The Wonder Worker (52 page)

“Assuming Rosalind isn’t entirely without community skills,” said Clare when I was unable to reply, “perhaps I might add some further questions to those you need to ask yourself. First of all, why is she unable to relate to your world at St. Benet’s? How far have you really tried to make her feel welcome? You had no hesitation in asking her to give up her own community, but what did you offer her in return?”

“I did suggest she got involved with St. Benet’s but she just said she wasn’t churchy. I then tried to explain that we were a dynamic organisation on the cutting edge of reality but she still wasn’t interested.”

“But Rosalind herself is now grappling with that cutting edge of reality—so what’s your dynamic Christian enterprise doing to care for her as it’s cared for Alice?”

“You can’t force help on people who don’t want it.”

“You’re saying it’s Rosalind’s fault that she feels your community has nothing to offer her?”

“No, I’m saying …” But by this time she had me in such a tangle that I had no idea what I was saying. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Rosalind’s very disturbed,” I said. “She’s going through a mid-life crisis. One has to make allowances for her, and I don’t want to blame her for anything.”

“Nicholas, last night was Rosalind the only one who was very disturbed?”

Silence.

“And are we really so sure we know whom this mid-life crisis belongs to?”

Another silence.

“Of course we must be careful to make the distinction,” said Clare briskly, “between the mid-life crisis and the Second Journey. The Second Journey usually begins in mid-life and is a time of profound spiritual growth; it’s characterised by the desire to let go of youth and move on to explore the rewards and challenges of middle age. The mid-life crisis, on the other hand, is characterised by the desire to cling to a lost youth, the refusal to move on to the next stage of life, and an arrested spiritual development. The symptoms include not just the well-known tendency to have a love affair with someone much younger, but the clinging to a symbol of youth—a sports car, perhaps, or some other much-loved significant object which should have been set aside long ago … But why am I telling you all this? I’m sorry! Of course you know it all already—the subject must constantly come up with your clients.”

“Yep. Sure. You bet.” I was so mesmerised by this time that all I could do was sit in my chair like a robot and grunt phoney Americanisms.

Clare rose to her feet. “Come and see me again after you’ve made your retreat,” she said. “I hope I’ve managed to clarify your thoughts and provide some profitable lines for meditation, but I’ve exhausted you now and you need to rest. Do cancel your engagements and withdraw to the Fordites as soon as you possibly can.”

I nodded and levered myself clumsily to my feet. “Thanks. Sorry
I … Sorry I was so … Sorry—so stupid sometimes …” My voice trailed away.

Giving my hand a quick clasp she said: “You’ll be very much in my prayers. Now go home and talk to Lewis.”

She went away, leaving me feeling as if I’d been washed, scoured, scrubbed, spin-dried, ironed and starched. I wondered if she did the laundry as well as the cooking. It would explain why her habit always looked so exceptionally clean and well-pressed.

Staggering outside I drove raggedly back to St. Benet’s for
the next stage of my mid-life nightmare.

I

“
I think
I could start to like this woman,” said Lewis.

“Don’t strain yourself. At your age it could be dangerous.”

We were sitting in his bedsit after my return to the Rectory. Over at the church Stacy was conducting the lunch-time Eucharist with the assistance of Brother Paul, the Anglican Franciscan friar who helped part-time at the Centre, but I was bypassing the service in order to make my formal confession. Lewis had just granted me absolution. He had removed his stole and was lighting a cigarette.

“I’m glad you’re mellowing towards Clare,” I said, “but you don’t know yet what she said to me.”

“I know that you left here this morning out of touch with reality and that you’ve come back capable of making an honest confession! Without doubt that woman’s given your soul an effective spring-cleaning—no mean task, as I well remember.”

“Her name is Sister Clare Veronica.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what advice she handed out?”

“I refuse to meddle in your relationship with your spiritual director.”

“Since you’ve just told me to make a three-day retreat as a penance, I thought you’d be interested to hear that Clare advised me to make a short retreat as soon as possible.”

