‘As it’s Suhami’s birthday no doubt you have some treat in store.’ Arno smiled shyly at the young man opposite, for everyone knew how sweetly the land lay in that direction.
‘Well ...’ Usually amiable and open-faced, Christopher appeared ill at ease. ‘There seems to be an awful lot going on already.’
‘But you’ll be wanting to take her out? Maybe on the river?’
Christopher did not reply and Janet laughed, a forced rough sound with a scrape of malice, pinching some coarse brown breadcrumbs into a little pellet with her bony fingers. Frequently told as a child that she had pianist’s hands, she had never cared to put the supposition to the test.
‘Don’t you believe in romance then, Jan?’ Trixie laughed, too, but merrily, shaking out a mop of blonde curls. Shiny pink lips and thick sooty lashes gave her the look of an expensive china doll.
Janet got up and started to brush some spilled muesli towards the edge of the table. This was so old that the two halves had begun to warp, shrinking away from each other. A few nuts disappeared through the gap and rolled around on the wooden floor. She decided to be unskilful (the word used by the community to denote behaviour liable to cause a breach of the peace), and leave them there. Trixie tilted her chair back, glanced slyly down and made a tutting sound, her rosebud mouth in a kissy pout.
Janet took the bowls away, came back with a dustpan and brush and crawled under the table, the bare boards hurting her knees. Ten feet. Male: two Argyle socks - felted with much washing and smelling faintly of camphorated oil - two white cotton, two beige terry towelling and six sturdy sandals. Female: purple lace-up felt bootees embroidered with cabbalistic signs. Mickey Mouse sneakers over socks so brief they barely reached pert, delicate ankles. Jeans were rolled up to just below the knee and, on lately shaven calves, stubble glinted like gold wire.
Janet’s heart pounded as she glanced at, then quickly looked away from the blue-white milky limbs and fine breakable ankle bones. You could crush them as easily as the rib cage of a bird. The brush slipped and swirled in a suddenly sweaty hand. She reached out, briefly touching near-transparent skin, before pushing the Mickey Mice aside.
‘Mind your feet everyone.’ Aiming for casual busyness she sounded only gruff.
‘And you, Arno?’ asked Christopher.
‘I shall carry on with Tim,’ replied Arno. He got up, collecting the square, stone salt cellars and horn spoons. ‘We’re working on a new straw hood for the hive.’ Every member of the community was artisanally virtuous.
‘You take such trouble,’ said Heather. The words were shrill little pipes. A gymslip of a voice.
‘Oh well ... you know ...’ Arno appeared embarrassed.
‘We had a little astro-ceremony for him last night, didn’t we Heather?’ said Ken.
‘Mmm. We held him in the light for ever so long.’
‘Then we offered the auric centre of his being to Lady Portia - the pale gold master of serenity.’
They were so unshakeably positive. Arno said ‘thank you’ not knowing what else to say. Neither the Beavers for all their ring of bright confidence, nor the Lady Portia could help Tim. No one should. He could be loved and that was all. It was a great deal of course, but it was not enough to lead him from the shadows.
But it would be useless, Arno knew, to point this out. It would be unkind too, for Ken and Heather had brought the practice of positive thinking to a state-of-the-art meridian. No naughty darkling hesitancies for them. If one peeped out it was swept back under the carpet p.d.q. This refusal to acknowledge the grey, let alone black, side of life made them supremely complacent. A problem was barely described before the answer was on the table. Postulation. Simplification. Solution. Each stage liberally laced with Compassion. Soft-centred, honey-coated and as simple as that.
Trixie dragged her chair back, saying: ‘I’m glad I’m not on kitchen rota for the grand occasion tonight. I can have a nice long drink in The Black Horse instead. I’m sure we’re all going to need one.’
Ken and Heather Beavers smiled indulgently at this roguish whimsy. No one at the commune had ever been into the village pub. Janet emerged and got up rubbing her knees.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Arno. ‘About needing a drink.’
‘Mr Gamelin. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten his visit.’
‘Of course not.’ Arno now collected the plastic washing-up bowl from which everyone had helped themselves to muesli. One of the community rules was: Never leave The Table Empty-Handed, and, although this occasionally meant something vanishing before anyone had had a chance to make use of it, on the whole the system worked very well. ‘Will you be making your Quark soufflé Heather?’
‘I thought I wouldn’t in case he’s late. You know what tycoons are.’ She spoke with rueful authority as if hot-foot from the Stock Exchange.
‘We thought the three-bean lasagne,’ said Ken stroking his comanchero moustache.
‘That is certainly very filling.’
‘Then use up the Quark with some stewed pears. Beat in some of Calypso’s yogurt if it won’t stretch.’
‘Excellent.’ Arno beamed as if it really was and thought, there’s always the birthday cake.
‘I bet he’ll buy her an amazing present,’ said Trixie.
‘What they really like, ruthless tycoons,’ said Janet, ‘is tearing into a big red steak.’
‘Quite a father-in-law you’ve chosen Christopher.’ Ken and his crystal twinkled across the table.
Christopher said: ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ and started to collect the cutlery.
‘Well he won’t get a steak here.’ Heather shuddered. ‘How do you know he’s ruthless anyway, Jan?’ Janet hated being called ‘Jan’. Except by Trixie.
‘I saw him on the box ages ago. One of those studio discussions. The Money Programme I think it was. He ate the lot of them up in the first five minutes then started on the table.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Arno. He had not seen the programme. There was no television at the Manor House because of the negative vibes.
But Janet remembered it well. That square powerful figure thrusting forward as if about to smash its way through the screen, crackling with aggression. Head held low and to one side, motionless like a bull about to charge. ‘I wish he wasn’t coming.’
‘Stay mellow.’ Ken waved his hands up and down, diminuendo. ‘Don’t forget. Not only is there one of him and ten of us, but we are standing in the light of the divine ocean of consciousness. We understand there is no such thing as anger.’
‘He wouldn’t have been invited you know,’ said Arno when Janet still looked worried, ‘if the Master had not thought it wise.’
‘The Master is very unworldly.’
‘Gamelin doesn’t realise the challenging situation he’s coming into,’ chuckled Ken. ‘It’ll be a golden opportunity for him to change his karma. And if he’s half the man you reckon, Janet, he’ll jump at it.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Trixie, ‘is why Suhami didn’t tell us until the other day who she really is.’
‘Can’t you?’ Janet gave another unamused laugh. ‘I can.’
‘Just as well,’ continued Trixie, ‘that Chris had already started declaring his intentions. Otherwise she might think he was only after her money.’
A sudden silence greeted this intemperate remark, then Christopher, tight-mouthed, picked up the knives and forks, said ‘excuse me’ and left the room.