The Wonder Worker (60 page)

I was still taking deep breaths to steady myself when the kitchen door opened a crack and Alice peeped in. I’d switched on the light while unconscious. I’d also lit the gas for some reason. One ring of the stove was blazing strongly.

“Nicholas?”

“It’s okay. Turn off the gas, would you, please?” I wondered whether I had wanted to burn something. Perhaps I had seen the fire as purifying, burning off the pain which was draining me of strength. Or perhaps it was just an irrational act. Who knew? I didn’t. I went on sitting at the table as if this was a very normal thing to do at three in the morning, and eventually it occurred to me that I was cold. Then I realised I was only wearing pyjamas. I hadn’t put on my dressing-gown. Maybe I’d lit the gas to provide some warmth.

“Would you like tea?” said Alice tentatively.

“Thanks.” I went to the hall and fetched a coat from the cupboard. On my return I asked: “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I awoke when I heard footsteps overhead, and wondered if it could be Stacy having a snack. He didn’t stay to have pudding at dinner.”

Naturally Alice never asked me what I was doing in the kitchen. She just got on with the task of tea-making. When the tea was poured she sat down opposite me at the table and I felt her psyche enfolding me with loving concern.

“I walked in my sleep,” I said. “I do that sometimes when I’m under stress, but I wish I didn’t.”

The beautiful psyche enfolded me more closely and started stroking. My own psyche, beaten up and bedraggled, at once felt soothed and smoothed.

“It’s no fun to sleep-walk,” I said. “It’s frightening to onlookers and
it’s upsetting to the sleep-walker when he wakes up. The whole thing’s disgusting.”

The beautiful psyche stroked and stroked without faltering. Alice wasn’t disgusted. She wasn’t frightened either. All she cared about was that I was under terrible strain and profoundly unhappy. Alice knew exactly how unhappy I was. I’d never confided in her but she knew. The beautiful psyche patted all my ragged edges and tucked them into place and poured love over the wounds to help them heal.

“I wish I didn’t have to go on this retreat tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got no energy for it.”

“Then don’t go.”

“No, I must. I’ve got to try and get a grip on this escalating disaster, and—” I broke off as I remembered she knew none of the details. Finally I said, switching subjects: “I wish I could remember what I was dreaming when I lit the gas. I think it had something to do with lighting a funeral pyre.”

“Whose funeral was it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to remember. I think I was back in my childhood, back in the village where I grew up … Yes, that was it. It was November the fifth, Guy Fawkes night. There was always a bonfire on the green and every year we went to watch the Guy go up in flames—”

“The funeral pyre of your dream?”

“Yes, but it was more complicated than that. I’m beginning to remember now … I was standing with my parents, and the chairman of the parish council invited me to light the torch which would ignite the bonfire. That sounds odd, doesn’t it, but it wasn’t so odd as you might think because my mother owned the manor house and we were the first family in the parish. I lit the torch—and then when I looked at the top of this enormous bonfire where the Guy should have been, I suddenly saw—” I stopped.

“The Guy wasn’t there?”

I found I could hardly speak. “Oh my God.” I was feeling very sick.

“Someone was there in the Guy’s place?”

“Yes,” said my voice. “Yes. Someone else. It was my bear,” I said, “my old teddy-bear. I’d thought he was so happy and content in his box, but he wasn’t. He’d escaped and climbed to the top of the bonfire to immolate himself. As soon as I realised what was happening I tried to run forward to save him but my father stopped me, he held me so that I couldn’t move and he said: ‘He’ll be free now.’ And then
I had to stand by and watch in the knowledge that
I myself
had destroyed that wonderful bear I’d loved so much—I’d made him want to immolate himself, and then I’d even lit the fire which was going to burn him alive—”

“And did you actually see him die?”

“No. The scene was so horrific that I woke up.” I shuddered from head to toe. “I wanted him back in his box so that he’d be safe again,” I said. “So that
I’d
be safe again. Yes, that was it. That was the real core of the nightmare. Deep down it wasn’t Bear I was worrying about. It was me. How was I ever going to live without him? I wouldn’t be normal any more. The hobgoblins would come again. I’d disintegrate.” I suddenly realised I was on my feet and roaming around the room. I also realised I was talking like a maniac. What could Alice be thinking? Mustn’t frighten her. Had to be normal. Otherwise she’d be repulsed and go away.

