The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  “Oh, that wasn’t a miracle. It was an unusual thing to happen and makes me wonder if the loss of speech was due more to the shock of the last stroke than to brain damage, but I’ve seen other patients speak in unlikely circumstances if the motivation is strong. No, the real miracle—and Nick hates that word!—was that you and she were able to complete the unfinished business.”

  “Val!” shouted Nicholas from the hall.

  “I must go.” She pressed her card into my hand. “Call me if you change your mind about the nurse—or if you simply want to talk.”

  I thanked her and led the way downstairs. I couldn’t find the words to thank Nicholas but I clasped his hand tightly in gratitude.

  All he said was: “We’ll talk later,” and within seconds he was gone.

  IV

  I sat by Aunt’s bed as the night ebbed and Big Ben marked the quarter-hours. I was still thinking of Nicholas. Apart from Aunt, who in the beginning at least had only cared for me out of a sense of duty, he was the only person who had ever acted as if I had some value as a human being. I thought of the vast numbers of people he must know, the numerous claims on his time, his busy life in the heart of London. Yet he hadn’t hesitated to set aside part of his evening to help someone who constantly found herself written off as a fat nonentity.

  That reminded me of how badly I did at interviews and that in turn made me peer fearfully into the future. I was going to lose my home and there would be hardly any money left to inherit. I’d have to get a live-in job—probably in some institution so desperate for help that they would even employ a fat nonentity who hadn’t had a full-time job for a while. However, I knew I’d be fortunate to have free accommodation, no matter how dreary the circumstances, so I said to Aunt: “I’ll manage. I’ll be all right.”

  Aunt’s breathing changed before dawn. I almost called the doctor but I thought he might be angry, summoned from his bed when there was nothing he could do, so I never picked up the phone. Instead I held Aunt’s hand. I wasn’t frightened. Death was coming as a friend. He was wanted, welcomed. Aunt was ready now.

  The breathing became much stranger, so I knew the end was near. That type of breathing had some special name; I’d read about it somewhere, probably in the medical column of a magazine or newspaper. Aunt had always taken The Times, but newspapers nowadays were so expensive that I had decided even the Daily Mail was an extravagance I couldn’t afford.

  Death came—and to my surprise Aunt looked different afterwards. She had been corpse-like for so long that I’d assumed no further change in her appearance would be possible, but although I still felt her presence in the room I saw the body had been abandoned. That was now just an arrangement of matter which had somehow lost its familiarity.

  There were no tears—and no sleep either; I didn’t feel tired any more. I felt as if I were on some drug-induced high, very peculiar it was, but wasn’t morphine produced naturally in the brain in certain circumstances? I thought I had seen that too reported in some medical column. I liked medical matters. If I hadn’t been so stupid I would have wanted to become a doctor—like Val, working alongside Nicholas at St. Benet’s-by-the-Wall.

  At eight I phoned Aunt’s doctor, and while I waited for him to arrive I called Val to tell her what had happened. She was very kind. After she had said all that needed to be said she added: “Nick’s always out of town on weekends, but I’ll phone his colleague, Father Lewis Hall, and I’m sure he’ll want to get in touch with you.”

  I’d forgotten it was Saturday and that the Guild churches of the City would be closed for the weekend. I wondered where Nicholas went. I pictured him in a beautiful country house with his elegant wife. What would he do with himself on weekends? Work in the garden? Play cricket on some village green? Read novels? Take the children on outings? (Of course there would be children.) I found I couldn’t imagine him having anything so ordinary as a family life. And there was no point in day-dreaming about him anyway. I started to think of Aunt again.

