The Greening (14 page)

I have turned again to Julian, and read “He did not say, ‘You shall not be tempest-tossed, you shall not be work-weary, you shall not be discomforted.’ But he said, ‘You shall not be overcome.’ God wants us to heed those words so that we shall always be strong in trust, both in sorrow and in joy.”

As morning has passed I have gained energy. Mark has broken my heart, but I know he did not mean to. I see that blaming and judging him only adds to my pain. None of the hurtful things he has done were done with the intention of hurting me. Having relinquished the need to blame or judge, I begin to feel calmer. I find that I am in a different space and I realize that he may have had good reason to cancel our lunch; he uses the Land Rover to draw the horse box when he and his wife attend riding events. Getting angry has clouded the vital issue of our future happiness.

My dream about Julian has given me a depth of perspective and an understanding that anger is self-defeating. I am governed and limited by fear – fear of not being loved by the people whose love I desperately need – and by memories of the times when the love I needed was not there. When I am fearful, it is anger that comes out. I have always played safe, choosing the sheltered path and taking refuge in high-minded principles that have no root in true morality. Now I am challenged, and I understand that the right path can be as narrow and painful as a razor’s edge. But there has always been an alternative road and there have always been good reasons to take it. For every opportunity I have been given to become something more, there have been several invitations to become something less. I feel this pain
is washing through me and stripping me bare. I see that through my choices I have created the person I have become. I feel I have been living a false identity. Is it imagined or real – this sense I have that there is someone who desires that I should be no less than all I really am?

It has been a while since I have felt able to write in my journal. A great deal has happened. Mark phoned and said he loved me and wanted to see me but would be away on business for a few weeks. He sounded distraught. He suddenly became angry with me. I have never known such pain as this. It drains me of my strength. I feel savagely alone.

We have spoken again. He says he’s sorry he’s hurt me and that he lacked the courage to be open and honest with me. He’s torn and doesn’t know what to do. He told me about the difficulties he feels are insurmountable, his guilt because he’s been with his wife during her childbearing years but couldn’t give her a child. He said, “My wife and I have been to hell and back together, but I have no choice or freedom of action. My wife’s had a lot of problems. There are things I can’t tell you about, terrible things. I have to sort out the problems in my life.” A further complication is that his father-in-law has put money into his company. He intends to repay him but can’t do so at present. He asked me to meet him for lunch in the new year. I feel a huge sense of relief, knowing that I will see Mark again. At the moment, that’s all I have.

This morning I looked out onto the park and watched as a neighbour played with her dog. I remember her telling me that
the dog was a “Battersea boy”, from the animal rescue home. As I watched the dog I took pleasure in his freedom and vitality, the joy he took in careering the length of the park and leaping, in crazy, headstrong bounds, to catch the stick thrown by his owner. There were moments when he seemed almost suspended in the air, frozen in time and space in an instant of perfection, symmetry and grace. I wondered how that felt.

Suddenly, for no reason, perhaps just because it is Christmas, a time when one remembers childhood, there comes to my mind a gift I received from my grandmother when I was seven, a book called
The Isle of Wirrawoo.
My grandmother had what seemed to me a treasury of old books. There they all were, some on shelves too high for me to reach, beautiful books with covers of Victorian and Edwardian design. There was something mysterious about their inaccessibility, the secret, closed worlds contained within their covers. It seemed to me that every secret there ever had been was hidden, somewhere, in a book. If I could read every book I would learn everything there was to know.

I imagined that they told stories of exciting adventures, of journeys to far-distant places and of the pleasures of summer-hazed afternoons when time stood still. I loved fairy stories, magic, tales about strange creatures, mystery and adventure.
The Isle of Wirrawoo
looked promising. The cover illustration showed a little girl in a place that was filled with luxuriant, exotic plants and trees, and among them glimpses of the furry muzzles and tails of wild and extraordinary creatures. In the background, a long way in the distance, was a mountain, upon which the sun was setting.

The book had made a deep impression on me. It was the story of a little girl who was lost and had to find a magical elf who could direct her to the top of the mountain. She had to reach it before the sun set, in order to come safely home. On her journey she met strange creatures, including a dugong, which, I discovered many years later, was the sea-cow – an
ugly, endearing creature. There was a rhyme in the book that went “If you hear a wiffle-whoffing or a sound like someone coughing, that’s the beetle in the big gum tree.” There were gum trees because the island was off the coast of Australia. The elf the little girl had to find was called Mys.

And here I am, all these many years on, still looking for that elf. I am glad to have Julian’s book by me. I am beginning to understand what she has in mind for me and for us all. She offers hope. She promises that I will become my real self as I become part of the whole that is God. And that, I believe, is the true Holy Grail. It is the greatest prize of all, the alchemical magic that gives us true selfhood and our real identity. I will become all that I was meant to be. But will I reach the mountain top before the sun sets? I think I can get there only through faith and by grace.

How strange it is, the way in which Julian’s life now affects mine. She has made me examine myself, what I think and what I do. I had intended that she would be my subject. Now, it seems, I am hers.

It is early evening I have just been out among the shoppers and the bright lights. People were hurrying home, laden down with food and gifts. As I walked back through the park, I saw a man sitting alone on a bench. His face was hard, his features coarse. As I drew near, he lowered his eyes to take a drag on his cigarette, and I was able to steal a glance, unnoticed. I am curious about a man who sits alone in the park, in the cold, on Christmas Eve – a time when each of us wants to feel we belong somewhere. I wonder if there is someone in his life, the thought of whom makes his heart soften?

What can I bring Him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb.

If I were a wise man I would do my part.

What can I bring Him? Bring my heart.

