Wise Follies (23 page)

‘A lot of people feel that they took some wrong turnings in their lives,’ she says soothingly. ‘But we need to accept where we are right now. Appreciate it and see what it can teach us. In the end all roads merge into one. Don’t worry too much about your destination, because your journey is part of it.’

‘So wise,’ Matt murmurs in my ear.

‘Yes,’ I agree as I shift uncomfortably. My cushion is against the edge of a radiator. I decide to move it and hope the woman in the blue kaftan doesn’t think I’m encroaching on her territory. She has her eyes closed and doesn’t even notice.

‘I’d like to ask you why you’ve come here,’ Samantha continues with studied serenity. ‘People can have very different expectations of days like this so I’d like to know what it means for you.’ She looks at a woman called Julie. The answers are obviously going to be in a clockwise direction.

‘I’ve come here because my children have grown up and left home and my husband’s out a lot,’ Julie says sadly. She’s wearing a pink tracksuit. ‘Most of my friends have jobs and I feel at a loose end. I need a purpose again.’

‘Ah yes – the empty-nest syndrome.’ Samantha looks at her sympathetically.

‘I’m mainly here because I’m thinking of becoming a graphic designer,’ a man called Pete then reveals. ‘I work in a department store at the moment but it’s not my thing.’

Samantha smiles unconditionally at him and then looks at Matt. He’s mainly here because of me. I wonder what excuse he’ll give for his attendance. I start to pull at the tassel of a cushion.

‘I’m here because I’m gay,’ Matt announces bravely. ‘I find it hard to deal with some people’s prejudices and I thought that a day like this might be – mmmm – empowering.’

Samantha positively beams at him. ‘Empowering,’ she repeats happily. ‘Yes, Matt, that is an important word. We’ll be using it quite a lot today.’

Silence. Dear God, they’re waiting for me to speak. Why am I on this ‘Personal Exploration’ day? Should I tell the truth and admit that Matt pushed me into it. No. It would sound so wimpish. What about telling them about James Mitchel and Eamon? No. Too personal. My painting – that’s it.

‘I – I’d like to do more painting,’ I say. ‘I don’t have as much time for it as I’d like and I miss it.’ There. That sounded nice and succinct.

‘And what are you working at now, Alice?’ Samantha asks.

‘I’m a journalist.’ As I say this I am aware that a slight frisson has gone around the room. ‘But I’m not here to write an article about this workshop,’ I add quickly. ‘Honestly I’m not. It’s a personal thing.’

‘Of course it is,’ Samantha agrees calmly, but her gaze does linger on me cautiously for a moment before she smiles at the woman in the blue kaftan.

 After everyone has spoken Samantha announces that she’s been looking for some common threads amongst our answers, and one of them appears to be ‘passion’. I’m not quite sure how she arrived at this conclusion. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she’s written a book called
Passion: Honouring the Flame Within
. A heap of copies were on a table in the hallway. The back of the jacket claims that it can ‘Change Your Life’. So many things are supposed to change your life these days. There seems to be a deep seam of unrest running through the first part of the twenty-first century.

‘I want to share something from Kahlil Gibran with you before we break for tea,’ Samantha says. Everyone looks more chirpy as she mentions ‘tea’. There is a definite shift in mood. Samantha picks up a small book, which I see is entitled
The Prophet
and which I have in my own bookcase. I haven’t read it since I was in my twenties. She explains that she wants to read out an extract from the section on reason and passion.

‘Your soul is sometimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgement wage war against your passion and your appetite.

‘Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody.

‘But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?

‘…Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing;

‘And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes.’

‘Lovely,’ murmurs Matt.

‘Absolutely,’ I agree, wishing I wasn’t quite so aware of the clinking of cups in the dining area. That last quote was really nice. Suddenly everyone’s jumping up from their cushions and heading eagerly out of the room. I must follow them, I don’t want to be caught straggling. ‘Just fifteen minutes,’ Samantha calls loudly after us. ‘I’d like us to all be back here at 11.30.’ No one looks round. A nice cuppa is our passion at this precise moment. That and an oatmeal cookie and a visit to the loo.

In the dining area I opt for the real tea – not the herbal variety – and grab a wad of biscuits. I munch them quietly. One of the nice things about this kind of gathering is that one is not impelled to talk. People respect your ‘space’ and that kind of thing. I look over at Matt. Good, he’s chatting with a nice young man in a yellow pullover. I decide to drift out of the room with my big indigo mug and do a bit of exploring. I open a stripped-pine wooden door and find myself in what must be the library. There are shelves and shelves of books and a dog, who is snoozing on a sofa. He’s an English sheepdog. Just like the one Paul McCartney used to have. I love big dogs like that. Maybe if I marry Eamon I could keep one. I think it would be nice to have some animals around the place, and his house is certainly large enough to accommodate them. His rooms can seem very silent sometimes, as though they’ve absorbed some of his own tendencies. Yes, I’d definitely need a dog. I hope Tarquin might be persuaded to move in too.

‘Hello, doggy,’ I say to the English sheepdog. ‘What’s your name?’ He looks up at me patiently, clearly used to this kind of pointless questioning. I look round the room.

The colours they’ve used are similar to the sitting-room in my cottage. How fond I am of my little cottage. As I think this I sit down on the sofa sorrowfully.

