Aunt Sarah's Slippering: and other short stories

by Stanlegh Meresith

  A car hooted behind him, and he was obliged to move on.

  He drove aimlessly. His mind was a morass of jealous rage, flipping from the agony of picturing Helen and Sir Cyril cavorting in lewd obscenity to the brutal ecstasy of he, Herbert, wreaking an awful revenge.

  After two hours, a cold fury took hold and he headed back to work. Approaching his office door, he heard a secretary call out, "Maisy? Sir Cyril wants those letters now."

  Without a moment's pause, Cyril marched down the corridor to the door of his boss' office. Throwing it open, and ignoring Sir Cyril's surprised, "What the ...?" Herbert strode over to the desk, grabbed the lewd statuette by its bronze base, and raised it high. His eyes bulging, he yelled, "You utter bastard!" and brought the figurine down with a hugely satisfying thump onto the adulterer's forehead.

  Sir Cyril's eyes slid upwards as he slumped in his chair, unconscious. But Herbert was in a frenzy. He struck again and again, shouting and crying, "Bastard! Bastard!" until spots of the blood streaming from the gaping wounds in Sir Cyril's head began to spatter his face.

  Breathing heavily, his hands sticky and red, Herbert dropped the weapon, turned and left. He brushed past a shocked Maisy and walked quickly down to the car park.

  His head felt light as he drove home. Unprepared as yet to face the awful implications of what he had done, he inhabited a strangely satisfied limbo. He even hummed softly to himself, and, as he approached Acacia Avenue, found himself experiencing that same tingle of pleasant anticipation that he had felt all those years ago, coming home after work to his beautiful new bride. Oh Helen, Helen, he thought, why didn't we...

  His foot stamped on the brake; the car screeched to a halt. He gaped in horror.

  There, parked before his house, was the silver Rolls Royce. As he sat, staring in confusion, he saw his front door open and a man step out.

  It was Simpson. He was buckling his belt.

  The Sound of One Hand Clapping

  Home at last! Sarah reached into her bag for the front door key and let herself in.

  "Whew! It's so hot out there!" she muttered. The cool of the hallway felt delicious.

  She dumped the bag by the elephant-skin umbrella stand (one of many curious heirlooms dotted around her boyfriend's mews house) and kicked off her high heels.

  "Charlie?"

  Oops! She'd forgotten again - he didn't like her calling him Charlie. Ever since he'd taken up this spiritual lark, he'd insisted on 'Charles' - it was, he said, his true name. Trouble was, she missed the Charlie who hadn't taken himself so seriously.

  "Charles?" she called correctly.

  No reply. He was probably in his meditation room. Sighing, Sarah went into the living-room, took off her work jacket and flopped down on the futon.

  They'd been together two years. Although she was happy enough in the relationship, and her friends reckoned she'd made a great 'catch', dissatisfaction lurked like a bad smell in a corner of her consciousness. But it was a feeling she was reluctant to acknowledge. After all, wasn't Charlie thoughtful, and kind (mostly), and ... rich? He was. But the 'rich' part actually gave her more misgivings: the idea of staying with someone just for the money induced an uncomfortable guilt. And, in her view, he was kidding himself about this spiritual path lifestyle of his; more like an excuse to do nothing. But then, she thought, don't we all lie to ourselves, one way or another?

  Charles Crichton-Jones had inherited a large sum which had not only paid for the house they now shared in Camden Town; there'd also been enough left over for him not to have to work for a living. Sarah's job as a trainee solicitor paid little, as yet, and this imbalance between them was another source of disquiet for her. Not that Charlie seemed to notice - he lived frugally, splashing out only on self-improvement courses (though he didn't like her calling them that). He often urged her to find work in a less cut-throat field, something more enriching, spiritually. Easy for him to say, she thought; she'd slogged through five years' training to get this far, and although she didn't actually enjoy it much - in fact, she mostly found it depressing - she told herself it was a worthy profession, something her father would have been proud of.

  She heard a sound upstairs, a faint tinkling - Charlie's finger-bells; he must be concluding his session. He'd tried many times to get Sarah to join him, but she couldn't see the point, just sitting there doing nothing; she was too impatient. She sighed again, for here was the sharpest of the critical thoughts attached to that bad smell lurking: sex with Charlie was...

