Angels and Men

by Catherine Fox

  ‘Long fair hair?’ My voice sounds strange.

  The polecat inclined his head. ‘I saw Nigel forcibly ejecting her from the dining-room the other day. At your request, he said. Anyway, there’s now a little note in the porter’s lodge to the effect that nobody is to be given your keys.’

  She’ll find a way. Thank God she wasn’t waiting for me. Going through my things. Mara felt a scream welling up in her. Her attention was called back as she felt the polecat tugging gently on her hair.

  ‘I take it I did the right thing.’ He was watching her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said absently. ‘Yes.’ Then suddenly she thought, Beautiful? and she looked at him in astonishment. Had he really said that? All at once she felt too shy to meet his gaze. He let go of her hair, and she turned away from him and opened her door. There on the carpet lay a note. She stooped and picked it up. It must have been pushed under the door. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but a sudden dread seized her. She opened it, saw the words message and the Lord, and her hands began to tremble. The polecat stepped forward.

  ‘From her?’ She nodded. He took the letter and tore it up. ‘Forget it. You never even saw it.’ He turned to go back to his room. She called him back.

  ‘Andrew.’ They both stood still in complete astonishment that she should have spoken his name. ‘If she comes up here, and you see her, will you get rid of her?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this the woman who can face Rupert Anderson without flinching?’

  She tried to think of some sneering response, but in vain. In the end she shut the door on him to hide her mounting tears. Work. I must work. Her hands fumbled around on the desk among her books and notes. Oh, what am I going to do? What am I going to do? She opened a drawer. There lay the angel picture. She pulled it out and unfolded it. There were no men. Nothing but women and angels. She took hold of her pencil and began to draw. Men in their buildings. Men in their churches. In charge. In control. They had their feet firmly on the ground, while high over their heads went the women and the angels, walking on the wings of the wind.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘It’s probably time you were thinking in terms of a piece of written work. Before Easter, if possible.’ The tutorial was ending. ‘Let’s say, about ten thousand words.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mara. Dr Roe was beginning to elaborate when the phone rang. Mara let her mind drift away as the conversation went on. She looked across at the window. The hyacinth jar was empty now, the bloom faded and thrown away. I never did buy one of my own, she thought. Everything seemed muffled and strangely distant, as though she were viewing the world through a diver’s helmet. The students in the corridors and streets might be shoals of fish, their mouths opening and shutting meaninglessly as they swam past. Dr Roe was replacing the receiver.

  ‘Sorry about that. Now, this piece of written work.’ They spoke about Mara’s studies a while longer, then fixed another tutorial.

  ‘Do you think it’s been helping at all?’ Mara looked blank. ‘You mentioned last term that one of the reasons you wanted to study this subject was . . .’ Dr Roe paused, perhaps having forgotten the awkward phrase Mara had blurted out. ‘Make sense of certain things.’ Had it helped?

  ‘Not really,’ she said. She had wanted it to be like the intense study of one tiny island – flora, fauna, climate, etc. – from which she could extrapolate knowledge about the whole chaotic archipelago of religious experience. But she had made Sinbad’s mistake. The island was the back of a vast slumbering sea beast, and it was waking at last, disturbed by her minute proddings and skittering feet. Leviathan. He maketh the deep to boil like a pot. Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear. Mara realized that Dr Roe had asked her something and she had missed it.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, and added wildly, ‘I was thinking about Leviathan.’

  ‘Ah, Hobbes. Yes, that might be an interesting angle. I’ll be interested to see what you make of it.’

  Damn. Now I’ll have to read the bugger, she thought. ‘You asked me something, I think,’ said Mara, retreating hurriedly from the treacherous sand bars of seventeenth-century philosophy.

  ‘Yes, I was wondering whether you’re free next Friday evening.’ Oh no. ‘I’m having a few friends round for supper, and wondered if you’d like to come?’

