Angels and Men (14 page)

‘Mara's just discovered the disgraceful circumstances of our marriage.'

‘Has she, indeed?' His tone was cold, but Mara glanced at him in time to see a smile flash and vanish. In her mind she saw the wedding again – rows of dour Johns faces on one side, and the gracious smiles of the Flowers family on the other.

‘Was it terrible?' she asked.

‘I think we rather enjoyed it,' replied her mother.

‘The
wedding
, I meant.'

‘So did I.'

Her father appeared unconcerned. He had wandered to the table and was looking at the two photographs. In Mara's eyes they, too, had become tainted with the embarrassment of the moment. If only she could whisk them away. Her father pointed at one of them.

‘That's the Anderson boy. You know, Jean and Gordon Anderson's son,' said her mother. ‘The other one's called Johnny Whitaker. They're both training at Coverdale.' She never forgot a name. When she got to heaven she would be able to introduce the entire glorious company of the elect to one another without turning a hair. You must meet Basil the Great. Basil, darling, do you know C.S. Lewis? Clive, this is Basil.

Mara watched her father pick up the other photograph. Her whole body tensed. Why do I still care so much for his approval? She tried to appear nonchalant. At last he looked up.

‘Are his intentions honourable?'

‘He's celibate.'

Their gaze met for a second; two pairs of ice-grey eyes glancing off one another like steel blades. Mara looked at her mother, who was studying the picture of Rupert with renewed interest.

‘Celibate, is he?' said her father, putting down the photograph. He had a Marines-telling expression on his face.

Mara flushed with anger. He thinks I'm a little innocent.

‘Shall we open a bottle of something?' asked her mother.

‘Not for me,' said her father, snuffing out the celebratory impulse.

They remained in silence like actors on a stage who had forgotten their exit lines. Then Mara rose abruptly, unable to bear it for another minute. Her father reached out and picked up the picture of her and Rupert. She stopped.

‘I'd like to keep this. If I may.' He sounded like a police detective appropriating a piece of evidence to use against her.

‘What for?'

He laid it down again. ‘Not if you want it.'

She pushed it towards him. ‘Have it.'

For a moment it looked as if this would become a battle: shoving the thing backwards and forwards. Then he picked it up again.

‘Thank you.' He left the kitchen, and a moment later she heard the study door close. The other photograph lay on the table.

‘It's like all those ancient family portraits,' said her mother. ‘It really ought to go in a heavy silver frame, of course.'

Mara held up the silver glass ball before hanging it on the tree. She saw her face swimming in it, and the room behind her. I might be trapped in it for a thousand years like a ghost in a bottle. I look like someone else. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and she was wearing a red dress. She fixed the ball on a branch, dislodging a sprinkling of pine needles. The ball bobbed and came to rest. Mara smoothed her dress. It was from Grandma's attic hoard. Maybe Aunt Judith had worn it one Christmas, looking at her reflection in silver spoons and candlesticks. I think I like it, she thought. When did I last wear bright colours?

Her mother was thrilled. ‘It looks
wonderful
. That colour, like those beautiful dark peonies – perfect for your complexion. But you must wear your hair down with that shawl collar.'

Her face stared at her now from a green ball. She remembered how she and Hester used to make goldfish faces in it. A record of Christmas carols was playing as it had always done. ‘
In the bleak midwinter, long ago . . .
'. The decorations were as old as she was. She lifted them one by one from their paper nests and arranged them on the branches. Christmas, Christmas, whispered the paper and the faint sound of pine needles dropping. ‘
Noël, noël
,' sang the choir. Spices drifted in from the kitchen – mulled wine and mince pies for the callers at the vicarage.

