Free The Greening by Margaret Coles Page B

desire?
    As we drove through London and towards the coast I stole quick glances at Mark. I could hardly believe that he had chosen to take me with him. Suddenly I wanted him with a passion that I knew I must contain. His face seemed to change at different times, and I realized I had not yet got a clear image of it in my mind’s eye.
    He sang to me. He has a good voice, but he sings with an American accent, which felt odd and a little uncomfortable. I felt embarrassed to have him expose to me this part of himself, with such a lack of awareness. In the small space we shared there seemed to be nowhere to put that feeling. But when I discovered that he had added five hours to his journey in order to take me with him, I was thrilled. I felt valued and nothing else mattered.
    Mark was curious about my interest in Julian, though he doesn’t believe in God. He said, “If there’s a God, why does he let us make such a muck of things? I wouldn’t want him managing anything for me.” He really has no concept of God; religion seems to have passed him by.
    Today has been a perfectly beautiful sequence of happy, pleasurable moments. I have been so hungry for times like these, so starved of being looked at with admiration and affection,being listened to with fascination and approval, being held with warmth and intimacy, being wanted, being needed, being loved.
    We lunched in a little country restaurant just outside Norwich. We told each other about our lives, but it seemed as though we already knew everything about one another, from some time long past that I had forgotten. I probed gently to find out why Mark’s marriage had ended. He said, “We wanted different things. Once the initial passion was over we just didn’t connect. We couldn’t talk, as you and I do. After five years of vase-throwing – by my wife, not me – shouting and slamming of doors, we agreed to disagree and go our separate ways.”
    We drove on to Norwich and along the dingy streets that I walked along so recently, to Julian’s little church and the Julian Centre next door. As we parted, Mark leaned forward to kiss me gently on the cheek. He said, “No running off with any monks or vicars.” Promising to return in three hours’ time, he got back into the car and drove away.
    As I walked towards the Julian Centre I turned my head, to see if Mark was giving me a final wave, and saw another car go by. The driver glanced towards me, and there was something in his eyes that I did not like. As I stepped through the doorway of the Julian Centre, I shivered. My emotions, rekindled in the past days and brought close to the surface, were making me more sensitive than was good for me. A few hours of sober research would bring me back down to earth.
    The Julian Centre was a small space crammed with packed bookshelves. In a corner, a table and chairs had been provided for visitors. I received a warm smile and an offer of help from the administrator, along with tea and biscuits. I was surprised to see how much had been written about Julian. There were several hundred books, as well as historical documents and doctoral theses.
    I felt the familiar sensation of curiosity and excitement that precedes a period of research into an historical character, withthe promise of being led through unexpected twists and turns on a journey of adventure and discovery. It’s always thrilling to track the elusive fragments of a personality that has touched and changed people or a place.
    What secrets lay hidden, awaiting discovery? Who was Julian? Would I meet her and know her today? I indulged in the pleasure of surrounding myself with books, documents and papers. I anticipated sifting through them all for glints of gold: a seemingly insignificant fact, a line from a poem, a reported conversation – a detail that catches the imagination, an insight that reveals a truth, a scrap of information that captures the essence of a person. I believe the essence of each of us is in everything