The Greening (24 page)

“Something that makes you look inward? Many people have said so. There is a lot to be gained, on a spiritual level, from the very special quality of this garden. It’s a good place to sit quietly and speak to one’s heart. Helen and I used to sit here together and meditate on the heart. Do you meditate?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s something I’ve often thought I’d like to try but never quite found the time for.”

“I can thoroughly recommend it. It helps one to make sense of life and of the world. You see, by meditating on the heart, one can get in touch with one’s intuition, and reach one’s true self in the place where all knowledge is found. Would you like me to show you how?” Following Molly’s direction, I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breath, then focused my attention on the middle of my chest, which she described as the spiritual heart centre.

“The heart centre is a point of awareness, where feelings enter. In its pure form it is empty, pervaded by weightlessness, absence of care, peace and a subtle light. This light may appear as white, gold, pale pink or blue. You need only feel whatever is there.”

I was finding it difficult to keep my mind clear of distractions, but tried to follow Molly’s lead. “Breathe gently and sense your breath going into your heart centre. Let the breath go in and out and as it does ask your heart to speak to you. Now – we will sit quietly and listen for five minutes or so. You’ll find that your heart will begin to release emotions, memories, wishes, fears and dreams that have been stored there for a very long time.”

I concentrated on the heart centre and slowly breathed in and out. As I sat very still, I became aware of, or perhaps imagined, a diffused light around the heart centre. I felt emotionally hurt.
I thought:
My heart hurts
. My heart hurt very badly. I thought:
My heart will break
. I experienced a very unpleasant feeling of profound sadness. I found myself thinking:
I had no idea you were so unhappy, that you felt so alone
. I thought of what Julian had said about not finding love until one could accept love, and that this was a matter of believing oneself to be lovable.

The haunting words from Anna’s dream came to me: “You are beloved through all eternity and held safe in an embrace that will never let you go.” Could I believe in a God of love? I heard myself saying inwardly, “I want to believe. I want to believe that I am loved. But how? Please, help me to believe.” I felt a warm glow in my heart, a sense of fullness. Perhaps the fact that I had said “I want to believe” had made a beginning.

It came to me that what mattered was that I should do what I felt to be right in the moment, what I felt my heart wanted me to do. I sensed that if I followed this course the outcome could only be good. Suddenly, I no longer felt fearful about the future. Whatever came my way, I would find the strength to cope with it. If I could act from this new place, the heart centre, in generous feelings of love, perhaps some new beginning would follow, perhaps the wholeness and Selfhood would begin. I wondered: Must one find integration with the Self before finding happiness with another? I thought:
We are entering hallowed ground. We are talking about the sacred in relationships
.

I opened my eyes and saw Molly’s eyes fixed upon me with an expression of tender concern. “How do you feel?”

“A little strange, but calm.”

“Every time you meditate on the heart you make a connection with God’s love. The more you do it, the easier it becomes to go to your heart for counsel and wisdom, or simply to feel that you are loved. By this means, we find silent assurance, self-acceptance, patience and an appreciation of simply being.”

We spoke for a few minutes longer. As I rose to leave, Molly took up a book that was at her side on the bench. I gasped. It was
Enfolded in Love
.

“Do you know this little book?” she asked, seeing my surprise. I explained that I did and that I had become very interested in Julian. She smiled delightedly. “Helen was a great devotee of Julian’s. She ran a local Julian of Norwich prayer group. How strange that you should have come to live in her home. But then, as Julian says, nothing happens by chance.”

That evening, at the end of a disturbing and illuminating day, I considered how lucky I had been to find such a place in which to think and become stronger. I felt a most loving sense of harmony, a sense of homecoming. The memories of the events that created that atmosphere belonged to others, but the legacy of welcoming warmth and peace were mine.

My week at Rachel’s cottage rekindled my long-held desire to move out of London. With Rachel’s agreement, I started spending my weekends at the cottage. I loved the area and thought I could be happy there. It was a joy to step out of my front door and walk through the tranquillity of the garden and the woods. I would go for a walk three or four times a day, the last in darkness, my way lit by the stars. My walks brought a measured rhythm to my life, smoothing the jagged edges and calming my thoughts.

I had made a success of my weekly column. I wondered if it would be possible to continue it but relinquish my reporting duties, so that I could live in the country and work from home. It would entail giving up my employee status and I would have to accept a drop in income, but I would be free to have a life of my own. I put the proposal to Carol, the Deputy Managing Editor. After some negotiation, we reached an agreement and settled on a fee for the column. Because I would still be working for the paper, I was allowed to reduce my notice period to one month. I could not wait to make my escape.

In July, during my last week, I had a meeting with Carol, to sign my new contract. Carol led me into her office and closed the door. Then she dropped her bombshell. She could not offer me the fee we had agreed. The proprietor had made a sudden, unscheduled visit and demanded stringent budget cuts, though the paper was generating good profits.

“Why does Mr Sharkey want more money out of the paper?” I asked.

“To buy more toys,” Carol said.

“Why does he want more toys?”

“To play with.”

