Breakfast was nearly over. The Master, who rose to commence his meditation and orisons at sunrise, was never present at this meal—settling instead for a tisane and a caraway biscuit in the Solar once his chakras had been cleansed and recharged. And, beloved though he might be—even worshipped on occasion (although he would have been the first to rebuke such exuberant nonsense)—there was no doubt that his absence engendered a certain easing of restraint. The little group at the long refectory table was on the point of becoming quite frolicsome.
‘And what are you two getting up to this afternoon, Heather?’ asked Arno, removing a speck of yogurt from his beard with a hand-woven napkin. He referred to the single free period that their chores and devotions allowed.
‘We’re going up to Morrigan’s Ridge.’ Heather Beavers spoke with the eager breathlessness of a little girl, although her hair was long and grey. ‘There’s a monolith there with the most amazing vibrations. We hope to unlock the cosmic energy.’
‘Be careful,’ said Arno quickly. ‘Make sure you take an amulet.’
‘Of course.’ Ken and Heather both touched the pyrite crystals suspended from a leather headband and resting, like a third eye, in the centre of their foreheads.
‘Last time we had an energy release Hilarion came through with the most incredible power-packed information. He just…effloresced. Didn’t he, Ken?’
‘Mmm.’ Ken spoke indistinctly through a mouthful of bran and Bounty of the Hedgerow compote. ‘Described our next thousand lives plus an outline of Mars’ inter-galactic war plans. Going to be really hot come the millennium.’
‘And you, Janet. Do you have any plans?’
‘It’s such a lovely day I thought I’d take the bus to Causton. May needs some more tapestry needles. Perhaps you’d like to come, Trixie.’ She looked across at the girl sitting next to Arno who did not reply. Janet stumbled on. ‘We could go into the park afterwards and have an ice.’
The long bony face was lean and hungry. Always either quite blank or flaring with emotion, it seemed incapable of expressing ambiguity. Janet had pale, light eyes, the pupils almost colourless, and coarse wiry hair like an Irish wolfhound. Arno averted his gaze from all that longing. Enslaved himself by Miss Cuttle’s grand bosom and liquefacient gaze, he appreciated acutely enslavement in others and poor Janet was a perfect example of subjugation brought to a pretty heel.
Receiving no response, she now got up and began to stack the bulgy, smearily patterned cereal bowls. They were the unfortunate results of her Usefulness Training in the pottery when she had first arrived. She loathed the blasted things and always handled them roughly, hoping for a reduction in numbers, but they remained obstinately indestructible. Even Christopher, slap-dashing his way through May’s Daisy Chain Spode, washed them up without mishap.
‘As it’s Summa’s birthday no doubt you have some treat in store.’ Arno smiled shyly at the young man opposite, for everyone knew how sweetly the land lay in that direction.
‘Well…’ Usually amiable and open-faced, Christopher appeared ill at ease. ‘There seems to be an awful lot going on already.’
‘But you’ll be wanting to take her out? Maybe on the river?’
Christopher did not reply and Janet laughed, a forced rough sound with a scrape of malice, pinching some coarse brown breadcrumbs into a little pellet with her bony fingers. Frequently told as a child that she had pianist’s hands, she had never cared to put the supposition to the test.
‘Don’t you believe in romance then, Jan?’ Trixie laughed, too, but merrily, shaking out a mop of blonde curls. Shiny pink lips and thick sooty lashes gave her the look of an expensive china doll.
Janet got up and started to brush some spilled muesli towards the edge of the table. This was so old that the two halves had begun to warp, shrinking away from each other. A few nuts disappeared through the gap and rolled around on the wooden floor. She decided to be unskilful (the word used by the community to denote behaviour liable to cause a breach of the peace) and leave them there. Trixie tilted her chair back, glanced slyly down and made a tutting sound, her rosebud mouth in a kissy pout.
Janet took the bowls away, came back with a dustpan and brush and crawled under the table, the bare boards hurting her knees. Ten feet. Male: two Argyle socks—felted with much washing and smelling faintly of camphorated oil—two white cotton, two beige terry towelling and six sturdy sandals. Female: purple lace-up felt bootees embroidered with cabbalistic signs. Mickey Mouse sneakers over socks so brief they barely reached pert, delicate ankles. Jeans were rolled up to just below the knee and, on lately shaven calves, stubble glinted like gold wire.
Janet’s heart pounded as she glanced at, then quickly looked away from the blue-white milky limbs and fine breakable ankle bones. You could crush them as easily as the rib cage of a bird. The brush slipped and swirled in a suddenly sweaty hand. She reached out, briefly touching near-transparent skin, before pushing the Mickey Mice aside.
‘Mind your feet everyone.’ Aiming for casual busyness she sounded only gruff.
‘And you, Arno?’ asked Christopher.
‘I shall carry on with Tim,’ replied Arno. He got up, collecting the square, stone salt cellars and horn spoons. ‘We’re working on a new straw hood for the hive.’ Every member of the community was artisanally virtuous.
‘You take such trouble,’ said Heather. The words were shrill little pipes. A gymslip of a voice.
‘Oh well…you know…’ Arno appeared embarrassed. ‘We had a little astro-ceremony for him last night, didn’t we Heather?’ said Ken.
‘Mmm. We held him in the light for ever so long.’
‘Then we offered the auric centre of his being to Lady Portia—the pale gold master of serenity.’
They were so unshakeably positive. Arno said ‘thank you’ not knowing what else to say. Neither the Beavers for all their ring of bright confidence, nor the Lady Portia could help Tim. No one should. He could be loved and that was all. It was a great deal of course, but it was not enough to lead him from the shadows.
But it would be useless, Arno knew, to point this out. It would be unkind too, for Ken and Heather had brought the practice of positive thinking to a state-of-the-art meridian. No naughty darkling hesitancies for them. If one peeped out it was swept back under the carpet p.d.q. This refusal to acknowledge the grey, let alone black, side of life made them supremely complacent. A problem was barely described before the answer was on the table. Postulation. Simplification. Solution. Each stage liberally laced with Compassion. Soft-centred, honey-coated and as simple as that.
Trixie dragged her chair back, saying: ‘I’m glad I’m not on kitchen rota for the grand occasion tonight. I can have a nice long drink in The Black Horse instead. I’m sure we’re all going to need one.’
