The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  At first I’d wondered if my absence from the church would mean I wouldn’t meet the wider community—the inner circle, of course, attended the communal breakfast—but all kinds of people were invited to the informal weekday lunches and everyone was very friendly. There were also various social events, but so far I had always been too shy to attend them. No one seemed to mind that I didn’t turn up in church during the week. Neither Nicholas nor Lewis had ever put me under any pressure to do so and I suppose I had assumed the matter was of little consequence to them. Yet now Nicholas was asking me—actually asking me—to attend the Communion service with him as if I was a real Christian instead of someone who was only beginning to have one or two God-ideas and who was still far from sure exactly what she thought about Christianity! I was so amazed that I couldn’t immediately think what to say.

  “You needn’t take the Sacrament,” he said quickly as I hesitated, “but if you could just be there—at the back of the church, if you’d prefer—I’d find your presence such a support.”

  I was much struck by this last word. I had wanted to be a support to him and now he himself was spelling out the exact type of support he needed. Yet still I hesitated. I was so conscious of my inadequacy. “But surely,” I said, “there must be a prayer-expert who could do the job so much better than I could?”

  “I don’t want a mystical genius. I want someone who cares.”

  I stared at the baking tins. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks.” Absent-mindedly he ran his finger around the edge of the bowl and sampled the left-over traces of the cake-mixture. “Is it the Anglo-Catholic ideal of the daily mass which you dislike?” he asked. “Because if it is, I assure you we’re really very Middle-Way in our style—in fact Lewis complains that nowadays we hardly qualify as Anglo-Catholic at all.”

  I said: “It’s not that. I just hate the thought of everyone staring at me when I go up to the Communion rail and thinking how fat I am.”

  “Ah, I see.” He sampled the cake-mixture again. “But the people who attend an early mass would be much too preoccupied with the service to pay you any attention, and besides … now that you’re thinner you have less to worry about, haven’t you?” And without waiting for a reply he wandered out of the room into the hall.

  Abandoning the cake I retreated downstairs and tried to feel pleased that he had noticed I was thinner. But I knew I would never be as slim as Rosalind.

  My profound exhaustion finally manifested itself in self-pity and to my shame I cried myself to sleep.

  IV

  Before the eight o’clock service the next day Nicholas received a phone call from Stacy’s sister Siobhan. The local clergyman had been to see her; her mother, who was still very ill, had not yet been told of the tragedy; Siobhan hoped to be in London on the following morning. Neither Lewis nor I asked Nicholas what else had been said and Nicholas volunteered no further information. In silence we walked over to the church.

  Only four of the prayer-group were present. Before the service began Nicholas told them what had happened and we kept silence for a few minutes. The service which followed was short. Lewis conducted it. I sat at the back and tried to soak up Nicholas’s pain while encircling him with love. I didn’t take Communion but that wasn’t because I was afraid of being stared at. It was because I didn’t dare break off from my task of encirclement. The members of the prayergroup were encircling him too, I knew that, but they were so experienced that they could do more than one spiritual task at a time. I envied them their gift and their skill.

  As it was a Saturday there was no communal breakfast. Nicholas drank a cup of tea and broke a piece of toast into ragged crumbs and withdrew to his study after five minutes. Lewis then apologised to me for his harshness the night before, but I didn’t want to think about what had been said then so I just muttered: “That’s okay,” and hoped he’d shut up. He did, and as soon as he had disappeared into the bedsit I was at last able to relax, but my respite was short-lived. At nine o’clock Nicholas reappeared and we left in his car for Butterfold.

  V

  The weather was foggy but the visibility improved as we left London, and soon I found myself surprised by how beautiful Surrey was. I had thought of it as merely the most exclusive of the Home Counties, crammed with luxurious suburbs, but in less than an hour we were driving between wooded hills through a wide valley where farms flecked the rural landscape.

  “Our house used to be a farm,” said Nicholas, speaking for the first time since the start of the journey. “There are a lot of fake farmhouses around this area—houses which were tarted up when Surrey got rich and spoilt.”

  “It doesn’t seem spoilt to me.”

  “We’re travelling at an off-peak time. Normally there’s too much traffic, but it must have been a good place to live in the old days.”

  “If you’re not keen on it, why did you choose to buy a house here?”

  “Rosalind liked it. And I didn’t want a long drive at weekends.”

  We said nothing else, but I thought how sad it was that his family home lay in a place which meant so little to him. A second later it also occurred to me how much I should hate it if the man I loved was so lukewarm about the place where we’d agreed to live. Much disturbed by this shaft of empathy with Rosalind, I shifted restlessly in my seat.

  Butterfold had a village green and a pub and some cottages so quaint that they looked unreal, as if they were cardboard props on a film set. The Darrows’ house was half a mile from the church, and the first thing I noticed was not the house itself but the garden. Even though it was so late in the year there were still shrubs blooming around the paved areas at the front. I pictured smooth lawns and sumptuous borders behind the house and thought how beautiful the place would be in the height of summer. In my imagination the vision of roses was so intense that I even wrinkled my nose as if I could smell their scent.

