by Kate Ryder
‘You don’t mind if I sit next to you two ladies, do you?’ Oliver asks.
‘Err... um...’ the woman stutters, looking like a startled rabbit caught in headlights.
The older woman opens her eyes. ‘No, dear, you park yourself there.’
Oliver sits down. The younger one stares at him, her face growing ever redder. Mousey-haired with pale blue eyes, arching eyebrows and high cheekbones, she could be quite attractive but there’s something about her as taut as a coiled spring.
‘You look just like…’ Her voice falters. ‘Are you…?’
Oliver’s lips form a thin smile. ‘I’d like to say no but I’d be lying.’
The older woman glances at him with interest.
‘Oliver Foxley,’ he says, introducing himself.
At this, the younger woman breaks into a sweat, her chest heaving expansively as if unable to take in enough air.
‘Gosh, it’s warm in here,’ she says, wiping her hand across her forehead. ‘I know underfloor heating is a good idea, especially at this time of year, but honestly!’
She can’t take her eyes off him and there’s something wild and strange in the pale blue eyes that survey him.
‘I’m Margaret,’ says the older woman, ‘and this is my niece, Sylvie.’
Oliver smiles politely.
At the front of the room Francoise rises from her mat and, instantly, a hush descends. All eyes are on her but for one pair. Acutely aware of the intense scrutiny coming his way, Oliver keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead.
‘Welcome, friends, old and new, to the Ngondro Retreat on beautiful Holy Isle,’ says their course leader, smiling at the group before her. ’Here you will gain a greater insight and understanding of your own particular spiritual journey. The retreat is run in accordance with the traditional way of practicing Ngondro, as taught by Drupon Rinpoche. For those of you who have newly joined us, we focus on the four ways of changing the mind with teachings and guided practice. The four ordinary foundations include appreciating how rare this human life is and how fortunate we are to have the freedom and opportunity to practice the Dharma. We reflect on the impermanence of everything in this world, especially the human body, and resolve not to waste time but to practise the Dharma right now. We reflect on how our thoughts, words and deeds create consequences for ourselves and those around us, and resolve to commit to a virtuous lifestyle. We also reflect on the suffering inherent in conditioned existence, or samsara, and see how Dharma practice is the best way to make use of this life.’
As she talks, Oliver becomes increasingly aware of the inspiring acoustics in the room.
What a wonderful space to perform in!
Glancing to his right, he sees that the younger woman is still staring at him.
Francoise continues, ‘I have spent over twelve years in retreat and specialise in the Vajrayana practices of Tibetan Buddhism, including the Ngondro.’ She pauses and looks round the room. ‘Perhaps our new participants would like to introduce themselves.’ She turns to a young woman sitting at the side of the hall.
Momentarily startled, the woman takes a deep breath. ‘Hello. My name is Jenny Harding. I’m a schoolteacher from Brighton.’
Francoise smiles encouragingly. ‘And what has brought you to Holy Isle, Jenny?’
‘Well, my boyfriend came here last year and his stories encouraged me to find out more for myself. We were hoping to come here together but he’s away travelling in India.’
‘Thank you for that, Jenny. Perhaps the fact that your boyfriend is currently in India indicates you are meant to start your spiritual journey alone.’ Francoise turns to a middle-aged man sitting immediately in front of her. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell us who you are and why you are here?’
There are four new participants in total. Finally it is Oliver’s turn. As he starts speaking, the young woman to his right leans forward eagerly.
‘My name is Oliver Foxley…’ The room erupts into good-natured laughter. It’s absurd for him to introduce himself; his is a household name. Oliver laughs too, comprehending the joke. ‘I make a living by giving form to many words – someone else’s words. I am expected to find and give meaning to these words, even when sometimes there is no meaning.’
The room is silent and Oliver wonders if he should stop there. What would the fall-out be if any of what he says finds its way into the press? Does he really care? He’s not so sure he does. He takes a deep breath. ‘As time goes by I find myself longing to hear and say words that mean something real, not just something I have to conjure up or create. Something bigger.’
