Authors: Laura Wilson
‘And her relationship with Jeremy Lloyd?’
‘There was no relationship. At least, not in the way you’re implying. That sort of thing is not allowed,’ he added, with what Stratton felt was unnecessary vehemence. ‘It acts as an impediment to progress.’
Doesn’t stop you fancying her, though, does it? thought Stratton. Somehow, he doubted that someone as obviously keen on worldly things as Tynan was would stint himself when it came to women, whatever this Mr Roth and his teachings might have to say about it. Remembering that Diana had said Tynan’s wife had died not long before, he thought, You tried your hand, didn’t you? And Miss Ananda didn’t want to know . . .
Before he could ask anything more, the butler, or whoever he was, arrived with a tray and made an elaborate and unnecessarily servile performance of pouring tea and offering milk and sugar. While this was going on, Tynan proffered an ornate box of expensive-looking cigarettes (‘The best in the world – I have them imported’) before inserting one into an amber holder for himself. As he was clearly not prepared to continue with the interview until the man had left them, Stratton took the opportunity to think up a list of questions phrased in ways he hoped wouldn’t lend themselves to more portentously vague answers.
The tea, though doubtless also the best in the world, was weak, nastily perfumed stuff, which Stratton suspected was drunk by those in the know, like Tynan, without either milk or sugar. He swallowed, managing not to grimace, and taking a pull on the fag (which actually wasn’t half bad), said, ‘Was Mr Lloyd living at the Foundation?’
‘Yes, for quite some time.’
‘Since 1947?’
‘I believe that was when he arrived.’
‘Do you know when he left?’
‘Earlier this year, I believe.’
‘And when was the last time you saw him?’
‘Sometime in the spring, I think.’ Tynan closed his eyes for a moment and did the steepling, twitchy thing with his hands again. ‘Yes, that would be right. We went for a walk together in the grounds. He was proposing to write a book about the Foundation’s work.’
‘Had he been asked to write it?’
‘I had the impression that it was his idea, but I imagine he would have sought approval for the project.’
‘Who would give the approval?’
‘The leader. Mr Roth. A man of remarkable qualities.’
‘How did he seem to you? Lloyd, I mean.’
‘He seemed . . . himself.’
Stratton was tempted to ask if Tynan meant his true self or his other one, but Tynan continued, ‘By that I mean he was as he always was: a devoted servant of the cause. He wasn’t doing it for his own fulfilment, but to educate, to enlighten, for the greater good. To make a difference . . . to bring about change, understanding . . . You see,’ he added, after a pause, ‘the servant is the master. The performance of service is an important part of the teaching. It is given . . . it flows from the higher to the lower.’ Then, seeing Stratton’s puzzled expression, he said, ‘I could,
perhaps, have expressed that more elegantly,’ and gave him a piercing look which indicated that, even so, it was a bloody sight more elegant than anything Stratton could have managed.
‘Did he tell you that he was planning to leave?’
‘No. I don’t think he
was
planning to, not then.’
‘So something, or someone, must have made him change his mind later on?’
‘He would have received instruction.’
‘From the leader?’
‘Yes. Mr Roth understands the true nature of all the individuals who have placed themselves under his discipline.’ Here, Tynan opened both arms wide to demonstrate an infinity of care. The grand gesture was somewhat marred by the fact that, as he did so, a finger of untapped ash dropped off, scattering itself across the desk. Pretending he hadn’t noticed, Stratton said, ‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Mr Roth came to England as a refugee, just after the war. He’d been in a concentration camp, and was very lucky to be alive. He’d spent his youth studying under the great masters in Tibet, and was determined to bring the knowledge to Europe. He used to hold evening classes in London, which is where I met him. It was shortly after my mother died. She was over ninety years old and I suppose I must have thought, in my arrogance,’ he let out a quick bark of laughter, ‘that she would go on living for as long as I wanted. She was always a very healthy, very robust woman, but one day . . .’ Tynan shook his head. ‘I experienced the most terrible grief. I hardly knew what to do with myself. I couldn’t bear the thought that I would feel like this for the rest of my life.
