The Greening

by Margaret Coles

  The book had made a deep impression on me. It was the story of a little girl who was lost and had to find a magical elf who could direct her to the top of the mountain. She had to reach it before the sun set, in order to come safely home. On her journey she met strange creatures, including a dugong, which, I discovered many years later, was the sea-cow – an ugly, endearing creature. There was a rhyme in the book that went “If you hear a wiffle-whoffing or a sound like someone coughing, that’s the beetle in the big gum tree.” There were gum trees because the island was off the coast of Australia. The elf the little girl had to find was called Mys.

  And here I am, all these many years on, still looking for that elf. I am glad to have Julian’s book by me. I am beginning to understand what she has in mind for me and for us all. She offers hope. She promises that I will become my real self as I become part of the whole that is God. And that, I believe, is the true Holy Grail. It is the greatest prize of all, the alchemical magic that gives us true selfhood and our real identity. I will become all that I was meant to be. But will I reach the mountain top before the sun sets? I think I can get there only through faith and by grace.

  How strange it is, the way in which Julian’s life now affects mine. She has made me examine myself, what I think and what I do. I had intended that she would be my subject. Now, it seems, I am hers.

  It is early evening I have just been out among the shoppers and the bright lights. People were hurrying home, laden down with food and gifts. As I walked back through the park, I saw a man sitting alone on a bench. His face was hard, his features coarse. As I drew near, he lowered his eyes to take a drag on his cigarette, and I was able to steal a glance, unnoticed. I am curious about a man who sits alone in the park, in the cold, on Christmas Eve – a time when each of us wants to feel we belong somewhere. I wonder if there is someone in his life, the thought of whom makes his heart soften?

  What can I bring Him, poor as I am?

  If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb.

  If I were a wise man I would do my part.

  What can I bring Him? Bring my heart.

  Christmas was always such a special time. It was one day of the year when we did go to church as a family. Even since my parents died, I have always created a sacred space in my life for this time. I hope I can recapture the feelings of peace and security that Christmas brings.

  Christmas Day

  I feel dreadfully ill and entirely alone, but am comforted by the knowledge that I will see Mark again. It is a delicate thread that could break in an instant and I cling to it for dear life. Just beneath the veneer of comfort is a terrible fear, and in that feeling I seem to lose myself. I keep going over every detail of everything that has happened between us. I am planning how I will handle the next meeting. There’s so much I want to say. Next time we will talk and I will give him the courage to take charge of his life. I won’t allow him to throw away the wonderful gift of love we have been given.

  The weather has broken. The thundery skies boom and rumble: I feel I am wrapped in their powerful embrace. And now here comes the pittering rain, in comforting release. My windows are uncovered and I see and hear the sleeting downpour, lashing the earth without restraint from a relentless sky that is edged with darkening clouds. They hang, heavy, along the horizon, like a pall of blackened smoke. Hailstones crack against my windows and hammer, hard and round, upon the sill. I surrender to the sound that envelops me, with the darkening night. I feel secure. The rain becomes gentle. Then a sudden loud thunderclap sounds like a trumpet call from the heavens.

  I gave a start as the telephone rang, breaking across my thoughts. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. I lifted the receiver.

  “Jo? Am I disturbing you? Sorry to ring so late.” It was Alex.

  “Oh, God, Alex. Now what? No, it’s OK. Sorry. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m on late shift on the news desk. Thing is, someone’s just dropped by wanting your phone number and I wasn’t sure whether to give it.”

  “Who wants it?”

  “Paul Huntingford.”

  “Paul Huntingford! But I – what d’you mean – is he there?” Paul Huntingford and I had known each other a very long time ago and my memories of him were not good. We had been at university together and though we had both become journalists – he was an acclaimed war photographer – our paths had not crossed since our student days.

  “He’s gone down to the picture library. He’ll be back pretty soon. Didn’t you know? He’s joining the paper.”

