The High Flyer (49 page)

IV

“You’re looking better!” she said approvingly.

“I had nine hours’ sleep.”

“Followed by breakfast?”

“Don’t expect miracles!”

“Am I being guilty of false optimism?” she said laughing. “Or am I only guilty of hope?” And before I could reply she added idly: “Coming to the healing service?”

“Well—”

“Oh, do come! You’ll give me moral support—I’m one of the people doing the laying-on of hands today, and I always feel nervous beforehand.”

I said evasively: “Nicholas was telling me that the healers don’t have to be priests.”

“That’s right, anyone can have a go. Nick says that’s because we’re all connected—we’re like islands in an archipelago, he says, all joined together below the surface of the sea . . . ah, there
is
Nick—excuse me, I must just have a word with him . . .” She skimmed away.

I turned to make my escape but immediately bumped into one of the Befrienders who had taken up a position by the door to greet the people who were beginning to arrive for the service.

“You’re wise to be here early!” she said smiling after we had exchanged apologies for the collision. “We’re always packed out on Fridays!” And somehow I found myself unable to tell her I wanted to leave.

I decided to wait until she was too busy to notice me as I slipped away.

V

I was halfway through reading the prayer-slips for the second time when someone exclaimed behind me: “Carter!”

It was Robin. He was looking summery in a pale blue suit, a pink shirt and a flowered tie which looked as if it had been excavated from a drawer untouched since the 1960s. “I was
hoping
I might find you here,” he said, falling back into his old trick of speaking in italics to convey an impression of limitless empathy, “although
of course
I would have understood if you’d felt it was all
too much
at present. Personally I find that by Friday lunch-time I can
either
attend the service
or
collapse in a
dishevelled
heap
, and since I can’t
bear
being dishevelled the service
always
seems the most sensible option . . . Shall we find a couple of seats before the
madding crowd
tramples us underfoot?”

Finding myself powerless to say no, I mutely followed him down the aisle.

VI

I found it difficult to grasp the words of the service, impossible to analyse them. I was so struck by the fact that I was seeing another dimension in the lives of the people who had befriended me, and dimly, like a very stupid person grasping at last that two plus two equals four, I realised that I was seeing not only the symbols which expressed my friends’ beliefs but the framework which supported their ministry; I was witnessing not the enactment of nebulous fantasies but the manifestation of a living reality, practical and down to earth, which permeated each day from beginning to end.

I remembered how not so long ago I had wondered what Nicholas was doing behind the closed door of his study at an early hour of the morning. Now I knew. He was not just reading the Bible and praying. He was following a discipline which focused him and made it possible for him to realise his full potential. He was lining up his centre with the integrating principle at work in the universe, the principle which was ultimately stronger than the drive to fragment. He was tapping into the powers of light which would allow him to live dynamically, surfing the chaos, splitting the darkness, serving his creator by serving others again and again and again.

The words of the service continued to slip through my consciousness like grains of sand through a wide-meshed sieve, but the gestures and movements of the principal participants resonated in my mind until my heart felt as if it were bursting with emotions I could not name. Gradually, as I watched Nicholas and Lewis in their professional roles, the clerical uniforms blotted out their individuality and smoothed them into symbols, pointing beyond themselves to truths which I sensed but could find no words to express.

Then I focused on the two women who were to join them in the laying-on of hands that day. One woman was a Befriender whom I did not know but as I turned my attention to Val I saw she was no longer just the casually dressed doctor who was so familiar; she seemed now to be reflecting an image of what a truly successful professional woman could be—not rich by my standards, not hacking her way to the top of a hierarchy to satisfy the demands of an ambition which resulted from unconscious psychological drives, but being herself, being whom she was supposed to be and doing what she was supposed to do in order to connect with others both for their benefit and for her own. And in this new definition of success which she was presenting to me I glimpsed the unknown self which I was still struggling to uncover, the self I had suppressed in order to achieve those goals I had so carefully listed in that life-plan which had been so deeply unreal.

