Angels and Men (16 page)

Mara made herself go through once more to the sitting-room and look at Grandma. She slept on peacefully, gone to her long home. I just went out to make some tea, and now she's dead. I shouldn't have teased her. I should have told her about Johnny. It would have made her happy. Why wouldn't Mother come home? I have no one. No one to talk to, no friends. I could phone Johnny. His number will be in the visitors' book. But she knew she would not. She might burst into tears at the sound of his voice, and he'd have to wait and say reassuring things: ‘I'm still here. It's all right.' Like a Samaritan. They were probably taught that kind of thing at Coverdale. She hardened her heart against the thought and went to wait in the porch to see who would arrive first.

The next hour was one of the strangest she could remember. A police car drew up just as her mother was approaching the vicarage, and they entered the house together. Her mother was ‘coping marvellously'. She was competent with the policeman and solicitous of Mara. The kettle went on again and the sound of the policeman's radio crackled a sort of counterpoint to the pudding on the stove. At least she stopped short of offering me brandy, Mara thought. It's as though she were ministering to the bereaved instead of being the chief mourner herself.

Then her father arrived home with the undertaker. They too had met in the drive. The undertaker was young, and he was so obsequiously condoling, so undertakerly in his manner, that he seemed like a caricature of himself. Mara could see her father eyeing him with growing distaste. He must know him professionally. But now the vicar himself was one of the bereaved. They were all drinking tea, and a wild laugh rose up in Mara. We're a stage version of an Agatha Christie: the vicar (dour and silent), his wife (coping marvellously), his daughter (rather difficult), the policeman (bluff and honest), the undertaker (oily). Poor old Grandma had got the short straw and was playing the corpse. Seized by another mad urge to laugh, Mara rose abruptly and went out of the house.

She stood in the bright sunlight. The snow shone all around, making her blink. Wave upon wave of suppressed laughter shook her. If they were looking out of the window, they would see her shaking shoulders and think, Poor child. Such a shock for her, alone in the house like that. She tried to control herself for fear her mother would come out to her, hug her and say something like ‘Don't be too sad, darling. She had a good life.' And sure enough, the door opened behind her and she heard footsteps crunching across the snow. Shit. She braced herself for the maternal bosom, but the hug never came. She turned. It was her father. He had a strange guarded expression on his face, and he was carrying a glass of sherry which he handed to her.

He cleared his throat. ‘Your mother's invited them for lunch.'

Mara glanced at his face. He's trying not to laugh, too. There was a dangerous pause as they stood biting their lips and pretending to look at the snowy garden. They must find something to say, or they would end up weeping and clutching themselves out there in the snow.

‘Good service?' she gasped.

‘Yes.'

Another whooping silence. Mara dug her shoe into the snow. They were standing where Johnny had chopped logs the previous evening. Chips of wood lay under their feet, scattered around like crusts for the birds. She kicked at a fragment. The laughter was subsiding.

‘Good worker, isn't he?' said her father. And all at once she was desperate to know what he thought of Johnny. Did he like him?

‘Yes.' Her eagerness made her tone curt. Had she made him drop the subject? She drank some sherry. It was ice-cold.

Her father's foot started to nudge a chip of wood forward. ‘Mind you, I don't think much of his navigational skills if he was passing here on his way from Rupert's.'

Mara looked up in surprise, then found herself picturing a road map of the country. Aha. She turned away to hide her smile.

‘He's fond of you.'

‘He's celibate,' she muttered.

‘So you said.' He began shifting another chip.

She knew if she asked he would say more, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. After another moment he went silently back into the house. ‘He thinks the world of you.' That was what Johnny had said. Just as her father had said, ‘He's fond of you.' What sort of person must I be that people have to tell me things like this? Perverse, misinterpreting everything. She thought of what lay waiting in the house: festive meal with policeman, corpse and undertaker. She felt as though she would never want to laugh again.

The meal was swift as both visitors were in a hurry. It was too long for Mara, and when the phone rang, it was she who left the table to answer it, glad of a chance to escape.

