Angels and Men (27 page)

Why was he behaving like this, though? Surely there were more mature ways of sorting out your vocation? She grinned suddenly. Says you, Mara. Her own behaviour over the past months had hardly been a pattern of maturity. There had been times when he had seemed like his old self, though. Down in the bar again on the last evening of term.

‘I could never marry a man with a weak chin,' Maddy was saying. ‘I couldn't even have an affair with one.'

‘And I couldn't marry a man with a glottal stop,' May replied.

‘That rules you out, Whitaker, I fear,' said Andrew, condescending for once to join the trivial banter. Johnny was wearing a look of guarded ignorance.

‘I
certainly
couldn't marry a man who didn't know what a glottal stop was,' said Maddy, taken in, as ever, by Johnny's expression.

‘Or an idiom,' he said with a smile. Maddy stared at him suspiciously.

‘What about you, Mara?' said Rupert, turning to her unexpectedly. She felt herself blushing slightly. ‘What kind of man couldn't you marry?'

‘A clergyman.'

As she sat in the quiet kitchen at home she felt again the nasty jar which this reply had given to the conversation. She had spoilt the flippant mood by answering seriously. It had been Andrew who had broken the silence.

‘A clergyman? Thy exquisite reason?'

‘Because I'd want my husband to be married to me, not to God and twelve thousand bloody parishioners.'

There was another jagged pause, then Johnny whistled. ‘That one came from the heart.' He laughed and the tension broke.

‘I could marry a clergyman if he was well endowed,' said Maddy. ‘In every sense of the word, of course.'

Rupert was angry. ‘I totally disagree.' Mara saw his heightened colour. ‘You can't say that. We have emerged from the dark ages, Mara, even in the Church. Any clergyman worth his salt would put his wife and family before his ministry these days.' Mara said nothing, and her silence seemed to provoke him further. ‘If I married, then my first calling would be to be a husband, not a priest.'

Rupert had followed her back to her room later. ‘I'm sorry I was so short with you back there,' he said.

‘That's OK.' He kissed her cheek.

‘I hate being at odds with you, sweetie.' Stop bossing me around then, she thought. ‘Look, let me take you out for a drink in the vacation sometime.'

‘Thanks.'

‘I'll be at my parents'. Why don't you come over?'

‘OK.'

That was how it had begun. But the casual suggestion of a visit to the pub had somehow grown into a full-blown invitation to stay at the palace. He'd almost tricked her into accepting.

She winced. No getting out of it now. What shall I wear? she wondered. What shall I take? What shall I say? And above all,
why
has he asked me? Did he take women home all the time, or were the Right Reverend and Mrs Gordon Anderson bracing themselves for a possible daughter-in-law?

It had all become so complicated. She stared down into her mug, watching the pieces of lemon rotating gently. She had always seen Rupert as someone who had got everything sewn up. He would marry some charming girl from the right background (Cordelia Chauffeured-Bentley?) and have a quiverful of children all with good strong biblical names (Hannah, Rebekah, Barnabas, Joshua). And one day he would probably be a bishop like his father. Which meant that she must be imagining his attraction to her. Rupert would never
dream
of presenting his mama with a girl who had a tattoo and used the F-word. Unless he was hoping he could mould her into a good clergy wife. Good Lord, deliver us! On the other hand, it might be her ineligibility that attracted him. She might be an outward expression of all the rebellion and violence that he repressed in himself. Perhaps this explained his unlikely friendship with Johnny.

Johnny. Johnny. The kitchen was warm, and Mara began to grow drowsy from the whisky. I'm letting my guard slip, thinking about him. But she lay back in the feeling, sunbathing in it as though she were on a hillside under an August sky. She knew the ground beneath her was as dry as tinder. One spark of passion and the whole lot would go up. And here I am playing with matches, she thought, letting her mind stray over the contours of his face as he lay in her memory under the swaying pine trees at the friary. She could hear the wind, see his dark hair, his eyelashes, trace the outline of his lips . . .

There was a sudden clatter and she jumped awake. She had knocked the mug over, spilling what was left of her drink. She stood up and found a cloth. I'll make another and take it back to bed with me. She was filling the kettle when she heard footsteps overhead. Damn. I've woken them. The steps came swiftly downstairs and her father appeared at the door, his face white.

