The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  “True. Well, the hatpins are decorative but they could also be dangerous if they work loose. Can you take them out?”

  I detached them gently but the mound of hair at once collapsed, resembling a birds’ nest which had been vandalised. At Lewis’s suggestion I then brought the water which he had asked me to fetch earlier, and he slipped one of his cards beneath the glass as I set it on the coffee-table. The inscription was still plainly legible. “The Reverend Lewis Hall, The Healing Centre, St. Benet’s-by-the-Wall, Egg Street, London EC2 …” I stared, remembering how he had left his card with me at my home in Dean Danvers Street, and suddenly I had an impression of a pattern, an enigmatic, repeating signal from a source which was somehow both close at hand yet far away.

  I looked up to find Lewis watching me with his sharp, shrewd black eyes. “You did well,” he said. “I can see now you’re efficient as well as sensible. You don’t panic, you’re too intelligent to ask unnecessary questions—and on top of all that, you cook like a dream! I shan’t forget your help today, Alice. Thank you.”

  I felt so overwhelmed by this praise that I was hardly able to thank him in return. Slowly it was dawning on me that I might not be doomed to watch life always from the sidelines. Gradually I was beginning to grasp that although mainstream society might write me off as negligible, there might be another world where I could belong.

  I said shyly to Lewis: “I liked it when you talked of an alternative life-style.”

  “Did you? I thought afterwards it sounded as if I were advocating a counter-culture, and that wasn’t what I meant at all.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A counter-culture splits off from the mainstream culture and rejects it; it forms its own private little world. But the whole point of an alternative life-style is that it exists at the heart of mainstream society and intermingles with it.” As he spoke he was looking down at the body on the sofa, but although his eyes were grave there was no contempt in them.

  Suddenly I heard myself say: “Why does she drink so much when she must know, deep down, that getting drunk won’t solve anything?”

  “She’s probably despaired of solutions. The despair’s eaten away at her and created an empty space which in turn sets up a pain so excruciating that she feels she can only drink to blot it out.”

  “But I thought it was the heartbreaker who created the empty space!”

  “No doubt he had a malign effect, but I’d guess her problem goes deeper than that. After all, other people have their hearts broken and don’t wind up as alienated as this.”

  “Alienated from what?”

  “From reality. Venetia’s alienated from her true self and the life she was designed to lead. She’s alienated from the very ground of her being.” He turned away abruptly, adding over his shoulder as he limped towards the door: “I’ll take you home.”

  Some time later in the car I said: “Maybe she’ll come to St. Benet’s.”

  “She might. But I doubt it.”

  “You think she’ll feel too embarrassed by what happened today?”

  “I suspect she’ll repress all the embarrassment which someone like you would experience. She’s far more likely to be angry with me for turning down her proposition.”

  “But you’re a clergyman!”

  “You may have noticed her opinion of clergymen wasn’t too high.”

  “But even so … Clergymen don’t usually accept propositions from shady ladies, do they?”

  “Certainly not! But as the News of the World so loves to point out to its readers, there’s always the chance of a rotten apple cropping up in even the best barrel of Coxes.” He was changing gears as he spoke, and when the car slowed down I realised we were in Eaton Terrace.

  “I’ll come in and report to Cynthia,” said Lewis, switching off the engine. “Thank you again for your help, Alice.” And when he patted my forearm lightly in approval I found myself no longer thinking of Mrs. Hoffenberg, who must have had such a rich, privileged childhood, but of the father I couldn’t remember and all the love I’d never known.

  At once I felt the need to eat, but now that need made me shudder. I could only picture Mrs. Hoffenberg demanding the champagne, and in a moment of horror I knew why she both fascinated and appalled me so much. It was because when I looked at her I saw my own “empty space” reflected, my own despair which had resulted in alienation; it was because when I looked at her I saw the unloved, elderly wreck I could become. Automatically I struggled to count my blessings, just as Aunt had always insisted that I should, but it seemed to me at that moment that the only blessings worth counting were the ones I didn’t have. I opened my mouth to blurt out to Lewis: “The ground of our being’s love, isn’t it?” but before I could speak I realised he was in such pain that he was unable to get out of the car. Hurrying around to the driver’s door I tried to help him but within seconds he had decided to abandon his plan to report to Lady Cynthia.