Abruptly I sat down next to her at the table. “It’s okay,” I said. “I was nuts in the dream but I’m not nuts now.” I reached out to take her hand but managed to stop myself just in time. Had to preserve the boundaries. Had to keep Alice safe. “You don’t think I’m nuts, do you, Alice?”

“No.”

“I’m normal, aren’t I?”

“No, but that’s okay. You wouldn’t be Nicholas if you were normal.”

“You don’t mind me being me?”

“Of course not.”

I looked straight into her dark eyes, straight into her mind, straight into the bright light blazing at the heart of that beautiful psyche—and suddenly I was better, no longer split apart but stitched together, patched up, ready to face another day.

I wanted to take her hand and squeeze it tightly in gratitude, but I knew that would be a mistake. So I just said: “Thanks, Alice. Thanks for everything.” Then I toiled back upstairs to my bedroom.

IV

I failed
to sleep again that night. At five I shaved, dressed and went downstairs to my study, but I gave up trying to pray after five minutes. Time enough for that later. Instead I wrote Rosalind a note
which read: “Darling, I’m making an early start to my retreat. Have a safe journey back to Butterfold and please give my love to the boys if they ring up. I’ll phone you on Sunday evening when I return to the Rectory. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry about everything that’s gone wrong, but we’re going to get over this, I promise. I love you. N.”

I reread the letter carefully. It seemed sensible enough, but when I tried to read it yet again the marks of my pen seemed as meaningless as a set of prehistoric hieroglyphics—or as meaningless as my nightmare, remembered in the clear bright light of day. Imagine getting in such a state about old Bear going up in flames! Of course the Freudians would say that no dream was without significance. Fair enough. Maybe I should concede that my nightmare hadn’t been meaningless, but all it signified was that I hated the idea of my security being destroyed. Didn’t we all. Pulling myself together I stuffed the note into an envelope and slid it under the door of Benedict’s room.

In my bedroom I packed a bag and wondered what Rosalind would do once she was back at Butterfold Farm. Perhaps she would renew her affair with that young accountant. Perhaps she would approach someone new. Dimly it occurred to me that these sort of thoughts would now be continually running through my head whenever we were apart, and more dimly still it occurred to me that my life was changing irrevocably, whether I approved the changes or not. Yet this was such a terrifying thought, hinting at a situation beyond my power to fix, that I couldn’t cope with it. I told myself there was nothing I couldn’t fix, but I knew that was a lie. I was hearing the corrupt wonder worker talking, not the honest priest. If I hadn’t tried to fix Rosalind on Wednesday night … If I’d asked humbly in Jesus’ name for help and healing—by the grace of God and through the power of the Holy Spirit … If I’d tried to line myself up properly with God so that
his
will could be done instead of bucketing around in an orgy of manipulation to ensure that
my
will was done …

But it was no good saying “if,” was it? What had happened had happened, and now that I was just a failed wonder worker who’d got his magic wand in a twist I had to take time out in order to recover my integrity.

But I didn’t want to take time out, that was the problem. I just wanted to stay around, fixing things. I wanted to fix Stacy, fix Francie, fix everyone in sight.

Disgraceful. In fact, sick. I could see how spiritually sick I was and
I could see I had to go on retreat in order to get better. So why in God’s name was I now shilly-shallying around like the worst kind of coward?

Because I was afraid of what the retreat might uncover. I was afraid of the thoughts I might think when I was on my own with no one to fix.

God, what a mess I was in! I tried to pray for help but nothing happened. I felt as if I were cut off in an isolated house on a stormy night while outside in the darkness my enemy, the one that wanted me dead, had just cut the telephone wires.

I looked in on Lewis, who was pulling on his dressing-gown. It was six o’clock by this time.

“Pray for me,” I said.

“Of course. Are you on your way already?”

“If I don’t go now I’ll funk it.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Worse.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re doing the right thing.”

“For God’s sake handle Stacy with kid gloves.”

“I’m already wearing them. Goodbye, Nicholas.”

“And if Francie turns up for work—”

“I’ll flaunt the kid gloves there too. Goodbye, Nicholas.”

