Angels and Men (33 page)

‘Well, not everyone's daddy can afford to send them to a poncy public school,' said May. ‘Only I expect you were a scholarship boy, because you're so terribly, terribly clever.'

Mara was convinced that Andrew would now pick up his whisky and stalk out; but although he did not deign to answer May's observation, he remained where he was and read on. Mara wondered whether after years of intimidating everyone with his cold intellectual bullying, he found he rather liked being treated with disrespect.

‘I came to ask you for a word, Mara,' said May.

‘A private word, you mean?' asked Mara,' glancing at Andrew.

‘Oh, no. A word which you couldn't put in an essay on Marlowe.'

‘A what? Why?' Mara stared at her, baffled.

‘It's a running bet I've got with my tutorial partner,' explained May. ‘To liven up the tutorial. We take it in turns to pick an impossible word for the other one to work into an essay without the tutor noticing.'

‘Such as?'

‘Oh, “candy floss” in an essay on Restoration Comedy. “Telephone box” in Fielding. That sort of thing. We've been doing it since November.' Mara glanced at Andrew again, and saw he had abandoned all pretence of being uninterested.

‘Good God – and your tutor hasn't noticed?' he asked.

‘It's Dr Walden. I don't think he's noticed we're in the twentieth century,' said May.

‘True,' conceded Andrew. ‘But don't
ever
try it on me, curlylocks.'

‘Or you'll put me on detention.' He gave her a look, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Well, what do you think? So far I've come up with “wart hog” or “sweat gland”.'

There was a thoughtful silence.

‘ “Speculum”,' said Mara.

‘ “Smegma”,' said Andrew. There was a pause. May eyed him. ‘Look it up later,' he said kindly.

‘How incredibly puerile,' May replied.

He's right, thought Mara. She doesn't know what it means. It was a relief to see him using his nasty perceptive eyes on someone else for a change. She smiled as she put the kettle on for coffee.

After a moment May went and sat down at Andrew's feet on Mara's new rug and began to fiddle and plait the tasselled edge. ‘Can you just
remind
me about post-structuralism?' she asked. ‘In case I ever want to refer to it in passing.'

Mara watched, and saw him relent. She turned away to hide another smile. No man can resist it, she thought. Explain it to me. Educate me. What is the offside rule in rugby, exactly? I can't seem to understand how to fill this form in. Save me, fulfil me, enrich my life. He was a good teacher, though. Clear, imaginative, concise. May sat plaiting and stroking the rug fringe, listening. Mara poured the coffee.

‘No, no – forget about intentionality. Look, let's take a text you're familiar with.' He paused and looked at her sharply. ‘Are you still letting this wash over you?'

May gazed up at him. ‘No, honestly.'

Mara caught the look and stopped in the middle of what she was doing. Good God – she's in love with him.

But then May sighed, and added, ‘I just
love
hearing you talk, Andrew.' This remark signalled the end of the lesson. Andrew returned to his book and closed his ears to her pleas and apologies.

‘I'll be good, Andrew. I promise.'

‘No.'

She pulled at his book. ‘How am I going to get a First, if you won't help me?'

‘Too bad. You fucked your chance up, young lady.'

‘Please please please. You're my last hope now I've given up prayer.'

‘Given up prayer?' said Mara. Was May rebelling against the faith of her fathers, too? Perhaps it was
de rigueur
for vicars' daughters.

‘Oh, not seriously. I just can't bear going to the college prayer meeting now the tapeworm has got her claws into it. She . . . well. I don't go any more.' May fumbled to a stop and glanced anxiously at Andrew. Mara realized that there must have been a tacit agreement that nobody was to mention Joanna in her presence.

‘I imagine we're talking about Joanna,' she said. May's eyes darted back to her nervously. ‘It's all right. I can cope.'

‘Well . . .' May hesitated, but then venom got the better of her. ‘It's like a seance these days. We're always waiting to hear what the Spirit has to say, and it's always bloody Joanna who gets a message for us from the Lord. She sits there like Gypsy Rose Lee in her headscarf and says, “I think the Lord's saying blah blah blah.” ' Andrew laughed. ‘I know it
sounds
funny, but it's horrible. It's like she's put a spell on everyone. Nobody's allowed to challenge what she says because she's only a mouthpiece for God's message, and if you argue then you're blaspheming against the Holy Spirit.'

