The Healing (8 page)

From close by came the sound of someone sobbing. In the choir, men sat with their heads in their hands. There was no escape from the voice. It pursued him no matter where he tried to run.

‘Know, too, that this journey is a simple one. Through Christ's atoning death, God has dealt with sin and the simplicity of the journey makes it possible for everyone to partake. All you have to do is believe. Everyone can come – the poor and the rich, the learned and the ignorant, the young and the old. Praise God, there's no discrimination in heaven! But sometimes, I confess, friends, that I feel the very simplicity of God's free gift is beyond the comprehension of our perverse and wayward generation. Oh yes, if salvation was a matter of works, then I believe some people would feel happier. Can they not understand that the price has been paid in full? And how, indeed, shall we escape if we ignore such an offer of salvation? This journey is one that will satisfy your soul. There are many here tonight who could stand on this very spot and testify to that. It's a good and rich life, free from the taint of sin, free from condemnation, and it's yours,
yours for the asking. Oh, friend, could I put it any more simply? Come, taste the richness of God's mercy. Come, bring your heavy burdens and lay them down at the foot of the cross.

‘Think now of that woman we read about who touched Christ's garment. What made her touch different from all the rest was that she touched in faith. And the moment she did that, she was made well. That same power to cure is waiting here for you tonight. Whether it's from a terrible burden of sin, or some bodily affliction, it's here for all to experience. Don't put off this decision a moment longer. Sinner, hear the voice speaking to your heart. Don't delay, come in faith and ask for forgiveness. Whether you're in the autumn of your life, or even if you're in the seed time, now is the appointed time.'

He felt like a little bird trapped in the great dome of the tent, desperate to break into the safety of the sky. The words were the bars against which his wings beat frantically until they were bruised and broken.

‘Take this step tonight; move from death into life. Forget the people sitting next to you. Forget everything that would hinder and hold you back. Come and touch the hem of the garment. Come to Jesus. Come!'

He rang the bell. He had been right to wait until he heard the voice, right to resist the temptation to rush too quickly towards this moment. Everything had its appointed time and it was for him only to be ready for it. He had not rehearsed what he would say but would speak the words that were given to him. The bell had the same tone as his own, the door the same colour of leaded glass. He looked through a square into the blue world beyond. The door at the end of the hall was open and he could see into the kitchen. As the bell's sound faded away he stared through a red square and wondered if he should ring it again, but as he raised his hand he saw her coming down the hall, a hand smoothing back her hair. He stepped back off the doorstep and waited.

‘Mrs Anderson? My name is Henry Ellison. I live next door. I've come to welcome you and your son to the avenue.'

He stood, searching her eyes. She smiled at him.

‘That's very kind of you, Mr – Mr Ellison. Thank
you very much.'

He stood on, smiling back at her.

‘We've just about got ourselves organized. We seemed to be living out of tea chests for a while, but it's more or less sorted out now.'

He looked past her down the length of the hall. The boy was peering at him round the living-room door, a pale moon of a face, watching him with sharp, curious eyes. Their eyes met for a second and then the boy vanished into the living-room. He felt a wave of exultation break over him.

‘Well, thank you, Mr Ellison, for calling. It was very kind of you.'

He stood motionless, staring at where the boy had been.

‘Are you all right, Mr Ellison?'

A breeze moved the hall light.

‘Mr Ellison?'

He looked back at her. She was watching him with a puzzled expression. Her hand was on the door handle – she would close it soon.

‘I'd just like to offer, Mrs Anderson, my deepest sympathy for your loss and to say that if there's anything I can do to be of help, you only have to ask. I'm never far from the house and you only have to ask.'

She thanked him again and he could see that she was gently starting to close the door.

‘I was wondering, Mrs Anderson, if you'd let me tidy up your garden – you know, take it in hand for you. The house has been empty for so long that it's got into a bit of a state. I'm retired now, so I've plenty of time on my hands and I'd be more than glad to do it for you.'

She hesitated, but her hand had dropped from the door.

‘It's very kind of you to offer and your own garden certainly looks very well. I was just admiring it the other day. But it's a big job, bigger than I realized and I was thinking of getting someone in. It's very thoughtful of you to offer, but I couldn't impose on you like that.'

