Susan Howatch - Glamorous Powers

Eventually he motioned me to sit down. Then he said abruptly: ‘Now listen to me. There are two things I want to make clear. Number one: I’m convinced this vision of yours had a trigger. And number two: the existence of a trigger doesn’t necessarily imply the vision didn’t come from God.’

I assumed what I hoped was my politest expression and said nothing.

‘You believe,’ pursued Francis, ‘that in order to prove this vision’s from God you must maintain that it has no connection with anything which was going on in your life at the time. However I’m now certain that this approach is erroneous.’

Still I said nothing, but I was aware that my polite expression was becoming strained.

‘I’m not denying that God’s capable of sending people visions out of the blue,’ resumed Francis, ploughing on purposefully. ‘All I’m saying is that I don’t think this is likely in your case, and I say that because, as you reminded me yesterday, your call to the cloister was so strong. I think God would have had to prepare the ground before he gave the blast on the trumpet; otherwise you would have been either deaf to the blast or convinced you were mistaken. So from the point of view of discernment the crucial question becomes: what was the vision’s final trigger? I think that once we can answer that question we’ll be a lot closer to solving this mystery.’

By this time I had given up trying to look polite and was concentrating on achieving a meek expression.

‘Jonathan, I find it unnerving when you give a bravura performance of the model monk. Could you please stop acting and venture a comment which isn’t entirely lacking in honesty?’

‘I find your opinions very interesting, Father, but I can’t help wondering if you might be mistaken. If a final trigger had existed I’m sure I’d be able to identify it.’

‘How typical!’ said Francis in disgust. ‘You think you can do anything, don’t you – even read your subconscious mind! It never occurs to you in your arrogance that your subconscious mind may be beyond the reach not only of your intellectual powers but of your tiresome psychic powers as well!’

‘Well, of course I’m as capable as anyone else of suppressing a truth I’ve no wish to face, but all I’m saying is –’

‘All you’re saying is that you intend to be as arrogant and obstinate as ever! Very well, let me now ask you the question I would have asked yesterday if you hadn’t driven me into losing my temper: during your month of reflection at Grantchester did you receive any further enlightenment on the subject of what this call’s all about?’

‘No. But I’m convinced that if I leave the Order I’ll be led to the chapel, and once I get there –’

‘Stop!’ Francis held up his hand. Then he said incredulously: ‘Can I possibly have misheard you? Is it conceivable that you seriously believe you’ll be led to this place? You imagine a latter-day Star of Bethlehem will be hanging over the chapel, perhaps, to guide you on your way?’

‘No, Father. All I’m saying is –’

‘That’s enough! Be quiet!’

Silence. I folded my hands together and waited.

‘I can see it’s a complete waste of time talking to you at the moment,’ said Francis. ‘I’m beginning to think old age has softened your brain. Go to the workshop and ask them if they can let you have some wood to play with. When people are mentally disturbed they’re often encouraged to work with their hands.’

‘Yes, Father.’ I did succeed in making a dignified retreat but I could not help thinking as I left the room that this time Francis had fared far better in the interview than I had.

In the workshop where four monks made church furniture I introduced myself to Edward the master-carpenter, and informed him that I had been ordered to work with wood. He looked incredulous. Manual labour is encouraged at all levels of the Order and I did my share of gardening alongside my brethren at Grantchester, but nonetheless an abbot is hardly expected to seek work as an artisan.

‘I was trained by Alfred at Ruydale,’ I said.

Edward became deferential. ‘What would you like to do, Father?’

I did not answer the question directly but said: ‘Is it too much to hope that you’ve got some seasoned oak to spare?’

He had the oak. It seemed like a sign. With the wood in my arms I moved in exhilaration to the work-bench and embarked on my first carpentry assignment for ten years.

‘I hear you’re making a cross,’ said Francis the next day. ‘Amusing for you. How long will it take?’

‘Longer than it should. I’m out of practice.’

‘What’s so difficult about making a cross?’ said Francis, deliberately provocative. ‘Can’t you just bang a couple of bits of wood together?’

‘No, Father. I have some very beautiful oak and I want to make the cross out of that one piece, taking every chance to display the grain of the wood to its best advantage.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s all very soothing for your equilibrium-maybe I should take up carpentry myself. I’ve got a novice hearing voices, a visiting bishop who’s in a muddle about pacifism, four young shirkers who swear they’re called to be monks, Harrods trying to sell me something called a radiogram instead of a modest wireless, twenty unanswered letters requesting advice on topics ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous – oh, and I nearly forgot! An abbot whose psychic powers are running riot! When you return to your cell, Jonathan, go down on your knees and thank God you were spared the ordeal of being Abbot-General.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Very well, go away, I’m too busy to bother with you at the moment. I’ll send for you in a day or two.’

Exerting an iron will to control my temper I retired once more to the workshop.

‘I hear you’ve finished the cross, Jonathan. Of course it’s a replica of the cross you saw in your vision, so I suppose all you now have to do is build the chapel, isn’t it? Then I can shine a torch through the north window and you can claim a miracle.’

‘That’s right, Father. But before I build the chapel I was hoping we could resume our talks.’

‘Getting impatient? Patience is in many ways the most difficult of all virtues, Jonathan, and one which I feel it would pay you to cultivate.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Perhaps you might have another vision while you wait. It would pass the time.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Jonathan, doesn’t it occur to you that this humourless docility is the height of veiled insolence? I detest it – the least you could do to placate me would be to smile at my witty remarks!’

‘What witty remarks, Father?’

‘Very funny. All right, get out. The Lord Abbot-General is quite definitely not amused.’

‘Curiosity stirred in my mind this morning, Jonathan, and it occurred to me to wonder what you’ve been doing since we last met four days ago. Any more enthralling psychic dramas?’

‘No, Father. I’ve been helping Edward to make an altar-table.’

‘Maybe I can solve your entire problem by ordering you to remain here as a carpenter. Obviously the strain of being an abbot sent you off your head.’

‘Naturally I shall obey any order you care to give me, Father.’

Francis made a noise which sounded like ‘Arrrgh!’ and slumped back in his chair. ‘Very well, Jonathan, let’s have a truce. Sit down.’

Once more we sat facing each other across his desk. I was beginning to feel tense again although the relaxation provided by the carpentry had strengthened me mentally, just as Francis had no doubt intended; a nervous collapse would only have made the task of discernment more protracted. Perhaps he had also intended to strengthen me mentally by severing me from the outside world; I had received no invitation to ‘listen in’ to the wireless which had finally been acquired to give him immediate news of the continuing crisis, and I had been granted no access to The Times. However fortunately for my sanity the monastic grapevine was active. The postman and the milkman were clay in the hands of the doorkeeper, who with impressive journalistic skill jotted down a few pertinent sentences and delivered the scrap to the kitchens. It usually reached the workshop shortly before the office at noon.