‘I don’t think I can, Rupert.’
‘Because of . . . ?’ She shook her head. ‘Then why not?’
‘I’ve told you before why not.’
She saw a flash of impatience. ‘It’s only a ball, Mara, not a marriage contract.’
Her jaw tightened. Only a ball. Like Johnny saying ‘just a kiss’. ‘No. Sorry.’ But he was going to argue. She knew that expression too well.
‘Mara, I know you say you’d never marry a priest.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you probably know what I think about that.’
‘Yes.’ She waited stubbornly.
‘I don’t suppose – hypothetically, of course – that you’d marry a solicitor?’
Oh, God. ‘Not . . . not if he’d given up his calling to the priesthood just because of me.’
‘You won’t marry me if I’m ordained. You won’t marry me if I’m not ordained. Good God, what have I got to do? Are you saying you won’t marry me, full stop?’ He saw her expression. ‘You are saying that. But I thought – you let me believe that . . .’
Was he remembering that afternoon in the woods and thinking, Maybe that was nothing to her as well? She waited for him to fling accusations at her, call her names, but he did not. It would have been better if he had. Anything would have been better than this white-faced honourable silence.
‘I seem to have been incredibly dense,’ he said finally.
Her tears spilled over. ‘I’m sorry.’ But there was a hard kernel of relief in her mind and she hated herself.
‘I’d better go.’ It was over. ‘Sorry if I’ve been . . . um . . . too persistent.’
‘It’s OK, Rupert.’
She had a sudden dread of him saying, ‘I hope we can always be friends,’ and of herself finding it funny. She bit her lips hard. He kissed her cheek and turned to leave. Thank God.
He paused at the door and said in his usual voice, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Johnny at all?’
Her hand flew to her throat again. ‘Not since yesterday.’ She managed to keep her voice level, but her gesture had already betrayed her. He knows. She flushed to the roots of her hair. He left without another word.
The smell of dinner came wafting in through the open window from the dining-hall below. Mara looked at her watch. She and Andrew were meant to be having sherry in the Senior Common Room before the formal meal, and she couldn’t decide whether the ordeal of facing it alone was greater than the ordeal of facing Andrew. She pulled on the tatty academic gown she had borrowed from Maddy. She had refused on principle to buy the Cambridge graduate gown she was entitled to wear. Stupid traditions, she thought, scratching at what appeared to be a gravy stain. Andrew would be wearing his immaculate Oxford gown, of course, with its ridiculous long sleeves which looked as though they had been designed for the sole purpose of pinching rare books from the Bodleian without being caught. She could feel her natural belligerence returning. Curious eyes had strayed to her throat at lunchtime, but they had been repelled by her usual offensive stare. The worst ordeal seemed to have been postponed. A rumour was circulating that Johnny had disappeared. His car had gone and no one had seen him all day. She heard the sound of Andrew’s footsteps and hardened herself to give as good as she got. He knocked and entered. She looked him in the face and realized with a sinking heart that he already knew. He must have been in his room last night after all. He drew close and ran a cool finger down her neck. She tried her blank stare.
‘Tacky,’ he said. ‘Whitaker’s workmanship, I presume?’
‘Why ask? I bet you had your ear to the wall.’ He did not deny it.
‘Well, tell me all about it, then. Is he good? How does he compare with Rupert? Let’s hear your verdict on their respective techniques.’ He straightened her gown for her and tucked her hair back, successfully conveying the idea that she looked dishevelled and whorish.
She pushed his hand away and said tightly, ‘We didn’t do it, actually.’
‘You didn’t do it, actually?’ She hated it when he repeated her words like this, like a tutor picking a clumsy phrase out of an undergraduate essay. ‘Why not, Princess?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Why do women always say that? You wouldn’t understand. It’s so patronizing. How do you know I wouldn’t?’
‘We’re going to be late.’ She made for the door, but he pulled her back.
‘No. Come on. Why wouldn’t I understand? Because I’m incapable of emotional insight? Because I’m a man? Because I’m gay?’ She snatched her arm away and left the room. He pursued her down the stairs. ‘Why? Come on, why?’
