‘I think Andrew’s got your keys,’ said her mother, seeming to guess what Mara was wondering. ‘He said you dropped them, or something.’ That was it. Yes. As I ran from the building all those weeks ago. She heard them falling again in her memory, clashing on the stone steps. He must have told her the whole story. Mara began to climb again, trying to block out the picture of herself as Andrew must have seen her last: screeching and clawing like a soul sliding into hell. Her knees were trembling as she reached his door. There was a note pinned on it. Piss off, it said in Andrew’s immaculate script. His idea of a ‘Do not disturb’ sign. She knocked. The door opened and there he was, the same as ever.
‘Can’t you read?’
‘Just give me the keys, you prick.’
‘Darling!’ protested her mother.
‘I see you’re feeling better,’ said Andrew.
They watched one another for a moment, then he smiled and drew her into his arms. I’ve really missed him, she thought in amazement. ‘Cashmere?’ He stroked the arm of her pullover. Her mother had bought it as a cheering-up present. ‘Unusual colour. It suits you.’ The colour of dark red peonies. ‘You still look like a suffragette on hunger strike, though.’
‘Andrew!’ Her mother was clearly going to spend the rest of the afternoon scandalized.
Andrew went to fetch the keys.
‘May I watch?’ he asked, handing them over. Mara’s mother looked slightly flustered.
‘Andrew helped me choose things for your room. I hope you don’t mind, darling.’
Now this will be interesting, thought Mara as she unlocked her door. She stepped in.
‘Oh!’
The room was transformed. Not a William Morris touch in sight; just plain, strong colours – dark green, wine-red, blue. The white walls which before had seemed so stark now looked cool and clear. Mara’s eye travelled swiftly round. Plants, flowers, a rug with colours like jewels, and on the window-sill a red glass bowl lit up by the afternoon sun. The whole room sang with light and colour. She turned and saw Andrew link his arm through her mother’s. The two of them stood watching her.
‘She likes it,’ said Andrew.
‘Oh, do you really, darling?’ Her mother was less sure.
‘I love it.’
Mara’s eyes swept round once more, then she glanced back at Andrew. He raised an eyebrow. There’s some trick. Some clever joke of his that I’ve missed. She looked round again, this time more carefully. There was an old bent-wood hatstand with all her hats hanging on it. She smiled. This was her mother’s touch. She went across and hung up the cloak she was holding.
‘What’s this?’ She pointed to one of the plants.
‘It’s a pineapple plant,’ said her mother. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ Mara reached out a finger to touch a beautiful serrated spike. ‘Careful – it’s extremely sharp.’ A metaphor in a pot? Mara shot Andrew another glance. His eyes glinted maliciously. Very clever. But there was something else. She could see he was still waiting. The room reminded her obscurely of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, painting away, working their gem-like colours into a wet white canvas. She stood wondering, but after a moment noticed her mother glancing at the wall behind her. Mara turned and saw the mirror. She laughed out loud.
‘I like it!’
‘Well . . . Good.’
Her mother’s face looked doubtful, and Mara could see she was wondering how anyone could genuinely like such a florid Victorian monstrosity, with its gilt cherubs, swags and scrolls. Mara walked across to it and touched the glass with a fingertip. She watched her mother and Andrew in the mirror as they turned to one another with a smile. I told you so, said Andrew’s look, and her mother shrugged in happy defeat. Mara pictured them in some junk shop, Andrew insisting that the mirror be bought and her mother in agonies, torn between good taste and good manners. As she watched them, she began to sense a quotation hovering. She could hear its insistent rhythm: te-tum te-tum te-tum. What was it?
‘Why don’t I put the kettle on?’ asked her mother. ‘I’ve brought you various goodies.’
‘Thank you.’
Her mother began to busy herself. Mara watched her reflection. She was still so beautiful. No grey in the smooth black hair. She looked up at Mara’s face in the mirror and they smiled at each other.
