Julian was told in her vision that God allows us to sin and will not punish us for it, and that the worse our sin, the greater our glory and honour in heaven. I find this so puzzling and perplexing. And so did Julian. She asked Jesus, during the vision, how it could be true. Eventually, though, she set aside her doubts and accepted a promise that everything would be explained by a Great Deed, to be performed by God “in the last day”.
How hard must it have been for Julian, after a lifetime’s dedication to interpreting her visions, to set down her failure to reach a satisfying conclusion? How hard must it have been, when her intellect remained unsatisfied, to report faithfully and to resist the temptation to trim the facts to make them fit her limited human understanding? She had not been so afraid that she had to cling desperately to what she knew.
I am reminded why I admire Julian so much and know I can trust her as my guide. Her moral courage is beyond question. She followed what she intuitively knew to be right, to carry out her demanding and dangerous mission. But I cannot hope to match her courage. My intellect has always been my bedrock, refuge and guide. And if God was never angry with me and never blamed me, why do I feel so tainted and unworthy? What must I do? The doubt and worry come rushing in, against my will. “Hope lies through and beyond despair…” I have come into Julian’s territory. But do I dare to brave the darkness?
Mark is as loving as ever, but an oppressive cloud hangs over us. I no long feel easy and comfortable with him. He accepts that I will not sleep with him again until he is free. He constantly assures me that he will make everything come right. His wife is as unhappy as he is, but there are complications that he cannot explain. He asks me to trust him. “Darling, I won’t let you down, I promise you,” he tells me time and time again. I ache to know more about his marriage, but he says he is bound by other people’s confidences. He needs me to be patient for a little longer.
I feel as though a great weight has descended upon my shoulders. My life is spinning out of control. After my play has been staged in two weeks’ time, Mark wants me to go with him to Ireland. I will go, but he knows I won’t sleep with him and says he doesn’t expect me to.
As we parted today, he stood at my door and kissed me. Then he held me close and buried his head in my neck and kissed me again, near the vulnerable spot at the nape. But as his lips touched my skin I was moving away; quickly I realized, and moved back into the embrace, trying to recapture the moment – but it was gone. He had drawn back and was walking down the stairs. He turned to smile and call out, as he always does when we part, “We’ll speak on the phone.”
The sky is darkening. The afternoons seem to draw to a close very quickly and suddenly each day. I shall light one of my heavy white candles. As I look into the flame’s golden heart I wonder why I feel that Julian is drawing me to her, when she has made it clear that she does not want to be found.
I look from my window to the inky-blue sky in the far distance, with its pale, glazed clouds and soft foreshadowing of night. I feel lost and adrift, with no bearings or compass. But I must not give way to despair. I must be disciplined and concentrate on my work – my work, which has always held me steady above life’s stormy seas. I have unearthed a wealth of material about Julian, but I am not yet sure that I have the makings of a play. I hope I have not taken on more than I can handle. For I am beginning to realize that this is more than the search for a lady lost in time and space. My quest is for the Holy Grail itself.
As I travelled to work the following morning I thought again about the odd way Patrick had behaved the previous evening. He had said things that made no sense. Perhaps he had been drinking. My world no longer seemed to fit together coherently. It felt like a glass globe containing a snowstorm, which someone had picked up and shaken hard. Everything, including myself, was unsettled and out of place.
At mid-morning, Alex and I found time to go out for a coffee.
“Look, Jo, something very weird is going on. I think Masterton is involved. I’ve talked to Imran. Someone put pressure on his uncle, someone in our government. He was threatened. It was very serious. He was in fear for his life. The price demanded was that Imran resign from his job.”
“That’s preposterous! Talk about conspiracy theories!”
“Jo, it happened. You are not to tell a soul. I’m telling you because I think you need to protect yourself.”
“From Patrick? Is that what you’re saying?”
“He’s using you, Jo. He’s a very dangerous man. Get free of him.”
“Why should anyone in the government care about Imran? It’s ridiculous.”
“He was a journalist that they could easily pick off. It was spite.”
“And the Editor went along with this?”
“He takes his orders from Sharkey, you know that.” Rex Sharkey was the proprietor of Transglobal Media Corporation, which owned the Correspondent.
“Wheels-within-wheels – that’s what Milo said.” I recalled Patrick’s strange remark about so-called Brits with their own agenda. I realized, suddenly, that what Alex was telling me might be true. Was that why I was taken off the story? Because I had made it sympathetic to Dr Newell? That made no sense; my piece had been published. I was in shock. What should I do?
That evening I rang Patrick at his flat. It was too risky to meet in town. I said it was important and he gave me the address of a friend’s house in Guildford, an hour’s drive south of London. His friend was away. We arranged to meet there late that evening. While I waited for the time to pass, I read the journal.
13 November
The past few days have been busy, too busy. I have begun to feel unwell. I’m finding the days too long and am tiring quickly and having difficulty concentrating. Mark is away again. He must be particularly busy because he hasn’t called for a couple of days. I hope everything’s all right.
