by Lulu Taylor
‘I’d love it,’ she cries, hugging him.
‘Excellent.’ He kisses her again, with a great smacking kiss. ‘Do you think you can bear to be a poor man’s wife?’
‘We won’t be all that poor,’ Letty says delightedly, ‘because I’ve got money!’
‘Have you?’ He looks surprised. ‘I thought it was all given to the old goat.’
‘Not mine. I never signed it over. I intended to, of course. At least, I think I did. But I didn’t.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful. Then as long as we have enough to put the odd bunch of roses on the table to cheer ourselves up, I’ll be happy.’
She loves him for not asking how much it is. She savours the picture of them in a little terraced house somewhere, perhaps near the river in London, with Arthur going off to work while she keeps their home beautiful and teaches orphan children. Or something like that. She’ll fill in the details later.
He goes on: ‘So, you must get your things together. We can be off before they all wake up. I’ve got a place where we can stay.’
‘No, no, Arthur, I can’t come with you. Not yet.’
‘Why not?’ He looks hurt and anxious at the same time. ‘I told you, I can’t leave you.’
‘You must. I’ll be fine. The Beloved won’t hurt me, he really won’t. But I have to stay close to Arabella, just for a while longer. I want to say goodbye to her, if I can. Once I leave, I will probably never return. Come back tomorrow and I’ll be ready to go, I promise.’
He gazes at her for a while and then says, ‘All right. I understand. But you must promise that you’ll stay away from Phillips. I will be able to meet you at the gates tomorrow evening. Be there at six. I don’t think anything can happen before then.’ He stands up reluctantly. ‘Now, I must go.’
She clings to him, suddenly afraid. ‘But you’ll be careful, won’t you?’
‘Of course. And you too. We’ll be together tomorrow night. Stay in here until then.’
Letty nods, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Till tomorrow,’ she says, holding his hand until at last his fingertips leave hers and he gives her one last smile before heading to the window.
‘Remember, six o’clock,’ he says, as he opens the sash.
‘I’ll remember. Six o’clock.’
The only thing that can comfort her when he’s gone is the memory of his beautiful kisses and the promise of their future together. It’s only later that she remembers that she meant to tell him about the meeting in the village.
Oh well. It’ll all be over by tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I feel apart from the community I now find myself in. The house seems to be packed with young people, all unfeasibly good-looking as far as I can tell, but maybe it’s just the glow of their youth and the strange happiness that pervades the place. They all seem so untouched by life, while I feel as though I’m wearing a great black mark on my forehead that signifies all that’s happened to me and the grief I’m carrying with me.
Although perhaps that’s only because I can’t see what they’ve suffered in their lives.
But it’s overwhelming after so long by myself. I eat alone in my room, Sophia bringing me a plate of the delicious curry they’re sharing in the dining room. I’ve never tasted anything like it; it seems to contain only vegetables and some kind of flower, but it’s fresh, spicy and satisfying, served on wild rice, with a beaker of water on the side. There’s also a yogurt with a passion fruit curd topping and a biscuit made of something I can’t identify but that might be buckwheat, or one of those strange not-quite grains. The food feels healthy and very now. I’m sure it contains spirulina or algae or seaweed, and strange powders and proteins to ensure optimum gut health. These young people don’t get to be as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as they are on pizza and chips and beer. There’s also a cup of that soothing herbal tea, and I drink it down, enjoying the fuzzy, slightly disconnected feeling that comes with it. I used to get that from cold white wine, and I like the idea that I get the same numbing effect from a healthy drink like tea.
After I’ve eaten, I go and look out of the window at the garden, and see beneath it the box that I put there for Heather to escape by. I feel a pang somewhere, but not too sharp, thanks to the tea. Part of me wants to be back there, in that state when I could conjure Heather up and make her so real I could touch her and smell her. Feeding her was more difficult. I never quite managed to make her eat. But we did so much else. Under the bay tree is the little hideout we built together. I wonder now what I looked like: a grown woman scrabbling about in the dirt, talking to herself, acting as though someone was with her. Agnes saw me. She could tell something was wrong. But she couldn’t guess what.