  Nicholas swung the car into the gravelled drive at the side of the house and parked outside a garage which had clearly once been a barn. We were in full view of the front door. Switching off the engine he said: “With luck you won’t have to do anything except stay put,” and the next moment he was slipping out of the car.

  I watched him move to the front door, his head bent forward, his fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket. A light wind, ruffling his hair, made him shiver as he rang the doorbell.

  It was as he waited for a response that I wondered why he didn’t just open the door with his key and call her name. Even if he and Rosalind were on such bad terms that they could only talk in full view of a witness, I didn’t see why he had to ring the doorbell as if he were a stranger.

  He waited and waited, but just as he was about to ring the bell again Rosalind opened the door.

  She had the chain in place and was peering at him through the narrow gap.

  With shock I finally understood. She was frightened of him. There was a window on one side of the front door so she must have been able to see who the caller was, but she had still used the chain. I realised then why Nicholas had rung the bell instead of using his key. He hadn’t wanted to terrify her by entering the house without warning; he had known it would be an ordeal for her even to see him waiting outside.

  Appalled by this new understanding I held my breath and watched them. She was trying to shut the door but he had wedged it open with his foot. A second later he was pointing to his car.

  She saw me. There was a pause. More words were exchanged but finally he removed his foot from the threshold so that she could close the door and unhook the chain. The next moment the door opened again as she stepped outside to join him. She had slipped into a navy-blue coat with brass buttons and looked as if she was about to be photographed for the fashion pages of Country Life.

  I was expecting a lengthy conversation but within seconds Nicholas was turning away and heading back to the car. I stared in bewilderment. Rosalind made no effort to return indoors. She was watching me just as I was watching her, b
ut I was sure my expression was less inscrutable than hers.

  Opening the driver’s door Nicholas slid into the car. “She refuses to talk to me,” he said, “but she’ll talk to you.”

  I began to feel sick. “How much have you told her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But what on earth do I say?”

  “Try and convince her that I have some very serious, very urgent news and that she’s got to listen to it.”

  I was speechless.

  “She’s glad you’re here,” he said. “I was right about that. I’m sure she’ll be friendly.”

  “Great.”

  “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Why’s she so scared of you?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “I’d rather you explained now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Alice—”

  “No, don’t behave as if it’s none of my business! You made it my business by involving me like this!”

  “I realise that. And I wasn’t going to say it was none of your business.”

  “Then what the hell were you going to say, for God’s sake?” I was horribly rattled by this time.

  “I was just going to say that the subject’s very difficult for me to talk about because I’m so ashamed.”

  “Okay, but I’m still none the wiser. What exactly is Rosalind afraid you’ll do?”

  “She’s afraid I’ll manipulate her in the worst possible way. She’s afraid I’ll use hypnosis to take away her will and make her do what she doesn’t want to do. Of course that would be impossible now, since she’s so hostile, but she still believes—”

  “Wait a moment, I’m not following this. What is it she thinks you’ll make her do that she doesn’t want to do?”

  “Have sex. She thinks I’ll hypnotise her into having sex in the hope that it would heal the mess we’re in.”

  I stared at him.

  He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. He was ash-white. The knuckles of his hands shone as he gripped the steering wheel.

  I heard my voice demand: “Why should she think you’d ever do such a wicked thing?” But the moment I phrased the question I knew the answer. “Because you’ve already done it,” I said blankly, and added in my politest voice: “I see.” By this time I was feeling very sick indeed. Scrabbling for the door-handle I started to struggle from the car.

  “Alice, if you only knew how much I now regret—”

  I slammed the door to cut him off, gathered the folds of my jacket around me and tramped across the gravel to the front door.

  Having waited until we were face to face Rosalind said crisply: “He shouldn’t be using you like this. It’s wrong. I always said to him that he wasn’t treating you fairly, but he’s so damn arrogant that he always thinks he knows best.” She pushed open the front door and added over her shoulder: “Come and have some coffee.”

  I followed her silently into her beautiful house. Pale carpets, highly polished furniture and yards of expensive curtains all formed an elegant pattern of luxury beneath the oak-beamed ceilings. The kitchen was built of oak too, a huge room it was, with all the ugly appliances concealed and every working surface wiped meticulously clean. As I stared around, absorbing every opulent detail, I could finally understand why she had detested the shabby, sprawling, awkward-to-run Rectory. This was a woman with high standards and an exacting attention to detail; she liked order and efficiency; she demanded and expected the best. A second later I saw too why she couldn’t relate to Nicholas’s ministry. The messy pain of sickness, the muddle of broken lives and the chaotic inefficiency of the weak would have been intolerable to her. With such a drive for material perfection she would have no patience with the losers and no interest in the pathetic and the pitiable. I could see clearly now just why her behavior with Stacy had been so out of character: normally she would have been far too busy pursuing her rigorously high standards to embark on conduct which was so shoddy and second-rate.

