Dear Peter, her letter began.
Oh, the preciousness to him of those words! If there’d been no more to her message than this, he would have been satisfied. He would have read Dear Peter, Dear Peter, Dear Peter over and over, not out of vanity, but because these were words from her to him.
Dear Peter,
I’m crying with relief as I write this. Knowing that you’re alive has made me all shaky and woozy, as if I’ve been holding my breath for a month and I’ve finally let it out. Praise the Lord that He kept you safe.
What’s it like where you are? I don’t mean the room, I mean outside, the whole place in general. Please tell me, I’m desperate to know. Have you taken any pictures?
As for me, relax, I haven’t aged fifty years or even developed any wrinkles since you last saw me. Just some bags under my eyes from lack of sleep (more about that later).
Seriously, the last four weeks have been hard, not knowing if you would get there in one piece or if you were already dead and nobody told me. I kept loitering around this machine even though I knew that nothing would come through for ages yet.
Then when your message finally did come I wasn’t here to receive it. I was trapped at work. I did a morning shift which went OK and I was about to go home but by 2.45 it was clear we would be 3 staff members down — Leah and Owen phoned in sick and Susannah just didn’t turn up. No joy from the nursing agency so I was asked to stay on and do a double, which I did. Then at 11 PM, guess what? — half the night staff didn’t show up either. So I was pressured to do a triple shift! Highly illegal, but do they care?
Tony from next door popped round to feed Joshua but didn’t sound too happy when I phoned him. ‘We’ve all got problems,’ he said. All the more reason to help each other, I almost said. But he sounded stressed out. If this happens again, I may have to ask the students on the other side. I’d probably have to teach them how to use a tin opener.
Speaking of Joshua, he isn’t coping well with your absence. He wakes me up at 4 AM, miaowing in my ear and then flopping down demonstratively on your side of the bed. Then I lie awake until I have to get ready for work. Oh, the joys of being an abandoned mother.
I’ve been checking the news on my phone obsessively, in case there was a news report about you. I know that’s daft. USIC is not exactly the world’s most high-profile organisation, is it? We’d never even heard of them before they approached you. But still…
Anyway, you’re safe now — I’m so indescribably relieved. I’ve finally stopped trembling and I feel less woozy. I’ve read and re-read your two messages over and over! And yes, you’re right to assume that it’s better to write to me when your brain is scrambled than not to write at all. Perfection is not ours to achieve.
Which reminds me: please stop worrying about the last time we made love. I told you it was all right and it was (and is). The orgasm wasn’t primarily what I wanted from the experience, trust me.
Also, stop worrying about what these guys (Severin etc) think of you. It’s irrelevant. You didn’t go to Oasis to impress them. You went to Oasis to witness to souls who have never heard of Jesus. In any case these USIC guys have jobs to do and you’ll probably not see much of them.
I can’t really picture the Oasis rain from your description but green water sounds a bit alarming. The weather here has been terrible since you left. Heavy downpours every day. I wouldn’t say it’s like bead curtains, more like getting a bucket of water emptied over your head. There’s been flooding in some towns in the Midlands, cars floating down the street, etc. We’re OK except that the toilet bowl is slow to drain after a flush, ditto the plughole in the shower cubicle. Not sure what’s going on there. Too busy to get it seen to.
Life in our parish continues hectic. The situation with Mirah (?Meerah) and her husband has reached crisis point. She finally told him she’s been attending our church and he hit the roof. Or to be more precise, he hit Mirah. Many times. Her face is a swollen mess, she can barely see. She says she wants to leave him and she needs our (my) help with the legalities — housing, employment, benefits, etc. I’ve been making some preliminary phone calls (ie, a few hours so far) but mainly just providing TLC. Her prospects for independence are not good. She can barely speak English, she’s totally unskilled and to be honest I think she’s of below average intelligence. I see my role as being there for her emotionally until her face heals a bit and she goes back to her husband. In the meantime I hope our house doesn’t become the scene of an Arabic honour killing. I’m sure that would traumatise Joshua no end.
I know I sound flippant, but the bottom line is that I don’t think Meerah (?Mirah — I’ll have to get the spelling straight if I’m to be filling in application forms for Crisis Loans, etc) is ready to receive the support & strength she would get if she gave her heart to Christ. I think she’s attracted to the friendly, tolerant atmosphere of our church and the tantalising notion of being a free woman. She talks about being a Christian as if it’s a gym club membership you can sign up for.
Well, I see that it’s about 1.30 AM which is bad news for me because Joshua will no doubt wake me two and a half hours from now, and I’m not even in bed yet. I hear rain again. I love you and miss you. Don’t worry about anything. Trust in Jesus. He has made the journey with you. (I only wish I had.) Remember that Jesus is working through you even at those times when you feel you’re out of your depth.
As for our old friend Saint Paul, he might not approve of how much I wish I could curl up in bed next to you right now. But yes, let’s quote his wise advice on other matters. My darling, we both know that the effects of your travels will eventually pass and you’ll be rested and then you’ll no longer be able to sit in your cosy quarters writing epistles to me and looking out at the rain. You’ll have to open the door and start work. As Paul says, ‘Walk in wisdom toward them that are without, redeeming the time.’ And remember I’m thinking of you!
Kisses, hugs, and a headbutt from Joshua,
Beatrice
Peter read this letter eight or nine times at least before he could bear to part with it. Then he fetched his bag, the one that the Virgin check-in girl had doubted was enough for a one-way transatlantic flight, dumped it on the bed and zipped it open. It was time to get dressed for work.
Apart from his Bible, notepads, a second pair of jeans, polished black shoes, trainers, sandals, three T-shirts and three pairs of socks and underpants, the bag contained one item of apparel that had seemed uselessly exotic when he’d packed it, an item he’d figured he was about as likely to wear as a tutu or a tuxedo. The USIC interviewers had advised him that there was no particular dress code on Oasis but that if he intended to spend a significant amount of time outdoors, he might wish to invest in some Arabic-style garments. Indeed, they’d dropped strong hints that he might regret it if he didn’t. So, Beatrice had bought him a dishdasha from the local cut-price Muslim outfitters.
‘It was the plainest one I could find,’ she said, showing it to him a couple of nights before his departure. ‘They had ones with gold brocade, spangles, embroidery… ’