The Greening (11 page)

Patrick fudged around the issue, claiming that ministers had been let down by their civil servants. There had been massive errors in communication, he said: the wrong message had been conveyed. There was no substance to claims that Indonesia was using British arms to suppress the East Timorese. The blame for the miscommunication lay with a senior civil servant. He did not name Dr Newell as being at fault, but implied that he had in some way failed to be as rigorous as he ought to have been. Certainly, Dr Newell ought not to have spoken publicly, which was a grave dereliction of duty, said Patrick. His outburst, as Patrick described it, had put the country’s security at risk. He did not say from which source, and I could not imagine that the East Timorese were about to let loose a campaign of retribution on UK soil.

The tough questioning to which he was subjected could not budge Patrick to say anything further. He would not explain why Dr Newell was not available for interview. The government was investigating and it would be improper to make any further comment until that investigation was complete. That was the official line and there it stayed. The government was bound to be given a rough ride in Parliament the following day, but Patrick’s performance suggested that it intended to tough it out.

It had not been Patrick’s finest hour. I had to admit it. I knew Dr Newell to be a man of integrity who had spoken out because his conscience had prompted him to do so. He had done the right thing. And Patrick? I was disappointed in him. As for me, I had come very close to the line. This new twist – the government’s denial and sullying of Dr Newell’s name – made me uncomfortable about being part of it all. In less than one week my life had been turned around, my conscience put on the line. Had I been blind or half asleep to be so
careless of the dangers of the world I inhabited? Anna, who shared my desire to write words that would change lives, and the mysterious Julian, were making me question myself. And so, tired as I was and weary of the day, I had to return to one of the few things in my life that still made sense – Anna’s journal.

I have two lives: my outer life with Mark and all the excitement of a passionate love affair. Then there is my inner life, with Julian, the intimate companion of my quiet hours. Sometimes I wonder why the repose in my heart comes when I am alone with Julian and her book and not when I am with my beloved. It is my failing, of course, my inability to believe and accept that the great gift of his love is mine. It is I who create the invisible veil between us – or perhaps there is always such a veil between lovers. For who can dare to be as close as breathing? It is terrifying. The coming together of flesh and surrender of one-ness is peril and adventure enough. I long for and yet shrink from the intimacy that puts me soul to soul with my lover, such nakedness, such vulnerability. Is it always like this, for everybody?

Mark could not do more to allay my fears. He is a most attentive lover, telephoning at least once a day, even while busy and far away. I am baffled by his perception of me as dazzling and glamorous. I have always known myself to be a quiet little mouse. “It’s always exciting seeing you,” he told me yesterday. “I’m always discovering something new about you to love.”

Imperceptibly, it is Mark who is taking over my life, leaving Julian at the outer limits. My busy rehearsal schedule has to be amended continually, so that we can meet. Mark’s working life is so unpredictable, with unexpected business meetings causing him to change our plans with little warning. He is always travelling and hardly ever at his flat. Our trip to Cornwall sealed our commitment to one another. We stayed in a little hotel overlooking the sea. While Mark was occupied with his
meetings I spent my time walking along the endless beach, which unfolded before me in promise of the years we will spend together. I imagined us walking, arm in arm, towards the ends of our lives, content and at peace to be small and insignificant upon the vast canvas of land, sea and sky.

Sometimes I again had the uneasy sensation that I was being observed. But there was rarely anyone in sight; just occasionally a car parked up on the headland, facing towards the sea. Each evening we dined in a restaurant at the water’s edge, the smiles and caresses we exchanged when we had no need of words telling us everything about our love for each other. When we walked together, hand in hand, the length of the beach, under the stars, I felt that we, too, had our place in the universe, a place that belonged entirely to us, like every one of the millions of worlds whose far-distant splendour lit our way. When we made love, it was as passionate, exciting and joyous as I had dreamed it could be. I am completely happy and more fulfilled that I ever imagined possible.

London seems too big and too loud. Mark’s work schedule is more frenetic than ever, with a great deal of travelling. And rehearsals are occupying even more of my time. But nothing can keep us apart. We spend every moment we possibly can together. I am finding the need for clothes of a kind I have never worn before. Last week Mark instructed me to “get my glad rags on” for a charity event at the Savoy Hotel, one of London’s grandest.

The grand life suits me. It’s a great surprise. I treated myself to a black strapless sheath dress of jersey silk. It is very beautiful. A diamanté buckle at the top right of the bodice holds in place
a sweeping trail of the soft jersey fabric, which folds over my shoulder and undulates gently as I walk. I had my hair put up by a hairdresser, and for once the unmanageable curls came into their own, a carefully selected few spilling out to frame and soften my face. The lipstick I chose was a vibrant red. In my cowardly way, I chose a softer pink for my nails, which were manicured professionally. The reflection I saw in the mirror was of an attractive, sophisticated woman. Where had she come from? Where had she been hiding for the whole of my life? I glowed with love, from being loved. In the intimacy of making love to my beloved, had some essence entered me – as he had entered me, leaving behind his essence, gleaming and glistening upon my skin – an essence that had suffused me to cast upon my skin a delicate, shimmering glow?

