Glamorous Powers (30 page)

‘No, but never mind.’

This time we both smiled before I said: ‘The key word is “moving”’. We live in a world of movement, of change, which is reflected in the words “past”, “present” and “future”, but beyond this world is another world to which we’re inextricably linked but which we can only dimly perceive. This world is a kingdom of values, the absolute values of goodness, truth and beauty, and it’s these unchanging values, present in our changing world of time and space, which reflect the other world, ultimate reality, which is beyond space and time.’

‘It’s hard to imagine something which can’t be described in spatial and temporal terms.’

‘That’s exactly why any meaningful description of the other world really lies outside the scope of our vocabulary. For
example, I call the time of this world “finite time” to distinguish it from the everlasting Now which is the only way we can conceive of eternity, but this terminology isn’t wholly satisfactory because there are philosophers who argue that even our time is infinite. But that argument only stems from the fact that they can’t imagine being at the edge of time with a blank wall instead of a future ahead. The truth is that if the universe is running down like a clock –’

‘Stop!’ said Miss Fielding. I can’t cope with universes running down like clocks. Are you trying to say that when you’re clairvoyant you step out of finite time into some form of eternity?’

‘Perhaps one should phrase that more cautiously. All I know for certain is that I step out of time as we understand it where the past is always behind us and the future is still to come.’

Miss Fielding said suddenly: ‘It must be like escaping from a prison. Isn’t it strange how unaware people are of being locked up in time?’

‘You find an unconscious awareness of this in the widespread longing to be immortal. Yet isn’t it equally strange, when one remembers that we’re also locked up in space, that no one seems to long to be ubiquitous?’

She laughed, and knowing she was now thoroughly relaxed I glided forward into my inquisition.

‘Talking of eternity,’ I said, ‘I’m reminded of your home town of Starbridge, the only city I know which possesses an Eternity Street. Do you worship at the Cathedral?’

Immediately her defences were resurrected; she displayed no hostility but I was aware of her extreme stillness. ‘My aunt prefers to worship at St Martin’s-in-Cripplegate,’ she said, naming the church in the centre of the city which had originally been erected for the benefit of the workmen building the Cathedral.

‘You live with your aunt?’

‘My parents are dead,’ said Miss Fielding, looking at the lake, the trees, the sky but not at me. ‘My aunt has a house in the
section of the city called St Stephen’s Fields. It’s between Eternity Street and the river.’

‘You work in the city?’

Her studied nonchalance disintegrated. ‘What business is that of yours?’

‘Absolutely none. Forgive me.’

We fell silent but gradually I became aware of her psyche, encased in an iron band but yearning to be free. As soon as I saw the iron band with my inner eye I visualized a file and pictured myself whittling the fetter apart.

‘I work on a farm,’ said Miss Fielding abruptly as the band snapped in two.

‘Do you?’ I said. ‘I worked on a farm once. I was assigned to the cowman when I was a novice in Yorkshire, but I unconsciously projected so much antipathy towards the cows that the milk yield dropped and I had to be removed from the farmyard.’

She was amused and not unsympathetic. ‘I’m not much good with farm animals either,’ she said, and added after a hesitation: ‘I work in the estate office.’

‘I must confess I didn’t quite see you as a land-girl –’

‘– so you peeped into my mind and saw I was an administrator!’

‘No, I can’t read your mind like a book! If I could, I wouldn’t be asking all these impertinent questions!’

‘I think you’re just asking the questions to confirm your psychic suspicions.’

‘I have my psychic suspicions certainly – I can’t help myself – but they could be dead wrong. If I were to make any deductions about you I’d base them on reason and experience before allowing my intuition free rein.’

She said sternly: ‘And what are your deductions based on reason and experience?’

