Angels and Men (19 page)

‘Well, I'm sorry, too.' He let her go, and she retreated nervously to another chair and sat back in it with her arms folded. He put on a serious expression and cleared his throat. ‘I'm sorry for forgetting myself and my calling.' He sounded so exactly like Rupert that she was torn between laughing and bursting into tears. ‘I'm sorry for losing my temper so appallingly. No, no' – he raised his hand to ward off a possible contradiction – ‘I'm responsible for what I do in a fit of temper. I'm sorry for laying violent hands on you, a woman (however great the provocation), and for using that kind of language under any circumstances, let alone to a woman (however great the provocation). Oh yes – and for slamming the door.'

She sat with her hands over her mouth. He'd even got Rupert's mannerisms right. ‘I think that just about covers it.'

‘Did he say all that?'

‘Did he? But you mustn't blame him, sweetie. He'll be OK when he's got a pulpit to preach from. Have you dared face him yet?'

She nodded.

‘Good. He's been impossible to live with for days. So you're all friends again?' He saw her expression. ‘You're not friends. What happened?'

‘I said I was sorry, but –' She broke off.

‘What, like this?' He scowled and snapped the word ungraciously.

‘Don't mock me!'

But he was staring past her with a bored expression on his face. Her anger flipped over suddenly into amusement. No wonder it drives them wild. He grinned at her and lit a cigarette.

‘What made you do it, then? Walk on the ice, I mean.'

What had? She thought back, and saw again the white road under the stars.

‘I don't know. Because . . . because you can't normally stand in the middle of the river. It's a different point of view.' This was clearly making no sense at all to him. She tried again. ‘Like hanging in the air, or something. Or being on a high building looking down. You see everything differently.'

He considered her words. ‘Yes. I can understand that.' He drew on his cigarette. ‘I've spent half my life messing about on scaffolding.' There was a silence. Maybe he was thinking back to when he looked down on everything, the town below him, the streets, the women passing. ‘Have you ever been hang-gliding?' he continued. She shook her head. ‘You'd enjoy it.'

She didn't quite dare say, ‘Isn't it a bit dangerous?' She tried to imagine it – swimming in the air, looking down on the landscape as though it were the sea bed. ‘I dream of it,' she said. ‘Flying. Walking on the air. It must be the best feeling in the world.'

‘Well . . . no.'

‘You've been?'

‘A couple of times. With my brother. He belongs to a club.'

‘And you don't like it?'

‘It's OK, but it's not the best feeling in the whole world.'

She pictured herself wheeling on the wind against the heavens. ‘What could be better?'

He tapped the ash from his cigarette. ‘Sex.'

She gawped, then felt a burst of impatience with him. ‘Apart from that.'

‘Sorry,' he said contritely. ‘My second favourite thing in the whole world, you mean?' He sat thinking for a moment. ‘Mmm. Still sex, I'm afraid.'

Give me a break! She blushed. ‘I think it's overrated,' she said coldly. ‘I'd rather smoke a cigarette. It's less trouble, and it generally lasts longer.'

He blew a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling and looked at her speculatively. ‘Regular or kingsize?' She bit her lips to stop herself laughing. ‘A word of advice, sweetie. I wouldn't go around saying things like that. It sounds like a challenge.'

‘I'm not stupid,' she snapped. ‘I know what men think: “Ah, well, that's because you haven't slept with me.” '

‘Exactly.'

‘And I don't
go around
saying it. I just said it to you. You're celibate.' He was looking at her in undisguised wonder. ‘You said you were!' she said in sudden alarm. Surely she hadn't imagined it!

‘Yes, yes. You know, Mara, for an intelligent woman . . . Look, it's like being a reformed alcoholic.' She looked at him blankly. ‘My name's Johnny Whitaker and I'm a womanizer. I haven't had sex for four years, three months and six days.' Why does he have to trivialize everything? He glanced at his watch. ‘And two hours, forty minutes.' He went slowly cross-eyed, as if at the memory, and slumped back in his chair. ‘Apart from once or twice,' he admitted, sitting up again. ‘But that was an accident.'

