Glamorous Powers. Susan Howatch

Francis, ‘we’re going to talk about your son.’ Flicking through the pages of my file he added: ‘There’s not much on record about either of your children. Abbot James noted a few details when you entered the Grantchester house and later when you were at Ruydale Father Darcy made a note – ah yes, here it is – remarking that it was fortunate you were in a remote part of England where your children could only rarely visit you. “Frequent family visits,” writes Father Darcy, “would not have been good for Jonathan’s emotional equilibrium and would have provided a severe spiritual distraction.” Have you any comment to make on that judgement?’

      ‘Father Darcy knew that like any conscientious father I tend to spend an unnecessary amount of time worrying about my children’s welfare.’

      ‘But was there so much to worry about once you’d entered the Order? Your daughter’s marriage has been a success, you’ve always said, and your son’s certainly not been a failure as an actor.’

      I said: ‘I’m very proud of both my children.’

      ‘Nevertheless it must have given you a jolt when Martin decided to go on the stage.’

      ‘It was hardly a bolt from the blue. He’d always excelled at acting, and when he decided to make a career of it I felt it would be churlish to stand in his way.’

      ‘What a model father! If he’d been my son I’m quite sure I shouldn’t have behaved with such saintly resignation … How old was he?’

      ‘Eighteen. It was the year I entered the Order. Martin was determined to support himself by taking part-time jobs while he was earning a pittance in repertory. My daughter was married. I was free to go my own way.’

      ‘Eighteen’s very young. Are you absolutely certain there was no row when he declared his thespian intentions?’

      ‘Martin and I don’t have rows! Our relationship has always been excellent!’

      ‘Yet last month, on the day before your vision, you and he had what you described as a “disagreement”. Will you now tell me, please, exactly what happened?’

      I had rehearsed this moment many times. ‘He disclosed to me that he wasn’t leading a Christian life. Naturally I was upset.’

      Francis looked at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘He’s thirty-five now, isn’t he? Isn’t that rather old to be sowing wild oats?’

      I said nothing.

      What’s the problem? Trapped in an eternal triangle?’

      I heard myself say in an obstinate voice: ‘Martin must choose how to live his life. He’s a grown man and I’ve no right to interfere.’

      ‘But if the life he’s chosen to live is unChristian –’

      ‘Well, of course I pray for him to be brought back to Christ. Of course.’ Despite my rehearsals I was finding the conversation difficult to sustain.

      ‘Has he been leading this unChristian life for some time?’

      ‘Apparently.’

      ‘Yet you had no idea?’

      I shook my head.

      ‘Despite your so-called excellent relationship with him?’

      I wanted to shout: ‘You bastard!’ and hit him. The violence of my reaction shocked me. Bending my head I stared down at the obscene luxury of the Indian carpet.

      After a pause Francis said gently: ‘I’m sorry. Obviously the revelation was a great shock to you,’ and I knew my defences had been destroyed. I could cope with Francis being worldly, cynical, aggressive, snide and downright bloody-minded. But I could not cope with him understanding my misery and being kind.

      I stood up. That was wrong. When a monk is seated in the presence of his superior he should never stand until he has been given permission to do so, but now, compelled to turn my back on Francis in order to conceal my emotion, I crossed the room and stood facing the clock on the mantelshelf. My voice said: ‘I made a mess of that scene with Martin. I should have communicated by showing compassion, by forgiving. How can anyone be brought to Christ if Christ’s representative fails to display a Christian face?’

      As I stopped speaking I found I was focusing my entire concentration on the clock in an effort to expel my pain by projecting it in a stream of power from the psyche. The clock’s hands quivered; I saw the pendulum falter, and as the present began to grind to a halt the past overwhelmed me, not the recent past but the distant past when I had prostituted my powers in order to ‘get on’ up at Cambridge. ‘I can make your watch stop just by looking at it …’ The girls had worn watches as brooches in those days, and half the fun of stopping a watch had lain in the erotic adventure of putting a hand on the feminine breast to jolt the mechanism back into action.

      In panic I realized I had allowed my psychic discipline to slip. My voice said shattered: ‘I’ve stopped the clock,’ but Francis at once retorted: ‘Nonsense, it just gave a hiccough. It does that sometimes,’ and to my relief I realized that the pendulum was still moving. I said confused: ‘I thought –’ but Francis interrupted me.

      ‘Now Jonathan, it’s no good trying to play that old parlour-trick because I’m well aware that you never stopped any of those watches in the old days – you merely hypnotized all those gullible girls into thinking that you did. Come back here, sit down and behave yourself – you’re acting like a half-baked novice.’

      This robust approach, so reminiscent of our mentor, at once steadied me. I returned to my chair.

      ‘Have you heard from Martin since the quarrel?’ said Francis after allowing me a moment to regain my composure.

      ‘No, but I’ve written and I know that eventually he’ll write back. Martin’s always been so good at keeping in touch and sharing his world with me.’ But of course he had not shared it. Grief threatened to overwhelm me again.

      ‘How old was he when his mother died?’

      ‘Seven. Poor Betty … After the scene with Martin I thought how upset she would have been about him, and I kept thinking of her, thinking and remembering –’ I broke off. Then I added abruptly: ‘Forgive me, I’m digressing. My marriage has nothing to do with my present crisis.’

      But Francis only said: ‘Hasn’t it? Yet you’ve just confessed that it was most vividly resurrected in your mind shortly before you had your vision,’ and as we stared at each other in silence we were interrupted by the rapid clanging of the chapel bell proclaiming an emergency.

      IX

      ‘Air-raid drill,’ said Francis casually. ‘We’d better set a good example by retiring speedily to the crypt. I must say, Jonathan, you’ve picked the most tiresome time in the history of the world to embark on a spiritual crisis.’

      After the drill had unfolded in a tolerably well-ordered manner there was no time to resume our interview before Vespers and I found I was greatly relieved by the postponement. I was beginning to be alarmed for the future. If Francis’ preliminary talks could so effortlessly destroy my equilibrium, how would I fare when his inquiry became an inquisition? Fear and dread ravaged my psyche, and touring my room I put away all small objects in the chest of drawers. I was afraid that I might be on the brink of generating that activity popularly attributed to poltergeists, an activity caused by bursts of energy from a powerful but poorly disciplined psyche under stress; at such times this energy can move objects, often with considerable force, and if the psyche cannot control itself sufficiently much damage can occur. During my troubled early months in the Order, it had been the poltergeist activity, breaking out in the Grantchester community with alarming violence, which had driven Abbot James to seek help in bringing my disturbed psyche under control.

      Memories sprang to life in my mind; I saw myself as a forty-three-year-old postulant summoned to the Abbot’s office for an interrogation. I had