‘Cosy for you,’ said Francis. ‘I’m only surprised Father Darcy sanctioned someone so pliable, but then I suppose he thought you couldn’t go too far astray so long as he was alive to keep an eye on you.’
I said nothing.
‘Very well,’ said Francis, writing the word ‘VISION’ on a fresh line, ‘You’d better tell me what happened,’ and I began my account of the abnormal in the most normal voice I could muster.
When I had finished Francis drew a line under his last note and stared in silence at the written page. ‘Is that all?’ he said abruptly at last. ‘There weren’t, for example, six naked women dancing merrily in the glade?’
‘Absolutely not!’
Unexpectedly Francis smiled. ‘I was only thinking that apart from the ending, which I admit is spectacular, it’s a dull sort of vision, isn’t it? No naked ladies, no heavenly choirs, no disembodied voices exhorting you to great spiritual feats.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll try to have a more entertaining vision next time.’
He laughed. I was tempted to relax but sensed that he wanted to lure me off my guard. Tell me,’ he was saying idly, ‘how often do you have these visions?’
‘On average about once every four years. A far more common experience is foreknowledge, a flash in the consciousness which lasts no more than a couple of seconds.’
‘How accurate are these flashes?’
‘There’s a high margin of error. But the correct predictions can be striking.’
‘But you admit you’re often wrong.’
‘Certainly. I believe the future is foreknown to God but not foreordained – or in other words, I believe there are many futures but the future which actually happens in finite time is one which can be shaped by the exercise of man’s free will. I think my failures occur when man steps in and alters the pattern.’
‘Quite. But I really must resist the temptation to be diverted,’ said Francis, ‘by an enthralling discussion of determinism and free will. Now if we may return to your visions –’ Francis sighed as if he found the word a heavy cross to bear ‘– do they always relate to the future?’
‘Not necessarily. They may represent the present or past seen from another angle. Or if they do relate to the future, the past
may be present as well. It’s as if I’m moving in a dimension of reality which exists beyond time as we understand it.’
‘How do you classify this present vision as far as time’s concerned?’
‘I think I’ve seen the future. There was nothing of the past or present in it at all.’
‘And maybe nothing of the future either. But before we get bogged down in scepticism,’ said Francis, allowing me no chance to comment, ‘give me an example of a vision which was rather less enigmatic than this one. I feel I need some yardstick of comparison.’
After a pause I said: ‘In my last vision – not this present one, but a vision I had in 1937 – I found myself back in the prison where I worked before I entered the Order. I was walking down one of the main halls, but then I turned out of the past into an unfamiliar corridor and entered a large room which was certainly like no cell which exists in the prison service. About a dozen prisoners were confined there but they didn’t see me so I knew that in this particular dimension of reality I wasn’t physically present. At the same time I felt deeply involved; perhaps I was psychically present in my prayers. Then as I drew closer I realized the prisoners were grouped around a man who lay dying and that this dying man was being tended by a priest whom I recognized. It was Charles Ashworth, the Canon of Cambridge Cathedral and the Tutor in Theology at Laud’s. I act as his spiritual director. Then I felt the evil emanating from the walls and as I automatically began to recite the Lord’s Prayer the vision ended.’ I paused before adding: ‘Over the years I’ve become increasingly certain that I saw a scene in a future prisoner-of-war camp.’
‘Where’s Ashworth at the moment?’
‘Still safe in England. But he’s become an army chaplain.’ Before I could stop myself I was prejudicing my case by voicing the opinion I so much wanted to believe. ‘However there’s a good chance that the vision won’t come true; I think it may have been a psychic aberration brought on by the strain of my translation to Grantchester.’
Francis immediately pounced. ‘What makes you so sure that this latest vision isn’t a mere psychic aberration?’
I kept calm. ‘The light shining through the north window was the light of God. The knowledge imprinted on my consciousness formed a divine revelation. Unlike the Ashworth vision I felt no doubt afterwards, no confusion.’