The silence is a living being; pulsating, waiting…
‘I understand that you have practised Ngondro before,’ Francoise encourages softly.
‘Yes. Last year I spent a month on Holy Isle during which time I practised Ngondro. That experience left me wanting to expand my knowledge but it’s only now that I have found the time to do so.’
Francoise observes him with intelligent eyes. ‘It must be difficult finding the balance between your existence in the wider world and your personal beliefs.’
‘It can be,’ Oliver responds, liking her compassionate understanding.
‘Thank you for your honesty, Oliver. It can be difficult for all of us to keep spiritualism alive in a consumer-driven world, but it is achievable.’
Turning her attention to the other participants, Francoise says, ‘For those of you who are not undertaking the full course but have already embarked on Ngondro practice, if you are only here for a short period of time you can continue with the practice you are doing. The daily routine will consist of periods of group practice with most of your time devoted to individual practice, together with periods of silence.’
The hours pass quickly. Aware that the ‘grey mist’ is quiet and still, Oliver wonders whether these teachings are threatening its existence and reducing it to a non-consequential entity at the very edge of the kingdom in which it has reigned supreme for more than thirty years.
At lunch, he finds himself seated at a table with Margaret and Sylvie.
‘Is this your first visit to Holy Isle?’ he asks, making conversation.
The older woman shakes her head. ‘When I lived in Nottingham I used to attend every year, but I live in Vancouver now and it’s more complicated to arrange. This is my first visit in three years.’
‘And what about you, Sylvie?’ asks Oliver.
Staring at him, she mumbles, ‘My first visit.’
The young woman’s demeanour is still intense, despite the morning’s meditations. She has been close to him at every given opportunity and it occurs to Oliver that sharing a table is not mere coincidence. He listens politely as Sylvie informs him she is thirty-five, single, works in publishing and is a keen filmgoer. In fact, she discusses most of the films he has ever been in, regaling him with her knowledge of the actor. Wryly, Oliver thinks that if ever he needed a reminder of his filmography he would know who to ask. She seems pleasant enough, but needy, and each time they happen to bump into each other Oliver metaphorically rolls his eyes. At first, it’s just in the dining room or the library but then it becomes a little too obvious. When he chooses to walk the island by himself and she appears, seemingly, out of thin air, he knows it’s no coincidence.
‘Sylvie, you never told me you enjoyed walking,’ he teases, as he exits the Information Centre with leaflets in hand. God knows, she’s told him everything else about herself!
‘Oh, it’s such a beautiful day I couldn’t resist,’ she says, falling into step beside him. ‘You don’t mind if I join you?’
With long experience of satisfying the expectations of fans, Oliver charmingly acquiesces. ‘Please do, but I’m not doing the whole circuit, just going as far as the rock paintings.’
‘Oh, but that’s where I’m heading!’
Walking together, they pass an area of newly planted trees and climb past swathes of bracken and gorse, pausing to take in the beautiful view of Arran’s mountai
ns.
‘This is so special,’ Sylvie says turning towards him, her eyes shining.
Oliver acknowledges the truth in her statement, hoping it’s the atmosphere of the place that’s making her radiant and not some other misplaced emotion.
Following the western shore, they reach a sign indicating the cave where St Molaise lived. As Sylvie climbs the steps leading to the cave, Oliver opens a leaflet.
‘What does it say?’ she asks.
Oliver clenches his jaw. Why did he agree to share his walk with this woman?
‘It says, “The cave is situated about ten metres above the high-water mark and consists of an overhanging sandstone rock with a sunken stone floor. It is thought that in Molaise’s time much of the opening of the cave was closed up by a wall to keep the weather out.”’
‘Let’s take a look!’ Sylvie smiles down at him before disappearing inside the entrance.
Oliver sighs and follows. Carvings of simple crosses adorn the walls of the cave and an unusually designed cross is carved into the roof.
‘Perhaps these were made by pilgrims?’ suggests Sylvie.
Oliver glances at the leaflet again. ‘That’s what it says here. Apparently these are Norse runes and personal names.’ He walks to one of the runes and runs his fingers over it.
