Glamorous Powers. Susan Howatch

‘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.’

      III

      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.

      IV

      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