  ‘Next Friday?’ Mara pretended to think. ‘What a shame’ – she heard her mother’s polite getting-out-of-invitations voice – ‘I’m afraid I can’t make that.’

  ‘What a pity. Never mind.’ The other woman smiled. ‘Another time.’

  She knows. Mara rose to leave, feeling callous, yet too listless, somehow, to make amends. They said goodbye, and Mara started down the stairs.

  The air outside was cold and foggy. Above the rooftops the sun was a pale disc coming and going behind the dirty clouds. It was Lent, and the whole world seemed to be locked in penance. As she walked, Mara caught herself thinking, I wish it were all over. I wish it would pass. I wish I were dead and sleeping in my grave. Ahead of her was a group of students, dawdling and talking. Their laughter echoed in the street.

  ‘I’m going to go and open all my Valentines, now,’ said one. Of course. Valentine’s Day. She’d always hated it. To those who have will more be given, she thought. People like me just have to pretend we don’t care. She entered the college and went straight in to lunch without bothering to check her pigeon-hole.

  She was joined at the table by Maddy and May.

  ‘What a tiring morning,’ said Maddy. ‘I’ve only just this minute finished opening my Valentines. I’ve been saying for years now that I must hire a part-time secretary.’

  ‘Did you get any, Mara?’ asked May.

  I bet they’ve sent me one, thought Mara suddenly. Just like my mother used to, in case I felt jealous of Hester. ‘I haven’t looked.’

  ‘What! Unnatural woman!’ cried Maddy. ‘I’ll go and check for you.’ And off she went before Mara could say anything.

  ‘We sent dozens,’ said May. Mara made no reply. ‘With sonnets and acrostics in. It took us hours.’

  And I bet they’re complaining about essay crises by the end of the week.

  Maddy reappeared, brandishing a handful of envelopes. Mara prepared a bland expression.

  ‘Four!’ exclaimed Maddy. ‘And a note from somebody.’ She handed them over.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mara, putting them down and picking up her fork again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open them?’ asked May in astonishment.

  ‘I’m eating my lunch.’ She continued calmly with her meal while they abused and cajoled her by turns. Even the magic word ‘Princess’ could not provoke her to open a single card, however. Their attack changed direction.

  ‘I suppose you’re not coming to the college Valentine party tonight, either,’ accused Maddy.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Oh, but you must, Mara,’ begged May. ‘We missed you at Rupert’s Christmas party. You’ve got to come!’

  ‘I hate Sixties parties.’

  ‘Why?’ they asked.

  ‘Miniskirts. It’s just a male fantasy.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to wear one,’ pointed out Maddy. ‘You could wear hotpants instead.’ They amused themselves for some time with similar suggestions, and in the end Mara left in disgust.

  ‘You’re such a prude,’ was Maddy’s parting shot.

  It was not until she was climbing the stairs that Mara remembered. ‘And a note from somebody . . .’ Oh no. She fumbled through the envelopes until she found it. It was typed. She was so convinced that it was from Joanna that for a moment she could not make sense of its contents. At last it took on some coherence. I should be grateful if you would come and see me. The Principal. Why? Was this just a routine chatting to postgrads, or had some rumour reached him? She looked at the note again. Four-thirty on the fourteenth. But that’s today. It was such short notice that she began to fear he really had heard something. ‘Your friends are concerned about you,’ the Princ
ipal might say. Well, she’d be able to fob him off. She’d lied through her teeth to any number of would-be counsellors in the past.

  She climbed the last flight of stairs to her room and was feeling for her keys when she saw a bouquet of flowers propped up against her door. Red roses. Her hand flew to her mouth in alarm. They couldn’t be for her! But the card bore her name. She caught them up and let herself swiftly into her room. Her heart was pounding. Who had done this? The handwriting would tell her nothing. They had been delivered by a florist. Suddenly she smiled in relief. Mother. Of course. Just the sort of thing she’d do to cheer her up. She opened the card. For my Princess. Oh, God. Rupert. Or Johnny. Or the polecat, even. She should have been pleased. Instead she felt like the victim of a practical joke. She stood holding them. What am I going to do? Put them in water, at least. She took them out of their cellophane. I don’t even have a vase. I can’t bear to ask the polecat. Maybe the field mice can lend me one? She went to see.

