The state of her mind could also be described clinically: it was, in a hundred religious textbooks. The doctors of her Faith would say to her, Disregard it, it is nothing, seasons of dryness come to us all.
But she didn't need these experts on the soul, she did not need Father McGuire, she could diagnose herself. So why then did she need a spiritual mentor at all, if she was not going to tell him, simply because she knew what he would say?
But the real question was, why would it be so easy for Father McGuire to say 'a season of dryness', but for her it was like a sentence of self-excommunication? What she had brought to her conversion was a hungry needful heart, and anger too, though she had not recognised that until recently. She could see herself, as she had been then, in Joshua, where anger burned always, forced out of him in bitter accusations and demands. Who was she ever to criticise Joshua? She had known what it was to be angry to the point she was poisoned by it, though at the time she had thought she was wanting comforting arms, Julia's. And now was she criticising Julia, because her love had not been enough to still that wanting, so that she had gone on to Father Jack? What had stilled the wanting? Work, always, and only, work. And so there she was, on a dry hillside in Africa, feeling that everything
she did or might ever do was as effective as pouring water from a (tin) cup into the dust on a hot day.
She thought: There is no person in Europe (if they have not been here and seen) who could comprehend this level of absolute need, a lack of everything, in people who had been promised everything by their rulers, and that was the point where a quiet horror seemed to seep into her. It was like the horror of AIDS, the silent secretive disease that had come from nowhere – monkeys, it was said, perhaps even the monkeys that sometimes played about in the trees here. The thief that comes in the night – that was how she thought of AIDS.
Her heart hurt her... she must tell Zebedee and Clever to tell the builders that there must be another good brick building here and she would say yes to the demands from the village for more classes.
Father McGuire heard that there would be more classes and said that she looked tired, she must look after herself.
Here was where she could have mentioned her season of dryness and even joked about it, but instead she said he must remember to take his vitamins and why was he not taking his nap? He listened to her strictures patiently, smiling, just as she listened to him.
Colin had been appealed to by Sylvia to 'do something for Africa' – he saw how he had described this to himself and mocked -himself. 'Africa!' As if he didn't know better. There was that continent down there, imaged in most people's minds by a child holding out a begging bowl. But what Sylvia had said was not Africa, but Zimlia. It was his duty to help with Zimlia. And how often had he joked that Dickens's Mrs Jellaby summed it all up, people fussing over Africa when they might be attending to local needs. Why Africa? Why not Liverpool? The Left in Europe as usual concerning itself with events elsewhere: it had identified itself with the Soviet Union and as a result had done itself in. Now there was Africa, India, China, you name it, but particularly Africa. It was his duty to do something about it. Lies – Sylvia had said. Lies were being told. Well, what's new? What did anyone expect? So Colin muttered and grumbled, a caged bear in rooms that were too small now that the baby was born, a bit drunk, but not much, because he had taken Sylvia's strictures to heart. And what made her think he was equipped to write about Africa? Or that he knew people who would care? He knew no one in that world, newspapers, journals, television; he stuck pretty close to his last, writing his books... but wait, he knew just the person, yes, he did.
During that long time when he had frequented pubs and talked to people on park benches, with the little dog, he had acquired a crony, a boon companion. The Seventies: Fred Cope was spending his young life as was de rigueur then, demonstrating, assaulting policemen, shouting slogans and generally making himself noticed but when with Colin, who despised all that, could be persuaded at least sometimes to criticise it too. Both young men knew that the other was an aspect of himself kept on a leash. After all, if his judgement had not forbidden, Colin's temperament was one to enjoy noisy confrontation. As for Fred Cope, he discovered responsibility and sobriety in the Eighties. He married. He had a house. Ten years before he had mocked Colin for living in Hamp-stead: the word was being used as a pejorative by anyone aspiring to be in tune with the times. The Hampstead socialists, the Hamp-stead novel, Hampstead as a place, these were always good for a sneer, but as soon as they could afford it, these critics bought houses in Hampstead. And so had Fred Cope. He was now the editor of a newspaper, The Monitor, and sometimes the two met for a drink.
Has there ever been a generation that has not watched, amazed – though surely by now it has to be expected? – the roustabouts and delinquents and rebels of their youth becoming mouthpieces of considered judgement? Colin telephoned Fred Cope reminding himself that the possessors of considered judgement often found it hard to remember past follies. The two met in a pub, on a Sunday, and Colin plunged in. 'I have a sister – well, a kind of sister, who is working in Zimlia, and she came to see me to say we are all talking nonsense about dear Comrade President Matthew: he's really a bit of a crook.'
'Aren't they all?' murmured Fred Cope, back in his former role of practised sceptic about any kind of authority, but added, ' Surely he is one of the good ones?'
‘I’m in a false position,’ said Colin. ' This is the voice of Colin, but they are the words of Sylvia. She came to see me. She was in a state. I think it might be worth your while to...get a second opinion.'
The editor smiled. ' The trouble is, it doesn't do to judge them by our standards. Their difficulties are immense. And it'sa completely different culture. '
‘Why doesn't it do? That's surely patronising. And haven't we had our bellies full of not judging others by our standards?'
' Yeeeees,’ said the editor. ‘I see your point. Well, I'll look into it. '
Having got over what both felt as an awkwardness, they tried to regain the glorious irresponsibility of their earlier times, when Colin's views had been such that he had scarcely dared voice them outside the safety of his home, and Fred's young life now seemed to him like a prolonged festival of licence and anarchy. But it was no good. Fred was expecting a second baby. Colin as usual was thinking only of the novel he was writing. He knew he probably ought to be doing more about Sylvia, but when has being in the middle of a novel not been the best of excuses? Besides, he always felt guilty about her and did not understand why he did. He had forgotten how much he had resented her coming to Julia's house, and how he had railed at his mother. He looked back on that time with pride now: he and Sophie, both, and anyone else who had come and gone then, might talk affectionately about what fun it had all been. But he did know he had always envied his brother's ease with Sylvia. Now he found her religion and what he saw as her neurotic need for self-sacrifice irritating. And this last visit of hers which had ended in his scooping her up to sit on his knee – what embarrassment for both of them! And yet he was fond of her, yes he was, and he had been bound to do something about Africa and he had done it.