After a moment’s thought she tore another sheet out of the pad and joined it to the other two. On the new page she drew a cloud filled with Latin – phrases, words, tense endings, quotations – and on it sat Great Aunt Daphne. Her long thin legs dangled over the cloud’s edge, and she had a sarcastic expression on her face. And not far away from her, stepping from star to star, as though they were stones in the local stream, went Great Aunt Jessie. In her hand she held her ear trumpet. What were the angels saying today? You can eavesdrop, child, if you are very careful. Mara heard the whispering voice in her memory. She said that to me, but I was too small to hold the trumpet for myself, so I never heard them. All around Aunt Jessie wound the words of her favourite hymn on ribbons: Angels to beckon me nearer my God to thee. Nearer to thee, nearer to thee.
And, now, thought Mara, let there be angels. She attached more sheets of paper and filled the sky with angels. Some passed by in dark glasses carrying briefcases. Others sat on a circle of stars drinking tea and discussing in Latin whether they believed in Bultmann. Others were gathering up and towing away the ribbons of prayer which had floated up through the clouds. Some prayers were long and ornate, some simply said Help. At the top of the picture the archangel Michael was rolling up his collect and tucking it under his arm. A phrase billowed out under one wing as though the wind had caught the words.
She sat for a moment and looked at what she had drawn. Then she folded it hurriedly and put it in her desk drawer, as though it were a secret which nobody must see. The idea of it had crept along her veins like strong wine. I won’t sleep tonight for the planning of it, she thought; and although it was late she changed into her tracksuit and went out for a run. Her mind was buzzing with biplanes and angels. Maybe the night air and the exercise would quieten them.
The wind was still throwing handfuls of rain as she set out running along the street. The wet cobbles gleamed in the streetlights, and she could hear the trees around the cathedral sighing and creaking. The great walls and towers rose up ashen in the floodlights, and at the sight of them she slowed to a walk. All the windows were dark.
She stood looking up at the towers in the white light, until she heard footsteps coming along the street. She had turned and was about to break into a run, when her name was called. Her heart leapt. It was Johnny. He came up to her.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you.’ His accent seemed more marked, as though the northern night air had drawn it out. ‘The other day – what was that look for?’
‘What look?’ But she knew already what he meant. He was standing in the shadow and she could not see his expression. The wind blew around them.
‘The other day in Maddy’s and May’s room, when young Joanna was complaining about her Greek, you gave me a look.’
‘Oh, then.’ But the time she had gained had not shown her how to answer. He was waiting. The truth would have to do. ‘I thought you were about to offer her some personal tuition.’
‘Would that have been wrong?’ She sensed an undercurrent of anger. He had not spoken to her like this before. If she could see him properly she might judge his mood better.
‘Well, it’s up to you.’ The rain was cold on her face.
‘I know that. I want to know why you think I shouldn’t.’
‘I suppose I wasn’t sure you knew what you would be letting yourself in for.’ She found herself unable to go on. It would be like trying to convince Hester about Leah. He wouldn’t believe her.
‘Well, Mara,’ he began. His voice sounded a little softer. ‘I want you to know I respect your judgement.’ She stiffened. ‘And I take what you think seriously . . .’ The patronizing ‘but’ was coming. But I’m going to ignore your advice. But I think you’re wrong.
‘Oh, forget it,’ she said rudely and turned to walk off. Immediately he seized her arm and spun her round.
‘Don’t you do that to me.’ She stood still in shock. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? You treat people as though they weren’t worth that.’ He snapped his fingers in her face. It was like a knife thrust. But now a faint light was on him, and she saw his anger pass as swiftly as it had appeared.