‘You wouldn't be imposing at all,' he insisted. ‘It'd be a pleasure. I like the garden, and I've the time to do it. I always feel closest to God's handiwork in a garden.'

‘Are you sure?' she asked.

‘I'm sure. It'd be no trouble at all. I'll start first thing in the morning.'

‘Only if you're sure you wouldn't be taking on too much.'

He shook his head, turned to go, then paused and looked once more into her eyes.

‘Maybe the boy would like to help me,' he said softly.

‘Samuel? Yes, maybe he would. I'll ask him. We'll see you, then, tomorrow, Mr Ellison, and thank you for calling.'

He closed the gate carefully, looking back at the coloured glass in the door, then glanced up at the bedroom to see the boy's face vanish behind a curtain, like the moon behind clouds.

In the morning, he put on his working clothes and boots, and went to the garage to gather his working tools. He opened the curtains, sat down on the wooden chair and laced the boots, tying the laces tightly and tucking the bottom of his trousers into his socks. His eyes flitted round the scattered contents, never resting anywhere for more than a second, then gradually, almost against his will,
they returned to the same heaped monument of rubbish. Nothing appeared to have changed, nothing appeared to have moved. He felt frightened to look too closely or go any nearer to it, frightened even to look at it for more than a moment. A spider scuttled across the floor and a rafter above his head gave a sudden creak as if stretched too tightly. He looked down at his boots. One of the knots was loose and he opened it and re-tied it, stood up and stamped his feet on the ground, sending little clouds of dust into the air, then lifted a spade and a hoe down from hooks, carried them outside and propped them against the garage wall. After cleaning the lawnmower with a wire brush he took it outside also. Then he reached over the hedge and set the tools down in the neighbouring garden. He lifted the lawnmower through one of the gaps in the hedge, its weight making him stumble a little.

As he stood looking up at the house, the woman came out of the back doorway, drying her hands on a towel. She smiled at him almost as if she was surprised that he had really come. He had to reassure her again that he was happy to do the work for her, but as he spoke his eyes searched the house for some sign of the boy. He could sense him close by, almost hear the beat of his heart, but he could find no trace of that pale face. The woman was talking to him, telling him things about the boy, but they faded out of his consciousness as his eyes flicked from window to window and back to the open door.

‘I understand,' he said. ‘Don't worry about anything. I understand about Samuel. I understand about the boy.'

She kept on drying her hands with the towel, turning them again and again inside its folds.

‘You said you're retired now, Mr Ellison.'

‘Yes, five years now. I used to be with the Council – Parks and Cemeteries. I suppose working in the garden is a way of keeping my hand in. Makes me feel useful, keeps me busy.'

‘It's very good of you to take on this jungle. I've spoken to Samuel and I think he'd like to help, but I let him do things in his own time. I see you're keen to start, so I'll let you get on with it. I'll put the kettle on in a little while and give you a shout.'

She turned and walked back to the house, carrying the towel in her hand like a cardigan. The house looked down at him, giving no clue as to the boy's whereabouts. He started to cut the grass, struggling a little because of the length of the grass and frequently having to empty the grass box. He dumped the cut grass on the other side of the fence at the bottom of the garden. Although he could not see the boy, he knew he was watching him. He worked steadily trying to keep his mind on the work in hand, but so many thoughts rolled round his head that he worked mechanically, no longer fully aware of what he was doing. Sometimes he forgot to empty the box and bits of grass spewed out of its sides and left a snail-trail behind him.

It grew warmer and he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, then once more carried the full box to the back fence and dropped it onto the growing pile. When he turned round the boy was standing beside the mower. His heart felt as though a hand had gripped it, but he smiled and forced himself to walk slowly towards the boy. When he reached him, he dropped the box to the
ground and rested his hand lightly on the boy's shoulder.

‘You've come. I knew you would. It's been a long wait, but you've finally come to help me.'

His heart melted into a stream of thanks and he felt a course of expectancy run through him. The boy held a handful of cut grass in his hand and it filtered slowly through his opening fingers. He wanted to gather the boy to him, but all he did was gently pat his shoulder.

