Ordinary Miracles (32 page)

‘Just make it a bit tidier,’ I tell a girl who looks younger than Katie. ‘Just trim it a bit, or something.’

‘Going out somewhere tonight?’ she asks.

‘No I’m not. Are you?’

‘No,’ she replies, and then she stops talking.

As soon as I get home the phone starts ringing. It’s Bruce. He’s driving from the airport. He’s on a mobile phone. I ask him if he’s eaten but then the phone crackles and he shouts, ‘Jasmine – I can’t hear you. The line’s almost gone – we’re breaking up.’

‘Yes we certainly are,’ I say. And put down the receiver.

Chapter
21

I’m in Ibiza. It’s
May and the weather is perfect – not too
warm and not too cold. Susan is with me. We’re taking part
in an ‘alternative holiday’.

I wanted Katie to come with us but she said she didn’t
want to ‘cramp my style’.

‘You’re not supposed to cramp my style. I’m supposed to
cramp yours,’ I told her. She just laughed.

Katie’s become more secretive recently. I keep trying to find out if she’s got a boyfriend, but she keeps steering the
conversation onto homeless dogs. Along with her studies
she’s doing some voluntary work for a dog’s home. Last time
I visited her in Galway she brought me there and introduced me to her many boisterous charges. These included a sweet quartet of mongrels she’d called Marmaduke, Mandy, Patch
and Pearl. When I asked her about them the other day she
said they’d all been put down.

‘That’s awful, Katie. I’m so sorry to hear it,’ I said.

‘Nobody wanted them,’ she replied grittily. ‘We did our
best. We found homes for some of the others.’

‘That’s good, darling,’ I said, ‘but you must be feeling sad
all the same.’

‘I dunno. I don’t seem to have time to think about it.’

‘It may be helpful to think about it a bit, dear,’ I ventured.
‘Not too much. Just a little. It’s best not to pretend nothing’s
happened. I’ve done that a lot at different times — but it does
catch up with you in the end. And then it feels like it’s all
happened at once.’

She didn’t say anything and I began to fear I’d handed
down my tendency towards denial. She’d berate me for it one
day, I felt sure. She’d remind me of when my grandmother
died. She was five at the time and wanted to know where
her great-grandma had gone. I didn’t know what to say. My
numb response to this spiritual dilemma was two Yorkie bars
and a visit to the wax museum.

But thankfully Katie didn’t bring up that particular mater
nal
faux pas
there and then.

‘Have you seen Dad’s flat?’ she asked.

‘No. But it’s just down the road. He sometimes pops by actually. It all feels rather strange.’

‘Do they know yet?’ Her voice sounded tight. Restrained.

‘Know what?’

‘Whether Dad is the father of Cait Carmody’s baby?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Not yet. They’ll probably do a blood test when he’s older. He’s too young for them to do it now.’

‘Have you seen him – the baby?’

‘No.’

‘Has Dad?’

‘I don’t know. You’d better ask him.’

‘I’d like to see him if – if it turns out he’s my half-brother.’

‘Of course you will darling.’ And then I added fiercely, ‘I’ll
make sure you do.’

As soon as I put down the receiver I felt guilty. I’m very
good at that. I could run evening classes on the subject.
Katie’s upset. I wish I could tell her I was just fibbing. That Bruce and I are back together – that the nasty bits were all a
kind of dream. They got away with that in
Dallas
sometimes. Just like they got away with making people believe that a hugely rich extended family all chose to live together, despite the endless rows at breakfast. I feel a keener sympathy for Sue Ellen these days. I understand more fully her quivering lower lip.

It’s probably just as well Katie didn’t come with Susan and me on this alternative holiday. Another woman has brought her teenage daughter with her and the girl keeps sneering at the earnestness of the place. I find myself sneering a bit myself, actually. I seem to have grown rather cynical recently. I wish I hadn’t. It’s not much fun.

They run a number of workshops here, so even though we’re on holiday we are, in fact, quite busy. I’m doing windsurfing and ‘The Inner Dance – An Exploration’. Susan is doing massage and ‘Loving and Letting Go – Finding the Harmony Within’.

Everyone here seems very nice so far, though of course that may be because they feel they have to be. Most of the conversations tend to become rather meaningful. If, for example, you remark on the luxuriance of the geraniums you will probably end up hearing about someone’s search for inner peace. This is our first week here and I must admit peace is something I’m beginning to yearn for myself. There are piles of people here in Holo – that’s the name of this place. The brochure explains that ‘holo’ in ancient Greek denotes ‘whole’. Everyone here says ‘holo’ by way of greeting. It wears a bit thin after a while.

I don’t know if it’s the heat or the cockerels, but I feel a bit dopey. The cockerels kick off at dawn and are soon joined by a donkey. They sound as though they think they’re in Carnegie Hall. Certainly they know a thing or two about voice projection.

