Blinded by the Light Page 4

  Thinking like that can do your head in. It makes you feel spaced out. I liked lying there just thinking in the dark. I wondered if Bea was thinking, and whether she was thinking about me. I wondered what she thought the purpose of her life was, what it would be like to have a purpose.

  Imagine if you woke up every morning with something important to do, that you loved doing. If you knew what you had to do. If you were certain. Like Bea.

  4.

  From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Morning Service

  I ask for the power of the Light to enter my body and soul and make me a force for good. May it be my lot to achieve Perfection. I promise to remain pure, true and strong. I will stay by the fountain of Light. I ask all here present to witness these vows this morning. May it be my lot to achieve Perfection. May it be your lot to achieve Perfection. To the One, to the Light – salaam, shalom, peace. Peace be with you.

  After I’d drifted back to consciousness in the morning, I lay awake listening for sounds. There were none. I got the feeling I was alone. I checked my watch, discovered it was eight o’clock and guessed the other guys must have gone to breakfast leaving me to sleep. Quickly I got up, threw on my clothes from the night before and stepped into the centre of the dormitory. It was deserted. I saw some bathroom facilities at one end and got myself presentable.

  Then I went outside. It was a fresh day. The wind stung my face and blew my hair around. I could see the moorland clearly now, steep hills rising on one side, on the other the distant road and a criss-cross pattern of dry-stone walls. I felt apart from my normal life. I made my way to the farmhouse where I presumed people were having breakfast. I was sure there’d be something left for me.

  When I got there, the kitchen was empty, scrubbed clean. I frowned in puzzlement. I stood there for a while, undecided, then resolved to check out the living room. As I entered I saw people coming towards me from out of the conservatory, which Bea had called the Gathering Place. They were all dressed in white. It gave me quite a shock. Blokes in white jeans and white sweatshirts, the girls in long white skirts and dresses. Bea glided over towards me, her face radiant, like an angel.

  “We’ve just finished our morning meeting,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek, as my mother might. Other people shook my hand warmly. It was difficult not to be drawn into such good feeling. I followed them into breakfast, where two of the blokes began to get some food together.

  “I could kill for a coffee,” I confided to Bea.

  She smiled teasingly. “Coffee? It’s a drug too, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s only caffeine.”

  But there was no coffee. It was back to the fruit juice and herbal teas. In fact the fresh orange juice I had was very welcome. I forgot about the coffee as I listened to people talk. Some of the blokes were discussing football, which surprised me. Some girls were laughing as if they were sharing a private joke. Fletcher came and sat by me so I was flanked by him and Bea.

  “Did you have a good night?” he asked.

  I said I did and thanked him for his hospitality.

  “You can stay any time,” he said. He cut himself a slice of bread from what looked like a home-made loaf. “What do you think of us?”

  I was a bit taken aback by his question, but well-mannered enough to come out with all the right platitudes.

  “Everyone’s been great. I really enjoyed the party.”

  “No. What do you think of us? In fact. The truth.”

  Did he want me to criticise them? Or was he doing what Gemma does when she says, do I really look fat in these jeans? Honestly?

  But this wasn’t Gemma. As a novelty, I decided to tell him the truth.

  “You all seem weird to me. I was pretty spooked when I saw you all in white. Like, who are you? Bea hasn’t explained properly.”

  Fletcher smiled as if I’d got the right answer. He obviously liked plain speaking.

  “We are the White Ones. We’re a group of people from different religious and non-religious traditions who have come to understand the nature of life. We live together so we can follow our own practices. For our own good, and for the ultimate good of the world.”

  There was no answer to that.

  Fletcher questioned me further. “How do you feel about that?”

  I carried on being honest. “Well, I’m half-inclined to make fun of you and write you off as a pack of weirdos. But also a bit curious to know what you’re about.”

  I quite enjoyed talking like this. It was good not having to be polite. And Fletcher seemed unbothered by my straight talking.

