“I’ll make it up to you,” he continued. We’d better lie low for a bit – while this business is going on. I’ll phone you in a couple of days’ time, at home.”
From a professional viewpoint, the day went well. My piece on Dr Newell had been well received; there was even a congratulatory memo from the Editor. Nonetheless, I felt a lassitude and restlessness. In odd moments, I felt something else, an emotion of sadness and pain that seemed to centre around my mid-chest. It had been a long ten years on the paper. Where had the time gone? I kept remembering Dr Newell’s words: “Professionalism is a great refuge, isn’t it? But it’s not enough.”
Dr Newell telephoned me during the morning. He sounded relieved. He said, “I just wanted you to know, you’ve done a very nice job, Joanna. I could not have asked for more. I’m going to have to face the consequences now. Don’t mention this call to your colleagues. I’m being put incommunicado.” I reminded him that he was welcome to telephone me at any time, at work or at home, if I could be of help in any way.
I was keen to talk to Alex. I was worried that he might be taking drugs. But I had no opportunity, as he had been sent to Newcastle on a story. When I arrived home I left a message at Alex’s flat, asking him to call me. As I waited for the call I took up the journal. It had become a refuge, and one that I hoped would sustain me better than the increasingly insubstantial refuge of doing my job well. Anna was beginning to feel like a friend. And I was curious to know more about Julian.
9 September
Mark was moved deeply by the rehearsal. He took my hand and looked at me so lovingly, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Darling, that was wonderful. I’m overwhelmed. You have heart and soul and an extraordinary mind. I’ve never known anyone like you. Your play was a revelation. I had no idea. You write with a depth of meaning – things that have made me stop and think about what I’m doing with my life.”
I felt elated. Mark understands why I write plays. That means so much to me. I said, “I want to write work that’s of value, of use. There are so many things I care about, things I feel helpless about and can’t change. I want to make a difference. I want to use words to change lives. Does that sound vain?” Mark doesn’t think so. We talked about the terrible news from Ethiopia, the television pictures, night after night, of people dying of starvation. I said, “Once we know about the suffering and need, giving money isn’t enough. We have to respond personally.”
I tried to explain about Julian, my experience in her cell and the powerful realization that I can no longer turn away. Mark looked rather taken aback and asked, “Road to Damascus job, d’you mean?” I’m not sure I explained it clearly, but I can’t explain it clearly to myself. All this change is coming so quickly. Mark took my hand and said, “I don’t really understand, but I do know what I feel. And the strongest feelings I’ve ever had are for you. I’m in love with you.”
I felt overjoyed and filled with happiness. My heart seemed to open up and I felt such tenderness for him. I said, “I love you, too.” Smiling broadly, Mark said, “I’m a lucky man. We have something worth working for.”
I remained seated at the table while Mark went to collect his car, to drive me home. I suddenly felt as though I were being observed. I glanced around the restaurant. Most of the other occupants looked as though they were on lunch breaks from their offices; nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
As we left the restaurant, a man who was just replacing the receiver in a telephone booth near the front door glanced our way. Surely – but no, it couldn’t be… I fancied that it was the same man who had driven past me as I walked towards the Julian Centre. Mark and I were almost through the door, so I couldn’t turn to look at the man again. My overactive imagination was playing tricks on me. I must be careful. If I give Mark the impression that I am over-emotional or fanciful, it may put him off.
I hardly dare to believe Mark loves me. At last I can plan for the future, plan a life that’s happy and fulfilled. Everything is possible now. I think so much happiness might just be too much to bear. Mark has asked me to go with him on a business trip to Cornwall. Suddenly, time – which has spread before me like an empty ocean – is too small a space to accommodate all my meetings with Mark and a busy rehearsal schedule.
