Angels and Men (9 page)

‘What look?' But she knew already what he meant. He was standing in the shadow and she could not see his expression. The wind blew around them.

‘The other day in Maddy's and May's room, when young Joanna was complaining about her Greek, you gave me a look.'

‘Oh, then.' But the time she had gained had not shown her how to answer. He was waiting. The truth would have to do. ‘I thought you were about to offer her some personal tuition.'

‘Would that have been wrong?' She sensed an undercurrent of anger. He had not spoken to her like this before. If she could see him properly she might judge his mood better.

‘Well, it's up to you.' The rain was cold on her face.

‘I know that. I want to know why you think I shouldn't.'

‘I suppose I wasn't sure you knew what you would be letting yourself in for.' She found herself unable to go on. It would be like trying to convince Hester about Leah. He wouldn't believe her.

‘Well, Mara,' he began. His voice sounded a little softer. ‘I want you to know I respect your judgement.' She stiffened. ‘And I take what you think seriously . . .' The patronizing ‘but' was coming. But I'm going to ignore your advice. But I think you're wrong.

‘Oh, forget it,' she said rudely and turned to walk off. Immediately he seized her arm and spun her round.

‘Don't you do that to me.' She stood still in shock. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? You treat people as though they weren't worth
that
.' He snapped his fingers in her face. It was like a knife thrust. But now a faint light was on him, and she saw his anger pass as swiftly as it had appeared.

‘By, you sail close to the wind, pet. Someone's going to murder you one of these days.' He let go of her arm. ‘Anyway, I was going to say, I'm glad you warned me.' His tone was almost good-humoured now. They began to make their way slowly back along the street. She watched the light moving over the cobbles as they walked. ‘She came to my room the next day and started to tell me all her problems. I thought I'd never get rid of her. I was thinking, Is it just me, or is this girl odd? I kept wanting to say, “Just a second, that can't be right”, but the more she went on talking, the more I started to think it must be me. Weird. Mind you' – he turned to her – ‘she probably
is
having trouble with the Greek.'

‘I doubt it.'

‘We can't all be born scholars, Mara.'

‘Yes, but she must have done languages at school, and New Testament Greek isn't that hard. It's a question of application, not brain-power.' But he was shaking his head. Finally she burst out, ‘Look, I had to teach myself Greek.' There was a grin on his face, and she blushed with rage at herself. She had meant to say ‘I managed to teach myself', or something, to imply that if that was the case, then surely Joanna could master it with proper lessons. But instead it had come out like a complaint. No nice young man offered to help
me
. And now he thought she was jealous. I'm not, she thought. It's just that he's too unsuspecting. I just couldn't bear to see him in her clutches!

And that, she had to admit, sounded exactly like jealousy.

They stopped by the main entrance to Jesus College. He seemed to be lingering. Was he expecting her to ask him in? But before she could decide whether she wanted to, a horrible thought struck her. Maybe he saw her as another difficult female latching on to him to pour out her troubles. She imagined him laughing with Rupert: ‘I thought I'd never get away!'

‘Good night,' she said, and climbed the steps.

‘Good night, sweetie.' She heard the amusement in his voice, and turned back, her hand on the door. ‘If you're ever having trouble with your work, don't hesitate to ask. Rupert and I would be glad to help.' For a fraction of a second she felt a great Swansea fishwife elbowing her way to the front of her mind to bawl a stream of obscenities at him. But she closed the door on his laughter and went back to her room.

It seemed narrow and quiet after the night outside. She had forgotten about her run. Should she go back out? After a moment's thought she decided against it and picked up a volume of early Quaker tracts. Surely their violent message would drive all other thoughts from her mind. She started to read. Page after page of faded ink on brown paper. The woes and warnings seemed dull. Other people's visions. The great and terrible day of the Lord held nothing but a mild and dusty academic charm. Where had all the fire gone?

From the other side of the wall she heard the rustling of paper and an impatient sigh. The polecat was still studying. Ferreting away in his obscure Elizabethan poetry, or whatever he was researching. Was it Shakespeare, even? She dimly remembered May telling her. Maybe he was a fellow insomniac? She turned back to her book, but not before she heard Johnny's voice: ‘
You treat people as though they weren't worth
that.'

