The Greening (30 page)

Twenty minutes later Paul’s father rang again. He said, “It’s the worst news, Jo. The Foreign Office has confirmed that Paul is dead.”

“No. They would have called me, as next-of-kin,” I said.

“They didn’t know Paul was married, a bureaucratic mix-up.” I took the Foreign Office man’s number and telephoned him. He sounded embarrassed.

“I was just about to ring you, Mrs Huntingford. I’m sorry about the mistake. I’m very sorry to say we’ve confirmed the identity of the victim. I deeply regret to tell you that he was your husband, Paul Huntingford.”

I could not, would not believe it. I carried on with my work, while checking on agency reports every few minutes. Several minutes after the phone call, I looked at the screen to see Paul’s name written there. But it could not be true. That would be too cruel.

At two o’clock Ismene arrived. She tried to comfort me. She stayed with me for two days, cooking me meals which I could not eat. I asked her to leave. I needed to be alone. She asked if I wanted her to ring Louisa or a friend, but I said no, that I would prefer to be on my own.

After she had left I walked out into the garden. It was evening, but still light and quite warm. I sat on the bench where Paul and I liked to sit together and watch the sunset. I don’t know how long I was there, but I suddenly noticed that the stars were out.

I became aware of beautiful birdsong coming from the large oak at the end of the garden. Moments later, a tiny brown-flecked bird flew swiftly from the tree onto the ground a few feet in front of me. It looked at me for a few moments and then hopped up onto the arm of the bench. It began to sing, so quietly and sweetly, it seemed as though it was singing especially for me.

I closed my eyes and listened. Suddenly I had a strong sense of Paul’s presence. I felt as I did when he held me in his arms – safe, comforted, loved… I knew that Paul was saying goodbye.

The feeling went, and in that moment I knew that Paul was gone for ever. I think I must have sat there for several hours, because I became aware that day was breaking. The feelings of loss and grief were so very deep, something inside me had broken. I could not cry.

As the days went by, the phone rang frequently. I did not answer it. Friends left messages, but I did not return their calls. One call that I did return was from Paul’s father. He had promised Paul that, should he be killed on assignment, he would take care of the funeral arrangements. I agreed that he should carry out Paul’s wish for a Hindu funeral.

We held the service at the little church down the lane. It was agonizing. All I can remember is the pain and the utter unreality of it. As we left Paul’s graveside, I turned and tried to run back, to save Paul. Ismene held me and said, gently, “No, Joanna. He’s gone. He’s gone.”

I arranged to take time off work and remained in the country. I saw and spoke to no one. I did not shower or bathe. I sent my cleaning lady away. She offered to shop for me, but I said no. She left me food anyway. I barely touched it. And it did not occur to me for weeks that I must owe her quite a lot of money that she could not spare.

I turned to the empty space within myself, turned away from life’s movement, evading it, subtly and politely, excusing myself, with eyes averted, desirous only to be apart. Nothing could ever fill that space again. I had nothing to say.

I began to work again and then immersed myself in it. As the weeks went by, messages left by friends indicated that they were becoming increasingly worried about me. But I simply could not bear to be touched, to be in anyone’s company. I felt that a skin had been removed. I felt vulnerable and could not face the world.

I received a letter from Alex, sending his love and saying he was thinking of me. He said he was leaving the paper to go to medical
school. When he had qualified, he intended to go to Africa, with his girlfriend, to work for the needy. I knew I should respond and wish him well but could not bear to do so.

Ismene came once a week, bringing food and flowers. The first couple of times she knocked, but I did not reply. After that, she would place her gifts outside the front door and leave. Sometimes I would bring in some of the food and eat a little of it. I was losing a lot of weight and could see no future for myself. I tried to write but the words would not come. Then came the letter, brief and to the point. It was from the Editor. I was fired.

I came to my bed, hating myself and needing to escape myself in retreat and resignation. Fear pervaded me at the realization that I might lose everything, echoing my childhood fear of abandonment. For the first time in my life I was not in control. I turned my face to the wall. My bed was comfortable and warm and I saw no reason why I should ever leave it again.

The telephone was ringing. I let it ring and click into the answering machine. A moment later it rang again. And then again. I lifted the receiver.

“Joanna. Are you there?” It was Ismene. As she listened quietly, I told her how I felt, how pointless everything seemed, how great an effort to do the simplest tasks, how little I cared about myself and about the future. Ismene asked me to pray, and we prayed aloud together. She said, “Joanna, you are fighting for your life.” That galvanized me and made me want to keep talking.

We talked through the night; sometimes I dozed off to sleep and then awoke suddenly to find Ismene still on the end of the phone line. It was early morning when she said, “Joanna, get out of bed. Go and run yourself a bath. Put in scented oils. Bring some candles and light them. Soak yourself in your bath, feel the warm water on your skin. When you have dried yourself, massage scented lotion into your skin, feel your body, be aware of it. Then dress yourself in something beautiful and go out to face the day.”

And so I did. Raising myself from my bed was a monumental effort. I cannot remember any task ever being so hard. I did walk
to the bathroom. I did run my bath. I did soak in the water and feel it on my skin. Almost without knowing what I did, I did all those things. Then I raised myself and dried myself and dressed myself in clothes that were beautiful, and I had taken the first steps on my road to survival.

Later that day I heard a car engine and peered from behind my curtains, to see Ismene’s car draw up. She rang my door bell, but I still could not face speaking to anyone and did not respond.

As I watched from behind my curtains, Ismene returned to her car and took from it a bouquet of scarlet tulips, a vase and a bottle of water. In the clearing at the front of the house, she placed the vase on the ground, filled it with water from the bottle and arranged the flowers carefully in the vase.