  "Hi, darling!"

  Charles stood in the doorway, his arms open, a beatific smile adorning his handsome features. Hiding a flush of guilt, Sarah got up quickly and accepted his embrace. They stood in the hug for nearly a minute, Charles's breath rising and falling slowly, Sarah's less even as her impatience grew. Why do I find this so hard, she wondered. It was the same in bed: for the past two months, he'd been interested only in tantric sex, a process she found as pointless as sitting still doing nothing. He said it was about energy, about containment, about savouring the moment; but the only moment she savoured these days was the moment he decided they'd 'come' - in the spiritual sense - and she could roll over and sleep. She hadn't had an orgasm for weeks.

  "How was your day?" he said, finally, holding her at arm's length and beaming down at her.

  "Oh ... so so," she sighed. "You know ... same old, same old."

  "Well, I have some very exciting news, Sarah."

  "Oh yes?" Sarah flinched inside - the phrase 'exciting news' usually presaged an invitation to another of those gruelling weekend self-improvement retreats she'd been guilt-tripped into attending with him over the months. These courses invariably left her with an uncomfortable yearning, a sense of not belonging, which had not escaped his notice. Although she tried to brush it off, Charles had the idea that her discomfort after these weekends was to do with her father. She really couldn't see why - he'd died when she was seven, and her memories of him were dim. Secretly, however, she did talk to her Dad a lot, and she knew she measured herself by standards she thought he would have approved of. Although she'd hate to admit it out loud, she did wonder if Charlie's insight wasn't just a tiny bit accurate.

  "We're going to Nepal!"

  "We are?"

  "Yes!" Charles could scarcely contain himself. "The Swami's people have finally replied, and we've been offered an audience on the 30th."

  "The 30th?" echoed Sarah suspiciously. "The 30th of what?"

  "Of this month, silly. On July 30th, you and I will meet the greatest living saint on the planet today. You and me, Sarah - a meeting with His Holiness, Swami Fihalmahanda! Can you believe it?"

  Sarah looked ungratefully doubtful.

  "I've booked our flight," continued Charles. "We leave on the 25th."

  "But Charlie ... Charles ... I'm not ..."

  "Of course you are, Sarah. You'll love it, I promise. You said you had some holiday due ... so take it! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Sarah. We simply can't miss it." Sarah sighed. "And afterwards, I've booked us two weeks at a five-star hotel in Goa, so we can integrate the experience in comfort."

  Sarah brightened. "Well..."

  "Yes!" shouted Charles in delight. "We're going to meet the Swami!"

  ---oOo---

  On the last leg of the flight to Kathmandu, Charles produced a new volume he'd purchased at his favourite London bookstore, Watkins of Covent Garden, especially for the trip.

  "What's that?" asked Sarah, grateful for anything that broke the monotony.

  "Ah!" exclaimed Charles, knowingly, "this is for the advanced seeker only. A Hundred and One Zen Koans. He showed her the cover - a simple ink drawing of a mountain, Japanese-style.

  "What's a koan?"

  "It's a mind-bending story or question," explained Charles, "which the seeker after truth is given by his master to meditate on - sometimes for weeks or even months. They're designed to confound the mind until it gives up its addiction to easy rational answers."

 
; "What's wrong with rational answers?" asked Sarah. After five years studying Law, she'd developed a healthy respect for rationality, easy or not.

  Charles' face bore a pained expression suggestive of a struggle to tolerate a particularly backward pupil. It was a look Sarah had noticed increasingly in recent weeks, and it irritated the hell out of her.

  "Oh, never mind," she said, dismissively.

  Charles gave her a pleading look. "Sarah, this isn't 'Enlightenment Made Simple'. The most dedicated monks have devoted many lifetimes to this path. It's not some packaged 'Instabliss' you can put in your shopping trolley."

  "Yes, yes, I know," replied Sarah. "I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes it all seems so ... so out of touch with the real world ... like climbing up your own arse."

