to give up my permanent job to look after her.

  “And then after the last stroke,” I said, “I found myself in an impossible situation. I couldn’t cope with the additional nursing which was required—she now has to be turned every two hours—and I found I was getting so tired as the result of lack of sleep that I didn’t have the strength for my temporary work. So I’m having to hire night-nurses but they’re so expensive that I’ve got to go back to work full-time—and that means I have to get nurses during the day as well to supplement the care provided by the Social Services, and I doubt if I can earn enough money to pay for all this—in fact I know I can’t, it’s a losing battle, it’s a nightmare with no end in sight, but I can’t abandon her, I just can’t—I’ve got to stand by her just as she always stood by me—”

  “Of course you’ve considered the option of hospital and free care under the National Health.”

  “That was never an option. She had a horror of the geriatric wards. One of her friends died there, and I promised long ago after the first stroke—”

  “I understand. What do the doctors say?”

  “Nothing much nowadays. They probably think I’m nuts even to try to keep her at home.”

  “So it’s a double-headed problem, isn’t it? How do we enable your aunt to live her remaining days in her own home, and at the same time how do we ease this enormous burden on you?”

  “Exactly.” I felt so relieved not only by his acceptance of my stubborn, possibly stupid refusal to break my word that I was able to say: “You’re not going to advise me to dump her?”

  “I don’t think such advice would be helpful.”

  “Because of the moral issue involved in breaking a promise?”

  “That sounds as if morality has nothing to do with common-sense decisions about how to survive the consequences of one’s actions! The truth is that after your aunt’s dead, you’ll have to live with the memory of how you handled her last days and you won’t want that memory to include a crucifying guilt which will blight your future.”

  “So what you’re saying is—”

  “I’d rather meet you where you are, not where other people think you ought to be, and that involves respecting a decision which is still valid for you. In the end only the carer can know when there’s no strength left to cope and when no avenue of help remains unexplored … What exactly is the medical prognosis?”

  “Zilch—but I accept that and I’m not seeking a miracle cure. All I want is for her to go back to where she was before she had the last stroke. Then I could cope on my own again with just the help from the Social Services.”

  Nicholas said evenly: “I’m afraid the likelihood is that no physical improvement is possible and I’d be seriously misleading you if I gave you cause to think otherwise. However, here at St. Benet’s we always make a distinction between a cure and a healing. E
ven if no cure is possible a healing can still take place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A cure is the disabled person who gets up from his bed and walks. A healing is that same disabled person coming to terms with his lack of mobility, transcending his anger and grief and becoming an inspiration to all those who visit him.”

  “Well, Aunt’s quite beyond any of that.”

  “The healing can take many forms … Would you like me to call on her and perform the laying-on of hands? If she’s strongly anti-Catholic I think I’d abstain in this case from administering unction, but the laying-on of hands is non-denominational and isn’t even confined to Christian healers.”

  I was so overcome with gratitude that I could hardly find the words to thank him, but the next moment an unpleasant thought occurred to me. “Will her non-belief in God block the healing?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “But if she’s basically hostile—”

  He smiled and said: “Obviously I’d prefer a non-hostile patient, but the hostility may be a surface emotion of no particular importance and beneath it the built-in human desire to be well may be burning with an additional intensity … Can your aunt speak at all now?”

  “No.”

  “How much does she still understand?”

  “The doctors say she understands nothing.”

  “And what do you say?”

  With difficulty I answered: “I think sometimes she comes back. I think sometimes she’s still there.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. At last I whispered, still hardly daring to believe he was willing to help: “When will you come to see her?” And straight away he replied:

  “Tonight. What’s your address?”

  VIII

  Five hours later I was sitting in Aunt’s bedroom and waiting for Nicholas to arrive. I had cancelled the night-nurse. I didn’t want her flapping around and getting in the way.

  Aunt and I lived in a little cottage in Dean Danvers Street, a stone’s throw from Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. She didn’t own the cottage; she had acquired it by securing a tenancy at a rock-bottom rent during the war, and now she was a “sitting tenant,” still paying a pittance but safe from any attempt the landlords might make to evict her. For a time I’d hoped I could inherit the tenancy under one of the Rent Acts, but her solicitor had told me there were legal difficulties which made this hope an impossible dream.

  The cottage stood amidst the little network of Georgian streets by Smith Square. It was a pleasant area but unfashionable. Not far away the yuppies were driving property prices sky-high in Pimlico and the mega-rich were busy refurbishing Belgravia, but Westminster, still mainly a mass of council flats, hostels for derelicts and pieds-à-terre for MPs, was hardly the place for anyone keen to display wealth and status.

  Big Ben was striking as I sat on the edge of the chair by Aunt’s bed. Often inaudible in the house during the day when the traffic was at its heaviest, the clock seemed surprisingly loud at night. Sometimes, in those dark hours before the dawn, I even fancied I could hear that gigantic mechanism ticking.

  “There’s a clergyman coming to see you,” I said to Aunt, “but don’t worry, he’s not wet or stupid. I met him today by chance.”

  I paused but Aunt’s gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, her blue eyes vacant. She had once been tall and robust but now she was thin and wizened, her hands like claws, her skin barely concealing her skull.

  “This man has a Guild church in the City,” I said, waving in front of her the pamphlet Nicholas had given me before I had left his office. “Remember the Guild churches and their special ministries which were started up after the war? They’re closed on weekends but open during the week to serve the workers in the City.” I pointed to the picture on the front of the pamphlet. “The church is called St. Benet’s-by-the-Wall—it was built by Wren, damaged in the Blitz and completely rearranged inside just a few years ago when the crypt was converted into something called a Healing Centre. It stands in Egg Street just south of the Barbican.”