‘I would spend hours walking on Hampstead Heath, on my own. At one point I found myself by one of the ponds, watching the children with their toy boats. And then, suddenly, it came to me that, although one is entirely alone, one is also connected to everything in the universe. I felt as though I was a part of the
children, the ducks, the trees and everything around me – all one and the same. Not just the same matter, but the same spirit in all of us.’ As Tynan broke off to puff on his cigarette, Stratton wondered how many times he’d told this particular story. A fair few, he thought. Oddly, it seemed less a memory than something to be recited by heart, even though it was coming out with exactly the right degree of spontaneity.
‘My misery was replaced by a sensation of peace, of oneness, that I remembered long after it had left me. I was desperate to reconnect with it, because it seemed to me that it contained the very essence of life – that everything else was just a sham. When I came upon one of Mr Roth’s advertisements in the paper I wondered if he might be able to provide the answer, so I went along to the meeting, and listened, and asked questions. Mr Roth was able to explain to me that I was attached not to my mother, but to the
notion
of loving her – and unless I accepted that this was only an idea in the mind, I would never be able to free myself from it, to progress. As he was speaking, I knew that here was a man who understood me in a way that nobody ever had before.’ Tynan stopped, shaking his head in wonder.
Stratton had no idea what sort of response was expected – hysterical shouts of ‘Alleluia!’ perhaps, or a standing ovation – but settled for ‘I see.’
‘Do you think,’ he asked, ‘that Lloyd had experienced something similar on meeting Mr Roth?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Tynan. ‘Mr Roth has changed the lives of many people. Those who are
receptive
will find a true meeting of minds, and that is how the work of self-realisation begins.’ His face as he said this suggested that Stratton was unlikely to realise himself, or, come to that, anything else.
‘Well.’ Stratton pushed back his chair. ‘Your Mr Roth sounds quite something. I think I’d better have a word with him.’
As Adlard drove him the short distance to Lincott Rectory, Stratton reflected that what Mr Roth sounded most like was a thumping great confidence trickster, getting Tynan to buy him a house and set him up like that. There had to be a bit more to it than mere trickery, though: Tynan, whatever else he may be, clearly wasn’t stupid, and, judging from the tosh he wrote in the papers, he considered himself to be pretty hot at spotting wicked, mind-controlling cults and things. Equally clearly, he wasn’t that keen on talking to anyone he couldn’t patronise, and Roth had obviously made a huge impression on him. An individual, or a way of thinking, seeming to provide all the answers – he could see the attraction of it, all right. And so could thousands of others; one look at Billy Graham confirmed that.
If Lloyd had moved into this Foundation place in 1947 or ’48 and only left in the spring, then he’d lived there for seven or eight years, which was quite a chunk of anyone’s life, and he’d known Mary/Ananda for almost the same length of time. Add to that the possibility of a manuscript – which, if it existed, was definitely missing – about the work of the Foundation . . . This Stratton felt, definitely constituted some progress, even if it did mean listening to people talking in riddles.
The driveway to Lincott Rectory was shorter than Tynan’s and flanked by bare-branched trees that Stratton thought were mostly horse chestnuts like the one in the photograph. Adlard slowed the car to a crawl and began staring unashamedly around him. Although it was chilly, there were plenty of people in the grounds. A solitary man was looking at the trees in open-mouthed wonderment, as if it had only just occurred to him that there were different sorts, and several groups of both sexes were standing about in a way that made Stratton think of unsuccessful players in a game of musical chairs. As the car drew nearer, he noticed that their eyes were closed. Further off, across the grass, another group was engaged in chopping wood and ferrying it away in wheelbarrows. Seen from a distance, under a sky which, during the time Stratton had spent with Tynan, had turned an ominous metallic shade, the house, with its rambling outline, irregular roofs and tower had a haunted, sinister look, but as the car pulled up outside the front porch, he could see that it was spick and span and nothing like the Victorian wreck he remembered from newspaper photographs. A loud bellow of ‘Stop!’ from somewhere behind them made both men jump. Assuming it must be directed at them, Stratton looked round and, to his astonishment, saw that the wood-choppers were frozen in mid-action, two with axes raised high above their heads, others stooped in the act of gathering logs from the piles on the ground. As the seconds became a full minute, and then two minutes, and they continued to hold their positions, it dawned on Stratton that this must be one of the exercises mentioned by Tynan, although what it was supposed to achieve – besides aching arms and a sore back – he couldn’t imagine. Then there was another shout, and they all carried on as if nothing had happened.