  Charles' pained expression deepened, but he pressed on, conciliatory. "Well, let's find an example," he said, "and maybe you'll see what I mean."

  "Okay."

  He flicked through the pages. "Here's one." He paused. "How can the Experience (of Being) experience the Experience (of Being)?"

  Sarah rolled her eyes and burst out laughing. "Er ... I rest my case!"

  Charles grunted. "Well, perhaps that one is rather advanced." He continued to leaf through the volume. "Ah!" he said, triumphantly. "This one's really well-known." He turned to her. "Sarah, I challenge you to meditate on this one until we have our audience with the Swami. It'll help prepare you, I promise. Are you game?"

  Sarah sighed. "Okay then. Fire away."

  "Here it is. The monk Mokurai said to a young pupil: 'You can hear the sound of two hands when they clap together. Now show me the sound of one hand’."

  Sarah's eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. "Eh?"

  "In short, darling, what is the sound of one hand clapping? If you meditate on that question for the next five days, you might find that little mind of yours expanding."

  She could have hit him - patronising twit - but she turned instead to the window and stared out over the expanse of white cloud. She sat up. Away to the north-east, she made out three snow-capped peaks, their jagged points aiming at the blue beyond.

  ---oOo---

  The ashram at the foot of the mountain consisted of two simple, brick-built, thatched buildings, one housing a dormitory (with separate quarters for men and women) and the other a meditation room and dining area. Down the hill in Manang was the office from which the Swami's select team of devotees managed the correspondence with spiritual seekers the world over - though most came from Europe or America.

  Charles and Sarah had arrived on the Tuesday, their audience set for the Saturday. They'd been informed that the Swami never met couples together, so they'd agreed that Charles would go first.

  Swami Fihalmahanda dwelt in a cave several hundred feet up the mountainside. It was said that this cave had been his abode for the past sixty years, ever since he'd retreated there as a young man of fifteen. For the first fifty-five of those years he had sat in meditation, his physical nourishment provided for by the simple foods respectful locals placed at the mouth of the cave. Only in 2008 had he begun to receive visitors, whereupon his reputation for wisdom and acuity had spread like a benign epidemic among the communities of spiritual seekers, first in India and then further afield.

  This reputation was based on the Swami's peculiar gift for providing the precise thought or action that would propel the seeker most effectively to the deeper understanding of themselves of which they were capable at the time. For our lives, he'd once said, are a journey without distance to a goal that has never changed.

  Charles spent the week in almost constant meditation, and on occasion Sarah would join him, influenced perhaps by the spirit of the place, which she had to admit did have an enlivening yet calming effect. But she also found that the unsettling yearning she'd experienced before, that feeling of rootlessness, was growing stronger by the day.

  Meanwhile, she kept her promise and pondered the strange conundrum of the sound of one hand clapping, trying genuinely to focus on the search for an answer whilst she sat cross-legged under the pine trees near the dormitory. She got nowhere, of course, and often wished she'd never agreed to the challenge. But then Charlie's patronising phrase ('that little mind of yours') would echo like an itch in her thoughts and she would turn again to the koan with renewed determination. And when Saturday came, although she was no closer to an answer, she at least felt she'd done her best. Charlie, meanwhile, had been so preoccupied with the impending audience with the Swami that he seemed to have forgotten all about the challenge he'd set.

  As they made their way up the rocky path to the Swami's cave, Sarah felt increasingly nervous: what on earth was she doing here? Half these so-called saints were fakes anyway, or so she'd heard; and what on earth could some Himalayan pensioner possibly do or say that would mean anything?

  Charles stopped and pointed up towards a darker patch in the mountainside. "That must be it."

  "Charlie," said Sarah, anxiously, "why don't you just go on by yourself? I'm very grateful that you've brought me all this way, honestly I am, but now that I'm here, I really don't think there's much point in me wasting this chap's time."

  Charles stared at her.

  "This chap?" She could hear the hurt in his voice. "Sarah, this chap, as you call him, is the greatest living saint today. Please ... you're just having an understandable ego-crisis. Ignore it." He took her arm. "Come on - we mustn't be late."