I’m beginning to realize that I’ll really miss my cottage and garden if I marry Eamon. They’re like old friends. I’ve known them for so long now. There’s a cosy feel to my small, slightly shabby little home which Eamon’s just doesn’t have. I’ve even wondered if I should suggest that we stay there – but it wouldn’t be practical. If we have children we’d need the extra space. His house is in an extremely desirable area. It has a Jacuzzi and the garden is large and a horticulturalist’s dream. There’s even a view of Dublin Bay from the front bedroom. It’s a wonderful house really. I simply must try to get more enthusiastic about it. I could add my own little touches. Yes, of course I could. Even though Eamon said he’s had a lot of it freshly decorated there must be some additions I could make. And, of course, there’s the artist’s studio he plans to build for me. That would be all my own.

I start to pat the sheepdog absentmindedly. Maybe Samantha is right. Maybe ‘passion’ is an issue for a lot of us at this workshop. After all ‘reason’ is the reason why I’m drawn to marrying Eamon. And if I do this I’ll simply have to find an outlet for the passionate side of me. The side that James Mitchel has made me so uncomfortably aware of.

I look up at a large painting of a lavender-covered field which is hanging above the fireplace. Painting – yes, maybe that could be the answer. I could paint wild, passionate, wanton pictures in my wonderful studio. I’d enjoy that. It would be fun. After having painted them frenziedly it might even be quite soothing to wander into the sitting-room and find Eamon watching golf on the television.

Golf…no, I mustn’t think about the golfing honeymoon Eamon has suggested just now. It’s so far from the passionate honeymoon I’ve often dreamed of that I can’t bear to think of it. I rise and start to mooch around, looking at the book titles. Then I notice a crumpled paperback copy of
The Naked Ape
wedged against the wall. I haven’t seen that book since I was eleven. Annie and I read it together. It fascinated us. It was the first book that offered us any explanation for sexual passion. Passion, there I’ve used that word again. There seems to be a lot of it around today.

I take the book down from the shelf and look at it. It had seemed so bold and brazen with its naked cover when I was eleven. It’s awakening all kinds of memories. Happier days when sex was something deeply mysterious. ‘See this book, dog,’ I say. ‘It’s pretty saucy stuff. It’s deeply giggly.’

The sheepdog just sighs contentedly and stretches.

‘My friend, Annie, and I used to read this book,’ I explain. ‘We thought it was incredibly naughty.’

The dog scratches his ear.

I and
The Naked Ape
and my cup of tea head for an overstuffed armchair. ‘Maybe I’ll just have a little browse through it,’ I think, but I don’t. I’m remembering the first time I looked at its pages. I’m remembering how daring I’d felt. How furtive…I’m in Annie’s attic. We’ve got torches. We feel like bandits. We’re crouching over the book that is currently on my lap and giggling…

No. No, I mustn’t start daydreaming now. I must go back to the workshop. It’s probably already started.

I’m late again like the White Rabbit. I scurry out of the room.

‘Ah, there you are, Alice, I was wondering what had happened to you,’ Samantha says serenely as I rejoin the workshop and head for my big cushion. ‘We were just discussing the importance of the “inner child”.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I smile at her warily. Then I add, ‘That sounds interesting,’ because I don’t want to appear uncooperative.

‘In fact we’ve just started a little exercise, Alice,’ Samantha continues. ‘I want you to remember a time in your childhood when you felt really carefree. Really happy. I want you to write about it as though you’re telling a trusted friend what happened. You’ll find a notepad and pencil beside you. Take as long as you need.’

I look around. Everyone else is scribbling. Oh no – it’s just like being late with an article. I pick up the pencil grimly and start to chew it. What on earth am I going to write about? Then, as Samantha smiles at me kindly I get my answer. Of course! I’ll write about Annie and me and
The Naked Ape
.

‘I’m remembering a spring afternoon when my friend Annie and I read a book called
The Naked Ape
in her attic,’ I scribble, my pencil scurrying eagerly across the page. ‘One of the advantages of knowing Annie when I was eleven was that she’d sneaked a copy of
The Naked Ape
off her parents’ bookshelf and they hadn’t yet missed it. We devoured the sex bits with horror and glee. They excited us, somehow, though the whole thing sounded awful. The details of enlargement and engorgement, lubrication, flushes, pelvic thrusts and vaginal contractions, not to mention sperm and other squishy stuff, all seemed deeply embarrassing. The only way to do sex, it seemed to me, was to choose someone who would kindly overlook the whole thing later. Which in my case was a boy called Aaron, even though we weren’t as close as we’d been when we were younger.’

I pause and wonder if I should have stayed with the sheepdog in the library. Suddenly these recollections don’t seem so ‘carefree’ and ‘fun’ after all. Maybe I should just doodle a bit and wait for the others to finish. I look at Matt. He’s really getting into this exercise. Oh well, I might as well give it a go too.

‘Aaron had been my best friend for years,’ I scribble. ‘But now that he was older there was something less soft, something wilder, about him. He was suddenly taller than me. He seemed to have spurted up overnight, like those mustard and cress seeds he used to grow. He didn’t care about birds or ants like he used to. And he was nearly always too busy to go to the river. Football had become his big thing. Whenever I watched him and his friend Eric McGrath pretending they were George Best he didn’t even look at me. I somehow knew that having sex with Aaron just wouldn’t feel right, so I suspected I’d never ever have it with anyone at all.’

I look at my notepad fearfully. Why have I described Aaron in such detail? These reminiscences are supposed to be just about Annie and me and
The Naked Ape
, only now I’m remembering them I see that they aren’t. The important bit happened later, after we’d left that attic. It had very little to do with
The Naked Ape
at all.