‘I don’t see how healing could do that,’ said Rob. ‘Mixing therapies is not like mixing medications. No, if you think you can help her – and Hester herself doesn’t object – you have my permission to use your healing powers on her.’
‘I’ll see how she feels about it … if the moment comes up. But thank you.’
‘And I wish you good luck.’
‘Oh?’
‘The psychiatrist who’s working with Hester is finding it hard work. Not that she doesn’t cooperate. She’s very polite, very accommodating, but there’s a whole lot of stuff she’s holding in, things she won’t talk about.’
‘But she’s not pretending there’s nothing wrong with her?’
‘No, she recognizes there’s something wrong. She seems almost relieved to be here. But in terms of getting her better … Well, until she opens up a bit about what’s really traumatized her, it’s uphill work.’
‘I’ll see if I can get her talking, though I’m really just here as a friend, not in any professional capacity.’
‘I understand that. Anyway, let me know how you get on with her. Drop in here when you’re leaving.’
‘Of course.’
‘There have been quite a few cases in the past where I’ve thought healing might have some effect.’ Rob focused his blue eyes on her. ‘I wonder, Jude, would you mind my contacting you if something similar were to come up in the future?’
‘I’d certainly be up for having a go. Can’t guarantee results, I’m afraid. You never can with healing.’
‘You never can with a lot of traditional medicine,’ said Rob, smiling.
Hester Winstone’s room was at the back of Casements, with latticework windows looking up towards the gentle undulations of the South Downs. It was comfortably furnished, more like an upmarket hotel room than anything to do with a hospital.
And the manner of Hester’s greeting to Jude was more suited to a hotel guest than a patient. She was smartly dressed in a tartan skirt and pink cashmere jumper. Her red hair was neatly gathered at the back in a black slide and she was wearing more make-up than she had when attending SADOS rehearsals.
Belle had gone ahead to check that Hester felt up to the visit, and the patient was prepared for Jude’s appearance. Which meant that she must have agreed to their meeting. Her behaviour was that of a well-brought-up hostess, offering her visitor tea or coffee. ‘The staff are very good at catering for our every need.’
Jude opted for tea, thinking that having a drink might extend the length of her stay. There were a great many things she wanted to ask, but she recognized that she had to be gentle and circumspect in her approach. Beneath Hester’s brittle politeness, Jude knew there was a lot of pain, and she did not want to be responsible for aggravating that pain. Given Mike Winstone’s unwillingness to have anything potentially unpleasant in his life, having his wife hospitalized (even if it was covered up by the bland lie about ‘staying with a friend’) must have meant there was something seriously wrong with her.
But in their first few exchanges the woman’s mask of middle-class gentility did not crack at all. The only discordant sign was a slight detachment in her manner. Her eyes were not glazed, but they looked distant. She behaved like some skilfully constructed and very correct automaton. Jude presumed this was the effect of her medication.
Their polite surface conversation had almost run out before the welcome interruption of a neatly uniformed woman with tea and biscuits. Hester’s expert hostess manner seemed to welcome the rituals of pouring and passing the cup.
Having taken a sip of tea and a bite of biscuit, Jude felt she could risk moving the conversation away from pleasantries. ‘All’s going well with The Devil’s Disciple,’ she said. ‘If they knew I was seeing you today, I’m sure lots of the company would have sent good wishes.’
‘That’s very nice of them.’ Since no actual good wishes had been sent, this comment sounded slightly incongruous.
‘And Carole has taken over the job of prompter.’
‘Carole?’ Hester repeated vaguely.
‘My friend Carole. Do you remember? She was with me when we met in the car park. You know, after you’d …’
‘Yes.’ Hester Winstone’s face clouded. Perhaps she didn’t want to be reminded of her ‘cry for help’. ‘I’m glad to hear all’s going well,’ she said with an attempt at insouciance.
‘Though Olly Pinto’s still having a bit of a problem with the lines …’ Jude went on. No reaction. ‘… Having had to take over at such short notice …’ Still nothing. ‘… From Ritchie Good.’
The name did produce a flicker in Hester Winstone’s eyes. Quickly followed by a welling up of tears. Sobs were soon shuddering through her body.
Instantly Jude was up and cuddling the woman to her capacious bosom. ‘Just lie down on the bed,’ she said. Mutely, Hester obeyed. Jude ran her hands up and down the contours of the body, not quite touching, as she concentrated her energy. The sobs subsided.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Hester drowsily.
‘It’s a kind of healing technique,’ said Jude.
She continued in silence for about twenty minutes, focusing where she felt the greatest tension, on the shoulders and the lower back. During that time Hester dropped into a half-doze, from which she emerged as Jude drew her hands away and collapsed, drained, into her chair.
‘God, that feels better,’ said Hester. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘I honestly don’t know. It’s just something I found I could do.’ Jude looked into her client’s hazel eyes. ‘How’re you feeling now?’
‘As I said, better.’
‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’
‘Like what?’
‘What’s been bugging you. What’s got you into this state.’
‘Hm.’ There was a long silence. Then, slowly, Hester Winstone began, ‘It was Ritchie … seeing Ritchie, that’s what pushed me over the edge.’
‘But what brought you up to the edge – that had been building for some time, hadn’t it?’
Hester nodded. ‘Most of my life, I sometimes think.’ Jude offered no prompt, just let the woman take her own time. ‘I think I’ve always had this sense of inadequacy. This feeling that when it came to the test – any kind of test – I’d be found wanting. And whereas I thought I’d grow out of it, in fact, as I’ve got older, it’s got worse.’
‘Was there anything particular that made it get worse – I mean, apart from what’s happened the last few weeks?’
‘I suppose when my father died, that hit me quite hard.’
‘You were very close to him?’
Hester nodded. ‘Yes. He probably spoiled me, actually. But he always, kind of, appreciated things I did. I was never particularly brilliant at anything – exams, sport, I was just kind of average. But Daddy seemed quite happy with that. He didn’t want me to achieve more – or if he did I was never aware of him putting any pressure on me. So I, kind of, felt secure when Daddy was around.’
‘How old were you when he died?’
‘Nineteen. In my second year at catering college. My mother was disappointed – she said I ought to have gone to a proper university, but Daddy told me catering college was fine. I’ve always liked cooking and …’ For a moment some memory clouded her focus.
‘And then your father died …’ Jude prompted gently.
‘Yes, it was very sudden. I had a very bad time then. I couldn’t finish my course, I dropped out.’
‘Was it some kind of breakdown?’
‘I suppose, in retrospect, that’s what it was.’
‘Did you have any treatment then?’
‘No. Perhaps I should have done. I went back home and lived with my mother. And that wasn’t good. Because she was in a pretty bad place too, and … It was almost as if she was jealous of me.’