She had passed 58 Eccleston Square several times before realising that it was the home of the Buddhist Society. And several more before she rang the bell and pushed open the shining black door. But after the first visit she came nearly every afternoon, usually spending her time in the library, reading a little but mainly just resting in the silence. At first she avoided looking at the carved rupa which reminded her of the grotesque fracas that had taken place at the Manor House. But, as her visits continued, and she began to feel increasingly at home if not at peace, this recollection occurred less often.
She started to attend the Saturday meditation class and joined a weekly discussion group which was addressed on one occasion by Thannisara, a Buddhist nun. Attracted by the Bhikkuni’s air of collected contained attention, her grace and warm regard, plus the fact that she laughed a lot, Sylvie went to stay for a few days at Amaravati - a Buddhist monastery near Great Gaddesden to which the Venerable Sister was attached.
After several such retreats she bought a small cottage nearby and gradually, in the rôle of lay helper rather than embryonic nun, began to spend a great deal of her time at Amaravati. She worked in the kitchens or the garden and on Open Days and family retreats she especially enjoyed helping to look after the children. Gradually her inner and outer life meshed more and more closely and harmoniously with that of the community, and she was content that this should be so.
Once a week she met and talked with Sister Thannisara. During these times, as if the woman’s presence gave some special dispensation, Sylvie would either stumble through pain-filled and self-accusatory recitations or lash out and blame others - anyone and everyone - for her present unhappiness. She would go over and over the same ground until gradually the words became null and void, like ashes in the mouth.
Guilt slowly seeped away and her mind, instead of feeling like a suppurating wound, each day became a little clearer, a little more purged of dead matter. She began to consider the idea of visiting her mother. But she hardly thought of Andrew Carter during this time of healing, and, by the end of the first six months, he had quite faded from her mind.
Coming to Ken and Heather, what is there to say that the reader (provided he or she owns a television set) will not already know? Perhaps only the briefest details regarding the manner of the couple’s departure will suffice. This took place the morning after Tim Riley died.
The Beavers appeared - or rather presented themselves - at breakfast, standing on the satin-smooth stone floor with heads sacrificially bent, shoulders bowed, hands pressed together as if linked by invisible chains. Calais could have been engraved upon their hearts. They said they had not been able to sleep since their surrender to cupidity and so painful was their distress that they now had no alternative but to remove themselves from the Manor House for good.
The others argued back. Forgiveness was plainly on the cards, no strings attached. Ken cried, ‘Oh! Coals of fire,’ but still would not be moved. They packed their few belongings and within the hour were gone, walking and hobbling down the gravel drive with even Ken’s plaster cast looking ashamed of itself. They did not look back.
The following weekend the News of the World (having rung up during the evening meditation on the terrace and doubled the whack of the Daily Pitch) carried part one of their exclusive story. Nothing was left out, though much was included that was fictional.
Much was made of Heather’s visits to Venus. Also, of the assistance given on her daily round of common tasks by various elohim and other spritely little scarperers. All this being presented under the heading ‘Elementally, My Dear Watson.’ Two weeks later they were invited to appear on Wogan where, no doubt, the intention was to have a little gentle fun at their expense. If so, the experiment misfired for half way through the programme Ken suddenly went into a trance, channelling Hilarion and the Crystalline Hordes with such dynamic authority that the switchboards were immediately jammed by callers wanting to book appointments. And when the first message came through from the other side (it was Cosmo Lang, late Archbishop of Canterbury, wishing to apologise for his part in suppressing the Church Report On Spiritualism And Communication), the studio went wild.
After this it was just a matter of time. Within days Ken and Heather had been taken under the wing of Baz Badaistan, second only to Malcolm McLaren in the promo business. They were soon channelling to packed houses up and down the country. These sessions were always concluded by a demonstration of healing by Heather. Smiling celestially, she would place the tips of her fingers on the forehead of the supplicants who then obligingly fell back into Ken’s arms. If they didn’t, the pressure from Heather’s fingers would increase until they did.
From the first their television audience-participation programme, The Perfect Medium, was a huge success. Ken and Heather, in jewelled and sequined kaftans, would laughingly try to beat each other’s astral points on the Karmic Klapometer whilst simultaneously clobbering Coronation Street in the ratings. Heather always finished with a casual strum and a song the latest of which, ‘Shake A Little Ether and Smile, Smile, Smile’, quickly rose to number one in the charts.
In spite of their determination to remain unencumbered by earth-anchored cogitations and material goods, the Beavers quickly accumulated so many of the latter that they were compelled to purchase a four-bedroomed penthouse on Canary Wharf to put it all in. Here a housekeeper and secretary run their lives, for Ken and Heather are both far too tied up with cosmic decrees and divinations, with business meetings and plans for a second TV series, to concern themselves with day-to-day affairs. Next year - Europe and the States.
Seventy-six Beauclerc Gardens, W11, was a tall narrow four-storey building with elaborate iron balconies rather like those to be found in New Orleans. You couldn’t miss it, for it was painted indigo and had a bright yellow sun smiling down from the roof.
It was owned by The Lodge of the Golden Windhorse, an organisation devoted to meditation and healing, and consequently regarded as pretty much run of the mill by the rest of Holland Park. The village of Compton Dando on the other hand, where the group had previously been sited, had murmured ‘Good riddance’ on the news of their departure. One or two inhabitants even going as far as to cross themselves excitedly as the removal vans went in.
The new house was divided neatly into four. Basement: two large rooms for interviewing, counselling and group workshops. Ground floor: reception, book stall and library. First floor: general treatment rooms. Top floor: private accommodation. This comprised a large and comfortable sitting room, a tiny bedroom with shower and a fitted kitchen.
Janet lived in the flat which had been specially converted and was given rent-free in exchange for twenty-five hours’ administration work per week. In fact Janet did much more than this, having discovered both a talent and a liking for the job. She ran her reception office, the beautiful highceilinged sitting room full of flowers, with flexible precision like the captain of a ship. So far she had refused all offers to bring in paid assistance. There were three telephones and a computer on her vast leather-top desk. On the wall, posters of coming events and a large calendar studded with dressmaker’s pins with coloured heads.
The thing that surprised Janet most about her new rôle was how easily she had slipped into the welcoming side of things. Meeting people, giving information, making suggestions as to various courses and methods of treatment. She was playing a part, of course. The real Janet (the old Janet) standing aside watching, often with a caustic shake of the head, would have been hopeless at it. She shook her head, too, over the silky tweed skirts and slippy, narrow jumpers and as for the haircut ... Felicity had brought that about, tactfully suggesting that perhaps corduroy bags and a wiry untamed mop might not be quite the thing for a receptionist.