Angels and Men (41 page)

‘Why? Don't they get on?'

Dr Roe laughed. ‘You'll find out soon enough. They compete. Over everything. Sport, music, number of publications, who they know, what they've read.'

Mara bit her lips. At last. This was the ammunition Rupert had failed to supply her with. ‘At least they specialize in different fields,' she said, hoping to draw out more.

‘Ah, yes, but they spend hours reading up the other's subject so that they can be casually erudite about it.' Mara covered her smile. Did they also specialize in different sexual fields, or were they constantly competing for the same lovers? ‘But having said that, they're intensely loyal and think the world of one another. Although neither would admit it. It's all very childish.'

Dr Roe was almost at the end of the sketch-book. Mara remembered belatedly that she hadn't responded to the news of her Oxford appointment.

‘Congratulations, by the way.'

‘Oh, you'd heard.' Dr Roe coloured slightly. It was then that Mara caught sight of the ring. ‘Paul's a registrar in Oxford. Our careers seem to have meshed at last. We're getting married in August.'

Having said congratulations once by accident Mara was at a loss. She tried to think what her mother would have said.
That's wonderful!
Somehow she couldn't get the words out. Dr Roe finished looking at the sketches and handed them back. ‘Thank you. I love them. Especially the ones of Andrew.'

‘Thanks,' muttered Mara.

‘Just think,' said Dr Roe, ‘you'll be able to introduce him to everyone as your live-in model.' A hint of unexpected malice. ‘I look forward to seeing more of your work in Oxford.'

Mara gazed out of the window. This was supposed to be a farewell, but here she was tidying up loose ends and closing doors behind her only to find a new beginning. But I'm only good at break-ups and disasters, she thought. Did she dare trust herself to a new friendship?

‘Would you . . . like a picture? As a wedding present, or something?'

‘I'd love one!'

‘One of Andrew?'

There was a pause.

‘Dare I? Yes. Why not?'

Mara tore one out: Andrew sprawled on the bed, naked, drunk and beautiful. What will Paul the registrar think? Or Andrew, for that matter?

Dr Roe took the picture. ‘Thank you, Mara. I'll have it framed and hang it in my new rooms.'

Oh, God. Mara finished her coffee and stood up. ‘Um, actually, Andrew doesn't know I've given you that. He may be . . . um, well . . .' Seriously pissed off, was what sprang to mind.

Dr Roe hesitated. ‘Does that bother you?'

But then Mara thought of all the insults and humiliations she had suffered at Andrew's hands. ‘Not particularly,' she said after a long pause.

Dr Roe looked down at the picture again, then up at Mara. ‘Good.'

They both smiled slowly. Mara glimpsed what was in the other woman's mind: next time Andrew came swanning in to criticize her artistic taste, he was in for a small surprise. Yes, she thought, ‘Jane' and I could get on extremely well. She said goodbye, and left Dr Roe still smiling.

On her way back to college, she saw Rupert coming towards her. They both hesitated for a moment before continuing. He had not spoken to her since the day he had walked out of her room, but she had seen him in the distance several times looking bleak with misery. He drew close and stopped.

‘How are you, Mara?'

‘Fine. How are you?'

‘I'm fine.'

The bells chimed midday. They were both blushing and staring past one another down the street.

‘I've just been to see Dr Roe,' Mara gabbled before the silence got too firm a hold. ‘She's getting married in August.'

‘Yes,' said Rupert, picking up the baton she had fumbled and dropped. ‘Who'll be supervising you after she's gone?'

‘Actually, I'm not doing a doctorate after all. I'm leaving.' This brought his eyes swiftly to her face.

‘You are? Why?'
‘I'm going to have a baby!' blurted the anguished girl
.

‘I've decided to paint instead.'

He looked blank. ‘Paint?'

‘You know – pictures. I want to be an artist.'

‘Really? But can you paint? I mean . . . Of course, that sounds wonderful. I had no idea.' She watched him trying to dig himself back out. ‘And it's not something you could combine with doing a doctorate at all?'

‘It's not a
hobby
.'

‘Well, I'm sure you've thought it all through.'

