Angels and Men (30 page)

Andrew began pulling out the old newspapers that lined the trunk and reading bits to her. Copies of the
Church Times
from the Fifties. She took off the dress and slid into the Chinese robe. He looked up.

‘Come here.' He unravelled her plait and ran his hands through her long curls. ‘Perfect. Rupert's a lost man.'

‘How would you know?'

‘Don't be cheap, Mara.'

He went to fetch the whisky, and the two of them sat among Aunt Judith's clothes getting drunk.

The night wore on. Mara drank less while Andrew drank more. His head lay in her lap and he talked to her about his dead friend, his brother and his PhD, then started singing her some Elizabethan love songs. She stroked his forehead, running her hand through his dark hair and memorizing his face. I could draw him, she thought. I know I could. She smoothed his eyebrows with a fingertip, listening to his beautiful voice as he got more and more drunk. At last he noticed her full glass.

‘You're not keeping up with me, Princess.'

‘I know. Look, Andrew, can I ask you something?' There was a silence.

‘Oh God.' He sat up slowly and looked at her. ‘What?' She saw what he was thinking.

‘Can I draw you? Now, I mean?'

‘Draw me?' He looked blank. ‘OK.'

She got to her feet and stood for a moment looking down at him. ‘What made you think I wanted your body?'

‘The fact that everybody does.' He grinned and poured some more whisky.

When she returned with her pencils and sketch-book, he was lying on the bed. She pulled up a chair and giggled nervously. She wondered whether she had sobered up too much to make the attempt. What if the drawings were terrible? Dare she risk his caustic criticism? She reached for her glass and took a gulp.

‘Get your clothes off, then,' she said, sharpening a pencil. It was intended as a joke to relieve the tension, but he sat up immediately and began to call her bluff. ‘No. Don't! I was only kidding. Andrew.
Andrew
.' But it was too late. Oh God. She covered her face with her hand. He was naked.

‘Draw me.'

Her eyes skimmed nervously over his body as he lay there. Oh, God. She was giggling again. But gradually she found her embarrassment giving way to technical interest: perspective, light and shade, capturing those long, lean lines. You're beautiful, she thought. And you know it. She smiled as she drew his cock. Well, if she had ever wanted proof he didn't want her body, she had it now. She caught him grinning. The moral outlook of a tom-cat. She continued sketching, moving the chair, drawing him from different angles. She had not known anyone could be this drunk and still be able to quote poetry. He was reciting obscene chunks of Rochester to her with laboured precision.

She interrupted him: ‘Turn over. I want to draw your back.' He laughed and rolled over.

‘My arse,' he said, and passed out. She made a couple of quick sketches and then tried in vain to rouse him. Would he be all right? Stories of drunks choking and suffocating filled her mind, so she covered him up where he was sprawled, turned out the light and lay down beside him. Through the night she heard the sound of his breathing, felt the warmth of his thigh against hers, until at last she drifted asleep as the first birds were beginning to sing in the grey dawn.

The train went clattering through the Home Counties. Mara watched the countryside pass by the window. She had grown up not far from here, and the towns and villages were familiar. Canals, bridges, smooth chalky fields and hills, beech woods. The train had already bumped through the village where her father had been vicar almost ten years before. Rupert's father was now Bishop of this diocese, although he had not been then. Her heart contracted a little with dread or excitement. She was on her way to the palace. At her feet were a bunch of flowers for her hostess and an overnight bag containing the grey dress. And the Chinese dressing-gown, but only because it was so much less shabby than her old one. She banished Andrew's smirking face from her mind. He had bet her his next term's grant cheque that Rupert would propose to her during her stay, and although the suggestion was completely ludicrous, she was unable to dislodge it from her thoughts.

The train pulled into a village station and drew to a halt. One more stop. They waited in silence. Somewhere further up the platform a door slammed. Mara's mind wandered back to Andrew. She remembered how he had woken that morning a few days before – suddenly, his whole body tense, eyes wide open as though he had been punched awake. Then he had seen her and laughed in relief.

