Angels and Men (45 page)

‘Because I'm going to Oxford,' she repeated stubbornly. ‘I'm sharing a flat with Andrew.'

‘Hah. So that's his game.'

‘Game?' Her voice rose aggressively. ‘Listen, I like him.'

‘Forget Andrew for a minute. Just tell me again what's confusing you?'

‘It's just . . . I don't know. The distance, and everything. It would all just be too
complicated
.' Why am I saying this? I don't mean it.

‘Well, you'll come back and visit, won't you?'

‘I doubt it. It's usually a mistake.'

He seemed completely dumbfounded. She looked away, unable to bear his expression.

He stood up abruptly. ‘Well, fuck this.' He set off the way they had come. She hurried after him.

‘Listen, I didn't mean –'

‘Don't worry. I've got the message, Mara.'

She tried to keep pace with him, but she was still too drained after her migraine and began to fall behind. After a moment he relented and waited for her. Oh, what have I done? What would he have said if I'd kept quiet? She kept opening her mouth to explain, then finding no words. Tears started to brim over. They reached the college steps and she turned to face him.

‘Johnny –'

‘It's OK, Mara. It's your choice. Just so long as you've worked out what that bastard Jacks is playing at.'

‘He's trying to help me,' she cried. ‘He's being
kind
, for once.'

‘Bullshit, Mara.'

‘You don't know how much it means to me. The chance to paint, I mean.'

‘Try explaining it some time, then. I'm not a bloody mindreader.' She bit her lip. When she said nothing, he shrugged. ‘Well, sorry I
confused
you, Princess.' He lingered, but she still couldn't make herself speak. A group of students came out of the door and pushed past them. He turned and left. She watched him walk off down the street. ‘Why can't you see I love you?' she wanted to scream. Instead she pushed open the heavy door and went up to her room.

She sat in the dark and wept. What am I supposed to do? I can't stay here just to be near him. It would be too pathetic for words. What if she'd got it all wrong again? Maybe Andrew was trying to scotch the chance of a relationship between her and Johnny? Oh,
what
chance for God's sake? Johnny had never once told her he cared for her. I'm not a mindreader, either! she thought. She tried to think of Oxford, her golden city, her new beginning, and found it was becoming just some tedious library-ridden town two hundred and fifty miles too far south.

CHAPTER 26

Exams drew to a close. Whenever Mara went out, she seemed to see students emerging from their last Finals papers to be met by friends and sprayed with champagne. It was like watching the same clip of film over and over again. She had seen it all before at Cambridge.

The glorious weather persisted till the very last paper, then it broke in a spectacular storm. Thunder cracked like gunshots, splitting the sky and rattling the City like a toy drum. Streets turned to rivers, flights of steps to boiling waterfalls. Mara had gone out after lunch in summer clothes and was drenched a few hours later. She crossed the footbridge carrying her shoes and waded up the river that had once been a steep lane. Half a dozen students were dancing in the rain in their underpants outside Jesus College and brandishing bars of soap. Idiots, she thought with a smile as she went past.

How was she going to work in this? Thunder ripped across the City. The power failed the instant she switched on her light, and she got out of her wet clothes in the eerie half-light and wrapped a towel round herself. The storm crashed on overhead now, no breathing space between flash and thunder. Oh, God, if only Johnny were here. On the floor. Wet skin, pounding rain, wild light at the window. And Johnny on top of her, hard and desperate . . . A knock! She flew to the door, but it was one of the field mice.

‘Nigel says college dinner is cancelled tonight. The kitchens are flooded. Sorry to disturb you, only he asked us to let people know . . .'

‘Oh. Thanks.' The girl retreated, smiling uncertainly. Mara shut the door and stood a moment without moving, then ripped the towel off and began drying herself viciously. Fool. He won't be back for more. Not after the way you've treated him. She pulled on more clothes and tried to work in the gloom.

The rain fell day after day. Mara went back and forth to the libraries checking footnotes and references, blocking out all thoughts of Johnny. She saw him now and then, and he treated her with an amused indifference which cut deep. She tried to believe that he was only doing this to mask his true feelings, but the act was too convincing for that. He'd never cared for her. Forget him. Sod him. The river was high and rain dripped heavily from the leaves. Everything was too green, too grey. Bedraggled bees crept into flowers. The birds sang on in the branches as though they were glorying in the wet.

Joanna's little revival vanished as though the rain had dissolved it and washed it away. Joanna disappeared with it, her task fulfilled. God had called her to testify against the satanic nature of academic theology by boycotting her exams, and she had been faithful to that call. The gorilla would be back to re-sit his failed papers, but Mara guessed Joanna would not. God never called people like Joanna to a task as mundane as revision. The prayer meeting was calm again, steadied by the ballast of Coverdale students and members of staff who had started to attend. Armageddon had been averted, but there were still plenty of casualties – May, who had given up prayer; the gorilla, who had looked like a bomb-blast survivor on the last day of term. And the cause of it all, Joanna, walked away without a mark on her. My God, thought Mara, someone somewhere will have to take the rap for this kind of thing. Forgiveness is not enough. There has to be justice.

