The Greening (21 page)

Sister Eleanor was tall – about five foot eight – and slender, with a fair skin and green eyes flecked with brown. She took my hand. Her grip was firm, her smile warm and welcoming. She had a gentle, homely quality that put me at my ease. She asked Gregorio if he had news of his sister.

He explained, “My sister is a nun. Sister Eleanor’s convent gives great support to the Sisters. Yes, they are well, Sister. But it is a frightening situation all the while, as you know.”

Sister Eleanor turned to me and said, “At our convent, St Etheldreda’s, we have made a special link of prayer with the Sisters in East Timor.” Sister Eleanor told me she was an artist whose paintings were sometimes sold in aid of charities. Several had been sold recently to help poor families in East Timor. The Sister had special dispensation to participate in activities that promoted the use of her work in this way, hence her acceptance of Gregorio’s invitation to the reception.

Gregorio said, “Sister Eleanor and I met through the Sisters at Tyburn Convent, when they held a day of prayer for the people of East Timor. It is a strange coincidence that brought us together – and made us such good friends!”

Sister Eleanor smiled, saying, “If, of course, you believe in coincidence.”

At ten o’clock, as I was about to leave, Paul Huntingford walked in. He went straight across to Ismene and they embraced like old friends. She introduced him to the people with whom she was chatting, who were evidently delighted to meet him. In moments, they were all deep in conversation.

I had not seen Paul since our university days, save for the occasional television appearance when he was receiving an award. He looked older and somehow stronger – more substantial, more muscular, a more solid presence. But his warm, humorous brown eyes were the same. And his voice sounded the same, deep and melodic. He had the same way of listening attentively, as though the person to whom he was speaking was saying something of great importance. All part of his technique, I thought.

Ismene caught my eye and called me over to join them. Paul turned, and I felt myself blush as he looked at me. I felt nineteen again, rather gauche and unsure of myself. It was very disconcerting, the way he had of looking at me, steadily, as though he were taking in the whole of me and nothing could be hidden.

As the members of the group continued their discussion, I became aware that Paul’s eyes were upon me. My attention distracted momentarily by this, I suddenly realized that Ismene was replying to a question Lord Helpmann had asked about Kashmir. Paul joined in, saying to Lord Helpmann, “You must meet my father-in-law, Ranjit Kadir. He’s a leading member of the human rights movement.”

Lord Helpmann was nodding vigorously and saying that he knew Paul’s father-in-law by reputation.

Paul said, “He’ll be over here in a few weeks’ time. Perhaps you’d like to join us at home for dinner? I feel sure Ranjit would like to meet you. It sounds as though you could be very helpful to one another.”

Lord Helpmann said he would ring to make the arrangements and took Paul’s business card. The focus of the conversation changed. Paul turned to me, with a warm smile.

“Hi, Jo. It’s good to see you. Thank you for doing the story. I haven’t had a chance to say this – it was a brilliant piece.”

“I’m the one who should thank you,” I replied. “You gave me a great story and I’m very grateful – ”

“Because I knew you’d know what to do with it. And you certainly did.”

Suddenly Paul was talking to me with the intimacy of an old friend. We talked together in a way I did not remember us ever doing before. It was really very strange, as though we were both remembering a relationship we had never had. I wondered if he had simply forgotten that he had stood me up.

Paul reminded me of people, places and events. We reminisced about our most eccentric tutor, Professor Setterington, an ardent socialist who used to give brilliant tutorials, often under the
influence of his favourite tipple, Irish whiskey. He kept a cache in a cupboard under a portrait that he said was of a distant cousin. Since the subject of the portrait was Virgina Woolf, this seemed unlikely.

Paul said, “Do you remember how he used to tap his nose and wink, saying, ‘The old girl’s keeping an eye on me. One day the loot will be coming my way…’” I joined in to complete the sentence we both knew so well, “‘… and then I can get shot of you miserable little buggers!’”

