The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  Francie rattled on. She was married to a lawyer with an acid tongue who got his kicks out of proving to her, in very elegant speeches, that she was a complete fool. Francie adored him. She worked at St. Benet’s as a Befriender and said it was so good for her self-esteem to be useful to others. Nicky reported that she did the work very well, and at one stage she had considered training to be a counsellor, but Harry the Horror-Husband had put his foot down and told her he wasn’t throwing money away on a course which she would inevitably fail. To my rage Francie accepted his decision meekly. Nicky said she obviously liked men to be masterful, and that Harry, by striking these revolting macho poses, actually made her feel cherished. I wasn’t sure who was mad—Harry, Francie or Nicky—but someone had to be round the twist. However, that wasn’t my problem. All that concerned me was that Francie was a loyal friend who could be trusted to give me accurate reports on any dangerous female shark who had swum into the St. Benet’s lagoon. A recent arrival had been Venetia Hoffenberg. That news had certainly set my teeth on edge, but apparently she was being counselled by Robin, the therapist, and Nicky seldom saw her.

  “… and anyway, darling, enough of all that,” Francie was saying. “How about you? What’s new down on the Darrow ranch?”

  “Well, to be honest I’m feeling very frazzled and I want to get away for a few days on my own before the boys roar home and Christmas soars out of control. Francie, would you mind terribly if—”

  Francie didn’t mind in the least. Harry had long since decreed that the cottage in Devon could be lent to friends at any time during the winter. “But Ros, I’m so sorry you’re frazzled! Nick didn’t mention—”

  “Nicky doesn’t know and you’re not to tell him. I don’t want him to start worrying about me when all I need’s a short break … Does that neighbour still have the key of the cottage?”

  “Yes, I’ll ring her and tell her you’re coming. When do you aim to arrive?”

  “Tomorrow lunch-time. By the way I’ve quite forgotten the address and how to get there. It seems ages since Nicky and I borrowed the cottage for that naughty weekend.”

  “Number Seven, Kine Street—”

  “Hang on, my pen’s seizing up.” I shook the Biro to get the ink flowing and pressed down twice as hard on the notepad. “Okay, go on.”

  Francie completed the address and gave comprehensive directions. “… and have a lovely time in deep seclusion,” she added. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I thanked her profusely before remembering to ask: “What’s new at St. Benet’s?”

  “Well, Venetia’s still seeing Robin, but Lewis is hovering on the sidelines—he’s been having spiritual chats with her every week.”

  “How nauseating!”

  “It’s certainly eccentric—they meet for drinks at various grand hotels. Funny old Lewis, he’s such a character!”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way of describing him. Does Nicky ever substitute for Lewis at the grand hotels?”

  “I thought of that and checked his diary, but he only substituted once and that was when Lewis was in hospital, so I didn’t bother to mention the jaunt to Claridge’s to you—it was obviously just a pastoral manoeuvre.”

  That made sense. Nicky would never normally go to Claridge’s unless he felt it was a pastoral necessity. Did I need to be perturbed that he hadn’t told me he was having a drink with Venetia? No. As a pastoral manoeuvre he could classify it as confidential and keep his mouth shut with a clear conscience. Very convenient. But as my marriage was on the rocks, did I really care what he got up to with Venetia Hoffenberg?

  The awful part was I still did. How was I ever going to separate from him? I was beginning to feel like a Siamese twin; I knew I had to go it alone in order to get a life and save my sanity, but how did I ever begin to psych myself up for the sheer unadulterated horror of the necessary operation?

  After the conversation with Francie I lay limply on the pillows for some time as if exhausted by my brief bout of dynamism, but eventually I tore the address of the cottage from the notepad, tucked the folded slip of paper in my Filofax and resumed the task of pretending to be ill.

  But by this time I was in such a state of nervous tension that I hardly needed to pretend at all.

  II

  It was just my bad luck that on that particular weekend Nicky stayed Sunday night at Butterfold Farm. He was due in Chichester on Monday morning for a conference, and planned to spend the night with friends before returning directly to London on Tuesday.

