Angels and Men

by Catherine Fox

  ‘Yes. He did.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Grandma with satisfaction. What about tomorrow?

  ‘Yesterday, do you mean?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ answered Grandma, as though this was what she had said. ‘And she says he’s extremely –’

  Mara smiled. No need of a word here. ‘He certainly is extremely.’

  Grandma patted her hand. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be very happy.’ You’ll pay for this, Mother. ‘You know, I wish you –’

  Mara looked into her eyes. Ah, if she had the words, she would give me an old woman’s wisdom. She would say what only a grandmother can say, because it would be flung back at a mere mother. Mara watched her looking into her store. Everything was still there, only all the labels had vanished. ‘I wish you could be happy. I often think – Hester, you know. So hard. But you, my dear, you’re a –’ Fists.

  ‘Fighter.’

  ‘Yes. You must never give up.’ She patted Mara’s hand again, and Mara felt that some kind of promise was required of her.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘That’s right. Things always get beggar, my dear.’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ said Mara, struggling not to smile. There was a silence, and in the distance she could hear the organ playing. ‘O, come all ye faithful . . .’ The church would be full of the annually faithful, in their thicket of new pullovers and Christmas jewellery. Children would be clutching toys, so full of held-in excitement that the toys themselves must cry out in sudden squeaks and whirrings during the interminable prayers.

  ‘Well,’ said Grandma. ‘I’m sure there’s, you know, to be done in the, the – I’ll just go and –’

  Mara stopped her. ‘You just sit there. It’s all done.’ She needs to be doing something for someone. All her life she’s done things for people.

  ‘She doesn’t trust me,’ said Grandma.

  How easy it would be to slip into those soothing little falsehoods: Nonsense, Grandma. She just wants you to relax.

  ‘No. She doesn’t.’ Grandma was not taken aback. ‘I set fire to the –’ she went on, pointing to the curtains.

  ‘I know.’

  Grandma sighed. ‘I’ll never be Norman again, you know.’

  This was too much for Mara. She got quickly to her feet. ‘I’ll go and make us some tea.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. That’ll be lovely.’

  Mara stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. In the church another carol was playing. It came upon the midnight clear. The words formed in her mind as she stared out of the window: And ever o’er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing. The blessed angels sang on incomprehensibly in their noun-free, pain-free realm. The kettle boiled and Mara made the tea. She left it brewing and went to see if Grandma was still sitting obediently where she had left her. She saw from the door that the chair was empty. The old –

  ‘Grandma!’

  Grandma lay stretched on the carpet, her open eyes staring at the ceiling. Mara stood still. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. On the chair the blanket was curved like an empty shell where Grandma’s shoulders had rested. The bag stood on the floor with its handle still waiting to be grasped. All that went before led up to this, and all that comes after grows out of it. I should go and feel her pulse or listen to her chest. But she continued to stand. It’s nothing. Let her go. They’ll be back from church soon. She stood waiting and waiting, and yet each time she looked at the clock its hands had not moved.

  At last she roused herself. Doctor. I should phone a doctor. Some impersonal managing force took over in her. It walked her into the study and dialled and spoke, as though she were nothing but a piece of machinery operated by an unseen hand. The doctor was on his way, said the voice. She sat at her father’s desk to wait. I shouldn’t be here, she thought. It was a private room. There were things to learn from it which should remain hidden. It was like watching a sleeping face with all its hopes and sorrows laid bare. She got up to leave, but as she did so, she glimpsed the photograph of her and Rupert. It was tucked into the corner of a picture frame. She stood transfixed. He just wanted a photo of me to keep. And unable to bear the thought, she left the room and closed the door.

  The doorbell rang. She jumped, then went to answer it. There stood their family GP, the one who used to come out to see her and Hester when they were ill as children. She let him in. He was as brusque as ever.

  ‘Not much of a Christmas for you, eh? Bad luck. Where is she? Through here?’ He strode into the sitting-room with his bag. Mara watched as he bent down and felt for a pulse. He listened for a moment with his stethoscope and shone a light into her eyes. He closed the lids and stood up.

  ‘She’s dead. Heart attack, probably, but I’m not her doctor so I can’t write a death certificate. There’ll have to be an inquest. Don’t worry – it’s routine. I’ll set things in motion. Parents at church, I suppose? May I use the phone?’

  She pointed to the study door. The doctor disappeared. She heard him talking. Grandma lay as still as ever, seeming to sleep now her eyes were closed. The doctor emerged.

  ‘The police are on their way. Don’t look shocked – they’re the coroner’s representatives. They’ll contact the undertakers who’ll take her to hospital. May take a while as it’s Christmas Day.’ He paused and looked at his watch. ‘Can’t stay, I’m afraid. Sick child to visit.’ She remembered his cold stethoscope on her own chest. ‘Do you want me to fetch someone to sit with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was watching the fire flickering.

  ‘Look at me, Mara.’

  She turned and stared at him. Those eyebrows. They had always fascinated her. Did he comb them downwards into a fringe, or did they grow that way?

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right until your mother gets in?’

  She saw what he was thinking and turned her back on him. Damn you for knowing so much about me.

  ‘Answer me, Mara.’ He took her arm and shook it.

  She rounded on him, face white with rage. ‘I’m still here, aren’t I? I’d have done it by now, if I was going to.’

  His expression changed. ‘Yes, you probably would.’ There was a silence. ‘I’m glad you haven’t.’

  He was still holding her arm. Slowly he turned it over. There lay the scar, like a white snake along her arm. In the church the last carol began to play. He was the only one I didn’t fool, she thought. He knew I was going to try again, and had me sectioned. I hated him for it so much I never gave him the satisfaction of telling him I’d changed my mind. They stood a moment longer.

  ‘It’s faded,’ she said.

  ‘They do. In time.’ He tightened his grip for a second, then was gone.

  Mara went through to the kitchen like a sleepwalker. The vegetables were standing ready, and the Christmas pudding was rattling in its pan on the Aga. There was the teapot. She reached out and touched it. Still hot. Suddenly a wave of panic mounted in her. She fought it blindly. She was an old woman. She died peacefully. There’s nothing I could have done. She hugged her arms round herself, seeing the eyes staring at the ceiling. Her teeth began to chatter. What if she went next door and Grandma rose up to meet her, with those eyes staring, and her hands reaching out, reaching out to clutch at her? Even if she closed the door the hands might come scrabbling at the other side. Oh, come home. Come home, Mother. I should have let the doctor fetch someone. At last the organ began to play again. The service was over. Slowly the terror subsided, and she was left standing in the kitchen listening to the pudding as it rattled cheerfully. Her mother would be another quarter of an hour or so, greeting people and talking. Then she would come home. Then the police would arrive. Then her father, back from doing sick communions. Then the undertakers, maybe. And then they’d be a houseful for Christmas after all.

  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 f
rost 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.