Mystical Paths (32 page)

II

At that point I tried to recite the mantra but I found this was impossible; my powers of concentration had been shredded. I could only wish futilely that I were stroking Whitby’s fur in my father’s cottage far away.

‘Father!’ I shouted in my head, but he was so old, so sick, and I sensed he had fallen into such an exhausted sleep that for once he was psychically deaf to my fear. I was alone and helpless, as alone and helpless as I was going to be once he was dead, and suddenly I found the tears had sprung to my eyes. But I couldn’t even summon the strength to despise myself for such weakness. I was too disabled, too terrified, too utterly laid waste by forces far beyond my control.

I tried to nerve myself to say: ‘Jesus is Lord.’ If I succeeded, I would survive because no demon, as my father always said, could withstand the power of Christ, and if I could invoke Christ’s lordship I could invoke his power. Or in other words, I would survive because no fragmented mind could resist the drive to integration generated by the most potent symbol of wholeness of all time, provided that the symbol was allowed to reverberate in the psyche with sufficient faith.

To stimulate the necessary faith I turned back to religious symbolism and pictured the demons reeling backwards, keeling over and biting the dust once they were confronted by their exorcist, but I remained silent, too terrified to attempt the invocation of Christ’s lordship for fear I would fail and prove myself possessed. At that moment it seemed my faith was insufficient to heal me; my fear of madness remained greater than my belief that I could be healed by an invocation.

Father Wilcox returned to the room. Fortunately by that time I had wiped my eyes and repolished my glasses.

‘Here’s a bit of luck,’ he was saying. ‘Lewis is less than twenty miles from here at Ely. I’ve left a message with the Bishop’s secretary and asked Lewis to ring me as soon as he gets back to the palace. I expect he’s on one of his hush-hush missions.’ And he added lightly in explanation: ‘He describes himself as a "trouble-shooter" – such a delightful example of American slang, I’ve always thought! – but perhaps "consultant’” would be a more appropriate word for an English priest. At least three bishops now rely on him to solve any little diocesan problem that’s not quite conventional.’

‘Ah,’ I said. I could think of no useful comment but at least by making an intelligent noise I could stop Father Wilcox from doubting my sanity and summoning a doctor. I noticed he himself was looking much more relaxed, and the next moment he was suggesting kindly that I returned to the guest-wing for the midday meal. ‘Daniel can allocate you a bedroom if you don’t want to face the other guests ...’ I found it hard to absorb what he was saying, but I knew my best policy was to be docile so I followed him to the guest-wing. Daniel was found. I was led to a small, austere bedroom which faced the back garden, scene of ... whatever it was. As soon as Daniel had departed I drew the curtains, unhooked the crucifix from its nail over the bed and sat down on the chair by the table.

Eventually Daniel returned. ‘Here’s your roast lamb,’ he said, trying not to give me a fascinated look as he set down the tray. God only knew what word had reached him from the main kitchen along with the roast lamb. ‘I’ve put the mint sauce in a separate dish in case you didn’t fancy it ... Would you like me to sit with you for a while? Father Abbot did suggest –’

‘No thanks.’

Daniel departed with reluctance. I went on gripping the crucifix while the roast lamb grew cold on the plate. There was no question of eating. Since I was too close to madness to say ‘Jesus is Lord’ I needed to hold the crucifix with both hands torepel the demons of doubt and terror which the Devil had summoned to destroy me.

Some time passed. Dimly I became aware that I couldn’t face another conversation with Daniel and that I had to escape before he returned to collect the tray. I crept dcwnstairs with my crucifix. The scrape of cutlery against china indicated that the guests were still busy in the nearby dining-room, and I calculated that I could bolt for the front door without being seen.

I bolted. Clasping the crucifix to my chest with one hand I drew back the latch with the other and slipped out. In the drive I took a huge gulp of air. Then I scuttled over to my car and fell inside. The interior was hot, so I drove the necessary few yards into the shade. I had to drive using only one hand. That was because I had to keep holding the crucifix.

Switching off the engine I settled down to wait in the knowl edge that there was nothing else I could possibly do. I began to feel as immobilised as the paralysed man in the New Testament story, the man whose friends had lowered him through the roof on his pallet into Jesus’ presence.

