It glows and glitters in my cloudy breastLike stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the Sun’s remove…
Another thing alcohol does for you is make you appreciate music more. Bea gave the words such significance that they seemed true to me. I related to them. They made me think of this night, the moors, the feeling of being left alone. She sang with a rich melancholy that sent shivers through me. Candlelight flickered, shadows played on the ceiling, there was complete stillness as we were all held spellbound by her voice.
At the end of the song, there was silence. Then a ripple of applause. My clapping was the loudest of all and I regretted my enthusiasm immediately, as everyone looked round and smiled. Then there was more guitar music. I drank quickly, then. This time because something had moved in me that I couldn’t put a name to. I felt different, spaced out, kind of emotional. Bea came and sat by my side.
“Nice one,” I said to her.
“Thank you.” She paused for a little. “I set it to music myself. It’s a metaphysical poem.”
“Come again?”
“Metaphysical. Seventeenth century. The poet was called Henry Vaughan. Metaphysical means beyond the physical, beyond our everyday experience.”
I thought to myself, that was how I felt. Metaphysical. I didn’t say that, though. I wondered if I could reach out and take Bea’s hand, but I noticed no one else in the room was touching, even people who looked like couples. That inhibited me. You don’t like to stand out from the crowd. It was enough that she was sitting by my side.
“Who are all these people?” I asked her.
“I suppose you’d call them a kind of commune. They have a vision about the way they want to live.”
“They’re not religious nuts?”
“Oh, no. Not in the conventional sense. Fletcher runs the place; Nick, Will and some other guys live here. So do Kate, Layla and Auriel. For now. But there are more of them that just visit.”
“Why?”
“For enlightenment,” she answered.
“What do you mean, enlight—”
People were making hushing sounds. Someone else started to sing, a bloke. It seemed rude to carry on talking, so I stopped. I took a closer look at the people around me now. At first glance, they looked dead ordinary. A few ugly blokes, a rather chubby girl in a white dress that made her look like a bridesmaid, faces you might see anywhere. But on closer examination they did look different. And then it dawned on me why. Everyone seemed remarkably happy. Most people look fed up seventy-five per cent of the time. These guys gave the impression that here was where they most wanted to be. I wasn’t jealous exactly, but I decided I’d go and get the last Bacardi.
Back in the kitchen two people I hadn’t been introduced to were sitting in a corner talking intently. They both said hi to me. I took the last bottle and thought I ought not to drink it as I wouldn’t be fit to drive home. But then – what the hell! I opened the bottle and gulped some down. I felt unsettled and alone. I wanted Bea to come back but perversely I didn’t want to fetch her.
There were stirrings from the other room and people started to drift back. Bea and Kate were among them. They came over and I saw Kate glance at my drink.
“How did you get here tonight?” she asked.
“I drove,” I said.
“You can’t drive back.”
This was true.
Kate then invited me to stay the night. “We’ve lots of room,” she said.
Well, why not, I thought. I was still sober enough to ring my parents and let them know I wouldn’t be back until the morning, assuring them I was fine. Dad told me to make sure I returned the car by eleven. It was weird and uncomfortable hearing their voices. They sounded so ordinary. I was glad to end the call and put my mobile back in my pocket.
“Come on,” Bea said. “I’ll take you on a tour.”
She reached out for my hand now and I let her lead me out into the hall. She pointed to a staircase. “The offices are up there. And Fletcher’s quarters. A bathroom too.” She took me back into the room where the singing had been. Now I could see a sort of conservatory adjoined it, roughly built, with wooden benches ranged around inside.
“That’s the Gathering Place,” she said. She opened the door and I followed her in. It was cold and damp in there. The floor was uneven stone. We went through another door and were outside. The slap of the wind sobered me up.
“Here’s where the lads sleep,” she said, pointing to a stone-built barn. “There’ll be a bed in there for you.”
Shit. I had hoped for something else, but never mind.
We went back inside the house and I finished my drink. There were fewer people about now. We sat by the table in the kitchen and I helped myself to some of the food. It was late but I was suddenly wide awake. I wanted to talk.
“Tell me about yourself, Bea,” I said.
“No. I’m more interested in you, Joe. And your ideas. Like – are you happy?”
“I’m happy sitting here talking to you.”
“Are you generally happy?”
“Sometimes.”
“What is happiness?” she asked me, her voice teasing.
I began to formulate an answer but then realised this was a hard question. I struggled a bit. “Erm… happiness is when things are going right.”
Bea looked reflective. “For me, happiness is knowing that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. Here. Now.”
For some reason, her happiness seemed better than mine. I wanted it.
“Joe, has it occurred to you that most of the time life is empty? That we fill it with trivia, which become obsessions?”
I thought of the computer games I played, of the trashy TV I watched, renting out videos I didn’t like. I didn’t say anything. She continued.
“We’re just here, we have this life, we don’t know what to do with it. Each of us makes up our own reason for being here. Listen. It’s like Rendall’s Tale of the Traveller, the way he builds himself his shelter.” She paused. “Sorry, you don’t know Rendall’s Parables. I’ll lend you the Book some day. You remind me of the Traveller.”
I liked that. I am a traveller. It sounded like something vaguely sci-fi. The thought made me smile and Bea smiled back.
“Come on, Joe. What’s the purpose of your life?”
It was turning out to be an impossible question. I hesitated. He who hesitates is lost. I shrugged.
“So you really don’t know,” she said.
“Does