As he studies the ancient carvings, Oliver becomes increasingly aware of Sylvie invading his personal space. A wave of claustrophobia consumes him.
Placing her hand on his arm, Sylvie purrs, ‘What else does the leaflet say, Oliver?’
Every fibre in his body tells him to get the hell out of there, but Oliver steadies his nerves, hoping he’s not about to have a panic attack.
‘“In 1263, King Haakon of Norway brought a fleet of ships to the shelter of Lamlash Bay before fighting the Scots at the Battle of Largs. Vigleikr, one of his marshalls, went ashore at Holy Isle and cut runes with his name on the wall of St. Molaise’s cave.”’
Her fingers caress his arm and, swiftly, he steps away.
‘There’s a holy well a little further on I’d like to see,’ Oliver says.
He can sense her disappointment. Quickly, he exits the cave and heads off towards the well at which, for centuries, people have come to drink its cold, crystal-clear water for the healing powers it is said to have. Sylvie catches up with him.
‘What does the leaflet say about this?’ she asks, the purr in evidence again.
This calming walk is turning out to be anything but!
Opening the leaflet once more, Oliver reads aloud. ‘“The Healing Well, or Holy Well, is thought to cure ills and bring blessings. In the eighteenth century it was recorded that the natives used to drink and bathe in the well for all lingering ailments. The same source describes the water as gushing out of a rock. At the beginning of the twentieth century apparently there was a cistern present, built of masonry with a stone spout, which delivered the water.”’
He glances up to find Sylvie staring at him with fanatical lust.
Oliver rapidly continues, ‘It goes on to say, “The spring is overgrown now so you wouldn’t get more than a footbath from it but the water is still cold and clear, albeit does not meet current EU standards for drinking water.”’
The look in her eyes is feverish. She’s going to pounce.
‘So, Sylvie,’ he says hastily, ‘I trust you haven’t got any lingering ailments that need addressing?’
‘Wh-what?’ she stammers.
‘It’s not safe to drink the water. We wouldn’t want you to catch anything, now, would we?’ he teases.
Sylvie laughs nervously and bites her lip.
When she loses her intensity she really is quite attractive.
‘Come on, Sylvie,’ Oliver continues more gently, ‘let’s find those rock paintings.’
Chapter Six
Stopping to talk to a couple of friends, Ben nods frantically at something they say and then, holding drinks aloft, continues his journey through the sea of people towards their table. Cara sits opposite Morwenna, Tristan and his new girlfriend, Jane, enjoying the Gylly chilli, which has lived up to its reputation. Several other friends have come along to listen to the band and she’s relieved there are people around to dilute the intensity of Ben’s attentions. She likes him and he’s a good friend, but that’s where it ends.
‘What a crush!’ Ben exclaims, sitting heavily on the seat beside her and handing her a glass of wine. ‘Here you are, babe.’
Babe! Again…
With his arm draped casually round his girlfriend’s shoulders, Tristan winks at Cara. She arches an eyebrow in response.
The popular band from St Ives is loud, and it’s hard to be heard above the enthusiastic crowd. The music is a mix of jazz/blues with a rock element and the four lads have a loyal following, particularly in their home county. It’s a good turnout and the café is packed.
As Ben bounces along the seat moving closer, Cara wonders why he always reminds her of an over-enthusiastic puppy.
‘It’s great you got a babysitter, Cara. You should try and get out more often. If you like, we could do this on a regular basis.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ she says. ‘I was lucky my mother could look after the kids at short notice.’
‘I’ll give you more notice next time, then you can plan ahead.’ Ben grins at her.
Cara stares at him in dismay. He’s either particularly thick-skinned or clueless. She looks up as a tall, young man with ginger hair approaches their table.
‘Ben, didn’t know you were here, mate!’
‘Hey! When did you get back?’ Ben asks enthusiastically.