She turned and burst out, ‘Because you’ve got no conscience.’
‘Ah, conscience, was it? That great preserver of chastity. Your conscience or his?’ He caught her by the gown and looked into her face. Her hands clenched into fists. ‘Yours? I respect you, Mara. And at what point did this conscience of yours kick into play? Before you’d got your skirt round your neck and his face in your cunt?’
‘Shut up. Just shut up!’ She wrenched her sleeve free and ran down the last flight of stairs. He caught her again on the landing outside the Senior Common Room.
‘Just one small point of etiquette before we drop the subject. As far as I’m concerned, Mara, you can shag the entire University 1st XV. That’s perfectly OK. Or you can decide at the last minute you won’t do it, actually. That’s also OK. But what isn’t OK is bleating about your conscience afterwards. Nobody wants to know, Mara. It isn’t interesting.’
Her anger mounted with every sneering word. She knew he was hurt and jealous, but he was not going to get away with this. ‘Oh, just because you’re not getting any, Queenie.’
He went white. ‘Fuck you, you slut!’
Rage blotted out everything. She slapped his face with the whole force of her arm. The noise ricocheted smartly round the hallway. For a second she stood admiring the sound, amazed at what she had done, then she saw he was going to retaliate. She turned to run but he caught her by the gown at the foot of the stairs, hauled her back and slapped her so hard she cried out. They rolled on the stairs pulling hair, hitting, calling names, until a voice like a whip cracked across the landing.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
The Principal revealed in his wrath. Behind him a sea of astonished faces: the entire Senior Common Room and the old farts from the college council. They all stared open-mouthed at the model postgrads sprawled on the stairs.
‘I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour from my students. Kindly conduct this altercation elsewhere.’
There was a swirl of black gown. He was gone. The silence was long and utter. Mara sat appalled. From below came the sound of the students rising to their feet as High Table entered, then the Principal’s voice saying grace, the rumbled ‘Amen’, and finally the hubbub of talk.
‘Oh, God,’ said Andrew. He was laughing. A moment later Mara joined in. They laughed till they wept.
Mara pressed a hand to her stinging cheek. ‘You really hurt me, you sod.’
‘Tough titty. That’s the nuts and bolts of sexual equality, my girl.’
‘You hit me twice as hard as I hit you!’
‘And that,’ he said with his most fiendish smile, ‘is the incontrovertible fact of male superiority. Come on.’ He pulled her to her feet and led her to the nearest bathroom where they both splashed water on their burning faces. They were still shaking with laughter.
‘You’re the most immoral, nasty, vindictive bastard I’ve ever met, Andrew Jacks.’ He looked up at her from the towel. She could still see the slap-mark on his face quite clearly, and her laughter began to tilt over into tears. ‘Andrew, look, I’m –’
He laid a finger on her lips. ‘Don’t say it, Mara.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Love means never having to say you’re sorry.’
‘Love means I get to treat you like shit and you always forgive me.’ He leant forward and kissed her gently on
the cheek where he had hit her. She locked her arms round his neck and he hugged her hard. They stood for a long time without speaking.
At last she said into his gown, ‘Why do I love you so much?’
He stroked her hair and murmured, ‘Because you’re sexually dysfunctional.’ She shoved him away. He grinned, and straightened his gown. She watched him smoothing his hair in the mirror. ‘Ready?’
What? Go down and join the meal? ‘You’re kidding! Andrew, we can’t possibly!’
He put out a hand. ‘Come on.’
She hung back. ‘What will they think?’
‘Who gives a bugger?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Come on. Walk, or be dragged. You choose.’
Suddenly she thought, What the hell. I have nothing left to lose.
They went down the stairs arm in arm and entered the dining-hall to the barrage of hissing and spoon-banging which always greeted latecomers to formal meals. Mara slid into the nearest seat wishing she was dead, but Andrew observed the proper etiquette. She watched as he bowed sardonically to the Principal and to the Senior Man, then, raising a leisurely two fingers to the baying rabble, he took his place at the other end of the table. A lesson in PhD-level chutzpah. She saw him grin at her before beginning a conversation with the old fart on his left. He’s the only man in the whole world I could spend the rest of my life with, she thought.