Ken and Heather Beavers smiled indulgently at this roguish whimsy. No one at the commune had ever been into the village pub. Janet emerged and got up rubbing her knees.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Arno. ‘About needing a drink.’
‘Mr Gamelin. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten his visit.’
‘Of course not.’ Arno now collected the plastic washing-up bowl from which everyone had helped themselves to muesli. One of the community rules was: Never Leave The Table Empty-Handed, and, although this occasionally meant something vanishing before anyone had had a chance to make use of it, on the whole the system worked very well.
‘Will you be making your Quark soufflé Heather?’
‘I thought I wouldn’t in case he’s late. You know what tycoons are.’ She spoke with rueful authority as if hot-foot from the Stock Exchange.
‘We thought the three-bean lasagne,’ said Ken stroking his comanchero moustche.
‘That is certainly very filling.’
‘Then use up the Quark with some stewed pears. Beat in some of Calypso’s yogurt if it won’t stretch.’
‘Excellent.’ Arno beamed as if it really was and thought, there’s always the birthday cake.
‘I bet he’ll buy her an amazing present,’ said Trixie.
‘What they really like, ruthless tycoons,’ said Janet, ‘is tearing into a big red steak.’
‘Quite a father-in-law you’ve chosen Christopher.’ Ken and his crystal twinkled across the table.
Christopher said: ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ and started to collect the cutlery.
‘Well he won’t get a steak here.’ Heather shuddered. ‘How do you know he’s ruthless anyway, Jan?’ Janet hated being called ‘Jan’. Except by Trixie.
‘I saw him on the box ages ago. One of those studio discussions. The Money Programme I think it was. He ate the lot of them up in the first five minutes then started on the table.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Arno. He had not seen the programme. There was no television at the Manor House because of the negative vibes.
But Janet remembered it well. That square powerful figure thrusting forward as if about to smash its way through the screen, crackling with aggression. Head held low and to one side, motionless like a bull about to charge. ‘I wish he wasn’t coming.’
‘Stay mellow.’ Ken waved his hands up and down, diminuendo. ‘Don’t forget. Not only is there one of him and ten of us, but we are standing in the light of the divine ocean of consciousness. We understand there is no such thing as anger.’
‘He wouldn’t have been invited you know,’ said Arno when Janet still looked worried, ‘if the Master had not thought it wise.’
‘The Master is very unworldly.’
‘Gamelin doesn’t realise the challenging situation he’s coming into,’ chuckled Ken. ‘It’ll be a golden opportunity for him to change his karma. And if he’s half the man you reckon, Janet, he’ll jump at it.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Trixie, ‘is why Suhami didn’t tell us until the other day who she really is.’
‘Can’t you?’ Janet gave another unamused laugh. ‘I can.’
‘Just as well,’ continued Trixie, ‘that Chris had already started declaring his intentions. Otherwise she might think he was only after her money.’
A sudden silence greeted this intemperate remark, then Christopher, tight-mouthed, picked up the knives and forks, said ‘excuse me’ and left the room.
‘Honestly Trixie…’
‘It was only a joke. I don’t know…’ She stomped off without carrying as much as an egg spoon. ‘No sense of humour in this place.’
Now Ken struggled to his feet. He had ‘a leg’ which stopped him doing quite as much as he would have liked around the house and garden. Some days (especially if rain was forecast) it was worse than others. This morning he hardly limped at all. He picked up the breadboard, saying ‘No peace for the wicked.’
‘They wouldn’t know what to do with it if there was,’ said Janet, and Heather put on her patient Griselda face.
Janet was Heather’s cross and a great challenge. She was so left-brained; so intellectual. It had been difficult at first for Heather to cope. Until one day, appealed to, Ken’s spirit guide Hilarion had explained that Janet was the physical manifestation of Heather’s own animus. How grateful Heather had been to learn this! It not only made absolute sense but brought about an even deeper feeling of caring commitment. Now, using a tone of exaggerated calm she said: ‘I think we’d better get on.’
Left alone with Janet, Arno looked at her with some concern. He was afraid he intuited some sort of appeal in the whiteness of her face and the strained rigidity of her hands and arms as she hung on to the dustpan. He wished to do the right thing. Everyone at The Lodge was supposed to be available for counselling at any time of the day or night and Arno, although he was by nature rather fastidious about the spilling of his own emotions, always tried to be open and receptive if needed by others. However there were resonances here which disturbed him deeply and that he did not understand. Nevertheless…
‘Is there something worrying you, Janet? That you would like to share?’
‘What do you mean?’ She was immediately on the defensive, as if goaded. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing at all.’ She was irritated by the word ‘share’, implying as it did an automatic willingness to receive.
‘I’m sorry.’ Arno backtracked, unoffended. His freckled countenance glazed over with relief.
‘Unless you go around with a permanent grin on your face, people keep asking you what your problem is.’
‘It’s well meant—’
But Janet was leaving, her angular shoulder blades stiff with irritation. Arno followed more slowly, making his way to the great hall. It appeared empty. He looked around. ‘Tim…?’ He waited then called again but no one came. The boy had lately found himself a quite impregnable retreat and Arno, appreciating Tim’s need to be safe and lie securely hidden, made no attempt to seek him out. When the Master emerged from his devotions, Tim also would show himself—following in his beloved benefactor’s footsteps as naturally as any shadow. And crouching at his feet when he halted like a faithful hound.
So Arno put the beehive hood aside for another day. Then he made his way down the long passage to where the Wellingtons, galoshes and umbrellas were kept, found his old jacket and panama hat, and disappeared to work in the garden.
After everyone had gone and the main house was quiet Tim appeared, edging his way into the hall.
Here, in the centre of the ceiling, was a magnificent, octagonal stained-glass lantern thrusting skywards forming part of the roof. On bright days brilliant beams of multicoloured light streamed through the glass, spreading over the wooden floor a wash of deep rose and amber, rich mulberry, indigo and soft willow green. As the clouds now obscured and now revealed the sun, so the colours would glow more or less intensely, giving the illusion of shifting, flowing life. This area of quite magical luminosity had a compelling fascination for Tim. He would stand in it, slowly turning and smiling with pleasure at the play of kaleidoscopic patterns on his skin and clothes as he bathed in the glow. Now he was poised beneath a powdery haze of dust motes suspended in the radiance. He saw them as a cloud of tiny insects: glittery-winged harmless little things.
