The Greening (28 page)

He said, “I had an incredible experience. I was walking across the brow of a hill. Way off into the distance there was a magnificent view, where the earth met the sky. Suddenly I felt a part of everything that I was looking at. I felt that the land and sky and trees, everything, and I were all one, one entity. It was extraordinary. And as I stood there, I had such a deep feeling of peace, a feeling of everything being right and as it was meant to be.

“I had always envied my wife and my in-laws their inner calm. There was an atmosphere of peace around them. Sushila had an air of being at one with past, present and future; she had a composure, a certainty, an acceptance of life and whatever it brought, good and bad. That moment of completeness on the hillside set me thinking, wondering about the source of that profound rootedness and contentment.

“Up until then, if anyone had asked me what my religion was I’d have said I was a Christian, because I grew up in a Christian family – but I realized that I didn’t really hold any spiritual beliefs. Hinduism, my in-laws’ religion, offered a sense of where I fitted into the universe. It offered a way of life. It made me see that there’s a connection between all living things and that it matters how I behave twenty-four hours of the day because what I do affects the rest of creation.

“Things like Gandhi’s stance on non-violence, trying not to exploit any living creature – those examples made far more sense to me than the way the Bible is written. In the
Mahabharata
, which is a Hindu epic, you’re shown how deceit and dishonesty and vices like gambling can lead to your decay. I’ve become careful about what I do and whenever possible I try to look at cause and effect before things happen. What I’ve found just makes sense. It’s brought me inner peace.”

“I envy you.”

“I think what excited me most was realizing that one person can change the world. It matters what we do, each one of us. If we buy Fair Trade coffee we can make a difference. We can make it fairer for coffee farmers and safer for the street children of South America, by
petitioning our government and MPs and MEPs. Indifference is the worst thing, to simply not care.”

Paul’s passionate belief in his principles made him look strong and so alive. I admired the way he expressed his pure, unalloyed truth, the way he had turned his life around and used his faith to inform and inspire his work. But I was surprised at how easily he had adapted to a religion I had always thought of as strict and full of rules.

He said, “Hinduism isn’t prescriptive. I still drink, as you can see – though I didn’t for a couple of years, after I got well and realized that I’d been drinking to avoid dealing with my feelings. I intend to become a vegetarian. But Hinduism is relaxed about these things and about contacts with other faiths.”

Paul told me that before his conversion he had visited a swami, or sect leader. “Ever the journalist, I took along a list of questions – all those questions about the meaning of life – that I needed to have answered. But I forgot the list and left it in the car. When we met, he just smiled and took my hand; it was like a charge of electricity. He gave me an incredible feeling of inner peace. He started to tell me things about how I should live my life. Then he said, ‘You have been brought up as a Christian. Believe in Jesus.’ When I saw the list of questions again, I realized that he had answered every one of them, and they were not obvious questions. Even now, it makes my hair stand on end.

“I never get angry now. Being a Hindu has taught me not to question what others tell me. Their beliefs are for me to either embrace or discard; there’s no need for argument. I can now take in other ideas and evaluate them later, when I need to, rather than feeling I have to discount them – because I know now that one day I may have more knowledge, which will allow me to understand those ideas and maybe accept them.”

“It’s what Julian of Norwich had to do…” I said.

“Perhaps the hardest thing of all – because it’s a matter of faith,” said Paul. “I think the divisions between faiths are pointless. Everyone who comes with a message from God is going to challenge
us. Hindus believe we follow a long path through millions of incarnations, as the soul evolves and grows closer to God. That’s why we sometimes feel a strong connection with someone we’re meeting for the first time. Have you never felt that sense of recognition? Have you never felt, intuitively, that you know someone’s soul?”

At midnight I said I should leave for home. Paul said, “Thank you for coming this evening. Spending this time with you has meant a lot to me. I’m afraid I’ve been talking about myself all evening. I hope I wasn’t too boring.”