  “No! He’s leaving the Observer?”

  “Already left. Some big kerfuffle over something. He told them to keep the job. The Editor got wind of it and nipped in quickly with the proverbial unrefusable, that’s the word on the street.”

  “Well – what did he say exactly?”

  “Not much. Just wanted your number.”

  “He didn’t say why?”

  “Nope.”

  I felt my jaw tightening and my mouth setting into a firm line.

  Alex asked, “What shall I do?”

  “Don’t give it to him.”

  “Er – well, what do I say?”

  “Just tell him he can’t have it.”

  “I can’t be rude.”

  “You don’t want to be nice to the Paul Huntingfords of this world.”

  “Oh, bit of a shark, is he?”

  “What big teeth you have, Grandma…”

  Alex laughed. “Oh, a wolf, then?”

  “You’re very smart this evening.”

  “He must have upset you big-time. Very bad career move!”

  “Tell him you can’t find my number,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, he’ll know I’m lying. It’s a bit awkward.”

  “Then he can go and ponder it. And maybe he’ll learn to treat people with more consideration.”

  “OK. Sleep tight. See you tomorrow – or rather, today.”

  Paul Huntingford, of all people, asking for my phone number. It was the last straw. Another magnum-sized egotist thinking he could get anything he wanted at any time. No doubt he considered himself such a big-name, big-deal super-scooper that I would be thrilled and flattered that he wanted to talk to me. Presumably he wanted the phone number of a contact. Well, let him get in touch with me at the office in the morning.

  I closed the journal and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Realizing that it would keep me awake half the night, I crossly tipped the coffee back into the packet and reached for the biscuit tin. I warmed some milk and took the cup of milk and the biscuits back to the couch, to try to relax before going to bed. Now I was beginning to wonder. What did Huntingford want? Whatever it was it would be something that suited his purposes and not mine.

  Paul had always got his way. Women adored him. He could have taken his pick of the girls at university. He was six foot one inch tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, shiny dark brown curly hair, deep, melting brown eyes – and more than his fair share of sex appeal. But it wasn’t just these attributes that attracted women. It was the way he had – a natural, easy charm, a likeability. It was extraordinary; he could get anyone to do anything. People just liked to please him. All this unmerited approval was really irritating.

  Within a couple of weeks I was besotted, but he showed no interest in me. Well, at least I knew it and kept my dignity. The antics of some of the other girls, who plotted and connived to get a date with him, struck me as pathetic. I was independent enough to believe that if a man was worth having he would chase me. Paul never did. In any case, I didn’t set much store by getting myself attached. I had been made to appreciate the value of a good education and did not intend to squander my opportunities.

  I realized that my distrust of men echoed back to my childhood and my father’s decision to leave Louisa and me with Aunt Vaughan; my mother had not wanted to leave us behind. And much of what I had observed since then had served to confirm my view that most men were a waste of time and energy.


  The odd thing about Paul was that he didn’t take his pick of the girls. He didn’t seem to see anyone in particular during the first year. Rumours quickly spread that he was gay and were just as quickly dismissed by students of both genders and predilections.

  Most of his free time seemed to be dedicated to good causes. I was studying political science and became passionately involved with several campaigns. This was the 1970s, and there were plenty from which to choose. We often bumped into each other at meetings and gatherings. I was impressed by his willingness to help anyone in need. I realized that people liked him because they instinctively trusted him.

  Then, for several months, he did have a girlfriend. He had the appearance of being fond of her. It fizzled out. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. Paul asked me out. It took me so completely by surprise that I hardly knew what to say. He invited me to a concert in town. He had tickets for a touring production of The Marriage of Figaro. I spluttered an acceptance. Because of our different itineraries, we arranged to meet in the theatre foyer at a quarter to eight, fifteen minutes before the start of the performance.