‘Surely it's just a question of willpower?' She saw another look of disbelieving wonder on his face. Well, isn't it? she thought angrily. He leant forward and put his half-smoked cigarette between her lips.

‘You go away and smoke that, Princess.' He patted her cheek and pointed to the door. ‘Out.'

She went, her face burning. His laughter followed her down the corridor. She stubbed out the cigarette in the bathroom and ran off down the stairs.

They've all gone mad. Everyone I know is acting out of character. The polecat's being nice, Rupert's being ungentlemanly, and Johnny Whitaker's started talking about sex. Unless that's what they've always been like, only I never realized. I need some fresh air.

It was still raining, but she went out of one of the back doors and on to the lawn. The air seemed mild and she walked to the terraced garden, which dropped steeply down to the river. She could see it racing far below. I shall have to go and find Maddy and May, she thought. But instead of going to their room she continued to stand watching the river. What would it be like to be part of it? To be plunged over the weirs and swept at last out to sea? Maybe I have got a death-wish. But I'm not actually trying to kill myself. I'd know what to do if I were, and this time I'd succeed. The razor blade held firmly, warm water flowing, and the blood dripping red, red, on the white enamel, then swirling away. I would have succeeded that time too, if my father hadn't happened to come back. Hammering at the bathroom door, then the wood splintering inwards as consciousness slipped.

A branch was carried dancing downstream as she watched. Maybe she had been cheating. Not fully committed to staying alive. She thought back to that moment of fierce decision: I choose to live. For many years it had been little more than a stubborn resolution to see the thing through, coupled with an intermittent curiosity to find out what would happen next. Nothing had mattered, really, but you may as well live as die. But now – it all seemed to matter so much. Suddenly she saw what she had done. Life had taught her this – that no friend can be trusted. Whenever she had loved someone, she had lost them somehow. Enemies were more reliable. Her actions had been an unacknowledged attempt to escape before she was betrayed again. Yet there was another part of her that continued to believe and trust, and was trying to undo the damage. Why else had she stepped back from the brink and apologized? She stood a moment longer in the rain, then turned and made her way to Maddy's and May's room.

They were subdued and embarrassed when she apologized. May began to make tea and Maddy seemed unable to find a single thing to say. Mara would have given anything to hear their normal ludicrous banter.

At last Maddy said: ‘Aren't you frozen? You're soaked through.' But then she appeared to be reminded of ice and drowning, and this avenue of conversation closed abruptly. Mara forced it open again, like the widow who must speak calmly about her dead husband to set her comforters at ease.

‘I know. I was standing watching the river without my coat on.'

They were completely silenced, and then Maddy offered her a sweater. To her relief they began to regain some of their animation as they opened and shut drawers and discussed the merits of various pullovers. By the time they had fixed on a pale blue lambswool sweater of Maddy's, they were practically themselves again. May handed her a towel and Mara took off her wet blouse.

‘Silk,' said Maddy accusingly, pointing to Mara's camisole. Another part of Grandma's hoard. ‘Don't you ever wear a bra, then?'

‘Do eunuchs wear jockstraps?' asked May. They were back on form.

Mara began drying herself.

‘A tattoo,' said Maddy in astonishment, pointing. ‘I suppose it's a man-eating dragon? When did you have that done?'

‘When I was eighteen.'

‘Maybe I'll get myself one,' said Maddy, peering at it. ‘A nude man on my inner thigh, or something. I'll ask Johnny Whitaker to pose for me. Does it hurt?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then maybe I won't.' She was moving away again when something else caught her eye. ‘What happened to your arms?'

Mara glanced down and saw the bruises. For a moment she could not think, then she realized. ‘It was . . . I don't know. Nothing,' she stuttered. ‘I bruise easily.'

‘It looks like hand marks,' said May, coming over to look.

‘So it does,' said Maddy. ‘Some great virile male clutched her to his pectorals in a passionate grip.'

She was safe. She knew that they both thought the idea ludicrous.

‘“I'll tame your proud beauty!” he muttered hoarsely,' began May.