  ‘We saw the bouquet,’ said the smaller of the two as she handed Mara the vase.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mara. They smiled shyly at her, clearly hoping to be told more. ‘Thanks for this.’ She gestured awkwardly with the vase, and left them disappointed.

  Mara arranged the roses perfunctorily and put them on the mantelpiece. Right. Work. She turned back to her desk. The cards. She felt an urge to throw them unopened into the bin, but found that even she was not that unnatural. She tore them open one after another, and couldn’t guess who had sent a single one of them. It was worse than getting no cards at all. But she put them on the mantelpiece beside the roses before opening her books.

  The bells chimed four-thirty and Mara made her way down the steps to the Principal’s study. She knocked and he called her in.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I like to see my postgrads every so often.’ His urbane charm struck her afresh. A bishop in the making? Yes, the episcopal aura hovered over his head like a polite mauve halo. ‘How’s your research going?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘Now, remind me – this is a one-year MA course?’ She nodded. ‘Are you intending to upgrade it to a PhD?’ No, she thought with sudden violence. Never. ‘I only ask, because if you are, you need to plan ahead a little. The applications for scholarships have to be in by May the first.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Good. Talk it over with Dr Roe.’ She nodded. There was a pause. Now he’s going to ask the real questions. ‘And you’re enjoying college life?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ He was sitting watching her, his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingertips touching one another. A bishop’s body language. ‘Good,’ he repeated. She met his gaze. They were both playing their cards so close to their chests that it was impossible to tell whether they were even playing the same game.

  ‘You probably know that I’m your moral tutor. Personal tutor, as we say these days.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Or we could easily arrange for you to talk to someone else, if you’d prefer.’

  ‘No.’ He continued to sit watching her over his half-praying hands. ‘Forgive me, but you seem to have been unhappy this term.’

  She flushed. Impossible to deny the charge. She seized on the nearest thought: ‘My grandmother died this Christmas.’ The words felt like a betrayal.

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry.’ Would it satisfy him? ‘Were you close?’ She nodded. ‘Was it sudden?’

  ‘Heart attack.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She had an image of Grandma lying on the sitting-room carpet, eyes staring at the ceiling. ‘Is there anything else that’s troubling you? Would it help to talk?’

  ‘No,’ she said suddenly. ‘I want to sort it out by myself.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ She was cornered, but was ready to fight for her right to be left alone. He inclined his head in deference to her choice. ‘Well, I’m sure you have friends you can talk to, in any case.’

  A picture of Rupert in mid-lecture came to mind. ‘Hah. They talk to me, mostly.’

  And the Principal smiled, as if Rupert had just appeared in his mind too. ‘Yes. I’m sure you have no shortage of moral tutors.’

  She almost smiled back. Never before had her morals been so thoroughly tutored.

  ‘Well,’ he said in a concluding sort of tone, ‘I mustn’t keep you. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?’

  She nodded and made for the door. Her hand was on the door knob when a thought flashed through her mind. She turned.

  ‘There is something.’ He waited. Oh, God. How can I put this without sounding petty and stupid? ‘There’s the girl . . . Joanna something.’ Her hand groped behind her back for the end of her plait. ‘She says she’s applied to Jesus. From another college.’ The Principal inclined his head. She really has! In her panic she plunged on: ‘Well, if she comes here, I’m leaving.’

  There was a terrible silence. If she could have grabbed the words back and devoured them she would have done. The Principal looked at her in silence.

  ‘Can I ask why?’ he said at last.