‘So what's God saying to the undergraduates of Jesus College?' asked Andrew. ‘I hope you're paying attention, Mara. There's got to be a footnote for your thesis in here somewhere.'

‘Yes,' agreed May. ‘You can put, “I owe this insight to my colleague May Poppett.” Well, according to La Joanna, God's telling us that he's doing a new thing, and that if we're faithful in prayer and fasting, then he's going to work mighty miracles in our midst.' Mara began trembling. She folded her arms tightly. May went on. ‘This is part of a worldwide outpouring of the Spirit, says Joanna. God's giving the established churches one last chance to jump on the bandwagon before he washes his hands of them all and sets up a new restored church. With her on centre stage, of course. I just can't –' May caught sight of Mara's white face and stopped, appalled. ‘Are you OK, Mara?'

There was a tense silence. I will not let her have this hold over me. I
will not
. She struggled to reassure them, to show she was in control. They waited, then Andrew slid his whisky glass across the desk towards her, and to her surprise she found herself almost smiling.

‘I'm fine.'

Later, when they had both gone, Mara sat trying to make herself think about what May had said. But I can't. A few weeks' grace. Make the most of it. He'll force you to face it in the end. The Church of the Revelation. Leah. Hester. She felt powerless, as though there was a straitjacket on her soul. I'm not ready.

She stood up and began to get ready for bed, turning her thoughts deliberately down another path. May and Andrew. Had she imagined May's look, or was everyone she knew randomly and disastrously in love with the wrong person? This thought led her straight to Rupert, and she frowned. When he had returned from his skiing, she had made her position clear, sliding from his embrace, avoiding his kisses. She had found this harder to do than she had been expecting. A picture of him at the beginning of term came into her mind: bronzed, hair bleached by the sun, standing in her room saying, ‘You have no idea how much I've missed you, Mara.' She felt a flicker of lust at the memory. But she had remained adamant. He had taken it on the chin, of course. A gentleman to the last. From her point of view the whole thing was over, but as the weeks passed she began to fear that he saw it as only a temporary cooling-off period. Perhaps he was allowing her time and space, confident that she would come back to him in the end? Well, she couldn't help what he thought. She climbed into bed.

As she drifted off to sleep, she thought again about passion and unrequited love. May and Andrew; Andrew and Johnny; her and Johnny; Rupert and her. Why couldn't she love Rupert? Handsome, intelligent, and – most astounding of all – in love with her. Why not? Why did it have to be Johnny? Was Andrew right yet again? Was she turning him into an angel? Probably. Wasn't it just like the kind of desperate idealizing love she used to feel for Dewi? But admitting this did nothing to change her feelings. And who could tell what Johnny was feeling? If he was in love with anyone, there would be no way of knowing. His behaviour was irredeemably flippant. She had met him in a corridor the day after she had seen Andrew kissing him, and he had only laughed at her embarrassment.

‘Worried about my orientation, sweetie?'

‘No.' She had blushed furiously.

‘Well, I'd always be happy to reassure you, Mara. You know that.' His tone and expression had been so serious that for a moment she had missed his meaning. She thrust him from her mind. Bastard.

Her thoughts wandered to her thesis. She remembered thinking months ago that fanaticism was like being passionately in love. A crush on Jesus. ‘She talks about the Lord as though he was her boyfriend.' That's what May had said about Joanna. The Principal floated into her mind. ‘I've decided, on the whole, it's better that I don't offer Miss Smart a place at Jesus College.' Thank God. Thank Andrew, that aspiring fourth member of the Trinity. The Principal drifted away, and two Quaker women appeared, arrested for preaching in the seventeenth century:

‘What is your husband's name?'

‘We have no husband but Christ.'

Whipped till the blood ran down their backs, but singing praises with every lash. Then it was Hester. Silently rocking, refusing to name the father, refusing medical advice to have the thing aborted, refusing to believe the missing brain would not grow, that the child would not be healed, refusing to believe it was dead. Singing praises with every lash. The coffin no bigger than a shoebox. A monstrous birth. That's what they called it in the seventeenth century. That was the fate of heretical women who coupled with Satan. A child half fish, half human. Monstrous. Her mind filled with drifting bodies, pallid, flippered, eyeless, their silent mouths opening and shutting. ‘Not one of these shall fall,' said a voice. The things drifted peacefully on currents she could not fathom.

