The Wonder Worker (73 page)

Sinking down in a chair at the kitchen table I tried to imagine the horrific conversation which was waiting for Nicholas and Mrs. McGovern, but all I could do was shudder. Meanwhile the brandy decanter was already on the table and Lewis, balancing himself precariously, was reaching into the cupboard for a glass.

“I’ll get it,” I said hastily.

We settled ourselves at the table, and after the first sip of brandy I found I was able to say: “Were the police satisfied?”

“Thanks to you, yes … By the way, if any journalist phones just say ‘no comment’ and hang up. On no account be drawn into conversation.”

Nicholas chose that moment to emerge from his study. “I still can’t get hold of Mrs. McGovern,” he said worried. “Either she’s out very late or else she’s away somewhere. I can’t decide whether to wait and try yet again or whether I should get Stacy’s address book and call the eldest sister.”

“Why not enlist the help of the parish priest? Look up his number in Crockford’s.”

“That’s an idea. But right now I need a short break.” He turned to look at me. “Are you all right, Alice?”

“Holding up,” I said, indicating the brandy, and found myself adding in a rush: “I didn’t let him down. In the end I didn’t let him
down.” My voice shook. Finishing the brandy I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them again I saw that every muscle in Nicholas’s face was taut with sympathy.

“You’d better have a shot of brandy yourself, Nicholas,” said Lewis abruptly, interrupting us, but Nicholas took no notice.

“We need to inform the senior staff,” he said, roaming around the room before pausing at the sink. “I can tell the prayer-group at mass tomorrow, but the senior staff need to be told now in case the press start asking questions.”

“It’s just as well tomorrow’s Saturday,” said Lewis. “I hardly think we’re fit for work at present. In fact—” He broke off.

Nicholas froze. “What is it?”

“No, no, it’s nothing—I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to be having lunch with Venetia, but of course I’ll cancel it.”

At once Nicholas said: “But it may be important for her that you should turn up.”

“True.” Lewis dithered for a moment. This was unusual. He wasn’t normally a ditherer but in this case his desire to stay alongside Nicholas and his desire to see Venetia were locked in a fierce battle for supremacy. Finally he said: “Of course I’d like to see her, but I couldn’t possibly leave you to cope with Mrs. McGovern on your own.”

“It’s unlikely that she’ll arrive before the end of the afternoon. By the time she’s got over the initial shock and made the travel arrangements—”

“Let’s wait and see what happens when you finally make contact with her.”

I said suddenly: “Who’s going to break the news to Rosalind?” and without a second’s hesitation Nicholas said: “I am. I’ll leave for Butterfold after breakfast tomorrow morning.”

There was a silence as Lewis and I tried and failed to think of an appropriate comment. “However,” added Nicholas when he realised that the scene he had conjured up was a nightmare which had left us speechless, “there’s a serious problem with that plan and that’s this: I don’t think Rosalind will agree to talk to me if I’m on my own.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Lewis at once.

“No, that won’t work—Rosalind knows you always support me, and if we turn up together she’ll be doubly hostile.”

“Take Val.”

“No, that’s no good either. I agree I’ve got to have a woman with me, but I can’t ask Val because Rosalind despises homosexuals.”

I suddenly realised he was looking straight at me, and a second later I saw Lewis had realised this too.

Wordless reactions ricocheted between the three of us with such speed that although I could sense the emotions generated I was unable to react to anything except my own shock.

Unsteadily I murmured: “If I could be of any use …” but Lewis was already saying to Nicholas: “I don’t think Alice should be involved with your marital problems. Get a woman deacon to go with you.”

“But then he’d have to get involved in giving her an explanation!” I found myself objecting. “At least if I went he wouldn’t have to explain anything to me. And I don’t mind going—I don’t mind doing anything which would help.”

“All you’d have to do would be to sit in the car,” said Nicholas swiftly. “Rosalind and I would talk on the doorstep. She won’t want to let me into the house, but she’ll talk to me so long as you’re there to watch what goes on.”

I was astonished by this evidence of such extreme marital discord, but before I could reply Lewis said strongly to him: “I can’t tell you how much I disapprove of this idea of yours. And what’s more I’m sure Rosalind would disapprove of it too. She knows exactly how Alice feels about you.”