Next she produced a hamper and placed it next to the vase of flowers. She opened the hamper and took out a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, which she spread out on the ground. Then she took out a ham and a cooked chicken – I thought, how strange, when she is a vegetarian – a cake, salads and fruit, placing each in turn on the tablecloth. Next came napkins and cutlery.

Next came a basket, from which she took a bottle of wine and a single glass. I recognized it as one of a set of beautiful eighteenth-century crystal glasses that she owned. The wine and the glass were placed next to the hamper. Then she got back into her car and drove away.

I cannot tell you how profoundly that action affected me. I sat and listened to the hum of her car’s engine as it grew fainter and fainter. I stared at the things she had left for me. I opened the front door for the first time in many days. The autumnsun streamed in and I stood in the doorway for several minutes, breathing in the clean, fresh air and feeling the warmth upon my skin.

I walked across to the vase of flowers, lifted it and brought it into the house. I placed it on a table near the window. I drew back the curtains and the sunlight revealed the deep, glistening red.

I brought in the food and the wine. I placed the single crystal glass carefully next to the vase of flowers. Then I cleared the papers
and clutter from the table, took a cloth, dampened it from the tap and wiped the table top. I placed the crystal glass in the centre of the table, carefully, so that I should not accidentally break it. Next to it I placed the bottle of wine, which I noticed had been chilled.

I took the cooked chicken and salad from the hamper, along with the cutlery and a napkin. I brought a chair to the table. I uncorked the wine and poured myself a glass. I raised the glass to my lips and drank. Standing in a shaft of sunlight, I felt warmed and revived. I sat down at the table and I ate.

Later, I walked out into the garden. As I watched the sun setting I felt my legs losing strength, and sank to my knees. I began to sob, and suddenly I could not stop. The grief and loneliness and pain poured from me in a seemingly endless tide. It felt as though some poison were being washed away. That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept till morning.

It would be Christmas in two weeks’ time and I dreaded facing it without Paul. Last Christmas we had married and been full of hope. Now there was no hope, because Paul had gone.

Louisa, my sister, had been begging me to allow her to come and look after me and finally I agreed. She came down the week before Christmas. She wanted to take me back to North Wales, to share the holiday with her family, but I could not bear the thought of it and felt I would only spoil their happiness. Though I did not want to be alone, it seemed the best option.

On Christmas Eve I attended a carol service in our little church, slipping quietly into a pew near the back. I had always enjoyed the atmosphere of Christmas, the sparkling frosty white on trees and Christmas cards, the way the snow silenced the land. It was a special time, when the world seemed to pause and take a breath. In the creation of that moment – or perhaps the acknowledgement of a moment that is always ours to take – I found great comfort. It gave hope that things did not always have to continue in the same way. People could change their lives. Even as a child, I had always hoped this was true.

Catherine, the vicar, welcomed us to the celebration of Jesus’ birth with a warmth that encompassed us all. At the back of the church, I felt that I, too, was included. But I wondered how was it that the others in the congregation believed in a God of love
when I had encountered only a God who did not seem to care? Anna had seemed to see truth and purpose in Julian’s message of love, but had not she, too, been let down? I wished I could know the end of her story. She believed that Julian had touched her life – but had she found redemption and release?

As I puzzled over these thoughts, I realized that the choir was singing a favourite carol of mine, “Adam Lay Y’Bounden”. This time I listened more carefully than usual to the words:

Adam lay y-bounden,
Bounden in a bond,
Four thousand winters
Thought he not too long.

And all was for an apple,
An apple that he took,
As clerkes finden
Written in their book.

Ne had the apple
The apple taken been,
Ne never had our Lady
A-been heavene queen.

Blessed be the time
That apple taken was,
Therefore maun we sing
Deo Gratias.

The words reminded me of what Julian had said about sin being inevitable and necessary and God’s toleration of it honourable. Was it true that all the bad things that happen are allowed by God so that we may grow and learn? Was there really a purpose? Were there really grounds for hope, authentic hope?

Ismene sent me a hamper of food for Christmas. Being her usual sensitive self, she did not send one full of rich, traditional
celebratory fare. Rather, her gift was a selection of organic produce, tasty, wholesome, nourishing food, fresh vegetables and fruit. On Christmas Day she telephoned me. We talked about Paul and the value of the work he had done in his life. She spoke of him as a man who had contributed a great deal to others, a man of conscience, a man who had left a lasting legacy to the world, a man who had loved me very much and whom I had made very happy. I was soon in tears.

She said, “This time will pass. We are never alone. In love there is no separation. We sometimes have to give up the ones we love, but it is only for a time. The people who love us are always close by, whether they are in this world or the next. And we are reunited with them, in God’s time.”

But if Paul really was still alive, in heaven, then surely he was with Sushila and might no longer want me?

“There are many things we cannot understand,” Ismene said. “But in a place of love, everything comes right. Love for one does not exclude love for another. Love grows by love, and more love is the result.”

Using Paul’s contacts, I intensified my reporting of human rights stories, working as a freelance for several newspapers. It was my way of keeping some part of him alive. The work became my whole life. I tried particularly hard to push the East Timor story; but editors were reluctant to give it space. Despite the worldwide condemnation of Indonesia, following the massacre at Santa Cruz Church in Dili, East Timor was still not considered an important story.

The
Guardian
agreed to take regular opinion pieces from me, and as correspondents out in the field reported on the horrors of Bosnia, I wrote about the inadequacy of our government’s response. The unspeakable atrocities being committed seemed too grotesque and appalling to believe. How could people who had once been neighbours do such things to each other? The UK – like other world powers – was talking but doing nothing. I wrote that we should arm the Muslims, so that they could defend themselves
against the Serbs. But in my heart I felt there was no right answer. And words – in which I had once placed such great faith – seemed to be of no use or value. I confided in Ismene my feelings of helplessness and impotence.