For perhaps the twentieth time that evening, Clive Bamford picked up the business card Robin Kennedy had given him and stared at it, as if it might be about to reveal some information it had previously withheld.
It was a handsome affair, he thought, much better than the cheap cards Clive had had printed by some online company and which, to date, he’d barely had reason to use. Kennedy’s card was made of stiff, expensive-looking card that had been textured in some way to create an even more imposing effect. His name was embossed in a cursive script with the address of Kennedy Farm below. There was no indication on the card of Kennedy’s occupation, another contrast to Clive’s rather optimistic description of himself as ‘Author/Commentator’.
Kennedy’s occupation was something that had intrigued Clive since their meeting. Perhaps the ‘movement’ or whatever it was had proved sufficiently lucrative for him to need no other source of income, or perhaps, like those characters in Edwardian novels, he had ‘independent means’. Or perhaps he had some occupation distinct from his leadership of the movement.
Clive imagined that a building of that size and style in the middle of the Peak District would not have come cheap. It would be expensive to run and maintain, too. Clearly, there was some money behind this, and Clive was intrigued to know where that money might be coming from.
He’d already decided he wanted to continue working with Kennedy. The whole thing was just too fascinating to leave alone. Clive had started to make some progress with the wealth of material that Kennedy had given him. It was, as Kennedy had warned him, a very mixed bag. There were a couple of very old books – the ones that Kennedy had suggested were potentially valuable – published by arcane-looking presses, which appeared to recount that early history of what Clive took to be Kennedy’s movement. Clive had given them a cursory skim, and had initially found them largely incomprehensible. There were lengthy descriptions of what seemed to be highly abstract ideas and Clive had found his head spinning even trying to parse some of the sentences. He’d need to give them a serious go, though, if he was to have any credibility with Kennedy.
The other materials seemed more straightforward, if still not entirely enlightening. These were mostly pamphlets or booklets, setting out various ‘new paths’ to spiritual truth. Intriguingly, all of the pamphlets seemed to be published anonymously, as if from some generic source, and there was nothing relating explicitly to Kennedy’s ‘movement’. There was much talk of ‘dispelling illusion’, ‘grasping corporeality’ and ‘testing the boundaries’, but again Clive had found himself struggling to extract much concrete meaning from them.
Perhaps, he thought, this was part of the process. Perhaps he hadn’t yet succeeded in ‘dispelling illusion’ to the point where he could begin to gain insights into this new world. It was possible that he was approaching this from the wrong perspective, trying to impose some kind of inappropriate mundane meaning on the words rather than allowing himself to be swept away by the abstract ideas.
Maybe. But what he thought of as the more rational part of his brain still resisted that conclusion. The point of words was to communicate, and so far these words were failing to communicate anything much to him. But it was early days. He suspected the answer might lie, as it so often did, simply in hard work. He had to keep reading and rereading this material and whatever other relevant writings he could find until it all finally began to release its secrets.
In the meantime, he was wondering whether he should already be contacting Kennedy to confirm that he wished to continue. Kennedy had told him to take a few days to make up his mind, and he was nervous about seeming overkeen. It was important that Kennedy saw him as a dispassionate, objective journalist, not some fan-boy straining at the leash to be involved.
On the other hand, he didn’t want Kennedy to think he was uncommitted to the project, or that he’d had serious doubts or second thoughts about being involved. He didn’t want Kennedy to have any concerns about the time and effort Clive would be prepared to devote to the work.
After a few moments, he picked up the phone and dialled the landline number given on Kennedy’s card. There was a mobile number, too, but it somehow felt presumptuous to use that at this early point in their dealings. It occurred to him that his own business card didn’t even include a landline number.
‘Kennedy Farm.’
‘Is that Robin?’
‘It’s Eric Nolan here. How can I help you?’
Clive felt taken aback and, he realised, slightly disappointed. He didn’t know why he’d expected Kennedy to answer the phone directly – after all, Nolan was supposed to be his PA or some such – but he was already feeling oddly wrong-footed.
‘Oh, Eric. It’s Clive Bamford here. We met yesterday evening.’
‘Of course. I trust Rowan guided you safely back into town.’
‘Very smooth journey, thanks. Glad I wasn’t trying to navigate in the dark.’ He took a breath, realising he was talking too quickly. ‘I was just wondering if Robin was around for a brief chat.’
There was an almost imperceptible pause before Nolan said, ‘I’m afraid he’s a little busy at the moment. Can I help you at all?’
Clive’s initial mild disappointment was already growing into something more substantial. He realised that, when he’d decided to make the call, he’d been looking forward to hearing Kennedy’s enthusiastic approval of his decision to take on the work. He didn’t want Nolan to deliver the news on his behalf. ‘Probably not. I just wanted to check on something with Robin.’
‘I might be able to help you. To be honest, Robin’s very busy over the next couple of days so I’m not sure how quickly he’ll be able to get back to you.’
‘It’s not urgent. If you can let him know I called, he can ring me back when he’s got a moment.’
‘If you’re sure. Do you think you’ll be working with us, then?’
The direct question caught Clive by surprise. ‘I— Well, yes, I think so. That’s really what I wanted to talk to Robin about. Just a couple of points of clarification.’
‘I’m sure Robin will get back to you as soon as he can. But great to hear you’ll be working with us. I’ll let Robin know.’
‘I—’ Clive stopped, conscious that he could hardly now claim he hadn’t yet made up his mind. That would certainly convey the wrong impression. ‘Thanks. I hope he’ll be pleased.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted. He speaks very highly of you.’
Clive ended the call with a sense that he’d been manipulated. It wasn’t a feeling he could justify rationally. After all, he’d called Kennedy with the intention of confirming that he wanted to continue the work, so he could hardly complain that he’d been somehow tricked into making that decision. Yes, he’d hoped to tell Kennedy directly, but it would be childish to make an issue of that. Even so, he was left somehow feeling that he hadn’t been fully in control.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. The outcome would be the same. Kennedy would ring him back before too long, and would no doubt still greet the decision with the same enthusiasm. Clive’s own intentions remained the same – to approach this with the necessary level of objectivity and independence. If he was going to do his job properly, the last thing he should need or want was Kennedy’s approbation.
He wondered whether to call Rowan Wiseman to break the news of his decision to her. She’d perhaps give him some of the response he’d been hoping for from Kennedy. But as he reached to pick up his phone, it began to ring. He snatched it up, hoping that it would be Kennedy already calling back.
But it was only Greg Wardle. He took the call, by now feeling utterly deflated. ‘Evening, Greg.’
‘Hi, Clive. Just wondered if you felt like meeting up for a beer. I’ve had something cancelled on me so just at a loose end.’
Clive’s first instinct was to say yes, even though it was hardly the most flattering of invitations. In any case, Clive had dragged Greg off at short notice the previous evening, so he could hardly complain. Then he looked at the large pile of documents from Kennedy that were awaiting his detailed attention. ‘Sorry, Greg. I’m a bit busy myself this evening.’
‘Are you?’
‘I’ve got all that stuff from Robin to work through.’
‘Oh. Right. How’s it looking?’
‘There’s a lot of it, for a start. Some old stuff – books and the like. And a lot of recent and current booklets.’
‘All about this so-called movement of Kennedy’s?’
‘Pretty much. A lot of it’s more general, but I assume this is really just background. There’s some interesting-looking stuff but it’s going to take some effort to get my head round it all.’
‘If it’s as lucid as Kennedy was last night, I don’t envy you.’
‘Thought that was just me being a bit dim. You felt the same, did you?’
‘Seemed to be a lot of words without too much substance, but I’m guessing that’s how he works.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Draws you in. Gets you interested. A sort of drip-by-drip approach. He struck me as a good salesman. Knows how to close the deal.’
Clive could feel himself bridling at the depiction of Kennedy. ‘That’s a bit unfair. I don’t think he’s that cynical.’
‘I didn’t say it was cynical. He’s selling an idea, after all. He does it well. Have you decided to go ahead with it?’
‘I—’ For the second time that evening, Clive felt as if he’d been somehow outmanoeuvred. ‘Yes, I have, as it happens. I just called Robin to tell him.’
‘How did he react?’
‘I didn’t speak to him directly, as it happens. I spoke to Eric Nolan.’
‘Of course.’ Greg sounded amused, as if this had been exactly what he’d expected.
‘Kennedy was a bit tied up, that’s all.’
‘I’m sure. Anyway, sorry you can’t make the pub. But I’ll drink a pint on your behalf in celebration of Robin Kennedy and his movement.’
‘Take the piss all you like, Greg, but could be a real opportunity for me.’
‘I don’t doubt it. And I’ll be happy to help you, if you want my support.’
Clive took a breath, conscious that he’d been growing increasingly irritated with Greg’s flippancy. But he knew they worked well together – partly because they were opposites in many ways – and he didn’t want to lose Greg’s friendship. ‘That would be good, Greg. Sorry I can’t make it tonight.’
‘No worries. There’s no way I can compete with one of Robin Kennedy’s leaflets. Have fun.’
Clive eyed the large pile of papers in front of him. ‘I’ll do my best.’