Sometimes he dreamed about the lantern. In these dreams he was always in motion, occasionally swimming upwards, parting the spreading shiny light with webbed fingers, pressing it behind him, kicking out. But more often, he would be flying. Then, weightless in a weightless world, his body would soar and spin and dive, looping the rainbow loop. Once he had been accompanied by a flock of bright birds with kind eyes and soft unthreatening beaks. Waking after a lantern dream he would sometimes be filled with a terrible sense of fear and loss. He would spring out of bed then and race on to the landing to check that it was still there.
When Tim had first been brought to the Manor House and it had been impossible to persuade him to take any food, the Master, seeing the transforming effect of the dancing colours, had had two cushions brought and placed on the hall floor. Then, sitting with the boy, he had coaxed him to eat as one does a child—a spoonful at a time on the ‘one for me and one for you’ principle. He had kept this up for nearly two weeks. Tim was better now of course. He sat at the table with everyone else and played his part in the community as well as he was able, struggling with his allotted simple tasks.
But he never stopped being frightened. And now, when a door on the landing opened. even though it was only Trixie going to the bathroom, Tim ran like the wind to the nearest foxhole and once more hid himself away.
In the Solar the Master sat, a tisane of fresh mint-and-lemon balm in his hand. Suhami, who had asked to see him urgently, seemed in no hurry to speak now that she was here. Being in the Master’s presence frequently affected people so. Whatever disturbance of mind or body drove them to seek his counsel, they would find hardly had they come before him than the matter did not seem so urgent after all.
And in any case thought Suhami as she rested upon her cushion, spine supple and elegantly straight, it was now too late for words. The damage had been done. She looked at her teacher. At his delicate hands, enrapt features and thin shoulders. It was impossible to be angry with him; foolish to expect him to understand. He was so guileless, his concerns purely of a spiritual nature. He was in love (Janet had once said) with the ideal of purity and so saw goodness everywhere. Suhami pictured her father, soon to be on his dreadful juggernauting way, and her distress returned, keen as before.
Guy Gamelin was about as spiritual as a charging rhino and had been known to leave an equivalent amount of chaos in his wake. The Master could not possibly imagine a person so volatile; so alarming when thwarted; so consumed by massive gobbling greed. For he thought there was that of God in everyone and all you had to do to reach it was to be patient and love them.
‘I would not have suggested this visit’ (she was quite used to the Master reading her mind) ‘if I didn’t think the time was right.’ When Suhami remained silent, he continued: ‘It is time to heal, child. Let all this bitterness go. It will only do you harm.’
‘I do try.’ She said, as she had a dozen times over the past week, ‘I just don’t see why he has to come here. I shan’t change my mind about the money if that’s what’s behind it.’
‘Oh, let’s not start on that again.’ He smiled. ‘I know an impasse when I see one.’
‘If you won’t take it, it will go to charity.’ She added quickly, ‘You don’t know what it does to people, Master. They look at you, think of you differently. Already—’ Her face changed, becoming apprehensive. Soft and blurred. Her mouth trembled.
‘Already?’
‘You…haven’t told anyone? About the trust fund?’
‘Of course not, since that was your wish. But don’t you think your parents—’
‘My mother isn’t coming. He wrote saying she was ill.’
‘That may well be true.’
‘No.’ She shook her head savagely. ‘She didn’t want to come. She wouldn’t even pretend.’
‘A visit on that basis would be worthless. Be brave Suhami—don’t seek false satisfactions. Or demand that others comfort and sustain you. That’s neither fair on you or them. You have everything you need right here…’ And he laid his fingers to his heart. ‘How many times do I have to say this?’
‘It’s easy for you.’
‘It is never easy.’
He was right about that. Only once at meditation had she come anywhere near understanding what ‘everything you need’ really meant. She had been sitting for just over an hour and had experienced first a deep intensification of the silence then an extraordinary gathering of attention which she felt as a strong energetic pulse. Then there was a moment of luminous stillness so sublime that it seemed all her humanness, all the mess and pain and hope and loss that made up Suhami, vanished—subsumed into some inner core of certain light. A blink of an eye and it was gone. She had mentioned it to no one but the Master who had simply warned her against any zealous seeking of further such experiences. Naturally she had been unable to resist such attempts but it had never happened again.
A year ago she had not even known he was alive and still occasionally experienced deep tremors of alarm when recalling the haphazard manner of their meeting. If a left turn had been taken instead of a right…
She had been with half a dozen acquaintances in a wine bar off Red Lion Square. It was during the Happy Hour—that early-evening hiatus when the lonely, disaffected and dispossessed can swill themselves into oblivion for half the going rate. They were all smashed, flicking aubergine dip around with bread sticks. Asked to leave, refusing, being threatened with the police was nothing new. They racketed off, arms linked, shouting, forcing people off the pavement in Theobald Road.
It was Perry who’d seen the poster attached to a board by a shabby doorway. The words ‘LOVE, LIGHT & PEACE’ were prominent as was a large photograph of a middle-aged man with long white hair. For no reason this struck them as hysterically funny. Jeering and snorting with contemptuous laughter, they charged up the worn, mica-freckled steps and through some swing doors.
They found themselves in a small room, sparsely occupied, with a platform at one end. The audience was mostly women, mostly elderly. A few earnest-looking men with rucksacks or carrier bags. One wore a cap with a transparent plastic cover. He kept pursing his lips judiciously and shaking his head, making it plain he was not to be easily impressed. Everyone turned at the disruption and several people ‘tutted’ and sucked their teeth.
The newcomers clattered along the row of tip-back seats and sat hoisting their feet up. They were reasonably quiet for about five minutes then Perry crossed his eyes in warning preparation and let out a long succulent raspberry. The others shrieked and giggled, stuffing fists into their mouths like naughty children. They put on po faces as people stared and Perry shouted: ‘It was him with his hat in a bag.’
Ten minutes later, bored with the game, they got up and left, mocking the man on the platform, kicking the seats on their way out. Reaching the swing doors, one of them—Sylvie—turned and looked back. Half a step away from chaos (as she was later to recognise), something had compelled this movement. She returned to sit quietly on the wooden seat, heedless of raucous beckoning shouts from the stairwell.
