Angels and Men (15 page)

‘Ah, but it's bound to happen, isn't it?' said her father. ‘Christianity is a religion of the book. Its ministers have to be literate. And education goes hand in hand with power in our society.'

Mara sat tense, waiting to hear if Johnny could answer this. She desperately wanted him to acquit himself well in front of her father.

‘Oh,
man
! What's this? Some kind of theology of despair? You know, that's what really pisses me off most. Sorry.' Her mother made a broad-minded gesture. ‘Hearing a priest say there's nothing we can do about it, I mean,' Johnny added.

‘That's not what I said,' replied Mara's father. Mara gripped her teacup. ‘I'm talking about a tendency inherent in Christianity to ally itself to wealth and status. I'm all in favour of subverting that.'

She felt herself breathe again. He wasn't angry.

‘Good. So am I.' Johnny laughed. ‘Making church less like court would be a start. You know – the hushed atmosphere, the weird language, the funny clothes. And worst of all, not having a clue what's going on, but knowing you're in big trouble. Just like being up in front of the magistrate.'

At this her father laughed too. Mara saw her mother frown. The poor boy. We must cherish him. He's got a chequered past.

‘Well,' said her father. ‘Don't let them grind you down.' He sounded wistful. Mara wondered if he was looking round the William Morris sitting-room and asking himself how he had been so smoothed and tamed.

There was a tea-drinking pause. Mara's mother's eyes had been following the conversation like a tennis umpire.

‘It must be interesting to be part of an undergraduate college. Theological colleges can be rather intense and inward-looking.'

‘It gives a different perspective, I suppose.'

‘It has its disadvantages too, I should think. Undergraduate pranks, and so on.'

‘Yes – and the likes of your daughter giving us a hard time.'

Mara looked up, startled, and Johnny patted her knee kindly.

‘My rooms at Cambridge looked out over one of the women's colleges,' said her father unexpectedly. Mara saw her mother smile. ‘Where a lot of dedicated sunbathing seemed to take place.'

Mara sat stunned between two unthinkable thoughts: the idea of her father lusting out of his college windows at the sunbathing undergraduates; and the idea that it was this kind of ‘hard time' that Johnny meant she was causing.

‘And how do you find the academic side of things?'

‘A struggle. I sweat blood over the Greek. Unlike Mara here, who taught herself.' She cringed at the memory of Joanna and the whole embarrassing episode.

‘Darling,' exclaimed her mother. ‘You didn't tell us! When?'

‘Over the summer,' muttered Mara into her tea cup. ‘It was nothing.'

‘There you are,' said Johnny. ‘It was nothing.'

‘She's always been a bit like that,' her father said.

It was as if he were apologizing for her. Tears were starting in her eyes. Johnny stretched.

‘I'd better be on my way.'

‘ “For you have promises to keep,” ' said Mara's mother. ‘ “And miles to go before you sleep.” ' Johnny stood up, and Mara rose swiftly too, for fear her mother would embarrass her with further wild quotations. She stood miserably amongst the goodbyes, Christmas greetings and exhortations to drive carefully because of the ice. There was one last delay as Johnny was compelled to sign the visitors' book, and then at last they were outside in the cold. Their feet crunched on the frozen snow.

‘He thinks the world of you, you know,' said Johnny as he unlocked the car.

‘He might say it, then,' she burst out, too unhappy to pretend she did not understand.
‘She's always been a bit like that.'

Johnny laughed. ‘He's proud of you.'

‘He's not.'

‘Ha'away. You're perverse. You misinterpret everything. Just imagine,' he went on in the tone adults use when telling children about Santa Claus, ‘that there were people in the world who actually liked you.'

‘And do you like me?' Say it, then. Say it. He leant down and kissed her cheek again.

‘Me? No.' He climbed into his car with a grin and started the engine. She saw his arm raised through the open window as he turned at the gate and drove off.
Trahe me post te
. The exhaust swirled around her then melted away. She turned and looked at the house. It was like a Christmas card, with the snow on the roof, the windows lit up and the candle burning steadily in the porch. Her father sat in his study. She watched him as he read and made notes.
‘He was always so passionate about everything.'
She saw him as he might have been at theological college, sitting at his desk, lonely and mocked; too young to be tied to a wife and two crying babies; raging at his loss of freedom and at his tormentors and their calm superior world. Was that how it had been? In the porch the candle flame guttered in some unseen draught. Mara began to walk back towards the house. The flame steadied itself and burnt on in the uncomprehending dark.

CHAPTER 10

When Mara woke, she could not tell at first where she was. I'm at home and it's Christmas, she realized. She thought about her parents: her mother sunbathing, and her father looking down out of his window and seeing her, like King David seeing Bathsheba as he walked on his roof late one afternoon. We must have been conceived in August, Hester and I, over the long vacation. Had she gone to the farm with him? Or had he visited the palace? And what had they thought at the palace when the dreadful news broke? What wedding plans were set swiftly, smoothly into motion? Small reception. Large bouquet. Our son-in-law Morgan. ‘Something of a rough diamond, but we're terribly fond of him.' Twenty-two years ago. What a Christmas that must have been.