  “The choice is yours. Leave this morning and never come back, if you like. Or return and find out more.” He helped himself to more bread, then looked me straight in the eyes. “We think you’d fit in.”

  I felt Bea nudge me under the table.

  “Thanks,” I said. Then Fletcher turned and spoke to someone on his left.

  “What was all that about?” I asked Bea.

  “It’s an invitation,” she said. “He thinks you have something. And we’re not a bunch of freaks. We don’t conform, but then, what’s so great about conforming when you look at the rest of the world?”

  This was true. I could feel my perceptions slowly shifting. It was a novel and not unpleasant experience. Meanwhile a niggling voice in my head reminded me of my promise to return the car to my dad before eleven. I explained to Bea that I had to go. To my pleasure, she looked a little crestfallen.

  “Here,” she said. “Take my mobile number.”

  I did, readily, and gave her mine. She chatted on, explaining that she was a kind of novice and had only been coming to Lower Fold Farm for the past six weeks. But it had changed her life. Maybe, she said, she would have the chance to tell me more one day. I said I’d love to see her again. She went with me out to where I’d left the car. Someone had tied a white ribbon around the windscreen wipers. We both laughed as I removed it, and put it in my pocket.

  The wind lifted and tossed Bea’s hair around.

  “See you, Joe,” she said.

  “Ciao.”

  We didn’t touch. I got in the car and turned the key in the ignition. Soon I was bumping down the track to the main road. And driving down to Todmorden.

  It was lucky the roads were quiet as my mind wasn’t really on my driving. I just didn’t know what to make of everyone I’d met. I wanted to write them off as a load of nutters, but something stopped me. Who was I to say what was right and normal, and what wasn’t? And think of Bea – she wasn’t bullshitting. She believed everything she said to me, and she was no airhead. Also she was gorgeous, and gorgeous people weren’t so desperate that they had to go and associate with a bunch of freaks. Kate and Nick too, they weren’t sad. In fact the people I had met at the farm were better in some way than lots of the people in my life. I thought of Kevin and some of the idiots who hang out at the Red King. It was all bloody confusing.

  Home seemed different when I got there. I managed to throw the keys to Dad so they sailed over the top of the Sunday paper he was reading and landed in his lap. He muttered his thanks. Gemma was in the sitting room watching TV, painting her nails. Mum was doing something in the kitchen. It all seemed so one-dimensional after the farm. And meaningless. Stereotypes. Doing what they were programmed to do.

  I hated Sundays, anyway. When I was at school I spent Sundays sleeping in, maybe going over to the park to kick a ball around, then putting off doing schoolwork, then doing it late at night. It was a nothing day, the blood had been sucked out of it by the fact that Monday came after. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. The working days. You get more and more tired. Then suddenly it’s Saturday and if you haven’t got anything on in the evening, you’re sunk. And you go out and have your first drink and there’s colour back in the world. And that was last year, when things seemed to be going my way. This Sunday, I lay on my bed and listened to some CDs. I got more and more depressed. I kept thinking about Bea and the farm. I wondered what they w
ere doing up there now. I certainly wasn’t using my time any better than they could be.

  But I cheered up. I went with Dad to B&Q to get some wood and saw all the Christmas trees and decorations. That made me feel good. I always enjoyed Christmas – not for religious reasons, but the parties, the presents, the turkey, everyone letting their hair down. But today I was aware of how it was all mass-produced – forests of trees cut down to be sold at B&Q and supermarkets and garden centres, tacky tinsel and lights, cash registers ringing. To pretend for a moment that this had anything to do with religion was a joke. I tried to say something to my dad.

  “Why do you think people are so into Christmas?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Gets worse every year. Christmas comes earlier and earlier. And it’s all about the money.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Christmas isn’t a Christian festival,” he said. “It’s pagan in origin and it’s pagan now. An excuse for letting go for a while.”

  “But if it’s pagan,” I carried on, “then there must be a basic human need for a winter festival.”