I never thought that I could play the part of consort, of the pampered woman, whose appearance, expensive to maintain, was well worth the money and effort. I never thought I could walk into a grand room, full of grand people, on the arm of a man who was clever, witty, sophisticated and accepted in such company, and be introduced as his equal. I never thought I could keep pace with such people – though intellectually I had nothing to fear – with their knowledge of the world and their easy familiarity with the trappings money and position bring. This was another world and a far distant one from my modest childhood in a northern town and my adult experience of dusty academia. From Mark’s behaviour, you would have thought he was accompanying some celebrated sophisticate. He introduced me as a well-known writer and theatre director. One or two people even pretended to have heard of me; that amused me, because they could not possibly have done, since I am small fry. We danced together. Mark moved beautifully and took me with him, so that I seemed to move beautifully as well. I was Cinderella at the ball and I wanted the evening never to end. After the party we walked, hand in hand, along the Embankment. We sat on a bench and looked across the River Thames.

I thought Mark seemed a little sad. He told me he wanted to sell his company in five years’ time. He said, “Then you and I can sail away, just the two of us, and leave everything behind.” He began to sing, looking into my eyes, “’Are the stars out tonight’… ” He finished the song and said quietly, “I do love you, you know.”

We remained there, Mark’s arm around my shoulders, for several minutes. A sudden breeze rippled the water and made me shiver. Was someone watching us, away in the shadows beneath the trees? Why do I keep having this feeling of being observed? I turned towards Mark. He was looking at me with an expression of concern and worry. I asked if he was all right. He put his jacket around my shoulders, saying of course he was and that everything was fine. But I sense that he’s worried about something. He never talks about his work, but I know it causes him a great deal of stress. His old Army contacts turn up from time to time, sometimes asking for money, he says. Mark is a generous friend and helps them out when he can. Once this play is over, I shall take time off, so that we can see each other more easily.

Yet another rushed lunch, stolen from a day of meetings, gave us hardly time to eat and to make love. But my desire, like Mark’s, was too strong to resist. As he turned to walk away from me, and down the three flights to the front door of the block, I felt as though a part of me were going with him. I heard the entrance door close behind him and went to my window to watch him drive away. As his car turned the corner, to leave the square, my eyes were drawn back to the tall trees in the park, with their abundant autumnal crowns of russets and golds. Someone was looking up at my window. As I caught his glance, he quickly turned and walked away. It was the same man! The man I had seen in Norwich and again in the
restaurant. I was suddenly fearful. What does he want, this intruder into my life? I have left a message for Mark at his hotel in Birmingham. I hope he rings me soon. I have just come in to find a message saying he will come to rehearsal tomorrow.

When I told Mark about the man the colour drained from his face. He says there’s nothing to worry about, nothing he can’t handle. I asked if the man was dangerous. He replied, “No. If he meant business we’d have known about it by now.” That really scared me. He won’t tell me what’s going on, just that his work involves mixing with what he calls “a few low-lifes”. I always thought he was doing security for computer systems and premises, but he says his company is also involved in rescue operations, when people are kidnapped. Now I’m really worried. I had no idea about any of this. Is the man a foreign spy, or a kidnapper? Mark says of course not, and that he’ll sort everything out. He asked why I hadn’t mentioned the man before, and I explained that I thought I was imagining it. He’s promised me I won’t see the man again.

It’s been a week and I haven’t seen the man again, but the thought of him continues to worry me. Mark will tell me no more than that he has discovered the man’s identity and given him what he wants. I think that probably means money. But if the watcher wanted money, why didn’t he just ask for it, instead of following us and frightening me? Mark will say no more about the stranger, other than that I mustn’t worry because I have nothing to fear from him.

I was becoming concerned for Anna. What had she got herself into? What was Mark up to? I didn’t trust him. I started to flick
through the journal, to find out what had happened. Then I stopped. I would take my time. Each time I picked up the journal the passage I read made an impact on my life. I was coming to believe that I was meant to read the journal entry by entry, as Anna had written it, measuring the changes in her life against those in mine. I had no idea how prophetic that thought would turn out to be.

The following morning the
Correspondent
led on the government’s response to Dr Newell’s revelations. The Editor had decided to come out on Newell’s side. Patrick’s defence of the government’s position had not played well with the broadsheet national newspapers, which reported his assertions of carelessness on the part of a senior civil servant with scepticism and ridicule. The government’s decision to muzzle Dr Newell had not helped its cause.

The tabloids’ take on the story was more mixed: whilst most were critical of the government, others painted Dr Newell in a poor light. I realized I should have known they would. Had I known? Had I pushed the thought to the back of my mind? I knew that any and all the newspapers could change position very quickly, and worried for Dr Newell. I was surprised but relieved to be assigned to a different story.

My feelings about Patrick were confused. I was disappointed, angry and hurt. Yet I worried about the personal criticism he was receiving. I loved him. I did not want to see him harmed.

Dr Newell’s wife telephoned me at home, calling from a public telephone box. She could say nothing about the pressure her husband was being put under by the government but said he was quite stoical about the tabloids. He had had a long talk with Freddie, who had taken the whole thing surprisingly well and expressed admiration for his stand. Freddie’s reaction had been a
great comfort and relief, and the coming together at last of father and son – though so far only by telephone – had been tender and joyous.

Mrs Newell asked if I had seen Patrick’s interview on
Newsnight
. Feeling uncomfortable, as though I were deceiving the Newells, I said I had. Mrs Newell said, “Trevor doesn’t know what they’re going to throw at him. This is off the record, Joanna, you understand that?”

“Of course.” Nothing would have induced me to share any of this conversation with Milo. I was in too deep as it was. I was relieved that Milo had taken me off the story, which was now being covered exclusively by the political team.