‘Happy Christmas, Mara.' It was a voice she did not recognize.

‘Happy Christmas,' she replied guardedly. Parishioner? Relative? Someone who knew her. She waited for the voice to say more, hoping she would not have to ask who it was. She could hear another family Christmas in the background.

‘You all right, sweetie?' My God. Johnny. She half dropped the receiver.

‘Fine,' she said in spite of herself.

‘Having a good time?' Someone else was speaking at his end. ‘Who's that you're phoning?' she heard. There was an exchange muffled by a hand over the receiver.

‘How's it going? – ha'away, bugger off, will you? – Sorry. Been as bad as you were expecting?'

‘Worse.'

‘Worse. What are you like, Mara? Why is it –'

There was a scuffle and another voice came on the line. ‘Hello, Mara. You all right there, flower?' The voice might have been Johnny's, but the accent was stronger. ‘I just wanted to say, happy Christmas, and you're too good for him, pet.' There was another scuffle. ‘And now I'm handing you back.'

‘Sorry. My brother. Worse in what way?' The sounds of laughter and conversation at his end made the vicarage seem colder than ever.

‘Well, you know . . .'

‘Yeah, families.'

‘Sounds quiet. Just the three of you? No – your Grandma's with you, isn't she?'

‘Well. Yes and no.' Say it, you fool. Her hands were sweating so that the receiver slipped again. She could hear his brother saying something and laughing.

‘Ah,' said Johnny. ‘Senile, is she?'

‘Um. Dead, actually.'

There was a pause like a stopped heart.

‘You're kidding. When? Today?' He must have put his hand over the receiver, but she still heard him saying, ‘Piss off, Charlie – this is serious. Someone's died, man.' There was an abrupt silence. It was as if she had reached out and blighted their Christmas, too.

‘I'm sorry, pet.' He was shocked. His accent was stronger now, making him sound like his brother. ‘It happened today?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said again. There was a long silence. ‘Do you want to talk about it?'

‘No.' But nor did she want him to go. She had to say something, or he would hang up. ‘I almost phoned you earlier.' Her throat was feeling tight.

‘You did? You should've done. Have you got my number?'

‘Yes.' She tried to swallow.

‘When was this?'

‘Earlier. Before my parents got back from church.' It felt as though there were hands round her neck gripping tighter and tighter.

‘You mean –'

I only went out to make some tea
. It was all going to rush out. She pressed her hand over her mouth.

‘You were alone with her when she died?'

‘Yes. Look, I'm going. I'll see you at college.' She hung up on his voice saying, ‘No, wait, Mara.'

She ran up to her room and shut herself in. Back to college. Soon I'll be back. A day. Two days. I can't bear it here much longer. She would be travelling north again, feeling the weight slip from her with every vanishing mile, until at last she saw the City from the train windows and her heart rose up, lighter than air, to where the angels walked on the wind. She could survive another couple of days.

On the bed lay the novel her mother had given her. She sat and began to read. Outside the frost deepened. On and on she read, as though the novel were a fire to stave off the fear that stalked there.

Lent Term

CHAPTER 11

The City was carved in ice. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the river between its banks was hard and still. It was Epiphany – time for the wise to come seeking. The streets seemed empty. People ventured out as little as possible. It was treacherous underfoot. Steep paths, icy cobbles. High up on the face of the cathedral all was quiet. There were no masons on the scaffolding, no plumbers on the roof. Icicles as thick as arms hung from gutters and gargoyles, and each night it froze deeper.

Mara was at her desk studying. Page after page passed before her eyes. Prophecies, delusions. She made notes and her mind struggled to form connections or find patterns in the material she read. All the while she was cold. From time to time she reached out and felt the radiator. Surely it wasn't working? And yet it was always hot under her touch. In the end she got up and put on another pullover. The cold seemed to have seeped into her marrow. She went back to work, huddled over a book, with her hands pulled up into her sleeves.