‘I’ll just go and get the milk from the fridge.’ Her mother left the room and Mara rested her elbows on the mantelpiece and frowned into the mirror. Aha – te-tum te-tum te-tum te-tee. The Lady of Shalott . . . Of course. She looked at Andrew’s reflection. Was that his nickname for her? Weaving away at her web in her solitary room, watching the world in a mirror. Andrew came and stood behind her, leaning his chin on her shoulder. She scowled at him.
‘What, Princess?’ His arms were resting on hers as they studied one another in the mirror.
‘Shouldn’t it be cracked from side to side?’
‘Clever woman,’ he said with a smile. ‘You know your Tennyson.’
‘You’re such a bastard.’ She could hear her mother’s footsteps coming back along the corridor.
He bent his head and kissed the side of her neck softly. ‘I missed you.’ He moved away as her mother came back into the room, but Mara continued to stand with her arms on the mantelpiece, watching the two of them with the teapot and cups. She could still feel the place where his lips had touched her.
Mara’s mother began telling Andrew about some china she had discovered in Grandma’s hoard. On the chest of drawers stood a large expensive-looking plant in a terracotta pot. There was an envelope leaning against it which Mara had not noticed before. She opened it and drew out a card. ‘Welcome back,’ she read, ‘hope you’re feeling better. From the JCR.’ She stared in disbelief. She hardly deserved one small cactus even. However much money had they spent? She couldn’t believe they’d done this. Unless Andrew had gone round asking for donations. That might well have sent a spasm of terrified generosity through the college. Like giving the Mafia a flag day. But for all her sarcasm she could feel tears pricking her eyes.
*
Her mother had gone. Mara stood alone on the college steps, feeling like an abandoned child. She had wanted to plead with her mother to stay, and she knew she longed to be pleaded with, and yet neither of them said anything. At last Mara turned and went back through the door up to her room.
Andrew was sitting on her desk, swinging a foot idly. There was silence, then the familiar sound of the cathedral bells chiming four o’clock. Mara sighed and wandered restlessly to the window and looked down to the river far below. Flowing down to Camelot. She dashed the quotation from her mind in exasperation. You horrible man, she thought, looking at Andrew. He smiled at her. He’s even done the washing-up, she thought, seeing the cups and saucers stacked neatly on the desk. Maybe everything would be all right. She felt herself begin to relax when the memory of Joanna burst into her mind. A cold hand seemed to grab her throat.
‘Calm down.’ Andrew was there taking her hands. ‘Breathe slowly. Come on: slowly, or you’ll pass out again.’
‘Did Joanna come back?’
‘No. And she won’t, either.’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘Oh, I do.’ He was smiling again. ‘I went and found her in her college and we had a little chat. She’s agreed not to pester you again.’ But God told her to.
‘What did you do to her?’
‘Oh, nothing much. Bared my fangs a little.’
‘But what if she gets a place here?’
‘I’ve talked to the Principal. He won’t offer her a place.’ Thank God! ‘Look, if the worst comes to the worst, you can take out an injunction against her, Mara. I think you’ll find I’ve saved you the trouble, however.’
‘But you’re competing with God! She won’t do what you say.’
‘Trust me.’
‘You’re not omnipotent, Andrew.’
‘You try crossing me sometime, Princess. You’ve no idea how unpleasant I can be when the whim takes m
e.’ She felt her jaw tighten. ‘I am going to make you sort your life out, Princess.’
‘I can sort my own life out.’
‘Manifestly untrue. Come here.’ He patted the desk and she went and sat beside him putting on her blank, offensive stare. He smirked. ‘You’re going to hate me.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Yes you are. I’ve decided to be your self-appointed moral tutor cum therapist.’ She felt a blaze of anger, but the smile on his lips told her that this was what he intended. She stamped the rage out. ‘You need me, little one. You spend your whole life blocking out and losing the things you don’t want to face.’ Her stare was back in place.
‘Fine.’
‘OK.’ He looked a little cheated. Good.