Nicholas stood up so abruptly that I jumped. “Rosalind understands nothing whatsoever about my relationship with Alice!” he said in a level voice which still managed to sound furious. “I’m surprised, Lewis, that you should choose to make such an ill-judged remark about a matter which at present requires no comment at all.” And he stalked out of the room. The door of his study banged a moment later.

“Triple-hell!” muttered Lewis, draining his glass of brandy.

Numbly I said: “What should I do?”

“Oh, you’d better go. There’s obviously no dissuading him.”

“But I want to do what’s right—”

“Of course. Damn it, I might have known the Devil would launch his most lethal attack on Nicholas’s ministry not through an obvious lunatic like Francie but through a woman who’s integrity personified!” And having delivered himself of this vile remark he heaved himself out of the room in a rage.

Pressing the palms of my hands against my cheeks, I remained seated as if nailed to my chair.

III

After
a while I started to cook. I was exhausted but I knew I would never sleep. I wasn’t in the least hungry but I craved to go through a routine which was comforting, and the most comforting routine I could imagine at that moment was to make a cake. A picture floated into my mind of a light-as-a-feather sponge with jam and butter icing in the middle of the two halves and a flaky, curly white icing on the top. I would pipe the edge in pink and design a royal blue inscription. I pictured the words
ST. BENET’S: 25TH NOVEMBER
, 1988 grouped around a single candle.

I had just finished stirring the gooey mess in the mixing bowl when Nicholas returned.

“I got hold of the parish priest,” he said. “Apparently Mrs. McGovern’s been hospitalised as the result of an angina attack, but he’s going now in person to see Stacy’s eldest sister … What on earth’s that?”

“Cake mixture.”

“But why—”

“It’s sort of therapy. I feel so awful.” I bit my lip to stop it trembling and stirred the mixture harder than ever.

“I’m sorry.”

But I didn’t want him feeling sorry for me. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to bear it, afraid I might break down and hurl myself into his arms and tell him how much I loved him, afraid of embarrassing him, alienating him and driving him to believe he’d grossly overestimated my ability to cope with what he called “the cutting edge of reality.” The last thing I wanted was to be a nuisance to Nicholas—which was why Lewis’s final remark had been so vilely unfair. I wanted to be a support, not a drag, but I saw now that the cutting edge of reality had the teeth of a chain saw, and I felt as if I were tied to the bench of some carpenter from hell as the teeth advanced inexorably towards me.

“Where’s the old man?” said Nicholas, sensing my chaotic emotions and striking the right casual note to help me remain in control of them.

“Gone to bed, I hope.” With an enormous effort I pulled myself together. “Did you phone the senior staff?”

“I phoned Val. She said she’d ring the others. She offered to come
over, but …” As he allowed the sentence to peter out I knew that he too was exhausted yet unable to face the ordeal of trying to sleep. Then he seemed to dredge up some fresh strength. Abruptly he said: “Don’t let Lewis upset you. The truth is he’s so worried about me that he’s seeing disaster everywhere he looks.”

“He started talking about the Devil—”

“Yes, I know exactly how paranoid Lewis gets when all his anxieties outweigh his common sense … Are you really willing to come to Butterfold with me tomorrow?”

“Of course, but supposing Lewis is right and Rosalind does react badly when she sees me?”

“My dear Alice, I know Rosalind very much better than Lewis does. Her first reaction when she sees you will be relief that I’m not on my own. Her second reaction will be relief that I’m not accompanied by Lewis, and her third reaction will be relief that I’m accompanied by a woman whom she’ll feel free to ignore. She’d feel obliged to put up a front if she was faced with a woman deacon.”

I felt better. The thought of Lewis getting things wrong was comforting. I began to spoon the mixture into the baking pans. The goo was very smooth even though I hadn’t used the mixer. I had beaten and beaten it, pounded and pounded it, whisked and whisked it in an orgy of therapeutic frenzy.

Nicholas moved away, putting the table between us before saying: “You were magnificent tonight. You saved us both as we lost our footing on the high wire.”

I said nothing. I just kept on smoothing the cake mixture over the surface of the shallow pans. I smoothed and smoothed the mixture. I curled it, curved it, stroked it, raked it. Finally I was able to offer the comment: “I just said what I thought.”