‘Yes, I have.' There was a dangerous pause, and then she saw him back off.

‘Well, good. Are those some of your drawings? May I see?' She was too conscious of having wronged him to refuse.

‘You can if you promise not to be shocked.'

‘I
am
aware that artists use nude models, Mara,' he said irritably. She handed the sketches over and they both sat on the low wall. He opened the book, stared, then looked up at her open-mouthed.

‘You said you wouldn't be shocked.'

‘Yes, but . . .' He looked at the first picture of Andrew again. ‘I assumed you'd been to life-drawing classes, or something.'

‘Well, what's the difference?' She knew there was one, but that he wouldn't risk trying to define it.

He turned a page and adjusted his responses suitably, saying in a grown-up voice, ‘They're very well drawn.' This was the tone her mother used when describing
Lady Chatterley's Lover
as beautifully written.

‘It's the cross-hatching,' she murmured.

He shot her a suspicious look before continuing to turn the pages seriously, thoughtfully, not too fast, until at last he came to some sketches of other students (fully clothed).

‘Phew,' said Mara for him.

He laughed. ‘Shut up, you dreadful girl.' For a moment it seemed as if they were friends again. He went on turning the pages. ‘I take it back. You really can draw. These are excellent, Mara. How do you do it? Look, that's Maddy exactly. And May. And me! Good grief. When did you do that?' All was going well until he came to the sketch of Johnny stripped to the waist leaning on the sink. Rupert reddened and fell silent.

‘That was in your room, remember? When you were throwing Joanna out of his bed, or whatever it was. He'd been out running.' But her tone was too desperate.

‘I remember.' He turned the remaining pages in silence, then handed her back the book. ‘Thank you. They're very good, Mara.'

She mumbled something and wondered how she was going to get away.

‘Where are you going to live? With your parents?'

‘Actually, with Andrew,' she said, trying not to sound defiant. ‘In Oxford.'

‘Ah.' She longed to stand up and run off, but knew she owed it to him to see it through. Her feelings of guilt were hardening into resentment. ‘I had no idea you could draw, Mara.'

It sounded like a rebuke and she was stung into saying, ‘Well, there's a lot about me you don't know, isn't there?' He winced. ‘Look, I'm just not a nice person, Rupert.'

‘More sinned against than sinning,' replied Rupert. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but he went on: ‘Look, Mara, at the risk of embarrassing you, I think I'm in a position to know how . . . passionate you are, and . . . What I'm saying is, it would be easy for a man to take advantage of that. I've a pretty good idea where the blame really lies.' When she made no reply, he put a hand on her arm. It took all her willpower not to fling it off and scream, ‘You don't understand, you fool! I want him. I'd do the same again!'

‘It takes two, Rupert.'

He removed his hand. They stood up. The pain on his face made her want to hurt him even more.

‘Oxford,' he said, gathering his manners about him. ‘You'll enjoy it. Andrew's got a research fellowship, or something, hasn't he? I was a student there. I still go up now and then to see friends.' She knew she was supposed to say, ‘Oh, you must come and see us.'

‘Oh, you must come and see us.'

‘Thank you. I'd like that.'

He gave her his formal little bow and walked off. She made her way miserably back to college.

She woke, and a sudden realization jolted her out of bed. Today. Johnny gets back today. She showered and dressed and began to walk fitfully around her room. She didn't know what time he'd be back. She pictured herself having to knock at his door. Repeatedly. I'll wait till late afternoon, she decided. He's sure to be back by then. She went to her desk and fiddled desperately with her card file index. I know – I'll tidy my desk. Use the time profitably.

Almost at once she came upon the photographs her mother had sent her earlier that term. Dewi. Aunt Judith at the piano with the curate. She stared at the face under the elaborate hat. We have the same-shaped jaw. What was she like? How had she come to crash her plane on a clear, fine day when everyone knew she was such a good pilot? What am I not being told about her? Perhaps she was schizophrenic, or something. Maybe she had committed suicide. It's not supposed to be a secret.

