I released Paul gently, as he turned to look into my eyes. “Sushila never once reproached me for the way I hurt her. I deserved to be punished, but she never punished me. I learned so much from her. She’s always with me. She’s so much a part of what I’ve become. Sushila taught me that forgiveness is a kind of letting go. The hardest part is forgiving yourself. I never could, even though she had forgiven me. I didn’t deserve to be forgiven, so how could I accept forgiveness?
“In her dying, Sushila taught me how to let go. I made the decision to let go my loathing of the people who committed all the evil acts I witnessed; all the bad feelings I had about my own involvement in terrible events that I longed to expunge from my memory; the guilt, the regret for the pain I had caused my wife. I let go the worst part of my life and the best part of my life. Sushila changed me for ever. She set me free. Don’t cry, don’t be sad. I’ve just told you a love story.” Paul dried my tears and took my hand.
“Sushila has touched my life, too,” I said.
“I know she’s happy that we’re together,” said Paul. “I felt it from the start. All those years ago, when I first met you, I knew you. I have always known you. You and I are meant to be together and to be happy.”
As autumn gave way to winter, I enjoyed the rites that marked the passing of the seasons, the harvest festival service, bonfires and brisk walks, wrapped up in jumpers and scarves. The year was coming to a close. We enjoyed a traditional Christmas, with holly and ivy, a log fire, carols in the church, cards and gifts, and friends calling to share food and drink at our home. There was even snow.
Winter became spring and spring melted into summer. In June, when we had been together almost a year, Paul asked me to marry him. We decided to marry a week before Christmas, in the little church down the lane. The vicar agreed to incorporate a Hindu blessing and prayers in the service.
Paul’s parents were delighted, as were his brother and sister. Paul got on well with my father, who had moved back to our village in North Wales. To my astonishment, my father took a great interest in Paul’s conversion to Hinduism. He had mellowed with the years. He told Paul he had known many good people of other faiths and had come to think that God, being just, would not debar them from heaven.
I gave my father a copy of Enfolded in Love. He became very interested in Julian and read her book. To my surprise, he revealed a hidden talent for writing and contributed articles to his parish magazine. He wrote beautifully evocative pieces about the way in which his faith had informed his life during his travels. He seemed to have decided to devote the latter part of his life to reflection and spiritual enquiry.
Paul and I married one week before Christmas. During the night it snowed hard. On my wedding day I looked out to see my little world softly cocooned in pure, glittering white. It seemed to signify that I was safe at last and that, indeed, all would be well.
I married in red silk. My beautiful dress was like a ball gown, long and swirling swathes of soft undulation which moved around me, lifted by the light breeze, as I walked to church on my father’s arm. I carried red roses, for love, and wore a little coronet of red rosebuds in my hair. In deference to tradition, a veil of red embroidered gauze had been affixed to my headdress.
Paul said, “You look like a dark princess, my little princess.” He looked irresistibly handsome in a white silk suit and pink and red waistcoat.
As my father and I reached the entrance to the church, tiny specks of snowflakes drifted down onto my dress, but we did not hurry. This moment meant such a great deal to us both; we wanted to savour every bit of it. We entered the church and it seemed as though the whole congregation turned round to greet us, in one big smile. The church was full of flowers. My friend Susan had taken charge of the decorations and she had made the place perfectly beautiful. Red and white roses and lilies were everywhere – in the window alcoves and in beautiful displays at the rear and front of the church. The pews were decorated with little bunches of red and white rosebuds, tied with white silk.
Susan’s little granddaughter, Matilda, four years old and very conscious of the seriousness of her duties, was given the train of my dress to hold as we waited for our walk down the aisle. Matilda wore a white silk dress and a garland of pink and white freesias in her blonde curls.
As I walked up the aisle to the strains of Mozart – yes, it had to be Mozart – my heart seemed about to lift out of my chest. There was my Paul, waiting for me at the altar. I reached his side and he turned to me and took my hand. His eyes were glistening with the beginnings of tears as he looked into my eyes with so much love. My heart seemed to have floated up and kept me somewhere just below the ceiling as we went through the ritual that would make us one for ever. It was quickly over, and we were walking down the aisle through a sea of smiling faces. We stood on the church steps while our photograph was taken. A friend of Paul’s was taking the pictures. He offered Paul his camera. Paul stepped forward and took it.
“Smile, darling,” he said, as though there were any possibility of my doing anything else. He took a photograph that I knew I would treasure for the rest of my life.
It’s an odd thing, how one can forget the day-to-day events when one is simply blissfully happy. The months flew by, Paul and I consolidated our news service and soon it was late summer once more.
In September, as we walked together in the garden, Paul said, “I’m thinking of going to East Timor soon.” Because journalists were not allowed into the country, he would go in on a counterfeit Australian passport and meet up with the resistance in the capital, Dili. It all had to be done with great care, because any East Timorese seen talking to a foreigner could be in great danger.
The resistance would take him back up to the rough mountainous terrain north of the capital, where the guerrillas were encamped. The journey would entail a trip in the boot of a car to a meeting place, where he would hide in undergrowth – in case an army patrol passed by – until a resistance fighter collected him. Two weeks later, he left, with a promise to ring me from Bangkok when he returned there with his pictures. In the evening Ismene telephoned me.
