The Greening (22 page)

Across the courtyard there was another, larger house, and in the opposite corner a barn, the door of which was kept open in summer for the swallows to nest. Away from the incessant buzz of London, I felt I could breathe freely and let go of the tensions that concentrated around my neck and shoulders.

The day was bright, warm and sunny. I took my breakfast and Anna’s journal out into the courtyard, where there were chairs and a table. I had packed the journal as an afterthought, along with the books given to me by Ismene. My neighbour across the courtyard was away, his house shuttered, so I had complete privacy. It was a sublime day. Perhaps there never was such a perfect one. Perhaps there never will be again.

The floor of the courtyard was covered in rectangular grey cobbles, bedded in soft, brown, tufted earth, with dashes of mossy green. The cottages were constructed of cool, grey, rough-hewn stone slabs. Rachel’s cottage encompassed the clock tower, the pointed roof of which had been hung with small curved and rectangular terracotta tiles, now browned with age, in a pattern of three alternate rows. Atop it was a grey, spidery weathervane, its letters shaky and askew.

The clock had long since given up any pretence of recording the hour. Its pale green attenuated hands remained fixed at twenty-three minutes past six – I wondered what momentous event had stopped time in that instant – and its wan, faded face seemed like a frail fragment, a reminder of what the place had been. The courtyard was surrounded by trees, some reaching forty feet into the sky. At the far end, in front of a potting shed, was a patch of wilderness, with beds of herbs and a bird table. Visitors to Rachel’s cottage were required to put out food for the birds. Before settling to eat my breakfast, I replenished the bird table with seeds from the bag left by Rachel, and poured fresh water into the stone container. As I ate my breakfast, I watched two squirrels squabbling over territory, chasing one another up the pole that supported the bird table and snatching the food.

I was particularly attracted to that end of the courtyard. It was wild and untouched, a private, uncultivated place that had been allowed simply to be for many years, free of the attentions of the kind of gardener who likes to make nature neat. The rustling of the wind among the trees, now urgent, now caressing, seemed to be murmuring confidences about the times that had passed in this place. I remembered reading, a few weeks earlier, the obituary of Lady Helen, the Earl’s aunt. She had stayed on at the house after it had been converted and sold, occupying an apartment overlooking the lawn and distant swathe of farmland. I remembered the obituary because it had described her as a woman of deep spirituality. It had struck me as a lovely and enviable tribute.

I savoured the fresh, delicious flesh of a peach, enjoying the soft, heavy roundness cradled in my palm, and wondered about the kind of life that inspires such a tribute. Though the daughter of an earl, she had led a quite ordinary life of childrearing and work in the community.

At the
Correspondent
’s last Christmas party I had met two men who were in competition for high governmental office. We journalists were amused to see how they avoided each other in the lively bustle of the affair. I went over to chat to one of the contenders, who was widely rumoured to be miserable about the manipulation of his career by the Prime Minister. As we shook hands, he said, “I thought you lot would be handing out Prozac,” clearly smarting about articles in our paper that had said he was depressed. He was so different from his public image. On television he looked large and imposing, but in the flesh he was small and quite cuddly. The tough politician’s persona was absent in real life. He seemed sad and lost and rather sweet really, I thought.

Later I chatted to his rival, who seemed rather the worse for the drink that was flowing freely. Whilst much allowance is made for eccentric behaviour in the cut and thrust of politics, I thought his flippancy ill-advised. As we talked, a famous entrepreneur joined us and warned him that his ill-considered outbursts were alarming the City.

Here were two men “who would be King”. What, for goodness’ sake, did they have to offer? What had they ever done to demonstrate leadership and sound judgement? They might want to lead, but why in the world would anyone want to follow them?

If people are, indeed, remembered for their effect upon others’ lives, what mark would these men leave? Those saintly few who lead exemplary lives in the service of others are honoured appropriately when they die. Lady Helen was perhaps not among the saints, nor quite, I felt, among the sinners. The tribute to her was so simple and yet, as I sat in the courtyard and felt the spirit of the place, it seemed wonderful recognition of a life lived well.

This was a place I felt I must have dreamed of a million times. London had lost its appeal. There never seemed to be time and space
to reflect upon my life, to think about what I wanted for the future. Time hurried by in a blur of deadlines. I pictured my life in London – my house, the office, the places I frequented. The memories held no moments like these.

I spent most of the morning reading Anna’s journal again. She had written of pain, exposure, vulnerability and release. She had made herself vulnerable. She had made mistakes. Had it profited her? Or was she just another loser? In the evening, I prepared a chicken casserole and put it into the oven. I lit some candles, placed fruit in the bowl on the coffee table in the lounge and took from my suitcase my gift of books from Ismene Vale.

I took up my copy of
Enfolded in Love
. I remembered how Anna had described the way she handled the book, her longing to extract its meaning through its physical fabric. I thought of what Anna had written about books bringing messages from places that are difficult to reach to places that are hard to find. What could be more difficult, I reflected, than penetrating the layers of defensiveness and stale habit that surround the human heart?

As I read Julian’s words, I realized that she was saying that we do not think we deserve to be loved, and so we do not accept the love that is freely offered. She was saying that self-acceptance is the first step towards wholeness, the elusive wholeness of which Ismene had spoken.

Julian tells the story of two people, a lord and a servant. The lord, who loves his servant dearly, sends him on an errand. The servant, who loves his master, rushes off at great speed to carry out the task. But he falls into a ditch and is badly injured. He struggles and cries out but can do nothing to help himself. And though his lord is close by and could save him, the servant cannot see him. So he stays in his ditch, feeling wretched and weak. I read that our own blindness prevents us from knowing the goodness of our own souls, so we despair. I read that the love is there for us, but our feelings of guilt and unworthiness prevent us from receiving it. Until the love of God penetrates us so that we know ourselves as lovable, we can find no peace.

