Air and Angels (20 page)

‘Oh,
how vexing!’

They were playing in the drawing-room after tea. The lamps were already lit, it was so dark outside, dark and wet, had been like it the whole day. England was grey again, there had been one glimpse of spring, one sunlit day. Nothing more.

‘Is that how you would describe yourself?’

Old Mrs Gray peered at her over the top of her half-spectacles, over her hand of cards.

‘An older
girl?’

‘I suppose – or a young woman?’

‘You are both. You are of an age when you may be anything. Like me. I would tell you to make the most of it but I need not, because, you see, if you are lucky, it all comes round again.’

But she saw that, of course, Kitty did not understand.

‘Whereas Florence …’ and she selected a ten of clubs and laid it carefully, deliberately down. ‘Florence is what
she is and can be no other.’

‘You mean she is a grown woman?’

‘Florence has always been a grown woman. She was one when she was six. I used to think that if she had had children of her own, she would have had the chance to become a child herself after all. But now I am very doubtful.’

‘It is very hard to imagine people as children, once they are not.’

‘Even me?’

‘No,’ Kitty smiled. ‘No, not
you.’ For it was perfectly true.

‘You are remarkably like your mother when you smile. So you will be as beautiful as she is. I suppose she is still a beauty?’

‘Oh yes. People say it all the time. In Calcutta it is what she is known for. But cousin Florence is beautiful too, do you not think?’

‘No. She is handsome perhaps, but her jaw is too square and forceful for beauty. You see, I do not
think my goose a swan – though she is my only goose.’

‘But you do love her.’

‘Ah. Love.’

‘You must.’

‘Not all mothers love their children. Did no one ever tell you that? Have you not observed it for yourself?’

‘No.’ Kitty felt suddenly disturbed, upset in some vague way that made her feel physically uncomfortable.

‘Well … it is true. An unpleasant fact. But you are quite old enough to have
to face some unpleasant facts.’

The cards rested between them on the low table and limp in their hands, the game was apparently suspended.

‘Do you wonder when life will begin? I daresay you do. You didn’t cross half the world to play cards on a wet afternoon with an old woman.’

‘I like to do it.’

‘Life will begin when Florence decides. She is busy trying to fix up classes for you, lessons
in this and outings to that, and then, she will go about finding you some friends. She will succeed, too, she is a very good organiser, when she sets her mind to it. She has organised that Home for fallen women into existence. Has she told you about that?’

‘Fallen women?’

‘Good heavens, don’t tell me you haven’t any idea what I mean. Has Eleanor kept you in complete ignorance? How very foolish
I always think that is. Girls should
know
.’

‘I … I think …’

‘Fallen women are women who are not married but who are going to have babies. Well, it is all very natural and what happens in life, for all the world likes to pretend otherwise, and of course they have to go somewhere, poor things. Though why should they necessarily be poor, I wonder? Because they so often
are
the poor? Often, but
by no means always. Well, so Florence has been putting all her energies into that. She has bought a house in the country to be converted. Did you know that she was extremely rich? Her husband left her a fortune.
I
have no money.’

She talks to me as if I were simply another woman, another adult, Kitty realised. And if I were six, she would have done the same. I daresay she always talked to cousin
Florence like it, too, and that explains why she was a grown woman at that age, if only her mother knew it. (And was rather pleased with herself for the deduction.)

‘You will be very good for her,’ Mrs Gray was saying now. ‘Perhaps
you
will make her young.’

She stared hard at Kitty again, and then looked away, into the fire. ‘Except that you seem to be travelling in opposite directions.’

‘I’m
not sure that I understand.’

But there was no reply, the old woman sat, brooding, silent, and, perhaps, half asleep, so that in the end Kitty went, very quietly, out of the room and upstairs.

And the light in her bedroom was pale, soft grey, less dark, because it was so high up, the window let in so much sky, and she stood, watching the rain slide down the grey roofs, not happy, not unhappy,
nothing. Waiting, perhaps, for life to begin.

