The Greening (2 page)

Here were books that did not compromise. Old, worn books had been the silent companions of my childhood, treasures encompassing the author’s soul, the most compelling born of toil and sacrifice and generated from the edge of being, where life meets the need to express itself, putting the past into the moment in defiance of those sorrows that cannot be explained, impelled by the desire to be known and understood.

Here were battered glass-fronted and open cabinets, packed with books, all shapes and sizes, none seeming to belong next to its companion, like strangers on a railway station platform. More books were piled into crates, littering the aisles: a heap of naval prints, another of gazetteers; a musty smell of dust, leather and old paper.

And here on a shelf were the thin, tattered wafers of folios that had fallen free of their spines, each layered upon another, their ancient bindings peeled and curled away in strips, like the dried bark of a tree. Wintering in a forgotten corner, like wan, frail old men whom no one had told that their time in this world was over, they emanated a naked fragility and vulnerability in their exposure to the light. In such a place as this, where life’s slow decay moved imperceptibly at its own measureless pace, time would not be hurried.

And then I saw it. A glint of silver caught my eye, a sparkle of light among the dusty, faded covers. Curious, I rose and walked across and took from the shelf a volume bound in burgundy leather, its spine embellished by elaborate silver clasps. I opened the book and read:

By chance, I encountered the lost lady. At that time I still believed in chance. A candle burned, and by the light of the flame I embarked upon the soul’s solitary adventure.

I turned to the flyleaf – and took a quick inward breath. In faded black ink, someone had written “Find Anna. Begin your journey here. Reveal the truth. Find Anna and restore her book to her.” It
felt like a blast of cold air that cleared my head. “Reveal the truth…” It seemed as though the message had been put there for me. The memory of who I used to be came into sharp focus. To reveal the truth had been my aim and ambition and the motivation for my choice of career. It had all been so very long ago, when I was a small child and living with my great-aunt. Holding the little red volume, which sat so comfortably in my hand, I remembered how she would open her Bible at random, expecting the appropriate text to present itself. On an impulse, I did the same. I read:

You are beloved through all eternity and held safe in an embrace that will never let you go.

I began to cry. All the pain I had been feeling for so very long poured out and I could not stop. If only I could feel safe in Patrick’s embrace, sure that he would never let me go. He seemed so remote these days. He didn’t realize how hurtful he could be, how deeply I took things to heart. I was too good at putting on a brave face. And I didn’t want to lose him. I held the little book and cried deeply from my soul. It nestled comfortingly between my palms, where it seemed to belong. Could I be so loved? Could I feel so safe? If only it were true.

I dried my eyes and turned the pages. It was a diary of sorts, a personal confessional, which began with an account of a visit to a place that had affected the writer deeply. I glanced again at the spine. Inscribed in a delicate silver script, as though by an elegant feminine hand, was the title,
Anna Leigh’s Journal
.

I felt that I had chanced upon something intensely personal. And more, this work had been valued by someone, perhaps even loved. Why else would it have been bound, with consummate artistry, in silver and rich burgundy leather? I fingered the clasps, admiring the intricate design, the perfection of its proportions and graceful delicacy of its flowing lines. I ran my fingers across the softness of the leather and hardness of the clasps, taking pleasure in the sensation.

There is a place to which life brings each of us, when we are ready. It is only later, when we look back over our lives, that we pinpoint the moment when the journey began. For the moment passes fleetingly, and the part that is aware is a stranger to us, we who do not know ourselves and vainly try to know others. That moment came for me. I was taken out of my hurrying life. My attention was caught and my footsteps guided gently from the wayside track that I had mistaken for the main causeway, and onto the path of the initiate.

I glanced at my watch and saw, with horror, that I had spent nearly an hour in the shop. I liked the comforting sensation of the little book in my hand. I would have it. I quickly paid for my two purchases and stepped back into the bustle of the Charing Cross Road.

I hailed a taxi. As it trundled through the busy streets of central London I began to worry. The battle with Milo was to come. A familiar uneasy sensation of queasiness and discomfort constricted my stomach.

