The Wonder Worker (57 page)

“No, of course not.” Rosalind stood up, retrieved the bottle from the fridge and refilled both our glasses.

By this time I was beating my brains out trying to square this astonishing information with the bizarre scene witnessed by Alice on Monday night. Cautiously I asked: “Why did you have lunch with Francie?”

“I often have lunch with her.”

“But I thought you hardly saw her any more!”

“Well … yes, for a time we drifted apart. But then we drifted back together again.”

“You never mentioned that!”

“No, but there were a lot of things I never mentioned to you. You weren’t around enough.”

A silence ensued. When I could no longer stand the pain of listening to it I poured some more wine down my throat and said: “What do you think’s going on with Francie at the moment?”

“Not a lot. She’s pretty damn fed up with Harry, but she’ll never leave him. Too much of a masochist.”

“Does he beat her up?”

“That’s odd—Lewis asked me that yesterday. No, the cruelty’s all verbal … Why are you both toying with the idea that Harry’s a wife-beater?”

“We’ve no concrete evidence. But of course we’re going to wonder what’s at the root of her depression, particularly when she’s too low to face coming to work.”

“Oh, I think it’s just mid-life blues.”

“Yet she perked up, you said, towards the end of the lunch?”

“Yes, by the end she was radiant, bursting with vitality! All she needed was a chat with her best friend.”

“You mean it was she who suggested the lunch?”

“No, I suggested it. I felt I needed a break from all the horrors.”

“And she accepted without hesitation? She wasn’t antagonistic towards you in any way?”

“No, of course not! Why on earth should she have been?”

“Depressed people do behave erratically—”

“Well, she wasn’t
that
erratic! I admit she was a bit slow off the
mark when I issued the invitation, but that was just the depression making her apathetic.”

“Yes, of course. How interesting. Lewis will be glad to hear she’s so much better. In fact maybe I’ll just go down and pass on the good news.” Knocking back the rest of my wine I headed for the door.

“Oh Nicky, do apologise to Alice for me, please—I really am sorry to bugger up the dinner numbers yet again—”

I muttered a word of reassurance and hurtled downstairs to the bedsit.

IV

Lewis
was still resting. He had changed into a heavy green sweater and a pair of grey flannels and was listening to a Bach cantata as he lay on his bed. He looked cross when I interrupted him.

“This is the best bit, Nicholas. Sit down and keep quiet for two minutes.”

I did as I was told. I was by no means indifferent to music, but given the choice I preferred silence, and on this occasion I tuned out the cantata in order to worry about Lewis. I was sure he was doing too much whenever my back was turned. Worse still I suspected he wasn’t obeying his physiotherapist and doing his post-operative exercises regularly. Lewis’s drive to treat his recent operation as a mere minor inconvenience was all part of his fury that he was now nearer seventy than sixty.

The cantata concluded. Lewis sighed, opened his eyes and said: “Yes?”

I said: “Francie’s not beaten up. She’s fed up. As a result, her acceptable admiration of me has spiralled into an unacceptable erotomania and she’s now showing signs of manic depression.”

Lewis’s eyes widened. Sharply he said: “Not
manic
depression, Nicholas. She’s been a bit down because she’s realised that recently she made a fool of herself, but there’s been no plunge into a serious depression and certainly no corresponding manic euphoria—indeed I’d dispute that she’s clinically depressed.”

“And the erotomania?”

“Nicholas, this is a fishing expedition—you’re just flinging out these extravagant diagnoses in an attempt to find out what’s going on!”

“You dispute the erotomania?”

“Look, this is just a menopausal woman with an unhappy marriage! Obviously she needs help for her little compensating trips to fantasy-land, but I’m aiming to get her into therapy with Robin as soon as she returns to work.”

“I think there’s something more sinister going on.”

“Nicholas—”

“Okay, try and wrap your mind round this one: Francie began her lunch-date today in a state of depression but ended up—quote—radiant and bursting with vitality. And you know who my source is? Her companion at Fortnum’s, Rosalind!”

Lewis eased his legs painfully off the bed and sat bolt upright on the edge. “That’s not possible.”