As for Julian – there seems to be no time for her at all. Julian belongs to quiet, introspective hours spent alone, when I have shut out the harsh light and noise of the everyday world, to step into a peaceful, silent space where my too-timid soul can emerge and be free. But Julian, my companion of the lucid hours, still calls me softly to her. So I will make the time to return to her. Encountering Julian has felt like having an injection of some substance that has gone into my bloodstream and changed me, in my heart, in my mind, in my cells even. But how has it changed me, and what has it changed me to? I can’t say.
Late evening is Julian’s time. And it was in the late evening that I took up Julian’s book. I knew I had very little chance of understanding the original Middle English, but I wanted to see how much I could grasp of her own words. I soon had to give up and turn to a modern translation, by Father John-Julian, an American contemplative monk. As I read, I was dazzled. Perhaps the love I feel for Mark has softened my heart, or fortified it, to take in the wealth and depth of magical, profound beauty of meaning in Julian’s book. I have found simplicity and complexity, a treasure house of wisdom and a profundity that calls for deep, intense analysis. I recognize the fruits of a powerful intellect that stayed its own brilliance to perform a professional task of eye-witness reporting, with all the faithful, rigorous attention to detail that requires. I have a sense of a personality who was faithful, courageous, self-effacing, generous and transparently honest. Julian’s book fills my mind with images and questions. The more I learn about Julian, the more I desire to know.
I want to know Julian, the real person. So much that we think we know is only someone else’s version of events: what else is history, after all? And how often does history betray those whom it promises to reveal? Facts alone cannot be relied upon to reveal the truth. Imagination, it seems to me, is a more reliable interpreter.
Who was this woman who sidestepped the restrictions of her time, to create the conditions she needed to fulfil her mission? Julian needed space, to contemplate and consider the meaning of her visions. She needed independence, to live without answering to others. She needed privacy, to compose her book without outside knowledge or interference. She needed to be outside the system and yet an accepted part of it. She needed to pose no threat to anyone powerful. Most of all, to the men who ran the society in which she lived, she needed to appear to be under control.
But even as I search for clues, one thing is expressed so clearly in Julian’s book that I cannot ignore it. She asks us to forget her and to focus upon God. Was it too fanciful to imagine that the destruction of the church by a German bomber had been intended to limit speculation and discourage attempts to discover Julian’s origins – and perhaps even make a shrine of her burial place? Intriguingly, a few hours earlier, an unknown young woman had taken her paints and easel to the church and made the only picture of it that exists. Julian was probably buried in the original church, but now we shall never know.
I was gratified to see that Anna was at last back on Julian’s trail. Now I hoped she would guide me into Julian’s treasure house. I, who had always cherished books, was being drawn towards a book I had never read, never held, but wanted to read more than any other. I understood what Anna felt about Julian, because I, too, was beginning to feel a gentle, irresistible attraction. Something was moving and changing in my life.
The telephone rang. To my relief, it was Alex. He was just back from Newcastle and sounded on good form.
“How did the story go?” I asked.
“Great. Great story.”
“How are you?”
“Great. Fine. You?”
“Fine. I’ve been worried about you. You sounded weird the other night.”
“Oh, I w
as just pissed. I hit another bottle when I got home.”
“It didn’t sound that way.”
“I’m a bit weird when I’m really pissed!”
“Alex…”
“Jo, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Are you OK? I hear Smoothie-Chops is going to be on Newsnight.”
“Yes. I’m about to switch on. See you tomorrow.”
I turned on the television and heard the opening credits for Newsnight. They were leading on the illegal arms story. Patrick’s interview came about ten minutes into the programme, after a package giving the background to the story: Indonesia’s illegal occupation of East Timor, now in its twenty-sixth year, and the continued collusion of the UK and the US, despite ten United Nations resolutions calling upon Indonesia to withdraw. There was an interview with José Ramos Horta, East Timor’s roving ambassador. There was some library footage that was several years old, but no recent footage, since journalists were not allowed into East Timor.
For once, Patrick’s confidence had been misplaced. He took quite a bruising. As he might have put it, he was on a losing wicket. The government’s position was indefensible. It had been caught out in flagrant contravention of its own avowed ethical foreign policy. The Foreign Secretary had made a false statement to the House of Commons – in anyone’s terms, a resigning matter.