“And if anything should go wrong don’t hesitate to—”

“Goodbye, Nicholas.”

I finally tore myself away.

V

I left
my car in the forecourt of the Rectory and took a cab to the cream-coloured mansion in Bayswater where I was to incarcerate myself. The monks of the Fordite Order of St. Benedict and St. Bernard were Anglicans, and the mansion had once been the town-house of their wealthy nineteenth-century founder. The Order had another house near Cambridge and yet another in the south-west where they had founded a public school. I had been a pupil there long ago. The Fordites were a familiar part of my private landscape and normally I found that a visit to any of their houses was a positive, useful experience, but unfortunately, as I was all too well aware, my current circumstances were far from normal.

I should have realised straight away that my retreat wasn’t going to get off the ground, because I felt claustrophobic as soon as I crossed the threshold. Although I was occasionally leery of ramshackle lifts I didn’t consider myself to be vulnerable to this particular malaise, but as the guest-master showed me into one of the small bedrooms set aside for visitors the hackles rose on the back of my neck. Once I was alone I reopened the closed door and heaved up the sash-window.

The seven o’clock service which combined Matins and Prime was followed by Holy Communion. With relief I escaped from my box—box? An evocative word!—and made my way to the chapel. I could hardly have been described as benefiting from the services, since my concentration was poor to non-existent, but it was stabilising to go through a religious routine. After the mass I attended breakfast in the guest-wing. There were several other priests there, all making a retreat, but luckily there was a tradition of silence at meal-times. I ate half a slice of toast and drank two cups of tea, but I made this meagre meal last a long time because I was so reluctant to return to my box.

When I did rise from the table, the guest-master said the Abbot-General was looking forward to seeing me, so my entombment was again postponed. The Abbot-General, who was plummy and chummy and not much older than I was, said something like what-ho, old chap, nice to see you again, what an unexpected pleasure, so sudden, nothing seriously wrong I hope, but on the other hand if there is … He paused to receive the necessary information.

I said: “Just general wear and tear.”

The Abbot-General understood at once that I was a wreck so he murmured more platitudes to put me at ease and asked me how I wanted the retreat to be structured. Did I want to see my usual confessor or was there anyone else I wanted to reflect with, discuss prayer with, be silent with? Sometimes it was good to have a change. He himself would be more than ready to help, of course, but I was to have no hesitation in saying if that didn’t suit. Perhaps I just wanted to be alone.

“I don’t know what I want,” I said.

The Abbot-General, who was a clever man beneath the plummy manner, was not in the least surprised or disconcerted by this remark but said in that case my first task was to find a corner of the house where I could be comfortable because if I wasn’t comfortable I would be unable to think single-mindedly enough to discern what was needed. How did I feel about my room?

I said: “It seems very small.”

The Abbot-General suggested that I should sit for a while in the chapel, which was large. I wouldn’t be entirely alone, as someone was always there praying, but it would be peaceful, far more conducive to reflection than the visitors’ common-room where I might be plagued by social chit-chat.

“Fine,” I said.

I was again assured that if I wanted companionship and conversation later, this could be immediately provided. “And why don’t you drop in and have another word with me after dinner?” said the Abbot-General, meaning lunch. In the Fordite tradition lunch was always dinner and dinner was always supper.

“Okay,” I said. “Great. Thanks.”

“Now let’s take a moment for silent prayer,” said the Abbot-General purposefully, so I closed my eyes and kept my mouth shut for a bit while he prayed. I did try to pray as well but I was too aware of his thoughts scratching away busily like a quill pen on parchment.

The prayer ended. Rising to his feet the Abbot-General shook my hand and said he was sorry I was under strain but very glad I had decided to make a retreat.

I hadn’t the heart to tell him that all I wanted to do was run away.

VI

Fleeing
to the chapel I slumped down on one of the pews in the south transept, the area which was set aside for visitors. I was breathing hard and feeling nauseated—but not by the Abbot-General, who had been kind and, in his own way, adroit. I suspected the nausea stemmed from my growing realisation that I was going to be unable to talk freely to any of the monks; it seemed that having discussed my situation with Lewis and Clare, I’d exhausted my ability to confess.