‘Spoken like a trouper,’ he said. ‘But tell me, Grainger: what do you think my job is?’ He was thinking that maybe the conversation could still be steered back into the waters of faith.
‘Keeping the Oasans happy,’ she said, ‘so they keep helping us set up this place. Or at least so they don’t get in the way.’
‘That and nothing else?’
She shrugged. ‘Making Springer’s day by taking an interest in his gross collection of knitted cushion covers.’
‘Hey, he’s a lovely guy,’ protested Peter. ‘So friendly.’
Grainger stood up to leave. ‘Of course he is, of course he is. Friendlyfriendlyfriendly. We’re all friendly, aren’t we? Pussycats, as Tuska says.’ She paused for effect, then, in a clear, serenely dismissive voice that chilled him to his souclass="underline" ‘Fucked-up pussycats. With their balls cut off.’
A few minutes later, alone and ill-at-ease, Peter resumed his letter to Bea.
As for sexual harassment, there doesn’t seem to be any of that either.
He stared at the screen for a while, trying to decide where to go from here. He felt compassion for Grainger, certainly, and wanted to help her, but he had to admit that wrestling with her troubled spirit had drained him. Strange, because in his ministry back home he was exposed to troubled spirits every day, and it never tired him at alclass="underline" indeed, he’d always be energised by the thought that this encounter he was having with an angrily defensive soul might lead to a breakthrough. It could happen anytime. You could never predict the moment when a person would finally be able to see that they’d been rejecting their own Creator, fighting against Love itself. For years they blundered and stumbled through life wearing cumbersome armour that was supposed to protect them, and then one day they saw it for the chafing, imprisoning, useless baggage it was, and cast it off, allowing Jesus to enter them. Those moments made everything worthwhile.
I’ve just spent some time with Grainger, he wrote, figuring he should share the experience with Bea while it was still fresh. Who, contrary to what you assumed in one of your messages, is a woman. She won’t let me call her by her first name, though. Nobody here does. Even the ones who are very friendly prefer to stick to surnames.
Anyway, Grainger is by far the most vulnerable person I’ve met at the USIC base. She can be in a fine mood one second and then suddenly it’s as if you’ve pressed the wrong button and she changes in a flash. Not nasty, just irritable or withdrawn. But she opened up more today than she has on previous occasions. She’s harbouring some deep, unresolved hurts, and it would take a very long time to get to the bottom of them, no doubt about that. It’s a wonder she was selected for this team, actually. She must have come across more grounded and easy-going during the interviews than she does now. Or maybe she really WAS more grounded at the time. There are times of our lives when we feel indestructible even though quite a lot of things are going wrong, and other times when everything is going well yet we feel anxious and fragile from the moment we wake up. Not even the most steadfast Christian is immune to the mysteries of equilibrium. Anyway, Grainger’s main source of grief seems to be a difficult relationship with her father, who she hasn’t seen in 25 years. I’m sure you can relate to that! In fact, I’m sure you would be the ideal person to discuss these things with her, if only you were here.
Speaking of which, I found out the real reason why you are NOT here. A few hours ago I met
In the pause while he searched his brain for Doctor Austin’s name, he recalled that he’d already written about this at the beginning of the message, before Grainger interrupted him. He deleted the redundant words, feeling more tired every second.
I’m going to say goodbye and send this letter now. It was hanging around unfinished all the time that Grainger was here and I’m ashamed that I’ve kept you waiting so long between responses. You are right to chide me for my perfectionism. I’m going to do better from now on! (Joke) Speed up my responses. Send this one flying towards you while I’m working on the next one.
Love,
Peter.
True to his word, he sent the message, then opened up another of Bea’s letters and refamiliarised himself with its contents. This time, he let go the idea that he must dutifully address each and every point she raised. She didn’t need that. What she needed was two simple things: an acknowledgement that he’d read her letter, and some sort of message from him in return. His eyes lit upon the part where she described the almost-healed wound on her hand: ‘pale and pink and a bit waxy from the swaddling, but looking good!’ Immediately he began to compose a letter of his own.
Dear Bea,
I’m so happy to hear that your hand is healing so well. I was horrified to hear you’d hurt yourself and this is a great relief. Please don’t be in a hurry to go back to work. You need to be fully well in order to take care of others. Plus there are lots of bugs lurking around in the hospital, as you know — and I’m not just referring to
He pondered for a minute or two, to recall another name that eluded him, but it wasn’t retrievable, despite the fact that he and Bea had mentioned this person every day, probably, for the last two years.
your paranoid colleague with the curly hair.
Despite making good progress here, I’m missing you and wishing you were with me. Upset that you were disqualified. For my own selfish sake, of course, but also considering the bigger picture. Whatever USIC’s criteria were, they made a big mistake. Someone like you is exactly what’s missing here. The whole set-up feels… how can I put this? Quite overwhelmingly (overweeningly?) male. I mean, there are plenty of women around, but they don’t make much difference to the prevailing atmosphere, the esprit de corps, if you like. It’s a kind of camaraderie that you associate with the armed forces or maybe a major construction project (which I suppose it is). The women don’t rock the boat, they don’t try to feminise the place, they just adjust their natures to fit in.
Maybe that’s an unfair generalisation. After all, women shouldn’t have to conform to preconceptions of femaleness I have in my head. But even so, I must admit that this base is not an environment I feel comfortable in, and I can’t help thinking that it would be hugely improved if there could be a few women like you added to the mix.
That’s not to suggest that there are lots of women like you in the world! Of course there is only one.
As for gender politics amongst the Oasans, that’s a tricky proposition. I still haven’t got to the bottom of their sexes, yet — they don’t understand my questions on that score and I don’t understand their answers! From what I’ve observed, they don’t have genitals where you’d expect. They do have children — not very frequently, I gather, but it does happen, so some of my Jesus Lovers are mothers. I wouldn’t say that the ones that are mothers behave more maternally than the ones who aren’t. They’re ALL quite nurturing and connected. In their own way. I’ve grown very fond of them. I think you would, too, if you could have shared this adventure with me.
Another thing I should say about them is that they’re very kind. Very caring. It’s not evident at first, and then it dawns on you. During our most recent gathering in the church, we were all singing, and suddenly one of the paintings fell off the ceiling (not fastened securely enough — it’s difficult when you’re not allowed to use nails, screws or other sharp objects!). The painting fell right onto Jesus Lover Five’s hand. We all got a big fright. Fortunately the painting wasn’t very heavy and Lover Five was OK — nothing broken, just a bruise. But the way the others rallied round her was extraordinary. They each took turns to embrace and stroke her with the utmost tenderness. I have never seen such an outpouring of communal love and concern. She went very shy — and she’s usually quite verbal! She’s my favourite.