Mystical Circles (26 page)

Did what? Juliet wondered.

Patrick retreated from James.

Edgar now seemed more determined to take the lead. “But there’s one more thing I wish to say.”

“And what’s that?” Laura asked.

“Simply this,” continued Edgar. “A few years ago, as we well know, through no fault of his own, Theo was tested, and cracked under the strain. So? Are we to condemn him for that? It could happen to any of us. That’s why we’re here – and because of Craig, too, of course.”

Juliet fought her urge to dash forward and ask him to explain. They were in full flow, the Nagra was capturing everything, and she didn’t want to interrupt.

“Although,” Edgar went on, “I happen to know Craig still has one big fear he’s never overcome – and this despite all his workshops on the subject.”

Silence cut in. “Not exactly a
fear
, surely?” said Laura. At that point her mobile buzzed. She answered it. Then she began to simper.

Edgar started to walk away. “It’s lover boy. I’m off. Finish painting, Patrick. We’ll discuss this again later.”

And they all separated, leaving only James, who slowly sank to the gravel, where he remained in a heap of rags, looking like something that had been tipped off the back of a recycling lorry.

Juliet debated inwardly whether to go over and interview James.  She decided not to. Instead, she finished recording, and walked away. She was more interested in asking Patrick to give her Theo’s book before the Irishman burned it. She might at least find clues there about Theo’s background. And Theo himself would be back soon. She was more than ever determined to ask him directly, and hear it from his own lips, rather than from the gossip of Craig’s group members.

After all, she didn’t want her sister ending up with someone even more dubious than Craig himself. And as for Craig, she still had too many questions about him, including whether he was straight or not.

Later that afternoon, at five o’clock, she was just about to leave her room with her recording equipment when she saw James making his way stealthily along the passageway away from her. She stopped short. His face shone with cleanliness, his hair had been shampooed and brushed. He wore a silk shirt with a pair of cream linen trousers. Her heart beat fast. She still couldn’t get used to these changes of appearance. They were almost as spooky as Craig’s.

What was he up to? There were four rooms in the roof: hers, Zoe’s, the bathroom, and the room set aside for Theo. She waited just inside her ajar door, her eyes upon his back.

He reached Theo’s door, and stopped. Then he turned suddenly, and looked back in her direction. She froze. But, fortunately, he didn’t spot her.  

She continued to watch as he put his ear to Theo’s door and quietly knocked. Was he back then? They both waited. No response. He then slowly turned the handle, opened the door, and entered.

She trod carefully along the floorboards, flattened herself against the wall near Theo’s room, and listened. She could hear drawers being opened and closed. What was he hoping to find? If she stayed any longer, he’d see her when he came out. So she turned and stole back towards the staircase.

Once down on the first floor, she glanced at the alcove opposite Llewellyn’s door. On a chair lay an open book. She picked it up and looked at it. Poetry, of course.  The title of the poem was
Writing in the Dark
.

She saw he’d underlined certain phrases in black ink:

Wait till morning, and you’ll forget.

And who knows if morning will come
.

Was this how Llewellyn felt about being here? What did
morning
mean to him? Waking up and finding himself in the outside world? She read on. Again, she found words underlined:

Fumble for the light, and you’ll be

Stark awake, but the vision

Will be fading, slipping

Out of reach.

As she finished reading, Llewellyn’s door opened. She swung round to see the Welshman standing there looking, as ever, wide-eyed and eager. “Sorry, Llewellyn,” she said. “I was glancing at your book.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like to know why that particular poem has special meaning for me?”

“Well, yes.”

He gestured to the book. “Just imagine fumbling for the light and throwing yourself into a glaring wakefulness.”

“Uh-huh,” she said cautiously.

And now his puppyish manner was evaporating, taking on a darker quality. “That’s how I see myself, as I would be if I returned to the outside world.”

“That would be good, wouldn’t it?” she said, surprised, but intrigued.

“No, it wouldn’t. But let me explain. OK, I realise we’re all sleepers here.” He let his glance rest thoughtfully upon her. “And I prefer the dream world to the real one.”

“You could never expect it to last, though,” she said.

