The Greening (10 page)

I selected documents to photocopy and purchase, among them copies of the annual Julian Lecture, which is given in St Julian’s Church on 8 May, the anniversary of the visions.

As I gathered my papers together Mark arrived to collect me. While I paid for my purchases he was examining a poster on
the wall – an illustration of Julian caught in a beam of blazing sunlight, looking out through her cell window. Under the picture were the words “Love is his meaning” – the very last words spoken to Julian after she had pondered for forty years on the meaning of the divine message. Mark asked, “What does that mean?” I replied, “I don’t really know. Perhaps you’ll tell me.”

We travelled back to London through the darkness. Mark drove at great speed. I had a sense of hurtling through blackness with no clear idea of where boundaries lay – our own and those of the roadside and other cars and buildings flashing by. It was disorientating and gave me a sense of danger. Paradoxically, though, I felt I had been separated from the cold, black world out there. I felt I had been chosen, deemed valuable and worthy of being given sanctuary and brought home in Mark’s loving care.

In my flat, I poured wine and he sat beside me on the sofa. He seemed to me in that moment altogether beautiful. He was vulnerable. His skin appeared to shine with an interior light. The desire to kiss him was too strong to resist. I tugged gently at his lapel and brought him towards me. As our lips and tongues met I felt I was melting and dissolving. The embrace felt familiar, as though we had shared many moments like these. It felt natural and right to give way to the engulfing feelings of tenderness and desire.

But he soon had to leave. He had to be up very early for another long day. His work takes him all over the country and he spends a lot of time travelling. But I shall see him for lunch on Monday. He is coming to the rehearsal room where I am directing my new play. Dear Mark, he is always in my thoughts. I am falling in love.

The following morning, as I crossed the newsroom, I thought it all looked quite different. Outwardly, everything was the same – people hunched over their computers, the clamour of ringing telephones, shouts and conversation – but there was something suddenly alien about the place. I had thought I belonged there, as a member of a team engaged in a worthwhile enterprise, but now I felt like a visiting stranger.

I had barely reached my desk when the phone rang. It was Patrick.

“Hello, darling. Congrats on your story. You kept that very quiet.”

“Of course. What would you expect?” I was still angry with him and the suggestion that I might have told him about the story made me angrier.

“Oh I dunno. A bit of loyalty, maybe.”

“Do you mean that?”

Patrick’s easy manner returned. “No, course not, darling. You have your game and I have mine. And we’re pitching on different wickets. Anyway, you’ve certainly put a crimp in my evening. I’ve been recalled from Brussels, as you will no doubt have seen on the wires. I’m on
Newsnight
later.”

“The best of luck,” I said.

“Won’t need it. The BBC rottweilers don’t trouble me.” He was one of the few politicians who could deal with the most inquisitorial questioners without turning a hair. I speculated that, embarrassing
as our story was for the government, Patrick would somehow pull it off.

He asked, “Are you angry with me? I’m really sorry about the other day, Jo. It couldn’t be helped. You wouldn’t have wanted my wife to walk in on us, would you? It was to protect you, too.”

I wanted to be fair – and it was certainly true that I would have been horrified to have been discovered in bed with Patrick by his wife. And, after all, I had agreed to go to the flat. Could I really put all the blame on Patrick?

“I’ll make it up to you,” he continued. We’d better lie low for a bit – while this business is going on. I’ll phone you in a couple of days’ time, at home.”

From a professional viewpoint, the day went well. My piece on Dr Newell had been well received; there was even a congratulatory memo from the Editor. Nonetheless, I felt a lassitude and restlessness. In odd moments, I felt something else, an emotion of sadness and pain that seemed to centre around my mid-chest. It had been a long ten years on the paper. Where had the time gone? I kept remembering Dr Newell’s words: “Professionalism is a great refuge, isn’t it? But it’s not enough.”

Dr Newell telephoned me during the morning. He sounded relieved. He said, “I just wanted you to know, you’ve done a very nice job, Joanna. I could not have asked for more. I’m going to have to face the consequences now. Don’t mention this call to your colleagues. I’m being put incommunicado.” I reminded him that he was welcome to telephone me at any time, at work or at home, if I could be of help in any way.

I was keen to talk to Alex. I was worried that he might be taking drugs. But I had no opportunity, as he had been sent to Newcastle on a story. When I arrived home I left a message at Alex’s flat, asking him to call me. As I waited for the call I took up the journal. It had become a refuge, and one that I hoped would sustain me better than the increasingly insubstantial refuge of doing my job well. Anna was beginning to feel like a friend. And I was curious to know more about Julian.

Mark was moved deeply by the rehearsal. He took my hand and looked at me so lovingly, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Darling, that was wonderful. I’m overwhelmed. You have heart and soul and an extraordinary mind. I’ve never known anyone like you. Your play was a revelation. I had no idea. You write with a depth of meaning – things that have made me stop and think about what I’m doing with my life.”

I felt elated. Mark understands why I write plays. That means so much to me. I said, “I want to write work that’s of value, of use. There are so many things I care about, things I feel helpless about and can’t change. I want to make a difference. I want to use words to change lives. Does that sound vain?” Mark doesn’t think so. We talked about the terrible news from Ethiopia, the television pictures, night after night, of people dying of starvation. I said, “Once we know about the suffering and need, giving money isn’t enough. We have to respond personally.”

I tried to explain about Julian, my experience in her cell and the powerful realization that I can no longer turn away. Mark looked rather taken aback and asked, “Road to Damascus job, d’you mean?” I’m not sure I explained it clearly, but I can’t explain it clearly to myself. All this change is coming so quickly. Mark took my hand and said, “I don’t really understand, but I do know what I feel. And the strongest feelings I’ve ever had are for you. I’m in love with you.”