Francis said sharply: ‘What did Timothy think?’
‘He saw the vision as an allegory, but he was handicapped by the fact that I concealed the revelation at the end.’ I recounted Timothy’s interpretation.
‘And do you dismiss this allegorical approach entirely?’
‘I’m sure I was in a real place – but I concede there may have been symbolism present. I don’t believe the suitcase existed on the same level of reality as the chapel. I suspect it represented travel, or possibly change.’
‘Tell me why you’re so convinced that you were moving in a landscape which actually existed.’
I said without hesitation: ‘The quality of the detail. It was unusually distinct. In the chapel I even smelt the scent of the lilies, and such an experience is most unusual in a vision. The sense of smell is nearly always dormant.’
Francis made a long note before extracting a fresh sheet of foolscap from his desk. Then he said: ‘After the vision had ended, what sort of state were you in?’
‘I was trembling and sweating. The amount of psychic energy required to generate a vision always produces a powerful physical reaction.’
‘Were you sexually excited?’
Silence. I was acutely aware that the longer I took to reply the more questionable my hesitation would seem but several seconds elapsed before I could say: ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘That’s not for you to decide.’ Francis wrote on his fresh sheet of foolscap: ‘Possible evidence of sexual trouble,’ before he glanced up in time to catch me reading his writing. ‘Jonathan, would you kindly desist from flaunting the perfect sight you’ve been fortunate enough to acquire in middle age and abstain
from any attempt to decipher my notes? That’s an order.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘The correct response to an order from your superior,’ said Francis, ‘is: “Yes, Father.” And by the way, are you aware that since this interview commenced you haven’t once addressed me in an appropriate manner?’
‘I’m sorry, Father. Please forgive me.’
There was a pause. Having flexed the muscles of his new power and found them in good order Francis allowed himself a discreet sigh of satisfaction before he picked up his pen again. ‘Very well, let’s continue with the subject of sexual intimacy – or, to use the coarse abbreviation of the younger generation, “sex”. How many women are there in your life at present?’
‘There’s my daughter –’
‘Let’s leave Freud out of this, shall we?’
‘There’s the Abbess at Dunton. She’s a splendid old lady of seventy-eight whom I see when I pay the Abbot’s traditional call on the nuns once a year.’
‘And let’s leave out the old age pensioners too. Is there any woman under forty whom you’ve been seeing regularly?’
‘Only Mrs Charles Ashworth, the wife of the theologian I mentioned just now.’
‘Is she attractive?’
‘Not to me. In fact I rather dislike her. May I stress at this point that my vision has absolutely nothing to do with women and sex?’
‘Why are you getting so ruffled on the subject of women and sex?’
‘I’m not getting ruffled! I’m simply impatient because –’
‘When did you last see Mrs Ashworth?’
Silence.
‘Jonathan?’
‘I last saw Mrs Ashworth,’ I said, ‘on the sixteenth of May.’
‘The day before your vision.’
‘Yes.’ Now it was my turn to gaze up at the chandelier as if every crystal had demanded a meticulous inspection.
‘And apart from the visit of Mrs Ashworth,’ said Francis as the
nib of his pen whispered across the page, ‘what else happened on the sixteenth of May?’
‘Nothing much. There were the usual minor irritations – Augustine, one of my drones, fell asleep in choir and another drone, Denys, had to be reprimanded for raiding the larder.’
‘Just another dreary monastic day – but outside in the world it wasn’t dreary at all, was it? It was painfully exciting. Chamberlain had just fallen, Churchill had taken over as Prime Minister, the British Army in France was heading for the ordeal of Dunkirk –’
‘In such circumstances it was a relief to be diverted by my drones.’
‘Your drones and Mrs Ashworth. Was she your only visitor that day?’
‘No.’ I hesitated before adding neutrally: ‘My son came to see me.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Francis. ‘Martin. Obviously now is the moment when you should tell me about your current difficulty with him.’