  “You’d think they’d have enough assistants around at this time of year!” he said. “Christ! We’ve looked everywhere for extension sockets. And there’s never anyone you can ask.” Dad gave an exaggerated sigh. He was always on a short fuse. Mum moaned about him, said he was hell to live with and was his own worst enemy. He needed to calm down and take life as it came. She was partly right.

  Later on that evening I said to Mum, “Do you believe in God?”

  She looked as embarrassed as if I’d asked her about sex.

  “Well, I suppose I believe in something,” she said. “But it’s hard to say, really. I don’t believe in organised religion. Look at the wars it’s caused.”

  I had my mobile in my pocket in case Bea rang. Gemma mooched into the kitchen and opened every cupboard and the fridge on her personal quest – for something to eat.

  “There’s never anything in the house!” she whinged.

  “Gemma,” I said to her. “What is the purpose of your life?”

  “Sod off!” she said.

  “Language!” warned Mum.

  The Woods family. Home of the great philosophers. I thought about sending Bea a text, something non-committal, like, had a great night. I decided to do that later. I watched TV, and decided there was nothing worth watching. I said to everyone I was going to bed early and I lay on my bed, thinking.

  The White Ones. They didn’t drink or, presumably, do drugs. They wore white and lived apart. So they weren’t hippies, or Christians. They seemed normal, but clearly they weren’t. Bea talked about a book they had. They had gatherings. Fletcher invited me back. If I went back, I’d see Bea again.

  Nah, I thought. The whole setup is too weird. I’d be better off asking for extra hours at Electric Avenue, getting some cash together and travelling.

  The Traveller. That’s me.

  I smiled to myself. I wouldn’t go back. It was a cool adventure for a Saturday night, but I lived in the real world. Crappy as it was.

  My phone rang. A message. Thinking of you. Sleep well. Peace and Perfection. Bea.

  My fingers pressed out a reply. And to you. Ive been thinking of you. Lets meet.

  Her: When?

  Me: Soon. Name a day.

  Her: Come to the farm whenever.

  Me: C u there.

  Yesss! She sent me a message first. She was keen. A smile spread over my face. And then I asked myself what I was pleased about. Mainly, that Bea was interested and I would get to see her again. But also that I had an excuse for going back. Because the truth was, the part of me that dismissed Fletcher and co. was the part of me that judged by appearances. I needed to investigate the whole thing more. It would be an experiment. I could go back and see what made them tick. It would be interesting to find out what they believed, what Bea thought the purpose of her life was. If what they said was stupid, then I was free to walk away. If, however, there was something in it, and something there for me…

  It would be daft not to go and check them out.

  5.

  From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Hungry Child

  Once in a distant land there was a child, who, despite his mother’s warning, wandered out of the garden and into the field. Entranced by the blue skies and distant hills, he strayed. Soon he was hungry. In the distance, he saw a farm and made his way there. He entered the dairy and found a jug of milk, from which he drank greedily. But was it his to take?

  When Mike rang from the Red King to say I wasn’t needed on Wednesday, I took it as a sign. I’d go up to Lower Fold Farm instead, and see Bea. That is, if I could have the car. Dad grumbled a bit when I asked him and made me cough up for the petrol, but finally agreed. Then he asked me what on earth I was doing visiting friends on a farm? It was November, for Christ’s sake. And who were these people, anyway?

  I smiled, fairly nonchalantly. I explained about my meeting with Nick and Kate on the train, editing it neatly. I mentioned Nick had done voluntary work in India and that Kate was an artist. The farm, I told him, was just a house where they lived with some friends. I told Dad about Bea too, confessing I liked her. That went down well. His mouth curled in a half-smile. He thought he’d uncovered the motivation for my sudden interest in farms. The questioning stopped and I was half-relieved.