CHAPTER 21

Mara looked at her watch. Seven minutes to go. If she set off now and walked at a reasonable pace, she would arrive at her tutor's door just as the clock was chiming ten. She fiddled nervously with the end of her plait, then gathered her things together. What would Dr Roe think of the piece she had written? Was it substantial enough to warrant a transfer to PhD? At this question Mara felt a wave of nausea. Not just anxiety about failure, she realized. Part of her was afraid of success. If the tutorial went well, she might find herself on some academic motorway, speeding off in the wrong direction without a turn-off in sight. She left her room hurriedly and began to run down the stairs. Oh, God, she thought to herself. I wish I'd never started. Scared to go on, scared to give up.

She was about to cross the landing which led to the last flight when the Principal's door opened and Johnny stepped out.

‘Yes. All right. I understand,' he said.

From inside the room she heard the Principal's voice saying drily, ‘I sincerely hope you do understand, John. Goodbye.'

The door shut and Johnny turned and saw Mara. He drew a finger across his throat and grimaced.

‘What? What happened?' she whispered, but he shushed her, and they went down the steps in silence.

‘I'm in disgrace,' he said as they emerged on to the street.

‘Why?'

He paused to light a cigarette. She watched him inhale deeply, then blow the smoke away into the morning air. ‘Someone tripped over my feet in the hallway on the way to chapel this morning.' She stared. What was he talking about? He grinned at her. ‘Looks like I didn't make it back to my room last night after all.'

Her eyes widened. ‘You were drunk?'

‘Mmm-hmm. I was out with some old workmates. Last thing I remember was my brother saying, “Ha'away – let the bugger lie. It won't be the first time.” They must have dumped me in the doorway.' He continued to smoke, watching her appalled reaction in amusement.

‘But why?'

He shrugged. ‘They probably didn't fancy carrying me upstairs.'

‘No,' she said impatiently. ‘Why did you do it?'

‘Why?' He laughed and took a step closer. His hand slid round her waist. ‘Well, why do anything? Because it feels good.' And he bent down and kissed her full on her astonished lips.

‘Excuse me,' a voice behind them said. They stepped back swiftly from the open door. The Principal! Mara's face burned as Johnny backed off, grinning, down the steps, hands raised like a footballer caught making a dubious tackle. Honest, ref, I hardly touched her!

‘We don't have to ordain you, John.' Definitely a yellow card, although Mara suspected the Principal was struggling not to smile.

‘Ah, but you probably will. Think how much the Church has spent on my training.' He winked at Mara and set off down the street to Coverdale Hall. She heard him whistling as he disappeared. Good God. She turned back to the Principal open-mouthed. They stood for a moment in silence as though they both felt something ought to be said. Then the bells started to chime.

‘I'm late for a tutorial,' she blurted and, turning, fled down the steps. Oh, God. He kissed me. I can't believe it. He's gone mad. And what's he playing at, twisting the Principal's tail like that when he's already in trouble? She slowed down a little to catch her breath, turning up the cobbled lane which led to Palace Green. ‘He's struggling with his sense of vocation,' she remembered Rupert saying. But surely he wasn't trying to solve the problem by getting himself thrown out? She was approaching the Divinity School, and worries about Johnny gave way to fears for herself. What was Dr Roe going to say? She climbed the stairs and paused in front of the door trying to catch her breath and compose herself. She knocked and entered, apologizing.

‘Don't worry. How are you?' She gestured for Mara to sit. ‘I was sorry to hear you've been so unwell.'

Mara sat, feeling hot and grimy. ‘I'm a lot better now, thank you.'

‘Good.' Dr Roe gave her a steady assessing stare, then reached for Mara's paper. Mara glimpsed some pencilled comments in the margin. ‘Now then . . .' But at that point the phone rang and Mara was left in horrible suspense. Now then, this is an excellent piece of work, or Now then, I'm afraid this really won't do at all, will it?

