Angels and Men (29 page)

‘Pleased to see me?' Andrew asked.

‘No.'

‘Don't be. I intend to make you cry.' But he was smiling too.

‘How long can you stay?'

‘Well, I have to be in Oxford tonight.' That would take him less than half an hour. He'd be here for a while then. Good.

‘What's happening in Oxford?' she asked to cover up her pleasure.

‘Oh, nothing. I've been offered a research fellowship.' Oh, nothing. As if it were a second-hand briefcase.

‘Clever boy.' He shot her a nasty look.

‘I can't decide whether to accept it.' They went through the lichgate. ‘The question is, can I stand being in the same university as my brother?'

‘You've got a brother?' Hearing how absurdly suspicious her tone sounded she added hurriedly, ‘I mean, you've never mentioned it.'

‘God, you're so solipsistic. It's theoretically possible for things to exist without your having any knowledge of them, Mara.'

They stood a moment in the church porch. Fair enough. But she still couldn't imagine him as part of a family. She reached out and opened the door. The familiar church smell greeted her – polish, age, the smell of the spring flowers. They went inside. It was so completely unchanged that the experience was banal. It might have been only days, not years, since she had last been there. She watched Andrew's profile as he tilted his head back to look at the wall paintings. The angel of judgement with his long trumpet. Gabriel appearing to the virgin. She wondered what Andrew's brother was like. After a while he called her over in the slightly hushed tone people use in churches.

‘Look at this.' He was pointing to one of the ancient pillars. ‘This is a pre-Christian symbol.' The hare. She'd forgotten all about it. She went and looked at the small blurred carving, remembering how she used to touch it, as though it possessed some secret power. ‘The hare was a sacred beast in pagan Britain. Boudicca used to keep one up her skirts and release it before a battle.'

Why can't he say ‘Boadicea' like normal people? ‘Oh, stop showing off.'

His laugh echoed in the empty church. ‘Just warming up for when I see Alex.'

‘Your brother?'

‘If I have one.'

‘Is he older than you?' He nodded. ‘What's he like?'

‘He's a theologian.'

‘But what's he
like
?' she persisted, trying belatedly to build up a context for Andrew.

‘Like? Well, our house-master at school described him as an arrogant young bastard with the moral outlook of a tom-cat.'

‘Well, yes.' He's your brother, after all.

He caught her expression. ‘You cheeky bitch.' They walked up the aisle together towards the chancel. ‘He's the sort of person who got articles published while he was still an undergraduate.'

‘And you didn't?' There was a pause. He pursed his lips. Aha. The brogue was on the other foot for once.

‘He's read everything. He's heard of everything. He's good at everything. In fact, if he had a nice disposition as well, he'd be bloody insufferable.' She bit her lips. ‘I hope you're not laughing at me, Princess.'

‘Of course not, Andrew.'

They reached the chancel steps and to Mara's amazement he genuflected. The action must have been instinctive since she could see he was not conscious of it. She turned away to hide her surprise, and walked up towards the altar and looked at the reredos. How many hours had she spent in the past looking at it? There were the three bored angels, each holding a scroll with
Sanctus
written on it. They looked like stranded hitchhikers with signs saying,
Heaven, please
. Her attention was called back by the sound of the organ being switched on. She turned and saw Andrew sitting at it, pulling various stops out.

‘You can't,' she said and knew at once that she should have kept quiet.

His eyes mocked her. ‘Can't I? Watch me.'

He played a few bars of chopsticks very badly. She went across to him in alarm, knowing her father was probably lurking about somewhere, and would be annoyed to find someone vamping on the precious organ.

‘Don't, Andrew. You can't just fool around on it. It's supposed to be a very good instrument.'

‘And is it?' He fumbled out another couple of bars, grinning at her anguished face.

‘Well, I don't know. Everyone says so.' The lack of good organists was a sore trial to her father.

‘Can't you tell? Good God. Are you completely culturally illiterate? Listen.' He leant forward and pulled some more stops out, and before she could say anything, he broke into Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor.

