Angels and Men (26 page)

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.

‘Yes. Fine.'

‘Good girl. You could do with a bit more flesh on you.'

She tried to slip away, but he was too quick, giving her buttock a valedictory squeeze. The fishwife was on him in a trice: ‘You do that once more, and you can kiss your nuts goodbye,' she snarled. Mara saw a flicker of nervousness in Nigel's grin. Hah.

‘Ooh. She's turning nasty.' He turned and disappeared along the corridor towards his Salmonella Emporium.

Mara made her way towards Coverdale Hall. The fishwife cracked her mighty knuckles with satisfaction. But what if Nigel was just trying to be kind, and was hampered by only having one method of relating to women? Perhaps he had been taught it at catering school. Today's lecture: Bum-Squeezing in the Walk-in Fridge.

She climbed the main stairs of Coverdale Hall and knocked on Rupert's door. He called her in.

‘Mara!'

He crossed the room in two quick strides and took her in his arms. She moved slightly, but he held her all the tighter. It occurred to her with a sudden cold shock that he might be in tears. His face was buried in her neck, and she raised a tentative hand to his hair.

‘Rupert?'

At last he released her. There were tears in his eyelashes. But he's never like this, she thought in dismay. She watched as he struggled to regain control, running his hand through his hair and attempting to speak.

‘You're back.' His voice sounded hoarse.

‘Well . . . yes.' Don't let me laugh. She bit her lip.

Too late: he had seen. A much more characteristic expression crossed his face. ‘Yes. Obviously.' He was almost himself again. ‘And as disrespectful as ever.'

‘Sorry.'

There was a silence. Rupert glanced at his watch. Had he been about to go out?

‘Coffee?' he asked a little wildly. She shook her head. He picked up a file and put it down again, then straightened the biros on the desk. ‘I've got a five o'clock lecture, I'm afraid.'

‘I won't stay, then.'

‘No. Yes, I mean. Please stay. I'm not going yet.'

‘OK.'

‘Good. Thanks.'

There was another silence, then they both began to speak simultaneously. They stopped, and laughed slightly.

‘Go on.'

‘No, you,' he said.

‘I was only going to say I feel much better.' Outside the cathedral bells began to chime for evensong. Quarter to five. He wouldn't have to leave for another ten minutes. She began blurting again: ‘Look, sorry I was so awful.'

‘Awful? You weren't awful. I was the one who was awful.' They could certainly fill ten minutes out-apologizing one another.

‘No, you weren't. You were trying to help.'

‘
Trying
, yes.'

But here they floundered. The bells chimed on and on.

‘Hadn't you better go?' she asked, unable to stand it.

He glanced at his watch again. ‘Not for five minutes.'

She saw him run his hand through his hair again, and realized a very serious apology was imminent.

‘Mara, you're being very generous.' She looked away in embarrassment. ‘You're not saying anything, but I know you've put up with a lot from me. Acting as though I was God. Trying to sort your life out for you.' Suddenly she knew she was hearing Johnny's words. This was what they had argued about. ‘I know I made everything worse for you at a time when –'

‘It's OK, Rupert,' she broke in. ‘Let's just forget about it.'

‘I can't just forget about it, Mara.' ‘
I shall never forgive myself as long as I live
,'
cried Rupert
. ‘I was so convinced I was right, that –'

‘Rupert –'

‘– that I knew what was the best for you –'

‘Rupert!' She stamped her foot and he stopped in astonishment. ‘Will you do something for me?'

‘Of course.' The slight bow.

‘Will you just
shut up
?'

‘But . . .' He summed up the look on her face. ‘Of course.' He shut his lips and stood as though the rest of the apology were buzzing around inside his mouth like a trapped fly. She could not help smiling at him.

‘Mara,' he said, putting his hand dramatically on his heart, ‘for a smile like that I'd walk barefoot from here to John o'Groats.'

She blushed, and in her surprise answered randomly: ‘How far is John o'Groats from here?' as though assessing the scope of the gesture. Query: how many miles more significant would the statement have been had he uttered it in South Kensington? He gave her a withering look and began to collect up his pen and paper. As she watched, she thought she could see faint lines on the back of his hand. Like scratch marks. She started guiltily.

‘What's wrong?'

She pointed. ‘I did that, didn't I?'

He followed her gaze. ‘This? It's nothing. Don't worry.'

How can he say I wasn't awful? He stood there smiling at her, and she could feel tears of mortification in her eyes.

‘Mara, I thought we were forgetting about it.'

She nodded. He drew close and laid a finger on her cheek. She felt her breath shorten as he bent his head. At that moment the door burst open unceremoniously. Rupert sprang back.

‘You might knock, Whitaker!' he said.

Mara whirled round, her face scarlet. Johnny stood there laughing.