‘That was death,’ said Mara after the meal was over and they were back in Andrew’s room. He grinned and put the kettle on. She thought again about the Principal’s face. ‘Ought we to apologize?’
‘Oh, I’ll drop him a note.’ Hah, thought Mara. Like hell you will. He saw her expression and got out his fountain pen.
‘Watch me.’ She leant over his shoulder. Expensive notepaper. Naturally. Dear Principal, he wrote. I cannot tell you how deeply I regret the scene you witnessed earlier this evening. I assure you it will not happen again. He signed it and looked up at her. It was such a shameless piece of equivocation that she couldn’t help grinning.
‘Whisky?’ She shuddered and shook her head. ‘Oho. A hangover. So that was it.’ She scowled. ‘A little word of advice, Princess. If you don’t want to screw them, don’t get drunk with them.’
‘I was drunk before he arrived,’ she snapped.
He tutted at this. ‘A little offside, I fear, Whitaker.’ He handed her a mug of coffee.
I’m going to cry, she thought in dismay. A little offside. I can’t bear to have it trivialized like that.
Andrew sat down on the bed beside her and said more seriously, ‘Look, Mara, if you feel like this about him, why don’t you sleep with him? Would it be so very wrong?’
‘I knew he’d regret it. I don’t want to be his sin. I don’t want to be repented of.’
‘I think you’re underestimating the flexibility of the Whitaker conscience.’
‘He would have regretted it,’ she repeated stubbornly.
‘All right,’ said Andrew after a long silence. ‘And now let’s have the real reason. You were scared, Princess.’
She burst into tears. ‘I wasn’t!’ she spat out at last.
‘Of course you were. I’ve never met anyone as uptight about sex as you are, Mara.’
‘I’m not!’ she sobbed. ‘It was him. He was . . . Andrew, he’s just too strong! He wasn’t listening. I said no, but he wouldn’t listen!’ Her voice rose in terror.
‘What – he raped you?’ He was staring at her in amazement.
‘He tried to. He was going to!’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me!’
‘Oh, come on. I’m sure he’s not above an opportunistic legover if you were drunk and seemed willing. But rape?’
‘I said, “Don’t make me,” and he just put his hand over my mouth.’
‘Well, maybe he thought I could hear through the wall.’
‘You think I’m over-reacting!’
‘Well, aren’t you? You weren’t raped, were you? He did the honourable thing.’
‘You’re on his side. You think I was asking for it!’
‘I’m not on anyone’s side, for God’s sake.’
‘You don’t know what it feels like!’ she shouted. ‘To be . . . to be overpowered. There was nothing I could do! He’s five times stronger than I am.’
He put an arm round her. ‘I know. Poor baby. I’m sorry you had a bad time.’ He hugged her, waiting till her tears began to subside. ‘You should have told him you were scared, instead of that crap about him regretting it. Well, so much for his legendary way with women. Either he didn’t realize you were scared, or else he didn’t care. I’m not sure which is worse.’ He was angry.
‘I don’t understand you. You admit you treat me like shit, yet you mind if someone else hurts me.’
‘Naturally. You’re my whipping boy, not his. I’ve put a lot of effort into our relationship.’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘My pleasure. You’re going to have to talk to him when he comes back, you realize.’
‘I daren’t.’
‘You will, though. Or I’ll go and tell him what you’ve just told me.’
‘No!’
‘Come on. He’s not a monster.’
‘He behaved like one.’
Andrew stood up and put on a cassette. Plainsong. She listened as the chanting voices wove their long, clear thread of music. He poured himself some whisky and let out another long sigh.
‘You’re sick of me,’ she said.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ He sat down beside her again and leant back against the wall. ‘Come on,’ he said, reaching out an arm. She rested her head on his chest listening to his slow heartbeat. The voices sang on, chaste and passionate, and her head rose and fell slightly with his breathing. She began to drowse. After a while she heard his heartbeat quicken. His hand began to smooth her hair back from her forehead. He took a mouthful of whisky and swallowed.
