“Oh, Lewis!” Francie whispers, teetering on the brink of unburdening herself, and as we sink down into our chairs again, she covers her face with her hands. Then she says in a muffled voice: “Give me a moment, would you? I’ve got to work something out.”
This sounds promising. I wait in dead silence and will her to confess.
Finally she says, letting her hands fall but not looking at me: “I don’t want Val.”
“Okay.”
“There’s no internal damage.”
“Okay.”
“Harry is a monster, but …” She hesitates, needing reassurance.
“We’ll treat this room as the confessional, Francie. I’ll hold anything you say to me in confidence.”
Tears well up in her eyes again. Reaching for the box of Kleenex I prepare to feed the tissues to her one by one.
“I’ve thought of divorce, of course,” says Francie, dabbing her eyes genteelly, like a suburban housewife mourning the breakdown of a cherished vacuum cleaner. “But I’ve got no money and I know that Harry, being a lawyer, would manipulate everything so that I only got a pittance. And he’d try and grab the children too, I know he would—I might well end up with nothing. So I’ve got to forget about a divorce. It’s not on.”
The odd thing is that I feel there’s something phoney about this speech even though I can see every sentence is probably true. However, sometimes when people are under great emotional strain they do sound phoney. I decide my best course is to press on.
“But how are you going to stand being married?” I say in my most concerned voice as I ease another tissue from the box.
“I can stand it so long as I have my work at St. Benet’s,” says Francie. There’s a pause before she finally adds: “And Nick.”
“Uh-huh … Can you go on with that a bit?”
She does go on with it. In fact the dam breaks and everything streams out. She’s madly, passionately, desperately in love with Nick, but she’s kept it to herself because she knows that if anyone at the Centre realises she’s in the grip of a grand passion instead of the usual harmless hero-worship, she’ll be rated unstable and sacked, and she couldn’t live without seeing Nick five days a week, especially as she’s been having such wonderful chats with him about Harry’s sadism.
I don’t ask about the sadism. We’ve reached the stage where it’s tacitly understood that the sadism is a fiction. Besides, I’m keen to sharpen the focus on Nicholas.
“But since you love him so much,” I murmur, “I’m sure you must want more than mere chats. In the circumstances that would be only natural.”
She nods, relieved that I’m being so sympathetic and non-judgemental. “But what you’ve got to understand,” she says earnestly, “is that I can never marry Nick, even when he’s free.”
“When he’s free?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll divorce Rosalind soon! He’ll want to clear the decks to prove his love to me!”
“Ah.”
“But of course even if he’s single we can never marry.”
“No? But surely—”
“Oh, you mustn’t think I’m so blinded by love that I’ve lost touch with reality, Lewis! Of course I’d risk divorcing Harry, despite all the difficulties, if the man I loved was available for marriage, but Nick’ll never be available for me, will he? He could never marry a divorced woman. Not in his present situation. Not as Rector of St. Benet’s.”
“Hm.”
“He could survive a divorce from Rosalind, of course. Nowadays that wouldn’t affect his ministry at all—well, hardly at all, provided it was a friendly divorce with no scandal. But the problem for the divorced priest comes when he wants to remarry. He might get away with marrying a virgin—or a very devout, very presentable widow. But a divorcée … No, that would be impossible. It would offend a lot of people here—the trustees wouldn’t like it—the Bishop would object … No, no, no, such a disaster must never be allowed to happen! Believe me, Lewis, I wouldn’t do anything which would harm Nick’s wonderful career here!”
“That’s extremely noble and self-sacrificing of you, Francie. So how do you deal with this difficult problem of being deeply in love with Nicholas yet unable to marry him?”
“I’m willing to be his mistress. I came here tonight because I thought it was time I made that clear. Of course I know that’s technically immoral, as we’re both married to other people, but a great love transcends everything, doesn’t it, because God is love and I’m sure he’d understand and forgive us.”
With an enormous effort I ignore this dotty updating of the Ten Commandments and say with a patience which borders on the superhuman: “But Francie, wouldn’t this too have an adverse effect on Nicholas’s ministry?”