  Reluctantly, Sarah let herself be led on and up until they reached a small plateau - more like a large ledge - at the back of which gaped the mouth of the cave. To the right of the entrance sat an elderly man dressed in local garb, cross-legged and very upright. He was staring at them intently. His eyes were a startling grey-blue, as if, thought Sarah, they had absorbed the very colour of the cloudy Himalayan skies. Charles immediately bowed low, his hands together. Sarah stood awkwardly behind him, a little embarrassed for them both. The old man smiled, bemused. After what seemed to Sarah a ridiculously long time, Charles rose.

  "Swami Fihalmahanda," he began. "This is indeed a great priv-"

  Shaking his head, the old man pointed with his thumb to the cave.

  "No, no," he said, grinning. "Swami there."

  Sarah's awkwardness vanished, replaced by a powerful urge to laugh. One look at Charles helped her suppress it.

  The old man indicated to Charles to remove his shoes. Once he'd done so, Charles turned to Sarah, holding out his arms. "Well ... this is it."

  She took his hand and squeezed it consolingly. "Um ... good luck?"

  He smiled knowingly.

  With an enquiring glance at the old man, who nodded encouragingly, Charles Crichton-Jones stepped boldly forward and entered the cave.

  ---oOo---

  When her boyfriend emerged two minutes later, his face bathed in tears and his shoulders shaking with sobs, Sarah jumped up from where she'd been sitting and went to him.

  "Charlie?"

  He shook his head, pushing her away. Helplessly, Sarah turned to the old man. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Sarah turned back to Charles. "What ... what did he say?"

  It was the wrong question. Charles fell to his knees and started to wail. As Sarah stood uncertainly, the old man spoke up. "Miss," he said, pointing into the cave.

  Ignoring him, Sarah knelt by her distraught partner. "What is it, Charlie? What did he tell you?"

  Charles took a deep breath and emerged from his crying long enough to say. "I ... I came all this way! All this way ... and all he said was ... was..."

  He burst into renewed sobs.

  "What, Charlie? Tell me. What did he say?" Charles lowered his head as his frame continued to shake.

  Eventually the crying subsided and he looked slowly up at her. Now his eyes were clear, clearer in fact than she'd ever seen them; a kind of light of understanding had replaced the pain. Charles took a deep breath.

  "He just said ..." A tiny smile appeared on Charles' face. "He told me ... 'Get a life!'"


  For a moment, they stared at each other; then Charles' face split into a huge grin and he started to laugh. In moments, he was roaring with mirth, and tears from a different source sprang from his eyes. Sarah laughed too - in surprise, as much as at the absurdity of the situation.

  When he'd calmed down and risen to his feet, Sarah took his arm and started to pull him away. "Come on, Charlie. Let's go."

  But he stood firm. "No, Sarah. Uh uh! I went in there. Now it's your turn. You can't back out now."

  The old man cleared his throat. "Miss, you go now. Swami not like wait. And take off shoes."

  Sarah stared from one to the other, fear pounding in her heart and throat. "Oh God," she croaked. "Do I have to?"

  "Yes, love, you do," whispered Charles in her ear.

  Sarah removed her sandals, and Charles gave her a last squeeze before pushing her gently in the direction of the cave.

  "Be brave," he said as she stepped cautiously forwards into the darkness within.

  ---oOo---

  Sarah soon feels the cold of the rock floor give way to the softness of a rug. It feels comforting. After a few tentative steps she stops, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Gradually, walls hung with red and orange cloths emerge; she becomes aware of a warm glow cast by an oil lamp at the back of the cave. And then, faintly, as if through a golden mist, she sees him, the Swami, sitting cross-legged and upright, like the old man outside. He is dressed entirely in white, with long hair and beard to match. He lifts a hand and beckons her to approach.

  Sarah stands stock still, awash with warring emotions: she's afraid, yet somehow bold; she wants to laugh, and cry as well; she feels numb, and yet she's tingling all over - and especially in her buttocks. What is that about, she wonders. But sensory and emotional overload prevents her from processing any of these experiences as she normally would - rationally, sensibly; it's as if she's being propelled towards an unstoppable truth ...