The fee she offered was derisory. I said that if I accepted it I would be too weak from hunger to do the work, and turned it down. Carol agreed to go back to the Managing Editor and try for an improvement. Later that day Carol called me in again. The offer was better but still considerably less than we had agreed. A few years earlier I would have made a fuss but there was nothing to be gained, so I accepted. The contract would allow me to move to the country and give me the space I needed to consider the next stage of my life.

I had changed, I had learned to act with prudence, but was the change for the better? I had always believed there was a line that people should not be allowed to cross. How close were the management to that line? How close was I to having my integrity compromised? How close to that loss of self that haunted me as a child, when I felt that the inner core of my very being was under threat and I must make myself very strong to withstand the assault?

This lingering childhood memory of the need to protect myself still informed the way I lived my life. And yet, surely some good had come of it: I had recognized the concept of Selfhood while very young and emerged from those difficult early years a strong person – at least, in some ways. I felt confident of my ability not to crack or crumble under the kind of pressure I had experienced so far. But, whilst Michael’s early influence had strengthened me and still sustained me, I felt I was paying a price for learning to stand alone and not expecting to be supported or loved.

I had thought the Joker’s card had worked with Dr Newell, but what had been the result? I had written to Mrs Newell and received in return a beautiful letter, in which she said that I alone had understood and tried to help. “If only others had been as understanding as
you, I would not be in the situation I am in today,” she had written. Her letter had made me feel better, but I still felt remorse for my part in his death.

I wondered about the proprietor’s motivation. He was one of the world’s richest men. Why did he feel the need to squeeze more and more out of the people who worked for him? Was it, as Ismene had said, an inner emptiness and lack of love that drove a person to always want more? Did all that money make him feel safe? Or was his greed a manifestation of fear? Love is generous and gives. Fear is jealous and wants to keep everything for itself. That would have been Julian’s perspective, I felt sure.

I talked to Alex about the problem over my contract. He said, “Sharkey might even be surprised at how they’re cheese-paring you. He puts people under such pressure, they’re too frightened to question anything he says or even to tell him what’s going on. I envy you your tunnel under the wire. I won’t be in this business in two years’ time. I’m thinking of retraining.”

“As what?”

“Dunno. Something useful. I’m twenty-three. There has to be more than this.”

“Shall we get out of here and have a drink? You can tell me about it,” I said.

“I’ve given it up.”

“Completely?”

“Is there another way?”

“Good for you,” I said.

“I’ve been stupid. I don’t want to end up like Milo. He’s out of control. He was so pissed last week that people were dodging around him in the newsroom so he wouldn’t fall on them. You were right. It’s stupid to take stuff to get you through.”

“I’m really glad to hear you say that, Alex.”

“I know. Thanks, Jo.”

“Maybe they’ll sack Milo at last,” I said.

“No way. He knows where the bodies are buried. I don’t like working under him. I don’t mind him being a bastard – I suppose I
expected that – but he’s a bloody sadist as well. When Imran went he gave him a real grilling, told him he was crap and wouldn’t make it and not to expect a good reference.”

“Why?”

“Because he could. Honestly, Jo, I’d watch him.”

“Why would he want to get rid of me?”

“Because he can – well, not at the moment because you’re well in with the Editor, but if you give him the opportunity he’ll stick the dagger in. You stand up to him and he doesn’t like it. You taught me how things work around here; I can’t believe you can be so naïve.”

Was Milo trying to get me out? If so, would my departure from the newsroom be enough for him – or was I making myself an easier target by moving away from the action? Should I change my plans and stay? But no, I did not want to give up my dream of a life in the country out of fear for the future. Julian would not have allowed fear to deflect her, once she had set her course. Staying with my plan felt good.

On the following Friday evening, Carol held a farewell party for me. I was presented with the traditional mock-up “special edition” front page of the paper. The main headline was “Meredith goes to country”, subheaded “PM considers his position”. Paul did not attend.

I arrived back at the cottage with a sense of relief. I felt much calmer there than I did in London. But I also felt restless. I realized that Longbourne House, though wonderful, was somewhere I was passing through. I wanted to find the place that was mine. Where would I go? What work would I do? What use would I make of the rest of my life? I did not know.

The business over the contract had brought to a head feelings that had lain dormant for years. I realized how bitterly I resented being treated in such a way and how compromised I had felt for a long time. Alex was right. There had to be more. But if I continued to be a journalist, could I find it? Could I find meaning?

I spent Saturday relaxing. It was a beautiful July day and the garden was in full bloom. I visited the little shop on the estate and stocked up on groceries, fresh bread, fruit and home-made apple cake. I also bought myself a bunch of imported red tulips. I put them in water and placed the vase on the pine dresser in the kitchen.

I rose late on the Sunday morning. As I sipped my first cup of tea of the day, I glanced towards the flowers on the dresser. The tulips had opened wide and extended themselves with an arched elegance, their sensuous, shiny red heads held proudly, as if proclaiming their beauty. Glossily darkened, like spreading blood, the confident scarlet blooms displayed themselves on stems stretched languorously outward and upward – no withholding restraint of shyness or modesty – desiring the attention of every eye. They expressed passion and excess, full-bodied, full-blown sensuality. If Anna loved her pale, fragile primroses, I loved these glorious, thrilling blooms that spoke to me of sexual and creative ecstasy.