‘ “Never!” she moaned breathlessly,' continued Maddy, ‘repelled and yet strangely attracted to her would-be violator.'

‘Feeling his proud manhood thrust against her, through the delicate silk dress, now roughly torn from her shoulders . . .'

Mara began to unravel her long plait and dry her hair, smiling as the story unfolded with orgiastic speed.

She reached for the sweater, but Maddy flourished it defiantly: ‘ “You may force my body, but you will never conquer my heart!” ' she bellowed. ‘Except he does, of course, in the end.' She handed over the sweater.

Mara looked at it dubiously. ‘Haven't you got anything darker?'

‘Oh!' said Maddy in plummy tones. ‘Her Royal Highness Princess Mara of Iceland would prefer something darker, would she?'

Mara snatched the sweater and pulled it on. The others stood back to survey the effect.

‘I hate you,' said Maddy. ‘It looks far better on you than it does on me. Why do you wear dark colours all the time? You look like the undertaker's daughter. I'd lend you a skirt too, only you're so thin –'

‘
Painfully
thin,' interjected May. ‘Skinny, even.'

‘– that it would fall off you.'

They had forgotten about the bruises.

Mara climbed the stairs to her room several hours later. The dining-room had seemed a different place. She sat with Maddy and May, and the faces of those around her had looked benign, not hostile. The polecat came out of his room as she was unlocking her door. His eyes swept over her.

‘Good God. Have you been having sex?'

‘Get lost.'

He drew close, reached out a hand and took one of her curls.

‘I did you a favour earlier,' he said, twining the curl in and out of his fingers. ‘At least, I think I did.' She waited to see what he would say. ‘It must be this colour. You look beautiful.' She stared. ‘I was in the college office and a girl was asking for the spare key to your door.' She stood dumbstruck by both these statements. Beautiful? What girl? ‘The porter was about to hand them over, but I intervened. She said she was your friend, and that it was all right – you'd given permission.' Joanna. ‘I may possibly have been a little unkind,' said the polecat thoughtfully. ‘At any rate, she left with a trembling lower lip.' It must have been her.

‘Long fair hair?' My voice sounds strange.

The polecat inclined his head. ‘I saw Nigel forcibly ejecting her from the dining-room the other day. At your request, he said. Anyway, there's now a little note in the porter's lodge to the effect that nobody is to be given your keys.'

She'll find a way. Thank God she wasn't waiting for me. Going through my things. Mara felt a scream welling up in her. Her attention was called back as she felt the polecat tugging gently on her hair.

‘I take it I did the right thing.' He was watching her face.

‘Yes,' she said absently. ‘Yes.' Then suddenly she thought, Beautiful? and she looked at him in astonishment. Had he really said that? All at once she felt too shy to meet his gaze. He let go of her hair, and she turned away from him and opened her door. There on the carpet lay a note. She stooped and picked it up. It must have been pushed under the door. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but a sudden dread seized her. She opened it, saw the words
message
and
the Lord
, and her hands began to tremble. The polecat stepped forward.

‘From her?' She nodded. He took the letter and tore it up. ‘Forget it. You never even saw it.' He turned to go back to his room. She called him back.

‘Andrew.' They both stood still in complete astonishment that she should have spoken his name. ‘If she comes up here, and you see her, will you get rid of her?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this the woman who can face Rupert Anderson without flinching?'

She tried to think of some sneering response, but in vain. In the end she shut the door on him to hide her mounting tears. Work. I must work. Her hands fumbled around on the desk among her books and notes. Oh, what am I going to do? What am I going to do? She opened a drawer. There lay the angel picture. She pulled it out and unfolded it. There were no men. Nothing but women and angels. She took hold of her pencil and began to draw. Men in their buildings. Men in their churches. In charge. In control. They had their feet firmly on the ground, while high over their heads went the women and the angels, walking on the wings of the wind.

CHAPTER 13

‘It's probably time you were thinking in terms of a piece of written work. Before Easter, if possible.' The tutorial was ending. ‘Let's say, about ten thousand words.'