To pass the time I began to picture the ecclesiastical troubleshooter, Father Hall. I saw him driving briskly around the Fens near Ely in a modest black Ford which needed a wash. His cassock would be dusty too after his trouble-shooting, but despite his travel-worn appearance he would exude sufficient respectability to impress three bishops who needed someone to sort out those awkward little problems which refused to fit into a conventional diocesan filing cabinet. His scanty hair would be short and neat, his rimless glasses shining, his lined face immaculately shaved. He would almost certainly be retired, no longer engaged in a formal ministry but glad to have part-time work which would supplement his pension. Rounding out my portrait I gave him an ancient mother, a celibate life, an impoverished middle-class background, a devotion to church music and an interest in something slightly nutty, such as UFOs or the mating of butterflies.

I suddenly realised Father Wilcox was crossing the drive towards me.

‘I’ve just heard from Lewis,’ he said as he approached the open window at my side. ‘He should be here by four. Why don’t you come and sit in the parlour again, Nicholas?’

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

He hesitated, eyeing the crucifix. It must have been obvious to him that I was disturbed, but he was an intelligent man and he made no attempt to argue with me. Instead he said: ‘Very well, but please call on me at once if you need help. You’re sensible enough to do that, aren’t you, if the need arises?’

I told him I was. He went away. Probably he ordered someone to watch over me from one of the windows, but whoever he appointed was so discreet that I saw nothing. More time passed. I tried to imagine leaving the sanctuary of my car but I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine ever relinquishing the crucifix either, but I told myself I would worry about all minor problems later. My present sole task in life was to stop myself disintegrating completely before Father Hall arrived to produce the rational explanation which would deliver me from insanity. But supposing there was no rational explanation to produce?

I shuddered.

Time dragged by. A few visitors turned up, delivery vans, a couple of Morris Minors, a priest on a bicycle. Nobody stayed long. The garden shimmered somnolently in the spring sunshine.

And then at one minute past four there was, as we used to say in the 1960s, a ‘happening’. A Volkswagen roared through the gates, a Volkswagen Beetle, very cool, very trendy, a white Beetle it was, pristine and glistening, a Beetle with a pink and orange psychedelic flower painted on the driver’s door.

My eyes widened. Naturally I assumed the car belonged to some groovy drop-out who was pausing at the house to sample the vibes. I went on waiting for my elderly consultant in his dusty black Ford.

The Volkswagen screeched to a halt. As the engine died a man leapt out. I was some yards away so I was unable to forma detailed impression of him, but I saw he was stocky and dark, probably in his forties, a man of medium height. He wore a black shirt with his black trousers, and when a speck of metal on his chest flashed in the sunlight I realised he was wearing a small pectoral cross.

It suddenly occurred to me that this could be Father Hall. He grabbed a black hold-all from the back seat, slammed the door shut and ran up the steps of the main house. The front door opened and closed. I waited, assuming that he would be talking for some time to Father Wilcox in the parlour, but within five minutes I saw him again. He was moving swiftly past the windows of the interlinking passage, and seconds later he emerged from the front door of the guest-wing. He was now empty-handed. I deduced he had dumped his black bag in Daniel’s office.

He wasted no time glancing in my direction but disappeared around the side of the building to the back lawn. Another five minutes elapsed. I pictured him prowling around by the peach- tree as he placed the Abbot’s story in its setting.

Then he reappeared. He walked right up to me, planted himself by the open window of my car and said: ‘It’s okay. You’re going to be all right. Come indoors and we’ll have some tea while I tell you what I plan to do.’

I was reminded of the New Testament again. Just as the paralysed man had picked up his bed and walked, so I now opened the door of my car and got out.

Around me in the psychic world the demons bit the dust. For the time being, at least, I was saved.

III

‘I’m Lewis Hall,’ he said over his shoulder as he led the way towards the front door of the guest-wing. ‘You’d better call me Lewis — I don’t believe in standing on ceremony in a crisis. Are you Nicholas or Nick?’

