Dialogues of the Dead

Yes, I was always a fearful child. I needed something clearer. And finally it came. More of a shoulder charge than a gentle nudge. A shout rather than a whisper. You might say it leapt out at me! I could almost hear you laughing. I couldn 't sleep that night for thinking about it. But the more I thought, the less clear it became. By three o'clock in the morning, I'd convinced myself it was mere accident and my Great Adventure must remain empty fantasy, a video to play behind the attentive eyes and sympathetic smile as I went about my daily business. But an hour or so later as dawn's rosy fingers began to massage the black skin of night, and a little bird began to pipe outside my 'window, I started to see things differently. It could be simply my sense of unuorthiness that -was making me so hesitant. And in any case it ivasn 't me who was doing the choosing, was it? The sign, to be a true sign, should be followed by a chance which I could not refuse. Because it wouldn't be mere chance, of course, though by its very nature it was likely to be indefinite. Indeed, that was how I would recognize it. To start with at least I would be a passive actor in this Adventure, but once begun, then I would know without doubt that it was written for me. All I had to do was be ready. I rose and laved and robed myself with unusual care, like a knight readying himself for a quest, or a priestess preparing to administer her holiest mystery. Though the face may be hidden by visor or veil, yet those with skill to read will know how to interpret the blazon or the chasuble. When I was ready I went out to the car. It was still very early. The birds were carolling in full chorus and the eastern sky was mother-ofpearl flushing to pink, like a maiden's cheek in a Disney movie. It was far too early to go into town and on impulse 1 headed out to the countryside. This, I felt, was not a day to ignore impulse. Half an hour later I was wondering if I hadn't been just plain silly. The car had been giving me trouble for some time now with the engine coughing and losing power on hills. Each time it happened I promised myself I'd take it into the garage. Then it would seem all right for a while and I'd forget. This time 1 knew it was really serious when it starttd hiccoughing on a gentle down-slope, and sure enough on the next climb, which was only the tiny hump of a tiny humpback bridge, it wheezed to a halt. I got out and kicked the door shut. No we to look under the bonnet. Engines, though Latin, were Greek to me. 1 sat on the shallow parapet of the bridge and tried to recall how far back it was to a house or telephone. All I could remember was a signpost saying it was five miles to the little village of Little Bruton. It seemed peculiarly unjust somehow that a car that spent most of its time in town should break down in what was probably the least populated stretch of countryside within ten miles of the city boundary. Sod's Law, isn't that what they call it? And that's what I called it, till gradually to the noise of chirruping birdsong and bubbling water was added a new sound and along that narrow country road I saw approaching a bright yellow Automobile Association van. Now I began to wonder whether it might not after all be God's Law. I flagged him down. He was on his way to a Home Start call in Little Bruton where some poor wage-slave newly woken and with miles to go before he slept had found his motor even more reluctant to start than he was. 'Engines like a lie-in too,' said my rescuer merrily. He was a very merry fellow altogether, full of jest, a marvellous advert for the AA. When he asked if I were a member and 1 told him I'd lapsed, he grinned and said, 'Never mind. I'm a lapsed Catholic but I can always join again if things get desperate, can't I? Same for you. You are thinking of joining again, aren't you?' 'Oh yes,' I said fervently. 'You get this car started, and I might join the Church too!' And I meant it. Not about the Church maybe, but certainly the AA. Yet already, indeed from the moment I set eyes on his van, I'd been wondering if this might not be my chance to get more than just my car started. But how to be certain? I felt my agitation growing till I stilled it with the comforting thought that, though indefinite to me, the author of my Great Adventure would never let its opening page be anything but clear. The AA man was a great talker. We exchanged names. When I heard his, I repeated it slowly and he laughed and told me not to make the jokes, he'd heard them all before. But of course 1 wasn't thinking of jokes. He told me all about himself -- his collection of tropical fish -the talk he'd given about them on local radio - his work for children's charities - his plan to make money for them by doing a sponsored run in the London marathon - the marvellous holiday he'd just had in Greece - his love of the warm evenings and Mediterranean cuisine his delight in discovering a new Greek restaurant had just opened in town on his return. 'Sometimes you think there's someone up there looking after you special, don't you?' he jested. 'Or maybe in my case, down there!' I laughed and said I knew exactly what he meant. And I meant it, in both ways, the conventional idle conversational sort of way, and the deeper, life-shapingly significant sort of way. In fact I felt very strongly that I was existing on two levels. There was a surface level on which 1 was standing enjoying the morning sunshine as 1 watched his oily fingers making the expert adjustments which I hoped would get me moving again. And there was another level where I was in touch with the force behind the light, the force which burnt away all fear - a level on which time had ceased to exist, where what was happening has always happened and will always be happening, where like an author I can pause, reflect, adjust, refine, till my words say precisely what I want them to say and show no trace of my passage...