‘OK,' said Mara. Dr Roe was beginning to elaborate when the phone rang. Mara let her mind drift away as the conversation went on. She looked across at the window. The hyacinth jar was empty now, the bloom faded and thrown away. I never did buy one of my own, she thought. Everything seemed muffled and strangely distant, as though she were viewing the world through a diver's helmet. The students in the corridors and streets might be shoals of fish, their mouths opening and shutting meaninglessly as they swam past. Dr Roe was replacing the receiver.

‘Sorry about that. Now, this piece of written work.' They spoke about Mara's studies a while longer, then fixed another tutorial.

‘Do you think it's been helping at all?' Mara looked blank. ‘You mentioned last term that one of the reasons you wanted to study this subject was . . .' Dr Roe paused, perhaps having forgotten the awkward phrase Mara had blurted out. ‘Make sense of certain things.' Had it helped?

‘Not really,' she said. She had wanted it to be like the intense study of one tiny island – flora, fauna, climate, etc. – from which she could extrapolate knowledge about the whole chaotic archipelago of religious experience. But she had made Sinbad's mistake. The island was the back of a vast slumbering sea beast, and it was waking at last, disturbed by her minute proddings and skittering feet. Leviathan.
He maketh the deep to boil like a pot. Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear
. Mara realized that Dr Roe had asked her something and she had missed it.

‘Sorry,' she said, and added wildly, ‘I was thinking about Leviathan.'

‘Ah, Hobbes. Yes, that might be an interesting angle. I'll be interested to see what you make of it.'

Damn. Now I'll have to read the bugger, she thought. ‘You asked me something, I think,' said Mara, retreating hurriedly from the treacherous sand bars of seventeenth-century philosophy.

‘Yes, I was wondering whether you're free next Friday evening.' Oh no. ‘I'm having a few friends round for supper, and wondered if you'd like to come?'

‘Next Friday?' Mara pretended to think. ‘What a shame' – she heard her mother's polite getting-out-of-invitations voice – ‘I'm afraid I can't make that.'

‘What a pity. Never mind.' The other woman smiled. ‘Another time.'

She knows. Mara rose to leave, feeling callous, yet too listless, somehow, to make amends. They said goodbye, and Mara started down the stairs.

The air outside was cold and foggy. Above the rooftops the sun was a pale disc coming and going behind the dirty clouds. It was Lent, and the whole world seemed to be locked in penance. As she walked, Mara caught herself thinking, I wish it were all over. I wish it would pass. I wish I were dead and sleeping in my grave. Ahead of her was a group of students, dawdling and talking. Their laughter echoed in the street.

‘I'm going to go and open all my Valentines, now,' said one. Of course. Valentine's Day. She'd always hated it. To those who have will more be given, she thought. People like me just have to pretend we don't care. She entered the college and went straight in to lunch without bothering to check her pigeon-hole.

She was joined at the table by Maddy and May.

‘What a tiring morning,' said Maddy. ‘I've only just this minute finished opening my Valentines. I've been saying for years now that I must hire a part-time secretary.'

‘Did you get any, Mara?' asked May.

I bet they've sent me one, thought Mara suddenly. Just like my mother used to, in case I felt jealous of Hester. ‘I haven't looked.'

‘What! Unnatural woman!' cried Maddy. ‘I'll go and check for you.' And off she went before Mara could say anything.

‘We sent dozens,' said May. Mara made no reply. ‘With sonnets and acrostics in. It took us hours.'

And I bet they're complaining about essay crises by the end of the week.

Maddy reappeared, brandishing a handful of envelopes. Mara prepared a bland expression.

‘Four!' exclaimed Maddy. ‘And a note from somebody.' She handed them over.

‘Thanks,' said Mara, putting them down and picking up her fork again.

‘Aren't you going to open them?' asked May in astonishment.

‘I'm eating my lunch.' She continued calmly with her meal while they abused and cajoled her by turns. Even the magic word ‘Princess' could not provoke her to open a single card, however. Their attack changed direction.

‘I suppose you're not coming to the college Valentine party tonight, either,' accused Maddy.

‘Right.'