Mara stood dumbfounded for a moment, then began to laugh. She walked back to the middle of the chancel, exulting in the sound. The old church probably hadn't heard anything like it for decades. She watched him play, and saw a focused intensity – a passion, almost – that she would never have guessed at. Perhaps he had loved the Church, its rituals, its music, its life, and somehow he had lost it all? A fallen choirboy, he had said. The piece ended on a glorious crescendo, loud enough to blast the gilt angels out of their apathy. Gradually the last echoes died away and there was silence again. Mara looked across and saw Andrew sitting with his head bowed. For a long time neither of them spoke. Outside a blackbird was singing in the graveyard. Then she heard Andrew say bitterly, ‘Shit.' She slipped away into the vestry, leaving him alone. After a moment she heard him turn the organ off and follow her. She looked round and saw his usual sardonic expression.

‘ “Farewell, remorse, all good to me is lost. Evil be thou my good.” '
Macbeth
? No. Milton? She knew he had seen her uncertainty. ‘Book Four,
Paradise Lost
.' She watched him wander over to the vestments cupboard and look inside. ‘But of course, you recognized it.'

He was going to be worse than ever now, to punish her for seeing his weakness. She bit back the urge to say ‘Don't' as he tried on a stray biretta. He went across to the piano still wearing it and played a casual riff. A malicious look crossed his face. The tune sounded familiar. Gershwin. She leant on the piano top, listening as he began to sing:
‘One day he'll come along, and he'll be big and strong
.' She blushed.

‘Do my erotic proclivities embarrass you, Princess?'

‘No.' Too quick and defiant. ‘It's just the whole thing, really,' she mumbled.

He paused in his playing. ‘The “whole thing”? What “whole thing”? Sex, you mean?' He sounded like a sadistic tutor making mincemeat of an undergraduate. ‘And why's that?'

I'm damned if you're going to make me cry, she thought as she stared stubbornly at the keyboard.

‘I just don't like it.'

‘ “It”? Why don't you like “it”?' She shrugged. He continued to play. ‘Ah – it's a feminist issue, and you have an ideological objection to penetration. Yes?'

She was spared the effort of answering this by the sound of footsteps. The door opened and her father entered. He stopped in surprise, no doubt at the improbable sight of a young man in a biretta playing Gershwin in his vestry. He looked at Mara and raised an eyebrow.

‘This is Andrew. A friend from college.' She hated making introductions. ‘This is my father.' She made some kind of awkward gesture. And thank God he'd come in when he had. Andrew stopped playing and turned. Mara watched in fascinated shock as he gave her father an unambiguous once-over. The knowledge that he was only doing it to embarrass her in no way lessened her confusion.

‘That's a fine organ you've got there, Mr Johns.'

‘Yes. We're extremely fortunate.' How can he not have heard the innuendo?

‘But does it get the loving care and attention it deserves?' Andrew played another idle chord, still looking at her father.

‘We do our best.'

‘But are you satisfied? When did you last feel the foundations shake with a really good fugue?' Mara was about to intervene to protect her father, when she glimpsed a look of amusement on his face. He knew perfectly well what was going on.

‘That was you I heard earlier, I take it?' Andrew inclined his head.

‘Impressive.'

‘Years of practice and a natural bent, Mr Johns.'

There was a pause, and at length Andrew turned back to the piano and played on. Somehow the balance had shifted.

‘Well,' said her father, ‘my wife sent me to say that tea is ready. I've got a couple of things to do here, so I'll be along later.' This was an unmistakable dismissal, and Mara and Andrew started to leave. ‘Andrew,' he called him back.

The two men stood staring at one another, and Mara's heart began to race. ‘The biretta.' Andrew took it off with a grin and left. Mara followed, and by the time the two of them were in the churchyard, they were both snorting with suppressed laughter.

‘You're such a queen.'

‘I don't know
what
you're talking about.' He linked his arm through hers again and they began to walk back to the vicarage.