“So what? I don’t find the coincidence in any way remarkable. Obviously you have to take a break at this point and obviously you need the kind of break that only a retreat can provide. Even an ordinand could draw such a conclusion!”

“You’re cross because Clare’s been a good priest to me and you can’t admit any woman could be capable of such a thing!”

“Oh yes, I can! My arguments against the ordination of women are purely theological!”

“Then why in heaven’s name are you being so cantankerous about her?”

Lewis sighed. “I suppose I’m jealous. I know I can’t be your spiritual director any more now that we’re living in each other’s pockets, and I know I mustn’t interfere in your relationship with this woman—”

“Sister Clare Veronica.”

“—but I still mind about her role in your life. The fact that I mind is both ridiculous and pathetic. That’s why I’m sunk in cantankerous gloom. Satisfied?”

“You silly old sod!” I was very fond of Lewis when he dedicated himself to presenting what he called “the unvarnished truth.” It takes guts to be that honest. Reaching across the table I patted his forearm consolingly. “But you can still give me fraternal advice!”

“Not in these circumstances—oh, come on, Nicholas, wake up! I’m not getting into discussions with you about your marriage. Rosalind and I have never got on—I’d be undermined by all manner of prejudices and couldn’t possibly give you the kind of clear-eyed advice you need at present. I’ll stand by you whatever happens and I’ll pray for you, but my role here is to be supportive, not directive.”

We sat in a silence broken only by the murmur of the gas fire. Glancing at my watch I saw we had ten minutes before the Eucharist ended and the staff returned to the Rectory for lunch. Despite all Lewis had just said I remained desperate to talk to him in his old role of mentor. Tentatively I asked: “Do you think I’m unfit at present to do any work?”

“Well, you’re no longer spiritually unfit; you’ve confessed, repented and received absolution, and I certainly believe you’ll now bust a gut to behave as you should, but the trouble is you’re almost certainly still
in a state of emotional exhaustion and that means you could make bad mistakes—not sins necessarily, but errors of judgement which could lead you into a dead-awful mess.”

“Perhaps I should make a retreat for longer than three days.”

“Make the three-day retreat first and then see what your spiritual director advises.”

“I admit I do hate the thought of taking time off work.”

“That’s what all the workaholics say. Nicholas, no problem is more pressing than your spiritual and emotional health. Take whatever time you need and I think you’ll find the Healing Centre will survive your absence.”

“Yes, of course,” I said mechanically, but at once started worrying about Francie Parker and Stacy, two people who in their different ways presented me with a major problem to solve.

On my return to London from Devon on Tuesday Lewis had informed me that Francie had called at the Rectory on the previous evening. His conversation with her had been confidential so he had given me no hint of what she had said, but he had thought I should be informed of her visit. He had also disclosed that earlier during that same evening he had had a talk with Stacy. This conversation too had been confidential, but again Lewis had thought I should know it had taken place. In both cases I was assured that he had everything under control.

Obviously there had been trouble, but Lewis’s message was that although I had to be warned so that I could be on the alert for a sudden crisis, I was on no account to go wading in and trying to fix things. This situation was not uncommon at the Centre where we dealt frequently with disturbed people and confidentiality was an important issue; I trusted Lewis’s judgement just as he trusted mine, and I was prepared to stand back and let him cope, if that was what he wanted. But on this occasion it was hard not to want to know more. Stacy was my curate. Francie was the Centre’s chief Befriender. We weren’t talking about clients but about personnel.

My brain began to flicker over the morally acceptable ways of obtaining more information. Priests do have ways of signalling the contents of confidential conversations but Lewis and I were agreed that signalling could only be justified in a white-hot emergency. Lewis had given no signal about the contents of either conversation. Paradoxically this was itself a signal, proclaiming there was no white-hot emergency. But it could be red-hot. In fact with two members of staff
it had to be. Staring into the flames of the gas fire I tried again to figure out what had taken place at the Rectory on Monday night.

