Soon lunch was over and we were walking down the high street. We parted by his car. He kissed me on the cheek. He looked smaller suddenly, I thought, as though his body were shrinking around his shrinking spirit. I turned and walked away, wondering if this would be the last time.
I walked back down the high street. I felt I was floating almost, moving out of my body. My breath was coming in gasps and I started to panic. I was hyperventilating. The world seemed to be revolving around me. I leaned against a shop window, my head pounding, just managing to get my breath. I remained there for several minutes, then blindly headed back up the road towards the railway station. A London-bound train was about to leave. I ran and caught it as the doors were closing.
For the next twenty-four hours I felt physically sick. I had pushed myself too far and my body was rebelling. I kept being overwhelmed by a feeling of panic, sweating and hyperventilation. I would have to sit down, breathe evenly and try to calm myself.
14 December
The panic attacks went on for five weeks but I haven’t had one since Friday, so I hope that’s the end of them. Somehow, if I am to regain my sanity, I must say my piece to Mark. Those feelings need to be expressed, to end the torture and torment. But how? Though I want to see Mark, the thought of it makes me feel sick. I’ve gone beyond the limit of my strength. Nevertheless, what I have to say has to be said to his face or I will again be cheated of a conclusion. I must risk everything on one last card.
16 December
I feel strong enough to ring him. I’ve prayed that I will be able to communicate with him.
17 December
I rang this morning. Mark sounded delighted to hear from me, as he always does. We chatted as though everything were normal. Work is still very stressful. I had the impression that things are going badly. But he was cheerful and friendly – until I said there was something I wanted to tell him. Suddenly his mood changed. He said, “I don’t want to hear you pour out a lot of emotion. I had to shoot my horse last week, but you don’t hear me pouring out a lot of emotion about it.” He said he thought it selfish and unreasonable to ask him to rearrange all his plans if I wouldn’t say what the emergency was. I tried to calm him, but it was impossible. He said, “The only alternative is to talk on the phone in the morning. I can be free of meetings and calls for about an hour.” I feel utterly desperate. What shall I do?
18 December
I realized, during another sleepless night, that Mark was not going to listen. I rang and said I would leave things for the time being. Mark was friendly and cheerful. After we had talked for nearly an hour and a half about nothing in particular, I said I must go. I feel relieved and resigned. I can do no more, at least not for now. I do not feel any less unhappy. I long for peace of mind. Whenever I allow myself to recall my feelings of the past months I start to shake a little inside and reach for a cigarette.
5 January
Gradually, something has changed. It seems, curiously, to have been a physical change that has brought mental and emotional release. It is as though some intelligence within my body has made a decision for me. Some dam was breached and some mechanism activated to contain the flood. My body simply would not allow the situation to continue. If I pushed it any further, it seemed to be telling me, it would refuse to cooperate. But still, the hurt goes very deep. I feel there was something between us at so intimate a level that when he went a part of my soul went with him.
7 January
This morning I opened the study door and saw the slanting sunlight glancing across boxes, files and papers. There, on a corner of my desk, was the large red box that contained all my papers about Julian. Close by, in several untidy piles, were the books I had bought, including Julian’s own book, A Revelation of Love. I remember that I reached a startling conclusion when I last handled those papers: that I was on the trail of the Holy Grail itself. For the Grail is the cup that gives everlasting life, and the search for the cup of Christ is the search for the divine in each of us. But the wine in the cup has a bitter taste. In Gethsemane, Jesus asked if it might pass from him. He knew, as I am beginning to understand, that those who drink from the cup must undergo a crucifixion. And beyond that, I trust, the other side of vulnerability and exposure, lie redemption and release.
And there the narrative ended. Had Anna reached a resolution? Had she found redemption and release? She seemed about to start on a second phase of her journey but, frustratingly, she had simply stopped. I had resisted all along the urge to turn to the end of the journal, anticipating a resolution of Anna’s situation – and perhaps fearing that there would be none. Now that there was none, I felt cheated. But my quest for Anna Leigh was far from over. The yearning to believe in lasting love and meaning would not give me peace, for I had chosen Julian’s path and in her footsteps I must proceed upon the journey of the spirit and the greening of my soul.
A week passed. I heard nothing more about Paul Huntingford’s assignment. The row over Dr Newell rumbled on. But no charge had been made against him. Patrick appeared on television from time to time, holding the government’s line that there had been a miscommunication and breach in security, which it was investigating. Every time I saw him I felt sad. Had he ever felt anything for me? How big a fool had I been? Where was the man I had loved? Had he ever been there at all? Why did I still love him, and fear him, and feel angry towards him, all at the same time? Despite everything, I still wanted him, and I did not like myself for wanting him.
One morning Milo appeared at my desk, saying, “Get over to Hampstead and talk to Ismene Vale. Your appointment’s at 10:30. Simon will brief you. And this time, don’t bugger it up.” Milo headed towards the Editor’s office for the morning news conference.
