Read Online On the Edge A Novel by Edward St. Aubyn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward St. Aubyn
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porridge.
‘Definitely.’
‘Maybe I can skive off work,’ said Peter.
‘What?’ said Terry.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘The King’s your higher Self,’ shouted Terry, as he set off to the kitchen.
He didn’t skive off work, although he soon wished he had. Gawain, who had focalized the kitchen so beautifully the day before, had been replaced by a tall bearded American called Warren. Perhaps Gawain had lost his jousting match, thought Peter, who found himself shuttling increasingly fluently between waking and dreaming.
‘Have you been the butt of a lot of small-people jokes?’ Warren asked Xana as she came into the kitchen.
‘What?’ said Xana, amazed.
‘That’s just me,’ said Warren. ‘I like to push people’s buttons. I’ve got to be myself, right?’
Despite this warning, Peter, lulled into needless candour by the touching group attunements, mentioned his real reasons for being in Findhorn.
For the rest of the morning, Warren shouted, ‘Is this the one?’ whenever a woman passed the kitchen window. He danced with special glee when the ancient overweight postmistress came to deliver the mail.
‘Hey, Peter, this is definitely the woman of your dreams. It was her dress sense that got to you, right?’
Whenever he was near Peter he sang the old Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’.
Under Warren’s guidance the food gradually declined.
‘This is my grandmother’s secret receipt,’ he said, emptying a bottle of vinegar into a saucepan full of cabbage leaves. ‘She smuggled it out of the Ukraine in the lining of her overcoat.’
‘We want to go to the sanctuary to meditate,’ said Xana at noon, when there was a theoretical right to do this.
‘Tough shit,’ said Warren.
‘We’re going anyway,’ said Xana, undoing her apron.
‘Great,’ said Warren. ‘That’s called stating your needs.’
‘You know, Warren,’ said Xana with clipped patience, ‘when you asked me about the small-people jokes, I happened to be with my god.’
‘Did you get back to him?’ said Warren, suddenly leaning closer.
‘No, I wasn’t able to do that,’ said Xana. ‘I think we’ve all come to Findhorn to develop our personal concept of the Divine. It so happens I have been the butt of lots of small-people jokes, and I’m all right with it, but you didn’t know that. You just planted a bomb and walked away.’
‘I could see you were all right with that issue,’ said Warren, as if he’d been in control of the situation all along. ‘I make people confront their issues, it’s kind of a twisted gift I have,’ he said. ‘Think about it: what’s your god worth if he can’t survive a small-people joke?’
‘That’s what I’m going to the sanctuary to find out,’ said Xana, hanging up her apron.
Peter started to follow her.
‘Have you got an issue with me?’ asked Warren, fixing Peter in the eye.
‘Not really,’ said Peter, for whom the word ‘issue’ had, until recently, always been preceded by the word ‘bond’. ‘I mean, it was a lot more fun working yesterday,’ he recovered feebly.
‘I don’t give a shit,’ said Warren, striding back to the cauldron of sour soup he was preparing for the community. ‘I say that,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘but really I care profoundly.’
Outside Xana and Peter burst out laughing.
‘I wasn’t with my god when he asked about small-people jokes,’ Xana confessed.
‘Weren’t you?’ said Peter, slightly shocked.
‘I just thought I’d throw him for a change.’
‘Rather naughty of you,’ said Peter admiringly.
Instead of going to the sanctuary, they went for a walk and talked about how horrible Warren was.
Apart from anything else, Warren had managed to destroy the alternative way of working which Peter had glimpsed the day before. A more familiar pattern had taken over; everyone retreated into their private thoughts and watched the clock, workers
‘Definitely.’
‘Maybe I can skive off work,’ said Peter.
‘What?’ said Terry.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘The King’s your higher Self,’ shouted Terry, as he set off to the kitchen.
He didn’t skive off work, although he soon wished he had. Gawain, who had focalized the kitchen so beautifully the day before, had been replaced by a tall bearded American called Warren. Perhaps Gawain had lost his jousting match, thought Peter, who found himself shuttling increasingly fluently between waking and dreaming.
‘Have you been the butt of a lot of small-people jokes?’ Warren asked Xana as she came into the kitchen.
‘What?’ said Xana, amazed.
‘That’s just me,’ said Warren. ‘I like to push people’s buttons. I’ve got to be myself, right?’
Despite this warning, Peter, lulled into needless candour by the touching group attunements, mentioned his real reasons for being in Findhorn.
For the rest of the morning, Warren shouted, ‘Is this the one?’ whenever a woman passed the kitchen window. He danced with special glee when the ancient overweight postmistress came to deliver the mail.
‘Hey, Peter, this is definitely the woman of your dreams. It was her dress sense that got to you, right?’
Whenever he was near Peter he sang the old Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’.
Under Warren’s guidance the food gradually declined.
‘This is my grandmother’s secret receipt,’ he said, emptying a bottle of vinegar into a saucepan full of cabbage leaves. ‘She smuggled it out of the Ukraine in the lining of her overcoat.’
‘We want to go to the sanctuary to meditate,’ said Xana at noon, when there was a theoretical right to do this.
‘Tough shit,’ said Warren.
‘We’re going anyway,’ said Xana, undoing her apron.
‘Great,’ said Warren. ‘That’s called stating your needs.’
‘You know, Warren,’ said Xana with clipped patience, ‘when you asked me about the small-people jokes, I happened to be with my god.’
‘Did you get back to him?’ said Warren, suddenly leaning closer.
‘No, I wasn’t able to do that,’ said Xana. ‘I think we’ve all come to Findhorn to develop our personal concept of the Divine. It so happens I have been the butt of lots of small-people jokes, and I’m all right with it, but you didn’t know that. You just planted a bomb and walked away.’
‘I could see you were all right with that issue,’ said Warren, as if he’d been in control of the situation all along. ‘I make people confront their issues, it’s kind of a twisted gift I have,’ he said. ‘Think about it: what’s your god worth if he can’t survive a small-people joke?’
‘That’s what I’m going to the sanctuary to find out,’ said Xana, hanging up her apron.
Peter started to follow her.
‘Have you got an issue with me?’ asked Warren, fixing Peter in the eye.
‘Not really,’ said Peter, for whom the word ‘issue’ had, until recently, always been preceded by the word ‘bond’. ‘I mean, it was a lot more fun working yesterday,’ he recovered feebly.
‘I don’t give a shit,’ said Warren, striding back to the cauldron of sour soup he was preparing for the community. ‘I say that,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘but really I care profoundly.’
Outside Xana and Peter burst out laughing.
‘I wasn’t with my god when he asked about small-people jokes,’ Xana confessed.
‘Weren’t you?’ said Peter, slightly shocked.
‘I just thought I’d throw him for a change.’
‘Rather naughty of you,’ said Peter admiringly.
Instead of going to the sanctuary, they went for a walk and talked about how horrible Warren was.
Apart from anything else, Warren had managed to destroy the alternative way of working which Peter had glimpsed the day before. A more familiar pattern had taken over; everyone retreated into their private thoughts and watched the clock, workers
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