14 November
I feel certain something is wrong. Perhaps he has had an accident. I’ve rung him at his flat but there’s no reply. Now that I know it’s just a pied-á-terre and not his home, I suppose that’s not surprising. I can only wait.
15 November
I am turning to you, my absent friend, the kind and patient reader of my journal. I wish you were real. I wish I could ask you to come and comfort me, for I am so alone.
16 November
It’s over. This morning I called Mark at his office. He sounded his usual self. I asked if we could make arrangements for our trip to Ireland. He replied in a formal manner, saying I was welcome to come if I would like to. Then it all came spilling out. I was engulfed by a vast, terrifying torrent of pain and fury that shocked me into silence. He was desperately unhappy. He was locked into a marriage from which he could not escape. They each left a previous partner to be together. He said, “I know what pain that causes. There’s no way I can put her and myself through that emotional devastation. The trauma she’s been through is unbelievable. There’s no way I can let her down.”
The marriage has never been happy. Mark can’t have children and he feels guilty because his wife agreed to stay with him during her childbearing years. The underlying tensions of years came to a head just before we met. When I found my voice, I asked, “What about you and me?” He said, “I don’t know if there can be a ‘you and me’. It’s going to be virtually impossible, certainly in the immediate future. We’ve been having marriage counselling for the past few months. How can I leave her now?”
I tried to keep my head and calm him, fearful that he was slipping away from me. He says he loves me and wants to be with me but has no choice. It’s insane. Of course he has a choice. The thing I most feared has happened. I dared to believe I was being offered something wonderful and, as always, it has been snatched away.
He copes by talking to Jasper, his dog, and crying it all out. I felt a passionate pity and sadness for the wretchedness of his life, intermingled with hope and fear. He talked to me about his childhood, how he had felt abandoned by his mother when he was sent aw
ay to school. He said, “I can’t deal with feelings. I put them into a box. It’s the only way I can cope with them. I have to see things in black and white. If I don’t, I get swamped and I can’t function. I’ve always lived my life this way, when I was at school and at university, always, since I was nine, when I decided I would never let a woman hurt me again.” We have to talk. He agrees we have to talk. We’re meeting on Thursday.
An hour has passed since our conversation and I’m still trembling. I feel very afraid that I’m about to lose something I desire and need very much. When we meet I shall have to be terribly careful to say the right thing.
17 November
Mark has cancelled lunch. He said he had to take his Land Rover to the garage. I slammed down the receiver. In utter misery, I stared at the telephone. I walked out of the flat, down the stairs and into the street. I must have walked some three miles. I found myself in a little park, where I sat on a bench and stared into the distance. Every bad feeling of loss and abandonment visited me there. I feel I have been torn away from the warmth and comfort of a pair of arms that once longed to hold me, as I long to be held. It is over. Love came to my door and I failed to welcome it and make it want to stay. The pain goes deep. It cuts like a tourniquet. Mark is pushing me away and the chance of happiness will not come again. I feel bereft and worthless.
What a rat. That was my immediate thought. I felt desperately sorry for Anna. She had trusted and hoped for so much. She deserved far better. Reading Anna’s confessional had made me feel nervous and out of sorts. Now I wondered what I could hope for from Patrick. Had he somehow arranged for Imran to be fired? It seemed preposterous. I had to know the truth. How would I broach the subject? Was Patrick dangerous? Did he love me? I prayed that he did, that we would get through this difficult time and that we had a future together.
It was late when I arrived in Guildford for my rendezvous with Patrick, past 10:30. The house was in a quiet residential area and approached through wrought-iron gates. I parked my car on the driveway, next to Patrick’s BMW.
He opened the door and kissed me. “Hello, darling. It’s lovely to see you. It’s been a long time.” It had been a few days, but it did feel like a long time.
Patrick poured me a drink. He seemed familiar with the house. He said, “We’ve got the place for as long as we like. John’s away all week. And I’ve got the night off.” He came towards me and took me in his arms.
I said, “No, Patrick. We’ve got to talk. I can’t go on like this.” It was going to be difficult. I had to keep my promise to Alex. Was Patrick dangerous? The situation had become too confusing, my work life and private life hopelessly entangled. I felt as though I was becoming two separate people. I said, “We see the world differently.”
He looked at me coolly and said, “We do. But it’s been fun, hasn’t it?”
“Fun?”
“Admit it. It’s been fun.”
“I thought it was more than that.”
“Oh come on, Jo. We’ve had fun. Life is boring so much of the time, for both of us. Lighten up. We’ve had a good time.”
“Is that all there is?”
“Well, what more do you want? Do you want to be like my wife? A couple of years with me and you’d be like her – complaining bitterly that you didn’t get what you expected. I’m good at what I do. I’m not good husband material. And your little overactive socialist conscience would be prodding away at me all the time. It wouldn’t be fun any more.”
