But I never reached the chapel. In the garden the mild March sunshine was so pleasant that I sat down on one of the wooden seats by the lawn and sought to soothe my psyche by watching the daffodils nod tranquilly in the breeze. How long I sat there I have no idea, but just as I was trying to summon the energy to resume my journey the daffodils began to change.
I watched them turn a brilliant yellow as the surrounding grass glittered into emerald green, and all the while part of my brain was denying what was happening, declaring that this vision was arriving too soon after the last one to be genuine. As if to confirm my scepticism, the vision failed to develop. I found myself still sitting in the garden, still inhabiting my body, and at last the landscape reverted to its normal colouring. Having concluded that the alteration in my visual perception had been a freak generated by my beleaguered psyche I then received a great shock. I saw that not only had the daffodils faded but the trees were in full leaf.
I gasped but before I could leap to my feet I became aware
that I was no longer alone. The hair prickled at the nape of my neck but this sensation was experienced by the Jon of March 1941 because the other Jon, the Jon of the summer day around me, was tranquil. It was as if I were having an impaired vision with the result that I was in two times at once, neither of which seemed wholly real.
Very slowly I turned my head to the left.
A little boy was watching me. He was about ten yards away. He had fair hair, which I knew would darken later, and grave grey eyes set deep in a small serious face. Recalling a photograph taken when I was four years old I realized I was looking at my past self. I was sure of this because I could talk to him without words and I knew that at that moment he was longing for an invitation to sit beside me on the garden-seat. I signalled that I wanted his company, and as he understood he smiled serenely, reminding me of my mother. Obviously my psychic faculties had become addled because I was mixing up the past and present in the most chaotic way imaginable, seeing myself as a child in Anne’s garden while telling myself all the time in the March of 1941 that my powers had gone beserk.
Then I became aware of a detail which stupefied me. The little boy was wearing dungarees and a pullover. I was just thinking dazed that I had projected my past self into modern times when I was further shattered by the revelation that the little boy was a stranger. Far away on the terrace I heard an unknown woman’s voice call: ‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’ and as the child turned his head in response the darkness began to creep across my vision from the left.
I cried urgently: ‘Nicholas – don’t go!’ but I was in 1941 and he could not hear me. He ran off across the lawn but although I leapt to my feet in pursuit the darkness blotted him out, the dizziness overcame me and sinking back on the seat I covered my eyes with my hands.
When I opened my eyes the daffodils were nodding in the breeze and I was once more pinned firmly in time. I found I was in a profoundly emotional state. My hands were shaking. My cheeks were wet with tears. My voice was whispering: ‘Nicholas … Nicholas …’ and suddenly I knew all would be well. I thought: ‘All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well …’ And as the famous words of Julian of Norwich rang triumphantly in my mind I knew I had received another ‘showing’. God in his infinite mercy had taken pity on me in my torment and had given me this assurance that I could go forward into the future with confidence. All would be well with the child, who had beyond doubt been revealed as the sort of son I had always wanted. All would be well with my marriage. All would be well with my ministry of healing. I felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from my psyche, and in a burst of joyous energy I rushed to the chapel to give thanks for yet another great deliverance from the demon of despair.
When I returned to the house I recorded the vision and placed the account in an envelope which I sealed with wax. I was strongly tempted to tell Anne that I had seen our future son, but I had long since made it a rule that I should never discuss my visions with anyone who could be closely affected by them. There are many futures and not all of them come true, as I knew well enough from my previous psychic experiences. It was bad enough that I myself should occasionally wind up waiting for something which never happened; to impose such a burden on someone else, particularly someone I loved, would have been the height of irresponsibility.
It was only when the sealed envelope was safely tucked away
in my cupboard that it occurred to me to wonder why I had chosen the name Nicholas for my new son. I liked the name but there were others I liked better. I could only conclude that it was Anne’s favourite name and I had generously allowed her to have her own way.
That evening I was unable to resist saying to her: ‘What shall we call the baby if it’s a boy?’
‘Gerald after my brother,’ said Anne promptly, ‘and Jonathan after you.’
Automatically I said: ‘I don’t like my name.’ I was so taken aback that I was even tactless enough to add: ‘I don’t like the name Gerald either.’
‘All right, what about Richard, Robert or Nigel?’
I was silent, trying to make sense of all these irrelevant suggestions, and the next moment Anne was exclaiming: ‘Why are we assuming it’ll be a boy? Maybe it’ll be a girl! I like the names Susan, Margaret, Penelope –’ She paused expectantly, but still I was silent. ‘Come on, Jon! What are your favourite names?’
‘Florence. Beatrice. Enid.’
Anne laughed. ‘But no little girls are called Florence, Beatrice and Enid any more!’
‘Aren’t they?’ I said vaguely, forgetting my bewilderment in the relief of seeing her so happy. Smiling back at her impulsively I clasped her hand in mine and added with regret: ‘No, I suppose they’re not.’
‘Darling!’ said Anne, tactfully avoiding any further comment on my old-fashioned Victorian taste. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to me that you’re quite obviously in the best of spirits! It sounds silly, I know, but I had this terrible feeling that the baby would tie you up into one of your knots and I wouldn’t be able to unravel you.’
We laughed together at this absurd possibility. Then I said jubilantly: ‘“All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well!”’ but nevertheless as I spoke I again felt baffled that we should be so far from naming our future son after the perfect child who had visited me that afternoon.