‘The Lord has sent you to me, Samuel, to be my helper. There's so much work to be done but together we can see it through.'

The boy dropped the remainder of the grass, then moved away to where the rake leaned against the hedge and began to gather up the trail of grass cuttings. He smiled as he watched the boy. He was a good worker, this child who had been lent unto the Lord. Together they would achieve great things. With a feeling of lightness he went back to his own work and now each time the grass box was filled the boy would carry it for him and empty it behind the fence. They worked silently together, the steady rhythm keeping them close, and soon the last of the grass was cut. As they finished, the kitchen door opened and the boy's mother called them to come in for a cup of tea. He knocked his boots against the wall of the house, then scraped them on the rubber mat. The boy had already entered and was sitting on a stool, sipping a glass of orange juice.

‘There you are,' she said, as she poured his tea then handed him a plate with biscuits and some home-baked buns. ‘You made short work of that lawn – I hope it didn't take too much out of you. I hope this boy did his share.'

‘Samuel worked hard. He's a good worker. But we've still got the hedges to clip and then we'll have to think about doing something with the borders.'

‘That's a lot of work you're taking on. Take your time – there's no rush to get it done. I'm just very grateful. I don't think we could have managed it on our own.'

The boy watched him over the rim of his glass.

‘It doesn't take much for a garden to get out of control, but when it does it's not easy to put right. Nothing grows faster than weeds. You just turn your back for a couple of minutes and there's an army of weeds choking the life out of everything. A garden's something you have to keep on top of all the time.'

He sipped his tea and watched the boy drain his glass. He looked younger than his twelve years. It suddenly struck him how strange it was that God had chosen an old man such as himself, and a young boy to be the servants of His will. Yet, did it not say that God had chosen the weak and lowly things of this world to confound the mighty, and when God spoke to man, did He not spurn the flames and the great wind, choosing to speak in a still, small voice? That same still, small voice would soon speak to all men's hearts, breathe life into the dead clay of their souls. Soon.

‘I suppose we'll have to wait until the autumn, Mr Ellison, before we plant anything.'

‘Aye, that's right, but when we get some of the borders cleaned up, we'll transfer some bedding plants from my place. It's a bit late in the day but it'll give you a bit of colour for the rest of the summer.'

‘You'll have to let me pay you something for your trouble.'

‘I couldn't accept any money, Mrs Anderson. Seeing plants take and grow is payment enough and it's in a garden full of flowers that God reveals a little of His being, for Solomon in all his glory wasn't arrayed in such beauty as the lilies of the field.'

‘You know your Bible, Mr Ellison.'

He nodded his head and looked at the boy holding his empty glass tightly as if it were a chalice.

‘And you took the boy's name from the Bible. “She called his name Samuel, saying Because I have asked him of the Lord.” Asked of the Lord and then lent unto Him to do His work.'

‘Samuel was the first name me and his father agreed on. We didn't even bother with a middle name,' she said, ruffling the boy's hair. ‘Do you have any children, Mr Ellison?'

‘I have a son.'

He took a final sip from his tea, then stood up.

‘I'd better be getting back to it. Thank you for the tea.'

As he walked down the garden he could feel the boy following him. A son. He almost felt now that this boy was his son. In many ways he was closer, more real than his own. The boy was a sacred trust, a gift that he would let no one take away from him or harm. Apart they were weak – straws scattered in the wind – but together they would be strong enough to carry out what had been ordained. The boy spoke to him all the time, strengthening his resolve, driving away the sinful doubts which lingered in the back of his mind, and helping him to understand the great mystery more clearly. The boy's presence made him feel complete, carried him
closer to that moment when healing would pour down upon a people riven by sickness, like water gushing from a rock. In that moment, all the dark corners of himself would be transfigured by God's light and all the secret, barren parts of his life would turn green and bud with new life. His soul sang with the memory of miracles – water into wine, withered arms healed, sight to the blind – until they flowed and blurred into one joyous dance of the miraculous. And in his heart burnt a bright flame of love, love for the sick and the lost, those dying without faith or hope. He counted the hours and days until God would finally reveal His plan and the healing would begin.