  I dressed up in my finery, including some ridiculous high-heeled shoes that pinched my feet, spent an hour applying make-up and arrived at the rendezvous a few minutes early. Five minutes passed and there was no sign of Paul. At five to eight there was still no sign of him. I looked around desperately. Had we somehow missed each other? Gradually, the foyer emptied and I heard the opening strains of the overture.

  Perhaps he had missed me and gone on ahead to our seats. I ran up the stairs to the circle and quietly opened the door. The orchestra was in full flood and the auditorium a buzz of expectancy. And there, in the third row, was Paul. He looked happy and relaxed. Seated next to him was Marcie, the pretty blonde Californian who was over on a scholarship. I saw her gaze up at him adoringly, squeeze his arm and kiss him on the cheek. He smiled and gently ruffled her hair.

  I was speechless with rage. How dare he! Part of me wanted to storm down the aisle, yank him out of his seat and give him a good, hard thump. Fortunately, the rest of me realized that if I did so I would make a complete fool of myself and live to regret it.

  I ran from the theatre, tears streaming through my make-up. I pulled off the uncomfortable shoes and padded, barefoot, to the bus stop. Half an hour later I was back in my room, pulling off my best frock, washing off my make-up and swearing that I would get my revenge.

  I saw Paul the following day. To my amazement, he did not even attempt to offer an apology. I ignored him. A couple of days later I saw him again, in a corridor. He came towards me with a friendly smile. I gave him a frosty glare and marched past. It was near the end of the summer term and I was working hard. I made a point of avoiding him. On the last evening, he was in the bar with the rest of the crowd. He was being his usual charming self, surrounded by a group who were lapping it all up. Paul smiled at me and waved. I was outraged that he had humiliated me and was adding insult to injury by rubbing it in. I thought: How easily people are fooled – but not me, mate. I ignored him and turned away.

  Paul did not return the following September. I heard he had won a scholarship to Harvard and would complete his degree there. A few hearts were broken. Perhaps mine was dented a little, but I knew very well that my heart was resilient and would mend.

  Over the years, since those early days, I had come to admire his work. He had made a name for himself and carried off several industry awards. I always wondered, though, about his methods, how many people he had fooled and upset to achieve his success, and where that cruel streak I had witnessed fitted into his modus operandi.

  I was in a foul mood when I arrived at work the following morning. Alex greeted me wearily, with a wide yawn.

  “When did you finish?” I asked.

  “Midnight. And I had to be back here for eight.” He lowered his voice. “Have you spoken to Masterton?”

  “It’s over.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s tough, I know. But believe me, Jo, you’re doing the right thing.”

  I poured Alex a coffee and asked, “Did Huntingford come back for my number?”

  “Nope.”

  “No? Well, isn’t that just – ”

  “Course he came back. I said you’d told me to tell him to bugger off.”

  “Oh.”

  “Got you there, didn’t I? No, he came back like a good little lad and, just to oblige you, I pretended to be a blithering idiot who couldn’t find staff numbers on the system. So in all probability he’ll try to reach you again.”

  “Oh dear. Why does life have to be so complicated?”

  “Because you make it so, I suggest. You should try being straightforward about things. Find out what he wants. Maybe he wants to work with you on a story. Pity to lose out,” said Alex.

  “People don’t change.”

  Alex eyed me quizzically. “Well, that’s just not true.”

  “Here’s one who doesn’t,” I said, spotting Milo heading our way. Milo poured himself a coffee and perched on the edge of my desk with an air of self-pity.

  “Bloody, isn’t it? Just my luck,” he said gloomily.

  “What?”

  “This influx from the Obs. You know Paul Huntingford’s joining? There’s talk of a couple of bods from the news desk coming over as well.”

  I deduced that Milo was worried about his own position. “It’s probably just another unfounded rumour,” I said. “This is the place for them, after all.”

  “Huntingford has a lot of clout and he’s bringing his mates in. But I’ll have one powerful ally,” said Milo, brightening a little. “Felicity hates his guts.” Felicity Garner was the Features Editor. “They had an affair and he dumped her,” said Milo, gleefully. “His wife found out what he was up to and gave him an ultimatum.”