  And so Wednesday night saw me on the way to Lumbutts again. I’d made a bit of an effort with my appearance with Bea in mind. I couldn’t decide between my navy or fawn sweater, but went for the fawn in the end – dressed in dark colours, I’d be very conspicuous. It felt good to be going back to the farm. I had no fixed idea of what I wanted to happen, past the fact that Bea would be there – I knew that, as we’d been texting each other. She asked me to arrive before seven. At this rate, I was going to be early. Nearly all the traffic lights seemed to turn to green as they saw me coming.

  This time I knew exactly where I was going and found the farm with no difficulty at all. Having spent a night there made it familiar to me. I guided the car carefully over the bumpy track to the farmhouse and parked it by a wall. There was the sense of rain in the air. I rapped loudly on the door. Fletcher answered.

  “Joe,” he said, seeming pleased.

  It’s nice to be wanted.

  Bea came out from the kitchen and her face brightened when she saw me.

  “You’re in time for our Evening Service!” she announced.

  “Come and join us,” Fletcher added. “As an observer.”

  An evening service? It sounded suspiciously like church. I had a sinking feeling and wondered what I’d got myself into. But, hey, I was free to go afterwards. I might as well sit it out. So I put on a brave smile and followed Bea to the Gathering Place, where quite a few people had already assembled. There was Kate, who rose to her feet to greet me, smiling fit to burst. There were others I recognised, and who recognised me. They all said, “Peace!”

  I muttered back, “Peace,” since it seemed the right thing to do. I sat down on a bench where there was room for Bea to sit next to me. She did. I found that I was swallowing nervously.

  I always feel edgy in religious services. Not that I’ve had experience of many. As a kid I’d been to church on some occasions, then we sort of stopped going. I’d been to weddings, and a couple of funerals. And countless school assemblies. It had always struck me that the point about religious services wasn’t worshipping God as much as getting it right. Finding the right hymn number, singing neither too softly nor loudly, sitting and standing at the right times. Oh, and being quiet. And letting someone, like a vicar, or the Head, talk nonsense at you, feel-good stuff that you knew neither they nor anybody else would practise. And you just stood there waiting for it all to finish and thinking of something totally different.

  This time, I was just very embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do with myself. It suddenly occurred to me that my legs were too long, as the bench was low and I had to try to position them out of peopl
e’s way. I didn’t know what to do with my hands and found I was clenching my fists. And my scalp was itchy, so I tried to scratch it without anyone noticing. Then Fletcher came in and started handing round some pamphlets. They’d obviously done the rounds, and looked the worse for wear. I took one from the pile that was handed to me and passed the rest along.

  The door opened once more and two of the blokes came in, carefully carrying one of those plastic baby bath things, half-full of water. They placed it in the middle of the circle. I watched the water level move back and forth, then settle. As it settled, conversation stopped. Bea squeezed my hand and I hoped she hadn’t noticed how hot and sweaty my palm was. Kate went round lighting candles, and when she had finished, someone switched off the light. The room was lit by flickering flames and dancing shadows played on the floor. Some people began to hum a tune. It sounded vaguely Eastern. The refrain was simple and I could have easily joined in had I wanted to. I heard Bea take up the melody, then the person on my other side. I found myself swaying slightly in time to the tune. I was the only person not humming. I tried to look as if I was humming, then found I was emitting a sort of noise. Oh, what the hell. I joined in. It was just some communal singing. We weren’t sacrificing goats or anything.

  We all hummed for some time. Then slowly people dropped out until there was silence. Fletcher’s voice broke it.

  “O, source of Light,” he intoned. “We are grateful for having reached the end of one more day. We offer thanks for those moments of illumination we have experienced and confess shame at the incursions of Darkness we have allowed. As the diurnal shadow envelops us, we affirm our commitment to the One Light, to Truth, to Goodness, to Peace, to Perfection. We approach the night confident that the day will follow, as the Kingdom of Light always surpasses in strength the Kingdom of Dark. We are glad that we are one day nearer you and yearn for the last night, when we can enter fully into the World of everlasting Day. We pray that we will be worthy of it. We work that we will be worthy of it. Our purity reflects our desire.”