It was when people began to invade this place that I was forced to come out from my fantasy world into cold, hard reality. After that I found it harder and harder to make Heather live with me. She began to fade and vanish. And then, when Sissy shattered the illusion completely, the pain came. The guilt. Unbearable. Everything I’d been running so hard from. It threatened to destroy me.
And then . . .
Lately the suffering hasn’t been so acute and tormenting, because the mysterious Archer is able to take away the pain, with his tea and his healing. I don’t understand what gift he has exactly, but it’s powerful, whatever it is. And he is certainly the leader here, and whatever is happening is under his aegis. I remember hearing Sophia say something to Agnes, before all the people started arriving. Something about the Beloved. They meant Archer. And Dora called him the Beloved too.
The garden looks different, I notice. I open the window and climb out, using the box to step down onto the terrace, and wander onto the lawn. It’s been changed dramatically in just a few days: the overgrowth has been cut back and trees pruned, and I can see that large beds have been cleared in preparation for the next stage. They look as though they are planned for fruit and vegetables.
It’s so different that I can’t even imagine Heather here. I’m glad about that. I start to walk and soon see a gateway out of the garden to a small stone path, and that leads to a cottage.
Nursery Cottage.
I almost laugh. I must have fought my way down the garden, through the gate at the bottom and back up the meadow behind in order to get to what was just outside. I went in a huge circle. I wonder what the sisters are up to, and how their little bonsai flowers are flourishing. I think about the perfection of the snow rose, with its tiny trunk and exquisite petals in the bud, and its sensitive, demanding nature.
It will never grow any bigger, Sissy said. It will always stay this way.
The thought sends a fresh bolt of grief through me. I feel so tired again, because I know I’ll have to live this way every day for the rest of my life, and it would be easier in so many ways not to bother and not to go on at all.
I look down the garden towards the marshy ground of the meadow. There’s a lake nearby, I know that. I wonder if I could walk down to it, and find some stones to put in my pocket, like Virginia Woolf, and just wade out, knowing that at the end of my walk I’ll find a blessed relief from the suffering.
Maybe that’s the thing to do.
‘Rachel!’
I turn to see Archer, now in a sloppy hooded zip-up jacket, walking towards me, smiling. ‘Hi.’ The sight of him boosts my spirits at once. There’s something so positive about him and his aura of serenity.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’ I smile.
‘Really?’ He looks concerned and as he approaches me, he puts out his arms and envelops me in a hug. I’m surprised, but that’s quickly replaced by a warm feeling of comfort and connection. ‘I’m worried about you,’ he murmurs in my ear.
‘You don’t have to be.’ I push the idea of my lake walk out of my mind. ‘Honestly.’
‘Well, I am. I think you’re here for a reason, Rachel.’ He releases me, but takes my hand and says, ‘Come on. Let’s walk.’
We move in harmony, taking identical
steps, our feet landing at the same time, and I watch that for a while, enjoying the pattern of it.
‘Are you wondering what’s going on here?’ he asks almost idly, sliding his strong blue gaze to me around the edge of his hood.
‘Well, yes. I suppose I am. You’re forming a collective of some kind. That’s my guess, anyway.’
‘Yes. It’s a good guess. We are a community; we share the same beliefs and the same vision of the future. All of the people here are bright, recruited from the top universities, and they all bring their different talents to the table.’
‘And most of them are very attractive,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound like a lecherous middle-aged woman.
He laughs. ‘Yeah, that’s no accident either. We want the children of the future to be good-looking, don’t we?’
‘Er . . . I suppose so.’ I laugh too. ‘You’re not carrying out genetic engineering here, are you?’