‘Actually, I've got a student here, Alex,' Dr Roe said. ‘Could you ring me back in about –'

A man's voice on the other end cut her off. Mara caught snatches of rapid-fire monologue. It sounded like a request for Dr Roe to reserve some books for him in the university library. Tell him to bugger off and do it himself, thought Mara. Dr Roe tried to interrupt before deciding that compliance would be a quicker way of getting rid of him.

‘All right. What are they?' She reached wearily for a pen and began to jot down the titles. A minute or so later Mara heard the voice at the other end say, ‘Got that? Great. Thanks. Bye.' There was a click, then silence. Dr Roe stared at the receiver for a moment as though expecting it to apologize to her on behalf of the caller, then she hung up.

‘An old friend,' she said grimly. ‘Now, where were we? Ah, yes.' She began leafing through the pages in front of her, saying ‘hmm' in an ominous way. ‘Well . . .' Mara braced herself. ‘This is really very good. Overall, yes, excellent. One or two small points, however. Perhaps we can go through it together? Do you have a copy there?'

‘Yes.' Mara crossed her legs nervously, accidentally kicking Dr Roe's desk with a smart rap like a karate expert. They began to work through page by page. Mara's mouth was dry.
One or two small points
. She knew from her Cambridge days that the most humiliating, soul-gutting criticism could lurk behind this mild phrase. The two small points could turn out to be ‘style' and ‘content'. But after a few minutes it dawned on her that Dr Roe was actually pleased with the piece. The reservations really were small. Well, thank God. Mara managed to talk quite sensibly with her tutor about fundamentalism, early Quakerism, Methodism, feminism, deism, even antinomianism, until the bells chimed quarter to eleven. At this point Dr Roe stacked the pages neatly back together. ‘I wonder if I might keep a copy of this, Mara?'

‘Yes, of course.' Mara could feel her face burning with the afterglow of intense academic activity.

‘You might think about trying to get part of it published.' Mara nodded, thinking she never wanted to see the bloody thing again in her life. ‘Now, how are your thoughts developing? I'm assuming you'll want to transfer to a PhD, of course.' There was a pause. Dr Roe seemed to catch some expression on Mara's face. ‘Or won't you?' Mara tried to make herself say yes swiftly and convincingly.

‘I don't know any more,' Mara heard herself croak. She cleared her throat as if to go on, but could not think how to explain.

‘What do you really want to do, Mara?' That question again. Mara felt her hand groping around behind her for the end of her plait.

‘I think I'd like to paint.'

‘Paint? That's interesting.' Dr Roe sat forward. ‘Did you do art at school?'

‘Yes. Then I had to choose between art college and university.'

‘And do you think you made the right choice?'

‘Probably. But recently I've started to want to paint again. It's probably a reaction, or something. A phase.' She ended on a gasp.

‘I had no idea,' said Dr Roe at last. ‘But as you don't seem entirely certain at the moment, I wonder if it might be best to keep your options open? I think we should proceed
as if
you were going to do a doctorate – for the sake of getting the grant form off in time, if nothing else. You could always cancel your application later. How does that sound?'

‘It sounds sensible. I'm sorry. I'm just being stupid.'

‘No, no. I'm sure you're not.' Dr Roe smiled, but Mara still wished she had kept her mouth shut. At least she hadn't blurted it out to Andrew. She winced at the thought. ‘I don't suppose . . . No, of course you won't have any of your work with you today.' It was a question. Mara shook her head. ‘I'd love to see some.'

‘Well . . . I suppose I could bring my sketch-book.' They both heard the ungracious reluctance.

‘Well, pop in any time. I'd be delighted.' The invitation was sufficiently non-specific to ignore. ‘We need to work out a research proposal. Think it over and come back in about a week.' They fixed a time and talked a little more about grants and references. ‘Well, good.' This was the prelude to a dismissal. Mara got to her feet. ‘Ah, I knew there was something else. Have you been following the court case about that sect? What's it called? The Church of the Revelation.' Mara went cold. Dr Roe was leafing through some papers on her desk and did not see her reaction. ‘I know you aren't looking at modern sects, but I thought you might find this interesting. Ah, here it is.' She handed Mara, a page torn from a Sunday paper. ‘A lot of parallels with the piece you've just written.'