Simon was not at his desk. I was told his wife had been rushed into hospital and he had gone to be with her – leaving no details of my assignment. Milo would be in conference for an hour, so I would have to go without a briefing. I fumed. I was bound to make a poor impression.
The taxi took me to a quiet, tree-lined street in Hampstead, north London, and along a drive, edged with poplars, to Ismene Vale’s front door. Her home was a large Georgian house with wide, tall windows, around which curled late-flowering pink and white clematis. As I waited at the door, I noticed in the front garden a long, pointed stone, placed upright, its rimpled grey surface catching the sunlight. Within and around it I seemed to sense a presence that commanded my attention.
The door was opened by a maid. She greeted me with the news that Miss Vale had been unavoidably delayed and had asked if I would wait. I followed the maid across the hallway and into a wood-panelled library. I felt tense and angry. I hoped Miss Vale would give me enough time to do the interview. But as I walked into the library, my mood lifted. I felt immediately at home. The room was elegantly and comfortably furnished, with inviting sofas and armchairs piled with cushions. It felt like a room that was used frequently, a sanctuary even. I could be at ease in such a place as this.
I walked across to a window that gave a view onto the garden. A magnolia tree sheltered a flagstone terrace. Beyond was a lawn interspersed with trees and bushes. The garden was private and proportionate, emanating an atmosphere of wholeness, contentment and ease – in keeping with my earliest impression of its owner. Ismene Vale… even her name had seemed exotic and mysterious in those far-off days when I was growing up, when her books had opened my mind and taken me beyond the unhappy and unchangeable present to a future filled with thrilling possibilities. Ismene Vale had seemed dauntless and unstoppable, and – in such contrast to my great-aunt – full of compassion. Naturally, her home would feel peaceful, restful and welcoming.
I rarely had times like this, moments with no urgent activity to fill them. I had admired Ismene Vale since I had first read one of her books more than twenty years earlier, when I was twelve. The book, titled Voices, reports a series of conversations with a diverse range of people – the rich, poor, content, wretched, influential and powerless. The book ha
d inspired my choice of career. I had been impressed by her gift for getting people to open up to her. People instinctively connected with her and spoke from the heart, sharing their thoughts and feelings and revealing their inner lives. She knew how to listen, ask searching questions and report faithfully.
Her books had dazzled me. She had taken me to new worlds. Through the vivid pictures she painted with words, I could imagine I was there, feeling the atmosphere, hearing the sounds and almost tasting the air. She showed me the reality of other places and other lives. I was made to understand the suffering of people who saw their children starve because their land had been taken from them, who made a home along a railway track or under a plastic sheet at the side of a dusty road – for it was the stories of the dispossessed that affected me the most. I admired her ability to note tiny details. She reported small things that most people would overlook or think unimportant. And yet, those little nuggets of information – like a lover’s glance – said everything. They encapsulated the reality of the individual’s experience and brought the story to life.
One story in particular had touched me deeply. It was about a boy who lived among a colony of children in a Colombian sewer. The children were being hunted down and murdered by local gangs and had no one to defend them. This particular boy was a leader; he protected the others as best he could. He had one prized possession – a hat with a jaunty feather. The hat was a symbol, an assertion of the boy’s individuality. He wore it with pride. Then, one day, he gave it to a friend.
I was astonished, not only by his generosity but also by his ability to let go something that was so much a part of his identity. What would make a child who had known little from the world but abuse, hatred and exploitation choose to serve others? And how could he, defenceless and vulnerable, bear to part with something that had become the symbol of his selfhood? It was a noble act, and more – an assertion of real independence. How are kindness and strength of spirit grown in such barren soil? What power is it that makes a soul shine clear and whole amid rottenness and decay? These were among my many unanswered questions. Ismene Vale did not hurry to supply answers, but she posed the kind of questions that made me want to search for answers within myself. I longed to inspire others in the same way.
As I gazed across the garden I realized how very much I wanted to do the interview. I had found most of the well-known people I met – business and political leaders and celebrities, people who were rich, famous and admired by the public – to be hollow shams, shallow and self-absorbed. They were little people who were perceived to be great. Ismene Vale – she was different… I must have stood there for several minutes, lost in my thoughts. Then the library door opened and the maid reappeared. “Would you like some tea or coffee, madam?” she asked. I glanced at my watch. My interviewee was twelve minutes late for our appointment. I began to worry: would she let me down again?
“Will Miss Vale be much longer?” I asked.
“I shouldn’t think so, madam. It’s not like her to be late. I expect it’s the traffic. Would you like some tea, or some coffee?”
“I won’t, thank you,” I replied.
“If she telephones I’ll tell you straight away,” said the maid. She closed the library door quietly behind her.
A feeling of panic flooded me; the familiar sensation of fear and helplessness that engulfed me whenever I felt I was losing control of events in my busy life constricted my stomach and made me feel queasy. Ismene Vale was cutting it fine. Even if she gave me extra time, I was under pressure to get back to the office to do other interviews for the following day’s paper.