  Going to her desk I removed the will, which I had found after the first stroke, and broke the seal of the envelope. I knew she would have left everything to me, but I wanted to find out if she had left instructions for her funeral. She had. That militant non-believer who despised clergymen had written in a note attached to the legal document: “I hereby give instructions that my body is to be cremated after a short service conducted according to the rites of the Church of England. Every English person, regardless of religious belief, should observe the tribal custom of being buried by the English church. This is what being a member of Our Great Island Race is all about. (Churchill understood this perfectly.) NOTE: The readings must be taken only from St. John’s Gospel, a work of extraordinary literary merit, and there is to be no singing. (Without a first-class choir singing is pointless.) Under no circumstances whatsoever should that ghastly but popular passage from the writings of Canon Henry Scott Holland be read, and under no circumstances whatsoever must anyone give some nauseating speech about how wonderful I was. The clergyman must refer to me throughout as Miss Harrison, not as Beatrice or—God forbid—Bea.”

  That seemed clear enough, but I wondered what the clergyman at the crematorium would think.

  The doorbell rang to herald the arrival of Aunt’s doctor.

  V

  At eleven o’clock that morning, after the undertakers had removed Aunt’s body and just as I was beginning to realise how much there was to do after someone died, the doorbell rang again and this time I found Nicholas’s colleague on the doorstep. He was the silver-haired clergyman who had read the lesson at the healing service, and at the time I had assumed he was just another decorous elderly gentleman in a clerical collar, but as soon as I saw him at close quarters I realised I’d been mistaken.

  For a start, his silver hair was shaggy and allowed to taper into furry sideburns which gave him a rakish look. He also had yellow teeth (he reeked of nicotine) and sinister black eyes which conjured up images of gangsters. In a heroic effort to neutralise this villainous appearance he had encased himself in an exquisitely cut clerical suit, but this only made him look like an actor who had been hopelessly miscast.

  “Miss Fletcher?” he said briskly. “I’m Lewis Hall, and I assist Nicholas Darrow at St. Benet’s. Is this a bad moment to call? If it is, just say so and I’ll disappear—and don’t worry about giving me offence because I assure you I shan’t take it.”

  I found this straight talk very refreshing. The detestable doctor had been unctuous to hide his relief that Aunt could now be struck off his list of patients.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hall,” I said. “Do please come in.” As I showed him into the living-room I noticed again that he had a pronounced limp. Accepting my offer of tea, he bared his yellow teeth in a benign smile when I mentioned the word “cake.”

  “I’m always very partial to elevenses,” he said.

  I had made a large banana cake the previous day and although most of it had now gone there was still enough left for two generous slices. Mr. Hall took one bite of his slice and demanded: “Is this from Harrods?”

  “No, I made it. I’m a cook. It’s what I do for a living.”

  “I trust you have a top job at Buckingham Palace.”

  As I smiled, grateful for his kindness, I suddenly realised that he too was treating me as if I were a real person instead of a fat freak. I began to feel less shy.

  “But I must stop drooling over the cake,” he was saying briskly, “and start talking about you. First, let me offer you my sympathy. Even a long-awaited death can be extremely distressing when it finally comes. Second, let me offer you some assistance in dealing with all the things that have to be done. I understand there’s no family available.”

  “Well, that’s most kind of you, but—”

  “At St. Benet’s we have a team of people we call Befrienders—their main task is to listen to people in trouble, but occasionally it’s appropriate for them to take a more active role, particularly when someone’s b
ereaved and on her own. You talked to Francie, I believe, at the church yesterday?”

  I said startled: “How did you know?”

  “It’s in Nicholas’s case-notes—when you fainted she told him she’d spoken to you earlier. Now, we’ve often asked Francie to lend a helping hand in this sort of situation. You’d still be in control—she’ll do as much or as little as you want—and if she gets on your nerves you can tell her to get lost. But she could be useful.”

  I found the proposal tempting. I remembered how willingly Francie had accepted my refusal to go up to the altar-rail for the laying-on of hands, how efficiently she had supplied me with Kleenex tissues, how tactfully she had avoided making a fuss.

  “There are also spiritual matters as well as practical matters to be considered,” resumed Mr. Hall purposefully after pausing to sink his teeth again into the cake. “Do you need a priest to conduct the funeral?”

  “Clergyman,” I said automatically. “Aunt wasn’t a Catholic.”