‘What's happening? Are you all right?' His eyes looked wild. He had clearly woken suddenly and horribly.

‘Sorry. I'm getting a drink.' She put the kettle on the ring. ‘Did you think I was a burglar?' His eyes fell on the knife she had used to chop the lemon. Its blade was short and wicked.

‘I don't know what I thought.' His eyes slid away again.

A bout of coughing seized her. She fought for breath, seeing him standing helpless. He made a move as if to help her.

‘I'll be OK,' she gasped.

‘You need a doctor.'

‘Tomorrow.' The fit passed. ‘I'm going to make another drink and go back to bed.'

He nodded. She made herself pick up the knife calmly and slice some more lemon. She could feel his eyes on her. Was he forcing himself not to flinch? She added some honey and whisky to the mug. They stood waiting for the kettle to boil.

Seven years ago. Easter Sunday. They should all have been out of the house for a good hour and a half. And yet he had come back and found her. Why? She could hear his voice, his fists pounding on the bathroom door. ‘Mara. Are you all right in there? Open this door, Mara. Mara!' and the sound of the wood splintering as she slid unconscious.

The kettle boiled. She turned to the Aga, but as she did so, another bit of memory clicked into place. She seemed to be watching it in slow motion with a strange ringing sound in her ears. The door crashed open and he was staggering in, his hands reaching out. She could see the naked shock on his face. He was speaking, saying something in Welsh. She watched his mouth shaping the words. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was him bending over her. He was still in his vestments. White and gold for Easter. For resurrection.

‘Shall I do that?' he asked.

She roused herself ‘No. It's OK, thanks.' Her hand was trembling as she poured the water. ‘Would you like something, too?' He shook his head. He looked old and weary. She saw for the first time what she had done to him, and she had no words, no way of making amends. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.' She went upstairs, leaving him still standing in his dressing-gown in the empty kitchen.

The morning was mild. Mara was sitting at the kitchen table again, reading the paper. Her mother was round at the church helping with the Easter lilies. Mara pictured her amongst the Oasis and chicken-wire. No. I could never marry a clergyman. Her mother was well-liked in the parish, but how could the army of flower arrangers wield their flails of scorn with true vigour if the vicar's wife was there? This was why Mara's mother attended all the countless flower festivals, meetings, bazaars and fêtes. It also robbed people of the opportunity to observe that it was a pity Mrs Johns didn't show her face at parish events. I couldn't do it, thought Mara. As a child she could remember overhearing people grumbling about her father. ‘You-know-who wants to change the time of the Friday Mass,' one would say. ‘Does he, indeed. I hope you told him he can't.' Mara's face would burn with rage, but there was nothing she could do. If she was rude, they would use that against her father, too. ‘It's a pity he doesn't control his daughters.'

Now she heard his footsteps in the hallway. She buried herself in the crossword, embarrassed by their encounter last night. She thought he would go straight to his study and continue his sermon preparation, but he came into the kitchen.

‘I'll run you to the doctor's in a moment.' She looked up. He was taking his cassock off. ‘There's a surgery this morning.'

‘Actually, I'm feeling much better.' She saw him thinking, Nevertheless.

‘I'm heading that way, anyway,' he said.

‘Don't worry,' she replied, not looking up from the crossword. ‘I'm feeling fine this morning.' There was a pause, then the newspaper was ripped suddenly from her hands.

‘Get off your arse and into that car
now
!' he roared. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Just do as you're bloody well told for once in your life, girl!' She was too shocked to move. He reached out and jerked her to her feet.

‘You're hurting my arm!' she squeaked, but he propelled her to the front door with no more compassion than if she had been a difficult ewe on the farm. The door slammed behind them.

‘Get in the car.'

Her own anger caught up belatedly with his. ‘Don't you tell me what to do!'

But at this his temper went up another six gears. ‘Don't you answer me back like that!' For a moment she thought he was actually going to hit her. ‘No daughter of mine is going to behave as you do in my house! You hear me?' A kind of glee rushed up inside her, and she opened her mouth to yell back. He was too fast for her. ‘I've had enough of your selfish histrionics. You think no one suffers but yourself. What about your mother?'

