Although many Buddhists in Britain would say my approach to physical relationships is heretical, I would argue that it is more or less in line with the teachings of the Buddha. The Dhamma tells us that nothing in this world is permanent. That no long-term satisfaction can be gained from things physical or material, because they are in a constant state of change. It follows, therefore, that a possessive bonding between one man and one woman will often create unhappiness, because each is changing in different ways. It is easier for one individual to satisfy another individual sexually than in other areas, so I decreed when founding Bordhill that the community as a whole was to provide the emotional and social support we all demand. No individuals were to take on such a responsibility.
Harrison’s version of Buddhist principles had produced casualties, Sam discovered. Several women had left the community in disillusion and one troubled creature had hanged herself in the barn where Harrison first seduced her.
That was a bad day for us all, but I felt no personal responsibility far her death. Scars on a person’s character can be as misleading as they are on flesh. They conceal the extent of the injury beneath. We knew she was a woman who had been through bad experiences, but it was only at the inquest that we learned just how traumatic her childhood had been and that there had been two previous suicide attempts.
As Sam turned the pages, Harrison’s idiosyncrasies kept popping up. There was a ban on Japanese cars or TVs at Bordhill, and in a radical diversion from the Buddhist edict that no harm should be done to any living creature, he’d told his students the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were a fitting punishment for a nation so steeped in cruelty and barbarism.
Sam heard the bedsprings creak. Then the bathroom door opened and Julie stood there naked and bleary eyed. She shivered and hugged herself.
‘I reached out and you weren’t there,’ she complained.
The morning was misty and damp. After they’d showered and dressed, they looked out from their bedroom window across an expanse of ploughed earth which was almost black. A hedge ran down the side of the field, punctuated by leafless trees, their trunks bowed by the wind which whistled unhindered across the open landscape. At the far end was the barely visible line of a drainage dyke. To Sam the terrain had a stark beauty. To Julie it felt grim and lonely.
After a breakfast of ‘succulent Suffolk bacon’ and ‘farm-fresh eggs’, Sam broached the subject of the day ahead. He knew it was unprofessional to involve Julie, but since she’d played a significant role in a previous operation, he reckoned she had an honorary status with the firm. He told her about the commune and about Perry Harrison’s pursuit of the young women he’d recruited. What he didn’t reveal was the reason for his interest in the man.
‘What would I have to do if I were to come with you?’ she asked.
‘Smile and look interested.’
She looked at him dejectedly. ‘You’re a manipulative sod, Sam Packer.’
‘Think of it like playing charades.’
‘Makes it worse. I was never good at them …’
Bordhill was a tall-chimneyed manor house of weathered red brick, on the outskirts of the village of Sidgefield. It stood back from the road at the end of a gravel drive scarred by a ridge of moss and grass. Sam drove in. To their right was an orchard of gnarled apple trees. To the left, beyond a wire fence, a handful of goats and cows fed from bales of hay.
A parking sign pointed to a yard, which was edged on two sides by converted stables. Sam swung in, pulling up outside a door marked VISITORS. As he got out he heard the humming of machinery and smelled wood.
‘I’ll wait in the car,’ Julie told him. ‘So I can pick you off the floor when they boot you out.’
Beside the door was a window. The room beyond was a reception area. He saw a plain wooden table laden with literature. A shop bell attached to the top of the door-frame tinkled as he entered. He listened for approaching footsteps but there was only the same noise as before, which he decided was probably a lathe. At the back of the room a glass partition with a locked door separated it from a corridor.
He browsed the booklets on the table. One, entitled The Bordhill Community – The Way to a Better Life, included photos that looked as if they dated from twenty years ago.
There was a bell push which he hadn’t noticed before. Seconds after pressing it, the glass door to the corridor was opened by a slightly overweight young woman in her late twenties, dressed in a long woollen skirt and a cardigan of some vaguely earthen colour.
‘Yes?’ She looked searchingly at him. ‘Can I help?’
Her pale face was marked with pink blotches. Psoriasis or eczema, Sam guessed. She’d cut her dark hair just short of her shoulders. It was thick and curly and splayed out from the top of her head in an unruly triangle.
‘Oh, hello.’ Sam beamed. ‘We wanted to find out about this place, my partner and I.’ He pointed outside. Julie was sitting in the car with her arms folded. ‘You run courses I understand.’
‘You’re not a reporter then?’
He feigned surprise. ‘A reporter?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Any chance of having a look round?’
‘Well, I’m not really supposed to, but …’ She stepped back into the corridor and glanced anxiously in each direction. ‘What … how did you find out about Bordhill?’
‘From the Internet. And from Mr Harrison’s autobiography. I got a copy from the library.’
‘Oh that. That was written ages ago. The place has changed a lot.’ She stared at his feet. Sam had the odd impression she was trying to divine something from them.
‘We’re interested in learning more about Buddhism.’
‘You’d have to work at it,’ she warned. ‘It’s not exactly off-the-shelf.’
‘We realise that. You’ve been here long?’
‘Three years.’ She sounded weary when she said it.
‘Tell me something. Does Mr Harrison still live here?’
His question startled her. ‘This is his home, yes.’