  He at once apologised, explaining that although he was from the Anglo-Catholic wing of the Church of England he respected the fact that the Church was a broad umbrella, sheltering Catholics and Protestants alike. “And was your aunt a churchgoer?” he enquired between swigs of tea.

  “No,” I said, but I was so reassured by his willingness to tolerate Protestants that I decided to show him Aunt’s funeral instructions. He laughed at the reference to Scott Holland. “What a character your aunt must have been!” he commented amused, and I found myself beginning to talk to him of the past. In the end I even mentioned my awful mother up in Manchester and my vanished father who if he was still alive was probably being equally awful somewhere in Canada, and all the time Mr. Hall listened and nodded and watched me with those sinister black eyes which were now so bright with kindness, but at last it occurred to me that I must be taking up more time than he had allotted to the call, and I brought this rambling monologue to a swift conclusion.

  “… and so there it is,” I said vaguely, not sure what “it” was, but the next moment I was remembering that I still hadn’t answered his question about whether I needed someone to conduct the funeral. “Don’t worry about the service,” I said hastily. “The crematorium people will have a rota of clergymen, won’t they, and I’ll just take whoever’s on duty that day.”

  Mr. Hall, who was busy building a pyramid with the crumbs left over from his banana cake, said casually: “Nicholas would conduct the funeral for you.”

  I was astounded but somehow managed to say colourlessly: “I wouldn’t dream of troubling him further when he’s already done so much.”

  Mr. Hall’s hand halted above his pyramid of crumbs, and as he looked at me sharply I sensed my response had intrigued him so much that he was making a rapid reassessment of my character. It occurred to me then that most women would have given a very different response when offered further pastoral attention from Nicholas Darrow.

  “How very considerate of you,” said Mr. Hall pleasantly at last, “but there’s still no need to fall back on a clergyman from the crematorium rota. I’d be more than willing to take the service if you wish.” And when I hesitated, fearful of being a bore yet tempted to accept his offer, he added kindly: “Think it over and let me know—and think over too what I said about Francie.” Then he asked me if I wanted him to say a prayer before he left.

  “No thanks,” I said at once, but this flat refusal struck me as horribly rude, particularly when he had been so nice to me. “I’m very glad you called,” I added in a rush. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful.”

  He smiled, not in the least put out by my rejection of the prayer, and taking a card from his wallet he wrote on the back: MRS. FRANCINE PARKER (FRANCIE). A series of numerals followed as he added her telephone number.

  “I’m glad to have met you, Miss Fletcher,” he said, placing the card on the tray beside the teapot, “and do please give me a call either at the Healing Centre or at the Rectory if you need further help of any kind.”

  I thanked him, led him to the front door and watched as he limped down the street to the parking meter at the far end. His car was a dusty red Volkswagen Golf, workmanlike and respectable, but he drove it like a Porsche. I heard the engine roar and the tires squeal as he surged off around the corner into Smith Square.

  A very peculiar clergyman.

  Drifting back into the kitchen I mechanically began to make another banana cake.

  VI

  Apparently my healing, such as it was, had left my compulsion to eat untouched. But what had I expected? A craving for a liquid diet of a thousand calories a day? I might fantasise about losing four stone and winding up with the ideal husband, but at heart I knew this was just a romantic dream which hadn’t a hope of coming true. I did feel a little better about myself now I knew Aunt had genuinely cared for me, but how could I ever feel more than a little better when I was still repulsively fat and likely to remain so? Stress always drove me to binge, and although I no longer had to cope with Aunt I still had to endure the strain of making a new life for myself.

  I knew I needed the help Mr. Hall had suggested, but still I hesitated to phone Francie. I had taken a perverse pride for so long in struggling on alone; the struggle had given me a flicker of self-esteem, and besides, I had a horror of being a burden or a bore and putting myself in danger of further humiliating brush-offs. When I was much younger I had hoped to make friends but there seemed to be no place in the world of the thin for someone like me, and in the end I’d retreated into isolation. Loneliness was painful but at least it was silent, devoid of snide laughter and barbed comments. I was used to loneliness now. I thought of it as a chosen solitude and was only occasionally aware of being unhappy.