‘I deduce that your aversion to normal social intercourse stems from the fact that at one time you trusted people far more than you do now – and paid a heavy price. I deduce that this deep wound in your psyche has remained unhealed with the result that you’re periodically driven to play the kind of role
you’re playing here at Allington, a role which you can use as a shield to protect your true self.’ I shrugged my shoulders to signal that I had no inclination either to criticize or to condemn. ‘Neither of those deductions involves any psychic intuition whatsoever, of course. They’re merely conclusions which any experienced counsellor might reach.’

‘And what happens when you give your psychic intuition free rein?’

There was a pause while I debated what I had to lose by responding to the question and decided that I had everything to gain. ‘I could be quite wrong,’ I said, careful to maintain a casual tone of voice, ‘but I think the traumatic incident in your past involved a massive loss and it was all connected with water. Perhaps someone close to you was drowned? Or perhaps someone you loved sailed away and never came back?’

As she stared I had a most uncomfortable memory of Francis warning me against exercising my psychic powers with a woman in a secluded corner of the grounds. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said rapidly, ‘I’m behaving like a charlatan in a fortune-teller’s booth on a seaside pier and I must stop at once. Let me now give you the rational explanation for those wild and no doubt inaccurate guesses: I saw the Cunard label on your suitcase. I’ve associated you with travel by water. I’ve now fused that association with the deduction that you’ve suffered in the past, and one of the most traumatic forms of suffering is bereavement. You see? There’s really no psychic intuition going on at all. It’s just the kind of mental sleight-of-hand which can be made to look so effective in a parlour-trick.’

For a long moment Miss Fielding was silent as she stared across the lake but at last she said: ‘When I was twenty-six my fiancé broke off our engagement and sailed away on one of the transatlantic liners. My brother then took me on holiday to Cornwall to help me recover, and three days later he drowned while swimming in the sea.’ She stood up, smoothing the creases from her dress. ‘After that I knew my life had to change completely,’ she said. ‘The old life was burnt out and the new life had to begin.’ She turned to face me and as I too rose to
my feet I saw that her eyes were a clear tearless blue. That’s what happens when someone becomes a monk, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘They die to the old life and are born again in the new. There’s some Greek word for it –’

‘“Metanoia”. Miss Fielding –’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind you knowing because I’m sure you’ll respect my confidence. But in future, Mr Darrow, could you somehow keep your psychic powers in check? My mind doesn’t like being X-rayed with such horrible accuracy. It quite definitely doesn’t like it at all.’

After that conversation I exerted my will-power, curbed my burgeoning curiosity and for two days made no attempt to seek another interview with her.

‘… so you needn’t worry,’ I wrote as I concluded a long letter to Francis. ‘I have the situation well in control and can say with perfect truth that I’m not in the least in love with Miss Fielding, who has no waist to speak of (I am exceedingly partial to waists) and is elsewhere too large when she should be small and too small when she should be large – not that I wish to be uncharitable, for she’s obviously highly intelligent and sensitive, but my point is that since she’s so lacking in conventional feminine allure I run no risk of making a fool of myself.’

I posted this most sensible letter on Friday morning but as soon as the envelope had dropped into the village pillar-box I realized I could no longer endure to keep Miss Fielding at arm’s length and that afternoon I succeeded in luring her back to the lake.

‘It seems almost indecent that we should be somewhere so peaceful at a time like this,’ said Miss Fielding unexpectedly as we again settled ourselves on the fallen tree.

‘That’s a phenomenon of war – the non-combatant’s guilt. But you shouldn’t let it oppress you. Better to look upon our peaceful oasis here as a gift from God and give thanks for it.’

‘I suppose that as you’re a prayer-expert you can now automatically send off a perfectly-phrased prayer of thanksgiving. All I can do is mutter a fervent “thank you” and feel inarticulate.’

‘A fervent “thank you” would be entirely admirable,’ I said pleased, ‘and you must never think for one moment that a trained religious necessarily prays more effectively than a devout layman. Prayer’s the great leveller. Anyone can do it, and the only pity is that more people don’t try.’ By this time I was so consumed with curiosity about her spiritual life that I risked saying: ‘Are you High-Church, Broad-Church or Low-Church?’