He shrugs, still smiling. ‘Not exactly. But there’s no harm in making sure you’ve got the best possible material, is there? It’s not about race or anything sinister like that. It’s about health and brains, the things which ensure survival – more than that, they ensure a thriving, prosperous people. But there’s something else too.’ He gives me one of his sideways looks. ‘They’re all blessed with spiritual gifts.’
‘Are they? How do you know?’
‘They wouldn’t be here otherwise. Everyone is here because they believe.’
‘Believe in what?’
He smiles at me again and I can’t help being charmed by the row of even teeth, the beguiling curve of his lips, the dark beard. ‘Believe in me, of course.’
I’m taken aback. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he was going to say that they believe in sustainable living or vegetarianism mixed with Buddhism, or the new medievalism or something. But believe in him? What is there to believe?
Archer goes on carelessly: ‘It might be a bit of a shock to you, but this is my house.’
I’m surprised, frowning as I absorb what he’s saying. ‘Your house? So . . . you’re not guardians, employed by ARK?’
‘No. Actually, ARK is me. Archer Richard Kendall. Actually Lord Kendall of Broxton.’ He laughs. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it? But that’s who I am. My grandpa, Arthur Kendall, did some notable fighting in the Second World War, and then went into the civil service where he had an excellent diplomatic career, with the result that he was given a hereditary life peerage. That went to my dad, his son, who had me very late in life with his third wife, having only had girls before that. And he died last year, making me the new Lord Kendall and happy possessor of the family cash.’ He gives a self-mocking grin. ‘You don’t have to curtsey. It’s fine.’
‘That’s why this is your house?’ I ask, confused. I suppose all the well-bred accents make sense now. He’s been recruiting from among his own.
‘Yep. At least, I didn’t inherit this house itself. It went years ago, thanks to my great-aunt. When I saw the chance to buy it, I jumped at it. It was obvious that it was meant to be. I even changed the name back to Paradise. All part of the plan, you see.’
‘What’s the plan?’
We’ve come to the end of the garden and now we turn around and look at the house from the back. I’ve never seen it quite as clearly as this before, the shrubbery was always too high, but now that’s neatly trimmed the beauty of the place can be clearly seen. It’s a gracious house, with a calm symmetry and a good line. No wonder people are drawn to it. It seems to offer boundless shelter and comfort.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘The plan.’
‘Are you a cult?’ I ask bluntly. ‘Is that what I’ve wandered into?’
‘A cult?’ He laughs loudly. ‘No, I’m not a cult. At least, I don’t think I am. But I suppose cults never do, it’s such a pejorative term. And’ – he’s more thoughtful now – ‘I think cults have ideas that other people can’t believe in. Whereas we base our beliefs on things everyone knows to be true.’
‘Oh? Things like the sky being blue?’ I’m being ironic but he seems to take me seriously.
‘Yes . . . yes. A bit like that.’ He goes over to a rackety wooden bench and sits down. I sit down beside him and he turns to face me, his expression intense. ‘Rachel, what do we know for sure about the world?’
I’m thinking of an answer but he goes on without waiting for one.
‘It’s a consensus that we humans have managed to get ourselves into a bit of a pickle. We’ve mucked up our environment pretty much past the point of no return. Climate change is happening and fast. It’s going to bring with it unprecedented geological change, with seas rising, ice caps melting, huge and frequent weather events and changes in temperature. We could see hurricanes and tornados as commonplace events here, where we’ve never known them before. We’ll certainly have floods and bizarre weather patterns. We might even find the seasons reversed, with warm winters and icy summers.’
‘Will we?’ I’ve heard so much about the dangers of climate change that I’ve ceased listening to much of it. There’s so much squabbling about what is and isn’t true, and so many sensational headlines, I don’t know what to think. It’s the hottest year on record, or one of the coldest, or it hasn’t changed a bit – depending on who you listen to. ‘And there’s a definite consensus on this?’
‘Oh yes. Unless you’re a denier. You’re not a denier, are you, Rachel?’ There’s a tiny sinister barb in his voice despite the silkiness of his tone.