  “I must get home,” he said. “Tell Cynthia I’ll phone her.”

  “But are you okay to drive?”

  “Let’s hope so,” he said dryly, and set off, still grey with pain, in the direction of the Pimlico Road.

  I went indoors. All the guests had gone except for Walter P. Woodbridge III who was consoling Lady Cynthia for her ruined lunch-party. As I walked into the drawing-room to deliver Lewis’s message, I found the two of them in the middle of a very smoochy snog.

  Back in the kitchen I tried to put all the left-over food away without touching any of it, but my will-power failed. I finished the roast beef and summer pudding and knew myself to be no better than the drunk snoring in that disgusting house in Chelsea. I thought in misery: I want to get thin. I want to eat less. But what I want to do I don’t do, and what I don’t want to do I do.

  Self-hatred overwhelmed me. I wept as I threw up later in the lavatory, but I knew that before the end of the day I would have started on the rum raisin ice cream.

  If anyone had said to me at that moment that the darkest hour is always just before the dawn I would have wanted to commit murder, but the third miracle—my third great miracle of 1988—was soon to alter my life beyond recognition.

  II

  The first thing that happened in the run-up to the miracle was that Mr. Woodbridge’s iron-willed pursuit of Lady Cynthia accelerated. There’s no doubt that once these Americans get going on a mission there’s no stopping them and in no time they’re all over everywhere in their pale suits and deep suntans. Down in my dark little basement I polished Aunt’s favourite pieces of furniture, watered my platoon of pot-plants which were guaranteed to thrive in twilight, and dusted the silver-framed photograph of golden Orlando as I wondered how soon my life at Eaton Terrace would end. I tried to be philosophical by telling myself I had always known the job was too good to last, but the truth was I had expected it to last some years and I was now bitterly disappointed.

  I knew Lady Cynthia would always deal fairly with me and I never quite lost the belief, planted by Nicholas at Aunt’s funeral, that I should go on in hope and not be afraid, but nevertheless it was a strain not knowing when the axe would finally fall. At first I had hoped that Lady Cynthia might merely have an affair, but I suppose I knew from the start that her religious principles ensured she never would unless marriage was certain. This meant, as I struggled to foresee the future, that the crucial question became: were they or weren’t they? Mrs. Simcock, diamante spectacles flashing, whispered to me over elevenses that Lady Cynthia had had enough tragedies in her life without taking on a foreigner who might prove to be impotent, and the sooner he was tried out in bed the better. Mrs. Simcock liked Mr. Woodbridge but could never quite forgive him for not being born and bred in England south of Watford Gap.

  While I waited in mounting suspense I had to keep eating to calm me down. I often did think of seeking help at St. Benet’s—not from Nicholas, who still had to be avoided at all costs, but from Lewis, who had looked at Mrs. Hoffenberg with such compassion
after she’d passed out. However, I always told myself I was only eating so much because I was anxious about the future and that I’d get better by myself once I was more settled.

  Francie phoned every two weeks, which was kind of her, but I always evaded her suggestions that we should meet; I had put on weight again and I was too afraid she would notice. Lady Cynthia never noticed because she was so bound up with Mr. Woodbridge, and Mrs. Simcock never noticed because she was too busy watching out for the first signs of an affair, but I noticed because my best tent-dress became tight under the armpits and ceased to hang properly.

  The blow finally fell in August. Summoned by Lady Cynthia to her boudoir I was told that she had agreed to marry Mr. Woodbridge. Since neither of them wanted a long engagement or a big wedding they were tying the knot in mid-September, when Mr. Woodbridge’s assignment in London had finished, and sailing to America on the QEII.

  Lady Cynthia was looking very beautiful and very happy and I couldn’t grudge her such good fortune, but I was devastated by the news of this breakneck rush to the altar. I had hoped for a leisurely engagement followed by a wedding in the spring.