The taxi arrived and pulled up at the security gates. I hurried through, passing below the name emblazoned above the gates – “Transglobal Media Corporation” – thinking, as I always did, that there ought to be an accompanying sign warning all those who entered to abandon hope.

As I crossed the newsroom, I spotted Milo hovering over the shoulder of a subeditor, shouting and gesturing at his computer screen. Someone was being given a hard time and I would probably be next. Milo looked up and saw me.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted.

I ignored him and walked to my desk. He came over. Milo was only in his forties, but years of excessive drinking had bloated his features. His hair was sparse and fair, his blue eyes bleary. He was mid-height but seemed taller because of his habit of coming too close and, when approaching someone seated, looming over them.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“I told Simon. He wasn’t there.”

“Well where the hell was he?”

“I don’t know! I’m not psychic.”

“The Editor has gone ballistic. What am I supposed to tell him?”

“I don’t know, Milo. I went to do the interview – ”

“Oh, for God’s sake…”

“So it’s my fault again, is it?”

“That’s what the Editor thinks.”

“And I suppose I can count on you to confirm that opinion?”

Milo grinned. His smile was, curiously, even more unpleasant than his customary limited gallery of expressions, which ranged from scowl to leer. Turning on his heel, he said, “Certainly can.”

As I muttered, “Bastard,” at his retreating form, he turned and grinned, saying, “Nice of you to notice.”

My friend Alex looked at me, worried. Alex, who was in his early twenties, had joined the paper six months earlier and I had been helping him to settle into his first job in Fleet Street. He said, “You don’t want to keep challenging him, Jo. Milo’s dangerous.”

“Mainly to himself, the amount he drinks,” I said.

“If only that were true…”

“Has he been getting at you again? Try to ignore him,” I said.

“Hah! That’s rich, coming from you. His being permanently pissed, obnoxious, talentless and devious I can handle. But stitching me up with his bungling incompetence – that’s something else.”

“What’s he done?”

“Never mind,” said Alex wearily. “There’s no point.”

“I’ll have a word…”

“Don’t! I can look after myself. You don’t have to take on everyone else’s battles. You’re not to get involved, Jo. Have you got that?”

“OK, OK,” I replied.

I wondered how long it would take Alex to become as disillusioned as the rest of us. I said, “He should sack Milo. But that’ll never happen.”

“Our Milo’s a talentless hack who’s politicked his way to the middle and now no one can shift him because he knows where the
bodies are buried,” said Alex. “Well, at least he knows what he is; there’s some saving grace there, maybe. Unlike our esteemed Editor. A third-rater who thinks he’s God’s anointed. That’s the biggest con of all – when you con yourself.”

I had liked Alex from our first meeting. I liked his lively manner, with its suggestion of curiosity and amusement. He was tallish, around five foot eleven, and slim, with longish straight dark hair that fell across his forehead, and deep-set brown eyes. He had caught the eye of some female colleagues but seemed unaware of his attractiveness. He had no vanity whatsoever.

I took the books I had bought from my bag and showed Alex the political biography. “Would you say this was in good condition?”

“Very good. Disraeli.” He flicked through the pages. “Are you planning a political career? Oh, I know, it’s for old Smoothie-Chops, isn’t it?” I had confided in Alex about my secret relationship with Patrick.

“Don’t say that.” I lowered my voice. “You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” said Alex. “And how is your wimpish, ageing paramour? Still back-stabbing in the palace of power?”

“He doesn’t back-stab. He makes strategic moves.”

“Oh, like Milo, you mean?”

“Nothing like Milo.”

“Really? I sometimes find it hard to tell.”

Alex was becoming irritating. I said, “You’re being unfair. Anyway, who ever heard of a wimpish back-stabber?”

“He’s wimpish as far as you’re concerned. He shouldn’t mess you about.”

“He doesn’t,” I said.

“Yes he does. All this ‘My wife and I have an understanding’ stuff. It’s a load of cobblers.”

“You’re wrong. Patrick tells me the truth.”

“Then you’re the only one. Jo, he’s the Minister for Spin.”

“That’s nonsense,” I whispered. “You know he has no involvement with the media – other than being interviewed, that’s it.”