At last she became absorbed in what she was reading. Outside the wind blustered, whirling away the sound of the bells as they chimed the passing quarters. Mara's fingers loosened her damp hair from its plait, shaking it out so that it could dry. Her eyes did not waver from the page, and as she read, her hair gradually found its way back into its natural curls, curls she would comb out with contempt the following morning.
Hailstones, vials, plagues, thunders, woes, judgements, are come amongst you
. She turned a page, and a strand of hair fell forwards and tickled her neck. As she brushed it aside, her fingers touched something. She glanced down. A spider.

With a scream she leapt from her chair and tore off her tracksuit top, flinging it away. Her hair snaked around her shoulders. Spiders everywhere. Every shadow moved and scuttled. The polecat was in the room.

‘What's wrong?'

‘A spider!' She pointed to the tracksuit on the floor. He bent and lifted it. The spider raced out. With a darting movement he had it in his hand and crossed to the open window. He turned and took a step towards her. It was her cousin Dewi coming to throw the spider in her face. She started back in terror. And then it was only the polecat walking across the room, showing her both his hands, empty, palms towards her.

‘It's all right. It's gone. I threw it out of the window.'

After a long, long moment she felt the fear begin to loosen its grip. She sat huddled on the desk with the polecat watching her.

‘Whisky?' he asked.

She nodded. Anything. He went to his room. She hugged her bare arms around her. The wind came gusting in, and she was cold sitting in her running vest. She looked at her tracksuit top on the floor and her skin crawled. Voices began speaking in her mind. Well, you made a fool of yourself there, didn't you? . . . Still afraid after all these years? . . . Now he has a hold over you . . . It'll be all over college in the morning. Mara Johns is scared of spiders!

She heard him coming back, and there was a murmured conversation at the door. The field mice. I've probably woken half the bloody college. Then the polecat was beside her with two glasses and a bottle. He poured them each a stiff whisky. They drank. She knew he was watching her and that she was defenceless against his mockery. He sat beside her on the desk.

‘God, you're a strange woman. I can't make you out. You aren't scared of me, but you're frightened of spiders.'

She said nothing, trying to gather her defences around her again. They held one another's gaze like hardened poker players. Then a strand of her hair fell forwards and she jumped, brushing it wildly aside.

‘It's all right. Relax.' He reached out a hand and touched her hair. She sat still, cursing herself.

‘You have curly hair.' His voice was amused, as though he had discovered she kept sentimental pictures of puppy dogs on her walls. She twitched her hair out of his fingers and twisted it away from him over her other shoulder. His eyes became fixed on her upper arm.

‘And you have a tattoo.' Well, well, said his tone. So much for the puppy dogs.

She watched his face as he reached out a finger and traced the shape of the dragon. His grey eyes were half veiled, glinting under dark lashes and she realized with a shiver just how attractive he was. A series of new thoughts and conjectures seemed to be occurring to him as well. He might be a scholar making an important discovery – perhaps stumbling upon an unknown erotic poem by some dour puritan. Then suddenly his expression changed. He reached out, took her right arm and turned it over. She tried to pull back, but it was too late. The scar lay exposed, running from wrist to elbow along the vein.

‘What happened here?'

‘I cut myself.' The phrase see-sawed in the silence between two meanings.

‘Hmm. Most people go cross-wise.' He ran a finger down the scar. ‘How old were you?'

‘Fourteen.'

He looked up. There was no trace of shock or disapproval in his face. ‘I take it someone found you.'

‘My father.'

‘Careless. Or was that part of the plan?'

‘No.'

‘Was it his razor?' Her face burnt. ‘A nice touch. I bet that taught him a lesson. Why didn't you finish the job later?'

‘I changed my mind.'

His eyes were on her and, unable to bear his dispassionate gaze, she drained her glass and handed it back to him. The abruptness of the gesture seemed like a dismissal, and with a shrug he rose to leave. Her conscience twitched, and she remembered the sound of fingers being snapped in her face. Hurriedly, she stood up as well. The polecat glanced round as he reached the door.

‘Look – thank you,' she said.

He gave her a quizzical look, as though he had encountered the phrase before but could not for the moment remember in what context. The door swung shut.

She sat for some time on the desk. From next door came the sounds of the polecat going to bed. Then came silence, apart from the swirling winter wind. I should have been nicer to him. I should be nicer to everyone. That's the whisky talking, she thought with a sneer. Her head swam as she moved from the desk and slowly got ready for bed.