  “Of course lots of people will mutter: ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’ ” she was saying buoyantly, “but I’ve waited years to meet the right man and now I’ve found him I’m not going to waste time because, who knows, life’s always uncertain and there may not be much time left.”

  “That sounds very sensible to me, Lady Cynthia.”

  “Dear Alice, what a blessing you’ve been since you came here! Which reminds me, I must stop talking about myself and start talking about you. Now, my dear, this is the position: naturally I shall give you the very best references and naturally I shall tell all my friends what a success you’ve been—in fact I won’t rest until I know you’ve found a job that’s good enough for you! And your next flat, I’m sure, will be a lot nicer than that horrid little den downstairs which you’ve tolerated so nobly.”

  I was willing myself not to cry. If Lady Cynthia had kicked me out into the street I would have been dry-eyed, but her generosity, her kindness and her affectionate smile all combined to decimate my self-control so that I could hardly utter the required words of thanks.

  She chatted on, saying that she planned to retain a base in London but had decided, for security reasons, to buy a flat and dispose of the house. Of course she would be coming back regularly to England to see Billy—she’d decided not to move him to an institution in America because he was so settled where he was—and of course she would be coming back to see Richard, who wouldn’t be in Scotland for ever and might well wind up in London—or even in New York … The world was so small nowadays, wasn’t it, and travel so easy; indeed the only difficulty lay in the fact that Mortimer would be unable to accompany her on her trips to England because of the quarantine laws.

  “Mortimer will miss his food from Harrods,” I said.

  Lady Cynthia replied blithely that Mortimer would adjust.

  Poor little Mortimer! Downstairs in my flat that evening I heaved a sigh for both of us, forced as we were to accept this radical change in our comfortable circumstances, but before I could become maudlin the third miracle moved a step closer.

  The telephone rang.

  IV

  By that time I was on my own in the house, as Lady Cynthia was dining out with her fiancé. I was eating butter pecan ice cream (I’d run out of rum raisin) and watching Brookside on television.

  “Hullo?” I said, turning down the volume. I assumed the caller was Francie since no one else ever phoned me. I knew now that having my own phone had been a ridiculous extravagance, but in the beginning I’d believed that I would soon be thin and luxuriating in a social life. “Is that you, Francie?”

  “Not this time.”

  I dropped the tub of ice cream.

  “It’s Nicholas Darrow, Alice—is this a good time to call?”

  “Just a moment.” I picked up the tub. I set it down on the table. I switched off the television. And I took three deep breaths. Then I picked up the receiver and said: “Sorry about that. Yes, it’s fine.”

  “Good, because there’s something important that I want to discuss. Cynthia’s told Lewis you’ll soon be in the market for another job, and I was wondering—of course I’m sure you’re thinking in terms of another job in Belgravia, but I was just wondering—would you be interested in working among people who pursue a rather different life-style?”

  I heard the signal again, the repeating pattern I’d glimpsed when seeing Lewis’s card, but this time the signal was no tentative tap but a blast on a trumpet. In my mind’s eye the pattern emerged as a many-stranded rope, supple and powerful, and the next moment I felt as if the rope were encircling me like an expertly thrown lasso. The shock was profound. I couldn’t speak. I could only submit, as I was reeled in, inch by inch, from the sidelines to the centre, from a stunted existence to life in abundance—and suddenly I could imagine that life all around me, real life, the life I’d always wanted, and I knew that eventually it would fill the empty space which tormented me and end the degrading hunger I found so insatiable.

  “I’d like you to consider joining our team as the Rectory’s cook-housekeeper,” Nicholas was saying. “And I assure you I see us as meeting on equal ground …”

  V

  There was more but I barely took it in. When I finally replaced the receiver all I could think was: it’s the biggest miracle yet.

