The Greening (29 page)

“Why did I take this particular picture? I don’t know. Sometimes you know why you’re bearing witness. Sometimes you feel compelled to take a photograph and don’t know why. But something is always left, you know; there may be nothing you can hold in your hand, but there’s always a marker, somewhere. Nothing is ever really lost.”

“What is your passion?” I asked.

“Finding what’s never really lost.”

But there had been one great loss in Paul’s life – his wife, Sushila. In his own time, he talked to me about it. “It was about eighteen months after my breakdown. Sushila was diagnosed with breast cancer. At first we thought everything was going to be all right and she would recover; then the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread to her lungs and stomach. I always expected her to pull through – though she tried to prepare me, in many ways.

“She became so very weak, so tiny and thin, like a little doll. It was pitiful to see her like that. She had always been my strength, my anchor. Over time, I came to realize that she was gradually moving away, her spirit was moving on. Her body was still there, but where was she? I came to understand that she needed me to let her go and I realized I had to honour her wish.

“One morning I went to her room and took her in my arms, and told her that I was setting her free. Her eyelashes fluttered. She was so weak, so fragile and frail. Her eyes opened for a moment. I knew we both understood. I felt such love coming from her. I held her, as her eyes closed. She died the following day.”

Paul’s eyes filled with tears. I put my arms around him, kissed his hair and rocked him gently. I remember that his hair smelt of celery; he had been cooking dinner. After a few minutes, he continued, “Later that day, I went into our little garden, where we’d had such happy times. I was numb with grief. Everything was a blur. Suddenly I heard birdsong. As I listened, I understood that it was a message, to tell me I had been right to give Sushila her freedom, to let her spirit go. I know now that, no matter how much you love someone, you have to be able to let go.”

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.