Mara heard her mother's footsteps coming along the corridor, and sat up in bed. The door opened, and her mother came in with a cup of tea.

‘Happy Christmas, darling. I'm just off to fetch Grandma. Everything's ready for lunch, so stay in bed as long as you like.'

Mara listened to the footsteps going down the stairs and a moment later heard the car starting up. She sat drinking the tea. Just a minute, she thought suddenly, I haven't opened my stocking. I must be getting old. She drew it crackling towards her and began to pull things out. A sugar mouse, tangerine, shiny new penny, a paperback novel, a small present. She felt it through the paper to see if she could guess what it was. Flat, rectangular, heavy. The photo frame. She tore off the wrapping. I knew it. Her mother had gone out yesterday to buy it for her. It was beautiful: silver, probably Victorian. She's even polished it up. Mara sighed. To please her mother she must now put the photo of her and Johnny in it, and this would change the picture from a spur-of-the-moment joke into a significant event. From now on it would seem to say ‘Engagement Photograph', and she would have to leave it behind when she went back to college. She lay down again, thinking how sad it was that a beautiful present given with care and love should spoil the receiver's pleasure. She would no longer be able to come upon the photo accidentally in her desk drawer among her bank statements and letters. Her mother had deprived her of this picture as surely as her father had the other.

‘I'd better warn you – she's worse.' Mara's mother was putting on her gloves before leaving for church. The organ was just audible in the hallway where they were standing. ‘She seems to be inhabiting a noun-free world. I'm afraid you'll be in for a guessing game. She usually knows what she's trying to say, but the words simply won't come. Or the wrong ones pop out.' She looked at Mara anxiously. ‘Will you be all right?'

She looks like Hester when she says that, Mara thought. ‘I'll be fine.' Like Hester trying to protect me from the other children. They were always nicer to me when she was there.

Her mother hovered uncertainly.

‘It's only an hour,' said Mara in exasperation. And she's still my grandmother. She watched her mother leave, then went through to the sitting-room where Grandma was dozing in an armchair. She had a blanket round her shoulders and her handbag was by her feet with its handle standing up stiffly as if it would at any moment be grasped and carried off on some errand or visit. The face was frail and hollowed out. But at that moment she woke, and Mara sat swiftly beside her as she was struggling to get up.

‘Happy Christmas, Grandma.'

‘Happy Christmas, my dear.' Mara kissed the hollow cheek. ‘You look charming in that – that – oh, you know, that –' She was pointing to Mara's clothes.

‘This dress?'

‘Exactly. That press. Dress. You look lovely, my dear. I seem to remember your –' Mara watched her hunting for the word. ‘Oh, dear.' Grandma laughed.

She thinks it's funny, thought Mara suddenly, a wonderful joke at her expense that she of all people should be unable to speak.

‘Your –' she began again. ‘She had a – like that.'

Ah. ‘Aunt Judith?'

‘Exactly. Judith. My niece.' Daughter, thought Mara, but let it pass. ‘She had a bed dress like that.'

Mara smiled at her. ‘It's the same one. Mother found it in your attic.'

‘Well! Fancy that!' Then Grandma had a sudden idea. Mara saw it appear, and wondered how long it would be before they could clothe it in words between them. ‘I've just had a – When I'm gone I should like you to have my – my – the, you know, the –' She tutted in frustration. ‘Silly old –'

‘Give me a clue,' suggested Mara, and Grandma clapped her hands together in delight.

‘This is like –'

‘Charades.'

‘Exactly. Now, I should like you to have my –' She made a motion to her neck.

‘Throat cut?'

‘No, no. You're as bad as your – no.' She gestured again.

‘Pearls?' This was clearly closer. ‘Jewellery of some sort?' Grandma was nodding and pointing to the dress. ‘Something that goes with this? This colour?'

‘Yes!'

‘Garnets?'

Bingo.

‘Barnets. I'd like you to have them, my dear.'

Mara thanked her and kissed her again. When would I ever wear garnets?

‘Now,' said Grandma in a different tone. Hah, thought Mara. I can guess what this is. ‘Your mother tells me you've got a –' You're on your own here, Grandma. They eyed one another. She knows I know. Oh, the power of words. ‘She says you've got a –'

‘A what?' A sunny disposition? A lead-crystal whisky decanter with six matching tumblers? A Kalashnikov? She watched Grandma trying to think of a way of miming her meaning without reference to the male member. She gestured.

‘Muscles?'

‘No. You're being difficult.' Another gesture.

‘A moustache? A beard.'

‘No. You know perfectly well what I – MAN!' cried Grandma triumphantly. ‘Now I want to hear all about him.' Not a chance, Grandma. ‘Your mother says he –' She pointed to the wood basket. Chop, chop.

‘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.