“Joanna, my dear, you must be very proud of Paul. He’ll come back with some extraordinary material, I’ve no doubt,” she said.
Three days passed. I knew that by now Paul would be inside East Timor. It would have been far too risky to his companions for him to try to contact me from there. By the fifth day I knew that he would be in the resistance encampment, if all had gone according to plan. By the eighth day he would be returning to Dili, for his flight to Bangkok. It was important to get out of the country as soon as possible to minimise the risk of his pictures being seized. On the ninth day I could expect his call from Bangkok.
But the ninth day came and went and I heard nothing. The following day came and went and the day after that, but I had no news of Paul. Two weeks passed. I was becoming worried. Perhaps he had needed longer in the mountains. Perhaps there was some new development that he felt he should stay to cover.
One morning I awoke very early and, as usual, switched on my computer to check on the news agencies. I keyed in “East Timor” and a story flashed across my screen. “Australian national killed in clash between guerrillas and Indonesian troops.” The story was datelined Jakarta. I read on. “An Australian man was shot dead six days ago, in a battle between East Timorese resistance fighters and an Indonesian army patrol in the mountains north of Dili. The man has been named as Alan Carter.”
I froze. I stared at the screen, rigid with shock. The name on Paul’s false passport – I seemed to remember that it was Alan something. But this could not possibly be Paul. It must be a mistake. How could someone in Jakarta possibly be sure about what was going on in East Timor? Journalists were not allowed in, so any information must be suspect.
Someone could have stolen his passport. It could be a bureaucratic mix-up; there were always itinerant Australian backpackers in East Timor. The thoughts raced around my brain, but I could not move away from
the computer and the words that had not been there a moment ago but were now written across the screen.
I felt as though the wind had been knocked out of me and my brain numbed. It must have been several minutes before I rose from my desk in a daze. Nothing was wrong. There was nothing to panic about. I must carry on with my work, the research I was putting together for a story about Georgia. I moved around my office like an automaton, opening files and gathering together my notes. I became aware that the phone was ringing, but it seemed a very long way away. I suddenly realized that I should answer the phone. It might be Paul. I lifted the receiver. It was Ismene.
“Joanna, my dear. I’m sorry to ring you so early. I just wanted to have a word. Have you seen Reuters this morning?” As soon as I told her I had, she said, “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.” Her voice sounded strained and shaky, as though she was trying to control tears. She said she had received a telephone call from Dili, from a contact in the underground, in the early hours of the morning. He had said there had been a battle and a foreigner had been killed. He had offered to go and check the details and telephone her again. He had just called again, confirming that the man who had been killed was Paul. But I knew that Paul had survived every war zone of the past ten years. He was indestructible. He knew his business and would never take stupid risks.
“No,” I said. “You’re wrong. It can’t possibly be Paul. He simply would not have put himself in danger. He would never do anything silly. You know how experienced he is in war zones. Your contact has made a mistake.”
Ismene said, “Let me carry on finding out what I can. I’ll come down to you later.”
“There’s no need…” I started to say.
“I’ll be there at around two o’clock,” she replied softly.
A little while later the phone rang again. It was Paul’s father. He sounded as if he had been crying. “Joanna, have you heard the news?” he asked. I was anxious to comfort him.
“I’m sure there’s been a mistake,” I said. “It can’t possibly be Paul.”
His voice broken with tears, he said, “I’m sorry. I wish I could believe that, but I have had a phone call from the Foreign Office. They think it was him.”
“Please, you mustn’t give up hope,” I said. “It must be a mistake. The Foreign Office would phone me first. They’ve made a muddle. They couldn’t possibly be sure of his identity so soon. It would take time for the British embassy in Jakarta to check something as complicated as this. I’m quite sure this is some mixed-up, garbled story. Paul is still working on his pictures and he’ll be in touch soon.”
Paul’s father replied, “Jo, dear – I’ll call you later.”
I telephoned the Foreign Office but, at seven in the morning, could only get a recorded message. I rang Paul’s father again, to get the name and number of the man who had rung him. The line was engaged.
Twenty minutes later Paul’s father rang again. He said, “It’s the worst news, Jo. The Foreign Office has confirmed that Paul is dead.”
“No. They would have called me, as next-of-kin,” I said.
“They didn’t know Paul was married, a bureaucratic mix-up.” I took the Foreign Office man’s number and telephoned him. He sounded embarrassed.
“I was just about to ring you, Mrs Huntingford. I’m sorry about the mistake. I’m very sorry to say we’ve confirmed the identity of the victim. I deeply regret to tell you that he was your husband, Paul Huntingford.”
I could not, would not believe it. I carried on with my work, while checking on agency reports every few minutes. Several minutes after the phone call, I looked at the screen to see Paul’s name written there. But it could not be true. That would be too cruel.
At two o’clock Ismene arrived. She tried to comfort me. She stayed with me for two days, cooking me meals which I could not eat. I asked her to leave. I needed to be alone. She asked if I wanted her to ring Louisa or a friend, but I said no, that I would prefer to be on my own.
