The Greening (19 page)

She said, “It seems to me that feelings are at the heart of our existence here. We learn through our relationships, and what matters most is the effect we have upon others. If we only knew how every action of ours, personal and societal, made others feel, there would be far more understanding and a great deal less neglect
and casual violence. That’s the point of my work, to bring to my readers an understanding of people who are very different from themselves. It’s quite simple, really. But yes, the story I promised you. Come with me.”

She led me into the hallway, across it and into the library. She opened a panelled cupboard and took out a small, rectangular parcel encased in plastic bubble wrap. As she undid it I held my breath, waiting for the sight of some ancient treasure, but what emerged was a video cassette. “Come with me,” she repeated and led me back into the drawing room.

Ismene Vale put the cassette into a video player beneath her television and switched on the set. A procession of young people crossed the screen. They were dark-skinned, some wore headbands, there were children among them, laughing and waving at the camera. They carried banners and were singing and chanting.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of gunfire and screams. As I watched, the young people began to run and some fell to the ground. I saw soldiers on tanks, armed with rifles, pursuing them and shooting them down. In less than a minute, the happy, peaceful scene had changed to one of carnage. I saw the young people running between gravestones, desperately looking for places to hide. I saw the soldiers pursuing them on foot, catching them and beating them savagely.

The picture was shaking. The person operating the camera was obviously crouching behind one of the gravestones. The camera lingered on a young man, his chest covered with blood, cradled in the arms of another man. The injured man was in the prime of his youth and vigour, but he lay silent, deathly pale, his eyes rolled back, as helpless in his friend’s embrace as a newborn baby. To this day, that image is imprinted upon my mind as vividly as when I first saw it.

The picture disappeared from the screen. I turned to Ismene Vale. “What was that?”

“This massacre took place three days ago in the graveyard of Santa Cruz Church in Dili, the capital of East Timor. A peaceful
demonstration was taking place through the main street of town, in protest at the murder by soldiers of a young man who had taken refuge in a church. The military arrived in tanks and trucks. The demonstrators, who were unarmed, were gunned down. Hundreds of people were slaughtered.”

“This is incredible. What are you going to do with the film? Where’s the person who shot it? Were you there yourself?” The film was a revelation. Journalists were not allowed into East Timor and this was the first proof of the brutality of the occupying power.

“The man who shot the film entrusted it to me. He was arrested, and just before the soldiers took him he buried the film in a grave. Several hours later he was released and he retrieved the cassette. I was asked to smuggle it out of the country. I was travelling on a false passport, as an Australian tourist – I am still not welcome in Indonesia – and was less likely to be searched. How did he find me? Let’s just say I still have friends in the pro-democracy movement.”

“Where is the cameraman?”

“He’s still in Indonesia, but I can’t tell you what he’s doing there. Let us just say that he is completing his work. He asked me to get this film broadcast as quickly as possible.”

I said, “You know, you could take this to the BBC or
Channel 4 News
– or anybody, in fact – and name your price. This is the first hard evidence of what’s going on in East Timor.”

“I have already spoken to
Channel 4 News
.”

“Then, where do I fit into this?” My disappointment was immense. Suddenly, the front-page headline I had been imagining was being snatched away. “Wait, were you at the demonstration?”

“Yes, I was there.”

“Then what about giving me the exclusive newspaper story, telling what you saw and how you obtained the film, for us to publish in the morning?”

“That’s what I had in mind.”

“What arrangements have you made with
Channel 4
?”

“They’re sending a car to pick me up, with the cassette, at midday.”

“We’ll need to talk to
Channel 4
right away, to get pictures from the film.”

“Oh, but you’ll use your own pictures, surely?”

“Our pictures? What pictures?”

“The pictures taken by Paul Huntingford.”

“Paul Huntingford – you mean he was there?”

“Of course. We met in Dili and went to the demonstration together. We didn’t know the cameraman would be there, and of course we didn’t know that this terrible massacre would take place. But Paul believed there would be trouble. A United Nations diplomatic mission was due and a protest march was being planned. He tipped me off. But I thought you knew all this. Didn’t Paul discuss it with you? I know he meant to. He must have run out of time.”

I felt myself beginning to blush.

Ismene said, “Paul’s under cover, with the resistance in the mountains. He will have been trying to get in touch with your foreign desk, but tension is heightened at the moment and telephone calls abroad could put his companions at risk. He may be unable to make a call until he leaves East Timor. Paul wanted you to write the story. He said you were the best reporter for the job. He asked me to ring your news desk and to say that I would brief you and no one else.”

As I sat, stunned, trying to take everything in, Ismene Vale reached further into her bubble-wrapped package and took out two rolls of film.

“Here are Paul’s pictures,” she said.

That evening
Channel 4 News
broadcast the footage of the massacre. Within twenty-four hours the film had been shown around the world. The morning after my meeting with Ismene Vale, my newspaper carried the front-page headline “Massacre in East Timor” over a story with Paul’s pictures and my byline, with the word “Exclusive” next to it. For the first time in years, I had produced a piece of work that I considered to be of real value. It was a turning point in my life.

I travelled to the office the next morning with a light heart and a bubbling feeling of anticipation. Usually my heart sank lower and lower during the journey to our offices. Docklands was such a gloomy place. When I had joined the
Correspondent
our offices had been in Fleet Street, just along from the law courts, in the hub of the City. It was a buzzy, vibrant place, where work was fun. Our current offices were in a building constructed for Napoleonic prisoners of war, and it felt like it, despite its conversion to shiny, high-tech modernity. We mourned the loss of our old “village”, with its familiar haunts and pubs and gossipy, clubby atmosphere.

