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’ letterhe 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
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’ letterhe 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
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