‘Any chance of meeting him?’
‘You sure you’re not a reporter?’
‘Nothing so glamorous. I work in the City.’
‘Well anyway, he doesn’t see visitors.’ She still appeared flustered. ‘Look, if we’re to do a tour, you’d better bring your partner in.’
As Sam turned towards the door to the yard it opened and a tall, red-haired woman entered. She was older than the other and moved with an air of authority.
‘That’s all right Melissa. I heard the bell.’ There was a foreign lilt to her voice. Sam assumed this was Ingrid Madsen.
‘They’re visitors. I was going to take them on a tour.’
‘I’ll look after it now.’
‘Oh, but I’m quite happy to.’ The red patches on Melissa’s face intensified in colour. ‘He’s not a reporter.’
The Danish woman responded with a glare which drove Melissa back through the glass door. She locked it behind her.
‘Now … How can I help you?’
‘We wanted to find out about Bordhill. Thinking of maybe doing a course here sometime. It says on your website you welcome visitors.’
‘Yes I know it does, but I’m quite busy.’
The woman spoke with Nordic bluntness. She stared at him for a while as if trying to decide whether he was genuine or not.
‘Well all right. I’ll show you quickly. Her too?’ She pointed outside. At that moment Julie walked in.
‘I’m Ingrid,’ the woman announced, ‘and I’m the head of this community.’
‘I thought Mr Harrison was.’
She flinched, her doubts about him returning.
‘He is our master,’ she said carefully, her voice softening. ‘He functions at a level far above the rest of us.’ She opened the glass door into the corridor with a key attached by a string to her belt. ‘And your names?’
‘Geoff and Ginny.’
‘Fin
e. We’ll start with the workshops.’ She locked up again behind them. ‘We’re a self-financing community,’ she explained, ushering them into a work space. ‘Part of our income comes from the sale of things we make.’
They were assailed by the smell of hot wax and Indian scents. Melissa was packing candles into small, brown cardboard boxes. She didn’t look up. Ingrid Madsen hurried them on. In the joinery workshop next door there were new smells. Pine and beech.
‘Furniture and toys,’ she summarised.
A man working at the lathe smiled fleetingly at Ingrid. He had hooded eyes and moved with a rambling gait as he crossed the room to get another piece of wood.
‘We sell the produce in our own shop,’ Ingrid explained, leading them into the corridor again and unlocking one more door. ‘In the summer we have many people coming here. We also supply to local stores. Fruit from the orchard. Vegetables. All organic. Cheese and yoghurt. We have goats and cows and hens.’
‘We saw them,’ Julie commented.
‘Foxes are a problem here. They killed one of the kids just before New Year. You would like to buy something?’
They stepped into the shop. Julie was drawn to some Shaker-style chairs. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘Later,’ said Sam, not wanting to be distracted.
The Danish woman led them across the courtyard to the main house. ‘You know something about Buddhism?’
‘The basics. No more.’
‘Then you’ll know that what we revere is the wisdom of the Buddha. His understanding of life and of human nature brings a lot of comfort to those who embrace his teachings.’
The side door to the manor was old and of oak. Above it, carved into a stone lintel, was the date 1757.
‘When did Peregrine Harrison buy this house?’ Sam asked.
‘About thirty-five years ago.’ She glared suspiciously at him.
‘I’ve read A Jungle Path to Hell,’ Sam said, hoping it would explain his interest.
‘But you’re not a reporter?’
‘Certainly not. Why do you ask?’
She didn’t reply. Yesterday’s Kamata press conference must have sent the hacks scurrying up here, Sam decided. He made a mental note to buy a paper.
Inside the house they entered a long corridor. There were kitchen sounds and the smell of baking.
‘You make your own bread?’ Julie asked, smelling the air.
‘Yes, of course.’ Ms Madsen smiled at her in a way that led Sam to believe she was fonder of women than of men. ‘For ourselves. And we sell some too.’ She pointed out the kitchen and the communal dining room next to it.
The exterior of the house had looked attractively original, but the inside less so. Whatever fine panelling, plasterwork and fireplaces it might have once had, most had been lost as a result of the house’s various reincarnations. The place had a dowdy feel and there was little to suggest a living, vibrant community inhabiting it.
Ingrid Madsen took them into the main entrance hall and stood on the bottom step of a wide staircase, using it as a podium.
‘I will explain a little about Buddhists. We believe in three fundamental truths. The first is impermanence. Everything is always changing, even if very, very slowly. We call that process conditioning. Even rocks are not permanent because they are worn down by wind and rain. The second truth is unsatisfactoriness. We human beings are never happy for long with anything that is conditioned. Thirdly, although we think of our innermost self as something about us that is permanent, it isn’t. We too are always changing. Therefore we say there is no such thing as self.’
‘How disconcerting,’ Julie whispered.
‘On the contrary, we find it comforting. Because once we understand that the cause of our unhappiness is our dependence on conditioned things like possessions, then we can learn to do without them and to strive for nirvana, which is an unconditioned, unchanging state where there is complete contentment.’
‘Have you attained nirvana?’
Julie’s innocent question provoked a scornful glare.