The address had soaked into her, warm and soothing as honey balm. Afterwards she had been amazed that an evening which had so utterly transformed her life was so hard to recall in detail. The only complete sentence she remembered was: ‘We are all standing in our own light.’ Although she’d had no perception as to what the words actually meant they’d struck her then (and did still) as immeasurably profound and consoling. Even in those first moments she had been aware of a longing to take that sideways step away from her old tawdry self. To crack open and shed the carapace of a loveless and ugly past. Those hate-filled drunken days and love-starved nights.
When the talk was over the speaker put on a coat over his long blue robe. In this he was assisted by a small bearded man. Then he drank a little water and stood, looking over the rows of empty seats to where the girl sat. He smiled and she got up and moved towards him, feeling (although she could not then have described it so) the pull of sheer disinterested goodness. She seemed to sense in the slight figure an overwhelming concern for her wellbeing. The sheer novelty of such a situation struck her as unbearably poignant and she began to weep.
The Master watched her approach. He saw a thin tall girl in a lewd outfit. A gleaming silver cake-frill of a skirt and halter top no wider than two ribbons. She had a wild fuzz of pale hair, eyes smearily ringed with kohl and a scarlet jammy mouth. She smelt of gin and strong perfume and sour embittered dreams. As she lurched closer her sobs became more raucous and by the time she reached the dais she was shouting; terrible wails of grief and woe. ‘Ahhh…ahhhh.’ Rocking on high sparkly heels, arms folded tight across her barely covered breasts, she stood and howled.
So long ago now it was hard for her to recall the intensity of that despair. She reached out and took her companion’s glass.
‘Do you want some more tea, Master?’
‘No. Thank you.’
There was a deep crevice between his brows. He looked tired. Worse—Suhami noticed the drooping skin beneath his eye—he looked old. She could not bear the thought that he was vulnerable to the passing of time. For was he not the fount of all wisdom, the never-ending source of blessings? He was there to love and protect them all. If anything happened to him…
As she moved towards the door, Suhami realised that knowing someone was mortal and truly comprehending it were two different things. She had convinced herself he would be there for them for ever. She thought of Tim. What would he do without his beloved protector and companion? What would any of them do? A spasm of fear seized her and she ran back and pressed his hand to her cheek.
‘What on earth is it?’
‘I don’t want you to die.’
She thought he would smile and tease her out of her distress but he simply said: ‘But we must. All of us.’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘No. Not now.’ And he withdrew his hand. ‘I would have been…before. But not now.’
I am afraid, thought Suhami. And her face was deeply troubled as she left him.
Flowing from an open casement on the ground floor of the house came a torrent of glorious sound. May seated at her cello, legs sturdily apart, size eights planted firmly on sea-grass matting, was playing the Boccherini Sonata. The bow swept back and forth with fierce élan. Two deep furrows tugged at her thick brows and her eyes were tightly closed. She tossed her head in such an excess of passionate dedication that transparent pearls of sweat flew sparkling through the warm air and one of her plaits, coiled like an auburn saucer over her ear, became loose, swinging vigorously back and forth in three-four time.
She was wearing a loose gown, tie-dyed gamboge and maroon showing the pyramids and a burial cortege sideways on. Not one of the print room’s more successful efforts. A mistake had been made with the blocks so that at one point the funeral party—corpse, camels, mourners et al—had done a volte-face, colliding with the forward-looking lot head-on.
Above the bateau neckline of this voluminous shift rose May’s splendid profile. Cleanly etched, serene, noble, unambiguous in its dedication to the spreading of happiness and health, it was also most attention-catching for May adorned her face as she did her room, her person and every single artefact she owned, which is to say prodigiously. And her palette was as comprehensive as her brush was generous. Cheeks bloomed wanton coral, full lips shiny pomegranate red. Eyelids bright green shading into a blend of sky blue and plum, occasionally patterned with silver dust. Her tea-rose complexion sometimes had quite a solid bloom for, occasionally distracted by other-worldly musings, she would forget she had already put on her foundation and would impasto on a further layer before finishing off with a generous dusting of Coty American Tan.
Now, after a final buoyant flourish of the bow, she laid her hand upon the strings to still their vibration. Was there any other instrument, she wondered, any other creature that could grunt with elegance? She rested her cheek briefly against the glowing wood, leaving a dusty peach-brown imprint, then leaned the cello against her chair and in all her calicoed splendour billowed across to the window.
She stood gazing out at the cedar tree, struggling to maintain the sensation of joyful calm that had possessed her whilst playing. But she had no sooner noted such feelings than joy became mere happiness, and pleasure transmuted quickly into a dullish lack of ease. May sighed and, for comfort, wrenched her thoughts to her recent colour workshop ‘There’s A Rainbow Round Your Shoulder’, which had been oversubscribed and very well received. But even this stratagem was only partially successful. Visions of uplifted participants all thinking aquamarine faded despite all her best efforts to the contrary, and the shadow of anxiety returned. She realised she was not even looking forward to her coming regression and these were often most exciting occasions.
May was extremely cross that this should be so. She didn’t have a lot of patience with folk who ‘mooned about’ as she put it. Fretting over this and that, refusing to get to grips with the problem, never mind putting it right. Rather self-indulgent she thought that sort of thing. Now she was doing it herself. And really without excuse, for there was certainly no shortage of people to go and talk to. Unfortunately one of them (she didn’t know which) was the cause of her concern. She would have liked to turn to the Master even though it was not usual to bother him with temporal matters. The fact that in this instance she could not caused her genuine distress. It was as if a constantly reliable source of warmth and light had been unkindly doused. She felt not only bereft but also rejected—which she knew to be unreasonable. The difficulty was that her beloved guru—innocently and unwittingly she was sure—was partially to blame for this sense of unease.
It had happened like this. Two days after Jim died May had been passing the Master’s chamber on her way to the laundry room. Although the door was ajar his beautiful passe-partout zodiac screen was positioned in such a way as to conceal any occupants. Low voices were chuntering on, stopping, starting again and May assumed a spiritual-growth stroke chakra-cleansing session was in progress. Then, suddenly a voice cried out: ‘Oh God—why couldn’t you have left well alone! If they do a postmor—’ A vigorous shushing cut this short.