“I thought that would grab you. So what have we got? According to Alice—”

“Alice! Triple-hell! I suppose she—”

“According to Alice, Francie arrived here on Monday night looking like a half-dressed hooker. Deduction: the erotomania’s taken over—or, as our Charismatic friends would put it so robustly, the spirit of lust. You then somehow managed to defuse her—you put the spirit on ice, as it were, so that it can be dealt with properly later. In fact you handle her so skilfully that you keep the lines of communication open and pave the way for her to be coaxed into therapy. Great. Well done. But maybe, if she’s rocketing around between euphoria and gloom, she’s far more ill than you think.”

“I doubt it. In typical cases of manic depression the move from one extreme form of behaviour to another is more gradual and each acute phase lasts longer.”

“Maybe she’s atypical. And even if she’s not a manic depressive she’s obviously unstable, so can we now, please, without breaching the confidentiality you owe her, have a discussion about this very dangerous situation?”

Lewis recovered his poise. “No.”

“Why not? I’m not asking you to reveal any details of the conversation you had with her! I just want to discuss the possible diagnoses of her mental disturbance!”

“Nicholas, you’re merely creating a huge diversion for yourself in order to take your mind off the problem with Rosalind. Stop playing this game at once and start focusing on your coming retreat!”

“But supposing—”

“I really can’t see why you’re getting in such a state just because Francie moved from depression to euphoria during what was no doubt a delicious lunch at Fortnum’s! If she was starving to start with, a perfectly cooked meal alone would account for the euphoria at the end!”

“Yes, but—”

“All right, I concede it’s bizarre that Francie should be lunching with your wife at the present time, but Francie obviously felt she had no choice but to show up. She’s not so nuts that she wants to declare her passion to all and sundry by offering Rosalind a hemlock cocktail!”

“Even so—”

“Listen, here’s the rational, sober explanation of the euphoria: Francie arrives at Fortnum’s sunk in gloom; however, as soon as she hears that Rosalind has marital problems—”

“But Rosalind says she kept quiet about all that!”

“Oh, come on, Nicholas, you know what women are like when they get together! I’m not suggesting Rosalind told Francie all about the hypnosis—of course she’d never betray you by repeating such a story to anyone except a doctor or a priest—but if she didn’t say a single word about how troubled your marriage is at present, I’ll eat my cassock. So what’s the result? Francie instantly jumps to the conclusion that the marriage is on the rocks—”

“—and starts to get euphoric,” I said, beginning to accept the scenario. “In her head she hears Tammy Wynette singing ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E’—”

“Tammy who?”

“Never mind. The point you’re making is that Francie’s euphoric not because she’s experiencing a manic-depressive mood-swing and acting irrationally but because she thinks I’ll soon be completely free to respond to her grand passion.”

“Exactly. And I’d just like to stress that although Francie’s unbalanced at present she’s only unbalanced in the area of her life which relates to you. This may look like erotomania, but true erotomaniacs are usually far more abnormal.”

“So there’s no psychosis here.”

“There’s no psychosis and there’s certainly no possession. Francie’s basically sane but suffering from a neurotic obsession which, God willing, Robin can treat and defuse before she has a breakdown and becomes more seriously ill.”

I felt better. Lewis had more practical experience of mental illness
than many doctors because he had worked in a mental hospital for ten years. He was certainly the first to admit he had received no medical training, but in this area of medicine, where diagnosis is often far from simple and understanding can be hazy, hands-on experience of working with the mentally ill counts for a great deal. I was tempted to let go of the problem, but some indefinable uneasiness made me continue to hesitate. “I’m getting a psychic twinge,” I said at last. “I’m glad you’re confident that you know what’s going on here. But are you sure you’re not overconfident?”

Lewis didn’t make some flip remark to dismiss the subject. Nor did he get irritated by my irrational anxiety. He simply said in his calmest, most reasonable voice: “I’m sorry if I’m giving an impression of overconfidence. All I’m really suggesting is that you should leave the problem to me at the present time when you’re not capable of dealing with it yourself. I respect the fact that you’re having a psychic twinge which is driving you to stay involved in the case, but don’t you think you might be experiencing anxiety because you’re projecting your own crisis—your own problems which require an urgent solution—onto Francie? Nicholas, you’re overstrained at the moment. You’re all over the place dabbling in other people’s problems because your concentration’s in tatters and you lack the power to focus on yourself, so just try and let go now of the matters that don’t directly concern you; try to channel all your energy into withdrawing, resting, praying and renewing your spiritual strength.”