‘So what will you do now?’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She stared at the piles of notes and papers. ‘Sort my desk out, I suppose.’ An expression flickered across his face. He’s been going through my things! Of course he had. He’d had her keys, hadn’t he? For a moment she almost lost her grip. He was smirking at her again as she struggled. ‘Find anything interesting, did you?’ she managed at last.
‘Oh, yes. I didn’t know you could draw, by the way.’ Her face burned. He’d found the black book. Her only consolation was that she didn’t keep a journal. ‘I particularly liked the angel picture.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. He opened her desk drawer and pulled it out. As she looked at it, she saw that it might as well have been a journal: her father in his study with a ‘Do not disturb’ sign; Rupert in his pulpit saying, The trouble with you, Mara; Johnny the Pied Piper followed by rat women. It revealed more than she dared to think. Andrew looked up from the picture.
‘But where am I?’
‘Nowhere. You don’t feature in my world.’
He laughed. ‘I said you’d hate me.’
She seized a pencil and began to draw him, camp and decorative as an Aubrey Beardsley, lounging on a cloud with a whisky glass. Up among the women.
‘I hope I’m not an honorary woman.’
She added a pair of wings. ‘An honorary angel.’ She looked up, and saw that for once he did not know how to respond. All she needed now was an apposite quotation. Shakespeare? No, something he won’t be able to locate. Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, she wrote, for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. Wasn’t that his philosophy? She straightened up and looked him in the face.
‘Ecclesiastes,’ he said.
‘Clever man. You know your Bible.’
He gave her a contemptuous look. ‘Don’t you know a fallen choirboy when you see one?’
She folded up the picture and put it back in the drawer. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where?’
‘To find Rupert.’ She saw him register this with surprise. ‘Was that on your little list of things to nag me about?’ He looked at her with distaste. A thought struck her. ‘Do you happen to know whether . . . whether he and Johnny . . . well . . . argued? About me, I mean?’
‘The clash of the Titans,’ he answered. ‘Want to hear about it?’
‘No.’ Curious though she was, she couldn’t bear to listen to his malicious paraphrase.
‘Rupert blames himself for your misfortune, you realize.’ ‘I blame myself for this,’ the anguished Rupert cried.
‘Why?’
‘God knows. You were clearly a basket case long before he met you.’ With these words he left the room.
She listened to him moving about next door. A moment or so later she heard his door open and close, then the sound of his footsteps going off along the corridor and down the stairs. Thank God. She sat at her desk. I won’t go and see Rupert quite yet, she thought. I need a minute to compose myself. She was still raw from Andrew’s treatment of her. If she went now she knew she would only burst into tears. Why had he taken it upon himself to sort her life out? I suppose he thinks it’s for my good. She felt another surge of rage, knowing she was powerless to stop him. She put her head in her hands, foreseeing months of him relentlessly laying bare her weaknesses. Perhaps if she could guess what he was intending to tackle her about, if she made a list of the things which she was avoiding . . . She had an appealing vision of herself answering Andrew’s inquisition in a cool negligent tone. ‘Oh, that. I’ve thought about that, done that.’ The urge to piss someone else off was not the most noble reason in the world for soul-searching, but it would have to do.
The bells chimed reassuringly. At least she had dared to come back. After a while she began to hear a voice murmuring in her memory. His voice. The leader of the Church of the Revelation. What was his name? She had refused to say or even think it for so many years that now she could no longer remember. His face was erased, too. But she could still hear the cadences of his voice, and at last, as she waited, she heard the words:
‘There’s a lot of talk about the role of women in our society today. And there’s a lot of talk about the role of women in the old denominations. But God has called us out of the old ways, brothers and sisters. He’s doing a new thing. He’s laying bare his mighty arm afresh in our generation, sending forth his mighty Word, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even unto the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow. And this is why I say there’s a lot of talk about the role of women in the old denominations and in our society. A lot of talk, but not much obedience. Not much obedience to the sovereign will of God. Because the Word of God makes God’s will about men and women very plain to us, brothers and sisters. “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is head of the Church.” This is what the Bible says. There are some who would say that this is out of date. Well, it is – and I praise God for that. It’s nearly two thousand years out of date, but it’s still the Word and will of God, who is the same yesterday, and today and for ever. Hallelujah!’