“But I do,” he declared, “because here, I need explain nothing.”

She considered this, following through the steps of his logic. “That’s not true, Llewellyn. Because I, for one, have plenty of questions.”

He made a sudden movement. His wing of hair lifted from his forehead, and settled back again. “But not questions seeking facts which define you. I wear a mask most of the time.
What do you do?
is the question I hate most of all.”

“Why?” she queried. “You’re one of the lucky ones, Llewellyn. You can say
I’m a poet
.”

“That’s no advantage,” he retorted. “The world doesn’t respect poets.”

“Yes it does,” she protested. “We love our poets. We flock to literary festivals to hear them perform. We read the latest offering by the Poet Laureate; and we enjoy poems on the underground.”

He looked glum. “That’s all true,” he admitted, “and progress is being made, but still...”

“I respect poets,” she said firmly, “Laureate status or not.”

He reached out, closed his fingers over hers, and slid the book and the microphone from her hands.

“What…?” she began, disconcerted.

“Come into my room, Juliet. We can talk better there.”

“And may I record what you say?”

“No.”

She took a quick breath. What was she in for now? Not a poetry recital, surely, for he’d certainly want that to go out over the air. Something more intimate, then, perhaps? A warning sounded somewhere in her head. Nevertheless, she followed him through the doorway.

He indicated a sheet of A4 paper stuck to the wall. Two lines had been written on it. “This is how I feel about being here,” he said. “
Words may have the power to make the sun rise again
.  I’ve remained faithful to the poet’s calling,” he went on. “And that’s why it’s important to me  to
keep a record of the night
.”

“But you feel you’re among friends here,” she said. “And you clearly don’t want to leave. When you speak in these terms, you make it sound like you’re unhappy.”

He didn’t directly answer, but instead paced the room for a while, then swivelled to face her. “Juliet, you know why I asked you in here, don’t you?”

She had her suspicions, but she didn’t like to voice them. Better cover up her doubts with a firm reply. “Yes,” she said, “because I’ve shown some sympathy for the life of a poet.”

At this, he pulled up a chair. “I’ll take this. Come and sit on the bed.”

Was this a good idea, in the circumstances? Probably not. But she obeyed him. He sat opposite. “So, Juliet, you’ve told me your thoughts about this community. You don’t expect it to last.”

She shook her head. “I was referring to the dream world you’re living in,” she said carefully, “not Craig’s Centre.”

Llewellyn’s eyes narrowed. “How will it end?” he asked.

“Your dream world?” Juliet said. “You want me to predict that? Impossible. And I won’t be around to see it. I’ve spent a week with you all. Yes, unbelievably, I first came here last Friday. So this is my last working day here. I have a full diary next week. I must be back in London on Monday.”

“Ring up and cancel those appointments,” he suggested. “Then stay on. Give yourself a holiday. Just stepping out of your official role might change your view of us – and me.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Oh I do,” he responded brightly. “I’d love to see you break out.”

“Break out from what?”

“From this stance of yours.” He paused. “If you’re here to please yourself, not whoever you hope to sell your documentary to, you’ll be free. You won’t need to hold back any more. You can join in fully.”

She bit her lip. That was the last thing she wanted. It was not that she feared falling into Llewellyn’s arms. No. It was because Craig hadn’t opened up to her yet. And she hadn’t yet asked him her most important questions. And many of those she had asked still remained unanswered. And she also needed to convince herself Zoe and Rory had both been deluded in their ideas about Craig’s feelings for her.

Llewellyn held her in an intense scrutiny. “You do want to stay, don’t you?” he said. “But you won’t share your true reason with me.” He rose to his feet. A knock came at the door. For a few seconds he refused to release her from his gaze. Would he ignore the interruption? But the knock was repeated.

“Juliet, Llewellyn. Are you in there?”

Don, Juliet thought.

“I want a word with you, Llewellyn,” called the Yorkshireman. “And so does Craig.”

The poet’s eyes were still on her face. “I thought so, Juliet,” he said quietly. And before going to open the door, he gripped both her wrists tightly. “Don’t do it. It’s all wrong. It won’t work.”