Paul said, “Dear old Red Setter. Were you there the time he got us all pie-eyed and fell off his chair?”

“No, but I was there the night he took us on a pub crawl; do you remember?”

“God, yes! Someone ended up in the canal – Scottish chap…”

“Jeremy McLannan.”

“Yeah, of course. How could I forget? He couldn’t swim, poor chap.”

“How indeed? You were the one who fished him out. You came up the bank looking like a couple of bedraggled water rats and stinking of God knows what.”

Paul laughed. “Yes, I did always like to cut a dash.”

“I felt so sorry for you. People dumped all kinds of disgusting gunk there…”

“I had to throw those jeans away, I couldn’t get the smell off them. And they were my most treasured flares!” I laughed.

Paul said, “We had a lot of fun. It was a good time. But one grows up.” He looked reflective suddenly, and a little sad.

“Has being grown-up been less fun for you?” I asked.

“Oh, no, no, I’ve been lucky in many ways,” he replied. “How about you? Are you married?”

“No. I nearly was, but we realized in time that we were not right for each other. It’s not easy, is it? Living with another person.”

I suddenly realized that I had strayed into dangerous territory and tried to change the subject. As I waffled on about nothing in particular, Paul suddenly said, “Joanna, it’s great to see you again. Will you have dinner with me?”

Confused and thrown off course, I spluttered, “Why?”

Paul looked rather taken aback. “Because I think you’re lovely and I’d like to see you again.”

“Oh, would you now?” I replied, realizing that my cheeks were beginning to flush with anger. How dare he ask me out, when only minutes earlier he had been inviting someone to dine with his wife and father-in-law. What sort of a pushover did he think I was? Had he absolutely no conscience at all? His wife, I thought, must be the most downtrodden doormat on the planet.

“You haven’t changed, have you, Paul?” I said angrily. “You just think you’re such a big deal that you can get away with it every time, don’t you? Well, you may fool a lot of people but you don’t fool me. I’ve been round this particular mulberry bush once already and I didn’t enjoy the trip. I have no intention of going round it again, thanks very much.”

Paul looked very put-out. He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” I replied. “It’s simply beyond your comprehension that someone, some time, might choose not to fall at your feet and do what you want them to do. Well listen and learn. I’m not impressed by what you’re selling and I’m not buying.” I turned angrily and walked from the room. Only as I was getting into my car did I realize that I had not said goodnight to Ismene.

I saw no sign of Paul in the office during the next few weeks. I wondered if he was keeping out of my way. I began to search for the mysterious Anna Leigh. I felt the need to meet her. I imagined us having lunch together, in a quiet country restaurant with a view into the distance of grass and trees. I imagined us liking each other, of my putting her at ease and persuading her to confide the rest of her story.

I was curious to know whether she had made a break from the past and changed her life. Had her encounter with Julian made a difference? Had Anna found what I lacked – a relevance and meaning to life? Was she still alive, even? If so, why had she not returned for her journal? I was afraid I might never get answers to the many questions she and Julian had raised in my mind.

I wrote to Frieda Bonhart’s nephew, Charles Clemence, who had taken over the running of her publishing company, asking if he had any record of a writer named Anna Leigh. He wrote back saying that he had no knowledge of her.

I contacted the Julian Centre in Norwich, but the administrator had no recollection of Anna. Apparently, several hundred people visit every year, from all over the world. I telephoned Cambridge University and asked if there was any record of Anna. Again I drew a blank.

I tried the Office of National Statistics. They had records of twelve women in the right age group – the mid-thirties when she met Frieda Bonhart – who might be Anna Leigh or Lee; since my interview with Ismene Vale I realized it could be either spelling. A colleague in the reference library agreed to follow up the leads. Nick, our crime correspondent, suggested some other avenues of pursuit. But what if Leigh or Lee were her married name? What if she was not British-born? More important, what if Anna did not want to be found? Had I the right to try to track her down?

