around me was happy. You don’t realise how miserable most people are. At work, at home, at school, everyone has long faces. If you’re in a good mood, people think you’re clowning around. I read once that some bloke said most people lead lives of quiet desperation. That’s true. Except on the farm. There, people communicated, smiled, opened up. I liked it, pure and simple.
And I admired them for giving up things – the way they didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs. That took some willpower, willpower most people didn’t have. I reckon their belief system helped them. Personally, I didn’t know what to make of that part of it. For me, going to their Services and joining in with their rituals was like playing a virtual reality game. Like when I was a kid and you’d play aliens or whatever and you’d really BE an intrepid space commander for half an hour or so, and then your mum would call you in and you’d drop it. So while I was attending their Services I kind of believed it all, but I knew really that I didn’t. Or so I thought.
Then my mum started asking me questions, like who my new friends were, that sort of thing. I almost told her the truth but luckily stopped myself. My parents might have understood what good the White Ones were doing me, but then again, they were more likely to ask awkward questions and then pick an argument. So I told them Nick, Kate, Bea and Fletcher were living in a commune, that they were mainly artists, were into wholefood, the alternative living thing. I said quite a few of them worked outside the commune, too. I made more of my individual friendships with them, especially Bea. I lied and said she was my girlfriend. When Mum asked do they take drugs, I answered with complete honesty, no way! When she said, if you have a girlfriend, you must be responsible, I said, we’re not sleeping together. Then she asked, you’re not thinking of going up there to live, are you? That was harder. I can see the attraction of their way of life, I replied, but I like my home comforts too much. Mum seemed satisfied, and anyway, she was totally stressed out about Christmas.
Just before Christmas was the one night I’ll always remember. It began just like an average evening – me at the farm, watching Auriel dish out a rather watery but over-spiced chickpea stew. I was quite happy not to have too much of it. I was glad that Nick was able to join us. I knew he suffered bouts of ill-health, but he was looking slightly better tonight. Kate was there, Fletcher, and Bea. The Evening Service had been about an hour ago – it was pitch-black outside now – but the kitchen was warm and it was great to be all together like that.
“Do you like it?” Auriel asked. She meant the stew.
“Sure,” I said.
“You don’t. I can tell. You’re eating it too slowly, Joe.”
I shovelled in a few mouthfuls and grinned at her. I’d already got to know Auriel quite well. She was the neurotic one, always needing reassurance. But she wasn’t on antidepressants any more, Bea had told me. Before the White Ones, Auriel had had some kind of mental problem. Her family were talking about having her sectioned. Then she met Kate. Living here had straightened her out. Well, almost. But the White Ones tolerated odd behaviour – it was only on the outside that unusual behaviour was classified as mental illness. Auriel lived happily here, and Bea said her parents even came to visit her from time to time.
“Eat some more, Nick,” Auriel cajoled.
Nick moved his spoon around the plate and then attempted a mouthful. He never had much of an appetite. Will meanwhile shovelled his food down. He used to be a soldier, I’d learned. He was a straightforward kind of guy, loyal, no nonsense – the most ordinary person you could think of. He’d come from a group of White Ones in Scotland – because I’d learned there were groups everywhere. Not that they advertised themselves. They didn’t seek to convert, but just wanted to live according to their principles.
Fletcher said to Nick, “You look better.” Then he turned to me. “When Nick was in India, Joe, he picked up a parasitical infection. He’s not completely cured yet. We’re all focusing on his recovery, and Nick’s doing what he can to overcome it. It’s a matter of boosting his immune system.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “The mental and physical are linked.”
I nodded vigorously “Like when I had glandular fever – it was after my exams, when I was exhausted.”
“Yes,” Nick continued, looking flushed. “But your body also expresses its spiritual lack of balance in an external fashion.”
“Come again?” I said.
“Illness isn’t random – it seizes on a weakness, a fifth column in your system. Tackling illness is as much about spiritual discipline as medicine. Rendall shrunk a tumour through a full SD vigil.”
That was interesting. Rendall, I knew, was the Father of the White Ones. SD was sensory deprivation. However, White Ones mainly practised Alternate Sense Deprivation – ASD – as a spiritual discipline. I’d seen them do it, wearing blindfolds, stuffing their ears, covering their skin. They did without one sense each day. But full SD! I wondered what that would be like.
Before I had a chance to ask, Bea spoke. “I only wish I’d met the White Ones when my mother was ill.”
I saw Auriel reach out to hold Bea’s hand and I wished I’d thought of doing that. Bea had told me her mother had died of cancer, around two years ago. We were all sombre for a moment.
Then Fletcher said, “She is with the Light.”
Bea looked at him gratefully. Just then she looked so vulnerable and lost I wanted to hold her tight to me and show her that someone loved her. But instead I had to satisfy myself with being part of the group.
Still, when the meal, such as it was, had finished, I asked Bea if we could have some time alone. She looked a little unsure and I noticed how her eyes sought Fletcher’s.
He answered my question. “Later,” he said. “There’s some things I’d like to talk to Joe about.”
It was a friendly suggestion, and I was made to feel as if there wasn’t enough of me to spread around. So later I followed Fletcher up to his quarters. Nick came too, leaning on Will’s arm for support.
I’d not been to Fletcher’s room before. We walked up the stairs and along a corridor into a large living/bedroom with a door leading off, presumably to a private bathroom. There was a fireplace with a three-bar electric fire standing in it, a bed with a faded patchwork bedspread, a desk with books, papers, and an anglepoise lamp. In one corner there was a rail with a few items of clothing hanging down. There was a poster on the wall of that mushroom-effect explosion you associate with nuclear bombs. Quite striking, when you looked at it. The floor was just polished floorboards scattered with cheap rugs. The effect was fairly Spartan, but also comfortable, the kind of place you wouldn’t mind spending time in.
Fletcher sat on the floor, cross-legged, his back against his bed. Nick sat by him on the bed, like a sort of bodyguard. Uncertain what to do, I followed Will and sat on the floor, below the poster, my back against the wall, my legs stuck out. I had this feeling that the guys had something important to say to me and my first thought was that I’d done something wrong. I felt a bit fidgety. Or maybe they were going to say that I’d spent enough time with them and they wanted me out. Why was it I always expected the worst?
“So,” Fletcher began. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I said, a bit nervous.
“Have you got any questions?”
Why is it your mind always goes blank when people ask you that?
“Questions