The rain continued to fall. ‘It's not fair!' wailed Maddy and May, lamenting all those parties and picnics and open-air productions. Let it come down, thought Mara. She had nothing to do but slog on with her thesis, trying to do as much as possible before she left the City. She decided to stay up for a couple of weeks after term ended. She could put the finishing touches to it in Oxford.

The days passed. Mara took a break from her work every couple of hours and walked up and down the room. Rain trickled down the window. From time to time her friends tried to coax her out of her room with invitations to go punting or to drive with them to the coast, but she always refused. After their footsteps died away, she cursed herself. Everyone was having fun except her. She missed the comforting sounds of evening study through the wall. Andrew seemed to come back late or drunk or not at all. Where was he going? And who were all those beautiful young men in dinner suits slinking around the corridor? Eventually it dawned on her that they must be the other three-quarters of Andrew's infamous barber-shop quartet, Parsons' Pleasure. Their reputation was founded – as far as she could tell – on their nicely judged blend of obscene lyrics and technical brilliance. They were in constant demand at every ball and party in the university. One night Mara heard them for herself. She woke at two o'clock to the sound of laughter and baying on the terrace below. Drunken voices called her name.

‘
What light from yonder window breaks?
' Andrew's voice floated up above the caterwauling. She pushed the covers back and crossed the room. There was a cheer as she threw the window up. ‘
She speaks, yet she says nothing
. Like all women.'

‘Piss off the lot of you!' More laughter.

‘
Speak again, bright angel!
' And they began serenading her. She leant on the window sill and listened. Their beautiful voices filled the night. Too drunk to stand, but still in tune. She smiled down at them and could just make out their faces and the white of their dress shirts in the darkness. Then a light came on in a window below her and the concert ended abruptly in a bucket of cold water and a volley of bad language.

‘Why are you hiding in your room like a sulky adolescent?' Andrew was sitting on her desk in his dressing-gown late the following morning, drinking black coffee.

‘I'm trying to finish my thesis.'

‘But why? You've got no deadline.'

‘Because I want to.'

‘What's wrong, Mara?'

She scowled down into her bibliography. Her hand began to fiddle with her hair.

‘It's just . . . I don't know.'

‘Look, it's Johnny, isn't it?' She nodded. I won't cry. This time I won't. ‘Jesus, you're incredible. How can
anyone
make such a consistent balls-up of their life?'

‘I don't do it on purpose!'

‘Has it crossed your mind that you could actually tell him how you feel?'

‘He's not interested. He – ow! Don't you hit me!' She ducked, but not fast enough. He slapped her round the head again.

‘Toughen up, Mara. You're pathetic.' She was on her feet in an instant, arm raised, determined to land one good slap on that smirking face no matter what. But he was too quick. She stamped and swore as he taunted her, always just out of reach. In the end he wrapped his arms round her and pulled her down on to the bed. She lay beside him half sobbing, half laughing.

‘Bastard.'

‘Bitch,' he replied. ‘Slag, whore, cow, slut – I think Roget's on my side, here, Princess.' He was lying with his head propped on one hand looking down at her.

‘The whole world's on the man's side.'

‘I know. Get reconciled, sweetheart.' He stroked her hair back from her forehead. Such lover-like gestures. She watched his face as he smiled and played with her curls.

‘Don't you ever find women attractive?' she asked.

‘Are you asking if I find you attractive?' He opened his dressing-gown and peered down at himself. For God's sake! ‘Sorry – honest Peter says no. Why?'

‘I just wondered.'

‘Just idle curiosity, hmm?' He bent his head and kissed her softly on the lips.

‘Don't,' she said faintly, heart starting to race. But he did it again, this time more slowly, just teetering on the extreme edge of what could be called brotherly. ‘Don't play games with me. Please.'

‘Games?' His lips were brushing hers. She could smell the coffee on his breath. Oh, God. ‘Am I
confusing
you?' She jumped, remembering her words to Johnny. Andrew was smiling his malicious smile. ‘This isn't making everything too
complicated
, I hope?' She shoved his face away and sat bolt upright.

‘He told you!' Her voice shook with rage. ‘I can't believe he talked about me like that!'

‘Don't be stupid. Of course your friends talk about you.'

‘What did he say? What – Oh, God. Tell me.'

‘He seemed to be under the impression that I'm deliberately enticing you to Oxford to wreck his chances. “No, no,” I said. “You've got it all wrong. It's her devotion to
Art
, not me, that's to blame. You're being sacrificed on the altar of her vocation, Whitaker.” '

‘That's not true!'

‘I know it's not,' said Andrew. ‘The truth is, you're shit scared of commitment. You don't believe in being happy. Whether you have the right to go around systematically inflicting unhappiness on the rest of us is an open question, however.'

‘I don't! I do believe . . . You . . .' He laughed at her inarticulate anger.

‘Want to know what he thinks of you?'

She clutched him, anger forgotten. ‘Yes!'