‘Oh, but you must, Mara,' begged May. ‘We missed you at Rupert's Christmas party. You've got to come!'

‘I hate Sixties parties.'

‘Why?' they asked.

‘Miniskirts. It's just a male fantasy.'

‘Well, you don't have to wear one,' pointed out Maddy. ‘You could wear hotpants instead.' They amused themselves for some time with similar suggestions, and in the end Mara left in disgust.

‘You're such a prude,' was Maddy's parting shot.

It was not until she was climbing the stairs that Mara remembered. ‘And a note from somebody . . .' Oh no. She fumbled through the envelopes until she found it. It was typed. She was so convinced that it was from Joanna that for a moment she could not make sense of its contents. At last it took on some coherence.
I should be grateful if you would come and see me
. The Principal. Why? Was this just a routine chatting to postgrads, or had some rumour reached him? She looked at the note again. Four-thirty on the fourteenth. But that's today. It was such short notice that she began to fear he really had heard something. ‘Your friends are concerned about you,' the Principal might say. Well, she'd be able to fob him off. She'd lied through her teeth to any number of would-be counsellors in the past.

She climbed the last flight of stairs to her room and was feeling for her keys when she saw a bouquet of flowers propped up against her door. Red roses. Her hand flew to her mouth in alarm. They couldn't be for her! But the card bore her name. She caught them up and let herself swiftly into her room. Her heart was pounding. Who had done this? The handwriting would tell her nothing. They had been delivered by a florist. Suddenly she smiled in relief. Mother. Of course. Just the sort of thing she'd do to cheer her up. She opened the card.
For my Princess
. Oh, God. Rupert. Or Johnny. Or the polecat, even. She should have been pleased. Instead she felt like the victim of a practical joke. She stood holding them. What am I going to do? Put them in water, at least. She took them out of their cellophane. I don't even have a vase. I can't bear to ask the polecat. Maybe the field mice can lend me one? She went to see.

‘We saw the bouquet,' said the smaller of the two as she handed Mara the vase.

‘Yes,' said Mara. They smiled shyly at her, clearly hoping to be told more. ‘Thanks for this.' She gestured awkwardly with the vase, and left them disappointed.

Mara arranged the roses perfunctorily and put them on the mantelpiece. Right. Work. She turned back to her desk. The cards. She felt an urge to throw them unopened into the bin, but found that even she was not that unnatural. She tore them open one after another, and couldn't guess who had sent a single one of them. It was worse than getting no cards at all. But she put them on the mantelpiece beside the roses before opening her books.

The bells chimed four-thirty and Mara made her way down the steps to the Principal's study. She knocked and he called her in.

‘Thank you for coming,' he said. ‘I like to see my postgrads every so often.' His urbane charm struck her afresh. A bishop in the making? Yes, the episcopal aura hovered over his head like a polite mauve halo. ‘How's your research going?'

‘Very well, thank you.'

‘Now, remind me – this is a one-year MA course?' She nodded. ‘Are you intending to upgrade it to a PhD?' No, she thought with sudden violence. Never. ‘I only ask, because if you are, you need to plan ahead a little. The applications for scholarships have to be in by May the first.'

‘I'll think about it.'

‘Good. Talk it over with Dr Roe.' She nodded. There was a pause. Now he's going to ask the real questions. ‘And you're enjoying college life?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Good.' He was sitting watching her, his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingertips touching one another. A bishop's body language. ‘Good,' he repeated. She met his gaze. They were both playing their cards so close to their chests that it was impossible to tell whether they were even playing the same game.

‘You probably know that I'm your moral tutor.
Personal
tutor, as we say these days.'

‘Thank you. I'll bear it in mind.'

‘Or we could easily arrange for you to talk to someone else, if you'd prefer.'

‘No.' He continued to sit watching her over his half-praying hands. ‘Forgive me, but you seem to have been unhappy this term.'

She flushed. Impossible to deny the charge. She seized on the nearest thought: ‘My grandmother died this Christmas.' The words felt like a betrayal.

‘Ah, I'm sorry.' Would it satisfy him? ‘Were you close?' She nodded. ‘Was it sudden?'

