26 August
During those months when I was ill, Sister Mary Theresa often came to see me. I always looked forward to it. She filled the room with a comforting feeling of calm and repose. Even after she had left I sensed her presence. She made me feel that things could be different, that life could change. She made me believe there was genuine cause for hope. Where did that feeling go?
I believe it dwindled away long ago as I became accustomed to living with meagre expectations. Since childhood I have used familiar routines as a refuge from pain, from engagement with people.
I had to leave Cambridge and the stifling, protective routine of my academic world. I felt as though something inside was withering away. My survival depended upon moving on. In London I have felt as though a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. I am so lucky to earn my keep from what was once a hobby. I love the world of theatre. Being a legitimate part of it has allowed me to create a new image of myself, a new identity almost: someone who can be a little more daring. But at heart the sense of isolation has remained. Now, though, I feel I am being invited out of the shadows and into the sunlight.
This new feeling of lightness has come into me since my visit to the tiny, simple chapel on the site of Julian’s cell. I have, in quiet moments, recaptured the gentle peace I discovered there. The spirit of the place – a presence of its own or the imprint of a personality or events that marked it for all time – remains with me. I feel that Julian is still close by, a woman out of time with a message I need to hear and understand.
I sat at my window this evening and watched night stealthily overtaking day in the park, making the trees shadowy masses that reflected the shapes of the dark clouds. I closed the window but did not draw the curtains. I took up my copy of Enfolded in Love.
The preface reminded me of what I had learned from the leaflet I found at the entrance to Julian’s cell: she had written an account of her visions of the crucifixion, first a short text and then, after many years of meditation, a longer version. At the heart of Jesus’ message was God’s assurance of his abiding love. “Wouldst thou know the Lord’s meaning in this thing? Know it well. Love is his meaning,” she was told.
The darkening gloom of early evening was making me feel a little sad. I lit some candles. I closed the book and pressed it between my palms, moulding it gently, my fingers sliding and pushing against the cover. The book filled me with a desire to know every part of it, and I felt instinctively that I would not penetrate its meaning with my intellect. I knew that I must find some other way to take it into myself.
I handled it urgently, as though its meaning could be squeezed out through its fabric, through my skin and into my innermost self. As I did so, something informed my spirit that to take the knowledge within I must find the place where it already resided. I handled the book and let my imagination wander.
Julian.
I hold the book now flat on my upheld palms. I open it. I am in her cell. This is the city of Norwich. The year is 1383. I see sunshine in a pale sky with soft clouds, and a carefree cluster of spring daffodils, thrust into a jug. The water surrounding the stems is limpid and cool, and there is a quietness enfolding the flowers and spreading further now into the room, which opens up around me, tiny but infinite in space.
My eyes are drawn to a candle’s flame, and as I look the heavy white wax becomes translucent and the steady gold of the flame burns brighter and stronger, creating a light that is spreading, penetrating every corner of the room, and outwards, farther and higher, reaching and filling every heart, so that every man and woman and child, every animal and tree and plant and flower, every part of the sea and sky and every piece of the earth receives and trembles as the light enters it.
This little light from this plain wax candle radiates its power from this small place throughout the world, and the stars, and infinity. The flame draws me into itself, and I come slowly from the heavy grief and disappointment of my life towards that inner peace and calm and understanding that lives within the heart of the flame.
I hold the book open now, my hands pressed on its pages as though in prayer, awaiting benediction. Through closed eyes I seek the place. My heart beats faster. Have I found the place where I can begin? I read “He who made man for love will by that same love restore him to his former blessedness, and yet more.” I read the passage again. “He who made man for love…” I find it hard to believe that I was made for love.
I hold the book gently. It feels like a fragile bird, resting lightly upon my palms, my fingers barely touching the pages. I wait in the silence. I am afraid. I open the book again, at random.
“I saw that pain alone blames and punishes, and that our courteous Lord comforts and succours, ever being gladness and joy to the soul, loving and longing to bring us to his own blessedness.” Pain alone punishes? Indeed, pain does punish. But it is surely the price of sin?