‘She's back! Ha'away, give us a hug, then.' She went and was crushed briefly in his arms. ‘You all right, flower?' He let her go swiftly. ‘Are we skipping the lecture?'

‘No, we are not.'
Rupert was nettled by the sudden interruption
. ‘Come along, Mara.' He held the door open for her.

The three of them walked along the corridor towards the stairs. Mara could feel herself becoming more embarrassed with each step. She scraped around desperately for something to say. ‘How did your sermon go?' It sounded absurdly bland and vicar's daughterish.

‘Don't ask,' said Johnny shortly.

‘It was excellent,' insisted Rupert. His tone seemed to defy a host of absent detractors. Whatever had happened? She glanced from one to the other as they reached the foot of the stairs.

Rupert changed the subject with the ease which came from generations of good breeding. ‘Shall we see you in the bar tonight, Mara?'

‘Possibly.'

‘Possibly?' Rupert smiled at her.

They reached Coverdale lecture hall. Johnny went in without a word. Mara stared at his taut profile in dismay as he passed her. What did I do? She turned to Rupert, but he shook his head faintly, as if indicating he would explain later.

‘Tonight, then? About nine?' he said.

‘OK.' With a smile he followed Johnny into the lecture hall. Mara stood for a moment in the corridor bewildered. What could possibly have happened?

The sky was a mass of cloud, apart from a strip of watery light low across the horizon where the sun was sinking. Mara sat at her window watching. There was music in her mind: a tune for Johnny (a familiar ostinato of lust) and now a tune for Rupert (a sudden passionate trumpet cadenza). She laughed. I'm feeling breathless. What had come over him? Tears in his eyes, hand on his heart. He had never been like it before. Her conviction wavered slightly at the memory of the drunken clinch at the college ball. And the Valentine roses. Was he . . . ? Could he be . . . ? She leant her chin on her hand and gazed at the fading band of gold above the rooftops. And if he is, what do I think about that?

She sat in the gathering darkness wondering. The evening star appeared between the clouds, then vanished, like a lighthouse on a distant coast. Her mind found its way wearily back to Hester. She closed her eyes and wept. At length she grew silent. She knew that the tide of grief had passed its highest point, but its ebb would be bitter, and long, long. Far above her the star winked its message across the lonely strand of the sky.

CHAPTER 18

Mara woke in panic fighting for breath. She was back at her parents' house for the vacation. The vicarage was quiet. She felt as though a great weight was pressing on her chest. She sat up and turned on her bedside light. Keep calm. Breathe. In. Out. Oh, why hadn't she gone to the doctor with this cold? She couldn't get enough air. In. Out. It was three in the morning. Wasn't steam supposed to help? She got out of bed, pulled on her dressing-gown and went downstairs.

She stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Just don't panic. In. Out. In. Out. She had been coughing badly for over a week. The clock ticked. The kettle began to murmur on the Aga. Good Friday. Or Saturday by now, she supposed. The darkest night of the year. She went to the pantry and found a lemon and sliced it up. Lemon, honey and whisky. Grandma had always sworn by it. Mara moved quietly, knowing if her mother came down and heard her terrible laboured breathing she would call the doctor out. The kettle boiled.

She sat at the kitchen table breathing in the steam from the mug. Her chest eased a fraction. The whisky bottle stood on the table in front of her, a Christmas gift from a parishioner. Each breath became easier and she began to relax. Her mind drifted until she was back in the college bar with Andrew. He was quizzing her about her relationship with her father. Johnny was in the bar too, but sitting with the group of students Mara had overheard discussing curacies back in October. She had since learnt that this was Johnny's ‘Coverdale Group'. All the ordinands belonged to one, and they were supposed to set their own agenda and meeting place. Mara suspected it was largely Johnny's influence which led to this particular group meeting in the bar, where the social and the theological seemed to melt fuzzily into one another.

‘So basically,' said Andrew, ‘everything you do is an unacknowledged attempt to win your father's approval, isn't it?' She opened her mouth to deny this, but he raised a hand. ‘Just a minute.' He was listening to the conversation on the other side of the bar. After a moment Mara realized they were discussing homosexuality and the Church. She found herself listening in mounting dismay. Nothing was said that she hadn't heard a dozen times before – hating the sin but loving the sinner – but she was hearing it with new ears now Andrew was beside her. Oh, God. They don't realize he can hear them. In desperation she began to talk about her father, but Andrew hushed her again. She sat in agonized silence.

‘Let's go and join them,' he said. There was a look in his eye which made her hang back.

‘Don't . . .'

‘Don't what? Make a scene? God, you're so suburban.' He picked up his drink and crossed to the other side of the bar. Mara dithered, not knowing whether to join them or run for her life.

Johnny looked round and saw Andrew. ‘Sit down. We've just been talking about your sort.' There was a rigid silence as the rest of the group took this in.

‘I heard.'