The resulting silence seemed to May, standing as if bolted to the floor, quite stifling. Of a smothered, tightly wrapped quality. Then she understood from the rustle of a robe, rather than any footfall, that someone was coming around the screen. She jumped aside just in time, flattening herself against the corridor wall, and the door was firmly closed.
Trembling with surprised distress, May continued to stand there. She had hardly recognised the Master’s voice, so choked had it been with emotion. Whether anger or fear it was hard to say. Could have been either. Or both. She struggled to persuade herself that she had misunderstood or that the words, taken out of context (and she had heard none of the context), could have quite a different meaning from the one apparent. But to what could the words ‘post mortem’ apply except Jim’s death? The inference was surely inescapable.
In the laundry room, pouring ecologically sound enzyme-free pale green washing granules, May silently railed against the malevolent sprite who had directed her steps that morning. For, like the majority of the community, she firmly believed that the shape and disposition of her day was ordered not by herself but by her stars and she couldn’t say she’d not been warned. Zurba, moon of Mars, had been skidding about from here to breakfast all week.
When the time came to take out the dripping piles of brilliantly coloured washing, May couldn’t help reflecting on the contrast between their freshly rinsed unstained perfection and her own darkly blemished thoughts.
And then, about a month after this, another almost equally disturbing thing occurred. She had been awoken in the middle of the night by a soft bump in Jim’s room, which was next to her own. This was quickly followed by two more as if a chest of drawers was gently being opened and closed. May had heard someone moving around there on a couple of occasions during the day but had thought nothing of it, assuming that whoever it was would be about the sad task of sorting out Jim’s things preparatory to their disposal. But this nocturnal prowling was something else. Guessing at burglars, she had bravely taken up her heaviest tome (New Maps of Atlantis and Her Intergalactic Logoi), crept along the corridor and, holding her breath, with fingers pinched tight around the handle, gently tried Jim’s door. It was locked.
Silent though her pressure had been, May heard a sudden flurry of movement. Although alarmed she stood firm, holding New Maps high above her head. But the door remained closed. Uncertain what to do next, still listening, she heard a metallic grating sound and realised it was the window latch. She rushed back to her room but by the time she had put down the book and reached her own window it was too late. Next door’s casement gaped wide and she was convinced she saw a shadow, a dark disturbance, at the end of the terrace.
This made her rethink her assumption that the next step would be to raise the alarm. For whoever it was had not made for the street and the outside world. It would have been easy enough for them to do so for, like many other large Elizabethan houses, the Manor was only a modest distance from the main village street. There had been a bit of halfhearted vandalism a few months before (some bulbs uprooted, rubbish thrown in the pond), and the Lodge had purchased a halogen lamp which switched itself on after dusk if a person or vehicle appeared on or near the drive. It was not on now.
Doubly disturbed, May rested on her window seat and gazed out into the perfumed night uncomforted by the rich complexity of garden scents or shining perfection of low hanging stars. It was a moment of extreme isolation for her. Not the bleak, four-in-the-morning intensification of solitude when the possible time and manner of one’s death presses like a blindfold on the mind. Hers was a humbler but no less terrible sensation. She had discovered that in her Eden—for so happy was she at the Golden Windhorse no other name would do—was a serpent. Double-faced and -hearted, double-tongued.
Who it was she as yet had no idea, but she believed—no, she knew—that the person fleeing from Jim’s room had re-entered the house. Her mind backtracked to that earlier disturbing snatch of conversation. She was convinced, even whilst chiding herself for such dramatic silliness, that the two incidents were connected. The temptation was to put them both aside. Carry on as usual in the hope that nothing else peculiar would happen, then in time the whole thing must surely fade from mind. The phrase ‘mind your own business’ was perhaps not entirely inappropriate here. But that sort of attitude was completely against the ethos of the community. The whole point of living in such a way was that everyone constantly minded everyone else’s business. That’s what caring was all about.
And so May’s thoughts treadmilled back to the well-worn theme of the mystery prowler and the mystery voice. Fretful and distracted, she had been tightly pleating her skirt. Now, released, the camels sprang forth giving a more than fair impression of a living caravan.
If only she had been able to learn the sex of the person the Master was addressing. She would then simply have confided in someone of the opposite gender.
She jumped to her feet almost growling with crossness, for May could not bear to think there was something wrong that couldn’t be fixed. She started to pace up and down, calling silently but with great force on Kwan-Yin, the pale peach lady master, under whose guidance and sublime patronage she had been placed during a charming ceremony involving a basket of fruit, some folds of clean white linen and an extremely substantial cheque. But although from then on Kwan-Yin had never stinted when it came to giving advice and firing off mother-of-pearl rays to refresh and comfort, today she remained absolutely unforthcoming.
Arno was hoeing the broad beans and struggling with his koan. It was a very difficult koan, having been set originally by the Zen master Bac An. ‘What is the sound,’ the great sage had inquired, ‘of one hand clapping?’
Step by rational-thinking step would, Arno knew, avail him naught. Illumination according to the Teach Yourself Satori shelves of the library (Theo/Psych/Myth: Oriental Sub-Section 4:17), though sudden and blinding, would be vouchsafed only after months—perhaps years—of gruelling meditation and reflection. And that wasn’t the half of it. The disciple must closely attend to every moment of every day, living always with full awareness and one hundred per cent physical, mental and spiritual involvement in any undertaking no matter how humble. Arno had many little ploys to trick him back into the present when attention strayed which it did all the time. Now he pinched his arm to banish daydreaming and concentrated once more on the weeds. He grasped the handle, wholly experiencing the satiny warm wood, stared intently at the rusty blade and scrutinised the minute white flowers of the chickweed. Even the dark-tipped stamens were assiduously noted.
Arno did all this with no feelings of pleasure. Descartes’ notion of man as master and proprietor of nature struck no answering chord in his breast. He did not enjoy or understand the garden at all. It seemed to plot ensnarement, being full of grasping brambles and secret squishy places cunningly concealed beneath firm-looking grass. It was full of insects too: leather-jackets and chafer grubs; pea thrips and eelworm. All strongly motivated and growing fat on Arno’s vegetables which, truth to tell, were not much cop to start with. Having no idea of soil husbandry he planted carrots in clay, beans in soggy ground and potatoes over and over in the same plot.