The darkness filled with faces and voices, and she slid into a restless sleep. Her mother was there, talking about her tattoo, asking, ‘Why, darling, why did you have it done? You know you won't be able to get rid of it.'

‘She's eighteen,' said her father. ‘She can do as she pleases.' What did he care?

Dewi stood looking at her. ‘Why do you have to copy everything I do, you stupid cow? Why do you have to be like me?' The dragon on his arm twisted as though it were alive, and she screamed. He laughed – or maybe it was the polecat? ‘Why can't you be more like your sister?' But Hester wasn't there. Where had she gone? She ran to look for her, but tripped and fell. Johnny stood and stared at her.

‘You treat people like dirt,' he said. High above her flew the angels. Their eyes were fierce and wild. They called to each other across the empty sky.

She woke in the early morning light. Her face was wet with tears and her head throbbed. The wind blew the curtain. From down below on the river came the desolate cry of gulls, driven inland by the storm.

CHAPTER 7

One by one the students woke in Jesus College, and remembered: tonight. Tonight is the night. Ball gowns hung in their polythene wrappings, fold upon fold of velvet or taffeta, gleaming secretly like gems by candlelight. The staff in the basement kitchens were at work, making the breakfast among the preparations for the ball. On go the eggs, in goes the toast; and as soon as possible, a hundred of these to slice, two hundred of those to marinate. The cathedral clock chimed the hours away – eight, nine, ten. Groups of students began decorating the halls and corridors, while others remained at their desks seeming to work. Eyes stole to the waiting folds of satin, or to where dress suits hung stiffly, like the ghosts of waiters or ushers haunting the doorway. Soon . . .

The clock struck midday and Mara was climbing the stairs in the Divinity School to see Dr Roe. She was glad to get away from the festoons and spangles and rustles of anticipation which filled the college. Maddy and May had talked of little but the ball for days. Dr Roe's study was a haven. Mara sat. Her tutor looked at her expectantly.

‘I got your note,' said Mara in the end.

‘Good. I was wondering if everything was all right. If you'd been ill.'

‘No.'

‘It's just that I was expecting you last Thursday.' Mara looked surprised. ‘Well, according to my diary. I had a feeling we arranged it last time we met.'

‘No,' said Mara again. She looked in her diary anyway, although she knew it was blank; and there against last Thursday were the words: ‘Dr Roe. 11 a.m.' She stared. If it had not been her own handwriting, she would have sworn someone else must have written it. Panic surged up inside her. She felt her hand smoothing her hair and fumbling for the end of her plait.

‘You're right,' she said. ‘I must have forgotten. Sorry.' Was her voice sounding strange?

‘Don't worry. It happens to all of us,' said Dr Roe. Maybe it did. Just a piece of absent-mindedness. Nothing to worry about. They began to talk about Mara's work, and she found herself gradually relaxing. The discussion turned to the idea of the end of the world.

‘Do you think that groups with a highly developed eschatology tend to have a liberal attitude towards women?' asked Dr Roe.

‘Not all of them.' A voice began speaking in her memory:
‘Let your women learn in silence with all obedience. That's what the word of God says, brothers and sisters. And any woman striving for more than her God-given place is guilty of disobedience. Yes! of rebellion against God. And there are some here in this room tonight who are not content with the place God has given them.'

‘Ah. You're thinking of the Anabaptists of Münster, perhaps?'

‘Well . . .' began Mara cautiously, unable for the moment to remember anything about the Anabaptists of anywhere. ‘I was thinking more of various modern churches. You know, breakaway groups. House churches.'

‘And they believe the Second Coming is imminent? What do they teach about women?'

‘Well, I heard of one which taught that women should be silent and obedient. And grow their hair long and keep their heads covered in worship. As a sign that they are under male authority.' Which is why I cut all my hair off that night I walked out of the church.
Shaved
it off, as the deputy headmistress put it. She had been suspended from school until it grew back, although they couldn't come up with a single good reason why. Her mother had been in tears. ‘Darling, why? All your beautiful hair.' Mara called her attention back, seeing that her tutor was watching her closely.

‘Why do some millenarian groups treat women as equals while others don't?' asked Dr Roe.

‘Different attitudes to the Bible?'

‘Good. Go on.' Dr Roe looked animated, but Mara could think of nothing to add.