I wondered how someone could put so much work into a piece of writing and then just leave it, unfinished – indeed, give it away. It was almost as though Anna had found something more important than her work, something with more meaning. If so, I envied her.

I felt that Anna’s story was autobiographical, but it could have been a complete fiction. If a fiction, then could I believe everything she had written about Julian of Norwich? No, I instinctively believed in Anna’s integrity and that of the story she was telling. If I was to find out more, I must pick up where Anna had left off and read Julian’s book.

But my good intentions went unrealized. The pressure of work was mounting and I did little more than dip into the books given to me by Ismene. Christmas came and went. Weeks and then months slipped by. I was asked to write a weekly column, in addition to my reporting duties. I felt tired and stressed most of the time. There seemed to be no room for anything extra. Matters were made worse by the continuing sense I had of no longer belonging at the
Correspondent
.

The ending of my affair with Patrick had left me sad and disillusioned. When I saw him on television I still felt attracted to him and I missed him, but now I also feared him – and there were so many other feelings of bitterness and resentment. Dr Newell had quietly faded out of the public eye. He had resigned and the government had succeeded in bluffing and spinning its way out of the story until the press had stopped pursuing it.

If Paul had come to the office since his East Timor trip, I had not seen him there. I had met Ismene a couple of times, to discuss other human rights projects. I had wanted to become involved but it was simply impossible to take on any more work. However, I promised to always try to write about any developments in East Timor, where the brutality and suffering continued, and I used my column to publicize this and other human rights causes whenever I could.

Then, in late April, something happened that changed everything. I was at my desk, working on a story, when Milo came over.

“Newell’s croaked,” he said.

“What?”

“Newell – bright eyes, bushy tail, y’know, the mole – he’s croaked. Found in his garage, dangling from a beam – not the sort of DIY job the makeover shows have in mind, but no complaints from me. Get onto the wife and get some quotes.”

I remained seated, in complete shock. I felt sick. My brain felt full of mush. I tried to stand up but my legs would not support me.

Milo, now back at his desk, shouted, “For Christ’s sake, Meredith, get on with it! Jesus.”

I could not reach Mrs Newell, for which I felt both sorry and glad; sorry that I could not express my sadness and sympathy, glad to spare her the ordeal of talking to me. I went through the rest of the day in a numbed haze. At home that evening, I cried and cried – for poor Dr Newell, his wife and his children.

Apparently, his brave attempts to deal with the aftermath of his disclosures had not succeeded. Things had not been nearly as good as he had optimistically led me – and perhaps himself – to believe. Accustomed from childhood to fighting through and depending on his own resources, he had tried to shoulder a burden that was simply too great. A sensitive man, he had lapsed into depression and sought solace once more in alcohol. In his confused state of mind, he had come to believe that he was nothing more than a blight on his family and that they would be better off without him.

I was swamped by guilt, regret, bewilderment and deep pain. I knew I should write to Mrs Newell, but could not.

I needed time to myself. I took a week’s holiday in May and went to stay at a cottage in Hampshire, loaned by a friend who was working abroad. I arrived late in the evening, had some soup and went to bed. It was wonderful to rest in absolute silence. I soon drifted off to sleep.

I rose early the next morning, woken by the sun streaming through my window. I lay quietly for several minutes, listening to the soft rustling of the wind in the trees and the sweet, plaintive song of the birds.

The cottage was on a private estate that had been the home of the Earl of Longbourne. The main house had been divided into apartments and Rachel’s cottage was a conversion in a corner of the old stable block. It was light and spacious, with high ceilings, exposed beams and windows that looked out onto a cobbled courtyard. I entered the bedroom through the original four-foot-wide wooden door. The windows on the other side of the house looked onto a small cottage garden and a path, framed by hanging blossoms, leading into the woods. Honeysuckle and clematis peeped in at the lounge window. The several acres of grounds were a mass of purple and pink rhododendrons.