He was aware of course that such agricultural ignorance could be remedied and had at one point bought a book for the purpose. It was very thick and crammed with black and white drawings, many of them illustrating to perfection Arno’s scabbed, forked and furry emblements. Boredom smothered his mind the moment he first glanced upon the closely packed hectoring paragraphs and the volume quickly got lost behind balls of twine and old seed packets at the back of the potting shed.
Naturally he had remonstrated when given the position of gardener, assuring the nominations committee that he had no talent at all in such a direction. But that, it was patiently explained, was the whole reason behind the allocation. His own wishes must not be secondary, not even last, but of no account whatsoever. No pandering to the ego (that slavering, ravenous beast). No picking and choosing. To grow in grace was to shrink in self-interest and there were no short cuts. Arno sighed and winkled out a bit more groundsel.
But then all irritation vanished for, humming across the lawns and pond and the rhododendron walk, came a mellifluent flow of sound. Arno put aside his hoe so as to give the music played by the darling of his heart his full and rapt attention. One of Arno’s deepest fears was that if by some miracle his ego, constantly starved of accedence to its desires, withered away entirely, his love for May would disappear as well—taking with it all cause for future joy.
It had been borne upon him gradually that he would never speak of his magnificent obsession. This wasn’t always the case. When he had first arrived, not having grasped the full splendour of May’s bountiful personality and remarkable musical gifts, and possessed by a wistful lust for attention, he had presumed to press his artless suit. This had consisted of a series of overtures so quiet, subtle and introspective that no one noticed them, least of all May. And this despite her penchant for divination.
But realising quite quickly that his ambition had wildly overleapt itself and that his beloved was one of those extraordinary beings put upon this earth not for the comfort of one solitary soul but of all mankind, Arno withdrew to settle, almost content, for a lifetime of devoted service.
He had so nearly missed knowing her at all having arrived at the Golden Windhorse by a very chancey and roundabout route. He was quite alone in the world, his mother with whom he had lived since his father ran away thirty years before, having recently died. The protracted and undeservedly cruel manner of her death, for she was the gentlest soul alive, had left him bitter, lonely and in despair. After the funeral he had shut himself away in the little terraced house in Eltham like a wounded animal. He practised only the minimum grooming and feeding necessary to stay alive and look reasonably presentable when going out for food. Apart from shop assistants he saw no one for weeks at a time for he had given up his job at the Water Board Authority to nurse his mother in the last stages of her illness.
Most days he would lie curled up in bed, a ball of dark steely pain, his cheeks slobbered with tears. Salt water ran into his ears, his nose clogged and his throat was sore. His mother’s friends, and she’d had many, would tap on the window and occasionally, meeting him abroad, ask him around for meals. Sometimes he found little cardboard boxes containing tins of soup and instant whip on his doorstep. Weeks went by when he hardly got up. The blinds were permanently drawn and day ran into night ran into day with merely a rim of brightness round the window frame to indicate which was which. Once he had found himself frying bacon at what he thought was breakfast time only to discover it was three in the morning.
Then, one afternoon, he started to read again. He had made some coffee but instead of slumping back on to the bed as usual to drink it, he had sat up at the kitchen table, opened some Bourbon biscuits from one of the gift boxes and picked up Little Dorrit. He and his mother had both loved the Victorian novelists although she had preferred Trollope.
Later that day, having finished shopping he’d called in at the second-hand bookshop and spent some time browsing in the philosophical section. He supposed now, looking back, that he had been hoping to obtain some insight into the reason for his mother’s prolonged agony. He didn’t of course. He took half a dozen volumes home but they were either so abstruse he could not make head nor tail of them or so glib and silly that they would have made him laugh had he been capable.
Shortly after this he attended several spiritual meetings where although his mother did not ‘come through,’ he had obtained a degree of comfort, paradoxically by observing the suffering of others. Several people present had lost young children and the sight of their anguish and the small toys they sometimes brought along to encourage the shades of their dear infants to draw nigh helped Arno put his own bereavement in perspective. His mother had, after all, been nearly eighty and by her own admission tired of life.
And so, gradually, the sharper edge of Arno’s misery was transformed into a dull bearable ache. But his loneliness remained, unassuaged by the shallow day-to-day exchanges that were his lot. He yearned timidly for a wider, more intimate acquaintance whilst being unsure quite how to bring this state of affairs about. His only hobby was reading so he could hardly follow the ubiquitous advice to join a club whose members shared his interests. Even so he felt the vague cautious friendliness he was starting to feel vis-à-vis the wider world should be encouraged, so he signed up for a Literary Appreciation course at the nearest technical college.
But then, walking home from the enrolment evening, he had called into Nutty Notions for some honey and seen a card on the noticeboard advertising a psychic weekend ‘Hearing From Your Loved One’. Whether it was the nursery comfort of the words ‘loved one’ or simply the idea of a weekend away from the cheerless shell that his home had now become, Arno decided to go. It was rather expensive (he noted from the travel agent’s window that he could have had a week in Spain for the same amount), but he felt it might well be worth it for the chance of getting to know new people.
As things turned out the ‘high-grade channeller’ (a Hopi Indian) promised on the card came down with a low-grade bout of flu but ‘Man—the Cosmic Onion!’ proved a not uninteresting alternative theme to occupy the serious inquirer’s mind.
The opening address was given by Ian Craigie, Founder Emeritus of the community. Arno was impressed and mildly entertained at the idea of himself as multi-layered with the ‘god self’ at the very heart of things. He enjoyed the company of the other guests and was intrigued by the variety of remedial courses: Colour Therapy, Harmonic Tuning, Tear Up Your Negative Script, The Care and Cleansing of Your Astral Body. An initial consultation was included in the cost of the weekend and he had almost decided on a harmonic tune when the door of what he now knew to be the Solar opened and, with a thrilling rustle of iridescent taffeta, Miss May Cuttle swept in.
He would never forget that first sight of her. So tall, with gleaming auburn hair flowing down her back. Her features were assembled with a rare degree of spatial symmetry. The end of her large gently hooked nose was displayed cleanly against a powdered expanse of olive skin adorned by a very fine silky moustache. Her cheek bones were flat and broad and her eyes, which had translucent glowing pupils like circles of amber, had a Magyaresque tilt.