‘Of course not.’
‘Mr Harrison?’
‘No. Not even he. We all strive to attain it of course, by following what we call the noble eightfold path. Right living, right thinking, right livelihood, right speech and so on …’ She opened a door on the far side of the hall and revealed a class room. ‘If you come to a summer school here you will learn all this. They last from two to four weeks. Would you be interested?’ She directed the question at Julie.
‘Um … quite possibly.’ She glanced uncomfortably at Sam.
‘We would teach you about the self-disciplines involved in becoming a Buddhist. And there are many. Then after further study, you could apply to join our community. Normally you would be expected to have some skills which would be useful to us. What is it you do?’ Her eyes were like gimlets.
‘Oh, nothing useful at all, I’m afraid,’ Sam shrugged. ‘Finance. Investment advice.’
‘I see. And you, Ginny?’
‘I work in a laboratory.’
‘Ah.’
‘Tell me, does Peregrine Harrison teach at the summer schools?’ Sam asked, frustrated at her reluctance to talk about him.
‘Not any more. He is quite old. We have several ordinates who can teach. And there are some tapes recorded by Perry which are also used in class.’
‘He sounds a fascinating man. Is he here? I’d love to meet him.’
‘That’s not possible.’ Her expression turned to stone. ‘He doesn’t see visitors. I will show you upstairs quickly, then I will take you back to the shop.’
She stepped briskly up the stairs, checking over her shoulder to see they were following. On the floor above she showed them another classroom, a library and an administrative office. Again, it was the emptiness of the place that struck Sam. Where were the inmates?
She was about to take them downstairs again when Sam spotted a door at the end of the corridor. It was controlled by a coded lock.
‘What’s in there?’ he asked.
‘Private quarters.’ She shepherded them away from the door.
‘Mr Harrison’s?’
‘You are very interested in him.’
‘Because I found his book so fascinating. What he went through in the war – it’s like having your character shaped on an anvil.’
‘It made him understand the strength of the dhamma, the Buddha’s teachings,’ Ingrid said, conceding no ground.
At the top of the stairs Sam glanced back at the door at the end of the corridor, convinced he’d get nowhere with the case until he knew what lay behind it.
Outside again, they crossed the stable yard and Ingrid Madsen unlocked the shop.
‘I’ll let you choose something to buy, while I get you a summer school prospectus.’
Julie began to wander round, touching things and sniffing at perfumed candles. ‘We’ve got to buy something. I like these straight-backed chairs. We could do with one for the bedroom.’ She found a price ticket and turned it over. ‘Oh dear. £170.’
‘Find a scented candle and let’s get out of here.’
Ingrid Madsen returned and handed him a booklet. ‘This tells you all you need to know. And there’s an application form at the back. There are still places available this coming summer.’
Sam wasn’t in the least surprised.
Julie held up a jar of honey.
‘They’re two pounds.’
Julie paid up and Ingrid Madsen slipped the money into a deep pocket in her skirt. As she ushered them out of the shop, she locked the door again. For an open, free spirited community, they seemed remarkably keen on locks, Sam noted.
‘I wish you a safe journey.’ She gave a perfunctory wave. ‘And I hope you find the peace you’re looking for.’ Then she walked briskly away from them and disappeared inside the house.
‘That’s it then,’ Julie murmured as he closed the car doors.
But Sam knew it wasn’t. Melissa was peering at them through the wi
ndow. Like an asylum inmate longing to rejoin the outside world.
The rain clouds from yesterday had cleared, leaving a pale blue sky, broken by white cumulus. They drove into Sidgefield, a single street village with a few dreary houses.
‘I’m hungry,’ Julie announced. ‘There’s a pub over there. Home-cooked food.’
‘Fine by me.’
The car park was almost full. The pub had a beamed ceiling and most of the tables were occupied. They both chose salads from fresh-looking selections in a cool cabinet and settled by the window, overlooking a bare garden dominated by a children’s climbing frame.
‘So, did you learn anything from this morning’s little escapade?’ Julie asked eventually, frustrated by the fact he wasn’t talking to her.
‘Not a lot.’
‘What’s he done, this Harrison person?’
Sam shook his head. ‘It’s what he might do.’
‘And?’
Sam shook his head again.
‘You’re not going to discuss it,’ she sighed exasperatedly.
‘’Fraid not.’
The truth was he’d found the visit to Bordhill had done nothing to confirm the suspicion that Perry Harrison was planning a murder. On the contrary, the atmosphere of tension and secrecy at the place had made him wonder if there could be a domestic explanation for his disappearance.
After they’d finished eating, Julie suggested a walk. From the warning look in her eyes Sam realised she expected him to devote the rest of the weekend to her.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m ready for a leg stretch.’
They drove out of the village and found a footpath. He stopped the car in the entrance to a field so Julie could check whether the track beyond the stile was too muddy for her trainers.
Sam felt close to her this afternoon, but suspected she’d want more from him in the next few days than he’d be able to give. There was a clock ticking in his professional life, and until he knew whether it was attached to a bomb he couldn’t let up on it.
‘Remarkably dry, considering,’ Julie said, returning.
The Burma Legacy Page 8