Well, the older generation usually call me Nicholas, but —’

‘Fine. I’m nearly forty-seven and I’ve never aspired to be Peter Pan. I’ll call you Nicholas.’ He flung open the front door. ‘Tea, Daniel, please!’ he called, and added as Daniel came at the double: ‘We’ll take it upstairs in my room – shout when it’s ready and I’ll run down to collect it.’

‘Oh, there’s no need for that, Father, I’ll –’

‘Did you find a second chair for the table?’

‘Yes, Father, I put it in your room.’

‘Excellent. Oh and by the way, I’d deeply enjoy a sandwich. Marmite would do.’ He began to ascend the stairs. ‘Come along, Nicholas.’

Clutching my crucifix I hurried along in his wake.

He had been assigned the room next to mine. ‘Now,’ he said as we reached the door, ‘why don’t you go and hang up that crucifix – it’s from your room, isn’t it? Standard fitting, Fordite guest-room – very nice, but if you continue to lug it around you’re going to get some strange looks. I’ll lend you this –’ He whipped off his little pectoral cross – to wear instead. Much more practical.’

‘Oh thanks, I –’

‘I’ll just unpack my bag and change my shirt – it was so hot in the car that I’ve been sweating like a pig all the way from Ely. Give me five minutes, would you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I retired dazed to my room, hung up the crucifix and after only a brief pause drew back the curtains. It occurred to me that I could now go to the lavatory. I had been suppressing the need for some time because I had been unable to leave the sanctuary of my car.

When I returned down the corridor Daniel was arriving with tea and sandwiches. ‘I thought you too might like a bite to eat, Nicholas,’ he said in his most solicitous voice, ‘since you didn’t eat your roast lamb.’

The door of the nearby room flew open. Lewis said firmly: ‘Thank you, Daniel, that looks wonderful,’ and whipped the tray out of his hands. ‘Come in, Nicholas.’

Daniel pattered away, and as I entered the room Lewis dumped the tray on the table by the window. It was clear thathe had been washing vigorously at the corner basin, for water was scattered over the linoleum and the towel lay askew on the rack. He was now wearing a green sports-shirt, open at the neck, and had replaced his small pectoral cross with something much larger on a thick chain. I could see part of the chain, but the shirt concealed all but the outline of the object at the end of it.

Suddenly my voice said: ‘That’s not just another cross you’re wearing. That’s a crucifix.’

‘Yes, it’s a nice one,’ said Lewis agreeably, pouring out the tea. ‘I’m fond of it.’ And passing me my cup he added: ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

I slumped down on the nearest chair. Then I managed to say: ‘I’ve been very slow on the uptake. Father Wilcox mentioned the words "trouble-shooter’” and "consultant’”, but they’re just euphemisms, aren’t they? You’re an exorcist.’

‘Yes, I do the occasional exorcism,’ said Lewis vaguely, rather in the manner of a housewife confessing that she sometimes felt obliged to add bleach to her wash, ‘but my ministry’s primarily concerned with healing, not deliverance. Have a Marmite sandwich.’

I took a sandwich, and when he remained silent in order to eat at high speed I had the chance to observe him in detail.

He wore his dark straight hair on the long side at the back, but it had been trimmed with care and was now neatly parted and brushed. However his most fashionable feature was not this longish hair but the thick sideburns which reached down to the level of his ear-lobes. He had an aquiline nose and a thin-lipped mouth which, unlike Dr Aysgarth’s, conveyed an impression not of brutality but of resolute common sense; I decided this was because Aysgarth’s mouth turned down at the corners while Lewis’s mouth was dead straight. I thought he was probably overweight in proportion to his height, but because his build was broad the excess pounds were not immediately noticeable. His dark eyes, set deep in shadowed sockets, were the only part of his appearance which could have been described as sinister, but as he sat munching the sandwich their expression was tranquil and benign.

‘That’s better,’ he said when his plate was empty. He poured himself some more tea. ‘Now let me tell you how I intend to proceed. We’re going to talk in three sessions and basically what you’ll be doing is briefing me. In the first session I want you to tell me how you became involved with Christian Aysgarth and how you were led step by step towards that moment this morning when you saw him in the garden. In the second session I want you to describe exactly what you saw, and we’ll try to clarify your description as far as possible. And in the third session I want you to tell me a little about yourself — no two-volume biography is required, but an extended thumb-nail sketch would help me to see the situation in the round.’