Before Stratton had a chance to press the bell, the door was opened by a diminutive middle-aged lady, clad in immaculate
tweeds, with the small plain face and flattened hair of a peg-top doll. Beaming, she said, ‘How may I help you?’ in a well-modulated sing-song which reminded him of the woman who did the
Muffin the Mule
television programme. When Stratton introduced himself and said that he’d like to speak to Mr Roth, she introduced herself as Miss Kirkland, explained that Mr Roth was speaking to some students, but that she would let him know when the session ended in ten minutes’ time and asked if he would like a cup of tea while he waited.
Stratton, hoping that it would be the normal sort and not the strange stuff he’d been given at Tynan’s, assented, and, having led him into an anteroom, she trotted off, leaving him alone. The room was sparsely furnished – chairs pushed against the walls as in a waiting room, a rug and a small table – but spotlessly clean, with a burnished parquet floor. Despite what Tynan had said about Eastern philosophies and what not, there wasn’t anything unusual in evidence. In fact, the only ornaments were two framed texts on the walls, very like the one he’d seen in Jeremy Lloyd’s room. One read,
When a machine knows itself, it is then no longer a machine
, and the other,
For a man to become conscious, a big stick is necessary
, and both were ascribed to someone called G.I. Gurdjieff. Stratton decided that G.I. Gurdjieff, whoever he might be, was a bully and, by the looks of it, probably a sadist as well. And, seeing that being thumped with a big stick was more likely to result in
un
consciousness than the reverse, he clearly wasn’t too clued up about cause and effect either. Then again, it probably wasn’t meant to be literal; the ‘machine’ quotation obviously wasn’t. But surely some things in life – digging the allotment, having a shit and so forth – had to be done mechanically, didn’t they? Not that those things weren’t enjoyable, of course, but if you stopped to question or examine every action, it would take you a bloody long time to get anything done at all.
Miss Kirkland reappeared with a tray of tea and, as she poured it for him, Stratton noted the delicately embroidered cloth, fine bone china and the almost reverent precision of her movements. He expected her to leave when she’d given him the cup, but instead she took a seat beside him and perched in silence, bolt upright and utterly unmoving, as if in church. It made Stratton feel self-conscious enough to return his cup, half-drunk, to the tray – a pity, because this tea was pretty good – and, more for something to say than anything else, bring up the subject of the big stick. ‘Bit dangerous, that, I should have thought.’ This comment was rewarded with a smile of impenetrable sweetness which he took to mean that she was possessed of higher knowledge about the matter but wasn’t prepared to argue. After a few more minutes’ silence, during which Stratton tried to imagine what it would take to shake her out of her complacent repose and concluded that nothing, up to and including bawling obscenities and getting his cock out, would do the trick, Miss Kirkland glanced at her wristwatch and said, ‘Please follow me.’
The rest of the house, though less grandiose in terms of size and proportion than Tynan’s place, was pretty impressive, and looked to be just as scrubbed and polished as the anteroom. Stratton stared in wonder at the wooden panels in the hall and on the staircase, which seemed, even in the thin winter sunlight, to glow like fire. ‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Miss Kirkland. ‘When we came here, it was covered in layers and layers of ancient varnish. We had to scrub it off with wire wool . . . But,’ she continued, looking so joyful that Stratton thought she might burst into song, ‘that is why we are here. To strip away the layers and reveal the truth.’
Never mind bell, book and candle, thought Stratton, no ghost would stand a chance against this lot. The house did have an odd atmosphere, though. The two sets of doors they’d passed through to arrive at the hall were, he thought, a bit like the decompression
chambers of a submarine, with any sounds from outside banished or muffled. There were obviously plenty of people about – he could see several well-dressed women crossing the wide landing, some with trays and others with things like buckets and scrubbing brushes, their steps careful, apparently making a supreme effort not to interrupt or distract someone or something. He couldn’t hear a single human voice and, despite the wooden floors, barely the sound of a footfall. A monastery must be like this, he thought, hushed and reverential, but that would seem right in a religious context – here, it was eerie, as disconcerting as if he’d put a seashell to his ear and heard nothing at all.