“I saw in truth that God does all things, however small they may be. And I saw that nothing happens by chance, but by the far-sighted wisdom of God. If it seems like chance to us, it is because we are blind and blinkered.”
How can it be that nothing happens by chance? When I think of all the mistakes I have made, my fearful hesitation and timorous withdrawals, all the disappointment and loss… All this was planned? It makes no sense. All the pain and suffering of the world, planned? If my failure to understand this is blindness, I am indeed blind.
I am beginning to feel light-headed. The room still feels so gloomy. The sky has become overcast and I think there will be a storm. Perhaps I am allowing my imagination too much rein. I shall close the book.
But this place is so calm and quiet. This place. Julian’s cell, dark, peaceful, candlelit. Outside it’s a lovely, sunny spring day, I can see it over the heads of the daffodils on the sill, and they glow in their thick deep and pale transparent yellows, they glow and glory in the sunlight. Why would she want to stay indoors, in this small room, when outside there’s an earth and sky filled with glorious sunshine? The book seems to call to me.
I read, “I saw, too, that his unceasing work in every thing is done so well, so wisely, and so mightily that it is beyond our power to imagine, guess or think.”
Does this mean that I am not intended to understand? Perhaps if I concentrate on the candle I’ll be able to get a grip…
“As by his courtesy God forgives our sins when we repent, even so he wills that we should forgive our sins, and so give up our senseless worrying and faithless fear.”
If I could forgive myself would I lose my fear? But I do not feel forgiven. I do not find it in my heart.
I begin to feel sad. I need some air. I go and stand at Julian’s little window onto the world. That’s better. You have a lovely view, Julian, plenty of trees. I thought you would have been lonely, enclosed in your cell all day and all night long, but I can see so many people about, I expect they often stop by for a chat. It’s such a beautiful atmosphere in this place, calm and restful and loving, they must feel drawn…
I can well understand the appeal of a peaceful, quiet corner, a place to be safe and free of the world… but how safe could it really have been? A woman writing theology in an age when women were forbidden even to speak in church – a dangerous undertaking.
I strike a match to light a cigarette and look into the blade of molten flame. I wonder about this woman who risked death to do what she believed she had to do. She embraced and lived a paradox: pursuing spiritual truth that had to be kept secret from the Church, whilst remaining faithful to it and believing in its authority to deliver God’s message to humanity. What kind of person would have the moral integrity to make and maintain such a choice?
My questions seem suspended in the air. I hope for answers, but there is silence. The flame flickers gently. I feel very tired suddenly. I feel as though the weariness of years has settled upon me. I will sleep for a little while…
I slept and dreamed, or perhaps it was all a dream. I awoke and looked out of my window, across the park and up in
to the starry night. I opened the window and listened to the rustle of the wind in the trees, felt its cool caress on my forehead. I felt calm and refreshed.
A thought formed in my mind: I desired to know, so I was taken to the place of knowing, and knowledge was made mine.
I awoke with a start, suddenly catching my breath. I had dropped off to sleep in an awkward position and now my neck ached. The journal had fallen to the floor. I glanced at the clock. It was midnight. I felt exhausted – wedi blino’n lân, clean tired-out… the Welsh that expressed the feeling so well came into my mind. My first language as a child was my treasure house, providing the depth and subtlety of meaning I sometimes failed to find in English.