‘For what it’s worth, I do know what it feels like. I had a pretty rough initiation, as it happens.’ She dared not move. His voice sounded calm, but his hand trembled slightly as he continued to stroke her hair. ‘Some man I had a thing about. I probably made a nuisance of myself. I was sixteen. Anyway. I was drunk and he took me back to his place. Before I knew what was happening, he had a friend there with him.’ He paused and drank some more whisky. ‘Basically they just took turns. I imagine I was being taught a lesson.’ He drew a deep breath and she felt the tremor at the end of it. ‘Christ. I thought I was over this.’ He was crying. He hugged her head close to him, not letting her look up and see. She lay still in his arms, weeping for him. Eventually she felt the tension leave his body. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and downed the rest of his whisky. A moment later he let her sit up.
‘Do you hate them?’ she asked.
He stared down at his glass for a long time before speaking. ‘No. Not really.’ He looked up at her. ‘In the end you’re responsible for how you deal with what’s happened to you.’
‘But – no matter what it was?’
‘I think so.’
‘But that’s . . . It’s very harsh, Andrew.’
‘Yes.’ The tape ended with a click and they sat in silence. ‘Look, Mara, you can waste your whole life hating and blaming. Yourself or other people. I’d just rather move on.’
‘I can’t.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s your choice.’
‘It’s not a choice. You can’t say that! What if people have been hurt so much that they can’t help themselves?’
‘Then they need a saviour.’ He stood up and crossed himself like a priest in a pulpit. ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .’ He poured himself some more whisky. She watched as he raised the glass sardonically.
I hate them even if you don’t, she thought. Taking turns. I can’t bear it. ‘But are you happy?’ she persisted.
He leant back against the desk and watched her in amusement. ‘As a sandboy.’ She saw a flicker of a grin
. ‘And I have great sex, Princess.’
‘Stop boasting.’
‘Another time,’ he said, ‘just knock on the wall and I’ll come and take him off your hands.’
The days went slowly past. Johnny did not return. Various theories circulated about his absence. Mara bore them in silence. She began to wonder if Andrew was right. After all, he was a shrewder judge of character than she was. He has to be right, she said to herself. Johnny wouldn’t have forced me. It was my fault for not saying how scared I was.
The exam period was drawing to a close and she found herself longing for the end of term. She had almost decided to abandon her research in order to paint, but she was held back by worries about money. If she devoted herself to painting she would starve. If she got a job to support herself she would have no time to paint. Apart from evenings and weekends, of course, but if she was only going to paint in her spare time, why not combine it with a PhD instead? She could return home to her parents, but the thought was more than she could bear. As her mind was tramping wearily round this circuit of possibilities after lunch one day, there was a knock on the door. She leapt, but it was only May.
‘The kettle’s just boiled,’ Mara said. May made herself some coffee and went and sat beside Mara at the window. They both gazed down at the students sunbathing on the terrace and at the riverbank below them.
‘Maddy’s gone to revise in Cuchulain’s room,’ said May. This was her name for Kieran. ‘Revise, ha ha. They’re sleeping together, you know. Do you think it’s wrong?’ Only vicars’ daughters could still ask that, thought Mara.
‘I think Maddy thinks it is.’
‘They’re forever springing apart when I come into the room. I refuse to knock on principle. Why should I? It’s my room, too.’ She began to pick at the blistered paint on the window sill. ‘I have to trample noisily up the stairs so that they can unglue themselves from one another’s orifices in time.’ She’s really upset about it, thought Mara in surprise. May sighed. ‘Oh, well. It’s that time of year, I suppose. The pheromones are all frolicking and the young man’s fancy turns lightly to the thought of love.’ There was a pause, and Mara discerned the faint spectre of Andrew hovering on the fringes of May’s conversation. How would she work the topic round? They were both staring down at the riverbank and the wind ruffling the leaves.
Angels and Men Page 38