‘Do you think —’

‘I don’t think anything at the moment. I’m only operating on Father Wilcox’s summary of this morning’s events — which is why it’s so important that I spend time talking to you in detail. The three sessions will take the rest of the day. Then tomorrow morning we’ll stage a reconstruction.’

I digested this information for a moment in silence before asking: ‘And after that?’

‘After that I believe I’ll have some sort of idea what’s going on. I doubt that I’ll be able to shout "Eureka!’” and instantly produce the correct solution, but I think I’ll have established certain possibilities so that I’ll know the next step to take.’

I said astonished: ‘Are there so many possibilities?’

‘At least half a dozen, yes, but they’re not all equally likely. By the way, perhaps this is the moment when I should state unequivocally that I believe you could have seen Christian Aysgarth and that I’m more than willing to consider any theory you care to put forward.’

Then I knew I was no longer alone.IV

‘Eat up your sandwich,’ said Lewis. ‘I don’t want you to faint for lack of food — it would be so time-consuming. Now where shall we hold our first session? Shall we stay here? Or should we take advantage of the fine weather by sitting in the front garden?’

He was watching me intently, and at once I knew that for some reason my response to these innocuous questions was crucial. ‘You decide,’ I said confused, ‘but if we go into the garden I’d like to sit in the shade because a hot sun doesn’t suit me.’

‘Was that why you were sitting in your car when I arrived?’ ‘No, I only went there to escape from Daniel.’

Lewis stopped watching me intently and relaxed in his chair. ‘Daniel must find it hard to keep a rule of silence!’ he commented. ‘How clever of Father Abbot to make him guest-master and give him plenty of opportunity for authorised chat!’ And before I could reply he added: ‘Let’s make a move.’

I followed him downstairs, and when he opened the front door I saw that the bench in the garden ahead of us was already standing in the shade. We began to cross the lawn.

We can go to the back-garden if you like,’ I said, anxious to prove to myself as well as to him that I was no longer too panic-stricken to look at the scene of the incident, but I was relieved when he shook his head.

‘There are two visitors out there at present,’ he said. ‘I saw them from the bedroom window.’ And as we moved on across the lawn he said unexpectedly: ‘Let me tell you a little about myself. I think it would be unfair if I milked you for information and yet offered no information in return.’

I recognised this manoeuvre. My father had told me he always adopted it when the person he was counselling was disturbed enough to be distrustful of all strangers. It was a form of stroking the psyche by befriending; the aim was to reassure by presenting oneself as a person with a background which could be grasped and understood; it was a method of making the unfamiliar non-threatening. ‘In fact one gives little away,’ my father had explained, ‘but the important thing is to adopt a friendly tone and offer one’s few facts as a gesture of good will.’ My father had acquired this somewhat Machiavellian technique from his abbot at Ruydale, Aidan Lucas, during the monastic years.

‘I was brought up in the country – in Sussex, to be precise,’ Lewis was saying as we sat down on the bench and I prepared to judge his skill as a befriender. ‘My father died when I was two but my uncle took me over when my mother went to live with him and his wife, so I had a standard family upbringing. In
₁₉₃₉
I was supposed to go up to Oxford but I thought it was more important to fight Hitler instead. The result was that when I was demobbed in 1945 I was too old to find Oxford anything but unbearably juvenile so I went straight to theological college.

‘After I was ordained I worked in the Chichester diocese and was eventually appointed to one of those plush parishes inland from Worthing. I lasted there five years. Then I became chaplain of a large mental hospital in the diocese of Radbury.

‘However in 1965 it seemed clear to me that I was being called back into some kind of parish situation in order to use the skills I’d developed in my hospital work, so I decided to approach the Bishop of Starbridge for help – not merely because I didn’t think much of the new Bishop of Radbury, but because I’d heard through the Fordite grapevine that Ashworth was sympathetic to the ministry of healing, particularly when it involved counselling people who had suffered breakdowns, and I thought he might be able to use me somewhere in his diocese. I’d never met him; I knew he wasn’t an AngloCatholic, as I was, but he was a traditionalist with Catholic leanings and I had a hunch we’d get on.