Our basic concern had long since been shared. Francie we suspected of fantasising about her husband’s sadism in order to win extra attention from me, and Stacy we knew was bogged down in an immaturity which manifested itself in … But here Lewis and I disagreed. There was no doubt that Stacy had sexual problems, but this fact distracted attention from the central question: whether or not Stacy was suited for the ministry of healing.

Cautiously I said to Lewis: “Is Francie back at work today?”

“No, I phoned her this morning and she said she wanted to take another day off. But I think she could be back at the Centre tomorrow.”

“She’s feeling better?”

“She must be. She told me she was having lunch with an old friend at Fortnum’s today.”

“What exactly was this malaise of hers?”

“Oh, she just felt a bit down. No need for you to worry. I’ve been phoning her every day and monitoring the situation.”

“You’re saying her depression doesn’t justify a visit to her GP?”

Lewis thought for a moment before saying: “If she wanted to see her doctor I wouldn’t stop her, but she’s expressed no desire to do so.”

So he did think Francie needed medical help. “Should I try to talk to her again,” I suggested, “about seeing a psychiatrist who specialises in abused women?”

“No, what you’ve got to do is leave her well alone, Nicholas, and when I say ‘well alone’ I mean
well
alone. I’ll deal with her.”

If I had to be kept apart from Francie it could only mean that her harmless hero-worship of me had indeed spiralled, just as we’d feared, into a neurotic fixation.

Sceptically I said: “Are you sure she’ll be fit to return to work tomorrow?”

“No, and neither’s she. But don’t worry, if she does show up I’ll see she does no befriending. She can help me with the music therapy.”

“What I’d like to know is why Francie’s suddenly gone over the top like this! Why should—”

“Nicholas, you don’t know whether or not Francie’s gone over the top, and I think you should now stop your attempt to pump me for information.”

I sighed. I’d been enjoying my break from lacerating myself with
thoughts of Rosalind. “And Stacy?” I enquired, hoping to extend the holiday.

“Nothing I can say on that subject at the moment.”

“No? How’s he getting on with Tara?”

“Ask him.”

No signals of any kind there. Sighing again I said: “I dislike the thought of going away when we have those two major problems on our hands. I feel I might be needed here.”

“No one’s indispensable.”

“Yes, but—”

“Nicholas, you’re behaving as if you’re hooked on people needing you—as if you can’t wait to grab a magic wand and go around fixing everyone in sight. But that’s the attitude of the wonder worker. Now shape up, ship out and rest up before you start making some really bad decisions.”

Better not to upset the old boy by arguing further. Anyway I knew I’d be fit for action again once I’d made my three-day retreat. The three days would seem like an eternity, I realised that, but once they’d been endured I wouldn’t need more time off. Patting his shoulder reassuringly I headed for the door. “I must go upstairs,” I said. “It’s time to tell Rosalind she’s welcome to return to Butterfold for a while.”

It was a good exit line. Glancing back as I opened the door I saw Lewis quiver with the desire to ask me how I’d been led to this decision, but he stuck to his guns and refused to cross-question me further about my interview with Clare.

Taut with dread at the prospect of facing Rosalind, I toiled reluctantly up the stairs to the flat.

II

At that point
I received a reprieve. On entering the flat I found a note from Rosalind which informed me that she was lunching in the West End. As if to reassure me of her friendly intentions she then suggested we dined that night with the others, and as if to erase completely any lingering impression of hostility she apologised for the incident last night. She also suggested that we never referred to it again.

I sat down in the living-room and brooded on this communication
until Lewis buzzed me from the kitchen to remind me I was missing lunch. I said I would be downstairs shortly. Then I resumed my examination of the letter. I noted that Rosalind had implied the incident was her fault. Confused rape victims often did assume a guilt which didn’t belong to them, and I had certainly encouraged her to assume it. I also thought her desire to gloss over the incident indicated not friendliness at all but fear, while her suggestion that we dined with the others was born merely of a desire to appease me. Her flight to the West End underlined her longing to escape from the whole sordid mess.