After she had left I walked out into the garden. It was evening, but still light and quite warm. I sat on the bench where Paul and I liked to sit together and watch the sunset. I don’t know how long I was there, but I suddenly noticed that the stars were out.
I became aware of beautiful birdsong coming from the large oak at the end of the garden. Moments later, a tiny brown-flecked bird flew swiftly from the tree onto the ground a few feet in front of me. It looked at me for a few moments and then hopped up onto the arm of the bench. It began to sing, so quietly and sweetly, it seemed as though it was singing especially for me.
I closed my eyes and listened. Suddenly I had a strong sense of Paul’s presence. I felt as I did when he held me in his arms – safe, comforted, loved… I knew that Paul was saying goodbye.
The feeling went, and in that moment I knew that Paul was gone for ever. I think I must have sat there for several hours, because I became aware that day was breaking. The feelings of loss and grief were so very deep, something inside me had broken. I could not cry.
As the days went by, the phone rang frequently. I did not answer it. Friends left messages, but I did not return their calls. One call that I did return was from Paul’s father. He had promised Paul that, should he be killed on assignment, he would take care of the funeral arrangements. I agreed that he should carry out Paul’s wish for a Hindu funeral.
We held the service at the little church down the lane. It was agonizing. All I can remember is the pain and the utter unreality of it. As we left Paul’s graveside, I turned and tried to run back, to save Paul. Ismene held me and said, gently, “No, Joanna. He’s gone. He’s gone.”
I arranged to take time off work and remained in the country. I saw and spoke to no one. I did not shower or bathe. I sent my cleaning lady away. She offered to shop for me, but I said no. She left me food anyway. I barely touched it. And it did not occur to me for weeks that I must owe her quite a lot of money that she could not spare.
I turned to the empty space within myself, turned away from life’s movement, evading it, subtly and politely, excusing myself, with eyes averted, desirous only to be apart. Nothing could ever fill that space again. I had nothing to say.
I began to work again and then immersed myself in it. As the weeks went by, messages left by friends indicated that they were becoming increasingly worried about me. But I simply could not bear to be touched, to be in anyone’s company. I felt that a skin had been removed. I felt vulnerable and could not face the world.
I received a letter from Alex, sending his love and saying he was thinking of me. He said he was leaving the paper to go to medical school. When he had qualified, he intended to go to Africa, with his girlfriend, to work for the needy. I knew I should respond and wish him well but could not bear to do so.
Ismene came once a week, bringing food and flowers. The first couple of times she knocked, but I did not reply. After that, she would place her gifts outside the front door and leave. Sometimes I would bring in some of the food and eat a little of it. I was losing a lot of weight and could see no future for myself. I tried to write but the words would not come. Then came the letter, brief and to the point. It was from the Editor. I was fired.
I came to my bed, hating myself and needing to escape myself in retreat and resignation. Fear pervaded me at the realization that I might lose everything, echoing my childhood fear of abandonment. For the first time in my life I was not in control. I turned my face to the wall. My bed was comfortable and warm and I saw no reason why I should ever leave it again.
The telephone was ringing. I let it ring and click into the answering machine. A moment later it rang again. And then again. I lifted the receiver.
“Joanna. Are you there?” It was Ismene. As she listened quietly, I told her how I felt, how pointless everything seemed, how great an effort to do the simplest tasks, how little I cared about myself and about the future. Ismene asked me to pray, and we prayed aloud together. She said, “Joanna, you are fighting for your life.” That galvanized
me and made me want to keep talking.
We talked through the night; sometimes I dozed off to sleep and then awoke suddenly to find Ismene still on the end of the phone line. It was early morning when she said, “Joanna, get out of bed. Go and run yourself a bath. Put in scented oils. Bring some candles and light them. Soak yourself in your bath, feel the warm water on your skin. When you have dried yourself, massage scented lotion into your skin, feel your body, be aware of it. Then dress yourself in something beautiful and go out to face the day.”
And so I did. Raising myself from my bed was a monumental effort. I cannot remember any task ever being so hard. I did walk to the bathroom. I did run my bath. I did soak in the water and feel it on my skin. Almost without knowing what I did, I did all those things. Then I raised myself and dried myself and dressed myself in clothes that were beautiful, and I had taken the first steps on my road to survival.
Later that day I heard a car engine and peered from behind my curtains, to see Ismene’s car draw up. She rang my door bell, but I still could not face speaking to anyone and did not respond.
As I watched from behind my curtains, Ismene returned to her car and took from it a bouquet of scarlet tulips, a vase and a bottle of water. In the clearing at the front of the house, she placed the vase on the ground, filled it with water from the bottle and arranged the flowers carefully in the vase.
Next she produced a hamper and placed it next to the vase of flowers. She opened the hamper and took out a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, which she spread out on the ground. Then she took out a ham and a cooked chicken – I thought, how strange, when she is a vegetarian – a cake, salads and fruit, placing each in turn on the tablecloth. Next came napkins and cutlery.
The Greening Page 22