‘I’m not at all sure what all those awful labels mean. If High-Church means the Anglo-Catholics and Low-Church means the Evangelical Protestants and Broad-Church means the vast majority of church-goers between the two extremes, then I suppose I’m Broad – I’m certainly a Protestant. I don’t like anything which suggests the Reformation martyrs died in vain. I’m not saying all Anglo-Catholics should be burnt at the stake – well, that would be a bit tactless in present company, wouldn’t it – but I don’t like parsons calling themselves priests and Communion being called Mass, and personally I think the use of incense is a nasty piece of unEnglish mumbo-jumbo.’

‘The glory of the Church of England,’ I said at once, ‘is that you and I, despite our very divergent views, can both belong to it.’ But as I spoke I was thinking with delight: what a challenge! and wondering if I could convert her to my point of view.

Having reassured her that I was capable of conducting a normal conversation without oppressing her with my psychic peculiarities, I remained silent as we journeyed back from the lake, but when we reached the house I said: ‘Mrs Digby leaves tomorrow afternoon and there’ll be a spare place at my table. Will you join me for dinner?’

Without hesitation she answered: ‘I’d rather not.’

‘Very well.’

We entered the house.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Fielding quickly after struggling with her conflicting emotions. That was abominably rude of me.
Thank you for the invitation – in many ways I’d like to accept but nevertheless I’m going to ask you to excuse me.’

‘Of course.’

‘I seem to be making a complete fool of myself,’ said Miss Fielding at last. ‘Anyone would think you’d made an indecent proposal. Thank you, Mr Darrow, I accept the invitation and apologize for being so ungracious.’

I retired in triumph to my room.

‘I understand the mysterious Miss Fielding will be joining us tonight,’ said Miss Tarantino who was already seated at the table when I arrived in the dining-room, on the following evening. Allington Court was by no means ‘smart’, but Miss Tarantino, sleek in dark red satin, exuded a glamour which was almost operatic. I was vaguely reminded of ‘Carmen’.

‘Miss Fielding will indeed be joining us,’ I said, ‘and I intend to pamper myself by sitting between the two of you and luxuriating in your combined feminine attention.’ I had, it will be noticed, travelled a considerable way from the tense, wary ex-monk who had wanted to bolt from the dining-room ten days previously.

Miss Tarantino was prevented (perhaps fortunately) from replying by the arrival of the Braithwaites and the Professor. The Warden was already chafing to say grace, and I was just wondering if Miss Fielding’s nerve had failed her when to my relief she entered the room. She was wearing another shapeless item from her dowager’s wardrobe, a funereal black gown. I saw Miss Tarantino give it a look of pitying amazement although I sensed that the Braithwaites were more interested in the diamond necklace which Miss Fielding had slung around her neck. The diamonds had the effect of reducing Miss Tarantino’s allure to a tinsel glitter and underlining the ugliness of Mrs Braithwaite’s cultured pearls.

The meal proceeded uneventfully until the middle of the main
course. Miss Fielding and I said little; Miss Tarantino and the Professor argued fitfully about Luther’s view of the sacraments, and the Braithwaites talked in consequence about a handsome Lutheran church which they had inspected during a holiday in Germany in 1936. It was the mention of Germany which sealed the fate of the evening. The conversation drifted inexorably towards the war until we were discussing the prospect of increased rationing.

‘Another thing we can expect to increase,’ said Braithwaite, vigorously sawing his portion of chicken, ‘is immorality.’ He seemed to find the prospect stimulating.

‘Oh don’t, dear!’ said his wife with a shudder. ‘Every time I see those girls in uniform living like men I feel cold inside. A woman’s place is in the home.’

Miss Fielding said: ‘Are you implying that women are so lacking in moral backbone that they risk corruption the moment they step outside their front door?’

‘It’s a well-known fact,’ said Braithwaite, using the phrase which in my experience so often heralds an old wives’ tale, ‘that once women stop being wives and mothers and start working alongside men there’s an immediate decline in moral standards.’