The Greening (36 page)

Charles’ considerate, attentive manner did cheer me a little. He was clearly generously determined to try to make up for the disappointment. He asked about my life and my work, and told me how much he was enjoying running his aunt’s business.

“When I took over I’d never actually run anything before, so I’m very reliant upon my colleagues who’ve been there years. There’s a bit of an antiquated way of doing things, but by and large it seems to work.”

“What were you doing before?”

“Writing. I’ve written some books on the environment. I’m an anthropologist by training, and I’ve gradually moved from people to places. Ismene’s early influence on my life.”

“Oh, what a fool I am! C.W. Clemence – is that you?”

Charles lowered his eyes, smiled bashfully and nodded. C.W. Clemence was a very distinguished author. He might even have won major prizes. I felt embarrassed by my failure to make the connection.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“No need to be. I much prefer it when I’m taken for what I am.”

As I reflected momentarily on the logicality or otherwise of that statement, Charles was telling me that he had extended the range of Bonhart’s to include spiritual and esoteric writing, in which he had a great interest.

His boyish, rather bumbling manner fell away when he talked about something that captured his imagination. Looking at him more closely, I took in a square, longish face with a strong chin. His nose was straight, with a surprising slightly upturned tip. His wide-set eyes, glinting with enthusiasm for his subject, crinkled at the edges, as though well accustomed to laughter. He had kind eyes, and his smile hovered about the corners of his lips, as though reluctant to leave.

Charles’ directness and high intelligence were wrapped in a persona that was almost other-worldly in its abstractedness. His
clothes gave the impression that he really did not care what people thought. His air of detachment, as though slightly surprised to have been deposited unexpectedly where he found himself, was at odds with his lively talkativeness when enthusing about a subject. In those moments, as he gestured expansively, the oversized pepper mill looked to be in peril.

He said, “I’m fascinated by other people’s enthusiasms. People achieve such extraordinary things when they put their heart and soul into something they love.”

He still had not located Annabel’s original journal. However, he had found a translation of Julian’s book and a copy of
Enfolded in Love
, which he had been reading.

He said, “It’s inspiring, isn’t it?”

I took from my bag the two copies of Annabel’s journal and handed them to him, saying, “You must have these.”

“I’d like you to tell me about the journal. Would you? Ismene has whetted my appetite.” When I had described the contents of the journal, he said, “I can see why you and Ismene got caught up in Annabel’s story. You know, I think there could well be a market for a book about Julian’s relevance for us today; something that would touch people who have no interest in theology or even religion. Joanna, would you keep your copy and think about it again in that light?” I said that I wasn’t really sure what kind of form such a book would take but that I would be glad to give it some thought.

We passed a pleasant couple of hours together. Charles was easy to be with and his sense of humour infectious.

“I do enjoy the ridiculous,” he said, telling me a very silly story, chuckling with amusement and then laughing long and heartily. I suspected that his habit of making a joke of things covered an innate shyness. It had been a very long time since I had laughed so much. Charles was good fun in an eccentric sort of way and really, I thought, rather endearing.

Charles told me about his aunt. “It was very sad when she became ill. Frieda was such an independent woman – a free thinker.
You know, she started Bonhart’s from nothing. My grandfather thought it was a mad idea and wouldn’t give her a bean, but Frieda took no notice. Nothing daunted her. Such an attractive characteristic, don’t you think?

“You know, she was the kindest person in the world, would do anything for anybody – but let someone try to be super-clever and pull a fast one, and they’d have the rug pulled out from under them so fast they wouldn’t know what had hit them. And she wouldn’t care who it was – it could be the Prime Minister. When she was in crusading vein she’d say, ‘Right is right, and wrong is no man’s right!’ This will sound silly, but whenever I see the statue on the top of the Old Bailey, with the scales of justice in one hand and the sword of truth in the other – I think of dear Frieda.”

Charles looked sad for a moment. I was about to speak, when he said, with an air of cheerfulness, “Her old cat’s still around. It must be at least eighteen. It’s used to being in the office and I’ll swear it’s still under her influence. It’s a funny thing, you know, but whenever I’m about to do something incautious and possibly unwise, it clambers onto my desk and gives me what Frieda used to call an old-fashioned look.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a terrible thing to lose someone you love.”

Charles, his voice a little throaty, replied, “But you know, love never goes. I still feel Frieda about me; I sense her presence. You know, death really does have no dominion.”

“Ah, if a Welsh boy said it, it must be true!”

“Are you Welsh?”

“Oh, yes, very much so. Can’t you hear the accent?”

“There’s a faint trace there, but you sound pretty standard English to me.”

“I’m travelling on false papers. But I don’t sound so English when I get worked up about something!”

“Well,” said Charles, “I shall have to wait and see. I shall mind my Ps and Qs so as not to annoy you.”

I said I planned to visit London soon and suggested that I call into his office then, to discuss my thoughts about ways in which the journal might be developed.

Charles said enthusiastically, “Splendid. I shall look forward to it.”