Finally the other woman said, ‘This strikes me as important. I think you ought to concentrate your work here for a couple of months. Try to explore the relationship between the Scriptures, the millennium and the role of women.' This sounded at once like the title of a thesis. They arranged another time to meet, and Mara wrote it in her diary, adding a full stop, as though pinning the information firmly in place. She looked up at Dr Roe.

‘I'll try to remember.'

Dr Roe was looking worried. ‘You aren't working too hard, are you?'

‘No.' This was not precisely a lie, since ‘too hard' was purely subjective.

‘How many hours would you say you're doing a day? Approximately.'

Mara considered. ‘About seven or eight.' This was a lie; but students usually lied in answer to this question. The difference in my case is that I do more, rather than less than I claim, she thought.

‘Well, take it easy,' said Dr Roe as Mara rose to leave. ‘I hope you have other things to do besides working. Are you going to the ball?' Mara could have screamed. Though I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there will this question pursue me!

‘No,' she said. ‘I'm not.'

As she walked down the stairs, she felt the need to insult someone roundly and gratuitously. It's because I've been trying to be
nice
to people. And all because of Johnny Whitaker. It angered her to have to admit this. She still wanted to go and seize him by the arm as he had seized her, and say, Listen – there are good reasons why I behave as I do. Being nasty to people isn't just a hobby of mine. But she had to acknowledge that there was justice in his accusation. Her behaviour must look like arrogant contempt of others. But it's my armour. This was the kind of thing she heard herself explaining to Johnny – except she never would, of course. I will never be like Joanna, telling him all my problems. Something about him drew out confidences from others. Those dark eyes. There would be an upsurge of interest in going to confession wherever he served as priest. But she was being nasty again. She was out of the Divinity School now, walking back to college. She looked along the street and saw, coming towards her, someone else she must be nice to: Rupert. He greeted her.

‘Hello,' she replied, and added with some effort, ‘How are you?' Instantly she regretted it. A look of grave concern came over his face as though he were about to feel her brow. Why did people make it so difficult for someone to change? In a burst of irritation she said, ‘That was just an example of phatic speech.' He looked blank. ‘Intended to establish social contact, not convey facts.' He coloured slightly.

‘Somebody told me you read English at Cambridge,' he said. She inclined her head. ‘And that you got a First.' She looked away. ‘Why did you let me lecture you on the function of language? You might have stopped me.'

‘How?' Impossible not to say it.

‘Mara, talking to you is always a chastening experience. Do you see it as your mission to cut me down to size?'

It was her turn to flush. ‘No.'

‘Well, that's certainly how it feels, sweetie.'

This time she bit back her reply. He had made her feel so much in the wrong that she could not even protest at being called sweetie. All she could do was scowl.

‘Going to the ball?' he asked cheerfully.

‘No. I'm washing up.'

‘Well, that won't take all night, will it? The last sitting is at ten-thirty. You'll be finished not long after eleven.' She stared. ‘You're allowed to join in when you've finished your work. Didn't you know?'

The black georgette dress . . .

‘Come on,' he urged. ‘You'll enjoy it. I've got a group of friends coming. Why don't you join us?' The Someone-Somethings.

‘I don't know,' she said in a bored voice. ‘I might.'

He clearly took this to mean yes. ‘Good. Wonderful. Johnny's joining us too, when he's finished in the dining-room. See you later, then.' And with a smile from him and a mutter from her, they parted. Johnny would be there . . .

She had walked about fifty yards down the road when she thought, Just a
minute
! What about
you
trying to cut
me
down to size? You're always criticizing me. She wheeled round, but he was out of sight. If I'm arrogant, so are you, Anderson. It's just that you're charming with it. But then her conviction wavered. What if he were right? She looked up at the sky despairingly.

The college was turning into a baroque heaven, with billows of pink muslin shrouding the ceilings, and cherubs clustered in little groups. Someone had obviously had difficulty with the cherubs. They looked thin and awkward, like the infant Christ in medieval triptychs. If I had a pen handy I could offer to fatten them up. But then everyone would know she could draw. She passed along corridors decorated with moon, stars and comets, until she reached her stair. On impulse she looked in at the main dining-hall. Lunchtime had suspended its transformation into Mount Olympus. Olive trees grew from the walls and vine tendrils were making their way across the ceiling. Reclining deities looked down disdainfully over their goblets of nectar at the students eating fish and chips.