  “What’s this conference about?” I asked him on Sunday evening as he brought me soup and toast for my supper.

  “Pastoral problems caused by paranormal phenomena.”

  I somehow restrained myself from grinding my teeth.

  “My paper deals with the importance of diagnosing poltergeist activity correctly,” he said, sitting down at my bedside with his own mug of soup. “There’s an increasing amount of fraud nowadays—we call it the phoneygeist syndrome. For example, people dissatisfied with their local authority housing sometimes simulate paranormal incidents in order to claim their home is uninhabitable. The council calls us in to advise.”

  I kept my head down and concentrated on my soup.

  “Rosalind.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I’m rather worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t be. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “But you’re not really ill, are you? You’re faking it.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I screamed at him. “Can’t you ever lay off that bloody ESP?” That was when I knew how close to the edge I was. I never screamed. I also never normally used the word “bloody” in Nicky’s presence. He didn’t like it.

  “Are you worried about Benedict? Is there some problem I should know about?”

  “No, he’s fine. And I’m fine, apart from this forty-eight-hour bug, whatever it is. Can we talk of something else?”

  “Maybe you’re grieving for your lost business. There’s a vacuum in your life now and you may be unsure how to fill it.”

  “Nonsense! I promised myself a year off after all the hard slog and I’m enjoying my new leisure. Now, will you kindly stop flexing the ESP and—”

  “No ESP’s required to see your illness is a fake. I mean, it was plain as a pikestaff that you didn’t want sex and decided to pretend to be ill so as not to hurt my feelings.”

  I was so rattled that I abandoned my soup, slid down the bed and pulled the duvet over my head again, but he refused either to shut up or to be shut out. “Look,” I heard him say urgently, “if there’s a problem with sex it’s so often an indication that there’s a serious problem elsewhere. If you could only tell me—”

  Under the duvet I stopped my ears and prayed for him to go away, but he didn’t. So much for prayer. The next moment he had stripped off his clothes and was sliding under the duvet to enfold me in his arms.

  I tried to say: “Please go away,” but nothing happened. That was because he was no longer the impossible partner of an impossible marriage but my oldest friend, genuinely worried for fear that I was unhappy.

  “Oh, Nicky, Nicky …” In a wave of emotion I twisted around to press my face against his chest, but this move instantly reminded me of his nakedness and made me realise how confidently he had anticipated the crumbling of my will. He was now poised to use our intimacy as a tool to pry open my mind and pick over the contents. I froze, conscious of an enormous resentment, and as he immediately sensed my reaction he redoubled his efforts to manipulate me. Switching on the charm, he adopted a rueful, amused air and gave me an affectionate, non-threatening kiss on the forehead. “Okay,” he said, “tell me all that’s bothering you is that you don’t fancy me this weekend. Tell me exactly how you feel and I promise you I won’t be upset. I just want to know what’s going on.”

  My great escape to Devon was in danger. I knew very well that if I started telling him exactly how I felt he would never rest until I’d been coun
selled, prayed for and “fixed.” But I had to hammer out my own future. I had to stop him muscling in and trying to mould me into a shape which suited him but had nothing to do with the real me at all.

  “Don’t be silly! I always fancy you,” I said, allowing my hands to wander idly around his midriff. I knew I had to get this approach dead right; if I was either too passionate or too cool he’d smell a rat. “But I admit I do feel increasingly depressed about your relationship with Benedict.”

  “I’ll fix it!” said the wonder worker. “Just you wait and see!”

  Ah, but Nicky, you’re going to find out that there are some relationships which not even a wonder worker can fix …

  “Darling!” I said, simulating relief and gratitude. “Oh God, I’m sorry I’ve worked myself into such a state about it all, but”—inspiration finally struck—“I read the most awful article in The Times a fortnight ago about this new drug Ecstasy—apparently it’s spread from the London clubbers to the upwardly mobile, and—”

  “I know all about E and the acid-house culture—we see the casualties at the Healing Centre.”

