The Wonder Worker (3 page)

At that point I found myself wishing I did have the nerve to talk to him, but what was there to say? I could hardly declare: “I don’t believe in religion or churchgoing or any of that sort of thing, but I
believe in
you
—I believe you’ve got something so special that when you touch the severely disabled they become inwardly transformed—I believe what I’ve just seen with my own eyes, and that’s why I want you to visit my home. It’s because I know you could transform my aunt.” If I said all that I’d just sound nuts and Nicholas Darrow would be put in an awkward position as he figured out how to get rid of me, so I had to behave properly and sensibly, just as I always did in the world which existed beyond the walls of this church, and behaving properly and sensibly meant keeping my mouth shut, going home and pretending for ever afterwards that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

Yet that other world, the world where I always behaved properly and sensibly and never made an exhibition of myself by crying in public, now seemed as far away as the other side of the moon, and the next moment I realised I was no longer shrinking back against the wall. I was moving towards Nicholas Darrow. I still didn’t see how I could bring myself to speak to him but that no longer mattered because I was sure now that if only I could touch him, no matter how briefly, I could magically siphon off some of his extraordinary power and pass it on to Aunt.

What a fantasy! Yet at that moment it seemed a brilliant idea, quite the most inspired plan it was possible to imagine. Nearer and nearer I crept, inch by inch, and all the time I was edging my way stealthily through the crowd I was drumming up courage by saying to myself: he’ll never know.

When I finally reached him he was shaking hands with a gushing middle-aged woman. I could see her face shining with adoration, but the next moment she was hidden from me because I had moved directly behind him. I was very, very close now, so close that I could even see the faint hint of silver in the brown hair at the nape of his neck. The moment had come. I drew a deep breath. Then I raised my hand and laid my index finger gently, for a split second, between his shoulder-blades.

All hell broke loose.

As soon as he was touched he flinched as convulsively as if I’d knifed him, and spun round before I could recoil.

“Who was that?” he demanded in a voice which silenced the crowd. “Who touched me?” And as we at last came face to face I saw that his light eyes were neither blue nor green but a brilliant shade of grey.

III

“
It was you
, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s all right.”

“I’ll go away—I won’t come back—I’ll never do it again, I promise—” I was gabbling in the manner of one of those respectable middle-aged women who are caught shoplifting. My face felt as if it were in flames. I tried to edge backwards but everyone in the crowd seemed to have been transformed into pillars and I found myself hemmed in. Tears streamed down my face again and although I scrabbled at once to annihilate them I felt horribly humiliated. What was happening to me? I couldn’t begin to work it out. All I knew was that I must be conjuring up an image of a drowned porpoise, and as soon as this revolting thought crossed my mind my humiliation became unbearable.

“I hate myself,” I sobbed. “I hate myself, I hate myself—”

He interrupted me. Reaching out he clasped my forearms with his long, strong fingers and said firmly: “It’s going to be all right. Believe me. It’s going to be all right.”

Both my arms began to tingle.

I fainted.

IV

When I
regained consciousness a woman was stooping over me, a youngish woman, bottle-blonde, square-faced, kind-eyed. “It’s okay,” she said as my eyes focused on her. “I’m a doctor. You just passed out for a moment.”

I said distinctly: “How bloody awful,” and blotted out the world by closing my eyes again.

I heard her say to someone nearby: “Stacy’s taking his time getting that glass of water—anyone would think I’d told him to dig a well … Ah, here’s Nick again. Nick, she’s all right but don’t let her dash off—she ought to sit quietly for a few minutes.”

“Right.” His fingers gently enfolded my hand and at once I opened my eyes.

He was kneeling by my side, his face inches from mine. “You need
some strong tea,” he said in such a practical voice that I felt a return to normality was not only possible but imminent. “Do you think you’re well enough yet to sit up?”

The young red-headed clergyman had finally arrived with the glass of water. Levering myself into a sitting position I took a sip. The church had emptied, I noticed, but although I was relieved to be spared a large audience I was still speechless with embarrassment.

Nicholas Darrow said casually, without any hint of condescension or annoyance: “What’s your name?”