Christmas was always such a special time. It was one day of the year when we did go to church as a family. Even since my parents died, I have always created a sacred space in my life for this time. I hope I can recapture the feelings of peace and security that Christmas brings.

I feel dreadfully ill and entirely alone, but am comforted by the knowledge that I will see Mark again. It is a delicate thread that could break in an instant and I cling to it for dear life. Just beneath the veneer of comfort is a terrible fear, and in that feeling I seem to lose myself. I keep going over every detail of everything that has happened between us. I am planning how I will handle the next meeting. There’s so much I want to say. Next time we will talk and I will give him the courage to take charge of his life. I won’t allow him to throw away the wonderful gift of love we have been given.

The weather has broken. The thundery skies boom and rumble: I feel I am wrapped in their powerful embrace. And now here comes the pittering rain, in comforting release. My windows are uncovered and I see and hear the sleeting downpour, lashing the earth without restraint from a relentless sky that is edged with darkening clouds. They hang, heavy, along the horizon, like a pall of blackened smoke. Hailstones crack against my windows and hammer, hard and round, upon the sill. I surrender to the sound that envelops me, with the darkening night. I feel secure. The rain becomes gentle. Then a sudden loud thunderclap sounds like a trumpet call from the heavens.

I gave a start as the telephone rang, breaking across my thoughts. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. I lifted the receiver.

“Jo? Am I disturbing you? Sorry to ring so late.” It was Alex.

“Oh, God, Alex. Now what? No, it’s OK. Sorry. What’s the problem?”

“I’m on late shift on the news desk. Thing is, someone’s just dropped by wanting your phone number and I wasn’t sure whether to give it.”

“Who wants it?”

“Paul Huntingford.”

“Paul Huntingford! But I – what d’you mean – is he there?” Paul Huntingford and I had known each other a very long time ago and my memories of him were not good. We had been at university together and though we had both become journalists – he was an acclaimed war photographer – our paths had not crossed since our student days.

“He’s gone down to the picture library. He’ll be back pretty soon. Didn’t you know? He’s joining the paper.”

“No! He’s leaving the
Observer
?”

“Already left. Some big kerfuffle over something. He told them to keep the job. The Editor got wind of it and nipped in quickly with the proverbial unrefusable, that’s the word on the street.”

“Well – what did he say exactly?”

“Not much. Just wanted your number.”

“He didn’t say why?”

“Nope.”

I felt my jaw tightening and my mouth setting into a firm line.

Alex asked, “What shall I do?”

“Don’t give it to him.”

“Er – well, what do I say?”

“Just tell him he can’t have it.”

“I can’t be rude.”

“You don’t want to be nice to the Paul Huntingfords of this world.”

“Oh, bit of a shark, is he?”

“What big teeth you have, Grandma…”

Alex laughed. “Oh, a wolf, then?”

“You’re very smart this evening.”

“He must have upset you big-time. Very bad career move!”

“Tell him you can’t find my number,” I said.

“Yeah, well, he’ll know I’m lying. It’s a bit awkward.”

“Then he can go and ponder it. And maybe he’ll learn to treat people with more consideration.”

“OK. Sleep tight. See you tomorrow – or rather, today.”

Paul Huntingford, of all people, asking for my phone number. It was the last straw. Another magnum-sized egotist thinking he could get anything he wanted at any time. No doubt he considered himself such a big-name, big-deal super-scooper that I would be thrilled and flattered that he wanted to talk to me. Presumably he wanted the phone number of a contact. Well, let him get in touch with me at the office in the morning.

I closed the journal and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Realizing that it would keep me awake half the night, I crossly tipped the coffee back into the packet and reached for the biscuit tin. I warmed some milk and took the cup of milk and the biscuits back to the couch, to try to relax before going to bed. Now I was beginning to wonder. What did Huntingford want? Whatever it was it would be something that suited his purposes and not mine.

Paul had always got his way. Women adored him. He could have taken his pick of the girls at university. He was six foot one inch tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, shiny dark brown curly hair, deep, melting brown eyes – and more than his fair share of sex appeal. But it wasn’t just these attributes that attracted women. It was the way he had – a natural, easy charm, a likeability. It was extraordinary; he could get anyone to do anything. People just liked to please him. All this unmerited approval was really irritating.

Within a couple of weeks I was besotted, but he showed no interest in me. Well, at least I knew it and kept my dignity. The antics of some of the other girls, who plotted and connived to get a date with him, struck me as pathetic. I was independent enough to believe that if a man was worth having he would chase me. Paul never did. In any case, I didn’t set much store by getting myself attached. I had been made to appreciate the value of a good education and did not intend to squander my opportunities.

I realized that my distrust of men echoed back to my childhood and my father’s decision to leave Louisa and me with Aunt Vaughan; my mother had not wanted to leave us behind. And much of what I had observed since then had served to confirm my view that most men were a waste of time and energy.

The odd thing about Paul was that he didn’t take his pick of the girls. He didn’t seem to see anyone in particular during the first year. Rumours quickly spread that he was gay and were just as quickly dismissed by students of both genders and predilections.

Most of his free time seemed to be dedicated to good causes. I was studying political science and became passionately involved with several campaigns. This was the 1970s, and there were plenty from which to choose. We often bumped into each other at meetings and gatherings. I was impressed by his willingness to help anyone in need. I realized that people liked him because they instinctively trusted him.

Then, for several months, he did have a girlfriend. He had the appearance of being fond of her. It fizzled out. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. Paul asked me out. It took me so completely by surprise that I hardly knew what to say. He invited me to a concert in town. He had tickets for a touring production of
The Marriage of Figaro
. I spluttered an acceptance. Because of our different itineraries, we arranged to meet in the theatre foyer at a quarter to eight, fifteen minutes before the start of the performance.