When I had first read Anna’s description of the illustration on the cover – the homely figure leaning forward to gather up a child in her embrace – I had been reminded of Rembrandt’s
The Return of the Prodigal Son
. I had seen the painting several years earlier, at the Hermitage in St Petersburg. I had bought the poster of the painting and hung it in my study, and I had brought the poster with me to the cottage and hung it near a window that looked onto the courtyard. Why had I brought it? I cannot tell you.

In the painting, the father leans forward to embrace his son, who kneels at his feet. The father’s face is a glow of internal light. He is old… he has been waiting a long time for this moment, I thought. He stoops to gather his son to him. The father’s hands are firm and strong on the young man’s shoulder and back. The son has fallen haphazardly against his father’s lower body, after rushing headlong to him and dropping at his feet. If his father moved away, the son would collapse to the floor. Perhaps it was with his last ounce of strength that he stumbled towards his journey’s end.

The young man’s head is turned slightly, resting against his father’s breast. His head is bowed and, though we have a three-quarter view, we can see that his eyes are closed. He has arrived, he has sanctuary, he is home.

In turning his head, he exposes the vulnerable spot at the nape of the neck. The soft beam of light that illumines his father’s face spreads, as though directed from above, through the father’s head and radiates from his hands across that vulnerable spot and the expanse of his son’s back. Within the embrace, I felt, the pain and sorrow and sense of loss were being healed. I felt that this boy had cried many tears and been brought to utter humiliation before he could find his way home. I felt compassion for his pain and brokenness.

What punishment did he feel he deserved? What frailties did he bring with him that his father, but no other employer, would tolerate? What addiction, perhaps? He had spent years indulging in worldly pleasures. Julian seemed to be saying that it is these things that seduce us into forgetting our real selves. I knew how addiction took away control over one’s life.

A friend had been addicted to gambling. Others I knew – among them my friend Alex – were addicted to drugs or alcohol. And what of those who are addicted to people? Anna’s horrible experience with Mark had reminded me of my own reluctance to face the truth about Patrick. I had resisted relinquishing my dream. I had resisted being alone again.

The Return of the Prodigal Son
is a picture of someone who has nothing left to lose, someone who has recognized his own nakedness under the sun. How much it means to us to be known and accepted as we really are. I longed for such a homecoming.

As the evening light faded gently, and the birds took over the trees with their evensong service, I looked again at the familiar scene of father and son – and suddenly I saw something else. I looked closely for the first time at another figure, who stands to the right of the embracing couple. This young man is tall and proud. He is well-dressed, with a rich, red cloak around his shoulders, and sturdy boots. He stands rather stiffly, looking awkward, puzzled, uncomfortable, and even disapproving of the emotional scene and what he may perceive as the senile, irrational doting of his father. For this is the other son, the prodigal’s elder brother.

While his younger brother frittered away his time and money, this brother stayed at home and helped his father to build up the family business. He was the one who made sacrifices, who kept the rules, who did what the world expected of him. And what was his reward? To see his brother come back, having contributed nothing, and be given a hero’s welcome.

How unfair. I could almost hear him saying the words. In his eyes I see the hurt, the bewilderment. What about me? he seems to be asking. His hands are clasped together anxiously. Suddenly all that he thought was sure and certain has been put in jeopardy. He thought he knew the rules of the game, the rules of his world, and now, suddenly, the world has been turned upside down. A scene of intimate love is taking place a couple of feet away from him and he feels excluded.

A feeling of profound sadness overcame me as I read this new significance into the scene. I had always identified with the prodigal,
the rule-breaker, but suddenly I saw something of myself in the exclusion of the dutiful stay-at-home.

I had taken risks, forced myself to do things that were frightening and difficult, and my efforts had brought me success. But, like the elder brother, I had never risked everything, I had never allowed myself to be utterly vulnerable. I felt excluded. The prodigal must surely have dreaded meeting his brother, someone I imagined to have been less talented, less charming, someone whom he had perhaps teased as too conventional to take a chance in life. In the homecoming, the younger brother, who was once so confident and proud, so sure of his abilities to make it in the big wide world, is shown up in all his failure and vulnerability – and yet, in that moment, there is a nobility about him, because he confesses his weakness and opens himself to receive love.

Now the meaning of the painting became clearer than ever before. It is a story not only of love, compassion and forgiveness. It is also a story about allowing oneself to love and be loved. I remembered the words of a hymn we had sung at school: “Oh, love that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee… I trace the rainbow through the rain…” Suddenly, they had a deeper meaning.

The last few lines in Anna’s journal had been about the necessity to undergo a crucifixion, to go beyond vulnerability and exposure to redemption and release. Ismene had said that if we really understood how others felt about our actions, we would change. There seemed to be some common theme here, about understanding one’s own feelings and those of others, about acknowledging one’s loneliness and longing for love.

But I knew I was lonely, I had always longed for love, so where was I missing the point? Was Julian right? Did I perhaps not feel worthy of love? “You are beloved through all eternity…” the words from Anna’s strange dream about Julian came back to me. Could I believe that I was so loved? Was I capable of believing it?

All of this seemed to connect, too, with an assertion I had heard somewhere that love was the solution to every problem. I wondered, if one dealt with every problem from the standpoint
of love, and not fear, what would change? But a worrying thought nagged at me: had Anna been right? In order to grow, to find one’s true self, must each of us, must I, undergo a crucifixion?