“Alice,” I said, “as in Wonderland.” If running away is impossible, one can always withdraw behind a mask of facetiousness.

He smiled. Daring at last to look at him I saw the lines creasing the corners of his eyes. I also noticed he had very even teeth, unstained by nicotine. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you Wonderland,” he said amused. “I’m no wonder worker peddling magic. But I can provide you with an easy-chair in my office while you drink that tea I prescribed. Do you think you can now trust yourself to stand?”

Ignoring the outstretched hands of the doctor and the redhead, I scrambled to my feet and followed him.

V

Nicholas
led me through the vestry and down the stairs into an area which had once formed the crypt of the church. To my astonishment I found myself in a large, brightly lit room which might have been the reception area of a doctor’s office. The decoration was in soft, muted colours, very restful, and each item of the teak furniture seemed perfectly designed for the space allotted to it.

Bewildered I said: “What’s all this?”

“The St. Benet’s Healing Centre. I specialise in the traditional Christian ministry of healing, and that means I work hand in hand with orthodox medicine. Val, the doctor who looked after you just now, has a branch of her National Health practice here, and we have our own psychologist too.”

As he spoke I was absorbing more details. I realised we had entered the Centre through a route reserved for the staff and that the glass swing doors, now facing me, formed the official entrance; they opened on to a flight of steps which led up into the churchyard. An assortment of plants made me aware that the reception area was not without
natural light. The windows, set high up in the walls, were at ground level. Various signs directed visitors to a number of destinations, but apart from the intriguing arrow marked
MUSIC THERAPY
, these signs failed to register in my brain. I was too busy noticing the comfortable chairs, the table with the magazines and the grey-haired receptionist sipping coffee behind her desk.

“This is Pauline,” said Nicholas to me. “Friday lunch-time’s quiet for her as everyone’s at the healing service and I have no fixed appointments directly afterwards. I like to leave time to see people who come to the service and stay on.” And having put me at ease by implying I wasn’t wrecking his busy schedule, he asked the receptionist to make us some tea.

On the other side of the area was a door marked
CONSULTING ROOM ONE
, and when I followed him inside I found myself in more austere surroundings. Waist-high bookshelves stretched along one wall. A desk and swivel-chair were placed beneath the high window. A small round table flanked by two easy-chairs stood in one corner, and two matching chairs were parked in front of the desk.

“Have a seat,” said Nicholas, closing the door.

“Where do you want me to sit?”

“Where you’ll feel most comfortable.”

I chose one of the chairs parked by the desk.

“And where would you like me to sit?” he asked, surprising me.

“Oh, behind the desk,” I said at once. “In the swivel-chair.” I had already worked out that once we were seated the desk would hide the lower part of my body.

As we settled ourselves I noticed that above the bookshelves was a portrait in oils of a striking blonde with dark blue eyes and a beautiful mouth, delicately painted but suggesting strong emotions effortlessly concealed.

“What an interesting picture!” I said, having stared at it for so long that some comment seemed to be required. Of course I’d instantly guessed who she was.

“My wife says a photograph would have represented her more faithfully,” he said, “but I myself think the artist’s captured the essence of her personality.” As an afterthought he added: “Sometimes the essence of a personality is hard to perceive. In fact sometimes it’s heavily masked by the physical appearance.”

Below the level of the desk my left hand tried to push in the roll of fat which bulged over my intestines and I found myself picturing
how I must have looked to him when I was unconscious. So appalled was I by this thought that I didn’t hear his next sentence and had to ask him to repeat it.

“I was asking why you touched me just now in the church.”

I made the obvious reply. “How did you know I had?”

He smiled, but although he averted his eyes I didn’t think he was embarrassed. I sensed he was merely concentrating on the task of explaining his eerie awareness in the most prosaic language available. All he said in the end was: “I felt the power go out of me.”

The words had an oddly familiar ring, as if I had heard them long ago in a different context, but I refused to be diverted by an uncertain memory. Intrigued I said: “What power?”