  “Well, if Benedict gets involved—”

  “I’ll talk to him. No need for you to worry.”

  “Oh, what a load off my mind! Nicky, I’m sorry I’ve been so stupid and beastly to you, but—”

  He said I hadn’t been stupid and beastly, just unlike myself, and he didn’t like it when I was unlike myself, it bothered him, he wanted me to be happy and normal, just as I always was.

  “Predictable,” I said.

  “Right. I love you,” he insisted, clasping my wandering hand as tightly as he had held his teddy-bear’s paw long ago. “You’re the most important person in my life and I love you more than anyone else in the world.”

  I knew he meant that. But if he loved me—which he did—and if I loved him—which I did—why was I boiling deep down with rage and frustration and planning to spend three days plotting a divorce?

  I thought: Christ, what a snake-pit of unspeakable emotions! And that thought frightened me because I was reminded how easy it would be to lose control of the situation and plunge over the emotional abyss into breakdown, possibly even into destruction. Dreadful things happened when people failed to remain in control. Daddy had been in control behind his newspaper; Mummy had been in control behind her engagement diary and her charity work; but dashing Aunt Esmé had had an affair with a married man and wound up seeking a backstreet abortion; Aunt Esmé had lost control over her life and had died.

  “We won’t speak of it,” my mother had said, controlling the messy tragedy by sweeping it efficiently under the rug. “We won’t dwell on it any more.”

  But Aunt Esmé still haunted me. She showed up regularly in my dreams. It was why I was so worried about Benedict. If he took to drugs, got expelled from school, lost control over his adolescence …

  “Rosalind?”

  “Sorry, darling, I must stop worrying about Benedict …”

  We made love and I faked a workmanlike orgasm.

  III

  The next morning he left for Chichester at seven and I departed for Devon two hours later. I had spent several sleepless hours composing the farewell letter in my head but when I came to write it I still needed to do several drafts. Originally I had planned to leave no note because I had envisaged only a temporary retreat, but after that terrible bout of manipulation and counter-manipulation, after that unwanted sex and fake orgasm—after all those ghastly trappings of a marriage which was unquestionably on the rocks—I finally got my act together and realised, at about three in the morning, that either I left my husband or I suffered a breakdown.

  Accordingly I wrote in my final version of the letter: “Dearest Nicky, I’m very sorry, but I can’t go on with our marriage. I’m going away for a few days to plan my future and I do not, repeat NOT, want to see you during that time. I shall be in touch with you before the end of term about the boys, who, of course, will live with me, although I do accept that you must have visiting rights. I know it will be difficult for you as a clergyman to be divorced, but since the Church fortunately takes a more relaxed line nowadays I know you’ll be in no danger of losing your job. There’s nothing more I can usefully say at this point except that there’s no one else and I’m sure I shall always be very fond of you. But I can’t go on being your wife. Sorry, but there it is. Love, ROSALIND.”

  When I reread the letter it seemed very cold, almost brutal, but I felt sure I was right not to go into long explanations which he would immediately want to rebut. The best way of handling the mess was to be business-like—not unfriendly exactly, but just thoroughly sensible and polite. No scenes. Practical details discussed through lawyers. Civilised behaviour at all times. I thought I could cope well with a divorce conducted according to those reassuring rules, but first of all I needed to escape, recover from the trauma of the weekend and try to think coherently about the immediate future. How was I going to tell the boys? How was I going to cope with Christmas? How was I going to keep Nicky at arm’s length once I emerged from seclusion? All these dreadful questions required very careful consideration indeed. I hurried on with the task of removing myself to Devon.