As I had anticipated, Dr Romaine had advised Anne to abstain from marital intimacy until the most common time for miscarriages had passed, so without consulting her I set up a camp-bed in my cell; I had thought it obvious that if one is obliged to be chaste one should at least take the elementary precaution of sleeping alone, but to my dismay Anne was most upset and accused me of being ‘monstrously insensitive’. At once I explained that my withdrawal would have been unnecessary if I had not still felt her to be intensely desirable, and when she saw my action had not sprung from sexual antipathy she calmed down, but afterwards I was angry with myself for not handling the matter with more tact.
I missed the intimacy, but I had to admit to myself that the solitary nights in my cell were exquisitely refreshing. Every night I would stay up late reading and meditating, sleep soundly for six hours and rise at five-thirty for prayer. Anne never woke before seven-thirty and as the pregnancy advanced she liked to be in bed each evening by ten. This meant that I had nine and a half hours entirely to myself, and my psyche, secretly undernourished after a diet of reduced solitude, began to thrive again. I found I had more energy for my work, and as this new energy developed, so my healing skills began to flourish.
I achieved a success which was even more dramatic than Mrs Purvis’ recovery: a child who had been immobilized for months after an attack of infantile paralysis was able to rise from his wheelchair and walk three steps. Word of the healing spread swiftly not only through the parish but through the surrounding villages, and soon a reporter from
The Starbridge Weekly News
was knocking on the vestry door. I declined to grant an interview on the grounds that it would be most unfitting for a priest to connive at publicity, but the reporter, undaunted, discovered several loquacious villagers who were only too ready to exaggerate my achievements. Less than twenty-four hours before my
first service of healing I found myself confronting the highly unedifying front-page headline:
MIRACLES IN STARRINGTON:
EX-MONK’S MARVELS MESMERIZE ALL.
I had thought and prayed a great deal about whether I should hold a service of healing. Certainly I judged it would meet the needs of the vast majority of those who called at the ‘surgery’ which I now held twice a week at the vestry; these callers were far from being seriously ill but nevertheless they craved comfort for their minor ailments, and I was tempted to think that if I dealt with these lesser cases ‘en masse’ I would have more time to devote to the chronic sick. These incurables needed my individual attention as I sought to improve the quality of their lives by renewing their spiritual strength, but although I did not think they were likely to be greatly helped by being treated ‘en masse’ I saw no reason why they should not derive at least some benefit from a service of healing.
I also favoured holding a service because I felt such a gesture would place the healing firmly in a respectable Christian setting. By this time Dr Garrison was not the only person muttering about quackery, and I was aware of a growing desire to defend myself in the most dignified manner available against my enemies’ uncharitable slanders.
However I knew I had to approach my task with care, and I realized that my first responsibility was to reduce the risk of any over-emotional behaviour by making the service as plain as possible; this was most definitely not the time to indulge in a riot of Anglo-Catholic ritual. Accordingly I drew up a service which included an opening hymn, a short address in which I exploded any misconceptions about the ministry of healing, an appropriate reading from the New Testament, three spoken prayers and a period of silent prayer. After this interval those wishing to be healed would assemble before the chancel where I could begin the laying-on of hands. I considered anointing but rejected it. I was too afraid my audience would associate the practice with Popery and I wanted no hostile feelings
impeding the flow of the charism. Following the laying-on of hands we would sing a second hymn and then I would give a blessing to conclude the service.
These proceedings seemed harmless enough, but I knew I would still have to exercise great vigilance in order to beat back any demonic infiltration. Before I had entered the Order I had out of curiosity attended two services of healing in London and both in their different ways had appalled me. The first service, performed by a renegade priest, had been a spectacle centred on the glorifying of his own personality; the Devil had been hard at work there, cultivating the demon pride and calling forth an idolatrous response. The second service, performed by an individual who was clearly motivated by good intentions, had plunged into chaos because of his lack of authority; unable to control his congregation he had soon been presiding over a gathering where tears, groans, even shrieks were mingled with regular shouts of ‘Hallelujah!’. Fortunately he had achieved no striking cures. If he had, the congregation would no doubt have tottered the last inch over the brink into the abyss of hysteria and some deluded victim would have insisted that the congregation was being visited by the Spirit.
From these descriptions it will be clear why the hierarchy of the Church of England tended to regard the public exercise of the charism of healing with a singular lack of enthusiasm, and having planned my service I knew my next step was to win my superior’s approval. Accordingly, circumventing Aysgarth, I made a special journey to the Cathedral Close at Starbridge in order to call on the Bishop.
Dr Ottershaw, once more displaying his endearing willingness to be wound, so to speak, around my little finger, confided that he had always been greatly interested in the charism of healing and declared that as I was such a distinguished churchman he was sure that any service I conducted would be a model of propriety. He even mused what a pity it was that a prior engagement prevented him from attending the service himself.
I returned in triumph to Starrington.
Fortified by the Bishop’s approval I then wrote to Aysgarth
to inform him of my plan and received a chilly letter of acknowledgment. He told me that although he would not presume to criticize a plan which had had an episcopal blessing he nevertheless feared that my scheme would only divide the parish more deeply than ever. Did I really feel that it was in the best interests of the Church to quarrel with such a pillar of the community as Dr Garrison? Mr Pitkin had said I was even giving interviews to journalists; surely such a move could only result in a publicity which would attract the wrong people to my service? In short, despite the Bishop’s charitable response, should I not consider altering my course in order to pursue a policy of reconciliation with those who were so deeply opposed to this extension of my ministry?
After sparing a growl for the pest Pitkin who had so grossly misrepresented me, I was driven to the reluctant conclusion that Aysgarth had been right to worry about unseemly publicity. The headlines of
The Starbridge Weekly News
had certainly been unnerving, but at that stage I felt it was too late to cancel the service. Too many sick people would have been disappointed, and in addition I remained convinced that the service represented the logical next step as I advanced along the road of my new call.