“Anyone can say what they think. But not everyone’s thoughts are as clear-sighted as yours.” He paused before adding abruptly: “Would you come with me to mass tomorrow?”

I was astonished. He had never made such a request before, and indeed nowadays I never attended a service at St. Benet’s. At the time of the eight o’clock service I prepared the communal breakfast, and during the midday Eucharist I was busy setting out the informal lunch. At weekends when the church wasn’t officially open I never fancied tagging along with the prayer-group who attended the services held by Lewis, although I had taken to sampling Sunday services elsewhere.

I had tried St. Paul’s Cathedral but it was too big and I felt lost. Eventually I had discovered St. Bride’s in Fleet Street and would drift along there for Choral Evensong on Sunday night. I felt comfortable in this church because I could hide my bulk in one of the back pews and pray without feeling self-conscious. I was always sorry the time allotted for prayer was never very long. I liked tuning in to the stream of thought and adding my voice to the silent melodies produced by the group-will. I had found that once I no longer had to endure the constant white-noise of my unhappiness I could hear the cadences and rhythms which had been hidden from me before.

Sometimes I felt I wanted to join the St. Benet’s prayer-group, but since I wasn’t a regular communicant I was sure I couldn’t possibly be good enough for them. Occasionally I’d wondered whether to mention my secret interest in prayer to Lewis or Nicholas, but they were always so busy and I didn’t want to bother them. I also felt that I knew them so well off-duty that it was hard to approach them in their professional role. This was another reason why it seemed easier to stay away from St. Benet’s when I dabbled in worship; besides, I didn’t want to risk resembling those women who came to St. Benet’s to worship Nicholas instead of God.

At first I’d wondered if my absence from the church would mean I wouldn’t meet the wider community—the inner circle, of course, attended the communal breakfast—but all kinds of people were invited to the informal weekday lunches and everyone was very friendly. There were also various social events, but so far I had always been too shy to attend them. No one seemed to mind that I didn’t turn up in church during the week. Neither Nicholas nor Lewis had ever put me under any pressure to do so and I suppose I had assumed the matter was of little consequence to them. Yet now Nicholas was asking me—actually asking me—to attend the Communion service with him as if I was a real Christian instead of someone who was only beginning to have one or two God-ideas and who was still far from sure exactly what she thought about Christianity! I was so amazed that I couldn’t immediately think what to say.

“You needn’t take the Sacrament,” he said quickly as I hesitated, “but if you could just be there—at the back of the church, if you’d prefer—I’d find your presence such a support.”

I was much struck by this last word. I had wanted to be a support to him and now he himself was spelling out the exact type of support he needed. Yet still I hesitated. I was so conscious of my inadequacy.
“But surely,” I said, “there must be a prayer-expert who could do the job so much better than I could?”

“I don’t want a mystical genius. I want someone who cares.”

I stared at the baking tins. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.” Absent-mindedly he ran his finger around the edge of the bowl and sampled the left-over traces of the cake-mixture. “Is it the Anglo-Catholic ideal of the daily mass which you dislike?” he asked. “Because if it is, I assure you we’re really very Middle-Way in our style—in fact Lewis complains that nowadays we hardly qualify as Anglo-Catholic at all.”

I said: “It’s not that. I just hate the thought of everyone staring at me when I go up to the Communion rail and thinking how fat I am.”

“Ah, I see.” He sampled the cake-mixture again. “But the people who attend an early mass would be much too preoccupied with the service to pay you any attention, and besides … now that you’re thinner you have less to worry about, haven’t you?” And without waiting for a reply he wandered out of the room into the hall.

Abandoning the cake I retreated downstairs and tried to feel pleased that he had noticed I was thinner. But I knew I would never be as slim as Rosalind.

My profound exhaustion finally manifested itself in self-pity and to my shame I cried myself to sleep.

IV

Before
the eight o’clock service the next day Nicholas received a phone call from Stacy’s sister Siobhan. The local clergyman had been to see her; her mother, who was still very ill, had not yet been told of the tragedy; Siobhan hoped to be in London on the following morning. Neither Lewis nor I asked Nicholas what else had been said and Nicholas volunteered no further information. In silence we walked over to the church.