The newcomer parks himself heavily next to Ben, causing the seat to bounce again and Cara to spill her drink. As everyone shuffles along to accommodate the extra body, Ben turns to his friend and Cara takes the opportunity to escape his suffocating attentions. It’s short-lived. Putting his arm round her, Ben boisterously pulls Cara into the conversation, making her wine slop over the rim of the glass once again. Placing the glass carefully on the table, Cara shakes the liquid from her hand.
‘Cara, this is Kev, an old university pal.’
She smiles politely.
Kev stares, open-mouthed. ‘Ben, you old son of a gun, you never told me you had such a babe on your arm!’
‘Cara’s a good friend,’ Ben says, reddening.
Raising his beer bottle in salute, Kev smirks. ‘Well, here’s to good friends.’
As Ben and his friend get into an earnest conversation about surfing, Cara switches off. She’s heard all the discussions she could ever wish to hear about the best techniques and the various subtleties of waves, but that was in a previous life when she thought she had all the time in the world to indulge Christo’s hobby. She wanted to be part of that scene… with him. Now, she has no wish to go near a surfboard ever again. It would feel like a betrayal knowing that her wonderful boy of the sea was no longer able to share the experience with her.
With the weight of Ben’s arm on her shoulders, Cara is at the mercy of his expansive movements. Everything he does seems to be louder and bigger than necessary and she wonders what possessed her to accept his invitation. As she removes his hand from her shoulder, Ben briefly pauses in his enthusiastic debate to give her an inquisitive look, but the next minute Kev has diverted his attention. Cara glances across the table at Tristan and his girlfriend. They seem to be getting on well. She’s met Jane a few times before and likes her ready laugh and wicked sense of humour. Christo always despaired of Tristan’s choice of girlfriend – mainly airhead surfer chicks – but she thinks he would have approved of this woman with backbone. Will this be the turning point for their friend?
‘How are your children?’ Jane asks, raising her voice and leaning across the table.
‘Well, thanks. Beth has discovered a passion for ponies.’
‘Ah yes, girls and their ponies tend to evolve into women and their horses. Once the joy of equus is discovered, boys and men tend not to get a look in, poor l
oves! What about Sky? What hobbies does he have?’
Cara smiles. ‘Sky has such a sunny nature, he just loves being out on the beach with his dog. Keeping him entertained indoors during the winter months is quite a challenge but he’s developed an interest in painting.’
‘I think both your children are lovely, Cara,’ Jane says sincerely. ‘It’s difficult to talk here. Perhaps you’d like to meet up for coffee sometime?’
‘That would be great,’ Cara responds warmly.
‘Hey, come on, babe. Let’s dance!’ Ben interrupts their conversation. Without waiting for an answer, he grabs Cara’s hand and pulls her along the seat. Jane laughs out loud.
Finding a space directly in front of the band, Ben jiggles wildly and Cara stifles a laugh. He’s so enthusiastic in everything he does. Soon the beat of the music takes over and she rocks along with the crowd. For the first time in a very long time Cara feels an internal shift; a glimpse of happiness peeping through the crack of an opening door and a whisper of times to come. Suddenly she is unceremoniously spun around. On her second circuit, she catches sight of Tristan and Jane holding each other close, swaying to their own rhythm. And then Morwenna is beside her, successfully preventing Ben from spinning her a third time. Linking arms and smiling sweetly at Ben, together they dance; sisters united. He frowns, then, shrugging good-naturedly, joins in with the two women.
It’s an enjoyable evening and when they finally spill out of the café into the cold night air, everyone is in good spirits. A strong, cold wind blows in off the sea and the sound of pounding surf speaks of an angry tide, fully in. Standing in a circle, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands, the friends hunch into their jackets.
‘You know Ben’s got the hots for you,’ Tristan whispers to Cara as he wraps her in a warm hug.
‘I know,’ she groans.
‘Don’t do anything you don’t want to!’ He squeezes her tightly and she laughs, suddenly embarrassed.
‘Don’t forget coffee,’ Jane says, raising an imaginary phone to her ear.
‘Come on, you guys, it’s freezing out here!’ exclaims Ben, bouncing up and down.
