THE INNER VOICE

Lying in bed that night, awake and restless, I decided that, despite my husband's warning, it was essential I should give the analyst on his return an account of my Divine visitor. He would not like this, but since it seemed I was not fully understanding and absorbing what was being shown me, I must make every effort to be more aware. I went to sleep at once, to wake up in the morning refreshed and unable to recall my dreams; I would, I decided, give myself a short respite from recording any more.

The analyst had benefited from his holiday, and, after a few minutes' chat, asked for my material . . . While he read, I settled myself on the couch. His back was now towards me, and he could only have read a couple of pages or so when he flung them all down on his desk, swivelled his chair round, his whole being suffused with anger, then, collecting himself with an effort, said icily: "Let us begin!" Alarmed, I was unable to speak, but at last managed to stutter: "It's all there . . . in the . . . er . . . writing." But it came out as sounds rather than words, and after a long silence, I was told; "I shall read your material at my leisure. What I want now is your spoken account."

For what seemed an eternity I was silent, then at last stammered out, "I want to go home. Please may I go home? . . . I shall be all right tomorrow."

Once in the street, I burst into tears and decided to walk home in order to calm down. "If he's angry as that," I thought, "when he's only read a couple of pages, what's he going to be like when he's read the lot?"

Later, having gone to bed, I found myself muttering, "Divine Being, whoever you may be, help me, please! I'm confused and don't know what to do." I went to sleep at last, but awoke feeling I had received no answer to my cry for help and must get through the day as best I could.

Having arrived early instead of late, which was my usual bad habit, I was kept waiting quarter of an hour before being called into the consulting room. My "good morning" was unanswered, and before I could reach the couch, a chair was pushed towards me and a cold voice said: "Kindly sit down."

Seating himself directly in front of me and leaning forward, the analyst said: "I want you to give your whole attention to what I am going to say. You read too much. You fantasise too much. You also consider yourself a religious person — you are not! Your so-called religion is no more than compensation for an unhappy childhood. Now you've invented a Yes-man for yourself, and all this rubbish" — he waved a hand towards his desk — "has simply come out of your head. I refuse to go on with your analysis until you stop this nonsense."

Rising to my feet, I snapped: "You're saying I invented all this? That it all came out of my own head?"

"Yes. I do. Fantasies of a conceited and self-willed woman."

Flushing with anger, I retorted: "If that material came out of my own head, if I invented it myself, then I've no need to come to you."

"Insolent — as well as self-willed and conceited," was his retort as, rising to his feet, he pronounced: "There will be no session this morning, and no more sessions until you stop this time-wasting nonsense. Is that understood?"

Without answering, I snatched my coat and rushed out of the room. As a rule I travelled by bus, my 58-minute session ending in time for me to get home and prepare lunch, but today I was glad to walk all the way. My head was throbbing and I felt unwell. The moment I got home I rushed to the bathroom and was sick — "migraine", I muttered to myself.

My husband was sympathetic and refrained from saying "I told you so!" Somehow I managed to cook a meal and was glad to be tucked up in bed where I soon fell asleep. Around three o'clock Hugh tiptoed into the room to ask how I was feeling. "Stunned," I answered. "But the sleep has done me good. Are you going out?"

"To Kensington Library. Can I choose a book for you?"

"Yes," I said "but nothing serious. A sloppy novel, perhaps."

I was sitting up in bed drinking a cup of tea when Hugh got back, looking pleased with himself, and handed me a book, saying: "I've got the very thing you'll enjoy."

Glancing at its title, I read The Perfect Master by C. B. Purdom.

"But I particularly asked for nothing serious!" I objected, and threw the book angrily down on the floor. Books to Hugh were sacred, and he picked it up carefully and laid it on my bed. It had fallen open at a portrait and, as I leaned forward, I gave a gasp.

"What is it now?" Hugh asked anxiously, holding his head.

With an effort I managed to say calmly: "It's Him . . . my Divine Being . . . the Silent Messenger who instructed me without words."

Continued tomorrow...