  No response. Nothing. I was just wondering idly if I’d get a reaction by shouting that I wanted to leap into bed with Nicholas and make love to him from dusk till dawn, when the doorbell rang and at once my heart thudded in a way which recalled Big Ben booming the hour. Adjusting my tent-dress I checked my make-up in the mirror and hurried downstairs to the hall.

  He was not alone. Immediately I felt a pang of disappointment, but a second later I was despising myself for my stupidity. Had I really hoped for a cosy chat over Aunt’s almost-corpse? How pathetic! Pulling myself together I did my best to smile in welcome as I registered the fact that the woman with him was the bottle-blonde who had attended me when I’d fainted.

  “I should have warned you that we always work in pairs when we’re paying calls,” said Nicholas after the preliminary greetings had been exchanged, “and in this case, as your aunt’s so ill, it seemed wise to bring a doctor with me.”

  “Val Fredericks,” said the blonde briskly to me, and gave my hand a quick clasp before stepping past him into the hall. “I’m Nicholas’s partner under the Acorn Trust.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just an organisation which encourages priests and doctors to work together,” said Nicholas, following her across the threshold and closing the door behind him, “but never mind that for the moment. Now, before we start I’d like to clarify a few details with you and Val would like to look at the patient. It is all right if she sits with your aunt while we talk?”

  “I won’t examine her,” said the blonde quickly. “That would be trespassing on ground already covered by your aunt’s doctors, but it would be helpful if I could observe her for a couple of minutes.”

  Having no objection I showed Nicholas into the sitting-room and took Val upstairs. To Aunt I said: “This is Dr. Fredericks. She’s a colleague of that clergyman I told you about.” And when Aunt remained corpse-like I said defiantly to the stranger beside me: “I always introduce her to visitors.”

  “Of course,” said Val, as if it were perfectly normal to assume that someone in Aunt’s state would care about the social niceties, and sat down in the chair by the bedside.

  I returned downstairs.

  That afternoon I had spent over an hour cleaning the sitting-room and I was glad to see my efforts showed despite the dark, faded wallpaper and the threadbare carpet. Most of Aunt’s good pieces of furniture had been sold by this time, but I had managed to keep her three favourites—the grandfather clock, the desk and the bookcase—and these were now highly polished, glowing in the soft light from the lamps. On my way home from the City I’d bought some daffodils at the market on Strutton Ground and these were now arranged in Aunt’s best Waterford crystal vase. Flowers always made such a difference to a shabby room, and Nicholas was noticing them; he was touching the petals briefly and the daffodils seemed to strain towards him as if he were exuding an invisible light. On the table by the vase was Aunt’s cherished photograph of her golden cat, now deceased. I watched as Nicholas’s fingers wandered from the flowers to the frame. “Handsome!” was his comment as he replaced the photograph on the table.

  “That’s Orlando on his twelfth birthday. He actually lived to be eighteen, but then he got kidney trouble and—but you don’t want to hear all that. Sorry. Do sit down.”

  He smiled reassuringly, settled himself in the larger of the two armchairs which flanked the fireplace and pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Our conversation earlier was helpful,” he said, “but there are more things I need to know. For a start, what’s your aunt’s name?”

  “Beatrice Harrison.”

  “And how old is she?”

  “Eighty-two.”

  “Did she ever marry?”

  “No, she was too plain. She said a plain streak ran through the family and plain women never married.”

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Never?”

  “Well, she didn’t. And I haven’
t. So she thought no plain woman did.”

  “That reminds me of the famous argument about dogs and cats: ‘My dog has four legs. Your cat has four legs. Therefore my dog is a cat.’ ”

  “I don’t quite see—”

  “It’s using logic to prove an absurdity. But tell me more about this family of yours. Are your parents dead?”

  “My father might be. He dropped out and went to Canada over thirty years ago and I’ve heard nothing from him since. My mother dropped out of my life too but she’s alive and well and living in Manchester with her second husband.”

  “You see her sometimes?”

  “Oh God, no! But I’ve got her address and I’ll let her know when Aunt dies … Which reminds me, what have all these questions to do with Aunt and her illness?”

  “Background information gives me a clearer picture of what to pray for. Is your aunt’s doctor also your doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Him. Not particularly. Well, to be truthful, I never go near him if I can help it.”

  “That doesn’t sound satisfactory. What’s his problem?”

  “Well, it’s my problem, not his. Whenever I show up at his surgery he just goes on and on about the dangers of being overweight, and by the time I get home I’m so upset I have to binge to calm myself down.”

  “If he doesn’t realise how much he’s upsetting you I’d say the problem was very far from being yours alone.”

  “You mean—”

  “I’m often asked to help people who express distress through their use of food or some other substance, and I can tell you that adopting an authoritarian stance and giving lectures is usually a complete waste of time. But let’s get back to your aunt. Have you told her about me?”

  “Yes, but there was no reaction. Mr. Darrow”—I drew a deep breath—“if all goes well, what do you think might happen? I mean, what are the possibilities?”

  “Well, there’s always a chance she’ll astound us by sitting up in bed and announcing that she’s cured—I’ve seen some extraordinary things happen during my ministry—but as I implied earlier, although a cure’s possible I don’t think it’s likely. What I always hope for, when I’m treating terminal patients, is that there’ll be a chance to clear up the unfinished business which is oppressing not only the dying but those closest to them. If your aunt can no longer speak that makes my task more difficult, but sometimes important messages can be conveyed without using words at all.”