I glanced down at my hands and to my horror I saw their outline begin to blur. Willing my abbot’s ring to remain distinct I managed to say: ‘It was nothing. We had a disagreement but that’s irrelevant to the subject under discussion.’
‘That’s not for you to judge.’ As my vision cleared I saw him write ‘MARTIN’ and underline the name twice. ‘Has anything else happened to upset you lately – apart, of course, from Father Darcy’s death and your failure to become Abbot-General?’
By this time I had myself so tightly in control that I never even flinched. ‘No, Father.’
Francis removed his spectacles and to my profound relief I realized the interview was drawing to a close. ‘Well, Jonathan,’ he said dryly, ‘you’ve certainly given me food for thought. I trust you’ve made adequate arrangements for your prior to hold the fort in your absence?’
‘I did tell him that I’d almost certainly have to stay overnight –’
‘Overnight?’ Francis regarded me incredulously. ‘Did you really think this matter could be settled in a few hours?’
‘No, of course not, but I thought that after you’d cross-examined me you’d merely suggest various avenues of prayer and meditation before sending me back to Grantchester to reflect further on the problem.’
‘I see. That’s what you’d do, would you, if you were the Abbot-General?’
After a pause I said: ‘Yes, Father.’
‘But you’re not the Abbot-General, are you?’
‘No, Father.’
Francis pushed his telephone across the desk towards me. ‘Ring your prior and tell him you’re going to be away for a week.’
I had to cancel not only a number of counselling appointments but an important retreat for theological students. I felt sorry for my prior, burdened with the necessity of making numerous awkward telephone calls, but he brushed aside with admirable alacrity the apology I felt he deserved.
While I was speaking to Bernard Francis was engaged in writing a letter. ‘Take this to the infirmary,’ he said when he had finished. ‘The first thing to do with any monk who has visions is to give him a thorough medical examination. I’ve told Ambrose you’re a psychic so he won’t immediately jump to the conclusion that you’re off your head, but I’ve forbidden him to ask you about the contents of your vision and I forbid you to reveal them.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘When Ambrose has finished his examination you’ll probably be in time to make an appearance in choir. I shall expect to see you in the chapel and also afterwards in the refectory. As for the afternoon, you must spend it in prayer. I suggest you meditate on the subject of truth and pray for the courage to be
entirely honest with me during the ordeal which lies ahead for us both. Then at four o’clock you’ll return to this room and I shall inform you how I intend to proceed.’
‘Yes, Father.’
He made a gesture of dismissal and at once I departed for the infirmary.
I had first met Ambrose the Infirmarian in 1923 during the turbulent opening year of my monastic life; when Father Darcy had removed me from Grantchester I had spent the night at the London headquarters before being dispatched to Ruydale. After an indescribable scene in the punishment cell and another equally harrowing ordeal in which I had been obliged to kneel in a humiliated state in front of the Abbot-General’s table in the refectory while the brethren ate their supper, I had been dumped in the infirmary to be repaired and Ambrose had given me the welcome reassurance that the Christian spirit was not entirely absent in that rich repulsive house.
Later I had met him on my unorthodox visits to London after the Whitby affair. He had sought my company during the Saturday recreation hour, and I suspected he was interested in me because he had heard I possessed the charism of healing. He was in correspondence with Wilfred, the Infirmarian at Ruydale, a man who unlike Ambrose had had no formal medical training but who nonetheless possessed considerable gifts as a healer, and Wilfred had probably let slip a detail or two which had stimulated Ambrose’s curiosity. However since I was forbidden to discuss my ill-fated career as a healer this curiosity had remained unassuaged.
‘Good morning, Father!’ he said, meticulous in respecting my office even though before my final preferment he had been one of the brethren invited to call me Jon. ‘I heard you were visiting us today but I didn’t realize I was going to have the pleasure of talking to you.’ And when he had read Francis’ letter
he said with an admirable serenity: ‘Do you normally enjoy good health?’