Of India, of her mother and father, she neither thought nor avoided thinking, they were, simply, there, she carried them with her, and could turn towards them, stretching her arms out to them at any time, and so, in a curious way, she did not need to miss them. Nor did she ever speculate about what they might be doing, at this moment or that, or try
to picture them here, or there, or even to work out what time of day or night it might be with them. It was all somehow frozen, suspended in time, as when she had left, and they were doing nothing, the move to the Hills, for example, had not taken place, no changes had been made whatsoever. It was simply like a silent, motionless, bright tableau, framed, expectant.

After a while (for she had
a headache, and her throat was slightly sore) she lay down on her bed and, eventually, slept, as old Mrs Gray slept, as usual, before the fire, so that neither of them heard Florence when she came sweeping, flushed, buoyant, into the house.

BECAUSE, QUITE suddenly, at the end of the afternoon, as Florence was putting on her hat, Georgiana had blurted it out.

‘They have asked him if he will allow himself to be put forward as the next Master. He is the choice of nearly all the Fellows.’

(But, the moment it was out, the moment she saw Florence’s face, the eyes bright, she thought, I should never have spoken of it, it was entirely
wrong. Then why, why had she? For now, surely, she had changed everything, spoiled her own future.)

She had stopped the cab, dismissed it, and then walked alone, slowly, up the avenue between the trees, in the pouring rain, and had not minded it at all, had welcomed it, stepped across the curved stone bridge (but did not pause, did not linger there, as her cousin Kitty had lingered), and so,
on towards his college. It had been dismal, dark now, as well as wet, the lamps blurred in the early evening mist, but she had walked slowly, savouring every step, through the gateway, and under the arch, into the outer court, and then, stood, in the shadow of the walls, imagining, planning.

For he would be the Master, there was no doubt in her mind, it was surely all quite settled. As soon as
Georgiana had spoken, it had seemed to her inevitable. And then, of course, he must marry her, that was inevitable, too, he would need to be married, in that position (though others were not, but she chose not to think of them). And whom else might he marry?

But it should not merely be for convenience. She thought, he will love me. Want, as I do.

‘A woman can make any man marry her, if only
she will go about it in the right way.’

She believed it absolutely.

And, after a time, of standing, and then of walking, around the courtyards, of looking up at lighted windows, and across the squares of grass towards other archways, other doors, she turned, and so went home, through the rain, her heart thudding, knowing what must happen, tense and bright with determination.

But perhaps, after
all, he will say no, for he likes his life as it is now. Or someone else will be preferred, Georgiana thought, sitting in front of the mound of writing-paper and envelopes, at her desk. ‘Dear Lady … Dear Canon … Dear Miss L …’

For she should not have spoken. He would be bitterly angry, if he knew. She had seen Florence’s face change, with anticipation, excitement, and a sort of greed.

‘Oh, Alice,
I will only have some soup and perhaps toast. My brother is dining in college.’

But Alice, setting down her spiritualist newspaper, clucked and fussed, and would cook a little dish of baked eggs, or an omelette, and then there were some poached pears, Georgiana was not to let herself go down again, and so, she sat in state, at one end of the dining-table, obliged to eat a meal, and hearing only
the tick of the clock and the scrape of her knife against the china, thought suddenly, in dread, and how often will it be like this in the future? How many evenings will I spend eating alone in a silent room, there or here, in this house still, if it happens, if he becomes the Master of his college, if he marries Florence, as I have always planned that he would?

THE WEEK went by. It was milder, but still wet, wet and grey. Daffodils came into bud, but did not break.

Kitty had a feverish cold, and lay in bed, or hunched in a chair beneath a rug and, for the first time, missed India, and could not turn her mind away from missing it, and from the recollections that filled her; of the gardens of their house in Calcutta, with the scarlet and orange flowers
blazing from the beds, and the fountains splashing, up and over and down. She lay and let the pictures come before her eyes and gazed at them.