The fire snapped on the hearth, and Mara turned to look at it. It flickered and spat again. The log basket was nearly empty. It had become the focus of a family waiting game. Who was going to chop the wood? Mara's mother was waiting for some nice strong parishioner to call in so she could enlist his help because the vicar had a bad back. Her father was waiting for her mother to pop out on some errand, so that he could chop it himself. And Mara, who was quite capable of chopping wood, was waiting till they were both busy so that she could sneak out like the son they never had to the wood pile. ‘
Peace on earth and mercy mild . . .
'

The doorbell rang and Mara's father emerged swiftly from his study to intercept any potential choppers. Mara continued to decorate the tree. There was a conversation in the hallway as she stood with a red ball contemplating the gaps. Hester should be here to tell me where it should go. She shut the thought out and leant forward to fasten the bauble on the nearest branch.

‘A visitor for you.' Mara continued to look at the tree, not realizing her father was addressing her. There was a laugh. She whirled round.

‘Johnny!' Joy to the world! ‘What are you doing here?' He was walking towards her, and she, not knowing what she was doing, went to meet him, smiling as though he had come back from the dead.

‘I happened to be passing.' He kissed her cheek.

‘Passing?' No one passes this village.

‘On my way north from Rupert's party.' Don't go getting ideas. You're nobody special, said his expression. Her joy was doused like a light. She stood turning the glass ball round and round in her fingers. Her face burnt, and suddenly she became aware of her father again. An exchange of glances like sniper fire had gone between him and Johnny, which she had all but missed.

‘How are you, flower?'

‘All right.' She made an awkward gesture. ‘I was just doing the tree.'

‘Carry on.' He went over to the hearth where her father was standing – stiffly because of his back – and leant against the mantelpiece. Mara hung the ball on the tree. It was the last one. Only the star now. She reached to fasten it on the top then stepped back to admire her work.

‘Beautiful,' said her father a little austerely.

‘Yes,' agreed Johnny. Mara turned and smiled at him. ‘I could stand here all evening watching, in fact.' She eyed him suspiciously and he laughed. Even her father's lips twitched. But at this point her mother entered the room.

‘Hello, do we have a visitor?' Her eyes lit up with recognition. ‘It's Johnny, isn't it?'

Johnny smiled as they shook hands. My God, he's flirting with my mother. And she's flirting back.
We won't go until we've got some, so bring some out here!
Mara turned back to the tree in amazement and began to fiddle with the decorations, listening as her mother began some expert delving. You've been visiting Rupert? How are the Andersons? And you're on your way home now? Where's home? You're spending Christmas with your family? Mara listened as her mother extracted more information from him in two minutes than she had gained in a term. And what were you doing before you went to Coverdale? The family firm? Building contractors? That'll be useful if the church roof falls in. Mara gazed at her reflection in a blue bauble. I'm trapped in a tiny glass world as a punishment.

‘I hope you can stay for the inevitable mince pie,' her mother was saying as she went to put the kettle on. He already seemed more her mother's friend than her own. Mara, this is Johnny. He used to work for the family building firm before he started at Coverdale. And suddenly Mara remembered the buttresses. No wonder he knew about the outward pressure of the vaults. Allinson, Whitaker & Sons. I wonder? She turned to look at him. Before she could find anything to say, her mother reappeared.

‘Can I ask you a huge favour?' Of course she could. ‘We're in need of a strong man to wield an axe – Morgan's hurt his back and we're out of wood. Could you?' Of course he could. She's annexing him to her kingdom.

In a burst of anger Mara said, ‘It's all right – I'll do it later.'

‘You won't,' said her father. Out came the family knives.

But Johnny was picking up the log basket and asking, ‘Where's the wood, then?'

‘Mara will show you,' answered her mother. Tra-la! a man to chop the wood. A fine young man. Mara marched out, her face like a clenched fist.

‘There's the wood, and there's the axe,' she snapped into the freezing night.

Johnny picked up a log. ‘What are you so mad about?'

‘I can chop wood, you know.'

‘So what?' He was eyeing the spot where the blade would strike. He raised the axe. ‘Maybe he doesn't want his daughter chopping wood for him.' The blow fell, splitting the log cleanly.

Mara watched the two pieces fall into the snow. She could have cried. He doesn't want me at all. I'd be hacking away with a blunt axe with the tears rolling down my cheeks, and he'd just turn away and close the study door. Johnny threw the pieces into the basket. The axe fell again. You're so bloody good at it, she thought bitterly.

