Читать книгу Glamorous Powers - Susan Howatch - Страница 23

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?’

‘Very good health,’ I said, and at once wondered if I sounded too firm. Psychics are sensitive on the subject and never more so than when their powers are being critically examined.

Ambrose asked a number of mundane questions about my bowels, bladder, heart, eyes and teeth before enquiring if I were prone to suffer from headaches. Immediately I knew he was toying with the idea of a brain tumour.

‘I never have headaches,’ I said.

‘Never?’ said Ambrose mildly.

Realizing that I was sounding thoroughly implausible I changed course and admitted to the occasional headache.

‘Have you ever suffered from epilepsy?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Ambrose, very soothing. ‘But I’m sure you understand that the question has to be asked. I must say, it certainly sounds as if you’re unusually fit for a man of your age – and what age would that be exactly, Father, if you’ll forgive my asking?’

I was caught unprepared. To my surprise I found the question annoyed me, and my surprise was followed by an emotion which I can only describe as a rebellious embarrassment. I said abruptly: ‘One’s as old as one feels and I feel no more than forty-five.’

When Ambrose looked astonished I saw the stupidity of my evasion and regretted it. Flatly I said: ‘I’ve just had my sixtieth birthday.’

‘Congratulations! I trust the milestone didn’t go unmarked?’

‘No, my daughter wrote and my grandchildren sent cards.’

‘What about your son?’ said Ambrose, and at once I knew he had been briefed to make an inquiry about Martin.

‘He came to see me.’

‘How nice!’ Ambrose began to take my blood pressure. ‘What’s he doing nowadays? I suppose he’s too old to be called up.’ At that time compulsory enlistment only encompassed men up to the age of twenty-seven.

‘No doubt he’ll eventually be assigned to some non-combatant task. He’s a pacifist.’

‘I admire these young men for having the courage of their convictions,’ said Ambrose generously. I knew his favourite nephew was in the Air Force. ‘What terrible times we live in! I feel I know now exactly how St Augustine felt when he witnessed the civilized world collapsing and saw the barbarians at the gates of his city. Indeed sometimes,’ said Ambrose, listening to my chest with his stethoscope, ‘no matter how deep one’s faith it’s impossible not to feel depressed.’

We had reached the subject of depression. After Ambrose had completed his tour with the stethoscope, peered down my throat and congratulated me on having kept all my teeth, I said firmly: ‘Before you ask the question you’ve already framed in your mind, may I assure you that I’m not in the least depressed?’

Ambrose gave me a quizzical look. ‘I was actually going to ask if you’d been aware of overworking lately.’

I opened my mouth to say no but instead forced myself to admit: ‘Perhaps.’

‘Overwork can lead to exhaustion and then depression becomes a danger, even with people who aren’t normally depressed. Any trouble getting to sleep?’

‘Not usually.’

‘And getting up? I was wondering if, when this vision began, you were lying in bed and wishing you could stay there all day.’

After a pause I said: ‘I wasn’t lying in bed when the vision began. I was sitting on the edge.’

‘Ah. And what exactly happened? I’m not asking for details of the vision, I hasten to add, but merely for a description of the signs which preceded it.’

‘My visual perceptions altered. Colours became very bright.’

‘Did you at any time lose consciousness?’ said Ambrose, still surreptitiously clinging to the notion of epilepsy.

‘No. My visions are always one continuous experience, the abnormal consciousness flowing directly out of the normal consciousness and back again.’

‘Is it at any time an out-of-the-body experience?’

‘Yes, in the transitional period between the normal and the abnormal I can look down on my body from above.’

‘Well, that’s all very orthodox for a psychic, I suppose,’ said Ambrose, compensating for his obsession with epilepsy by accepting my descriptions calmly. ‘When did you start having these experiences?’

‘I’ve always been psychic in the sense of being able to receive flashes of foreknowledge. But the psychic energy required to generate the visions didn’t develop until I was fourteen.’