“Absolutely not!” she insists with shining eyes. “You see, no one would ever know!” She’s mad as a hatter. She has no conception of the spiritual health and spiritual fitness needed to underpin Nicholas’s ministry, no conception of how a double-life would destroy his integrity and finish him. She thinks the only problem is the danger of being found out. “I’m willing to be endlessly discreet for his sake!” she announces. “His welfare would always come first and I know I could make him happier than he’s ever been in his life …” She waffles on in this vein for a while and ends in serving up some profoundly questionable ideas about the Darrows’ marriage.
“Rosalind doesn’t understand him—he couldn’t possibly be happy with her—I’m sure she’s hopeless in bed, whereas I—”
“Quite so.”
“Of course we’d only have the occasional night together, but just the occasional night would be such heaven! Nick’s so wonderful, so sensitive, so intelligent, so attractive, so—”
“Absolutely.”
“And what’s so miraculous is that my feelings are reciprocated! When I think of all the looks he’s given me—and the special smiles—and the remarks which are capable of more than one meaning—”
I know straight away that this is a fantasy I should make no attempt to unravel. This one’s for the professionals because it’s the genuine article: the product of a sick mind, a lie which Francie genuinely believes to be true. The fantasy of the sadistic husband, in contrast, was a carefully constructed lie concocted for a specific purpose, and Francie knew all the time that the story was false.
The memory of this lie diverts me for a moment, but I want to haul her back anyway from the realms of fantasy so I interrupt her romantic drivel by asking: “Francie, can we just backtrack for a second? I quite understand now why you talked to Nicholas about Harry’s sadism, but why did you involve me as well? What was the point of confiding in us both?”
She stares. This is certainly a question she hadn’t expected and I see at once that she’s not sure how to reply. Finally she says in an offhand way: “It seemed right somehow. Nick might have wanted to discuss the case without being hampered by the confidentiality rules. Well, as I was saying—”
Odd. I’m not sure what to make of this. I feel I’ve missed a trick somewhere, but I can’t imagine what the trick is.
Meanwhile Francie’s still raving about Nicholas. I wait till she pauses for breath and then say: “Francie my dear, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re in a very tight corner, but don’t worry because I’ll stand by you and give you all the help I possibly can. What I suggest now is that we resume this very important conversation tomorrow when we’re both fresh—and maybe Robin should sit in on the session. I feel I need assistance here in order to give you the very best advice.”
“Oh, but I don’t want Robin to know! I don’t want anyone but you to know! I owe it to Nick to preserve the maximum discretion!”
“Of course. But Francie, how are you going to manage your work in these circumstances? I really feel you need some input from Robin as you try to deal with all this—”
“No, no—I can handle everything! My love’s transforming me, you see, allowing me to work better than ever—it’s a gift from God, and God will gu
ide me through the future!”
“But my dear, gifts from God seldom come packaged with user-friendly instructions, and he’ll almost certainly be calling other people to guide you—”
“Exactly! He’ll call Nick, and Nick will give me all the advice I can ever need! So there’s no point in bothering Robin, is there?”
I’m getting nowhere and I’ve got to get this woman into therapy, if not into hospital. I’m most reluctant to give the fantasy a shove, but perhaps if I’m ultra-careful I can risk a small prod.
“Francie,” I say, “I fully accept how strongly you feel about Nicholas, but I really do think I’d be negligent if I didn’t mention a couple of facts for you to consider. The first fact is that it’s very hard for an outsider to work out what exactly goes on in any marriage. The second fact is that the Darrows’ marriage has lasted twenty years, and this length of time is almost certainly not without significance. Are you sure you understand the role Rosalind plays in Nicholas’s life? I’m not at all sure I do.”
Naturally she doesn’t want to hear any of this. She tries to block off the implications of my speech by crying passionately: “I love him, I love him, I love him!” but I’ve put a little smudge on the glorious Technicolor landscape of her grand passion, and with any luck she’ll soon become depressed. People can never conceive of the need to seek help when they’re in a state of euphoria, but give them a touch of depression and they’re more inclined to beat a path to the doctor’s door.