‘I wouldn't,' he said.

‘Wouldn't what?'

‘Want you chopping wood for me.' He balanced a log. ‘Know why?' Down came the blade.

‘Because you're a patronizing northern male bastard.' She listened in wonder to her voice.

Johnny lowered the axe slowly and took a step towards her. ‘What did you say?'

She stared unflinching, and saw the fishwife raise her pint and salute her. Why have I never done that to him before?

Suddenly he laughed. ‘I thought I'd been getting off lightly all these weeks.' He began chopping again.

Mara watched as the chips flew and the basket filled up. What a masterful display you're missing, Mother.

He glanced up and saw her watching. ‘Like a turn?'

‘No, thank you.' He knew she had been impressed.

‘The dismembered body of a man in his twenties was found on Christmas Eve in a vicarage garden,' she imagined the news saying. ‘He was the victim of a frenzied attack. A young woman is helping police with their inquiries.'

He finished work, and they stood looking at each other, till at last he shook his head as though he had warned her a thousand times, and she simply wouldn't be told. How quiet the village was. I used to imagine Bethlehem was like this, she thought.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by
. I could stand here till the Second Coming looking at him. Think of something to say. Quickly.

‘Is it your family firm that's working on the cathedral?'

He grinned. ‘That's the Allinsons. They're the masons. The class. We're just common brickies. Partners since the Thirties when my grandfather got up Hilda Allinson's skirt.'

‘Was she your grandmother?'

‘No. She was the wife of old George Allinson, esquire, of Allinson Grange. A respectable married lady. Until young William Whitaker came along with his eye to the main chance. Not quite so respectable after that, or so I've been told. Did wonders for the family business.'

‘What did old George say?'

‘Nothing. Hilda had him wrapped round her little finger.'

A costume drama unreeled in Mara's head: thirties drawing-room, rough hands climbing silk stockings, gasps and grunts among the antimacassars. A flash young brickie with Johnny's face. She felt herself starting to blush and groped around for something to say.

‘Why wouldn't you want me chopping wood?'

‘Why?' he smiled as he picked up the log basket. They began to walk back towards the house. ‘Because you're a stroppy stuck-up Welsh bitch.' And you'll never know what I was going to say, said the expression on his face as they walked into the kitchen.

They sat drinking tea with the fire crackling happily. Mara's mother handed round the mince pies. Does anyone actually like the things? Mara wondered. So much pastry, so little fruit. A parable of life. The angel of the Lord stands by to make sure we don't just lift the lid, eat the fruit and discard the case. Or raid the mincemeat jar with a spoon. We must all wade through our predestined quota of pastry.

‘How do you find Coverdale Hall?'

Mara froze. Her father was taking over the job of delving. She looked across at her mother as Johnny made some noncommittal reply.

‘Did you fit in well?'

‘No,' said Johnny cheerfully.

‘I imagine yours is the only regional accent in the place.'

‘There's one Scot, and a Londoner.'

‘And are you mocked?'

‘Am I?'

They both laughed and Mara realized that they were comparing experiences. She heard Dr Mowbray's voice again: ‘
Morgan-baiting was something of a college sport
.'

‘It's the informal side of the training,' Johnny said. ‘Knocking the working-class edges off me.'

‘You'll let that happen?'

‘Not while I've breath in my body. Mind you, I've had to learn a new language. They couldn't understand me when I arrived at Coverdale.'

‘And now they can't understand you back home,' said Mara's father.

Johnny laughed. ‘ “By, listen to our John. He's gone posh.” '

‘But it's a middle-class profession. You can't escape that.'

‘I know. It's a disaster,' replied Johnny. ‘I mean, you walk into church and someone puts a one-thousand-page service book into your hand. The person up the front has an educated southern accent. What kind of message does that give off? I'll tell you what kind: “Unless you're a middle-class professional, forget it. It's not your church.” '