Everyone responds in kind and the boathouse echoes with affection and good wishes.
Now it’s my turn.
‘I’m Kate,’ I begin, and then my well-planned monologue evaporates like rain on hot pavement. I had planned to be dignified yet warm, open yet guarded, and I have constructed an elaborate backstory so impenetrable that no one would dare ask me any personal questions. I feel all eyes on me, and a sense of awkward yet intense expectation. There is only one thing to do. ‘My marriage has very recently ended,’ I continue. ‘In fact, I left my husband only a few days ago.’
There is a gaping silence. I experience that familiar gut-clenching reaction, one that seems to make my body rebel and my brain stop functioning. I can easily handle a compound fracture or open head wound; I can dab away unselfconsciously at leaking cerebrospinal fluid; but ask me to manage emotional honesty, confrontation or conflict, and well, that’s the challenge I’ve spent most of my life avoiding. Even now, as I feel the silence harden around me, all I can think of is escape. The bulge of car keys in my back pocket presses furiously into my sacrum.
Leave quietly, no apologies.
Bag is packed and ready, always ready.
Don’t forget the diary.
Call Grace.
‘Well good for you pet!’ says Sally with a hearty chuckle, and suddenly the room erupts in riotous, supportive laughter.
I look around in wonder at the bright, smiling faces that surround me. Strangers, all of them, yet somehow new friends.
‘So,’ I fix my gaze on a small chip on the lip of my wine glass. ‘I’ve been experimenting with poetry as a way of … sort of … dealing with it, the breakdown of my marriage and all that. I have absolutely no idea if I’m any good at it and to be honest I don’t really care.’ I can feel the warmth of Caleb’s arm against mine and I am having trouble concentrating.
More silence. Now I feel embarrassed; foolish for exposing myself so openly. I look up, hoping, praying that the group’s attention is already focused elsewhere. Instead I find myself looking into a circle of smiling faces. Some part of my brain reminds me to breathe; and then it is over. I sit back and drain my glass.
Caleb speaks eloquently of his recent expulsion from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. ‘Wine, women and song,’ he explains, but I know just by looking at him that the reasons are probably far more complex and far more painful. He speaks of isolation, of being disfellowshipped by his congregation, meaning that some of his former friends and even family members won’t speak to, or even acknowledge, him. I long to touch his hand and whisper I know, but instead I simply nod and say, ‘well done,’ when he is finished.
It’s just gone ten when all the introductions and conversations are finished. Malcolm arrives to escort us back to the boarding house.
‘Breakfast is at eight,’ he says, leading us along the path, ‘and then back to the Glasshouse – that’s what we call the Ishutin Building – for a ten-a.m. start. Lunch will be at one, and then of course there’s a canoeing lesson at two.’
I feel my heart sink. I had forgotten all about the canoeing lesson. I’m going to have to find some way of getting out of it. There is absolutely no way I am getting into the water.
I am just preparing for bed when I hear a soft tapping on my door.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s only us.’ The door eases open and I can see Marie-Claire and Julia’s smiling faces, as well as the fact that they have managed to commandeer a couple of bottles of wine from the barbecue. ‘Fancy a nightcap?’
30
I wake early, surprisingly clear-headed and hangover-free. ‘Must be the adrenaline,’ I whisper to myself as I push open the bedroom window. There is a steady breeze which cools my cheeks. Brightly coloured sailboats dot the loch.
I feel a sudden tightening in my throat. Marie-Clare, Julia, Sally and I had sat in the common room until the early hours, chatting, exchanging stories, and laughing until we cried. They had also convinced me to take part in the canoeing lesson, suggesting it would be an excellent way to challenge my fear of the water. I had smiled and acquiesced, feeling as if I was part of the group and yet separate, all at once. My life of obedience, first as a Brethren, and then as a wife, has robbed me of so many opportunities: so much joy. At least I’d had Michael.
I remind myself once again that I’m not here to be happy or to make friends; I’m here for the truth, no matter the beautiful surroundings or the people I meet.
I have never felt so alone.
I shower and make my way down to breakfast, desperately relieved to see Julia and Marie-Claire beckoning me to join them. A moment later, Sally and Dave join our group, delighting us with their tales of trying to negotiate the ‘high-security’ keypad system.
‘Really,’ rants Sally. ‘Could they not think of a better passcode than 1-2-3-4?’ As she takes a seat beside me, I catch the scent of hairspray, deodorant, and Chanel Number 5, and I feel an inexplicable urge to reach out and hug her. I’ve always hated sitting alone; seminar tables, dinner parties, hotel bars, I still find negotiating the unspoken rules of who to sit next to an excruciating task. Even though I went to a C of E primary school, I was still forbidden from sitting with non-Brethren children during lunchtime. The Doctrine of Separation dictates that Brethren can only eat or drink with fellow Brethren and not outsiders. A small table was set aside for me and the few other Brethren children in the village. I remember gazing across