‘He set me up in my present ministry. I’m attached to an Anglo-Catholic city parish – St Paul’s, which is in the part of Starbridge known as Langley Bottom – and although I do assist Desmond Wilton, the vicar, I also work independently, running a small healing centre in the crypt.’

I had long since forgotten I was supposed to be judging his technique. I had realised in amazement that this was one of the priests whom the Principal of Starbridge Theological College had dismissed as Anglo-Catholic cranks and whose services my father had asked me not to attend. But I now knew exactly why my father had tried to keep me out of Langley Bottom. He had wanted to steer me away from that ministry of healing which, inevitably, he would have heard about from Uncle Charles.

I could only-exclaim feebly: ‘I never knew there was a healing centre in Starbridge!’ but Lewis was unsurprised. ‘I don’t advertise,’ he said, ‘and I don’t go in for big, flashy services of healing. I see people by appointment and everything is done
sotto voce
within the context of a parish church where the emphasis is on the daily mass ... You know Starbridge well?’

‘Very well indeed! Didn’t Father Wilcox tell you about me?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t give him much chance – I was too anxious to get my teeth into a Marmite sandwich. He just gave me the bare facts of the case and told me you were an ordinand called Nicholas Darrow.’

‘Well, I’m at Starbridge Theological College, and –’

‘No wonder you’ve never heard of my ministry! Your principal thinks I’m a dangerous maverick, and even if he didn’t he’s such a snob that he’d take good care to steer his lily-white ordinands away from a working-class parish like St Paul’s. What’s your opinion of that College?’

‘Awful.’

‘I’m not surprised. I hear the ordinands emerge spouting Eusebius but unable to counsel the average bereaved widow ... Do you smoke?’ he added as an afterthought as he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

‘No.’ I opened my mouth to tell him that my father had been Principal during the College’s golden era in the 1940s, but before I could speak Lewis was observing: ‘I’m an incorrigible smoker, but I do give up cigarettes in Lent. For forty-eight hours.’ And he smiled at me before adding casually: ‘To conclude my self-portrait I should tell you that I married during the war and that my wife and daughter now live in London. My divorce, of course, provided me with the impetus to chuck up conventional parish work, but as I was the so-called "innocent party’” there was no problem about continuing in the Church. There’d be a problem if I wanted to remarry, but I don’t consider that remarriage is an option for a divorced priest.’ He paused to exhale a cloud of smoke. ‘Okay, so much for me. Now let’s turn back to you. Session One: your involvement with Christian Aysgarth. When did you first meet him?’

‘1963. Did you by chance ever –’

‘No, we never met. I seem to remember that he was still around when I came to Starbridge in 1965, but I was never in with the Cathedral Close set. How did you yourself meet him?’

‘I
was
in with the Cathedral Close set. My father is Bishop Ashworth’s spiritual director.’

Lewis stared at me. ‘Your father’s a priest?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Your father
’
s a priest called Darrow?
Jonathan Darrow? The Darrow who was abbot here before the war?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great balls of fire!’ said Lewis astounded, and scattered ash all over his trousers as he dropped his cigarette.

V I was not unaccustomed to this reaction. My life had been regularly punctuated by the gasps of churchmen who had discovered I was the son of Jonathan Darrow. Sometimes I enjoyed basking in my father’s fame and sometimes I didn’t, but on this occasion I merely felt relieved. Aware of my dependence on Lewis I was anxious to enhance his interest in me.

Automatically I asked: ‘You’ve met him?’

‘No.’ Lewis retrieved his cigarette. ‘He left the Order in 194.0, didn’t he? But I never visited the Fordites here at Grantchester until I was an ordinand after the war – and by the time I reached the Starbridge diocese years later he was living as arecluse. How amazing to think he’s still alive! How old is he now?’

‘Nearly eighty-eight. Fancy you remembering when he left the Order!’

‘Oh, it was a sensation at the time. In fact the events of 1940 rocked all four houses: Cuthbert Darcy dying, your father leaving – what a challenge for the new Abbot-General!’ Picking up this last reference I said fascinated: ‘You knew Francis Ingram?’