In her memory Mara heard all the congregation calling out, ‘Hallelujah! Thank you Jesus!’ She could see Hester’s rapt expression, her eyes shining as she listened. What’s wrong with me? she thought. Am I the only one here who wants to shout no? A band of tension gripped her forehead, pressing tighter, tighter, as if her head were in a vice. Why couldn’t she believe like Hester did? Behind her she could hear a woman start to sob. ‘Pray for our sister, there,’ said the leader. ‘Those around lay hands on her and pray for her. The Lord’s touching her heart now and doing a lovely work of healing.’ Mara could not bring herself to turn. She could hear people all around murmuring, praying in tongues. What if they were praying for her? Maybe they could all see her sinful rebellion. Maybe she needed their prayers. Why is my heart so hard? The leader began again. His voice was gentle now.
‘I know this is a hard teaching for some of you.’ Mara flinched. He seemed to be looking at her. ‘The Lord’s saying that there’s one young woman here tonight who has been listening to the whispering voice of the tempter as he speaks through the mouth of the media, through the mouth of feminist literature. The Devil’s been telling you that the Bible is wrong, that it puts women down. But I want to say to you that this is a lie!’ Mara jumped as he shouted the word. How could he know what she was thinking? The voice grew soft again, as though she were the only other person in the room. ‘But the Lord knows your heart, my sister. He knows how your earnest desire is to serve him, and he’ll honour that. God longs to raise women up, not put them down. Submission isn’t slavery – it’s a joy, a privilege.’
Mara brought her fists down suddenly on the desk, making the cups and saucers rattle. How did I stand it? The intolerable pressure of trying to believe a lie – feeling the plates of your mind grating against one another, glimpsing the molten wrath through the cracks, building up, building up, until one day, boom! Your landscape is obliterated. Shock waves travel halfway round the earth. ‘Cognitive dissonance’ was what the experts called it. Krakatoa in your skull.
If I hadn’t believed it all so fiercely in the first place it would never have come to this. But how could you be lukewarm? Either it was true and the Kingdom of God was breaking in, or it was nothing but lies, filth and manipulation. There was no neutral ground with miracles, no way of saying ‘how fascinating’ over your sherry glass if someone had been healed. And people had been healed. She had seen, and sceptic though she was, there had been no denying it. And to this day, she could make no sense of it. If it meant anything at all, it must mean everything: the end of the age, the Coming of Christ. She sighed. And the wreck of a faith like this was great indeed.
A polite inherited Anglicanism would never go down like that. It would simply be de-commissioned and left to rust in a quiet dock. She put her head in her hands again.
She set off at last for Rupert’s room. She was passing the dining-room when Nigel emerged from the doorway of the servery as though he had been lying in wait.
‘Well, well. Look who’s back,’ he said with a friendly leer. The corridor was too narrow for Mara to back off and she felt herself being clutched round the waist. ‘And how are you, my beautiful?’
‘All right.’ The words just managed to escape between her tight lips. His face was eighteen inches too close.
‘Have a nice time with the monks, did you?’
His innuendo stuck to her like flypaper, giving her an uncharacteristic urge to reply in kind: ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ Instead she answered, ‘Yes, thank you.’
His hand strayed from her waist to the small of her back and lingered there. ‘Smack him round the head,’ commanded the fishwife, as Nigel ran his eyes over her.
‘Still a bit thin, aren’t you?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘I’ll say you’re all right.’ He waggled his eyebrows salaciously. Mara stepped away in disgust. ‘Hang on – I haven’t finished with you yet.’ He clutched her again. ‘Now, just you make sure you come in for every meal like a good girl. I want to see a clean plate, or I won’t let you out of the dining-room. I’m serious.’ He wagged a finger.
Angels and Men Page 25