‘Heart attack.'

‘I'm so sorry.' She had an image of Grandma lying on the sitting-room carpet, eyes staring at the ceiling. ‘Is there anything else that's troubling you? Would it help to talk?'

‘No,' she said suddenly. ‘I want to sort it out by myself.'

‘You're sure?' She was cornered, but was ready to fight for her right to be left alone. He inclined his head in deference to her choice. ‘Well, I'm sure you have friends you can talk to, in any case.'

A picture of Rupert in mid-lecture came to mind. ‘Hah. They talk to me, mostly.'

And the Principal smiled, as if Rupert had just appeared in his mind too. ‘Yes. I'm sure you have no shortage of moral tutors.'

She almost smiled back. Never before had her morals been so thoroughly tutored.

‘Well,' he said in a concluding sort of tone, ‘I mustn't keep you. You'll let me know if there's anything I can do?'

She nodded and made for the door. Her hand was on the door knob when a thought flashed through her mind. She turned.

‘There is something.' He waited. Oh, God. How can I put this without sounding petty and stupid? ‘There's the girl . . . Joanna something.' Her hand groped behind her back for the end of her plait. ‘She says she's applied to Jesus. From another college.' The Principal inclined his head. She really has! In her panic she plunged on: ‘Well, if she comes here, I'm leaving.'

There was a terrible silence. If she could have grabbed the words back and devoured them she would have done. The Principal looked at her in silence.

‘Can I ask why?' he said at last.

‘Because . . . Because I think she's dangerous. Unbalanced.' She saw a look cross his face. Know thyself, it seemed to say. In desperation she took a step towards him. ‘Please. No one believes me. She's deluded. I've met people like that before.'

There was another awful silence.

‘I haven't offered her a place yet,' he said eventually. ‘I'll certainly consider what you say.' No you won't. ‘I'm intending to interview her next week.' She'll be polite and rational, and he'll ask himself, Which of these two young women seems the most sane to me? Which would I prefer to have in my college? There's no one to speak out for me. The others think I'm horrible to her. Unless . . .

‘You could talk to Andrew,' she said.

‘Andrew Jacks?' She nodded. ‘Thank you.' He made a note. She waited miserably for him to dismiss her again. He rose.

‘Don't worry unduly,' he said, crossing the room to open the door for her. ‘I'll let you know my decision. Goodbye.'

She blundered off up the stairs again and sat down at once to work.

It was evening. The building shook with the first bars of party music. Mara sat at her desk staring fixedly at the page in front of her. She was beginning to wish she had not been so stubborn. The whole college would be there, both halls. She bent her mind forcibly back to her studies, but she had read only one paragraph when there was a knock at the door. Will they never give up?

‘What?' she snarled.

The door opened and the polecat entered in tails. She looked him over disdainfully. Well, I suppose someone must have been wearing tails in the Sixties.

‘Aren't you coming?'

‘No.'

He came over and leant against her desk. ‘Why not?'

‘I hate Sixties parties.'

‘Why, Princess?'

‘The clothes.'

He swung his leg casually back and forwards, watching her face. The music boomed three floors below.

‘I'll lend you my dinner suit.'

‘No,' she said automatically. There was a pause. Or then again . . . She began to waver, and saw a sardonic smile appear on his lips. Well, she'd never be able to work with all the noise, anyway. He vanished and returned almost at once with the suit. She took it from him and examined it.

‘Bespoke,' she said.

‘But not by me.'

‘A dead man's suit?'

She looked at him. His eyes were gleaming in amusement. She waited for him to leave so that she could change, but he seemed not to notice.
Excuse
me, she thought as he leant back against the desk again. He caught her expression, and with a look of surprise, shrugged and left. She pulled the shirt on over her camisole, and fiddled clumsily with the cuff-links. The trousers were going to need – ah, braces. She fastened them inexpertly. Tricky business being a man. She found a belt of her own and fastened it round her waist for good measure. The jacket was too broad across the shoulders. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt in the pocket for the bow-tie. Damn, she thought as she drew it out. How on earth do you –