“I can see your feelings for him are very strong, Francie,” I say truthfully, knowing I have to lay on the sympathy with a shovel now to calm her down, “and that’s why we should continue this discussion tomorrow—just you and I—when we’re both fresh. Then we can do the subject justice. Now before you go, let’s pause to pray that this very challenging situation will be resolved in a way pleasing to God—who cares, of course, for the welfare of both you and Nicholas.”
She raises no objection and somehow I manage to rearrange these words into a pattern which is both a genuine plea to God for help and also a soothing reassurance to Francie. I’m very tired now and all my ambivalence towards this sick woman, who’s revelling in her destructive fantasy, is relentlessly sapping my energy, but Francie finds the prayer meaningful and snuffles with emotion. Grabbing a handful of Kleenex for the journey home she whispers: “I’m sorry I said such awful things to you earlier.”
“You were very upset, I realised that.”
“Of course I know you’re not really a homosexual.”
She sounds very sure. Maybe I looked a little more greedily at those breasts than I should have done. In haste I say courteously: “Let me escort you to the front door.”
In the hall I ask her where her husband is, and when she says drearily: “Hong Kong,” I receive a glimpse into the heart of her sickness. The world’s so small nowadays. Successful men go jetting all over the place, and usually not with their neglected wives who wind up craving all the love and attention which no longer come their way.
Poor Francie.
But dear God, what a kick from the cloven hoof …
***************
Well, it’s still the evening of Monday, the twenty-first of November, and the third and final kick, the one that’s aimed to knock St. Benet’s clean off its foundations, is still to come. But when Francie leaves, I don’t know that. As soon as the tail-lights of her car have disappeared down Egg Street, I heave myself back to the bedsit, slump down fully dressed on my bed and pass out with exhaustion.
Before I lose consciousness I send an arrow-prayer to God thanking him for enabling me to help Francie with a fair degree of success. I’ve cracked the lie without driving her over the edge; I’ve softened her up for therapy; I’ve kept the lines of communication open, and I’ve ensured our parting was friendly. With any luck, I tell myself, I’ll have her in Robin’s consulting room by the end of the week and eventually Robin will serve her up to one of our tame psychiatrists—and then we’ll give her sick-leave and I’ll make plenty of pastoral visits—and when she’s better she’ll see the need for marriage guidance counselling—and she’ll no longer be a threat to Nicholas—and everyone will live happily ever after …
I’m almost unconscious by the time I complete this rambling sentence, but I still have time to think: thank God Nicholas is so strong, so stable and so well integrated that no woman on earth could knock him off his rocker.
The next moment I’m asleep.
I’m awakened abruptly less than twenty minutes later by the slam of the front door. I open my eyes—and shut them again almost at once because I’ve left the light on and the brightness hurts. But my ears are active. I hear running footsteps. I hear Nicholas shouting: “Lewis!” and by the time the door of the bedsit bangs open I’m sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed with my heart pounding like a piston.
Nicholas’s pallor has a greyish tinge. His eyes are slate-coloured with some violent emotion. He’s trying to speak but he can’t get his words out.
It’s catastrophe-time at St. Benet’s. Grabbing my crutches I try to haul myself to my feet but I’m too stiff, too disabled, and all I can do is sit down again. “What is it?” I’m demanding rapidly, fighting back the panic. “Nicholas, for the love of God, tell me what’s happened!”
In a shaking voice he says: “Rosalind’s left me,” and as I stare at him in stupefaction he sinks shattered onto the nearest chair.
Part Three
ROSALIND
The Nightmare Scenario
The healing of relationships with other people is not merely a pastoral concern. It is also a prophetic one. It is about changing other people. It is about altering an environment.
• • •
Before those who are to minister healing do so, they will themselves be the recipients of the laying on of hands; they too are sinners; they too are sick.