After supper she played her cello. Entranced by the nimble fluidity of her bow and the floridly emotional music soaring to the high beams, Arno knew not only that he loved her but also that in some mysterious, impossible way he always had. He discovered her subject (Colour Healing), put himself down for a workshop and revelled in the warmth of her enthusiastically humane and generous nature. She sorted out his aura, wardrobe, sleeping habits, diet and attitude to the cosmos in a twinkling. Arno attended three more retreats then sold his house and moved to the Manor for good.
All this had been eighteen months ago and the happiness he had felt on first arriving had proved accumulative. Gradually he had shed his loneliness like an old skin, carrying it half-heartedly for a while—a rough barbed little parcel—and then one day just putting it down for good.
Of the members present when he had entered the commune, only May and the Master remained. The others, as is the way of communicants, had joined other groups or reverted to the nuclear. But replacements had arrived and now The Lodge was thriving. Indeed so satisfactory was the balance sheet that it was able to offer bursary help to the impecunious. Most months there was even a small surplus to send to Eritrea or wherever was the greatest need.
Arno gave an irritated ‘uurgh’ and pinched his arm hard. He had done it again. He had drifted off. He wondered not for the first time if he had made a mistake in choosing Zen as his discipline. He had been so attracted by its concrete day-today practicality—so resolutely non airy-fairy—but it was jolly difficult. Even without the koan. Clenching his teeth, applying himself determinedly to the task in hand, he tried the Master’s suggestion of verbalising the moment positively and loudly.
‘How wonderful, how miraculous!’ he cried, rootling away with the metal blade. ‘I am hoeing the radishes and now the broad beans. What joy!’
But it was useless. In no time at all he was picturing May and longing to be in her presence. Serving, adoring. Turning the pages of her music, making lemon tea on her little spirit stove. Or just blissfully basking in the charm of her company under the shining bright protection of her radiant eye.
Every day around mid-morning Ken, in his role as Zadkiel, planetary light worker, got down to some serious channelling. Sitting upright in the way of the Lotus, nostrils fluting with extrasensory verve, eyes humbly crossed, he and his supra-conscious mind would attempt to penetrate the Outer Screen of Life and plug into the Inner Matrix of Reality. To assist him in these endeavours Zadkiel wore his nuclear receptor. This was a small gold-plated medallion covered in tiny pyramids which trapped all toxic energies (from microwaves, acid rain, carcinogenic radiation, Janet’s negativity etc.) then manipulated the body’s DNA vibrations until all toxicity was defused and harmonised.
Heather (or Tethys as she was astrally known) sat beside her husband breathing noisily and nasally, off about her own cosmic business which might run from a basic recharging of her energies through the great Devas of the Crystal Grid to a full-blown trip to Venus renewing friendships with other ascendant souls who, like herself, had escaped the drowning of Atlantis.
Sometimes Hilarion, Ken’s contact on the other side, would come straight through (a single abracadabra), other times he would go in for quite lengthy teasing, wispily hovering about and hinting portentously in capital letters of revelations to come. Today he spoke almost before Ken had taken one pure breath from the Ascended Master Realms.
‘I am here Earthling. Do you accept the Concentrated Flame of the Presence of the Sacred Fire?’
‘Greetings beloved Hilarion. I accept the Authority of the flame and promise to perfect, protect and beautify the Cosmic Cause and work only to establish the Spirit of Love in all Mankind.’
‘It is well. Know that they in the High Realm, the Shining and Invincible Ones, desirous of assisting in the precipitation of God’s Perfection in the World of Form, Bless thy Sincere Endeavours.’
‘Please convey my heartfelt gratitude to these all-powerful supreme authorities, great Hilarion.’
There was quite a bit more of this, plus instructions on how to keep ‘the spiralling energy-vortice of our sweet planet earth’ consciously tuned and magnetically cleansed. Hilarion’s voice was very like Ken’s and he was inclined to giggle. When these puckered-up sniggers had first escaped from between Ken’s lips, he had been very surprised—not expecting one of the Lords of Karma to have anything as earthy as a sense of humour. The content of these sessions varied and truth to tell this A.M. it was all rather dull. Mainly about How To Throw Off Discordant Accumulations into the Interplanetary Matrix of Violet Light.
What Ken really enjoyed were the rare occasions when the old wizard offered a really unusual suggestion for some imaginative sortie which would somehow lead Zadkiel and Tethys towards a new appreciation of the glorious Cosmic Heartbeat. For instance only last week he had vouchsafed that if they chose, in the right and proper frame of mind, to trace each abandoned railway line in England to its source, they would obtain proof positive that Jesus—the Cosmic Christ—had visited their country in the latter half of the twelfth century.
‘I have a prophecy, Zadkiel.’ Ken sat up and Heather, who was by now on her way back, sat up too. ‘By happenstance this night at the rise of the crescent moon the goddess Astarte will take upon herself a fleshly vestment to move amongst all denizens of the lower planes and disseminate lunar wisdom.’
‘Gosh,’ said Heather cogently.
‘I suggest you bethink a circle of light around your whole being in readiness. Also call upon the countless legion of Violet Elohim for support. Visualise yourself within the electronic pattern. Keep the rhythm of invocation going at all times. And don’t offer her any refreshments.’
‘Of course not, great Hilarion.’ As if they would be so crass. ‘Have you any idea of the exact—’
But he was off. Back over the aeons to the galaxy of his choice. At one once more with the burning stars and solar fire of divine alchemy. Briefly the words ‘I AM’ burned in the heavens then they too were gone and Ken gave a great sigh as he sloughed off his ethereal persona and returned to the thorny old work-a-day world. He looked across at Heather.
‘How was it for you?’
‘Ohh… Unity of Life as Light in the Sisterhood of Angels, a new core Avataric message—God Ego equals Vestal Virgin. A bit samey to tell you the truth. But Hilarion…’ Heather tried not to sound miffed. ‘Giving you a prediction…’ Ken blushed, shrugged and regarded the sole of his upturned left foot. ‘Do you think we should tell the others?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Ken. ‘It would be unfair not to. Imagine their surprise otherwise. And we have to consider the Master. He is old and frail. An unadvised shock of this magnitude might well be too much for him.’
Suhami was milking Calypso, resting her cheek against the goat’s cream and chocolate flanks, gently squeezing dark wrinkled teats. The milk spurted into a plastic bucket.
When not tethered about the place Calypso lived in an outhouse. This was clean and whitewashed with a two-part stable door. There were rows of apples on slatted shelves. Though scabby, the fruit smelt very wholesome as did Calypso’s straw which was changed every day.