“The healing power. It doesn’t originate with me—I’m just the equivalent of a channel, although the word ‘channel’ gives too passive an impression. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that all human beings have a certain healing energy which can be jacked up by the main source of the power.”

“But what’s the main source?”

“God.”

“Oh.”

We fell silent. I can see now that he had wanted me to reveal my position on religion and my lack of comment was as eloquent as a five-minute speech.

“Christians like me are different from magicians,” he said tranquilly at last. “Magicians like to believe they’re the masters of the healing powers—they like to believe that they can bend nature to their will.”

“And you?”

“Oh, we’ve no room here for ego-trips and personality cults. Our call’s to serve, not to dictate and control.”

I said “Oh” again but this time I sounded more respectful. He was talking about integrity. That was something I could understand, and even though the religious view was alien to me I could share his belief that pride and arrogance were destructive while a clear-eyed modesty kept one honest.

“I’m saying all this,” Nicholas was adding, “because newcomers to St. Benet’s are often overwhelmed by the healing service, even though we try to keep it low-key and unsensational, and often they feel there’s some sort of magic going on. But there isn’t. It’s just that healing can trigger unfamiliar emotional responses, particularly when past wounds are exposed.”

“You mean—”

“I’m saying that although it must have been both embarrassing and unpleasant to faint in public, there’s no need to reproach yourself for what happened. If anyone was to blame it was me.”

“You?”

“But of course! I was the one who hit the roof and made you the focus of everyone’s attention! No wonder you were so shocked you passed out!”

“Yes, but … I’m sorry, I still don’t quite understand what happened. Why did you react like that?”

“I was exhausted. The healing service always depletes me, rubs me raw so that my awareness is magnified. I think what happened when you touched me was that I knew you were in desperate need yet I felt I had no strength left to help you—and that in turn triggered a panic reaction.”

I said stupefied: “But how could you possibly have known I was in desperate need?”

“By using my common sense. If your need had been less desperate you’d have collared me and demanded a private audience. As it was, you were so overwhelmed by this problem of yours—whatever it is—that you were beyond words altogether.”

I said slowly: “I hadn’t realised I was so desperate.”

“That suggests you’ve been living with the problem for so long that you’ve grown to think of it as a normal part of life. Are you going to tell me now what the problem actually is? After making such a hash of our introduction I feel the least I can do to make amends is to listen if you want to talk!”

I was still trying to find the words to thank him when the receptionist arrived with my medicine, the strong tea.

VI

“
Put
a spoonful of sugar in it,” said Nicholas when we were alone again. “It’ll accelerate your recovery.”

I would have helped myself to two spoonfuls but I didn’t want to appear greedy. Restricting myself to one I said with care: “I don’t want to bother you when you’re exhausted.”

“I’m better now. The adrenaline’s flowing again.”

“But even so, I should probably just go on bearing the burden by myself—”

“That’s for you to choose, of course, but don’t forget that this is a place where people can set down their burdens and get some rest.”

Again my memory was jogged. “You’re paraphrasing some quotation or other,” I said. “I must have heard it at school long ago. I went to this small private school in Kensington and I hated it but I had to pretend I liked it because Aunt was making a financial sacrifice to send me there. I had this aunt,” I said rapidly, “this great-aunt who brought me up. She taught history at a GPDST school south of the river, but I couldn’t pass the exam to go there, I wasn’t clever enough. That was such a disappointment to her but she refused to let me go to the local comprehensive. She didn’t like comprehensive schools. In fact there were a lot of things she didn’t like—foreigners, the Labour Party, Roman Catholics, the tabloid press, bad manners, pierced ears, long hair on men, bell-bottom trousers,
Coronation Street
, Concorde, policemen with beards, litter, hamburgers and cruelty to animals. She was a real old battle-axe. She didn’t go to church. She said the Church of England was okay for the rites of passage because that was Tradition, but otherwise churchgoing was a waste of time—England was her religion really, I suppose, and she didn’t have room for another. She didn’t believe in God. But she believed in a Christian education because—” I stopped, diverted. “Wait a minute,” I said finally identifying the memory which had been niggling me. “That’s the New Testament you keep paraphrasing.”