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Authors: Susan Howatch
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after death was nonsense. “I’ve heard it said,” I ventured cautiously, “that religion only came into being because people were so afraid of dying that they needed an excuse to believe life would go on afterwards.”
“Oh, that myth’s been disproved by modern scholarship! It turns out that religion was around for a long time before the concept of life after death evolved.”
I was so surprised that I exclaimed: “Thank goodness Aunt never knew that—she hated having to revise her opinions!”
“But as a woman of integrity wasn’t she interested in truth?”
“Yes, but she didn’t think truth had anything to do with religion.”
“We all have our religions,” said Nicholas. “We all have our ways of grappling with reality in order to make sense of our world. Anddidn’t you tell me that your Aunt’s religion was England—or rather, nineteenth-century English patriotism?”
I laughed before protesting: “But England’s real! You can touch it and measure it! Aunt didn’t believe in anything which couldn’t be touched and measured and verified scientifically.”
“And is patriotism something which can be weighed and measured and verified scientifically? And justice? And all those other qualities your aunt believed in so passionately?”
I couldn’t begin to imagine how Aunt would have replied to this, so I just said feebly: “But science is important!”
“It’s very important indeed. But it’s not the only window on reality.”
I suddenly realised he was parking, switching off the engine, and with a shock I saw we were back in Dean Danvers Street. Nicholas paused. He had turned to look at me. His right hand, still resting on the steering wheel, was perfectly still, the long fingers relaxed. His left hand was lying carelessly on his left thigh as he faced me, and the left thigh itself, shrouded with black cloth, was set at an angle which brought his knee within inches of mine. When I could no longer meet his eyes I stared down instead at the gap which separated us and knew it symbolised a gulf which could never be bridged no matter how kind to me he chose to be.
Casually he said: “Come and see me at St. Benet’s some time if you want me to help you find a more sympathetic doctor. I was disturbed to hear of your non-relationship with your GP.”
“Well, I don’t really need a doctor,” I said at once. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a diet won’t cure.”
“Okay, forget the doctor. But come and talk about food. Maybe you don’t need to diet at all.”
I was astounded. “How can you possibly say that?”
“Because you may only need to change your life-style.” He paused before adding: “Think it over. I’d like to help if I can.”
“But I couldn’t afford—”
“There’s no charge. We’re funded by a charitable foundation and private gifts.”
For one long moment the romantic dream consumed me and I dreamed of a future which guaranteed me regular visits to St. Benet’s. But then I remembered the unbridgeable gulf and knew I could go no further. I had to fight against being lured on by well-meaning kindness into a world where he would always be unattainable. Betterto be thankful for these few precious moments and then go on my way alone. I didn’t want to wind up as a pathetic groupie, hanging around St. Benet’s and becoming a nuisance, and I didn’t want to end up in a doctor-patient relationship with him either. I felt too strongly; I knew I could care too much. Either I met him as an equal in his own world or I didn’t meet him at all—and since the very notion of meeting him as an equal there was ridiculous I knew I had to wipe it from my mind straight away.
“It’s very kind of you to want to go on helping me,” I said politely, “and I’m very grateful, but I must stand on my own two feet now.” And in an attempt to divert us both from such a difficult subject I added lightly: “Does everyone at St. Benet’s behave as if even the most
“Oh, that myth’s been disproved by modern scholarship! It turns out that religion was around for a long time before the concept of life after death evolved.”
I was so surprised that I exclaimed: “Thank goodness Aunt never knew that—she hated having to revise her opinions!”
“But as a woman of integrity wasn’t she interested in truth?”
“Yes, but she didn’t think truth had anything to do with religion.”
“We all have our religions,” said Nicholas. “We all have our ways of grappling with reality in order to make sense of our world. Anddidn’t you tell me that your Aunt’s religion was England—or rather, nineteenth-century English patriotism?”
I laughed before protesting: “But England’s real! You can touch it and measure it! Aunt didn’t believe in anything which couldn’t be touched and measured and verified scientifically.”
“And is patriotism something which can be weighed and measured and verified scientifically? And justice? And all those other qualities your aunt believed in so passionately?”
I couldn’t begin to imagine how Aunt would have replied to this, so I just said feebly: “But science is important!”
“It’s very important indeed. But it’s not the only window on reality.”
I suddenly realised he was parking, switching off the engine, and with a shock I saw we were back in Dean Danvers Street. Nicholas paused. He had turned to look at me. His right hand, still resting on the steering wheel, was perfectly still, the long fingers relaxed. His left hand was lying carelessly on his left thigh as he faced me, and the left thigh itself, shrouded with black cloth, was set at an angle which brought his knee within inches of mine. When I could no longer meet his eyes I stared down instead at the gap which separated us and knew it symbolised a gulf which could never be bridged no matter how kind to me he chose to be.
Casually he said: “Come and see me at St. Benet’s some time if you want me to help you find a more sympathetic doctor. I was disturbed to hear of your non-relationship with your GP.”
“Well, I don’t really need a doctor,” I said at once. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a diet won’t cure.”
“Okay, forget the doctor. But come and talk about food. Maybe you don’t need to diet at all.”
I was astounded. “How can you possibly say that?”
“Because you may only need to change your life-style.” He paused before adding: “Think it over. I’d like to help if I can.”
“But I couldn’t afford—”
“There’s no charge. We’re funded by a charitable foundation and private gifts.”
For one long moment the romantic dream consumed me and I dreamed of a future which guaranteed me regular visits to St. Benet’s. But then I remembered the unbridgeable gulf and knew I could go no further. I had to fight against being lured on by well-meaning kindness into a world where he would always be unattainable. Betterto be thankful for these few precious moments and then go on my way alone. I didn’t want to wind up as a pathetic groupie, hanging around St. Benet’s and becoming a nuisance, and I didn’t want to end up in a doctor-patient relationship with him either. I felt too strongly; I knew I could care too much. Either I met him as an equal in his own world or I didn’t meet him at all—and since the very notion of meeting him as an equal there was ridiculous I knew I had to wipe it from my mind straight away.
“It’s very kind of you to want to go on helping me,” I said politely, “and I’m very grateful, but I must stand on my own two feet now.” And in an attempt to divert us both from such a difficult subject I added lightly: “Does everyone at St. Benet’s behave as if even the most
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