‘God, I hate that moment so much.' He yawned and stretched. ‘Waking up hung over in a strange bed, trying to remember, then thinking, “Oh Christ. I did
what
?” '

‘Why do it, then?'

‘Why?' He grinned into the pillow. ‘ “All this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.” '

‘You're incredible. You pass out quoting. You come round quoting.'

She smiled now at the memory. The train jolted and began to trundle out of the station. She watched the landscape gather speed and race past. They had spent half the morning in bed with the newspaper, drinking coffee, talking, doing the crossword.

‘I could get used to this,' she said. ‘It must be quite nice having a lover.'

‘Ah yes, but think – if you had a lover, you'd have to have sex, Princess. That's the whole point, you see.'

‘Then I think you must be my ideal man.'

‘You're in deep denial, my girl.'

She watched him as he concentrated on the crossword, frowning and tapping the pen against his teeth. Their bare shoulders were touching. ‘I reckon I could fall in love with you.'

‘I'm sure you could.' He was filling in the remaining words rapidly. ‘If you weren't already in love with Johnny Whitaker.' She jumped in shock at his words.

‘And are you in love with Johnny Whitaker, too?' she retaliated.

‘I think that's rather a fancy word for what I feel.' She reddened. ‘Don't romanticize it. Or him, for that matter. He's no angel.'

‘I know.'

He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you say that! Isn't he generous and intelligent? Isn't he the most amusing man you've ever met? And wasn't he wonderfully kind to you last term when you were cracking up? Nobody really understands you the way Johnny Whitaker does.' She clamped her mouth tight in anger. ‘Here's a little question for you: if he were five foot five with three chins and a beer gut, exactly how understanding and kind would he be then?'

The train rocketed into a tunnel, making her ears pop. She stared at her face reflected in the darkened window. She had not deigned to answer his little question, and she could feel it nagging away in her mind like an unopened bill. Maybe she should have asked in return, ‘Well, what if he still looked as he did, but was a brainless, humourless twat? What would you feel about him then?' But if the non-fancy word that Andrew had had in mind was ‘lust', then she supposed he would feel exactly the same. The train burst out of the tunnel. She blinked in the sudden light, and saw the fields giving way to houses. They were slowing down. Oh, God – we're here. Panic clutched at her stomach as the train swayed into the station. There was Rupert. She saw him scanning the carriages as they drew to a halt. She felt a wild impulse to jump out on to the tracks on the other side, but at that moment an express train went scything past, shaking the carriage. Pull yourself together. It's only Rupert, for God's sake. She opened the door and got out.

He caught sight of her almost at once, and was beside her, kissing her cheek, taking her bag. She let him carry it to his car for her, too jittery to make an issue of it.

‘I thought we might go home first and you can meet my family,' said Rupert as the car pulled out of the station car park. ‘Then we could go and look round the cathedral, or go for a walk, or something. Whatever you like.' He sounded on edge too.

‘Fine.' Her fingers were laced tightly together.

‘I forgot to say – my parents have got a few people coming for dinner tonight. Clergy. Politicians. Local big-wigs. You know the kind of thing.' Oh, no. Her worst fears had not come up with anything this bad. ‘Stuffed shirts, the lot of them. But don't worry – we can escape afterwards and go out for a drink somewhere.'

‘Fine.'

He looked at her and asked, ‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes.' She made herself smile. ‘I'm fine.' Stop saying fine. She stared out of the car window, realizing in dismay that she was about to cry. The landscape wavered through the tears as she tried not to blink. Then suddenly she was distracted by a familiar turn in the road, and the sight of the wooded hills rising beyond the fields.

‘This is Chestnut Walk,' she exclaimed.

‘You know it?'

‘I grew up near here.' There was the footpath going up through the avenue of trees. ‘Oh, can we stop for a moment?' He pulled up, and she opened the door and got out. In the distance she heard a train rattling across the fields. Rupert got out too.

‘Well, we could go for a walk now, if you like.'

‘What about your family?'

He shrugged. ‘Would you like to?'