CHRISTOPHER HAMEL COOKE
Healing Is for God
5
We find it so encouraging that you are able to recognise your anger and relate it to your lack of well-being. We all have anger but often find that hard to acknowledge.
GARETH TUCKWELL AND DAVID FLAGG
A Question of Healing
I
It’s no picnic being married to a wonder worker.
I remember exactly when I realised my patience was exhausted. In the middle of November, 1988, when Mrs. Thatcher was visiting America to show them who was boss and President Reagan was slobbering at her feet, Patsy Egerton phoned to say she and Bryan were home from the States unexpectedly for a funeral and was there any chance of seeing us. I invited them to dinner on the following Friday—the eighteenth it was, a greyish sort of day, cold, revving up for that sprinkling of snow on the twentieth, the sort of November weather when I had to take the houseplants away from the chilly window-sills when I drew the curtains in the evening and do some mist-spraying in the morning if there was evidence of a dry-out. As soon as I’d spoken to Patsy I phoned Nicky at St. Benet’s and asked him if he could do me a special favour and arrive home earlier than usual on Friday. He said he’d be home by seven.
He wasn’t. I assumed some lame duck had claimed his attention as usual, and when the Egertons arrived I made an excuse about the heavy traffic on Friday nights, but as far as I was concerned Nicky had made his first mistake of the evening.
His second mistake was not to apologise properly when he rolled up at eight. He didn’t even bother to blame the traffic. Worse still his thoughts were quite obviously elsewhere and his contributions to the conversation were embarrassingly few.
The third mistake he made was to stand up halfway through the meal and mutter: “Excuse me, but I’ve got to phone Lewis.” He made this announcement just as Bryan was reaching the punchline of a most amusing story. I did say sharply: “Nicky, surely Lewis can wait!” but he didn’t bother to reply. He just disappeared, made the call and on his return informed us that he had to go back to London straight away because there was
an emergency.
I was so livid that it took me an immense effort to remain outwardly calm. But I did make the effort. Well, one always does, doesn’t one? That’s the rule. Patsy told me once that in America people scream at each other without hesitation when they get upset. At the time I had felt nothing but contempt for such foreign behaviour, but now it occurred to me how pleasant it would be to live in a culture where it was socially acceptable for angry people to scream with rage.
As I saw Nicky off I asked politely what the “emergency” was, and my fury was increased when he answered: “It’s Lewis. He’s had some bad news and he needs me.”
I said: “I need you, Nicky. It’s awkward for me if you leave now.” But even uttering those understatements proved almost impossible. I’d been brought up not to complain, not to be demanding. I’d been taught that in a marriage the husband’s work had the first priority and the wife always had to make allowances for him. Pre-war attitudes? Certainly. They lingered on when I was growing up in the south-west during the 1950s. But during the 1980s I’d been coming to the conclusion that the role of domestic doormat was one which I no longer had any wish to play.
Nicky was saying: “I’ll sort him out as quickly as possible and be back early tomorrow morning.”
That’s the trouble with wonder workers. They can never resist the temptation to “fix” people. They’re power-junkies hooked on deliverance, crisis-addicts mainlining on salvation. The one thing which never turns them on is dealing fairly with their nearest and dearest. I should have had priority that evening over even the most cherished of his lame ducks at the Healing Centre.
Lewis Hall, Nicky’s colleague, was in my opinion a thoroughly nasty piece of work and I always thought he was a bad influence on Nicky. Dreadful old man! He drank too much, ate too much, smoked like a chimney and had a frightful temper. He’d been married once to some unfortunate woman who had immediately hit the bottle in the biggest possible way, and their one daughter—poor Rachel!—was a complete mess. Lewis had some nominal job at St. Benet’s. I was never quite sure what it was but thought it had probably been devised by Nicky out of kindness to make the old horror feel useful. Lewis doted on Nicky, Nicky repaid the doting with an unstoppable stream of fraternal affection, and the whole peculiar relationship, in my opinion, was more than a little unhealthy.
The Wonder Worker Page 25