I saw in that moment that I had meant nothing to Patrick. How had I been so deluded? Now that I had forced him to show his hand, it was empty. There was nothing there for me. I seemed to be seeing him for the first time. Was it true? Had he arranged for Imran’s uncle to be threatened?
There must have been something in my expression that he did not like, because suddenly his face changed. Had he guessed that I suspected him?
He said, “Don’t get any ideas, sweetie, there’s a good girl. You’ve a great career ahead of you. Pity to ruin it.”
Tears came to my eyes. I turned and walked unsteadily to the door. Patrick caught up with me. He took hold of me, and caressed my neck lightly. “Queen and country, darling. That’s the code. Never forget it.”
I moved away from his touch. He said, “Don’t worry, darling. I never leave fingerprints.”
In tears, I ran to the door and from the house. I revved up the engine of my car and drove as fast as I dared into the night. I was grateful to be back in the sanctuary of my home. I was broken-hearted. Everything I had dreamed of had crumbled in ruins. There would be no sleep that night. I took up the journal.
18 November
I am in turmoil. Mark doesn’t want to see me. Suddenly he has gone and perhaps I will never see him again. The thought tears me apart. Why did he fob me off so cruelly yesterday? Why hasn’t he called me back? Why is he doing this to me? Who can help me now, when the one I love the most has withdrawn from me?
19 November
I have turned again to Julian, and read “He did not say, ‘You shall not be tempest-tossed, you shall not be work-weary, you shall not be discomforted.’ But he said, ‘You shall not be overcome.’ God wants us to heed those words so that we shall always be strong in trust, both in sorrow and in joy.”
As morning has passed I have gained energy. Mark has broken my heart, but I know he did not mean to. I see that blaming and judging him only adds to my pain. None of the hurtful things he has done were done with the intention of hurting me. Having relinquished the need to blame or judge, I begin to feel calmer. I find that I am in a different space and I realize that he may have had good reason to cancel our lunch; he uses the Land Rover to draw the horse box when he and his wife attend riding events. Getting angry has clouded the vital issue of our future happiness.
My dream about Julian has given me a depth of perspective and an understanding that anger is self-defeating. I am governed and limited by fear – fear of not being loved by the people whose love I desperately need – and by memories of the times when the love I needed was not there. When I am fearful, it is anger that comes out. I have always played safe, choosing the sheltered path and taking refuge in high-minded principles that have no root in true morality. Now I am challenged, and I understand that the right path can be as narrow and painful as a razor’s edge. But there has always been an alternative road and there have always been good reasons to take it. For every opportunity I have been given to become something more, there have been several invitations to become something less. I feel this pain is washing through me and stripping me bare. I see that through my choices I have created the person I have become. I feel I have been living a false identity. Is it imagined or real – this sense I have that there is someone who desires that I should be no less than all I really am?
12 December
It has been a while since I have felt able to write in my journal. A great deal has happened. Mark phoned and said he loved me and wanted to see me but would be away on business for a few weeks. He sounded distraught. He suddenly became angry with me. I have never known such pain as this. It drains me of my strength. I feel savagely alone.
13 December
We have spoken again. He says he’s sorry he’s hurt me and that he lacked the courage to be open and honest with me. He’s torn and doesn’t know what to do. He told me about the difficulties he feels are insurmountable, his guilt because he’s been with his wife during her childbearing years but couldn’t give her a child. He said, “My wife and I have been to hell and back together, but I have no choice or freedom of action. My wife’s had a lot of problems. There are things I can’t tell you about, terrible things. I have to sort out the problems in my life.” A further complication is that his father-in-law has put money into his company. He intends to repay him but can’t do so at present. He asked me to meet him for lunch in the new year. I feel a huge sense of relief, knowing that I will see Mark again. At the moment, that’s all I have.
Christmas Eve
Suddenly, for no reason, perhaps just because it is Christmas, a time when one remembers childhood, there comes to my mind a gift I received from my grandmother when I was seven, a book called The Isle of Wirrawoo. My grandmother had what seemed to me a treasury of old books. There they all were, some on shelves too high for me to reach, beautiful books with covers of Victorian and Edwardian design. There was something mysterious about their inaccessibility, the secret, closed worlds contained within their covers. It seemed to me that every secret there ever had been was hidden, somewhere, in a book. If I could read every book I would learn everything there was to know.
I imagined that they told stories of exciting adventures, of journeys to far-distant places and of the pleasures of summer-hazed afternoons when time stood still. I loved fairy stories, magic, tales about strange creatures, mystery and adventure. The Isle of Wirrawoo looked promising. The cover illustration showed a little girl in a place that was filled with luxuriant, exotic plants and trees, and among them glimpses of the furry muzzles and tails of wild and extraordinary creatures. In the background, a long way in the distance, was a mountain, upon which the sun was setting.
The Greening Page 10