Afternoon drifted into evening. The bells chimed the quarters as they passed, like posts marking a road deep in snow. She had seen no one for days. Somewhere on the outskirts of her mind a childhood fear was creeping. What if the Second Coming had taken place, and she had been left behind? At last the fear emerged clearly enough for her to notice it, and she half-smiled at herself. Still worried about that? But she knew that in an unguarded moment it could rear up, bulging with horror to block out the sky, turn the moon to blood, and cast down the stars like figs in a winter gale. How often had she woken on her uncle's farm stunned with terror, sure that a trumpet blast had just torn the world in two? Christ had taken the elect and she'd been left behind. She would lie in the silence until some sound – an owl calling, a distant sheep – unlocked her joints, and she would sit up in bed to see if the cousins were still in the room. There was Faye, at the other end of the bed, and Elizabeth on the other side of the room, and little Morwenna – still all there sleeping peacefully. At least she wasn't the only one left. Then she would get up and pass softly from room to room to see if anyone was there. Her aunt and uncle – she could see their shapes under the quilt, Uncle Huw snoring; but were they saved? Maybe they'd been left too? It was not until she reached Aunt Jessie's room in the attic that she was sure the rapture had not taken place. There she lay, breathing like a child. The Lord would have taken Aunt Jessie for sure. She was looking forward to it, her robes ready, washed white in the blood of the Lamb, and everything. She would be taken up and meet him in the air. The ear trumpet stood like a monument in the moonlight as Aunt Jessie slept. Mara smiled at the memory. Tears of relief would steal down her cheeks as she crept back to bed. Come into my heart, Lord Jesus. This time I really mean it.

Strange that I never looked into Dewi's room, she thought suddenly. You'd have thought he'd be my touchstone. My saint. I'd have washed his feet with my tears and dried them with my hair, if he'd let me. She turned back to her book, but not before the fishwife had thrust her face up close and said, He was a worthless little shit. She put her hands over her ears. Worthless, he was. Mara read on resolutely until the fishwife retired muttering into her smoke-filled beery bar. Page after page. The clock struck eleven. She'd forgotten to eat anything. There would be nowhere open at this hour, and she had no food in her room. Well, tomorrow would do. Tired and hungry she went to bed and at length grew warm enough to fall asleep.

She woke hearing the bells strike two. The moon must be full, she thought. It was shining into her room through the open curtains, casting shadows across the floor. As she watched, the light seemed to intensify. Perhaps she was imagining it? She waited, and yes, sure enough, it was growing brighter all the time. She sat up. Not the moon, then. It was some kind of light down on the riverbank shining up at her room. Was the college to be floodlit like the cathedral from now on? This seemed so unlikely that she got up out of bed and went over to the window. The whole sky was white. Strange and beautiful. It must be some kind of atmospheric phenomenon. She tried to think what it might be. Something caused by the extreme cold? Phosphorescence? St Elmo's fire? Then, as she watched, the light began to gather itself. Slowly before her horrified eyes it drew itself in, forming itself, burning, burning. Her hands clawed the curtains shut and she stumbled back to bed, blocking her eyes, her ears with the covers. But she knew it was still there, fluttering at the glass.

She woke and turned on the light. Six o'clock. Dear Christ. She gripped her hair hard in her hands. That was the worst dream she'd ever had. She pressed her knuckles against her skull. Horrible. She'd been convinced she was awake. She had even heard the bells. Then she shook herself and got out of bed. The room was colder than ever. She could see her breath as she hurried to wash and pull on another of Grandma's hoarded dresses. It was made of wool, but even so it was scarcely warm enough. She put on a pullover too and realized she was hungry. It was still too early to go out and buy food, so she turned to her desk. As she did so, she stopped. There was something different about the room. Then she saw.
The curtains are shut
. I never shut them. Her hands gripped her hair again, and she felt her mind plunging out of control. I always leave them open. Well, I must have been walking in my sleep. She strode across to the curtains and yanked them open. A face stared in at her. She leapt back with a scream, then stood trembling and cursing herself. It was her own reflection in the window against the dark morning sky. Get a grip on yourself, woman. She'd work till nine and then go out and buy something to eat. She sat at her desk and read. The sky lightened outside. It was not until the bells were striking eleven that her hunger reminded her to go out.