‘Thanks,' said Mara, folding it swiftly and plunging it into her bag. She crossed to the door, and they said goodbye. Sweat was forming cold on her forehead as she ran down the stairs. She had caught a glimpse of the leader's face smiling up from the newspaper photograph before she had stuffed the thing out of sight.

She was out on Palace Green. Memories of the Church of the Revelation came pressing in on her from all sides, whispering voices, clutching, praying hands. She began to walk down the lane beside the Divinity School. Her fingers twitched to tear the article to shreds. I won't read it. I can't. She turned down the road that led back to Jesus College. You're a fool. Your few weeks' grace must be up by now. Better to read it now on your own than endure Andrew's interrogation. It's only a matter of time before he does it. She sat down on the low wall. Not yet. I'm not ready. But her hand was already groping in her bag. She smoothed the paper and there was the leader's face smiling up at her. His name: Roger Messenger. Of course. She began reading with greedy hatred. It was an even-handed, well-researched piece, but it was all there. The beginnings of the sect in the early, heady days of the charismatic revival; the meetings in the room above the village library; the healings, the glossolalia, the prophecies; the rift with the local church. That was just after she had left. Then the setting up of the community, the money which flooded in as God had promised it would, people leaving their jobs, selling their homes to join the Kingdom way of life. The building of the new church centre, the setting up of the hostel in Israel.

Mara's eyes ran swiftly down the columns. A brief biography of the leader. Working-class boy makes good. Successful entrepreneur. Fast cars, women, drink. Finding it all hollow, then finding Jesus. Hearing the voice of God saying, ‘
I am raising you up to restore my church
.' The years of success. Then the scandals. Acrimonious fights over money with those who wanted to leave the sect. Accusations of brain-washing, of splitting up families, of dubious business deals. And then recently a court case. He had been accused of having sex with minors. The words sprang out. Oh, God. Distraught parents, bitter recriminations. His wife stood by him throughout. The young women at the centre of the case refused to testify. Mara finished the article, hands quaking with rage. He'd got off scot-free. She raised her eyes and stared blankly at the buildings opposite. How could she know he was guilty? Hester had said nothing. And yet Mara was sure to the roots of her being that this man was a seducer, a disgusting goat of a fornicator. As she sat asking herself why, a memory rose up before her unwilling eyes.

She went to him. To his house after school. She asked him about that sermon on the role of women. She was seething. ‘I'm still confused,' she said. ‘I can't believe it.' And she saw his gentle smile, heard his voice: ‘Mara, that's because you're still angry with God for making you a girl, not a boy.' She jumped. She had never said that. How had he guessed? ‘God knows what He's doing, Mara. One day you'll meet the man God's chosen for you, and believe me, you won't have problems with submission then. It's natural. You'll find it a joy and a blessing. But you'll never be happy if you go on fighting God.' And then he had prayed for her. Made her kneel in front of him. Laid his hands on her head, prayed that God would heal her damaged emotions, set her free to be the woman he had created her to be, and teach her to accept and love the body he had given her. And she had begun quivering. ‘You feel that? That's God's healing power at work, Mara. Don't fight it.' Like the bloody seventeenth-century Quakers. And then – Mara sat appalled at the memory – he had actually reached down and laid his hands on her breasts, still praying the whole time! Good God! She clamped her arms across her chest as though she could protect herself from him after all these years. And had she smacked his handsome flash git face and walked out? No. She had knelt there, trembling, believing that God was healing her.

He had told her to come back again, warning her that the Devil would try to snatch back the blessing from her, and that she needed to be under the protection of his spiritual covering. At the time she believed him. She really believed it was true. Too bad for him she cracked. That sermon the following week on crucifying the intellect had been too much, and she had walked out of the whole thing for good. Un-rogered.

Then Mara's mind turned to Hester who had not escaped, who had borne his child, yes, his, although she would never say. She had gone on believing in him to the end. Hester, who was dead and rotting away. Mara's hand crushed the paper face. Fuck him. And Leah, that foul bitch. Whispering to Hester the whole time that it was all the will of God. Mara stood up and ran back to college.

The bells chimed. She stood at her desk, breathing hard, trying to fight down the rage which was mounting in her. There was a knock at the door and Andrew came in.