  It never occurred to me that the proposal could be the logical outcome of a certain combination of circumstances. Later Nicholas did explain why I seemed to be the best person for the job and I did see that the miracle was a mere natural development which might even have been described as predictable, but at the time I was overwhelmed with wonder. I told myself I was going to be one of a family at last. Lewis would be my substitute father, Stacy would be my substitute brother, and Nicholas … Well, all that mattered was that Nicholas wasn’t going to be in any sense my doctor and I wasn’t going to be in any sense his pathetic patient, masochistically confessing my revolting habits. I was going to be one of a team, valued and respected as I did the work I loved. I was going to belong.

  The tub of butter pecan ice cream was still sitting on the table, but at that point I got up and threw the tub in the trash.

  The gesture gave me such a feeling of empowerment that I became euphoric. Romantic thoughts began to cascade through my mind, but I told myself severely that the last thing I was ever going to do was behave like some idiot who couldn’t control her emotions. No one would ever know how much I loved Nicholas. For his sake I’d make sure there was no mess, and anyway I wasn’t greedy. I knew he could never love me, so I wasn’t going to crucify myself longing for a future which could never happen. All I wanted was the chance to work on his team and be treated as a real person. I didn’t deserve more than that. After all, who was I? Just a fat lump who cooked. And as I’d been luckier than any fat lump had a right to be, I certainly wasn’t going to wreck this miraculous chance of happiness by behaving like a lovelorn birdbrain.

  I suddenly felt quite sure—in fact there was no doubt in my mind whatsoever—that once I started living at the Rectory I would be cured of all past pain, saved from all my present anxieties and set free to live happily ever after in a blissfully untroubled future.

  I thought I was being so realistic but of course it’s obvious to me now, as I look back, that I was still wallowing in the most dangerous of romantic dreams.

  Part Two

  LEWIS

  The Unvarnished Truth

  The counsellor has the temporal welfare of his client as his first consideration. He seeks to enable the client to return to his environment and then to live with a sufficient degree of usefulness and contentment. The Christian counsellor has that end in view too; but he asks a more ultimate question. To what purpose is this temporal welfare? Is not this life a journey? How can a man be fit if he does not know what he is fit for?… A man who has no sense
of his ultimate purpose and destiny is not, in a Christian sense, well at all.

  CHRISTOPHER HAMEL COOKE

  Healing Is for God

  Monday, 15th August, 1988: Cynthia’s gone off her rocker. Love’s finally unhinged her. Amazing! Sometimes I think the nineteenth century legal classification of women with lunatics really is justifiable, but nowadays, when everyone, even Mrs. Thatcher, is jumping on the ordination-of-women bandwagon, and the nutty clerics at the nutty Lambeth Conference have even been waffling about women bishops (whatever next, I ask myself!) it’s not the done thing to make any remark even in jest which knocks any segment of the human race except white Anglo-Saxon males. I don’t like this—and not just because I’m a white Anglo-Saxon male. I don’t like it because what it’s actually doing is taking a swipe at truth and introducing censorship under the guise of being nice to the downtrodden. Thank God that at least in this journal I can say what I damn well like so long as it’s spoken in the quest for TRUTH with a capital T.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Cynthia. She comes to see me today for an extra session and tells me she’s definitely going to marry the Yank. Well, that’s no surprise; I could see it coming a mile off, and I think this time marriage is right for her. There’ll still be problems: guilt over Billy, yearning for Richard and so on, but I think that with the Yank’s help she’ll be able to cope, merging her old life with the fresh start she needs and deserves. So far so good. But then she goes clean off her rocker and tells me she’s going to give her house to us. My jaw sags. The house is one of the few freehold houses in Eaton Terrace and it has to be worth at least half a million at today’s inflated prices.

  Heaving my jaw back into place I manage to say to her: “Are you really sure you want to burn this particular boat? Money’s so useful when one starts a new life.” But that cuts no ice. It turns out the Yank has a cool sixty million dollars and he’s going to settle several million on her as a wedding present. Why should she need the proceeds of the sale of a chic little hovel in Belgravia? I tell her she should take more time to think over this magnificently generous decision, but she says she’s got no doubts because she’s sure it’s God’s will.