She emerged through the heavy college door. Her movements were clumsy from the cold and the layers of clothes she was wearing. She pulled her hat down closer on to her head and wrapped her cloak around her. A taxi pulled up as she was edging cautiously down the steps, and the polecat climbed out. They exchanged disdainful glances, and Mara set off towards the town centre. The beginnings of a smile gleamed in her mind. At least she wouldn't be the only one in college now. There had been something cordial in those New Year sneers.

She walked on, picking her way carefully along the bits of pavement which had been salted or shovelled.

It was a dream, a dream born of hunger and cold. Of course it was. But she knew nothing would persuade her to leave the curtains open tonight. A dream, said her rational mind, and yet another part of her knew better.
A man of God came unto me, and his countenance was like the countenance of an angel of God, very terrible
. If hair could stand on end, then hers surely would have done. She remembered Johnny and the ‘bloody great angel' blocking the path and calling him an arrogant little sod. Maybe that was what had prompted the dream. ‘That was no dream,' whispered a voice. She sighed impatiently. My problem, she thought to herself, is that I hold two contradictory opinions simultaneously: a liberal demythologizing of the Bible coupled with a childlike belief in miracles. She bought bread and fruit and made her precarious way back to college. Her feet paused at the bottom step as though they were unwilling to carry her up to her room again. They were behaving like Balaam's ass, who saw the Angel of the Lord standing in the path with his sword drawn. Balaam cursed and beat the ass with a stick. Sensible man. She ran up the stairs, knowing she'd feel better when she'd eaten.

The afternoon slid past. The polecat was moving around his room, and the sound reassured her. She was no longer hungry, having eaten for the first time in a day and a half, and an atmosphere of normality was returning. The room remained persistently cold, however. She wrapped her cloak around her as she worked, but by nine it was becoming unbearable. She felt the radiator. It was cold. There must be air in it. Maybe the polecat had a radiator key? But she wasn't going to go and ask him.

She worked on until the clock struck ten, and then her resolve left her abruptly. She rose, left the room and knocked on the polecat's door.
Andrew Jacks
, said the name plate. He called her in. She entered, but before she could utter her request, a tide of warm air embraced her.

‘You've got a heater!' she said, as though accusing him of cheating at Finals. So? said his expression. The cold brought on a momentary oblivion and she went across and knelt in front of the heater to warm her hands. The polecat was watching her with contempt. Her dignity was compromised, but she stared haughtily none the less.

‘My radiator's cold.'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘An apt metaphor.'

Her stare disintegrated into surprise. Was that a glint of humour? There was a reassessing pause.

Then he spoke again: ‘Whisky?' She almost smiled.

‘Yes.'

He got up from his chair, and while he was finding two glasses, she looked around. It was unnerving. The room was a mirror image of her own. Their two beds would be side by side, but for the wall. And he was clearly a man who liked his creature comforts. Framed pictures, not posters, all in fearsome good taste. A Paisley silk dressing-gown on the back of the door. He saw her looking and seemed to read her thoughts, for he showed her the whisky bottle with a sardonic flourish. Very expensive malt whisky, and a large bottle. He handed her a glass and poured.

‘My father's a GP. He gets given things.' His tone was casual, but this was unmistakably a symbolic gesture: fifty warheads, say. There was a pause while Mara assessed whether it was worth entering a process of bilateral disarmament.

‘So does mine. He's a clergyman.' Fifty warheads it is.

The polecat raised his glass. ‘To our fathers. Damn them.'

They drank, waiting for the next round of negotiations.

The polecat stretched out a foot in an elegant brogue. ‘I'm wearing a dead man's shoes.'

‘I'm wearing a dead woman's dress.' She watched him and saw he was about to sabotage the talks.