‘The age of puberty? By the way, that reminds me – I’d better examine you for possible prostate trouble.’

We had reached the subject of sex. I kept quiet and waited.

‘No sign of disease,’ said Ambrose presently. ‘Good. But I wonder if you have any more mundane problems in that area? For instance I had a man in here the other day who was plagued by early-morning erections. Of course nothing could be more common than an early-morning erection, but this man suffered such discomfort that he found he could only obtain relief by masturbating, and as he was a priest this put him in a difficult spiritual position.’

‘Self-abuse hardly results in an easy spiritual position for a layman either, Ambrose.’

We both laughed.

‘Of course a lot of monks would give their back teeth to have such problems,’ remarked Ambrose, washing his hands. ‘It’s curious, isn’t it, how a man likes his equipment to be in working order even though he’s taken a vow not to use it? I find that psychologically interesting.’

I made no comment.

‘I’m told that this vision of yours was accompanied by certain sexual manifestations,’ said Ambrose, forced by my silence to abandon his discreet approach. ‘I presume this means you had an erection.’

By this time I was getting dressed. Buckling the belt of my habit I said: ‘It’s unhelpful, Ambrose, to press the connection between the sexual force in the body and the psychic force in the mind. There may indeed be some sort of link, but exactly what that link is can only be a matter of speculation and in my opinion any sexual manifestations which occur are essentially irrelevant.’

‘They’re not indicative of sexual frustration?’

‘One of my most striking visions,’ I said, ‘occurred during my marriage when I was regularly enjoying my marital rights.’

‘Then I’d certainly agree sexual frustration couldn’t have been involved on that occasion, but what about this present incident? Has celibacy been uncomfortable for you lately?’

‘Certainly not, and personally I’d have taken a very sceptical view of that monk who could only solve his physical problem by masturbating! I hope you had the good sense to tell him to apply cold water more liberally and work harder.’

‘So with regard to your present vision –’

‘It had nothing to do with sex, Ambrose.’

‘But nevertheless it was accompanied by –’

‘Why are you laying such stress on this trivial physical phenomenon? Sexuality should be accepted without fuss, not turned into an object of morbid speculation!’

‘Yes, Father. Did you ejaculate?’

‘Ambrose, I know you’re asking these ridiculous questions with the best will in the world, but I really think –’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you –’

‘I’m not upset!’

‘– but I’m merely anxious to get everything quite clear in my mind. Now, if these sexual manifestations are irrelevant, am I right in thinking that the visions have nothing to do with any event, sexual or otherwise, which may be taking place in your life at the time?’

I willed myself to be calm and recalled my duty to be honest. ‘No, that’s not right,’ I said with reluctance. ‘There’s usually an event which seems to act as a trigger.’ I hesitated before adding: ‘In 1937 I had a vision about a young priest whom I’d just helped through a grave spiritual crisis. It seemed clear afterwards that this crisis, which had absorbed me deeply, had acted as a stimulant, triggering this psychic glimpse of one of his possible futures.’

‘And may I ask if you’ve identified the trigger of this latest vision?’

I said flatly: ‘There was no trigger. The vision came from God.’

We sat in silence for a moment. I sensed that Ambrose was anxious to signal not only his respect for me but his reverence for any gift from God, and because I was aware of his sympathy I managed to control my anger when he eventually asked: ‘Have you felt persecuted lately?’

‘No. And I haven’t been hearing voices either. I’m not a paranoid schizophrenic’

‘The most difficult patients, as any doctor will tell you,’ said Ambrose, smiling at me, ‘are always the ones who like to run their own interviews and dictate the results to their unfortunate physicians.’ He stood up before adding: ‘However I have to admit that in my opinion you’re physically very fit for a man of sixty, and I’m not surprised you feel no older than forty-five.’

At last I was able to relax. ‘Thank you, Ambrose!’ I said, smiling back at him, but after I had left the infirmary I realized he had ventured no opinion on my mental health at all.