“I’m glad you told me about your life. I’m glad you felt you could trust me,” I said.

“Jo, I always felt that, all those years ago – even when you kept rejecting me. I always felt at home with you. You always had a particular quality about you.” He leaned across and took my hand, and suddenly his eyes were full of emotion.

“Dear Joanna,” he said softly, and then he kissed me. It had been many years since I had first longed for him to kiss me. At that moment it seemed well worth the wait. I felt completely at one with him. He was exciting, passionate and gentle. I did not return home that night. For the first time in my life, I discovered how it felt to be with a man in complete, loving union.

In the morning he gave me breakfast. As I sat wrapped in his bathrobe, drinking his tea, I said, “What did you mean last night, when you said I kept rejecting you?”

“Well, you told poor old Alex not to give me your number.”

“No, I meant when we were at university…” I said.

“Oh then, well, it was obvious you were seriously underwhelmed.”

I was stunned. “D’you mean, you liked me?”

“Liked you! I was crazy about you. But you never gave me the time of day,” said Paul.

“But – you never took the slightest interest in me – well, not until you asked me to
The Marriage of Figaro
.”

“Are you kidding? I tried lots of times to talk to you. You were so serious. I got the impression you had higher things on your mind than wasting time on callow youths,” Paul said.

“I just don’t believe this. How could you have been so mistaken?”

“Do you mean you fancied me? Oh, no, that’s hilarious.” Paul burst out laughing.

“Well, I didn’t think it was funny,” I replied.

“Oh dear, oh dear, what a lot of fun we missed out on. Well, we’re just going to have to make up for it now,” he said. He gave me a hug and nuzzled my neck. “Lucky we’ve caught up with one another again before we lose our faculties. I wouldn’t want to be pursuing you on a Zimmer frame – though, I dunno, it might be fun. It could be something to look forward to.”

“If it comes to that,” I said solemnly, “I promise to shuffle really slowly. Hey, was that why you gave me the East Timor story?”

“No. I gave you the story because you were the best person to do it.”

“What if you hadn’t thought that?”

“I wouldn’t have given it to you. You can take that as gospel. I did allow myself to be easily persuaded into covering the conference, though, when Felicity said she was asking you to do the reporting.”

“She may regret that,” I said.

“Why?”

“Oh, Paul, really.”

“Good gracious. I’d no idea. I’d better handle things very carefully. I’ve done enough damage there.” I wished I had kept my mouth shut and said no more.

We did make up for lost time. During the following weeks we spent as much time together as we could. Paul helped me to move into my new house and we designated it our country cottage, with Paul’s home in London as our town house. I had never been so happy.

As we got to know one another better Paul became my teacher. He taught me more about East Timor’s long struggle for freedom and the suffering of her people, about the suppression of the Karen minority in Burma and the Kurds in Iraq. Paul had reported from Iraq after Saddam had bombed the people of Halabja with chemical weapons.

He made me aware of the world’s lost, dispossessed and unloved. He inspired me to use my skills as a journalist to tell their stories – in his words, to give a voice to people who otherwise would not be heard. He also taught me to love him more and more, by being his very own self. I came to lose my fear of betrayal and loss. I came to trust.

Paul renegotiated his contract, to work part-time for the paper and spend the remainder of his time on independent projects. We worked from Magnolia Cottage, our home in Littlechurch Mead, and collaborated on several projects during those fulfilled and joyous months. As I watched Paul pour his heart and soul into his work I felt a strong desire to protect him. It was a fierce, almost primeval feeling – not possessive, because I loved the freedom of his soul, his refusal to compromise or conform. But I knew it was an instinct that would always put me between him and anything that might harm him.

My urge to protect spilled over into my own work. I now wrote human rights stories for the
Correspondent
and used my weekly
column exclusively for that purpose. I often collaborated with Paul, who went away from time to time on assignments. Many of the stories I wrote had the same underlying theme: the Western world standing by and making money from other people’s suffering. There were so many stories and sometimes words seemed futile. But now and again something would happen to show that things could change, and that made it all worthwhile. I had moved to another world, where my work and life had meaning.