Andrew sat beside Johnny. Mara perched on the edge of a stool, wishing she'd escaped earlier. The other members of the group were shifting as nervously as she was.

‘So what did you decide?' asked Andrew. He scanned round. They avoided his gaze. Johnny was grinning broadly. ‘Well, come along boys. What will you say when someone like me shows up at your altar rails?' Silence. One of the group rose and left, murmuring some kind of excuse. ‘Think. What did our Lord have to say about homosexuality?' persisted Andrew, assuming the manner of a tutor addressing thick undergraduates. Mara could see that they were riled, but that nobody was prepared to take him on. His nastiness on the debating floor was legendary.

‘Nothing,' admitted the man who didn't want to go to Sunderland.

‘Exactly. Bugger all,' said Andrew. ‘Doesn't it worry you that you're building a complex ethical structure to deal with something that Christ never mentioned once?'

‘Yes, but Paul mentions it,' said the bossy one who reminded Mara of Rupert. What was his name? Hugh. ‘You're driving a wedge between Paul and Christ. You can't do that. You can't pick and choose texts as it suits you.'

‘All right. What does Christ have to say about divorce, then? Several rather specific things, I seem to remember. Like remarriage counting as adultery. And how does that square with church practice? I think we're in danger of picking and choosing our texts a little here, too, aren't we?'

‘Look, you're being incredibly patronizing,' protested Hugh. ‘We all know you can run rings round us academically, but give us some credit. We're trying to do justice to what the Bible says, at the same time as working out a sympathetic pastoral response to –'

‘To the
problem of homosexuality
? What
problem
? You mean you have a problem with it?'

‘Yes. There
is
a problem with it if you take the Bible seriously.' Help me someone, said Hugh's expression.

‘You're on your own here, Hugh,' said Johnny.

‘Well, I shouldn't be!' snapped Hugh. ‘I'd like to hear you say one sensible thing on this subject. Just one. On
any
subject, for that matter. See if you can.' Mara stared at him, astonished. This sounded like about three years of pent-up aggression.

‘Why not?' agreed Andrew. ‘Why don't you guide us through this thorny issue, Whitaker?'

‘Well, Andrew,' said Johnny formally. ‘I think we decided that God doesn't blame you for being homosexual. We couldn't agree on whether it's nature or nurture, I'm afraid; but whatever the cause, God still loves you. God really loves you, but you must never,
never
have sex.' Mara saw Hugh colour angrily at this parody.

Andrew laughed. ‘It's all right for you, you bastard,' he said. ‘Your preferences are catered for.'

‘No they're not,' said Johnny. ‘My preference is for screwing all the women in the world. We all have to exercise some restraint.'

‘Yes, but you can walk down the aisle with the woman you love, and the Church will bless your union. What does the Church offer me?'

‘Well, Hugh here thinks we can all pray that God will heal you of your perversion,' said Johnny, brutally paraphrasing the earlier discussion. Hugh coloured even more deeply. Mara found herself thinking that even if Hugh had dug himself this hole, there was no need for Johnny to push him into it so callously. ‘Would you like to be prayed for, brother?'

‘Mmm. Just man to man in private, you mean?' asked Andrew.

‘Want me to lay hands on you, too?' asked Johnny.

‘You're profane, Whitaker!' Hugh stood up suddenly. ‘I don't have to stay and listen to this.'

‘Fine.' Johnny shrugged and lit a cigarette.

‘No it's not
fine
. I find you totally offensive. Your language, your sense of humour, your attitude –'

‘Yeah, yeah. And your attitude to Andrew isn't offensive?'

‘I'm not listening to this,' repeated Hugh and walked out.

Mara sighed and stirred the pieces of lemon. Although Johnny had been defending Andrew, this incident had left her thinking less well of him. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something nasty underlying his flippant manner. And it had not been just that one occasion, either. She had watched and noticed that he was drinking and smoking more heavily. His language had worsened too. It was as though he had suddenly tired of being the good-natured college buffoon, but that the college was not ready to offer him any other role. Hugh's reaction was typical of the mounting hostility to the new Johnny. Once she rounded a corner in Coverdale and caught the tail-end of a conversation: Johnny saying to Rupert, ‘I don't know if I can take much more of this.' She had drawn back, knowing she was not meant to hear. ‘He's struggling with his sense of vocation,' was how Rupert explained it.

The story of the Jeremiah sermon did not remain a mystery for long. Mara heard reports of it from all sides, and began to regret she had not been there herself. Whenever she thought about the sermon, she could only see and hear it through Maddy, whose account had been the most vivid and amusing:

‘And you won't believe it, but
Nigel
was there,' Maddy had told her. ‘In fact, most of the domestic staff were there. And practically all the college. Maybe someone should do some research into the role of sex appeal in church growth. But the best joke of all was that Johnny's
brother
was there. He has a
brother
, can you believe it? There is a God. One man like that could be an accident, but two . . .'