  I saw then not only how deeply Nicholas had damaged her but how deprived she was, despite her exquisite surroundings. The quest for perfection had been misdirected. Having spent so much of her life creating and sustaining this perfect home, she had been obliged to share it with a husband who couldn’t appreciate it and was mostly absent. So many of her creations would have been unappreciated by him; so much of her love would have been unnoticed and unrewarded.

  My insight deepened, illuminated by this glimpse of suffering, and finally I understood why she couldn’t bear the deprivation which was on display at the Healing Centre, why she couldn’t stand the austerity of the Rectory. Her real life, her inner life, was in fact shot through and through with deprivation and austerity, but that was a truth far too painful to acknowledge so she’d shut it out by creating this luxurious, sumptuous world where she could pretend she was happy and fulfilled.

  “I’m so sorry, Rosalind,” I said. “I’m so very sorry.”

  She shrugged, not understanding that I was pitying her—indeed the very idea that I could be in a position to pity her would have seemed absurd. I suppose she thought I was merely apologising for my intrusion into her private life.

  “Have a seat,” she said tersely, moving to the percolator and producing a couple of Royal Doulton cups and saucers from the cupboard above it. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Thanks.” I sat down at the kitchen table, and after she had poured out the coffee she sat down opposite me.

  “I’ve got a good idea why Nicky’s here,” she said, “but you can tell him I’m not talking to him except through lawyers—I’m having no more ghastly scenes … Did he tell you what he wants to talk to me about?”

  “Yes. Rosalind—”

  “Is it about Stacy?”

  That was a shock. I could only nod.

  “I thought so,” she said wearily, as if far too exhausted to display run-of-the-mill emotions such as embarrassment or shame. “I suppose the silly child couldn’t resist confessing everything to his hero—and I suppose that was what I originally wanted, I don’t know—I don’t know anything any more except that I’ve got to be shot of Nicky, but I suppose now I wish I could have told him about Stacy myself—in a letter, so that I could make it crystal clear that the marriage is utterly washed up and that it would be pointless to come down here and make a scene … How much do you actually know about all this? I mean, did Nicky just say to you that he wanted to discuss Stacy with me, or did he tell you—well, never mind, it doesn’t matter, I don’t care how much you know. A week ago I would have cared, but I don’t care now, I’ve crossed some sort of pain threshold and I’m numb, I can’t feel pain any more, all I feel is fear that Nicky might crash in here and—well, never mind all that either. Just tell him, would you, that I’m not talking to him about either Stacy or anything else, and that if he tries to bash his way in here I’ll call the police—oh, and tell him I’ve already changed the locks. He won’t have realised that, since he played the gentleman and rang the bell just now, but if he’d tried his key it wouldn’t have worked.”

  “Rosalind,” I said when she finally paused for breath, “I think you really should talk to Nicholas now about Stacy. Honestly. It’s very important.”

  “Absolutely not!” She slammed down her coffee-cup and clenched her fists.

  “But there’s something—well, two things—which have got to be said. You see, Nicholas came down here because there’s been a catastrophe. He—”

  “Catastrophe?”

  “Yes, something terrible’s happened—the most frightful thing—it’s not for me to tell you, but—”

  “Christ, what is it?”

  “If you’d only talk to—”

  “WHAT IS IT?”

  “Stacy’s committed suicide,” I said, giving up the struggle to refer her to Nicholas, and saw all the colour drain from her face as the shock exploded in her mind.

  VI

  “Oh my God,” she said. “My God.” She was motionless, no longer seeing me, her eyes dark with
memories which had become unendurable.

  I tried to tell her about the investigation. In particular I tried to make it clear that the police had no idea what had happened between her and Stacy, but she was too shocked to listen. I finally broke off when I saw the tears in her eyes.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.” But she did. A moment later she was adding fiercely: “If I’d thought for one second that he’d kill himself, I’d never have—” She broke off, too overwhelmed to continue.

  I said: “If you’d speak to Nicholas, he’d—”

  “Oh, shut up about ‘Nicholas,’ for God’s sake! If it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have gone round the bend, and if I hadn’t gone round the bend—”

  “If you’d speak to him he’d tell you that what happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was my fault! Or at least, partly my fault! Thank you, but I believe in accepting responsibility for my actions—I’m not one of those feeble whingers who go howling to counsellors in the hope of being let off the hook!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Shut up. I need to think about this. I need to think.” There was a catch in her voice but she controlled it. “Okay,” she said abruptly. “Stacy killed himself. I know now. You can tell Nicky I appreciate the fact that he wanted to tell me in person, but I don’t want to discuss it with him. All I want now is to be left alone.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “Oh Christ, there’s something else, isn’t there? You said there were two things I needed to know about Stacy. If one was the suicide, what was the other?”

  “Yesterday—the day he died—” I tried to go on but it was so difficult.

  “Yes? Well, spit it out, for Christ’s sake—I’m not going to stage a total collapse!”

  “Yesterday he had a blood test,” I said. “There’s a chance he was HIV-positive.”

  Rosalind stared at me. I saw the tears well in her eyes again, and as I watched helplessly she groped her way to her feet.