She nodded. They left the car and began to make their way up the path under the chestnut trees. The buds were just bursting, and the way ahead looked like a pointillist painting. Her heart grew lighter as they climbed. The ordeal of meeting his parents was deferred a little longer. She did not even mind when Rupert took her hand and drew her arm through his.

‘These are the strawberry woods, you know,' she said. ‘I'll show you where they grow. We always used to come here in the summer to pick them, and then one year an old man saw us and showed us a secret place where there were hundreds.'

He was smiling down into her face. ‘Did you have a happy childhood?'

She looked away. ‘Not really.'

‘Was it partly your father's job?'

‘Among other things.' There was a slight breeze. They were passing under a beech tree, and the new leaves fluttered. She watched them in the sunlight. They were still pleated from their cramped buds, and they trembled like newly hatched butterflies waiting for their first flight.

‘My father was a bit remote while we were growing up,' said Rupert. ‘But then I went away to school, so I didn't notice it too much.' Yes. A frightfully pukka establishment. She had heard scurrilous stories about it from Andrew, who had been there too.

‘You were Head Boy,' she said. He paused and gave her a Head Boy look.

‘Have you been talking to Andrew Jacks?'

‘Yes. Do you know his brother?'

‘Alex? Yes. We were in the same year. Went up to Oxford together.'

‘What's he like?'

‘Oh, bright. Ambitious.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well, academically. Why?'

Mara shrugged. She had the feeling that Andrew's relationship with this bright, ambitious older brother might explain a good deal. A chiffchaff called in the distance and they began walking again.

‘Is it true you used to make Andrew polish your corps boots?'

But Rupert was not going to be drawn into a discussion of the fagging system. ‘Andrew tells a good story,' he said drily.

‘Don't worry. He says you always played with a straight bat.'

‘I certainly did.' Despite Andrew's persistent promotion of a rather different style of batsmanship, thought Mara. ‘He was a bloody nuisance.'

‘You
swore
, Rupert!'

‘It's not funny.' But he was smiling.

‘Did he pursue you to Coverdale, do you think?'

‘No. Pure coincidence. He was as surprised as I was.' Hmm. No coincidence was likely to be totally pure with Andrew. ‘Anyway, I'm safe now,' he said. ‘Let's face it, I'll never stand a chance with Whitaker around, will I?'

Was he sounding her out? She blushed and tried to find something else to say. ‘Why are you and Johnny friends? You're so different.'

‘That's probably why, I suppose. That, and circumstance. We were sent on the same urban placement in our first year.'

‘Ah – the dreaded Bishopside experience.'

‘You know about it?'

She nodded. Bishopside was to the average Coverdale student what Nineveh was to Jonah: a damn good reason to take off immediately in the opposite direction.

‘Did you enjoy it?'

‘You know, I did. In a way. It was certainly eye-opening. Home from home for John, of course. There were times when I was very glad to have him around.'

‘Why?'

‘Oh, he's just more streetwise than I am.' She could see his thoughts were elsewhere, and was not surprised when he paused again and said, ‘Coming back to what we were talking about earlier – I know vicarage life can be tough in some ways. But you have to admit it's not as bad as it was thirty-odd years ago. When my parents were getting married the vicar's wife took my mother to one side and gave her a pep-talk: “Never wear trousers,” and, “Nothing must come between your husband and his ministry.” It's not like that any more.'

Was he leading up to something? The fear that he might be drove her to be more forthright than usual. ‘But it's not like being married to a bus driver or a doctor, is it? You can't escape from the job. You marry it. Look at your mother – she's got to be a charming hostess to the stuffed shirts tonight.'

‘Yes, but that's just her. She enjoys doing it.'

‘But she couldn't get out of it, could she? She could hardly hide in the bedroom and leave your father to do it all.'

‘No, but –'

She talked him down although she could see he was growing angry. ‘There'd be a constant pressure on you to conform. People's expectations, bitchy comments: “It's a pity his wife doesn't support him in his ministry.” A thousand tiny things hemming you in. I know what it's like.'