I felt overjoyed and filled with happiness. My heart seemed to open up and I felt such tenderness for him. I said, “I love you, too.” Smiling broadly, Mark said, “I’m a lucky man. We have something worth working for.”

I remained seated at the table while Mark went to collect his car, to drive me home. I suddenly felt as though I were being observed. I glanced around the restaurant. Most of the other occupants looked as though they were on lunch breaks from their offices; nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

As we left the restaurant, a man who was just replacing the receiver in a telephone booth near the front door glanced our way. Surely – but no, it couldn’t be… I fancied that it was the same man who had driven past me as I walked towards the Julian Centre. Mark and I were almost through the door, so I couldn’t turn to look at the man again. My overactive imagination was playing tricks on me. I must be careful. If I give Mark the impression that I am over-emotional or fanciful, it may put him off.

I hardly dare to believe Mark loves me. At last I can plan for the future, plan a life that’s happy and fulfilled. Everything is possible now. I think so much happiness might just be too much to bear. Mark has asked me to go with him on a business trip to Cornwall. Suddenly, time – which has spread before me like an empty ocean – is too small a space to accommodate all my meetings with Mark and a busy rehearsal schedule.

As for Julian – there seems to be no time for her at all. Julian belongs to quiet, introspective hours spent alone, when I have shut out the harsh light and noise of the everyday world, to step into a peaceful, silent space where my too-timid soul can emerge and be free. But Julian, my companion of the lucid hours, still calls me softly to her. So I will make the time to return to her. Encountering Julian has felt like having an injection of some substance that has gone into my bloodstream and changed me, in my heart, in my mind, in my cells even. But how has it changed me, and what has it changed me to? I can’t say.

Late evening is Julian’s time. And it was in the late evening that I took up Julian’s book. I knew I had very little chance of understanding the original Middle English, but I wanted to see how much I could grasp of her own words. I soon had to give up and turn to a modern translation, by Father John-Julian, an American contemplative monk. As I read, I was dazzled. Perhaps the love I feel for Mark has softened my heart, or fortified it, to take in the wealth and depth of magical,
profound beauty of meaning in Julian’s book. I have found simplicity and complexity, a treasure house of wisdom and a profundity that calls for deep, intense analysis. I recognize the fruits of a powerful intellect that stayed its own brilliance to perform a professional task of eye-witness reporting, with all the faithful, rigorous attention to detail that requires. I have a sense of a personality who was faithful, courageous, self-effacing, generous and transparently honest. Julian’s book fills my mind with images and questions. The more I learn about Julian, the more I desire to know.

I want to know Julian, the real person. So much that we think we know is only someone else’s version of events: what else is history, after all? And how often does history betray those whom it promises to reveal? Facts alone cannot be relied upon to reveal the truth. Imagination, it seems to me, is a more reliable interpreter.

Who was this woman who sidestepped the restrictions of her time, to create the conditions she needed to fulfil her mission? Julian needed space, to contemplate and consider the meaning of her visions. She needed independence, to live without answering to others. She needed privacy, to compose her book without outside knowledge or interference. She needed to be outside the system and yet an accepted part of it. She needed to pose no threat to anyone powerful. Most of all, to the men who ran the society in which she lived, she needed to appear to be under control.

But even as I search for clues, one thing is expressed so clearly in Julian’s book that I cannot ignore it. She asks us to forget her and to focus upon God. Was it too fanciful to imagine that the destruction of the church by a German bomber had been intended to limit speculation and discourage attempts to discover Julian’s origins – and perhaps even make a shrine of her burial place? Intriguingly, a few hours earlier, an unknown young woman had taken her paints and easel to the church and made the only picture of it that exists. Julian
was probably buried in the original church, but now we shall never know.

I was gratified to see that Anna was at last back on Julian’s trail. Now I hoped she would guide me into Julian’s treasure house. I, who had always cherished books, was being drawn towards a book I had never read, never held, but wanted to read more than any other. I understood what Anna felt about Julian, because I, too, was beginning to feel a gentle, irresistible attraction. Something was moving and changing in my life.

The telephone rang. To my relief, it was Alex. He was just back from Newcastle and sounded on good form.

“How did the story go?” I asked.

“Great. Great story.”

“How are you?”

“Great. Fine. You?”

“Fine. I’ve been worried about you. You sounded weird the other night.”

“Oh, I was just pissed. I hit another bottle when I got home.”

“It didn’t sound that way.”

“I’m a bit weird when I’m really pissed!”

“Alex…”

“Jo, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Are you OK? I hear Smoothie-Chops is going to be on
Newsnight
.”

“Yes. I’m about to switch on. See you tomorrow.”

I turned on the television and heard the opening credits for
Newsnight
. They were leading on the illegal arms story. Patrick’s interview came about ten minutes into the programme, after a package giving the background to the story: Indonesia’s illegal occupation of East Timor, now in its twenty-sixth year, and the continued collusion of the UK and the US, despite ten United Nations resolutions calling upon Indonesia to withdraw. There was an interview with José Ramos Horta, East Timor’s roving ambassador. There was some library footage that was several years old, but no recent footage, since journalists were not allowed into East Timor.

For once, Patrick’s confidence had been misplaced. He took quite a bruising. As he might have put it, he was on a losing wicket. The government’s position was indefensible. It had been caught out in flagrant contravention of its own avowed ethical foreign policy. The Foreign Secretary had made a false statement to the House of Commons – in anyone’s terms, a resigning matter.