‘How appropriate. You look like a dead woman.' The fingers went back to the red buttons. She gave him her blank offensive stare.

‘You've lost weight. You look like something by Munch.' That's probably true, she thought.
The Scream
.

The warheads swivelled this way and that, lining up on their targets.

‘And you look like an Aubrey Beardsley.' She saw that one strike home.

‘Petruchio back yet?' Boom! Massive escalation. She felt herself blushing. Little shit. ‘He's got you well tamed, hasn't he? Good God – you practically behave like a real woman with our Johnny. You even smile.'

Yes, ha ha, she sneered.

‘You never smile at me.'

‘I don't find you amusing.'

The polecat lifted his glass and looked at the light shining through the whisky. He turned his cool gaze back on her. ‘You don't find me six foot three and hung like a Minotaur, you mean.'

She ran her eyes over him insultingly. ‘True.' But she had to admit to herself at last that she found him attractive. And amusing. Minotaur. Was that what he called him? The warmth of the fire had reached her at last and she took off her cloak. She took another mouthful of whisky and was looking around her again when she began to shiver. A sick dread rose in her. Balaam's bloody ass again. The drink slopped in her glass and the polecat reached and took it from her. She clamped her arms round herself to stop the trembling. He watched her for what seemed like hours until the panic drained away again.

‘I saw an angel last night.' The ass had spoken. Fool! She had thrown down every last defence, and could only wait helpless.

‘Ordinary, or arch?' he asked, as though they were discussing the sighting of a woodpecker.

‘I don't know.'

He handed back her glass. ‘Wings?'

‘Yes.'

‘How many?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What did he want?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Did he speak?'

‘I shut the curtain on it.'

He pursed his lips. ‘Foolish.'

Suddenly she was annoyed and everything became normal again. ‘It was a
dream
,' she said.

‘Of course.'

There was a silence. I'm going to have to go, she thought. She finished her drink and began to gather up her cloak.

‘You can take the heater,' said the polecat unexpectedly. She stared. Had she disarmed him totally with her kamikaze talk of angels? ‘On certain conditions.' Yes. That was more like it. The spoils of war. She folded her arms.

‘What conditions?' You think I'd sell myself for an electric heater?

‘That you sit next to me in the dining-room.' She gawped. ‘For a fortnight.' What! Why? ‘Three meals a day.'

‘All right,' she said.

There had to be some catch, but what on earth was it? She got to her feet. He rose too, unplugged the heater and followed her out. The air in her room felt icy. I'd probably sell myself for a pair of woolly bedsocks, she thought. He put the heater down. Was she going to have to say thank you? They stood eye to narrowed eye.

‘What made you think I wanted your body?' he asked.

She stared contemptuously. ‘The fact that you've got a prick.'

‘
Jesus
,' he said with an offensive shudder. ‘I can think of places I'd rather put it, darling.'

She flushed. He had beaten her comprehensively. She was losing her touch. He turned and started to leave.

‘Thanks,' she said to his back.

He turned and regarded her as though she had offered to warm his slippers. ‘Don't fawn.' The door swung shut.

Early January went past slowly, cold and grey, like a line of defeated soldiers. Mara's room became warm again. There had been some problem with the college heating system, a typed notice on the board said. The domestic bursar apologized to any students who had been inconvenienced. Mara returned the heater to the polecat, but the deal stood. She went down to the dining-hall three times a day with him. They seldom spoke, just sat beside one another in silence like an old married couple knit together by a million tiny hatreds and unable to break apart. Occasionally she sensed that he was watching her sidelong under his lashes. What did he want? Term arrived before the fortnight was over. People would talk. Was that what he wanted? Well, they would have something else to talk about in four days' time when she abruptly stopped sitting next to him. She wondered, as they went down for the first dinner of term, what stories would circulate. The noise seemed immense. Maddy and May called her over, but she shook her head and sat beside the polecat. She saw Maddy saying something to May, and knew they would tackle her later.