“Is that what he tells you? Well, they say love is blind.” Alex picked up the red leather volume with the silver clasps. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of journal.”

“Who’s Anna Leigh?”

“No idea.”

Alex opened the book. He said, “This feels good, good and solid. Very nice.”

I looked over his shoulder as he riffled through the pages. The book comprised a series of entries, each passage notated by an embellished capital.

Alex said, “Oh, this is a surprise. It’s about a medieval mystic. She’s writing about Julian of Norwich.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Her. She was an anchoress who lived in a cell attached to St Julian’s Church. She took her name from the church.” Alex had a First in medieval history from Oxford.

“What’s that?”

“An anchoress? A woman who devoted her life to prayer for the community. Julian’s an intriguing character. There’s something about her that draws people in. She had these visions of the crucifixion, in which she received a series of messages, and she wrote a book about them. It was incredibly risky. She was a very brave woman.”

“In what way?”

“Well, the Church was preaching the wrath of God and fires of hell for wicked sinners. Your only hope of salvation was forgiveness and absolution, which only the Church could grant. And there was Julian, right under the noses of the authorities, writing about a God who is never angry with us, doesn’t blame us and has already forgiven us for anything we’ll ever do.”

“What would have happened to her if she’d been found out?”

“She’d have been condemned as a heretic and burned at the stake. The thing that fascinates me is that she writes like a reporter. She tells it like it is, even if it’s an uncomfortable and inexpedient truth – she tells it anyway.”

After an exhausting twelve-hour day, I arrived home at ten o’clock, too tired to cook. I transferred a ready-made dinner from the freezer to the microwave and poured myself a glass of wine, before sinking gratefully into my couch. I examined the book I had bought for Patrick. Yes, he would be delighted with his gift.

I took up the second book –
Anna Leigh’s Journal
– and flicked through the pages. I was intrigued by Alex’s description of Julian the mystic. I wondered what it must be like to risk death for a piece of writing. I read again the message on the flyleaf, the message that seemed so personal to me. I had always known what I wanted to do with my life. It was a secret certainty that nourished me and delineated a clear path ahead. I would discover and reveal the truth. I wanted to understand and explain why things happened, why people did what they did. I wanted to expose lies and show what was real. Of course, as a child I did not express my desire, even to myself, in such clear-cut terms. It was simply an expectation and a knowledge that I would use words to communicate meaning. When had I slipped away from that intention? What had happened to the part of me that had been idealistic and full of hope?

I had come upon a mystery. I wanted to know,
who was Anna Leigh?
What was so special about her journal that it had to be returned to her? Why had it been bound so beautifully? Who had valued it so highly? Had it been Anna herself or the writer of the message on the flyleaf? There were no clues: no publisher’s mark; not even the name of a printer. How had such a book, a personal journal, found its way to the anonymous, secret world I had come upon in the antiquarian bookshop? How long had it lingered in that repository of forgotten souls?

Most curiously of all, why did I feel that the message written on the flyleaf – like a message in a bottle that had washed up on the shore at my feet – had been meant for me? I began to read.

By chance, I encountered the lost lady. At that time I still believed in chance. A candle burned, and by the light of the flame I embarked upon the soul’s solitary adventure.

A clear, bright day in Norwich was drawing to a close. The rays of sunlight slanting through the cathedral’s stained-glass windows were fragmenting into fine and glimmering strands. As the light withdrew, I remained a moment longer within the quietude of fading day.

I turned to leave, and my eye was drawn by a leaflet on a table near the entrance. The leaflet, partly obscured in a display of books and postcards, was decorated with a drawing of a woman in nun’s habit, holding delicately, between thumb and forefinger, a tiny object that looked like a hazelnut.

I picked up the leaflet and read “Julian of Norwich is believed to be the first woman to write a book in English. In 1373, during a severe illness, she received a series of visions of the crucifixion, in which Jesus spoke to her of God’s love. For the next forty years she lived as an anchoress in a small room attached to St Julian’s Church, where she interpreted the meaning of the revelations and wrote her book.”