‘No. No. Of course not.’ Denying definitely does not sound good.
‘Good. I’m glad we agree on that. It makes it a lot easier.’ He gets up and starts to walk again and I walk beside him. Now we’re skirting the bottom of the garden, heading in a direction I’ve not been in before.
‘So,’ I say, wanting to understand, ‘we’re in a time of severe man-made weather changes.’
‘Yes, we are. And that’s going to bring with it political change. Did you know that we’ve been living through what’s known as the Great Peace? Ever since the Second World War ended. Yes, there have been wars but on the whole, the world has been at peace. We haven’t seen a great global conflict. Well, that peace is about to end. In fact, it already has.’
‘You mean . . . Syria?’
‘Yes, Syria. But before that, in Darfur, we saw the same thing. A war, as the result of climate change. Drought causes famine, and famine causes radicalisation as well as movement of population, and that makes war.’ He shrugs again. ‘It’s simple. We spend a lot of time arguing about it but when you stand back and look, it’s clear as day. Scientists have already proved that the great drought of the early 2000s across what’s known as the Fertile Crescent, from Russia to Saudi Arabia, was more than likely caused by man-made climate change. Now look at what we’ve seen in precisely that area. War.’
I blink at him. It sounds convincing. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
He warms to his theme. ‘The war isn’t confined to the Middle East either; we can’t go and visit it like war tourists. We can’t go in and bomb whichever side we feel like supporting – the ones with the oil usually – and then go home and sleep safe in our beds at night. It doesn’t work like that. The war is coming to us, in the form of migrants and refugees, and in the form of radicalisation, terrorism and bombs. Look at Paris. Look at Istanbul and Ankara. Look at Brussels. It’ll be London again soon. Maybe Oslo or Copenhagen. Washington. Somewhere, because they can’t be stopped every time. The anger of the people will grow with each outrage. After the Great Peace comes the Great Conflict, and this will be like nothing we’ve ever known. Political and religious war will engulf the globe and destroy trade and agriculture and our energy extraction industries. Climate change will destroy crops and bring starvation. There’ll be no coffee, no bananas, no chocolate, no oranges – just for starters. As the world’s resources shrink, we’ll begin a life-or-death struggle for what remains. And we’re about to discover that mankind’s supremacy over disease is being threatened too. A
ntibiotics have been so abused by the human race that they’re going to stop working. When that happens, disease will ravage us in a way we haven’t known in well over a century. You’ll cut your finger and die of sepsis because there aren’t any pills to kill the infection. Death rates in childbirth will shoot back up to Victorian levels. Influenza – new strains of bird flu, swine flu and whatever – will rage across the world as it did in 1918 and kill millions. The plague will return. Huge, threatening global events are guaranteed and soon. We’re going to be fighting for our lives.’
‘You’re not exactly cheering me up,’ I joke weakly.
He turns on me, his blue eyes alight with passion. ‘This is so, so serious, Rachel. Can you hear what I’m saying? We’re on the brink. You must see it.’
‘Yes . . . I can see it.’ And I do. Everything he says makes sense. I feel afraid, even though my life counts for so little now.
Archer takes my hand again, holding it in his large, smooth palm. I like the way it transmits strength and warmth to me, making me feel less shaken by his vision of the future. ‘But don’t worry. I have a plan.’
‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’
‘Soon, Rachel. I want to see if you’re going to be a permanent part of our lives first.’
I lie awake in bed that night, listening to someone playing the guitar outside. It’s not exactly warm enough for outdoor parties yet, but it’s not freezing either. Someone has lit a brazier in an old steel drum and several people sit outside after dinner, talking quietly and smoking. Fragrant smells creep into my room and I think that they must be smoking some kind of cannabis but I don’t know enough to identify it. At some point, the music starts. It’s restful and pleasant and I like lying awake and listening, wallowing in the numbness brought on by my bedtime herbal tea. The lyrics sound familiar, but I have no idea where they come from: