Peter tried to recall the journey he’d shared with Severin. It felt like something that had happened in another phase of his life, much longer ago than a few weeks.
‘When did he die?’
‘Last night. That phrase doesn’t mean much here, I know. Toward the end of the night.’ She consulted her watch. ‘About eighteen hours ago.’ Another couple of beats’ pause. ‘You’re conducting the funeral service. If you’re willing, that is.’
Again, Peter tried to cast his mind back to the time he’d shared with Severin. He recalled BG asking Severin what religion he was, and Severin replying, I’m nothing, and that’s the way it’s staying.
‘Severin might not have wanted a funeral service. He didn’t have a religion.’
‘A lot of people here don’t have a religion. But the thing is, we cannot throw a dead person into an incinerator without giving him some kind of a send-off.’
Peter pondered this a moment.
‘Can you . . . er . . . give me a rough idea what sort of send-off the majority of the personnel might consider . . . ’
‘Totally up to you. We’ve got some Catholics, we’ve got some Baptists, we’ve got some Buddhists . . . You name it, we’ve got some. I wouldn’t sweat about that. You were chosen because . . . Well, let’s just say that if you were a strict Pentecostal or a strict anything, you wouldn’t be here. Somebody studied your resumé and made a judgement that you can handle it.’
‘Handle funerals?’
‘Handle . . . whatever.’ She clenched her fists on the steering wheel, drew a deep breath. ‘Whatever.’
Peter sat in silence for a while. The landscape continued to flicker by. A rich, fragrant smell of whiteflower in various forms began to suffuse the cabin, seeping in from the back.
Dear Peter, wrote Bea. We are in big trouble.
He was sitting in his quarters, still unwashed, and naked. Goose-pimples prickled on his flesh: big trouble.
His wife’s words had been sent a fortnight ago, or twelve days to be precise. She had kept silent for the first forty-eight hours of his stay among the Oasans, evidently counselling herself that anything she wrote would go unread until his return. But after two days she’d written regardless. And written again the next day, and the next. She’d written eleven more messages, all of them now stored in glowing capsules at the bottom of his screen. Each capsule bore a number: the date of transmission. To his wife, these messages were already History. To him, they were a frozen Present, yet to be experienced. His head buzzed with the urgent need to open them all, to crack open those capsules with eleven rapid-fire jabs of his finger – and buzzed also with the knowledge that he could only take them in one at a time.
He could’ve started reading them an hour earlier, in the vehicle on the way back from the settlement. But Grainger’s odd mood during the drive had discouraged him from asking her to tell him when they were close enough to the USIC base for the Shoot to work. Although he wasn’t usually secretive or prone to embarrassment, he’d felt self-conscious at the prospect of reading his wife’s personal communications right next to Grainger. What if Bea made some unguardedly intimate reference? A gesture of sexual affection? No, it was better to restrain his eagerness and wait until he had privacy.
On entering his USIC apartment, he’d stripped off his clothes, determined to shower before he tackled anything else. These last couple of weeks, working with the Oasans and sleeping out in the open, he’d become inured to sweat and dust, but his journey back to base in the air-conditioned vehicle had awakened his awareness of the muck that clung to him. It was a feeling he remembered well from his homeless years: being invited into somebody’s immaculate home and perching on the edge of their pale velour sofa, self-conscious about tainting it with his grimy arse. So, as soon as he stepped into his apartment, he decided that while the Shoot was warming up, doing its routine checks of its electronic innards, he could have a quick wash. Unexpectedly, however, Beatrice’s messages loaded in at once. Their sudden arrival was a potent presence in the room, forcing him to sit down, dirty as he was.
We are in big trouble, Bea said. I don’t want to worry you when you’re so far away and there’s nothing you can do. But things are falling apart fast. I don’t mean you and me of course darling. I mean things in general, the whole country (probably). In our local supermarket there are apology stickers on most of the shelves, empty spaces everywhere. Yesterday there was no fresh milk and no fresh bread. Today, all the UHT milk, flavoured milk, condensed milk, even coffee whitener has gone, likewise all the muffins, bagels, scones, chapattis, etc etc. I overheard two people in the checkout queue having a testy discussion about how many cartons of custard one person should be allowed to buy. The term ‘moral responsibility’ was used.
The news says that the supply problems are due to chaos on the motor-ways because of the earthquake in Bedworth a few days back. That makes a kind of sense, judging by the footage. (You know the way the top of a cake bursts open when it’s risen dramatically in the oven? – well, a long stretch of the M6 looks like that.) Of course the other roads are jammed solid now, trying to accommodate the diverted traffic.
But on the other hand, you would think there must be lots of bakeries and dairies located south of the quake site. I mean, surely we’re not dependent on a truck coming down the M6 all the way from Birmingham to bring us a loaf of bread! I suspect what we’re seeing here is sheer inflexibility in the way supermarkets operate; I bet they just aren’t equipped to negotiate with a different bunch of suppliers at such short notice. If the market was allowed to respond more organically (no pun intended) to an event like this, I’m sure that bakeries and dairies in Southampton or wherever would be delighted to step into the breach.
Anyway, the Bedworth quake is not the full story, regardless of what the news says. Food supplies have been erratic for ages. And the weather just gets weirder and weirder. We’ve had sunshine and mild conditions here (the carpets have finally dried out, thank goodness) but there have been freak hailstorms in other places, so bad that a couple of people have been killed. Killed by hailstones!
It’s been a good week for the news networks, I must say. The footage of the quake, the hailstorms and – stand by, folks! – a spectacular riot in central London. It started as a peaceful protest against the military action in China, and ended with cars being set alight, mass brawling, baton charges, the whole shebang. Even the cleaning up afterwards made for good pictures: there was fake blood (red paint) dripping off the stone lions in Trafalgar Square and real blood splattered on the ground. The cameramen must have been peeing themselves with delight. Sorry to sound cynical but the media gets so energised by this sort of thing. Nobody ever seems sad about it, there’s no moral dimension, it’s just the latest action-packed event. And while these photogenic calamities are flashed past, ordinary people get on with their lives, just doing their best to come to terms with everyday unhappiness.
Anyway, I shouldn’t try so hard to understand the Big Picture. Only God understands that, and He’s in control. I have my life to lead, work to go to. It’s early morning here, beautiful light, chilly, with Joshua perched on top of the filing cabinet snoozing in a sunbeam. My shift doesn’t start till 2.30, so I’m going to do some chores and cook tonight’s dinner so that when I come home from work I can just tuck in, instead of eating peanut butter on toast like I usually do. I should eat some breakfast now to boost my energy but there’s nothing in the house I fancy. The plight of a cereal addict in withdrawal! I’m sipping stale jasmine tea (left over from when we had Ludmila staying with us) because normal tea without milk tastes wrong to me. Too much compromise!
OK, back again. (I just went to the front door to pick up the mail.) Nice postcard from some people in Hastings thanking us for our kindness – Can’t think what kindness they’re referring to, but they invite us to visit them. Could be difficult for you right now! Also a letter from Sheila Frame. Remember her? She’s the mother of Rachel and Billy, the kids who made our Noah’s Ark wall-hanging/collage. Rachel is 12 now and ‘doing OK’ says Sheila (whatever ‘OK’ means) and Billy is 14 and seriously depressed. That’s why Sheila is writing to us. Her letter doesn’t make much sense, she must have written it when she was stressed out. She keeps mentioning ‘the snow leopard’, assuming we must know all about ‘the snow leopard’. I’ve tried to phone but she’s at work, and by the time I get home tonight it’ll be 11.30 at least. I might try to phone from the ward during my meal break.
Enough about my routine & uneventful life without my dear husband. Please tell me what’s been happening with you. I wish I could see your face. I don’t understand why the technology that allows us to communicate with each other like this can’t stretch to sending a few pictures as well! But I suppose that’s being greedy. It’s miraculous enough that we can read each other’s words at such a mind-boggling distance. Assuming you can still read them, of course . . . Please write soon to let me know you’re all right.
I feel I ought to have more specific questions & comments about your mission, but to be frank you haven’t told me very much about it. You’re more of a speaker than a writer, I know that. There have been times I’ve sat in the congregation when you’ve preached, and I see you glancing down at your notes – the same notes I’ve seen you scribbling the night before – and I’m aware that on that little scrap of paper there’s just a few disjointed phrases, and yet this wonderful, eloquent, coherent speech comes out, a beautifully formed story that keeps everyone spellbound for an hour. I admire you so much at those times, my darling. I wish I could hear what you’re saying to your new flock. I don’t suppose you’re writing any of it down afterwards? Or keeping a record of what they’re saying to you? I don’t feel I KNOW these people at all; it’s frustrating. Are you learning a new language? I suppose you must be.
Love,
Bea
Peter rubbed his face, and the sweaty, oily dirt accumulated into dark, seed-like particles in the palms of his hands. Reading his wife’s letter had made him agitated and confused. He hadn’t felt that way until now. For the duration of his stay with the Oasans, he’d been calm and emotionally stable, just getting on with the job. If he’d been occasionally bewildered, it was a happy sort of bewilderment. Now he felt out of his depth. There was a tightness squeezing his chest.
He moved the Shoot’s cursor to the next capsule in chronological sequence, and opened a message that Beatrice had sent him a mere twenty hours after the last. It must have been the middle of her night.
I miss you, she wrote. Oh, how I miss you. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I thought the time would fly and you would be back. If I could just hold you once, just hug you tight for a few minutes, I could cope with your absence again. Even ten seconds would do it. Ten seconds with my arms around you. Then I could sleep.
And, next day:
Horrible, ghastly things in the news; I can’t bear to read, can’t bear to look. Almost took the day off work today. Sat weeping in the toilets at break time. You are so far away, so incredibly far away, further away than any man has ever been from his woman, the sheer distance makes me ill. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Forgive me for spilling my guts like this, I know it can’t be helping you do whatever you’re doing. Oh, how I wish you could be in touch now. Touching me. Holding me. Kissing me.
The words hit him hard. They were the sort of thing he’d wanted to receive from her but now that he’d received them, they caused him distress. A fortnight ago, he had missed her sexually and craved confirmation that she felt the same. She’d assured him that she missed him, that she wanted to hold him, sure, but the overall tone of her letters was sensible, preoccupied, as though his presence was a luxury rather than a necessity. She’d seemed so self-reliant, he’d wondered if he was indulging in testosterone-fuelled self-pity – or if that’s how she saw it.
Once he’d taken his place among the Oasans, this insecurity had evaporated. He didn’t have time for it. And, trusting in the easy mutuality that he and Bea had always enjoyed, he’d assumed – if he thought about it at all – that Bea was in the same state of mind, that she was simply getting on with the daily business of life, that her love for him was like the colour of her eyes: constantly there, but not in any way an impediment to useful activity.
Instead, while he’d been laying the stones of his church and dozing happy in his hammock, she was in pain.
His fingers hung suspended over the keyboard, poised to respond to her. But how could he, when she’d written nine more messages to him, in hours and days that were already gone from her, but of which he knew nothing?