And now, Eleanor would be in the hills, and so, she let herself imagine them, too, the snow-line and the mauve-blue of the nearer slopes, and the echo of voices, calling, singing, ringing across from the other side of the green valley.

But her dreams
and her visions were curiously unpeopled; nor did they upset her. She felt no sense of homesickness or loss or longing, somehow those feelings were quite absent, as though they had been extracted, like the painful nerves of an open tooth, so that it was now dead.

She merely looked on the scenes of India, through the grey, dank Cambridge afternoons, and they gave her pleasure. For the rest of
the time, she sank down into the miserable depths of her cold, and allowed Florence, and Louisa and Ena, the maids, to bring her hot drinks and inhalations. And saw the doctor twice – for Florence took her responsibility seriously – and looked at journals and picture papers, idly. And waited for life to begin.

And sometimes, remembered the dead Miss Lovelady, saw her more vividly than any of
those people she had known all her life, so that she half expected that she might walk into the room; and thought about what she had learned from her, and vowed to live by it. And was shocked and bewildered, all over again, by the suddenness of her dying.

The letters about the subscription to the house in the country, went out, batch after batch, fell onto the doormats and letter boxes, of Canon
– and Lady – and Miss –.

Onto the doormat of Adèle Hemmings and her aunt. (For Georgiana believed in perseverance.)

In another part of the country, the child of Cecil and Isobel Moxton, a son, was born, and his mother lay and stared blankly out of the windows onto the bare lawns, and was consumed once more by the old familiar despair, despair and terror, though of and for what she could not
have told.

But the baby was right enough, welcomed, and made much of by the rest of them, the baby did not suffer.

The week went by.

Alice made elaborate plans for the dinner on Saturday night, wrote out menus and lists, and went very early to the markets, talked at length to the butcher, before placing her order. She wanted to do her best, and for it all to be a challenge, for she had trained
in the kitchen of a far grander house, the seat of a viscount, and was bored by cooking plain food for one or two, only.

Old Mrs Gray observed Florence, saw the brightness in her eye and the set of her jaw. Speculated, but did not speak.

And Florence chose a new dress, and two spring suits, with hats, and spent a great deal of time and trouble, not to say money, over it.

The week went by.

The letters were opened, and some ignored, others destroyed, but some replied to at once, with promises, or even cheques, as is always the way. It was a tedious business.

But that addressed to the aunt of Adèle Hemmings lay unopened, with a good many other letters, in the hall, among the mess and squalor of dust and cats. (For the maid who had given in her notice and left had not been replaced.)

At lunch on the Friday, several people had approached him and expressed support, urged him to allow himself to be considered.

Now, just after six, he sat alone at the table in his rooms, in the light of the reading-lamp. There were books open before him, an undergraduate who had read him an essay on Tyndale had just left, his feet clattering vigorously down the wooden stairs.

But Thomas had
hardly heard the essay, would not have known whether it had been good or bad, he had not attended to the young man at all and he was ashamed of that, for he prided himself on being dutiful, on teaching his pupils with care, perhaps the more so because his enthusiasm, his heart and soul, were never fully engaged now, his real work was elsewhere, had been, in truth, for years – how many years?

He thought, I am living a lie, then? I am dishonest. I am interested, yet it is no longer of first importance to me. I teach the young men Latin and Greek and New Testament studies, because that is what I have always done, what I am trained to do, and perhaps, I do it well enough.

But it does not
live
, does not stir me.

How much did that matter? How much was private to himself and affected no
one else? He could not tell.

Now, he walked to the window, and looked down into the quiet court. Thought, and am I to be Master here?

Then, for a few seconds, he was gripped with passion for the idea, it burned up and consumed him, he felt a flush of pride, ambition, desire – and was taken aback, for he had never been a man interested in power or position. Yet he saw what he might do for the
good, and longed to do it, to have the right; and was tempted, too, to imagine himself walking across the court, into Hall, or taking his stall in the chapel, and was appalled, that the idea so excited him. Thought in panic that after all he did not know himself.