He had come all this way. He wasn’t going to turn around now. He tried to rationalise it: he would go in and see what happened. He wouldn’t speak, and if he didn’t like it, he would never have to come again. There was nothing to lose.
The gates that separated the churchyard from the pavement were open, and the blue cardboard sign that had been tied to the railing fluttered in the gentle breeze. Milton reached up and took it between his thumb and forefinger: it was a blue circle with a white triangle inside it and, inside that, two white As. Milton released the sign, watched it twist in the wind, and then, swallowing down on a dry throat, he pushed the gate open and walked up the path to the door.
There was a lobby just inside. The church was built from stone, and it was cool here out of the sunshine. It reminded Milton of a crypt, but it also felt peaceful and calm. A table had been folded open and a large urn of hot water had been set up. There was a collection of dirty cups, a handful that were still clean, and a plate of biscuits. The table was unattended; the woman who Milton guessed had been responsible for the refreshments was making her way into a small hall to the right. Milton followed.
The hall wasn’t large, and had rows of stacking chairs along the stone walls. The chairs were almost all taken; Milton guessed that there were twenty-five men and women here. They were talking quietly to one another, the meeting not yet started. There was a table with two chairs behind it. There was a lit candle on the table and a poster had been blu-tacked to the front of it. The poster was made to look like a parchment scroll, with twelve separate points running from the top to the bottom. The poster was headed THE TWELVE STEPS TO RECOVERY.
Milton had hoped to take a seat at the back of the room where he could melt into the background, but he could see that that would be impossible. The chairs were arranged so that they all faced into the middle; there was nowhere that Milton could go where the others would not be able to look at him. The arrangement spooked him, and he was about to turn around and leave when he felt someone behind him.
He turned.
“Hello.”
It was the man that he had spoken to outside the meeting yesterday evening. He tried to remember his name, but couldn’t.
The man saw Milton’s confusion. “It’s Michael. We met yesterday.”
Milton definitely wanted to leave now. This was a bad mistake. He shouldn’t be here.
“You want to sit over there?”
There were two chairs together on the opposite side of the room. Milton was about to say no, to make his apologies and leave, but Michael was in the way and some of the others were looking up at them.
“Take your seats, please,” a woman in the middle of the room said. “Hello. My name is Laura, and I’m an alcoholic. Let’s get started.”
Michael put his hand on Milton’s shoulder. “Just stay and listen,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Milton flinched at the touch of the man’s hand, but he didn’t try to leave. He flashed back to the dream again, and the drink and the drugs that he had abused in an attempt to keep his memories at arm’s length, and he knew that he had to try something else. His method wasn’t working. More than that, it was making things worse; he knew that he would kill himself if he continued on the same path. He was here now. He was black, no one knew who he was, and no one needed to know. Michael was right; he would sit down and listen. What harm could come of that?
43
Milton found, to his surprise, that he enjoyed the meeting. There was a formal structure to it, with the woman who had spoken first—Michael leaned over and whispered that she was the secretary—introducing the speaker who was going to share her story with the others. The speaker was in her forties, Milton guessed, and looked like any one of the women who could be seen with their babies in expensive prams outside the coffee shops in Highbury and Islington. Milton had expected that her story would be dull and have no correlation to his own and, at least in content, he was right. She spoke about a boring life, the tedium of looking after two small children, and a career that she had abandoned for her kids but that she now missed terribly. Milton’s first conclusion was that she had nothing to offer him, but, as she spoke about why she drank, he started to see the points of similarity. She had guilt: she loved her children but didn’t feel that she was a good mother, and drank a bottle of wine every night to push that toxic thought to the back of her mind. She resented her husband for his career, his friends, and the normality that she feared that she would never see again.
Milton found himself nodding as she made her points.
Guilt.
Resentment.
Fear.
He knew them all.
The woman finished her story after half an hour and was applauded for it. The secretary opened the floor to those who wanted to share their own experiences, and Milton listened to them, too. He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket as the meeting drew to a close, but ignored it. After a moment, the buzzing stopped.
The secretary brought the proceedings to an end with housekeeping matters, and a plate was passed around for donations. Milton reached into his pocket for a crumpled ten-pound note and dropped it onto the plate with the coins and other notes as it made its way around the room.
He got up and waited for those ahead of him to filter through the door.
Michael got up with him. “How was that?” he asked.
“It was good.”
“That was your first meeting?”
There seemed little point in lying. “Yes,” Milton said.
“And?”
Milton paused.
“Did you get anything out of it?”
“I don’t know. It was peaceful. I needed that. But anything else? I don’t know. The speaker didn’t seem like she got any answers. No one offered their opinions.”
“It doesn’t work like that. Can I give you some advice?” Michael paused for a moment, but Milton could see that he was going to give it no matter what he said and so he managed a nod of assent. “We share our stories here, but it’s not a conversation. Cross-talk isn’t allowed. You share your story, you spill your guts, and everyone else just listens. You reflect on what has been said and look for the ways that their experience is like yours. And then you thank them, maybe share your own experiences, you listen some more, then you leave. That’s it.”
“But no discussion?”
“It’s a room full of drunks. Discussion can turn to argument before you know it, and arguments can lead to a fight. That’s the last thing you want in the rooms. We want serenity. Peacefulness, like you said. It’s like the best kind of meditation when it’s at its best. You’ve got to come back—the more you come, the better you’ll get at just switching off and absorbing it all.”
“Are they all like this?”
Michael shook his head. “They’re all different. The ones around here are like this: most of us are reasonably well off, professionals, decent jobs. But if you go to West Ham or Plaistow you’ll get an”—he paused, searching for the right word—“an earthier crowd. I was at a meeting over there on Friday. The guy who was sharing was straight out of prison for armed robbery. Seriously. The man next to me said he was going inside next week. It varies. You’ve just got to find one that suits you and what you need. Try a few out. You’ll get what you need eventually. One day at a time.”