Mara put the photograph down and picked up the one of Hester. She stared at the beautiful face for a long time. A year ago she had less than a week to live. What had been going through her mind? Had she stood staring out across Galilee towards those pink hills we loved in the children's Bible?
By blue Galilee, Jesus walked of old. By blue Galilee, wondrous things he told
. We always dreamed of going to the Holy Land together. But she went alone. She had found some new prophecy to cling on to, after the baby had died. Fed into her distraught mind by Leah. The Book of Revelation: the woman clothed with the sun and the moon under her feet. The dragon stood before her ready to devour her child when it was born, and she brought forth a man child who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron, and her child was caught up unto God. It was not really dead. And the woman had to flee from the dragon into the wilderness to a place prepared by God. And we were the dragon, thought Mara, remembering her mother's tears – her family and friends. Everyone who was opposed to the Church of the Revelation were the dragon and his angels, who fought against Michael and his angels.

Suddenly Mara saw what it must have been – post-natal psychosis. Not just another dose of wacky charismatic theology. No wonder their father had got Hester up to the psychiatric ward so fast. He would have recognized the signs. Mara had hated him for it. There was even a part of her that was glad when Hester discharged herself and headed out to the sect's hostel in Israel. But then one night Hester had gone out swimming alone in Galilee and drowned. How could that have happened? She was such a good swimmer. Yes. And Judith was such a good pilot. That's what Mara feared. Proof that both Judith and Hester committed suicide. But Hester left no note. Her sister's face smiled up at her from the photograph, captured for ever in a sunny garden. She felt herself starting to cry and picked up the photo of Dewi instead.

After a moment his face became a stranger's face. What would I think if someone handed me this, and I didn't know anything about him? I'd think he was dangerous. Unbalanced. Potentially violent. I wouldn't say, ‘Excuse me, would you mind putting that cigarette out?' if he were in a no-smoking area. Where is he now? Would I still worship him if I met him again now after all these years? She was weeping again at the thought that her feelings for Johnny were just a rerunning of her feelings for her cousin. She loved them both and now they were both gone. Even if she went to talk to Johnny it would do no good. She'd ruined everything.

After a moment she began to remember someone else's tears. Aunt Susan. Why is she crying? We are in the farm kitchen. The dog. It has to be put down. Uncle Huw says so, and gets the gun.

‘It's no good. She's in pain.' Then he turns and hands the gun to Dewi.

‘You can't!' says Aunt Susan. ‘You can't make him do it. He loves that dog, Huw!' Dewi stares, his whole face raw with disbelief. His hands shake on the gun. ‘He's only thirteen,' cries Aunt Susan.

‘He's old enough.'

There is a pause. We all stand in silence. I am crying too. Then Dewi turns blindly and goes out with the gun. He whistles and the old dog drags herself faithfully after him. Aunt Susan continues to cry and says, ‘You can't expect him to do that, Huw. What kind of a father are you?' She goes on and on, until in the distance we hear a shot. Just one.

Then Huw turns to her. ‘I will not stand by and see my son turned into a pansy by his mother.'

Mara uncovered her face and looked down at the photograph again. Why had her uncle said that? She searched her memory. Something about Dewi and another boy. Something she and Faye weren't supposed to know. She heard Faye's voice taunting, ‘Poofter, homo,' saw Dewi's violent response. But what about all those girls in the village? A desperate attempt to prove himself? The pale, dangerous eyes stared up at her. I bet the whole family knows, but won't talk about it. They drove him away. She thought about her uncle, a hard violent man who had never asked himself what he might be turning his son into.

It was nearly three-thirty and she had not been able to stand the suspense any longer. She paused in front of Johnny's door, heart thumping. She knocked. There was no answer. But before she could decide whether to leave a note, there was a sound in the corridor behind her. She turned and saw Johnny's head appear through a small window.

‘I thought I heard you,' he said. ‘Come and look at this.' What was he doing out there? Driven by curiosity, she went and climbed through the window out into the angle of the roof where he was standing. Her heart was still pattering wildly. She looked around. Nothing but steep slates, chimneys, sky. Then he swung himself up on to a higher level and reached down a hand. She slipped her shoes off and scrambled on to the hot slates and let him pull her up. They were on a flat roof. She looked out.