  ‘Because . . . Because I think she’s dangerous. Unbalanced.’ She saw a look cross his face. Know thyself, it seemed to say. In desperation she took a step towards him. ‘Please. No one believes me. She’s deluded. I’ve met people like that before.’

  There was another awful silence.

  ‘I haven’t offered her a place yet,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll certainly consider what you say.’ No you won’t. ‘I’m intending to interview her next week.’ She’ll be polite and rational, and he’ll ask himself, Which of these two young women seems the most sane to me? Which would I prefer to have in my college? There’s no one to speak out for me. The others think I’m horrible to her. Unless . . .

  ‘You could talk to Andrew,’ she said.

  ‘Andrew Jacks?’ She nodded. ‘Thank you.’ He made a note. She waited miserably for him to dismiss her again. He rose.

  ‘Don’t worry unduly,’ he said, crossing the room to open the door for her. ‘I’ll let you know my decision. Goodbye.’

  She blundered off up the stairs again and sat down at once to work.

  It was evening. The building shook with the first bars of party music. Mara sat at her desk staring fixedly at the page in front of her. She was beginning to wish she had not been so stubborn. The whole college would be there, both halls. She bent her mind forcibly back to her studies, but she had read only one paragraph when there was a knock at the door. Will they never give up?

  ‘What?’ she snarled.

  The door opened and the polecat entered in tails. She looked him over disdainfully. Well, I suppose someone must have been wearing tails in the Sixties.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘No.’

  He came over and leant against her desk. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I hate Sixties parties.’

  ‘Why, Princess?’

  ‘The clothes.’

  He swung his leg casually back and forwards, watching her face. The music boomed three floors below.

  ‘I’ll lend you my dinner suit.’

  ‘No,’ she said automatically. There was a pause. Or then again . . . She began to waver, and saw a sardonic smile appear on his lips. Well, she’d never be able to work with all the noise, anyway. He vanished and returned almost at once with the suit. She took it from him and examined it.

  ‘Bespoke,’ she said.

  ‘But not by me.’

  ‘A dead man’s suit?’

  She looked at him. His eyes were gleaming in amusement. She waited for him to leave so that she could change, but he seemed not to notice. Excuse me, she thought as he leant back against the desk again. He caught her expression, and with a look of surprise, shrugged and left. She pulled the shirt on over her camisole, and fiddled clumsily with the cuff-links. The trousers were going to need – ah, braces. She fastened them inexpertly. Tricky business being
a man. She found a belt of her own and fastened it round her waist for good measure. The jacket was too broad across the shoulders. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt in the pocket for the bow-tie. Damn, she thought as she drew it out. How on earth do you –

  At that point the polecat returned. ‘Let me.’ He came up behind her. She looked in the mirror and saw his head beside hers, eyes concentrating on his fingers as they began to form the knot. She could feel his body against hers. Her heart began to race. Then he paused. He undid the knot again, and she watched in shock as his fingers began undoing the buttons of the shirt. She caught his hands, but he continued to the next button.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Mara.’ She stared at his reflection in amazement.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He had that classic male ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about – nothing could be further from my mind’ look. He pulled the shirt open so that the camisole showed, leaving the tie draped round the collar. ‘Much better,’ he commented. ‘It looks too butch done up.’

  She felt his hands undoing her plait, and she stood mute. I never know what he’s playing at. Her curls slid free and he ran his hands through her hair. She watched his face, but could read nothing there. He just looked like an artist at work, a couturier or coiffeur creating a masterpiece. He turned her round to face him.

  ‘You need a buttonhole.’ The roses, she thought, her eyes darting towards the mantelpiece.

  He followed her glance. ‘Oho.’ She flushed. ‘And who are they from?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered.

  He went across and broke one off. ‘Watch their eyes,’ He fixed the rose to her lapel. ‘You’ll know the right man by his reaction to this.’ Did he already know? ‘There.’ He stepped back to admire his work. What’s he playing at?