‘By, you sail close to the wind, pet. Someone’s going to murder you one of these days.’ He let go of her arm. ‘Anyway, I was going to say, I’m glad you warned me.’ His tone was almost good-humoured now. They began to make their way slowly back along the street. She watched the light moving over the cobbles as they walked. ‘She came to my room the next day and started to tell me all her problems. I thought I’d never get rid of her. I was thinking, Is it just me, or is this girl odd? I kept wanting to say, “Just a second, that can’t be right”, but the more she went on talking, the more I started to think it must be me. Weird. Mind you’ – he turned to her – ‘she probably is having trouble with the Greek.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘We can’t all be born scholars, Mara.’
‘Yes, but she must have done languages at school, and New Testament Greek isn’t that hard. It’s a question of application, not brain-power.’ But he was shaking his head. Finally she burst out, ‘Look, I had to teach myself Greek.’ There was a grin on his face, and she blushed with rage at herself. She had meant to say ‘I managed to teach myself’, or something, to imply that if that was the case, then surely Joanna could master it with proper lessons. But instead it had come out like a complaint. No nice young man offered to help me. And now he thought she was jealous. I’m not, she thought. It’s just that he’s too unsuspecting. I just couldn’t bear to see him in her clutches!
And that, she had to admit, sounded exactly like jealousy.
They stopped by the main entrance to Jesus College. He seemed to be lingering. Was he expecting her to ask him in? But before she could decide whether she wanted to, a horrible thought struck her. Maybe he saw her as another difficult female latching on to him to pour out her troubles. She imagined him laughing with Rupert: ‘I thought I’d never get away!’
‘Good night,’ she said, and climbed the steps.
‘Good night, sweetie.’ She heard the amusement in his voice, and turned back, her hand on the door. ‘If you’re ever having trouble with your work, don’t hesitate to ask. Rupert and I would be glad to help.’ For a fraction of a second she felt a great Swansea fishwife elbowing her way to the front of her mind to bawl a stream of obscenities at him. But she closed the door on his laughter and went back to her room.
It seemed narrow and quiet after the night outside. She had forgotten about her run. Should she go back out? After a moment’s thought she decided against it and picked up a volume of early Quaker tracts. Surely their violent message would drive all other thoughts from her mind. She started to read. Page after page of faded ink on brown paper. The woes and warnings seemed dull. Other people’s visions. The great and terrible day of the Lord held nothing but a mild and dusty academic charm. Where had all the fire gone?
From the other side of the wall she heard the rustling of paper and an impatient sigh. The polecat was still studying. Ferreting away in his obscure Elizabethan poetry, or whatever he was researching. Was it Shakespeare, even? She dimly remembered May telling her. Maybe he was a fellow insomniac? She turned back to her book, but not before she heard Johnny’s voice: ‘You treat people as though they weren’t worth that.’
At last she became absorbed in what she was reading. Outside the wind blustered, whirling away the sound of the bells as they chimed the passing quarters. Mara’s fingers loosened her damp hair from its plait, shaking it out so that it could dry. Her eyes did not waver from the page, and as she read, her hair gradually found its way back into its natural curls, curls she would comb out with contempt the following morning. Hailstones, vials, plagues, thunders, woes, judgements, are come amongst you. She turned a page, and a strand of hair fell forwards and tickled her neck. As she brushed it aside, her fingers touched something. She glanced down. A spider.
With a scream she leapt from her chair and tore off her tracksuit top
, flinging it away. Her hair snaked around her shoulders. Spiders everywhere. Every shadow moved and scuttled. The polecat was in the room.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘A spider!’ She pointed to the tracksuit on the floor. He bent and lifted it. The spider raced out. With a darting movement he had it in his hand and crossed to the open window. He turned and took a step towards her. It was her cousin Dewi coming to throw the spider in her face. She started back in terror. And then it was only the polecat walking across the room, showing her both his hands, empty, palms towards her.
‘It’s all right. It’s gone. I threw it out of the window.’
After a long, long moment she felt the fear begin to loosen its grip. She sat huddled on the desk with the polecat watching her.
‘Whisky?’ he asked.