Paul and I loved our cottage and our village. Returning from visits to London, coming off the motorway, there was always such a sense of homecoming as we traversed the roundabout and followed the B-road to the sign to Littlechurch Mead, where we turned left to drive through open fields to our home. It was with a sense of ease that we travelled along the familiar road, flanked by its sentinel trees, and into another world. We would pass the pretty whitewashed farmhouse, thatched cottages and grey-stoned vicarage, before turning left into our little lane. One minute more would take us to our cottage, tucked securely among similar houses, all with gardens full of flowers, opposite the woods that fringed the other side of the lane.

Throughout the weeks we spent many happy hours walking and talking together, come rain or shine. My favourite walk took us along the lane towards the church. We would pass by the wooden lychgate, with its simple carvings that bore testimony to a centuries-old message of piety and sacrifice. We would pass beneath the branches of the oak that stood before the church, which had witnessed the celebration of love and prayer throughout the ages. We would pass the old school house, its gleaming windows looking out over the weathered stone wall, which was canopied with brightly dappled leaf upon leaf. We would then follow the lane as it bore to the left towards higher ground.

I remember how the sun glowed above and scattered its flags of light along the afternoon path ahead. I remember the sound of the wind in the high treetops and thickly leaved banks, a sound like rushing, tumultuous seas that were about to break and cover us.
From time to time Ismene would visit us for a weekend. Together, the three of us would walk and dine and share time, like the good friends we were.

Paul proved his prowess in the kitchen with delicious dishes from all over the world. I tended to leave him to it. His dexterous choreography around his bubbling pots was best left unimpeded. The music that often filled our home was similarly exotic: dazzling blurs of colour swirled across the pale background of our peaceful sanctuary in huge, generous swathes of vibrancy and exuberance.

I discovered a shop in the nearby market town that sold floating, drifty and sumptuous clothes made of silks and velvets in jewel-bright purples, blues and reds. I bought myself a red dress of the softest silk. When I wore it I felt as though a new personality emerged. I began to feel comfortable, more myself. When I wore my silks and satins from the shop I felt deeper and warmer, more serene, more sure of who I was.

Paul came to me one day in the garden, holding a photograph. “Look,” he said. “This is my secret passion.” It was a photograph of houses that had been virtually destroyed in what appeared to be a war zone. “Look,” Paul repeated.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“What do you see?”

“Bombed-out houses, rubble – war?”

“What else?” asked Paul.

“Mmm. Fallen debris. Bits of wood,” I said.

“Anything else?”

“Well – a bicycle.”

“A bicycle. That’s it.” A bicycle was propped against a wall. Tied to its handlebars was a piece of red fabric – the one splash of colour in the photograph. “That’s Petrovich’s bicycle. I took this in Chechnya. It could be anybody’s bike, but it isn’t anybody’s. The scarf shows that it belongs to Vass Petrovich.”

Paul handed me a second photograph. It was an enlarged picture of the bicycle. Now I could see that the red scarf was patterned with tiny blue diamonds and its ends knotted with green cord.

“Vass Petrovich was a fixer, an interpreter, a gofer. He was a brave man. He helped me and others to reveal the atrocities being committed in Chechnya by Russia. Vass got us in to take these pictures – there’s the proof. But he was accused of betrayal. The pictures I took, including this one, followed the massacre of Chechen freedom fighters who were meeting in the village. Vass was accused of betraying them to the Russians and then staying clear of the village to protect his own skin. But he was there. I didn’t notice the bicycle when I took the picture. I had to get someone to smuggle my film out and it was days before I saw the pictures. Later, after I heard what had happened to Vass, I saw this. If I had seen it before I could have saved him. Now the proof of his innocence is there for all time and cannot be denied.