  I telephoned my cleaner with the news that I was going away “for a few days” and asked her to come in to water my plants, just as she always did when I was on holiday. I phoned Reg, who helped me in the garden, and told him he could dig out the liriope but must on no account tug the dead leaves off the yuccas. I cancelled the newspapers and the milk delivery. Then I went upstairs to pack. This was difficult, as I now had no idea how long I might have to be away. I certainly intended to return home as soon as possible, but I had to wait until I was sure Nicky had accepted my decision. Otherwise he might crash around and … But at that point I rang down the curtain on my imagination. I didn’t want to remind myself that I was secretly a little frightened of him and more than a little frightened of his reaction to being dumped. He would adjust, of course, since he was a mature, civilised clergyman and not some macho ape fresh from the nearest cave, but the adjustment might take some time, and meanwhile … Meanwhile I just didn’t want to be around to take the flak.

  I decided to pack for a two-week absence, but in the end I got carried away by the desire for a permanent break from Nicky, and to symbolise it I packed in addition to the necessary clothes my photograph albums of the boys, my silver-framed picture of my parents, and my jewellery. I knew it wasn’t sensible to weigh myself down with all this baggage, but I told myself these precious mementos would boost my morale during the testing times which lay ahead.

  Once my suitcases had been packed I went outside to bid a temporary farewell to my garden, but that was a mistake because I started to feel weepy. How stupid! I was sure Nicky would cede me Butterfold Farm in the divorce settlement, and anyway I’d soon see it again. But meanwhile … Meanwhile the separation was agonising. Running back into the house I suddenly remembered I had forgotten to leave a suitably neutral message on the answering machine. This proved difficult to draft but eventually I heard myself declaring: “You have reached Butterfold 843419. I’m not returning any calls at the present time, but please leave your name so that I can get back to you when I’m fully recovered from my virus.” This seemed to cover all callers: my friends would do as they were told, tradesmen would hold their fire, burglars would think someone was at home and Nicky would assume I was still glum about Benedict and not in the mood for chit-chat.

  All I had to do now was get myself to Devon.

  Grabbing my suitcases I choked back a sob and staggered outside to my car.

  IV

  I arrived at the cottage early in the afternoon, picked up the key, let myself in and collapsed exhausted on the living-room sofa. When I awoke it was dark and very cold. Wandering around in a disorientated daze I drew the curtains and tried to coax the electric heating to work but after a while I remembered I had no food so I abandoned the radiators and trudged out to the car. Luckily there
was no snow but I could all too easily imagine a heavy frost whitening the landscape.

  Although the village shop was shut a local yokel told me that a large Tesco’s had opened not far away on the A38, and when I arrived I found to my relief that despite the lateness of the hour people were still shopping. But once inside I couldn’t decide what to buy. I wandered up and down the aisles like a lost soul.

  After a long time I found myself back at the cottage and nibbling a grilled cheese sandwich. The heating seemed to be working better but the cottage remained icy. Interrupting my meal I hunted down the electric fires and plugged them both in. After half an hour I felt I might survive if I were to remove my overcoat. To make sure I poured myself a third whisky.

  Unable to face sleeping in any of the arctic bedrooms upstairs I brought down some blankets and pillows and prepared to sleep on the sofa. The blankets were damp. In the bathroom I noticed the spiders’ webs for the first time, and was reminded that the lavatory, visited on my arrival, showed signs of being in terminal decline. How different this slummish hovel was from the idyllic thatched cottage, warm and sunlit, which Nicky and I had visited for our dirty weekend five years ago! The passage of time and the owners’ indifference had taken their toll. Depression began to envelop me again. What on earth was I doing in this godforsaken hole? Could I be in the midst of a nervous breakdown without realising I’d gone over the edge? With a shudder I finished the third whisky and promptly passed out.

  When I awoke at eight the next morning I felt better. I switched on the fires and when I discovered that the water was at last seriously hot I had a bath. An hour later, having knocked back orange juice, muesli and three cups of coffee I felt almost normal but when I tried to survey the future my brain went dead. I wanted to run out and buy a plant somewhere but this was hardly practical behaviour. I did hope Reg wouldn’t succumb to temptation and try to pick the dead leaves off the yuccas. They have to be plucked in a certain way and he’d never mastered the art.