  I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. Another adulterous, deceitful rat. Huntingford was even worse than I’d thought. Or he’d got worse over the years. I was tempted to make a disparaging remark about Paul, but knew that Milo would somehow use it against me.

  “Yes, it was rather nasty,” Milo continued, relishing the opportunity to spread bad news. “He’d shagged a native out in Kashmir and was stupid enough to marry her. Obviously forgot the elementary rule of foreign postings – stick to Reuters hackettes. They’re glad of the action and don’t expect you to write.

  “When he was posted back here she stayed on in Srinagar, where Ma-in-law was dying of cancer. While the dusky-hued spouse is waiting for the old girl to croak, doting hubby’s having a dalliance in the London fleshpots with La Garner. Wifey finds out and flies over in high dudgeon. Garner gets dropped like the hot proverbial. And back in Srinagar Ma-in-law kicks the bucket without the customary ‘Cheerio, I’m off’ to her daughter. Some people are complete bastards.” Apparently cheered by this pronouncement, Milo placed his half-empty coffee cup on my desk and departed.

  I was seething. Paul was clearly as big a rat as ever. Why were these men incapable of behaving decently? I determined to avoid contact with Paul at all costs. I thought he might show up in the office during the day, but there was no sign of him. So much for wanting my number, I thought. Then, late in the afternoon, as I was walking past the foreign desk, I overheard a snatch of conversation. Justin, the Foreign Editor, was talking to his deputy, and I heard him mention Paul’s name. I slowed my pace and pretended to read a notice on the wall, in order to hear more.

  “He’s due there at nine. Get me a briefing then,” Justin said.

  At that moment the Editor appeared in the doorway of his office and beckoned Justin, who grabbed a handful of papers and hurried across.

  So Paul had gone off on a story already. Could it be connected with whatever he had wanted to talk to me about? Now I wondered if I had missed out. But no, a foreign story was unlikely to involve me.

  I finished work at eight o’clock and Alex, who was again working an evening shift on the news desk, suggested going for a drink during his meal break. He lo
oked exhausted, his customary breeziness displaced by a weary despondency. I was surprised to see him down two whiskies in quick succession.

  “Don’t give me that mumsie look,” he said. “It gives me an edge and it’s better than drugs.”

  “It is a drug. And it’s not the only drug you’re on, is it? This is how addiction starts.”

  “Jo, you’re imagining things. Anyway, I only drink spirits when I’m on late shift. And you’re always whingeing on about the amount of chocolate you eat.”

  “Chocolate works. And it’s not addictive. Just fattening.”

  “This works. And yes it is, chocolate, I mean. If you can’t do without it, it’s an addiction.”

  “Who says I can’t do without it?”

  “You do. Do we have to continue this circular conversation?”

  “Not like you to be grumpy,” I said.

  “I know.” He grinned. “That’s usually your prerogative. Y’know, I don’t know if I’ll stay in this game long-term. I’ve a feeling that you eventually become disillusioned or someone you don’t like.”

  “Or both.”

  “Or both. But then again, when you look at the kind of work someone like Huntingford produces… he’s inspirational. He reminds me why I got into this game. Sorry, I forgot he’s in your bad books.”

  “Oh, come on. I agree, he’s produced some fantastic work. But I wouldn’t like to think how many people he’s walked over in the process,” I said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “What is it with you? Why are you defending him?”

  “Things are rarely black and white,” said Alex.

  “Hah. That’s rich, after everything you said about Patrick.”

  “I said rarely, not never. I’m not defending or condemning. How could I? I don’t know the guy. Anyway, life’s more complex than that.”

  “You’re the one who was telling me to be more straightforward.”

  “Straightforward, yes. Simplistic, no.”

  “Any more criticism you’d like to chuck my way, while I’m already feeling like crap?”