I bent down to pick up the book and noticed a folded sheet of paper that must have fallen from it. I picked up the paper and was astonished to see written on it a song in Welsh. I hummed the tune that was annotated on the paper. It was a strange, plaintive melody, in keeping with the words. The song was about the spirit of the woods crying out to the spirit of the mountains of its weary longing for the sun. I was puzzled and a little disturbed. Why had providence dropped this Welsh song into my lap? Was there a connection between the song and the book? Why on earth would there be a Welsh song – and one I had never heard – in the journal? These thoughts bothered me as I lay in bed. I sang the song softly to myself – “Mae ysbryd y coed yn galw ar ysbryd y mynyddoedd, mae’r gwanwyn yn ymdroelli ynddof i a dw i’n ysu am yr haul…”
I was walking down a long corridor in a palace or temple made of light. Its tall columns and graceful arches reached high into the light blue and then deepening indigo sky. The walls I passed were constructed of myriad shimmering minuscule bubbles of coloured light, all fusing into one soft white iridescence. A figure in white approached – whether male or female I could not tell – with arms outstretched in welcome. As it drew closer I saw its beautiful countenance. The being smiled at me with such compassion and tenderness that I felt touched in my heart.
“Come,” it said. “Come and see.”
I followed as it moved ahead of me with a fluidity and grace that made it seem almost to be floating. It led me into a vast room filled with shelves containing row upon row of books. “You can rest a while here and learn what you need to learn before you go on to the next place,” it said. “This library is for souls who choose to serve by healing. Healing takes many forms. You must search here to discover your own path of service.”
I can remember nothing more of the dream. When I awakened the following morning I felt calmer and more rested than I had done for a very long time. I felt more confident, too, of coping with whatever the day might bring.
The next morning, as I walked across the editorial floor, I sensed a febrile, nervy atmosphere. We were in the throes of a big story. I could feel it and so, I sensed, could everyone else. That morning’s issue had the arms story as front-page splash. A leaked memo from our embassy in Jakarta had revealed that the UK government knew that British arms sold to Indonesia were being used to repress the people of East Timor, which Indonesia had been occupying illegally for twenty-five years. The sale was a direct contravention of the UK’s proclaimed ethical foreign policy and the memo gave the lie to a statement made by the Foreign Secretary to the House of Commons.
It was a very big story indeed. Patrick must be deeply involved in it, but he had yielded not a hint. I assumed we would continue investigating the story and run a follow-up the next day. Presumably, Alex’s interview with Miss Stephens, the mole’s former lover, would be used then. I had barely reached my desk when Milo called me across. I headed for the news desk.
Milo said, “I’m putting you on the FO story. You’ll be working with Chris and Steve, with Caz, Imran and Alex for backup. The Editor’s decided to run the mole’s personal story tonight. Alex has got some useful stuff from the bastard kid’s mother. Very heart-rending, just the job. She touchingly thought if she talked to us she could protect the kid. She’s also said the mole’s got an alcohol problem. Better and better.” Milo punched the air gleefully. “Thank you, God!”
He continued, “Imran’s in Bristol, chasing the kid at uni. Steve’s chasing the mole’s wife. If my luck holds – and I think it might – she’s in the dark about the kid. The big interview is yours. The mole’s at a conference in Oxford. He knows the game’s up and has agreed to give us the works on condition we go easy on his family. Dr Trevor Newell. He’s a specialist on South-East Asian affairs. If the FO press office rings you, act dumb. You know nothing. You’re not doing a story. Chris is going to ask the FO for a comment just before we go to press, so they’re put on the spot. You’re doing a complete exposé, all the dirt, everything you can get. See what you can dig up.”
As Milo briefed me, a hot and pricking sensation rose up my spine to the back of my neck. “Milo – why are we discrediting our source?” I asked.
“Why not? Two bites of the cherry.”
“But it makes no sense…”
“Which planet are you on? We get another scoop tomorrow. Don’t give me this crap, Meredith. Just get on with it.” Milo called across to Simon, the Deputy News Editor, “Brief Jo on the mole interview.”
Simon, who was on the phone, made a gesture of assent to Milo and indicated that he would talk to me at my desk in a moment. I walked back across the newsroom, the blood pounding in my ears and a jangling sensation in my brain. I was sweating and feeling sick. I was an experienced reporter. I was used to tackling difficult stories. I usually relished the challenge. But this time it was different.