I promised I would.

Then I trailed back to the kitchen to tell Alice that Rosalind wouldn’t be coming down to dinner.

V

We dined.
Stacy was so pale and tense that I asked him if he felt unwell but he insisted he was fine. I wondered if he felt uncomfortable in Lewis’s presence after the tongue-lashing episode earlier. Lewis had no hesitation about reprimanding subordinates fiercely when they slipped up. It was a policy Great-Uncle Cuthbert had followed vigorously in his days as Abbot-General of the Fordite monks, but Victorian authoritarianism can be of questionable value in the late twentieth century, and on this occasion it seemed that even Lewis himself was wondering if he had been too severe. He said kindly
enough to Stacy: “I hope you’re not still upset about forgetting to turn up at the church. We all make mistakes and that one’s been forgiven now.”

But Stacy could only mumble something incoherent and shovel food into his mouth. He then proceeded to eat so fast that Lewis lost his temper again and growled as Stacy failed to muffle a belch: “Disgusting! And now, I suppose, you’re all set to vomit like a yob!”

Stacy fled.

As the kitchen door banged shut Alice said astonished: “What on earth’s the matter with him?”

“I neither know nor care,” said Lewis acidly. “My patience is exhausted.” But he added very benignly to her: “My dear, could you please give me another slice of that celestial pie?”

Delighted with this compliment Alice obediently doled out a second helping and turned to me. “Nicholas? More?”

I woke up. “No thanks.” I was busy worrying about Stacy. Something was obviously amiss and I ought to talk to him without delay. But since I was currently so debilitated—since
Lewis thought
I was so debilitated—and since even I had to admit that I was currently not at my best … Muddled thoughts about my spiritual fitness scooted around my brain and whipped my anxiety to new heights. I was just opening my mouth to speculate further about Stacy’s behaviour when Lewis exclaimed: “What the deuce is he up to now?” and I heard Stacy clattering rapidly downstairs again. I guessed that having collected his coat from the curate’s flat he was on his way out. A moment later, as the front door slammed, my suspicions were confirmed.

“Perhaps he’s just realised he’s madly in love with Tara,” said Alice, trying to strike a lighter note, “and is rushing off to the Isle of Dogs to propose.”

“It’s more likely that he’s rushing off to the vicarage of St. Eadred’s Fleetside,” snapped Lewis, “to have a drink with Gilbert Tucker.”

Glancing up startled I was just in time to see him look annoyed with himself before he wiped the expression from his face. I knew then the remark had been an indiscretion, committed when he was too irritable to censor himself efficiently.

“Gilbert Tucker?” Alice was saying. “He’s the nice, good-looking clergyman, isn’t he, who helped Nicholas organise the AIDS seminar.”

“That’s the one,” said Lewis, and in an effort to smooth over the implications of his earlier remark he declared benignly: “A very charming fellow. Not quite my kind of priest but I concede he does sound work at St. Eadred’s.”

“I didn’t know Stacy was a friend of his,” said Alice.

“Neither did I,” I said, and added, looking straight at Lewis: “When did you see Stacy in the company of Gil Tucker?”

“I expect it was last Monday evening, wasn’t it, Lewis?” said Alice obligingly. “I thought you were dining at the Athenaeum and Stacy was going to be out with Tara, but you both changed your minds without telling each other and went to that lecture given by the Benedictine monk.” She turned to me. “When Lewis arrived home afterwards he said to me: ‘No, don’t bother to get me a meal—after hobnobbing with Gilbert Tucker I just need a stiff drink.’ But later when I checked the fridge I found he’d polished off the mushroom quiche and a whole pot of coleslaw.”

“Whisky’s a great reviver,” said Lewis blandly, gaze fixed on his plate, and went on devouring his second helping of steak-and-kidney pie.

“Where was the lecture?” I said, taking care to keep my voice casual.

“Sion College.”

“And Gil was there?”

“With his chums, yes.”

“And Stacy?”

Lewis made the pragmatic decision that any further attempt to conceal this fact would be futile. “He was sitting next to Tucker and having a whale of a time.”