He was smirking again. ‘Ask him.'

‘No. Tell me. Please.' She shook him in exasperation. ‘Tell me, Andrew.'

‘Shan't.' He stretched languidly and looked up at her with a sly grin. ‘I'll admit I did give him a piece of disinterested, friendly advice.'

‘That he'd be better off with you?'

‘Precisely – I'm brighter, better looking, and I'm not certifiable.'

‘And what did he say to that?'

Andrew laughed. ‘ “Pity you've got a dick.” '

‘Well, only a very small one. Ow!' She was too slow again.

Andrew got to his feet. ‘Go and talk to him, Mara.'

‘I'll try,' she muttered, knowing she would not dare. He patted her cheek and left. A moment later she heard him singing as the bath filled.

    
Trip no further pretty sweeting,

    
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

    
Every wise man's son doth know
.

It was the last day of term. The weather was sullen with occasional spiteful bursts of rain. An elegiac mood settled over the City. By now the worst – and best – was known. The degree results had been posted on noticeboards in Palace Green days before. The anxious crowds had gone for that year. No more eyes scanning nervously through the lists, no more squeals of delight, no more ashen disbelief. Raindrops trickled down the glass, blurring name after name as they meandered down from First to Upper Second to Lower Second to Third. The wind blew across the empty Green.

Mara paused on the old bridge and looked down at the brown fast-flowing river. It was over a year since Hester had died. She had meant to mark the day out in some way, to sit and think about Hester and reflect on death, but it had slipped past without her realizing, just as the actual day had done a year before. She pictured herself in her room at Cambridge on that evening. She had probably been revising her sociolinguistics. Turning the pages of my notes while she was drowning. Mara could not keep the two events together in her mind. They seemed so unconnected.

The water swirled under the archway. ‘She won't have suffered,' people had said reassuringly. ‘It's not an unpleasant way to die.' Liars. Snorting water into your terrified lungs, clawing, sinking, smothering, eyes bulging – this is it, I'm drowning, I'm going to die. Oh, Hester, there must have been a dozen better ways to go. Why did you choose drowning?

She checked herself. She didn't know that it was a choice. Perhaps Hester had been out swimming when a sudden squall hit the lake. Galilee was like that – winds whipping down the tunnel of hills and lashing the water up into a storm. The disciples in the boat.
Master, carest thou not that we perish?
Mara's hands gripped the damp stone of the parapet. Why am I so scared of the thought that she killed herself? The fear that I am destined to do the same? After all, we're cut from the same genetic cloth. A congenital propensity to despair. Oh, let it have been an accident. Oh, God, don't let her have died alone, lost and without you at the last. That's what I can't bear. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Hester, I can't believe you're gone. I keep seeing you disappearing round a corner or going past in a car. Yes, I know what it is. It's one of the stages of grief. I've read all about it, but I still have to stop myself from calling out and running after you. Maybe if we'd spent more time together I could believe in your death. Each day would drive it home; minutes without you like nails hammered into your coffin. Dead, dead, dead. But I keep forgetting that this absence is different from any other. I can't hold on to it. Whenever I think of going home, I've already wondered ‘Will Hester be there?' before I remember. We should have said goodbye. I can't even remember when I last saw you. Was it this day, or that? It slipped from me. It was too ordinary.

Another sharp shower began. Mara walked back to college, the cold rain mingling with her tears.

The bells chimed three. Mara paused in her packing. The last note died away, and there was no other sound apart from the rain on the window. All her friends had gone weeks before. Her mother was due to arrive in about an hour to collect her. She would be late, of course. Mara knew of no one else with such a blithe innocence of the points of the compass. She felt a twinge of childhood resentment that her father was always too busy to drive anywhere for her. He never came to collect them from school trips. He never met their trains. It would have been nice, just once, to have him greet them at the door. ‘Daddy's busy, darling.' Daddy doesn't care, you mean. Oh, leave it, she told herself. Surely you're reconciled to his indifference by now? The room was almost bare. Bookshelves empty, bed stripped, hat-stand dismantled. Beside her was the pile of clothes ready to go into the trunk on top of the layer of books and files.

She picked up Aunt Judith's white party dress with the rosebuds on it. Poor dress, you deserve a better owner. Mara had worn it to the end-of-term party, and although it had looked beautiful, an odour of awkwardness and failure now seemed to cling to it. She could see the crumples on the skirt where she had clutched it during all those badly executed farewells. The bow on the bodice was limp, too. She could still feel herself fingering it, back to the wall as the endless goodbye dances went on. Rupert had asked her to dance, gallant as ever. Johnny had spent the time fooling around with Maddy and May, treating the college to his Elvis impersonations and avoiding Mara completely. She folded the dress. Into the trunk with it. She crushed the net petticoat on top, hearing in her memory the late night madrigals on the river, voices from the boats echoing under the old bridge, the singers' faces lit by the candles they were holding. The music had been so beautiful she had wept. Even the drunken rowdiness on the banks and bridge could not mar it.