The instruction to do something that I knew to be terribly wrong, knew to be a betrayal of the beliefs that informed my work and my life, delivered in such a sudden, brutal and matter-of-fact way, had knocked the wind out of me. Suddenly, just like Alex, I had to make a decision that I knew would affect the rest of my life.
I sat in front of my computer, staring blindly at the screen. I was in shock. Then I thought: How could I have failed to realize that this moment would come? As Milo had said, which planet was I on? How arrogant had I been to think that, because everyone knew what I stood for and the Editor particularly liked my work, I would be safe? I had been treading a fine line between an awareness of the insecurity of journalists in the new Fleet Street and a belief that I would never be pushed this far. Suddenly that seemed naïve and vain.
Simon arrived with a briefing and details of my appointment with Dr Newell. I was due to catch the train to Oxford in half an hour’s time. I had a critical decision to make and no time to even think about it. I gathered together my papers, bag and coat and headed out to the main road, where I hailed a taxi.
As I sat on the train, feeling frightened and worried, my thoughts of the previous evening came back to me. I realized why. The sudden, shocking assault that had been Milo’s instruction reminded me of Great Aunt Vaughan, and how I had felt when she had delivered her icy warnings that I would come to no good. Those verbal assaults had been like sharp poison darts. They came unexpectedly, when I was unprotected, making me doubt my sense of self, doubt who I really was.
Except for Michael. He had made all the difference. When I had run to him for comfort, he had shown me how to slough off my aunt’s words. The balm of his friendship and the validation and confidence he gave me had made me strong. When I told him how well the Joker’s card had worked with Aunt Vaughan, he had said, “Now you’re getting it. Other people don’t upset us. We upset ourselves.”
As the train rumbled northwards through the outskirts of London, I thought again about the Joker’s card. In adulthood, it had slipped my memory and I had tended to meet any onslaught in defensive, fighting mode, taking it all on the chin. Could Michael’s Joker be the solution to this problem? Was there a way in which I could do the interview without compromising my principles? Or must I pull out of the assignment and lose my job, if I had the courage? I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift off into a reverie. I opened my eyes and, looking out across the unfolding green fields o
f Oxfordshire, I began to see a possibility.
I arrived at Oxford Station and took a taxi to the Randolph Hotel, where I was to meet Dr Newell. The receptionist directed me to his room and I took the lift to the third floor. I knocked on the door of room number 37 and it was opened by a slim, grey-haired man in his fifties. He greeted me courteously and his manner was calm, but beneath the surface I detected a nervous apprehensiveness.
We sat together in armchairs at a large window that overlooked the busy street. I began by thanking Dr Newell for agreeing to see me. I said I would try to make things as easy as possible.
He said, “Your editor has promised me that my family will not be troubled any further. My wife is unwell.”
I took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth, whatever the cost.
“Dr Newell, I’m afraid that promise will not be kept. I expect you know that one of my colleagues has already interviewed Geraldine Stephens?” Dr Newell nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but another colleague is attempting to interview your son. Both those interviews are scheduled for publication in tomorrow’s paper. Another of my colleagues is attempting to secure an interview with your wife.”
The silence that fell between us was deafening. The rumble of traffic in the street below seemed far away, as though we were detached from the rest of the world, cocooned in a moment taken out of time. Dr Newell’s expression during those few minutes, as he took in what I had said and considered it, was something I shall never forget. The desperation and hopelessness in his eyes wounded me deep inside. I felt myself being stripped open, to reveal an inner worthlessness. I felt dirty, guilty and ashamed. It was still not too late. I could gather up my things, make an excuse and leave. The silence ended as Dr Newell turned to look me in the eyes.
He said, “It must have taken some courage to tell me that.”
For the first time in an interview, I felt I was losing control of the situation. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. Dr Newell leaned forward and put his hand over mine. “It’s a dirty business, isn’t it? Even those of us who try to do the decent thing get caught in the net. Should we accept what we are, do you think? Acknowledge our fallibility and weakness and ask for understanding?” He smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose that approach would cut much ice with your editor.”
The Greening Page 5