Suddenly he stopped. ‘Is this where your sister's buried?' For a moment she almost denied it. ‘Show me.' She continued to hang back. ‘Please, Mara.' She had never heard him ask like this before, and she turned and led him in the direction of the new graves. It was just getting dark, and the white headstone seemed to gleam in the dusk. They stood in silence, and she dreaded some disparaging comment on the words. He spoke:

    
‘I can but trust that good shall fall

    
At last – far off – at last, to all

    
And every winter change to spring.'

She felt herself starting to cry at the bitterness in his tone. ‘Oh, can't we drop the clever quotes just for once?'

‘Have you read
In Memoriam
?'

‘Stop thrusting Tennyson down my throat!' she burst out. ‘Don't tell me what to read. It won't help. Nothing does.'

‘Oh, I don't know. A bit of poetry, a bit of music, a bit of whisky. They all help a little.'

‘Well, you've managed. You've made me cry,' she sobbed and stumbled off between the graves. He caught up with her, putting an arm round her shoulders. She was too miserable to thrust him away. The blackbird began whistling from the church roof again. Their feet sounded on the road. After a moment he spoke:

‘When I was seventeen, my best friend was killed in a car crash.' Shock ran through her. His tone was so casual. ‘Pissed out of his skull and not wearing a seat-belt. He hit a lorry head-on and was killed instantly. Stupid bastard.' Mara glanced at him. At that moment the village street lamp came on, casting light across his face, and she thought, This is what grief looks like so many years on. Does it never fade? She felt fresh tears falling, this time for him and his loss, and slid her arm round his waist. For a second his grip tightened. They walked back in silence to the vicarage.

It was ten o'clock. Andrew yawned and looked at his watch. He was going to go. Her parents had already set off and she would be left all alone in the big creaking house. All her childhood fears were lurking in the garden, ready to press their goblin faces against the windows as soon as he drove off. She watched him pick up the whisky bottle, then put it down again.

‘If you drink any more you won't be fit to drive.'

‘I know.' He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. ‘Can I stay the night?'

Her heart leapt. ‘What about your brother?' Keep the smile off your face.

‘I'll give him a ring.'

‘OK.' She tried to sound indifferent. He made a brief phone call and went to collect his things from the car.

‘You're pleased,' he said as she showed him to the guest room. ‘Not wise. I haven't finished with you yet, Princess.' He dropped his bag and she saw his eyes scanning the room, measuring it up against his tyrannical code of good taste.

Unnerved, she said: ‘If my mother were here, she'd apologize for that trunk.' He looked at her coolly, and she babbled on. ‘It's just things from my grandmother's house waiting to be sorted through.' Aunt Judith's summer dresses which Mara had never bothered to look at. But she had caught his interest.

‘Let's have a look.' He had the lid open before she could stop him. ‘What about this?' He pulled out a dress. Blue-grey with a full circle skirt. ‘A dress to impress a future mother-in-law.' He looked at her slyly. ‘Why don't you wear it to Rupert's?' She blushed with fury.

‘I suppose my mother told you that?'

‘Yes. She likes me, you see. She tells me things. Try it on.'

He held it up against her and she wavered. It was beautiful. He was waiting, watching to see if she was still too embarrassed to undress in front of him. Hah. She began to strip off defiantly. He returned to the trunk with an amused look on his face and continued to sort through the clothes. She saw him pulling out a flying jacket. Yes. Aunt Judith had been a pilot, hadn't she?

‘Try it on,' she said. He did. Suddenly the mood changed into a childhood dressing-up game. She twirled round making the full skirt swing out.

‘What do you think?' They laughed at one another, then dived back into the pile of clothes. Sun dresses, ball gowns, slacks. They ended by pulling different ends of the same garment. It was a black satin dressing-gown, Chinese, with a dragon embroidered on the back. He pulled it from her.

‘Mine!'

‘Give it back, you big pansy. Ow.'

It was an idle blow, but one with a lot of practice behind it. The silk dragon seemed to writhe as he shook out the folds of satin.

‘Just right for seducing a bishop's son in.'

‘Shut up!' She snatched it back from him and held it to her burning face, feeling the heavy satin cold against her cheek.