The Book of Strange New Things(130)

‘I appreciate your encouragement,’ said Peter. ‘But addressing problems that need to be addressed isn’t a matter of . . . you can’t be that passive. We have responsibilities. We’ve got to try to make things better.’

Maneely slurped the last of her soy and shoved the glass to one side. ‘This is about home, right?’

‘Home?’ Peter swallowed hard.

‘When I get stressed about stuff that’s out of my control,’ Maneely counselled him, ‘I often remember an ancient poem. It’s, like, thousands of years old. It goes: Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’

‘Written by a guy called Reinhold Niebuhr,’ Peter said. ‘Except that he actually wrote “God grant”.’

‘Well, maybe, but it works just as well without.’ Her gaze was level, seeing right through his pedantry. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about home, Peter. This is home now.’

‘I’m going back soon,’ he protested.

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

He spent the next couple of hours walking outside, circling the compound. He considered walking all the way to the Oasan settlement. How long would that take him? Weeks, probably. It was a mad idea, mad. He needed to be here to receive Bea’s next message. She would be asleep now. She would be asleep for hours yet. They should be sleeping together. Being apart was wrong. Simply lying side by side did more for a relationship than words. A warm bed, a nest of animal intimacy. Words could be misunderstood, whereas loving companionship bred trust.

He returned to his quarters, worked on Bible paraphrases, and moped. Waves of hunger plagued him, interspersed with the urge to vomit. More hours passed. Finally, after having checked the Shoot in vain at least a hundred times, he was put out of his misery:

Dear Peter,

No time to write a long letter as I’m about to go to a funeral but I am still very distraught and exasperated with you. Am making a special effort however to check my spelling so that you don’t accuse me of being drunk. Actually I’d just about recovered from that one when hey presto, you suggest I become an unemployed rural housewife!

Sorry, I know sarcasm is unhelpful.

I’ll write again when I’m back from the funeral. Although I may have to spend some time with Sheila first. She’s going through hell.

I do love you, insane as you are,

Bea

At once he responded:

Dear Bea,

It lifted my spirits so much to hear (read) you say that you love me. I’ve barely been able to function all day for grief at the trouble between us. You are so much more important to me than my mission.

Although you don’t say so in so many words, it’s obvious from your message that Billy Frame committed suicide after all, despite the concern we all felt for him and your recent efforts to offer him support. I can still picture him the way he was when he was a little kid and he was beaming with pride at the wall hanging he and the other children made for us. How awful for Sheila. I can only imagine how stressed you must be by all of this. The fact that you used the word ‘Hell’ to denote something other than eternal separation from God speaks volumes.

I’m sorry you interpreted my suggestions about moving to the country as a plot to turn you into an unemployed rural housewife. I’m sure there will be jobs out there – probably even nursing jobs, less horrible ones (probably) than what you have now. Nor am I suggesting that I’ll spend all day chopping wood or growing vegetables (even though I’ve become quite a happy fieldworker out here). There may be a church that needs a pastor. But whatever work opportunities there are (or aren’t), we should leave it in the hands of the Lord.

I’m deeply sorry about the thoughtless way I have spoken about Grainger and Maneely. Yes, they are females but my role in their lives is strictly pastoral – or would be if they were open to the Lord’s grace, which they don’t seem to be. Maneely has just told me in no uncertain terms that she is not interested.

Words are my profession but I don’t always use them wisely, nor are they always the best way of getting things across. I wish I could just hold you and reassure you. I’ve let you down in the past, in worse ways than I’m doing now, and we got through it together because we love each other. That love is based on communication but it’s also based on something that’s almost impossible to describe, a sense of rightness when we’re in each other’s company, a sense we only connect with when we’re with other people who aren’t right for us. I am missing you so much, darling.

All my love,

Peter

‘What you want won’t be easy to arrange,’ Grainger told him shortly afterwards.

‘But possible?’

The simplemindedness of the question irked her. ‘Everything’s possible if you throw enough labour and resources at it.’

‘I don’t want to cause havoc for USIC,’ he said, ‘but this is very important to me.’

‘Why not just come back to base at shorter intervals? You might be in better shape if you did.’

‘It wouldn’t work. The Oasans live at their own pace. I need to be among them, share in their routines. I can’t just drop in and then get whisked away all the time. But if I had a Shoot out there . . . ’

‘ . . . we might never see you again.’