Despite my promise to Charles, I allowed the days to slip by without calling in at his office. The disappointment over Anna had brought everything to a head. I was worn out, exhausted by years of pushing myself, of dedicating every waking hour to my work and seeing time spent in contemplation or relaxation as time lost. I longed for peace. As I was thinking these thoughts, the letterbox flipped open with the arrival of the post. There on the mat was an envelope addressed to me in Sister Eleanor’s handwriting. I took from the envelope a folded card. On the front was a beautiful watercolour picture of an angel, who sat, with wings outspread and a golden circle around her head, playing a lute.

Inside the card the Sister had written, in beautiful script, a quotation from Julian’s book: “A mother may sometimes let her child fall and suffer in various ways, so that it may learn by its mistakes. But she will never allow any real harm to come to the child because of her love. And though earthly mothers may not be able to prevent their children from dying, our Heavenly Mother Jesus will never let us, his children, see death. For he is all might, all wisdom, and all love…

“When we fall he holds us lovingly, and graciously and swiftly raises us. In all this work he takes the part of a kind nurse who has no other care but the welfare of her child. It is his responsibility to save us, it is his glory to do it, and it is his will we should know it. Utterly at home, he lives in us for ever.”

It had been such a long time since I had visited St Etheldreda’s. Suddenly I thought how much I would like to see Sister Eleanor. I would take a few days off and visit the convent, where I could be sure of peace and rest.

As I packed my bag, as an afterthought I slipped in the journal. The following Friday my taxi pulled up outside the convent’s gate. Soon I was in the little parlour, being served tea in a pretty china cup on a tray covered by a white, starched cloth. As I sipped my tea, the door opened and Sister Eleanor came towards me, arms outstretched. She looked hardly any older than when we had last met. “Joanna. It’s lovely to see you again. We’ve missed you,” she said.

After I had put my bag in my room, I accompanied the Sister to the garden. Together we walked along a path that led to a barn, and beyond it to a secluded area with a wall to one side.

“In the summer we grow such lovely flowers, as you know,” said Sister Eleanor. “But there’s not much to see at this time of year. Just some poor little snowdrops and winter jasmine.” Patches of delicate yellow jasmine were splashed along the wall. “But I like to walk in the garden in this season. It always fills me with wonder to reflect on how life begins in the dark soil, when everything looks so unpromising; how from nothing comes everything.”

Eleanor led me along another path and into the vegetable garden. “We have cabbages, Brussels sprouts, parsnips, leeks at the moment – lots of good, warming vegetables to keep out the cold.” We walked along the edge of the garden, where it met the marshes. In the distance, along the horizon, the dark clouds of birds were wheeling in to find sanctuary. We watched them together, in silence.

I asked, “Do you believe that each of us must come to a personal Calvary?”

“There comes a point when the worldly self must be sacrificed upon the cross,” said Sister Eleanor. “We spend a long time in the Garden of Gesthemane before resolving to take the road to Calvary. But yes, Calvary awaits, and beyond it lie peace and freedom.”

“I’ve been troubled by doubts and questions for a very long time. There’s something I’d like to show you. A journal. Not written by me, but by a woman who has died.”

“Is it something you would like me to read and discuss with you?”

“Would you?”

“Of course, if it will help. I shall be going to prayers in a little while. Why don’t you leave the journal in my studio, so that I can collect it later?” After a few more minutes, Sister Eleanor said, “It’s becoming a little cold.” As we returned indoors, she said, “Shall we see one another tomorrow, after you have rested?” She invited me to join her for afternoon tea. That night I was able to let go of my habitual tension and slept soundly.

The following morning I awoke feeling greatly refreshed. I had been thinking about visiting Annabel’s grave and had brought with me John Grasmere’s business card. His office was at Sheringham, some forty-five minutes’ drive to the east along the coast.

Was this another of Julian’s not-really coincidences? Chance had brought me to Brancaster; should I follow through? Did I feel up to the visit? Would it make me feel better? I was so unsure of my emotional condition that I did not want to risk doing anything that would make me more sad. But, as I savoured my filling, nourishing breakfast of porridge and fruit, I began to feel stronger and almost bold. Curiosity began to overtake me. I would go. I would finish my pursuit of Annabel, pay my respects and put the affair to rest.

I telephoned John Grasmere and arranged an appointment for eleven o’clock. I took a taxi eastwards along the coastal road, passing through one pretty village after another, my eyes drawn continually to the vast expanse of calm, rippled sea that spread to the horizon.

I was at Sheringham in good time and John Grasmere was waiting for me. He greeted me solicitously, clearly unsure of my relationship with Annabel. I felt disinclined to explain. As we talked, he shook his head sorrowfully, as though in disbelief at life’s cruelties. He offered to take me to Annabel’s grave in the churchyard at Cley, a coastal village several minutes’ drive to the east. I thanked him and said I would prefer to go alone.

The church at Cley was tucked away on the outskirts of the village. Here, at last, I would say my goodbye to the woman whose life story had puzzled me for so long. There should have been relief, but there was only sadness. The crunch of my footsteps on the gravel path leading to the graveyard sounded intrusively loud and I was glad to step onto the grass.

I made my way round the central holly tree, past the great oak, taking the track that wound round to the left, as I had been directed by John Grasmere. Birds sang plaintively in the tall trees, as though respectful of the dead who occupied that sad and lonely place. I continued towards the low, moss-covered wall that flanked the row of headstones to my left. And there, past the wall and beneath a great Scottish fir, stood the small, plain headstone of Annabel’s grave.