Blinded By The Light. Sherry Ashworth

religious and non-religious traditions who have come to understand the nature of life. We live together so we can follow our own practices. For our own good, and for the ultimate good of the world.”

      There was no answer to that.

      Fletcher questioned me further. “How do you feel about that?”

      I carried on being honest. “Well, I’m half-inclined to make fun of you and write you off as a pack of weirdos. But also a bit curious to know what you’re about.”

      I quite enjoyed talking like this. It was good not having to be polite. And Fletcher seemed unbothered by my straight talking.

      “The choice is yours. Leave this morning and never come back, if you like. Or return and find out more.” He helped himself to more bread, then looked me straight in the eyes. “We think you’d fit in.”

      I felt Bea nudge me under the table.

      “Thanks,” I said. Then Fletcher turned and spoke to someone on his left.

      “What was all that about?” I asked Bea.

      “It’s an invitation,” she said. “He thinks you have something. And we’re not a bunch of freaks. We don’t conform, but then, what’s so great about conforming when you look at the rest of the world?”

      This was true. I could feel my perceptions slowly shifting. It was a novel and not unpleasant experience. Meanwhile a niggling voice in my head reminded me of my promise to return the car to my dad before eleven. I explained to Bea that I had to go. To my pleasure, she looked a little crestfallen.

      “Here,” she said. “Take my mobile number.”

      I did, readily, and gave her mine. She chatted on, explaining that she was a kind of novice and had only been coming to Lower Fold Farm for the past six weeks. But it had changed her life. Maybe, she said, she would have the chance to tell me more one day. I said I’d love to see her again. She went with me out to where I’d left the car. Someone had tied a white ribbon around the windscreen wipers. We both laughed as I removed it, and put it in my pocket.

      The wind lifted and tossed Bea’s hair around.

      “See you, Joe,” she said.

      “Ciao.”

      We didn’t touch. I got in the car and turned the key in the ignition. Soon I was bumping down the track to the main road. And driving down to Todmorden.

      It was lucky the roads were quiet as my mind wasn’t really on my driving. I just didn’t know what to make of everyone I’d met. I wanted to write them off as a load of nutters, but something stopped me. Who was I to say what was right and normal, and what wasn’t? And think of Bea – she wasn’t bullshitting. She believed everything she said to me, and she was no airhead. Also she was gorgeous, and gorgeous people weren’t so desperate that they had to go and associate with a bunch of freaks. Kate and Nick too, they weren’t sad. In fact the people I had met at the farm were better in some way than lots of the people in my life. I thought of Kevin and some of the idiots who hang out at the Red King. It was all bloody confusing.

      Home seemed different when I got there. I managed to throw the keys to Dad so they sailed over the top of the Sunday paper he was reading and landed in his lap. He muttered his thanks. Gemma was in the sitting room watching TV, painting her nails. Mum was doing something in the kitchen. It all seemed so one-dimensional after the farm. And meaningless. Stereotypes. Doing what they were programmed to do.

      I hated Sundays, anyway. When I was at school I spent Sundays sleeping in, maybe going over to the park to kick a ball around, then putting off doing schoolwork, then doing it late at night. It was a nothing day, the blood had been sucked out of it by the fact that Monday came after. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. The working days. You get more and more tired. Then suddenly it’s Saturday and if you haven’t got anything on in the evening, you’re sunk. And you go out and have your first drink and there’s colour back in the world. And that was last year, when things seemed to be going my way. This Sunday, I lay on my bed and listened to some CDs. I got more and more depressed. I kept thinking about Bea and the farm. I wondered what they were doing up there now. I certainly wasn’t using my time any better than they could be.

      But I cheered up. I went with Dad to B&Q to get some wood and saw all the Christmas trees and decorations. That made me feel good. I always enjoyed Christmas – not for religious reasons, but the parties, the presents, the turkey, everyone letting their hair down. But today I was aware of how it was all mass-produced – forests of trees cut down to be sold at B&Q and supermarkets and garden centres, tacky tinsel and lights, cash registers ringing. To pretend for a moment that this had anything to do with religion was a joke. I tried to say something to my dad.

      “Why do you think people are so into Christmas?”

      “Yep,” he said. “Gets worse every year. Christmas comes earlier and earlier. And it’s all about the money.”

      “Is that all?”

      “Christmas isn’t a Christian festival,” he said. “It’s pagan in origin and it’s pagan now. An excuse for letting go for a while.”

      “But if it’s pagan,” I carried on, “then there must be a basic human need for a winter festival.”

      “You’d think they’d have enough assistants around at this time of year!” he said. “Christ! We’ve looked everywhere for extension sockets. And there’s never anyone you can ask.” Dad gave an exaggerated sigh. He was always on a short fuse. Mum moaned about him, said he was hell to live with and was his own worst enemy. He needed to calm down and take life as it came. She was partly right.

      Later on that evening I said to Mum, “Do you believe in God?”

      She looked as embarrassed as if I’d asked her about sex.

      “Well, I suppose I believe in something,” she said. “But it’s hard to say, really. I don’t believe in organised religion. Look at the wars it’s caused.”

      I had my mobile in my pocket in case Bea rang. Gemma mooched into the kitchen and opened every cupboard and the fridge on her personal quest – for something to eat.

      “There’s never anything in the house!” she whinged.

      “Gemma,” I said to her. “What is the purpose of your life?”

      “Sod off!” she said.

      “Language!” warned Mum.

      The Woods family. Home of the great philosophers. I thought about sending Bea a text, something non-committal, like, had a great night. I decided to do that later. I watched TV, and decided there was nothing worth watching. I said to everyone I was going to bed early and I lay on my bed, thinking.

      The White Ones. They didn’t drink or, presumably, do drugs. They wore white and lived apart. So they weren’t hippies, or Christians. They seemed normal, but clearly they weren’t. Bea talked about a book they had. They had gatherings. Fletcher invited me back. If I went back, I’d see Bea again.

      Nah, I thought. The whole setup is too weird. I’d be better off asking for extra hours at Electric Avenue, getting some cash together and travelling.

      The Traveller. That’s me.

      I smiled to myself. I wouldn’t go back. It was a cool adventure for a Saturday night, but I lived in the real world. Crappy as it was.

      My phone rang. A message. Thinking of you. Sleep well. Peace and Perfection. Bea.

      My fingers pressed out a reply. And to you. Ive been thinking of you. Lets meet.

      Her: When?

      Me: Soon. Name a day.

      Her: Come to the farm whenever.

      Me: C u there.

      Yesss! She sent me a message first. She was keen. A smile spread over my face. And then I asked myself