Patrick fudged around the issue, claiming that ministers had been let down by their civil servants. There had been massive errors in communication, he said: the wrong message had been conveyed. There was no substance to claims that Indonesia was using British arms to suppress the East Timorese. The blame for the miscommunication lay with a senior civil servant. He did not name Dr Newell as being at fault, but implied that he had in some way failed to be as rigorous as he ought to have been. Certainly, Dr Newell ought not to have spoken publicly, which was a grave dereliction of duty, said Patrick. His outburst, as Patrick described it, had put the country’s security at risk. He did not say from which source, and I could not imagine that the East Timorese were about to let loose a campaign of retribution on UK soil.
The tough questioning to which he was subjected could not budge Patrick to say anything further. He would not explain why Dr Newell was not available for interview. The government was investigating and it would be improper to make any further comment until that investigation was complete. That was the official line and there it stayed. The government was bound to be given a rough ride in Parliament the following day, but Patrick’s performance suggested that it intended to tough it out.
It had not been Patrick’s finest hour. I had to admit it. I knew Dr Newell to be a man of integrity who had spoken out because his conscience had prompted him to do so. He had done the right thing. And Patrick? I was disappointed in him. As for me, I had come very close to the line. This new twist – the government’s denial and sullying of Dr Newell’s name – made me uncomfortable about being part of it all. In less than one week my life had been turned around, my conscience put on the line. Had I been blind or half asleep to be so careless of the dangers of the world I inhabited? Anna, who shared my desire to write words that would change lives, and the mysterious Julian, were making me question myself. And so, tired as I was and weary of the day, I had to return to one of the few things in my life that still made sense – Anna’s journal.
30 September
I have two lives: my outer life with Mark and all the excitement of a passionate love affair. Then there is my inner life, with Julian, the intimate companion of my quiet hours. Sometimes I wonder why the repose in my heart comes when I am alone with Julian and her book and not when I am with my beloved. It is my failing, of course, my inability to believe and accept that the great gift of his love is mine. It is I who create the invisible veil between us – or perhaps there is always such a veil between lovers. For who can dare to be as close as breathing? It is terrifying. The coming together of flesh and surrender of one-ness is peril and adventure enough. I long for and yet shrink from the intimacy that puts me soul to soul with my lover, such nakedness, such vulnerability. Is it always like this, for everybody?
Mark could not do more to allay my fears. He is a most attentive lover, telephoning at least once a day, even while busy and far away. I am baffled by his perception of me as dazzling and glamorous. I have always known myself to be a quiet little mouse. “It’s always exciting seeing you,” he told me yesterday. “I’m always discovering something new about you to love.”
Imperceptibly, it is Mark who is taking over my life, leaving Julian at the outer limits. My busy rehearsal schedule has to be amended continually, so that we can meet. Mark’s working life is so unpredictable, with unexpected business meetings causing him to change our plans with little warning. He is always travelling and hardly ever at his flat. Our trip to Cornwall sealed our commitment to one another. We stayed in a little hotel overlooking the sea. While Mark was occupied with his meetings I spent my time walking along the endless beach, which unfolded before me in promise of the years we will spend together. I imagined us walking, arm in arm, towards the ends of our lives, content and at peace to be small and insignificant upon the vast canvas of land, sea and sky.
Sometimes I again had the uneasy sensation that I was being observed. But there was rarely anyone in sight; just occasionally a car parked up on the headland, facing towards the sea. Each evening we dined in a restaurant at the water’s edge, the smiles and caresses we exchanged when we had no need of words telling us everything about our love for each other. When we walked together, hand in hand, the length of the beach, under the stars, I felt that we, too, had our place in the universe, a place that belonged entirely to us, like every one of the millions of worlds whose far-distant splendour lit our way. When we made love, it was as passionate, exciting and joyous as I had dreamed it could be. I am completely happy and more fulfilled that I ever imagined possible.