I’ve bought some wax ear-plugs. They muffle the sound of the donkeys and the cockerels somewhat, but I can still hear
Susan when she shouts ‘Oh God!’ and ‘Josh!’ in her sleep. I’ve asked her who Josh is, but she won’t tell me.

Yesterday I skived off my Inner Dance workshop and
sat by the bay for a while. It’s so beautiful that bay. The
Mediterranean really is a very charismatic sea. It’s such
a wonderful colour for a start, and it contrasts so magnifi
cently with the powder blue sky. The earth that borders the bay is terracotta brown and is covered with olive trees and
spiky olive-coloured grass which is growing sun-bleached. The dryness really brings out the smells of the wild mint and rosemary – the grasses and the geraniums.

I sat there bathed in a kind of wonderment as the warm
air caressed my skin. Cherished – that’s what I felt. Cherished
by the sun and by myself who had brought me here. I have brought myself to many places I have not wanted to be in – b
ut this bay was not one of them. This was just gorgeous. Blissful. And a perfect setting for a Mills and Boon novel because there were cicadas too.

Then I heard a kind of sniffing. I stood up to see what
form of interesting wildlife could be creating this noise and
discovered it was Nathaniel, a large man from Leeds. He was sitting on the other side of a big rock with a wad of paper handkerchiefs in his hand. He was not just sniffing, he was crying. His face was all pink from sunburn and he was wearing a large straw sun-hat.

I’ve got used to seeing people in tears here in Holo. It’s kind of encouraged. Letting it all out – that sort of thing. I
suppose I need to do this myself, but I don’t feel up to it. So the atmosphere is rather getting on my nerves.

The protocol of the situation
vis-
à
-vis
Nathaniel was rather
subtle. I had to work out whether he looked like he needed empathy or space. Given that he’d sought out a secluded corner, I decided he wanted to be alone. So I snuck off morosely into the undergrowth.

A lot of people come to Holo to deal with inner stuff and you never know when they’re going to let it out. I find myself picking my way through various angsts every time I cross the large whitewashed courtyard, where people sit earnestly discussing Life at various tables. We’re all encouraged to meet regularly in little groups and talk about what we’re feeling. The thing is, when I’m in one of those little groups, all I really feel is that I want to be somewhere else.

My Inner Dance workshops are held outdoors and are rather intense. ‘Dance what is within you,’ says Michael, the workshop leader. ‘Be what you feel you are. Dig deep into your hidden spaces. Release. Release.’ So one minute we’re all gaily prancing round to some hypnotic jungle beat. Then, for example, somebody might suddenly crumple up in anguish and start crawling along the ground, possibly wailing while they do so. The last time somebody did this I went for a walk. When I returned Michael came over to me.

‘Are you all right, Jasmine?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ I replied defensively.

‘
It
’
s just I noticed you slip away then. Did this bring
something up for you?’

‘No. Not at all.’ For some reason I’d started to cry.

‘It’s all right, Jasmine,’ Michael said, squeezing my elbow. ‘We’re all a bit broken.’

‘“The world breaks everyone, and afterwards, some are stronger at the broken places,”’ Laura, a pretty woman from London, piped up. ‘That’s a quote from Hemingway.’

‘Look, I just went for a walk,’ I protested as Nathaniel handed me a tissue.

‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about, Jasmine? Or w
ould you just like to be left alone?’ Michael persisted
empathetically.

‘I’d like to be left alone,’ I said. Then I felt a surge of
courage. ‘And I’d like to get away from here. It’s weird. We’re
weird. I don’t know what we’re doing. I mean, how can this
possibly help?’

A number of people looked extremely shocked as I said
this, but Michael just listened. ‘This is your truth at the
moment Jasmine, and I respect it,’ he said.

‘I don’t need you to fucking respect it!’ I hollered. ‘Shirley
Valentine never had to put up with this!’ Then I stomped off
and left them all gobsmacked. I went off to a taverna down
the road. I got talking to a man who hardly spoke any
English. This somehow made communication much easier.
The local wine also helped. He was rather old – probably seventy – and not at all like Tom Conti. But at least he
wasn’t manifesting any obvious signs of searching for inner
meaning. He was very restful to be around.

‘I’m missing a man called Charlie,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a
nostalgic sort of person. I’m sure I’ll miss sitting here with
you in a couple of weeks. How do you stop missing people,
Jos
é
? I’d really like to know.’

‘“Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries,”’ he replied.

‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ I agreed. It’s much too
mysterious to take it so seriously.

José spoke mainly in song titles. It
seemed to be the only English he knew, along with some of
the more frequent words used in the International Shipping
Forecast.