Mara was wondering whether to have lunch earlier for a change, when she noticed Joanna. She turned to leave, but as she did so, a thought struck her. She walked across to where the meals lists were pinned, and sure enough, there was Joanna's name, ‘Guest of Mara Johns'. For one horrible moment Mara wondered whether this was something else she had written, then forgotten about, but the handwriting was not hers. She looked up, and from the other side of the room saw Joanna watching her. Right, she thought in cold fury, and strode off to find Mr Nasty Pasty in his Salmonella Emporium.

As she went down the steps to Nigel's office she heard shouting. What bloody idiot had done something or other, something about the smoked salmon, and he had better things to do with his time than chasing round after people who were doing bugger all. As Mara entered, Nigel's first words to her were incorporated seamlessly into the tail end of his diatribe . . .

‘. . . and if you've come here with some stupid complaint about the food you can piss off now.'

Aha! Here at last was an opportunity for unmitigated nastiness. The fishwife in Mara's mind folded her slabby arms, narrowed her eyes and prepared for battle. She sat casually on the edge of Nigel's desk. The two members of staff that he had been shouting at stood like statues.

‘Have I caught you at a difficult moment, or are you always a complete shit?' she asked. She had an impression of two white faces with open mouths. The silence lasted several seconds. It was like watching a hand grenade spinning silently on the spot where it had landed. At last Nigel spoke.

‘Yes, I'd heard you were a cheeky bitch.' He looked at her. There was to be no explosion. The fishwife departed like Satan in the wilderness until an opportune time. ‘Well, what is it?'

She swung her foot idly backwards and forwards. ‘Actually, I was going to ask you a favour.'

A gleam appeared in his eye. ‘You think I'm going to do you a favour?'

She continued to swing her foot. ‘Oh, no. Not now I've met you.' Mara saw the two staff members behind him trying not to smirk.

Nigel seemed to sense this, for he rounded on them suddenly, and said, ‘God almighty, don't just stand there! Go and
try
to sort it out. I'll deal with the salmon later.' They disappeared.

‘Now, then. What's this favour?' He tilted his chair and looked at her with a faint leer. ‘Go on. I might just surprise you.'

‘Someone keeps signing herself in for meals as my guest without my permission.'

‘Well, what do you expect me to do about it? I can't spend my whole time checking the guest lists for every bloody meal.' He slammed all four legs of the chair back on the floor.

‘So you're saying anyone can walk into college and sign themselves in for meals, and there's nothing you can do about it?'

He tilted the chair back again. ‘Who is she, then?'

‘Joanna Something –'

Mara was going to describe her, when he interrupted. ‘Long, fairish hair, wears a scarf thing on her head? I know who you mean. What's she done to you? Stolen your man?'

Mara was completely wrong-footed by this: ‘What man?'

‘What man, she asks. Johnny Whitaker. Very popular man, our John.' He waited for a response, and when none came, added a further goad: ‘I hear you've got a thing about him.'

‘God, yes. I'd like to keep him in my room tied to a chair.'

‘I bet you would.' He swayed on his chair with a lewd buttock-grabbing look on his face. ‘Into bondage, are you?'

How come I'm having this conversation with this revolting man? Her anger against Joanna seemed remote. It had no connection with Nigel lurching about on his throne in this priapic underworld where all the college gossip seemed to trickle down and mingle with the fatty steam. She stared at her swinging foot.

Nigel brought the front legs of his chair down to rest again. ‘Well, I'll have a little word with her. If you're very nice to me.'

‘Thanks,' she said dully, and rose to leave.

He stood as well. ‘What's wrong?' He put an arm around her shoulder and looked into her face. She shrank back; but this sudden switch from smut to compassion overbalanced her.

‘I'm OK.'

He gave her shoulder a little squeeze. ‘If you ask me, you've got nothing to worry about.' She tried to draw away. What was he talking about? He pulled her closer, and said, almost nose to nose, ‘Seriously. I know his taste in women. She doesn't stand a chance.' He released her, laughing as she struggled to say something.

‘See you tonight. Washing up?' And it seemed she was dismissed. You should have left it to me, said the fishwife.

When Mara got back to the dining-hall Joanna had left. Different groups of students were sitting talking under the trailing vines. Mara collected her meal and ate her chips with Athena looming over her right shoulder and Aphrodite over her left.