I still did not know what I was going to do with my life, but I was sure now that I would find the right way forward. There would certainly be no more squeezing myself into a pattern of soul-shredding toil which allowed me no time either to think or simply to be. I did not have to prove myself to anyone any more. I no longer had to pay my parents back for my past pain. There would be no returning to the world of Curtis, Towers, the world where I had been sweating my life away, yet I knew I could still use the experience I had gained there. The past would not be wasted; instead it would be adapted and transformed.

I saw then that my marriage too did not have to be considered a write-off. The brief reality I had encountered with Kim could form a springboard which I could use to transcend all the grief and failure, but that was a future still too hard to imagine in detail; I could only grasp it as a theoretical possibility while at the same time wondering how it could ever become a practical reality when I felt permanently maimed, unable to trust, unable to connect with anyone in a close relationship, unable even to touch those who had saved me and cared for me. Alice had put her arm around me after the funeral but when I had struggled free she had not attempted the gesture of comfort again. Gil Tucker had grasped my hands at the crematorium but I had withdrawn them as soon as politeness permitted. Touching reminded me too painfully of Kim grabbing me at Oakshott, the demonic Kim, Mrs. Mayfield’s “Jake.” I had wondered since then if in my terror I had exaggerated the danger of him killing me once my revulsion had become apparent to him, but I knew that rape would have been on the cards, and how could I be sure that once the violence had exploded between us he would have stopped short of murder? The real Kim would never have killed me, I was certain of that, just as I was certain that at the end of our time at Oakshott it had been the demonic Kim in control.

With a shudder I experienced again the terrifying moment when he had laid his hands on me, and at that point I knew I could never go up to the altar-rail to be touched. I wanted to believe we were islands in an archipelago, all joined together below the surface of the sea, but I knew it had to be untrue. My connection had been severed. I was grateful to Nicholas for enabling me to remember the real Kim with love, but I could not imagine ever recovering from the demonic Kim who still had me in that powerful grip.

Yet I knew I wanted to go up to the altar-rail. The sight of the doctor and the priest standing side by side had such a powerful impact on me that I could not stop looking at them. Even more powerful was the impact made by all four healers when they laid hands on one another in acknowledgement of their own need for healing, and most powerful of all was the moment when they moved forward to await the approach of the congregation.

I had to glance away. I could only stare down at my clenched hands as I knew myself unable to take part in that ritual of connectedness, and the next moment I realised with shock that my cut-off state was nothing new. I had been isolated for years by the unhealed wounds which had severed me from my family, prevented me from making close friends and driven me to blot out the inevitable pain of loneliness by living only for my work. I had feared intimacy for a very long time; I had feared having my trust broken, my hopes cast down and my love laid waste, and this fear had driven me into a sterile existence where any loss of control over my well-ordered servitude was seen as a threat. It was a wonder I had ever brought myself to marry Kim, I could see that now, although of course I had been driven on by the demands of my life-plan and the unconscious need to love the man my father might have become. Yet even though I had indeed come to love Kim, I had so often been unable to stop withholding myself in the most private moments of our life together. Then in another terrible flash of enlightenment I saw what he and I had had in common: we had both been loners who, estranged in childhood from our parents, had had trouble connecting with people on an intimate level; we had both been people who had longed for love but who had only been capable of giving a maimed love in return.

Seeing in myself the sickness which had destroyed Kim, I was so horrified that I nearly passed out. But simultaneously I knew I could now understand the decision which had led him into the world of Mrs. Mayfield. Loneliness, alienation, isolation and despair—what would one not do to be healed of such searing diseases? I saw that I too had dabbled in desperate remedies: I had tried drink, I had tried sex, I had tried structuring my existence so tightly that I had had no time to think, but none of those strategies had brought healing . . . If I hadn’t started “flirting with the enemy,” God only knew what ideology I might ultimately have embraced.

I whispered to Kim: “I understand now,” and with that sentence forgiveness became no longer just a meaningless three-syllable word but a concept and a vision which I would eventually be able to experience.

Then as I reflected on the diseases which arose from being estranged from others and cut off from one’s true self, I heard Nicholas say in my memory: “Without love human beings wither and die,” and I knew how crucial it was that I should find healing. I could not go back to my past isolation. The Powers would merely move in to annihilate me. I had to rejoin the archipelago, but how could I when I was so powerless to find salvation by my own efforts?