‘. . . looks like carelessness,' said May.

‘Anyway, he arrived just before the service started with four of Johnny's old workmates. Without telling him. Did you know he used to be a builder? You could have knocked me over with a piece of scaffolding. In they all trooped – hard hats, tattoos, dirty overalls – all cramming themselves into the last empty row, so when Johnny came in from the vestry there they were, broad shoulders bursting out of the tiny pew, grinning and winking at him.'

Mara pictured the scene, Johnny frozen in the middle of the aisle, staring at the sniggering builders, his new life confronting his old. What would have passed through his mind?

‘You could see the chaplain shifting nervously in his stall wondering if he was going to have to throw them out, and them never quite behaving badly enough to justify it, just dropping hymn books and snorting in the prayers, that kind of thing.' Maddy became the twitching chaplain and the builders by turn. ‘When Johnny stood up to preach they applauded, then it went deathly quiet. He started to read a sermon on Jeremiah. The chaplain stopped sweating, and I thought, that's it, the fun's over. But after about a minute Johnny stopped, and said, “Does anyone want to hear this?”
Of
course, they said no to a man. The chaplain tottered to his feet and hovered, wringing his hands, but before he could say anything, Johnny tore up his sermon and said, “I'll tell you a story, then.” '

What had followed, as far as Mara could piece together from the various accounts, was a lively (if scurrilous) re-enactment of the parable of the Prodigal Son. The congregation, according to Maddy, had not laughed so much since Grandma's proverbial tussle with the mangle. So what was the big problem, then? But here Maddy and May could shed no light. Something had happened in Coverdale Hall afterwards, they thought.

Rupert had been her source for the rest of the story. She had met him in the bar, as she had arranged, on her first night back at college. She had arrived first and sat with her glass locked into her hand with embarrassment. Thank goodness they had such promising subject matter to discuss. He appeared, and she had tried not to watch his lips as he spoke, or to think how very, very nearly they had kissed her only hours before. He seemed to have forgotten, and she gradually composed herself.

‘The real trouble started in the sermon class after chapel,' Rupert was saying. ‘That's when we always meet to discuss the sermon.'

‘Who's “we”?'

‘The staff and students. And it would have been all right if he'd managed to keep his temper.'

‘Why, what were people saying?'

‘Well, that we were supposed to be in the middle of a sermon series on Jeremiah; that it wasn't a sermon, as such, more of a stand-up comedy routine; and that some of his conclusions were theologically dodgy.' She glanced at Rupert, and saw him struggling not to smile. ‘And finally, that nowhere in the Bible does the Prodigal say, “Bugger this – I'm off home.” ' Mara bit her lips. If only I'd been there.

‘But you thought it was excellent?'

‘Yes. Most of us did. It's just one section of the college who find him a bit hard to take. I tried to make him see that, but it was too late.' He closed his eyes for one despairing moment at the memory. ‘Well, the staff encourage frankness, I suppose. Nominally.' He paused and drank. She stole a glance at him, and he caught her eye and smiled again. ‘The only good thing was the look on everyone's face. I thought about you. You'd have enjoyed it.' Mara blushed in surprise that she had been in his mind at a moment like that. How much of his time did he spend thinking, Mara would like this, or, she would find that funny?

‘What did he say?'

‘His main point – this is a summary – was that given the number of people in the chapel that night who never normally go near a church, a nice polite middle-class exposition of Jeremiah wasn't appropriate.'

‘Well, he's probably right.'

‘Of course he's right. But nine-tenths of the room were too offended by his language to hear his argument. Idiot. He completely sabotaged his own cause by losing his temper and walking out.' Slamming the door, thought Mara. Was this how her father had been at theological college, boiling over in sermon class – ‘That sermon cost me blood!' – and storming out?

‘How will he survive in a polite middle-class profession?' she wondered out loud, remembering her father's words at Christmas.

‘He wants to be an industrial chaplain.' Did he? Yes, that made sense.

‘But he'll have to do a curacy.'

‘Yes. If he can survive three years of parish ministry, he'll be all right.'

‘Will he?'

‘Survive? God alone knows. Not unless he learns to control his temper. He's got a good bishop, though.'

At this point they caught sight of Johnny coming towards them through the bar. Rupert turned the subject smoothly and began talking about the parish he would be serving in himself. Johnny bought a drink and sat down. He listened to Rupert, but his eyes were fixed on Mara. She felt herself blushing.

‘Talking about me, were you?' said Johnny. Rupert made a movement of protest. ‘Have you heard enough, or do you want my version as well, Princess?' Mara opened her mouth uncertainly. She could smell anger in the air like an approaching thunderstorm. But suddenly he grinned. ‘I tell you, it was like being a lion in a den of Daniels.' They laughed and then Johnny himself changed the subject. It was never broached again.