She nodded. Anything. He went to his room. She hugged her bare arms around her. The wind came gusting in, and she was cold sitting in her running vest. She looked at her tracksuit top on the floor and her skin crawled. Voices began speaking in her mind. Well, you made a fool of yourself there, didn’t you? . . . Still afraid after all these years? . . . Now he has a hold over you . . . It’ll be all over college in the morning. Mara Johns is scared of spiders!
She heard him coming back, and there was a murmured conversation at the door. The field mice. I’ve probably woken half the bloody college. Then the polecat was beside her with two glasses and a bottle. He poured them each a stiff whisky. They drank. She knew he was watching her and that she was defenceless against his mockery. He sat beside her on the desk.
‘God, you’re a strange woman. I can’t make you out. You aren’t scared of me, but you’re frightened of spiders.’
She said nothing, trying to gather her defences around her again. They held one another’s gaze like hardened poker players. Then a strand of her hair fell forwards and she jumped, brushing it wildly aside.
‘It’s all right. Relax.’ He reached out a hand and touched her hair. She sat still, cursing herself.
‘You have curly hair.’ His voice was amused, as though he had discovered she kept sentimental pictures of puppy dogs on her walls. She twitched her hair out of his fingers and twisted it away from him over her other shoulder. His eyes became fixed on her upper arm.
‘And you have a tattoo.’ Well, well, said his tone. So much for the puppy dogs.
She watched his face as he reached out a finger and traced the shape of the dragon. His grey eyes were half veiled, glinting under dark lashes and she realized with a shiver just how attractive he was. A series of new thoughts and conjectures seemed to be occurring to him as well. He might be a scholar making an important discovery – perhaps stumbling upon an unknown erotic poem by some dour puritan. Then suddenly his expression changed. He reached out, took her right arm and turned it over. She tried to pull back, but it was too late. The scar lay exposed, running from wrist to elbow along the vein.
‘What happened here?’
‘I cut myself.’ The phrase see-sawed in the silence between two meanings.
‘Hmm. Most people go cross-wise.’ He ran a finger down the scar. ‘How old were you?’
‘Fourteen.’
He looked up. There was no trace of shock or disapproval in his face. ‘I take it someone found you.’
‘My father.’
‘Careless. Or was that part of the plan?’
‘No.’
‘Was it his razor?’ Her face burnt. ‘A nice touch. I bet that taught him a lesson. Why didn’t you finish the job later?’
‘I changed my mind.’
His eyes were on her and, unable to bear his dispassionate gaze, she drained her glass and handed it back to him. The abruptness of the gesture seemed like a dismissal, and with a shrug he rose to leave. Her conscience twitched, and she remembered the sound of fingers being snapped in her face. Hurriedly, she stood up as well. The polecat glanced round as he reached the door.
‘Look – thank you,’ she said.
He gave her a quizzical look, as though he had encountered the phrase before but could not for the moment remember in what context. The door swung shut.
She sat for some time on the desk. From next door came the sounds of the polecat going to bed. Then came silence, apart from the swirling winter wind. I should have been nicer to him. I should be nicer to everyone. That’s the whisky talking, she thought with a sneer. Her head swam as she moved from the desk and slowly got ready for bed.
The darkness filled with faces and voices, and she slid into a restless sleep. Her mother was there, talking about her tattoo, asking, ‘Why, darling, why did you have it done? You know you won’t be able to get rid of it.’
‘She’s eighteen,’ said her father. ‘She can do as she pleases.’ What did he care?
Dewi stood looking at her. ‘Why do you have to copy everything I do, you stupid cow? Why do you have to be like me?’ The dragon on his arm twisted as though it were alive, and she screamed. He laughed – or maybe it was the polecat? ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ But Hester wasn’t there. Where had she gone? She ran to look for her, but tripped and fell. Johnny stood and stared at her.
‘You treat people like dirt,’ he said. High above her flew the angels. Their eyes were fierce and wild. They called to each other across the empty sky.
She woke in the early morning light. Her face was wet with tears and her head throbbed. The wind blew the curtain. From down below on the river came the desolate cry of gulls, driven inland by the storm.
