Finally she says: ‘What heroes.’
I say: ‘Yes, I was wondering why my mother never thought of it.’
Good Thick Foil-Wrapped Chocolate
The first faith-healer I try operates from a semi-basement flat off the Fulham Road. She is not a big name. I go to this woman because the MD, Johnson, and his wife have been enthusing about her for months. Margaret, the wife, in her early fifties, is intelligent, upper-class, well-educated; a sceptical type I would have thought. For more than fifteen years she has suffered intermittently from severe back pains which sometimes make it impossible for her even to stand up. After innumerable medical examinations, tests, X-rays, scans, drugs, massage, acupuncture and even an exploratory operation, she was finally persuaded by a friend to try Miss Whittaker. In just three ‘sessions’ she was healed. She hasn’t had the pain for months. So what did Miss Whittaker actually do? Nothing more than lay her hands on Margaret Johnson in a darkened room.
Normally of course I would take this kind of story with the very large pinch of salt it probably deserves. Menopausal women are famous for their psychosomatic problems. I’ve always given faith-healing about the same credibility rating as flying saucers and abominable snowmen. Things we’d like to believe in, good newspaper fodder. But at a price of £12.50 a session it is surely worth a whirl.
At the back of all my calculation there is always that faint, that constantly suppressed but in the end indomitable craving for a miracle, that residual part of me which is still a little boy kneeling in a cold church clutching at a thread of faith. Surely this is normal. The fact is I have made a sort of promise that I will become religious, Christian even, if a miracle occurs. ‘Master, we would see a sign from thee,’ I remember the verse from Sunday school. Who was it? The Pharisees? And what could be fairer? People have been doing these deals for centuries. If He wants my soul (if I have a soul), let Him show me a sign.
So I casually mention to Neil, the MD, who any day now will be inviting me to be a director (I have seen an exchange of memo’s between himself and one of the non-executive partners), that my mother also has a back problem. (I have never told anyone at work that I have a handicapped child. Somehow I know it would be unwise.)
Having thus wangled address and phone number, I then have to persuade the fabled Miss Whittaker to give me an appointment on Saturday afternoon. Soft-spoken, the woman has the irritating habit of leaving long pauses on the telephone. She doesn’t usually ‘receive’ on Saturday. She goes to see her mother in Richmond. I offer to pay double and to drive her on to Richmond afterwards if that would help. Politely, she says she is not interested in money. Then I remember that what I must say with this kind of person is, ‘please’. ‘Please, Miss Whittaker, please, I’m desperate, and I really can’t come any other day.’ The appointment is arranged.
Now it’s merely a question of getting Shirley to let me have Hilary for the afternoon. Because I don’t want Shirley to know. Lourdes is one thing, huge, institutional, traditional, respectable. Everybody tries Lourdes. You’d be amazed how many common-or-garden, middle-class protestants have been there with their chronic arthritis, low sperm counts, dyslexic children and miscellaneous cancers. Lourdes is respectable. But a faith-healer off the Fulham Road is something else altogether. The trouble being that the more I try to solve the problem, to save Hilary rather than just leave be, the more bizarre the gestures I make, so the closer Shirley believes I’m getting to doing something drastic.
A certain macabre suspicion has crept into our relationship. She keeps her eye on me.
‘I just thought I’d take her off your back for an afternoon. Give you a chance to relax.’
Shirley is indeed worn out. Who wouldn’t be? It’s been a week of ear infection again. Hilary can’t take regular antibiotics because of the additives they have. She is likewise allergic to the solution most drops come in.
‘Of course if you don’t want me to get close to my daughter. .’
She concedes.
And as I prepare Hilary for the trip I sense again how right I am to insist on finding some kind of solution that will truly be a solution, on not accepting this miserable situation as permanent. For just getting a coat and hat on the girl is a hopeless, wearing, heartbreaking task. Her arms won’t go in the holes. The elbows don’t bend properly. She wriggles and moans, arching her little body fiercely, unnaturally, backwards, eyeballs rolling away so that the iris is almost gone.
I try so hard to be gentle. I force a hand into a sleeve. Then she scratches herself quite badly behind an ear. There’s blood.
Shirley says I haven’t the knack.
I say the girl’s nails shouldn’t be allowed to get so long. Briefly I reflect on the quite endless occasions for discord.
I carry her down the back steps to the garage tossed over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She has no muscle-tone. She can’t cling to me like a normal child would. But sensing, from the changes in sound, smell and light, that we must be going out, she begins to gurgle happily. Then cries again as we go through the business of getting her into the car and into some kind of acceptable position on the car seat where I can strap her in. Leaving her crying, I hurry back to the house for nappies, creams, her special two-ton pushchair.
I tell Shirley I’m taking her to hear the band in St James’s Park. It’s a pleasant spring afternoon. Open air and music are two of the few things she is capable of enjoying, aren’t they? Shirley is touched now and embraces me. We would both like not to argue, to be close. ‘George,’ she mutters. ‘Thanks, really.’
In the car when I look in the mirror, my daughter’s head is lolling heavily to one side, a beatific smile on her face which gradually smooths out into sleep. At least I get the fun of the drive.
I suppose I’m expecting somebody thin, drawn, spiritual, mysterious, perhaps dressed in black. I have in mind a medium I saw on some up-market TV drama with dull, glazed, at once unseeing and all-seeing eyes. A make-up job probably. Instead, having humped the sleeping Hilary down a flight of cement steps and negotiated my way past a line of bins and assorted pots with geranium cuttings, I am greeted by a woman who surprises me by her likeness to my mother when she was younger. It is the florid, matronly wholesomeness of the round middle-aged face that strikes me, the clear, kind eyes.
‘You must be Mr Crawley. Do come in. Is this your little daughter?’
Miss Whittaker’s dumpy body is dressed cheaply and sensibly in patterned skirt and synthetic pink sweater. I am disappointed. Far from a mysterious place of healing, her flat might be any of the more middle-class variety one sees when visiting colleagues from work: stuffy, cleanly-kept, unexciting. Photographs of relatives and so on. Though plentiful flowers do give a sense of repose.
‘Mrs Johnson told me about you.’
She wrinkles her forehead and frowns: ‘Mrs Johnson? I’ve got a head like a sieve I’m afraid.’
‘She had a bad back and. .’
‘Oh, yes, right. It’s better now of course.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I am glad. And what can I do for you?’
Catching a faint twinkle in her clear eyes I realise that she is aware of, and rather amused by, my sense of disappointment. She is intelligent.