“Don’t do what? What do you mean?” she asked, nervous and unsettled, shaking herself free of his hold on her.

At this, the door opened. Don’s glance travelled from Llewellyn to Juliet and back again. Beside him stood Craig.

“I mean, it, Juliet. It would be disastrous,” said the Welshman softly.

“Llewellyn,” Juliet began, “you’ve got entirely the wrong…”

Craig took Juliet’s arm and pulled her out of the room. Don gave Llewellyn a scorching look, and slammed the door in his face.

15

Pushing Back the Tide

From his position in front of the sitting room window, Llewellyn studiously ignored Don. Juliet could hardly fail to notice this as she entered the room. The Yorkshireman, for his part, having claimed an armchair in the corner by the gold grandfather clock, accepted a cup of coffee from Patrick with a grim look. She longed to step between them and break the impasse, but that wasn’t possible as Theo had now rejoined the group and was on one of the flame-red sofas, commanding the attention of the whole room.

Seated beside Theo, Zoe clearly had no need of words to let everyone know of her joy at his return. Everyone could see that all she wanted was to be close to him again. Juliet disguised her sense of unease by drinking her coffee too fast and nearly scalding her lips.

“Sorry to arrive this late,” said Theo. “So glad you saved me some dinner. I’d have hated to miss out on Rory’s peach melba.”

Rory, who’d been hovering near the door into the hallway, with an ambivalent expression on his face, and his fair hair recently blow-dried, turned pink, and gave a flurry of pleasure. What a change from yesterday. Juliet could hardly make it out. Then, he’d been seething with resentment against the young clergyman.

James, meanwhile, was stylishly arranged in an armchair opposite Theo. He adjusted one of his cufflinks and spoke. “We’ve been longing to know what happened at your meeting with the bishop, Theo,” he said.

“Yes, what’s the deal, Theo?” asked Al, who’d squeezed into the smaller sofa with Laura, his robust form straining against a cowboy  checked shirt, again with most of its buttons undone.

Despite what Juliet imagined to have been an ordeal, on the outcome of which hung his future career, Theo’s manner was easy-going. Smiling, he stirred sugar into his coffee. “When I arrived,” he said, “the bishop had a car waiting. He told me we were expected at Lambeth Palace in twenty minutes.”

Juliet surveyed Laura, knowing her mercurial views on Theo. But Laura’s face, at this point, gave nothing away, ensuring her feelings remained a mystery to Juliet.

“What did the Archbishop say when you got there, Theo?” Laura asked.

Theo continued in a soft tone of voice. “He told me he liked my book. Kind enough to mention he enjoyed the way I
weave unorthodox strands
into my thinking.”

The group of listeners visibly relaxed. Smiles of relief broke out on most faces, and laughter rippled through the room.

“And that means…?” prompted Rory.

“That I’m subversive.
Open-ended in style
. That was how he put it.”

“How exciting! What happened next?” asked Laura.

“He asked me to sign his copy.”

A cheer arose. Theo quietened them all with a raised hand. “Nevertheless, my bishop still thinks I want watching.”

“But why, Theo?” asked Zoe. “What was it in your book that so upset him?”

Theo gave a wry smile. “He misunderstood me. And still does. Claims I deny God.  Thinks I challenge His sovereignty. But I don’t. I probe behind laws of nature, and ask why things should be. I believe God’s big enough to cope with my questions. The bishop doesn’t.”

Zoe fell silent, apparently awestruck.

“Was that why you were away two days?” asked Juliet. “You and the bishop must have had a long discussion.”

“You could put it like that, Juliet,” said Theo. “The bishop suggested I attend a theological refresher course. He recommended one in Nottingham, which starts in three months’ time.”

“Will you go on it?” Zoe turned anxious eyes upon him.

“Not sure yet,” said Theo. “For the present, therefore, I’m in No Man’s Land.”

“Good description of this set-up,” muttered Don, though everyone but Juliet ignored him.

Zoe, meanwhile, laid her hand on Theo’s, winning a warm glance from him. “I’m so glad you’re back, Theo.”

Craig, who until now had been standing on the silk rug, watching and listening, stepped forward. “So you’ll stay for the rest of the summer?”