CHAPTER 7
One by one the students woke in Jesus College, and remembered: tonight. Tonight is the night. Ball gowns hung in their polythene wrappings, fold upon fold of velvet or taffeta, gleaming secretly like gems by candlelight. The staff in the basement kitchens were at work, making the breakfast among the preparations for the ball. On go the eggs, in goes the toast; and as soon as possible, a hundred of these to slice, two hundred of those to marinate. The cathedral clock chimed the hours away – eight, nine, ten. Groups of students began decorating the halls and corridors, while others remained at their desks seeming to work. Eyes stole to the waiting folds of satin, or to where dress suits hung stiffly, like the ghosts of waiters or ushers haunting the doorway. Soon . . .
The clock struck midday and Mara was climbing the stairs in the Divinity School to see Dr Roe. She was glad to get away from the festoons and spangles and rustles of anticipation which filled the college. Maddy and May had talked of little but the ball for days. Dr Roe’s study was a haven. Mara sat. Her tutor looked at her expectantly.
‘I got your note,’ said Mara in the end.
‘Good. I was wondering if everything was all right. If you’d been ill.’
‘No.’
‘It’s just that I was expecting you last Thursday.’ Mara looked surprised. ‘Well, according to my diary. I had a feeling we arranged it last time we met.’
‘No,’ said Mara again. She looked in her diary anyway, although she knew it was blank; and there against last Thursday were the words: ‘Dr Roe. 11 a.m.’ She stared. If it had not been her own handwriting, she would have sworn someone else must have written it. Panic surged up inside her. She felt her hand smoothing her hair and fumbling for the end of her plait.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I must have forgotten. Sorry.’ Was her voice sounding strange?
‘Don’t worry. It happens to all of us,’ said Dr Roe. Maybe it did. Just a piece of absent-mindedness. Nothing to worry about. They began to talk about Mara’s work, and she found herself gradually relaxing. The discussion turned to the idea of the end of the world.
‘Do you think that groups with a highly developed eschatology tend to have a liberal attitude towards women?’ asked Dr Roe.
‘Not all of them.’ A voice began speaking in her memory: ‘Let your women learn in silence with all obedience. That’s what the word of God says, brothers and sisters. And any woman striving for more than her God-given place is guilty of disobedience. Yes! of rebellion
against God. And there are some here in this room tonight who are not content with the place God has given them.’
‘Ah. You’re thinking of the Anabaptists of Münster, perhaps?’
‘Well . . .’ began Mara cautiously, unable for the moment to remember anything about the Anabaptists of anywhere. ‘I was thinking more of various modern churches. You know, breakaway groups. House churches.’
‘And they believe the Second Coming is imminent? What do they teach about women?’
‘Well, I heard of one which taught that women should be silent and obedient. And grow their hair long and keep their heads covered in worship. As a sign that they are under male authority.’ Which is why I cut all my hair off that night I walked out of the church. Shaved it off, as the deputy headmistress put it. She had been suspended from school until it grew back, although they couldn’t come up with a single good reason why. Her mother had been in tears. ‘Darling, why? All your beautiful hair.’ Mara called her attention back, seeing that her tutor was watching her closely.
‘Why do some millenarian groups treat women as equals while others don’t?’ asked Dr Roe.
‘Different attitudes to the Bible?’
‘Good. Go on.’ Dr Roe looked animated, but Mara could think of nothing to add.
Finally the other woman said, ‘This strikes me as important. I think you ought to concentrate your work here for a couple of months. Try to explore the relationship between the Scriptures, the millennium and the role of women.’ This sounded at once like the title of a thesis. They arranged another time to meet, and Mara wrote it in her diary, adding a full stop, as though pinning the information firmly in place. She looked up at Dr Roe.
‘I’ll try to remember.’
Dr Roe was looking worried. ‘You aren’t working too hard, are you?’
Angels and Men Page 9