I went on staring down at my fists, my whole body rigid, my throat tight with an unbearable pain, my eyes blind with tears, until at last I became aware of Robin rising to his feet. I heard him whisper: “Are you going up?” but when I shook my head he accepted my refusal and began his journey along the central aisle.

I thought of Nicholas saying that Christ the Healer was always present at this service. He had come to meet me in Robin, I was sure of that, but it had made no difference because in the end I had been too cut off to respond. I knew then that no one could help me. I was drifting away from the archipelago into distant waters, and by this time I had gone too far to be brought back.

The row emptied as others followed Robin up to the altar-rail. Then I became aware that someone was standing in the central aisle at the row’s end. I looked up. It was Tucker.

He said nothing. He did not even smile. He simply held out his hand.

I told myself I was unable to move. But I did. I gripped the chair in front of me and I hauled myself to my feet. I still did not see how I could possibly reach him but I started edging clumsily along the row. It seemed to take such a long time to get to the last chair. I thought Tucker would become impatient and move on. But he waited. He never moved. And I reached him.

As I stepped into the central aisle I stumbled but he gripped my hand and steadied me. That was when I knew I would be rescued. I could no more recoil from his touch than a drowning swimmer could have recoiled from a life-line. I was going to make it to the altar-rail. I could believe that now. I was going to get there. I was very sick but I was going to get well.

I was too dazed to work out if one could choose the healer one wanted. At the top of the aisle one of the Befrienders whispered: “Dr. Val’s free,” and Tucker led me forward, he led me all the way there, and when he let go at last Val’s square workmanlike hands seemed to shimmer with light as she stepped towards me.

She said a prayer but I could not hear it. The sea was making too much noise. Then as she laid her hands upon me amidst the roaring waters, I knew I was once more joined to all the islands in the archipelago, for my unseen companion had rebuilt the shattered link to bring me home.

VII

Someone had a box of Kleenex. Someone always did at St. Benet’s. One of the Befrienders slipped forward to take care of me as I groped my way back to my seat. Robin had already returned. The box appeared from somewhere and Robin fed the tissues to me one by one. I had no idea what had happened to Tucker. My tears made it impossible for me to see far in any direction.

There was a hymn at the end of the service but I merely sat and waited for it to be over. Reality had been reduced—or rather, expanded—to a succession of wordless images. I had realised how light the church was. Light seemed to be streaming all over everywhere. The little islands of the archipelago were basking in a sparkling sea. I could see that seascape so clearly, and even the city air of that hot day in late summer seemed as clear as if it had been funnelled through an invisible filter. I took deep breaths, closed my eyes and pictured myself luxuriating on a white-sand beach beneath a brilliant blue sky.

“Carter?” said Robin as if from a long way away.

“Yeah.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Yeah,” I repeated incoherently, and tried to focus on what was happening. The service had ended. The principal participants had processed down the aisle and were saying goodbye to the departing congregation at the back of the church. There was no sign of Tucker.

I struggled to my feet just as Val detached herself from the throng and came to join me.

“Carter!” she exclaimed warmly, but when I saw her wait, careful not to intrude on my personal space without an invitation, I put an end to this very proper professional reticence by hugging her. Then I hugged Robin. There were no words. As I staggered down the aisle Lewis saw me and ploughed through the crowd to my side.

“Carter?”

“Yeah,” I said a third time, and patted him gratefully on the chest before moving on. Nicholas was looking at me over the heads of a crowd of admirers, all female, but I merely blew him a kiss and flailed my way outside. In the little churchyard the flowers were blooming and the ancient headstones cast almost no shadows. Screwing up my eyes in reaction to the blazing light I saw Tucker sitting on the churchyard wall.

He scrambled to his feet, hands in his pockets, every professional boundary nailed carefully in place.

“Thanks, Tucker,” I said when I reached him.

“My pleasure, Ms. G.”

“Sorry I was too banjaxed to enjoy our trip to the altar just now.”

“We could always try a rerun some day.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Do you still want to buy me lunch?”

Our hands clasped.

Leaving the churchyard we began to walk up Egg Street to London Wall.