This morning, as I walked through the entrance hall, past the life-sized portrait of Rex Sharkey the proprietor, those beady eyes that seemed to follow one felt a little less piercing than usual. As I crossed the newsroom, colleagues called out “Well done, Jo” and “Great story”. Moments after I arrived at my desk, Milo came over.

“You kept very quiet about being a mate of Huntingford’s,” he said.

“I’m not a mate of his,” I replied.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Milo said. “You’d better decide which camp you’re in.” He stomped back to the news desk.

Alex said, “Fantastic, Jo. Well done. Huntingford obviously thinks highly of you. Wonder if you’ll get more opportunities to work with him.”

“Not if he continues to be a perfidious worm,” I replied.

Alex looked at me thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t close any doors there.”

I sent flowers to Ismene Vale, with a message of thanks. The next day she telephoned me. She asked if the foreign desk had heard from Paul. It had not, and neither had she. Nor had the organizer of the Indonesian human rights campaign in London, who was in contact with the East Timorese resistance. Ismene said Paul would undoubtedly lie low before making his way out of the country. To my surprise and delight, she invited me to supper the following Saturday.

This time, as I entered the poplar-lined drive to Ismene Vale’s home, it was with pleasurable anticipation. This time I was a guest, invited for my own sake. The door was opened by the maid, who invited me in with a warm smile.

“Miss Vale is in the drawing room,” she said.

I followed the maid into the room with the tall, wide windows. The flowers I had sent – creamy white lilies, irises, pale purple lisianthus and pink larkspur – were displayed in a cut-glass vase on the piano. As I entered the room, I again discerned the faint scent of gardenia and roses and something I could not place.

“Joanna, my dear, I’m so very glad you were able to come,” said Ismene, crossing the room and taking my hand. “My housekeeper has cooked us something simple and wholesome. I hope you don’t mind – it’s a vegetarian meal.”

She led me into her kitchen, saying, “I thought we might eat in here. It will be cosy. Do you prefer red or white wine?” I said I would be happy with either. She opened a bottle of Vouvray and poured me a glass, which she handed to me. The glass was exquisite, delicately etched with a pattern of purple grapes and intertwined dark green leaves. I thought it was probably antique and that I must be careful not to break it. I noticed that she filled her glass with iced mineral water.

Ismene helped me to a large portion of vegetable casserole, served with rice and a salad. Her manner was comfortable and easy,
as though we were friends who often shared a meal. We talked about East Timor and she invited me to a reception she was holding the following week for supporters of the cause. As we ate, I told her how her book,
Voices
, had inspired me to become a journalist.

“That’s a very great compliment, and I thank you for it,” she replied. “And does your career match up to your expectations? Does your work fulfil you?”

“Well, writing the East Timor story certainly did. That quicksilver communication of events, by written word – it seems like magic when what you’re conveying is important.”

“Mercury – the winged messenger of the gods. Is your astrological sign Gemini?” I nodded. Ismene smiled knowingly.

She said, “I think we are all messengers. I believe we have a duty to pass on the knowledge that we have, to plant seeds by the wayside so that we may grow from one another. Every insight that one human being has can enrich another; indeed, every thought. Everyone has a story. Everyone is worthy of a hearing. Every voice should be heard. I have learned so much from the life experiences of others – often from people who faced terrible challenges that would have defeated me. I have received riches from people whom the world perceives as poor. You know, the effect that one life has upon another is so very important. If I had to put a measure on the value of a life lived, that is how I would do it.” I thought of the child with the feathered hat in the Colombian sewer.

Ismene said “After reading Anna’s journal I had to read Julian’s book. Julian has influenced me profoundly. I think of books as secret weapons, opening hearts and minds and changing lives. A book that is the distillation of an individual journey, that puts down a marker to help others who walk the same path… a book such as Julian’s, a great book… I feel a sense of wonder and privilege that such a book is mine for the taking. That is a true and precious freedom.”

I said “It’s such a shame that Anna lost sight of her objective when she became so obsessive about her wimpish boyfriend.”

Ismene laughed. “Do you think so?”

I said “I liked her a lot and felt very sad for her. I did wish she would wake up and see that she was worth so much more. I really couldn’t see why she persisted in trying to get him back.”

“Ah, well, there’s nothing rational about that kind of attachment, I think. I have read that obsession, or near-obsession – addiction, at any rate – creates a chemical imbalance that can be righted only by a regime of what the Americans call cold turkey. One can detach only by removing oneself from the substance or condition that perpetuates the addiction. And Anna did detach, eventually.”

“Did things come right for her, I wonder?”

“I have a feeling that, with all she had learned, they did. Julian would have seen her through.”

I said, “I think that love, that kind of passionate, desperate love – ”

“You mean
eros,
as opposed to
agape
?”

“Yes, being in love, all of that. I’m beginning to think it’s something we allow to happen – indulge in, if you like. Why do relationships break up? You fall in love. You get treated badly – or treat your lover badly. You fall out of love. And it hurts. Trouble is, there are too many strawberry thieves out there!”

“Strawberry thieves?”

“You know, the William Morris design. Emotional cheats, like Anna’s chap. The bird that alights on the fruit, takes what it wants, then flies away without a care.”

“Isn’t this what we are so often encouraged to do? We are conditioned to be consumers – what an ugly word that is. Take this, we are told. It will make you happy. Do not concern yourself about the cost to others. The great lie of advertising exploits the hunger of the human heart, the need we share to fill that deep space within.”