  But this was a time when I regretted not having a friend. Picking up Mr. Hall’s card I stared at Francie’s number and told myself she wouldn’t want to hear from a fat nonentity, particularly a fat nonentity with all sorts of tiresome problems, but then I remembered again her behaviour in the church. Like Nicholas and Mr. Hall, she had treated me with respect, just as if I was a normal person, and at that point it occurred to me that if Mr. Hall had recommended her she was most unlikely to refuse my request for help.

  I finally succeeded in pulling myself together. I told myself that if I didn’t grab this life-line I might turn into one of those embarrassing neurotics who staged suicide attempts in order to win a little care and attention. Pathetic! Whatever happened I had to keep sane, and keeping sane involved taking sensible action instead of cowering mindlessly in a corner.

  I picked up the receiver and dialled the number.

  VII

  “Oh good!” exclaimed Francie warmly after I’d revealed my identity. “I was hoping you’d phone—I spoke to Lewis Hall this morning and he said he was going to see you.”

  I did stammer something about not wanting to interrupt her weekend, but she swept that remark aside, said she was sorry about my bereavement, she was sure I wouldn’t have called unless I was feeling utterly ghastly, and would I like her to come over straight away? She always loved rising to the occasion, especially in an emergency, and no, it was no trouble at all, her children were away at boarding school, her husband was away on business in Tokyo and all she was doing was ironing a table-cloth. Where did I live? Dean Danvers Street off Smith Square? Super! She’d be with me in half an hour.

  Exhausted after being befriended in this masterful manner yet more than relieved that someone would now help me reduce the chaos to order, I began to lunch on rum raisin ice cream, but I was no more than halfway through the tub when the phone rang.

  The caller was Nicholas Darrow.

  VIII

  “I’ve just spoken to Val,” he said as I remained speechless with surprise. “She told me the news. Was it easy at the end?”

  I groped for the right words. It helped that the question was so direct. Years of living with Aunt had equipped me to withstand straight talking but to wilt in the face of diplomacy. Finally
I managed to say: “Yes, suddenly her breathing changed, then stopped. There was no pain.”

  “Good. And how are you?”

  “Bloody awful,” I said, discovering in horror that I was unable to switch from being direct to being convoluted in the name of self-effacing good manners. “But that’s okay, I’ll be better soon, Francie’s coming.”

  “Francie’s very warm-hearted and extremely efficient, but be sure to let her know when you’ve had enough and need to be alone. Do you want me to conduct the funeral service?”

  I did try to pretend to him that any old clergyman would do, but the words which came out were: “Yes, but I don’t want to be a nuisance and take you away from your real work.”

  “Funerals are part of my real work and asking me to conduct one doesn’t convert you into a nuisance. We’ll discuss the details on Monday when I’m back in town—and meanwhile if you still feel hellish, even after seeing Francie, do please phone my colleague Lewis Hall. He likes getting calls on weekends when the City’s deserted and the Healing Centre’s closed.”

  After I had thanked him for this reassurance he said he was very sorry I was going through this difficult time, bereavement was a great ordeal, he’d keep praying for me.

  Then he rang off.

  Returning in a daze to the kitchen I slumped down again at the table and blotted out all my humiliating romantic dreams by finishing off the rum raisin ice cream.

  IX

  Francie was magnificent. She made an appointment with the undertakers to discuss the funeral details, she rang the doctor to find out where the death certificate had to be registered (he’d told me but I hadn’t taken a word in), she made a list of the people who had to be informed (the solicitors, the landlords, the bank and various departments of the government’s bureaucracy) and she drafted a most impressive notice for the “Deaths” column of The Times. She even offered to call my mother, but I thought that was unnecessary; my mother and I never communicated by phone. I did manage to write her a three-line note, but this so exhausted me that Francie said she would leave me to rest, a move which I thought displayed perfect behaviour for a Befriender.