Suhami loved this place. The quietness. The golden warmth of the morning sun as it bounced off snowy walls. It reminded her of the Solar where they gathered for meditation—having the same charged, beneficent brightness. Even while noting the comparison she smiled. Nothing very spiritual about an old byre full of goat. But the Master had said that God could be present anywhere if the heart was open and humble, so why not here?
‘Why not Cally—hmn?’ Suhami shook off the last drips of milk and stroked the goat’s warm mottled udder. Calypso turned her head, lifted a rubbery lip and gazed at her milkmaid intently. The pupils of the goat’s eyes were yellow horizontal slits and she had a slight beard, girlish and feathery. Her expression never changed. She always looked ruminative and self-satisfied, as if guarding an important secret. A back hoof shifted slightly and Suhami moved the bucket out of harm’s way. Calypso’s bell gave a petulant honk. There was nothing she liked more than kicking the milk over.
In a moment Christopher would be here to take her out to graze. The habit was to move her round and about the vast lawn where she would nibble away producing a nap like velvet. This idea of establishing goat browsage rights had been voted for almost unanimously after a petrol mower was judged to be environmentally unsound. Only Ken, who was allergic to the milk, abstained.
Suhami slipped Calypso’s leather collar on, gave her an apple and put a second in the lovely tapestry bag resting against the milking stool. The bag was a birthday present from May. The embroidery of glowing sunflowers and deep purple irises against a background of earth and red-brown leaves was almost identical to the design on May’s own bag which Suhami had long admired. Only the sunflowers were different. A shade paler, for the shop in Causton had run out of marigold wool and could only offer the slightly less rich amber. Suhami had been very touched, picturing May secretly sewing in her room, motivated solely by the wish for someone else’s happiness, hiding the work if Suhami came by. Suhami had received so much kindness since moving to the Manor House, in addition to the supreme kindness of the Master’s teaching. So many offerings of quiet concern, conversations where someone really listened, gestures of comfort, tasks shared. Now they knew who she really was all this would change. Oh—they would try to carry on as usual. To treat her just the same but it would be impossible. Eventually money would drive a wedge. It always did.
Suhami’s lips twisted ironically as she remembered how excited and hopeful she had been at the idea of choosing a new name and leaving her old self behind in London. A naïve and childish way of going on, for how could one shed twenty miserable years or become another person by such an ingenuous device? Yet it had helped. As ‘Sheila Gray’ she had presented a new face for new friends to write their affections on. Then her growing interest in and determined practice of Vedanta, coupled with a deepening commitment to further change, had suggested her present title. Now her days were filled with quiet gratitude which she took for happiness, for it was as near as she had ever been.
And then Christopher joined the commune. They had slipped almost immediately into an easy jokey friendship. He would tease her—not unkindly (he was never unkind)—crossing his hands over his heart in a mock languish of love, swearing he would waste away if she would not have him. This was in front of the others. When they were alone he was quite different. He would talk then about his past, his hopes for the future, of how he wanted to get out from behind the camera and write and direct. Occasionally he kissed her, grave sweet kisses quite unlike the heartless mouth-mashings she had previously endured.
When she thought of Christopher’s inevitable departure Suhami had to remember very hard the Master’s maxim that all she needed to sustain her was not out there in the ether, or residing in another person’s psyche, but right in her own heart. This struck her as a tough and lonely dictum and she’d been alone enough already. As she pondered, footsteps disturbed the gravel outside and Suhami’s fingers trembled against the wooden stool.
Christopher leaned over the stable door and said, ‘How’s my girl?’
‘She’s been eating apples again.’
As always Suhami was both exhilarated and perturbed by the sight of him. By the soft black hair and pale skin and glowing, slightly tilted grey-green eyes. She waited to hear him say, ‘And how’s my other girl?’ for this was a well worn bit of cross-talk. But he simply pushed open the stable door and crossed over to Calypso, taking hold of her collar saying, ‘C’mon old fat and hairy.’ He had hardly smiled and in a moment they would both be gone.
Suhami said: ‘Aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday?’
‘I’m sorry. Of course I am, love.’ He wound the chain about his wrist. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘And you haven’t declared your undying passion for nearly a week. It’s not good enough.’
Struggling to keep her voice light, to make a joke of it, Suhami heard the echo of a hundred similar questions in a hundred other scenes. Won’t you come in for a minute? Shall I see you again? Would you like to stay the night? Will you give me a call? Must you go already? Do you love me…do you love me…do you love me? And she thought: Oh God—I haven’t changed at all. And I must. I must. I can’t go on like this.
‘I know you only do it in fun…’ She heard the pleading note and loathed the sound.
‘It was never in fun.’ His voice was harsh as he tugged at Calypso’s chain. ‘I said come on…’
‘Not…’ Suhami stood up, dizzy and weightless. She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Not in fun? What then?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Christopher.’ She ran towards him shaking with emotion, putting herself directly in his path. ‘What do you mean? You must tell me what you mean.’
‘There’s no point.’
‘The things you said…’ Almost exalted, she took hold of his chin and wrenched his face around, forcing him to meet her gaze. ‘They were true?’
‘You should have told me who you were.’
‘But this is who I am.’ She held out begging arms. ‘The same person I was yesterday…’
‘You don’t understand. I fell in love with someone and now I find she’s someone else. I’m not blaming you Suze—Sylvie—’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘But I feel completely thrown. You know my situation. I’ve nothing. Well, nothing compared to the Gamelins—’
‘Oh God…’ Suhami cried out, jerking back her head as if from a blow. ‘Am I going to have this all my life? Gamelin Gamelin Gamelin… I hate the word. I’d carve it out of myself with a knife if I could—I’d burn it out. Do you know what it means to me? Coldness, rejection, lack of love. You’ve never met my parents but I tell you they are hateful. All they care about is money. Making it, spending it. They eat and breathe and dream and live money. Their house is disgusting. My father is a monstrous man, my mother an overdressed dummy kept going by pills and drink. Yes! my name is Sylvia Gamelin and it’ll be the bloody death of me…’ And she burst into a torrent of abandoned weeping.
Christopher seemed for a moment unable to speak. Then he stepped forward and folded her into his arms. After a long while he dried her tears, saying: ‘You must never, ever cry like that again.’
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