I suddenly felt angry. I wondered: Was Ismene Vale all I had believed her to be? Stress and panic filled my mind with doubts. Ismene Vale was famous, successful, she could afford to override the day-to-day pressures of life. No worries for her about paying her mortgage or keeping her job – and no consideration for those who did not enjoy her privileges, I thought angrily. And her dedication to the world’s impoverished and suffering had done her no harm financially, I observed, as I looked around the room. There were some very fine prints and original paintings. A glance at her shelves revealed rows of antiquarian books. Ismene Vale had a collector’s eye and liked to indulge it.
I paced about the room, the composure and ease of a few minutes earlier displaced by anxiety. I felt trapped in this room that I might have enjoyed had I been in the right frame of mind. I ran my fingers impatiently along a row of books: there would be some gems here, I had no doubt.
And then I spotted it. A volume bound in burgundy leather with distinctive silver clasps. For a moment I thought I must have imagined it. But no; there it was, easily recognizable among the rest. I took a deep breath as I placed my hand on the spine and gently eased the book from the shelf. I was holding a second copy of Anna Leigh’s Journal.
This copy bore no inscription on the flyleaf. But in every other detail – so far as a rapid examination could reveal – it seemed identical. My heart was beating fast. Was the mysterious Anna known to Ismene Vale? Perhaps I might be able to trace her after all.
At that moment the library door opened and the maid reappeared. “Miss Vale has just arrived. She asks if you will join her in the drawing room,” she said.
I followed the maid across the hallway towards open double doors. I smelt a faint, indefinable fragrance – a hint of gardenia, and perhaps rose, and something else that I could not place. As I entered the room I felt as though I were stepping into a pool of light. The room was full of objects and surfaces that reflected the autumn sunshine. French windows opened onto a lush mass of green, gold, orange and red that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.
Ismene Vale came towards me. She was smaller and looked younger than I had expected from her television appearances. She was about five foot two and in her sixties, a rounded, comfortable figure with a sharp perceptiveness about her. She had a direct gaze and I had the sense that she missed very little. Her hair was grey, short and neat, her eyes grey-blue. There was a great warmth about her. She wore a matching skirt and top, with a brightly coloured floral scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her hand was small and soft but her grip was firm.
She greeted me, I fancied, rather like an old friend with whom she shared some special secret. The silliest of images flashed into my mind – a memory of secret campaigns I had organized at school, to outwit and confound the teachers. She seemed genuinely delighted to meet me – part of her gift, I thought. She asked the maid to bring us tea and led me across to the French windows, where we each took a comfortable armchair.
She asked, “Does that book interest you?”
I suddenly realized that I was still holding Anna Leigh’s Journal.
I said, “It’s the most extraordinary thing, because I have a copy of this.”
It was Ismene Vale’s turn to be surprised. “That is extraordinary.”
I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to help myself.”
“But you didn’t,” she replied. “Books have a way of finding us. Clearly, that book intended finding you.”
It was such an odd and unexpected remark – and at the same time so in tune with my own feelings about the journal – that I was caught off balance. It was as though she could read my thoughts. I told her how I had come upon my copy and that the two seemed identical, except for the message on the flyleaf of mine.
“But who is she?” I asked. “Who is Anna?”
“There I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she replied.
“Is it a confidence?” I asked.
“No – I actually don’t know anything about her, except her name. The journal was given to me by a friend, my former publisher. She met the writer when she gave a talk at a literary festival in Winchester – it would be several years ago now.”
“So your friend knows who she is? Who is your friend?”
“Frieda Bonhart.” I recognized the name. “I’m afraid not,” said Ismene Vale. “The woman gave Frieda the manuscript and
asked her to read it and give her opinion. Frieda agreed to do so. But when she took up the manuscript, after returning to London, she discovered that there was no name and address or telephone number. This would have been odd in any circumstances, but in this case it was astonishing, because the manuscript was handwritten. All Frieda knew about the woman was that she had introduced herself as Anna Leigh.
“Frieda became very much engaged with Anna’s striving to understand Julian’s message of love and hope and to make sense of it in the context of her own life. She felt very drawn to Julian. She obtained a copy of Julian’s book and was deeply moved by her message of all-encompassing love. Frieda thought the manuscript should be preserved – she always thought Anna would come back for it – and had this copy printed. I had no idea there was a second and I can’t imagine how it would have found its way to the bookshop. Frieda’s health started to deteriorate and she gave this copy to me, in the hope that I could do something with it some day. She felt a responsibility towards the manuscript and gratitude towards the author for introducing her to Julian, whose book gave Frieda great comfort, particularly as her illness progressed. I put the journal on my bookshelf and it has remained there until now. I knew that one day someone, the right person, would be curious and take it.”
The Greening Page 13