‘Oh, that's right! Bring her into it!' But her words were flung aside.

‘How do you think she feels? How do you think I feel? What do you think it's like to have a daughter who's a cold-hearted, selfish bitch? When did you last give a thought to anyone but yourself?' His words stung like slaps in the face. She was starting to cry. ‘Now get in that car.'

‘I can't,' she shouted. ‘It's locked, you ignorant Welsh peasant!'

There was a sudden dreadful calm. His face changed. Mara whipped round to see what he was looking at. There standing in the drive were three of the flower arrangers, open-mouthed, secateurs in hand. They had come to cut some forsythia from the vicarage garden as they did every year.

‘Excuse us, ladies,' said her father, unlocking the door. Mara got into the car and they drove off in an angry shower of gravel, leaving the three women still frozen in a shocked tableau on the drive.

She sat with her arms folded across her chest, rigid with hurt and rage. Neither of them said a word. He was driving too fast. The car pulled up outside the surgery.

‘I'll wait out here,' said her father.

‘Don't bother!' She slammed the door.

The waiting-room was stuffy and she grew angrier with every dragging minute. Phrases she might have used on him came tumbling into her mind. Counter-accusations, searing insults. She stared at a rack of pamphlets in front of her.
Thrush. Everything you need to know
. She could feel angry tears welling up again. He had never, ever raised his voice at her before. And yet it all seemed so familiar. Even the ‘No Daughter of Mine' speech. Suddenly she remembered. Of course – Uncle Huw. She could see him again in the farm kitchen, tendons standing out in his neck as he roared at Dewi or Elizabeth: ‘This is my house, and by God, you'll do as I tell you!' So that was it. The legendary Johns temper. And strangely enough, she felt more her father's daughter now than she had ever done before.

‘Mara Johns,' called the receptionist. She rose and walked to the doctor's room. It was her own family GP behind the desk. Damn.

‘What can I do for you?' He peered at her through his preposterous eyebrows. If only it had been one of the other doctors.

‘I've got a cough.'

He asked her one or two brusque questions, then reached for his stethoscope. ‘I'll have a quick listen,' he said. She felt the cold metal on her back. ‘Breathe in and out slowly.' She did her best, feeling a fit of coughing threatening. ‘How long has it been like this?'

She shrugged. ‘Not long.' She began to cough. Bad timing.

He listened. ‘Hah.' He began to write a prescription. ‘I'm putting you on antibiotics. Another time don't leave it this long or you'll end up in hospital.' He fixed his wily eyes on her like a ferret peering out of a hedge. ‘We've had a request for your notes from your new practice. What are you playing at? You know your notes are in Cambridge.'

‘I must have forgotten.' She did not even bother to make it sound convincing.

‘Hah,' he said again. She put out a hand for the prescription, but he ignored her.

‘Do you need advice about contraception?'

‘What?' She gawped. ‘No, I do not.'

‘Don't get on your high horse,' he said blandly. ‘I always ask my young women patients that. You'd be surprised how many girls sit there trying to pluck up courage to ask me.'

‘Well, I wasn't. And I'm quite capable of buying my own, thanks.' She would have given anything to look as cool as she sounded.

‘Free from the Family Planning Clinic,' he said.

‘Actually, I'm not –' She felt the absurd phrase ‘sexually active' about to fall from her lips. ‘I don't actually
need
anything.' She was blushing in full glory now.

‘Well, don't go leaving it to chance, young lady.' He handed her the prescription. ‘Any idea how many pregnancies are actually planned? Less than half. Happy Easter.' She went out with her ears still burning.

Mara left the surgery and crossed the road to the chemist to collect her prescription. As she returned with the tablets, she saw her father coming out of a florist's with a large bouquet of roses. An Easter gift for her mother? She felt slightly awkward at this insight into their relationship. Still making romantic gestures after all these years? Or was it simply habit? She waited till he was safely in the car, then crossed and let herself into the passenger's side. He glanced briefly at the chemist's bag she was holding and started the car.