4 October
London seems too big and too loud. Mark’s work schedule is more frenetic than ever, with a great deal of travelling. And rehearsals are occupying even more of my time. But nothing can keep us apart. We spend every moment we possibly can together. I am finding the need for clothes of a kind I have never worn before. Last week Mark instructed me to “get my glad rags on” for a charity event at the Savoy Hotel, one of London’s grandest.
12 October
The grand life suits me. It’s a great surprise. I treated myself to a black strapless sheath dress of jersey silk. It is very beautiful. A diamanté buckle at the top right of the bodice holds in place a sweeping trail of the soft jersey fabric, which folds over my shoulder and undulates gently as I walk. I had my hair put up by a hairdresser, and for once the unmanageable curls came into their own, a carefully selected few spilling out to frame and soften my face. The lipstick I chose was a vibrant red. In my cowardly way, I chose a softer pink for my nails, which were manicured professionally. The reflection I saw in the mirror was of an attractive, sophisticated woman. Where had she come from? Where had she been hiding for the whole of my life? I glowed with love, from being loved. In the intimacy of making love to my beloved, had some essence entered me – as he had entered me, leaving behind his essence, gleaming and glistening upon my skin – an essence that had suffused me to cast upon my skin a delicate, shimmering glow?
I never thought that I could play the part of consort, of the pampered woman, whose appearance, expensive to maintain, was well worth the money and effort. I never thought I could walk into a grand room, full of grand people, on the arm of a man who was clever, witty, sophisticated and accepted in such company, and be introduced as his equal. I never thought I could keep pace with such people – though intellectually I had nothing to fear – with their knowledge of the world and their easy familiarity with the trappings money and position bring. This was another world and a far distant one from my modest childhood in a northern town and my adult experience of dusty academia. From Mark’s behaviour, you would have thought he was accompanying some celebrated
sophisticate. He introduced me as a well-known writer and theatre director. One or two people even pretended to have heard of me; that amused me, because they could not possibly have done, since I am small fry. We danced together. Mark moved beautifully and took me with him, so that I seemed to move beautifully as well. I was Cinderella at the ball and I wanted the evening never to end. After the party we walked, hand in hand, along the Embankment. We sat on a bench and looked across the River Thames.
I thought Mark seemed a little sad. He told me he wanted to sell his company in five years’ time. He said, “Then you and I can sail away, just the two of us, and leave everything behind.” He began to sing, looking into my eyes, “’Are the stars out tonight’… ” He finished the song and said quietly, “I do love you, you know.”
We remained there, Mark’s arm around my shoulders, for several minutes. A sudden breeze rippled the water and made me shiver. Was someone watching us, away in the shadows beneath the trees? Why do I keep having this feeling of being observed? I turned towards Mark. He was looking at me with an expression of concern and worry. I asked if he was all right. He put his jacket around my shoulders, saying of course he was and that everything was fine. But I sense that he’s worried about something. He never talks about his work, but I know it causes him a great deal of stress. His old Army contacts turn up from time to time, sometimes asking for money, he says. Mark is a generous friend and helps them out when he can. Once this play is over, I shall take time off, so that we can see each other more easily.
19 October
Yet another rushed lunch, stolen from a day of meetings, gave us hardly time to eat and to make love. But my desire, like Mark’s, was too strong to resist. As he turned to walk away from me, and down the three flights to the front door of the block, I felt as though a part of me were going with him. I heard the entrance door close behind him and went to my window to watch him drive away. As his car turned the corner, to leave the square, my eyes were drawn back to the tall trees in the park, with their abundant autumnal crowns of russets and golds. Someone was looking up at my window. As I caught his glance, he quickly turned and walked away. It was the same man! The man I had seen in Norwich and again in the restaurant. I was suddenly fearful. What does he want, this intruder into my life? I have left a message for Mark at his hotel in Birmingham. I hope he rings me soon. I have just come in to find a message saying he will come to rehearsal tomorrow.
The Greening Page 8
