Angels and Men Read Free

young people appearing suddenly through one wall, hurrying past, and vanishing through another. Up another set of stairs she went, peering at doors until she found one which said ‘Rev. Dr James Mowbray’.
    â€˜Do try to be nice, darling,’ pleaded her mother’s voice in her mind. Mara knocked. Someone called her in, and she entered the flat. It was like the study of some eighteenth-century intellectual. Her glance took in green walls with framed prints, faded rugs, rank on rank of books, and an old brown globe. A man stood under a light like a portrait of himself, an old seafarer, maps and charts about him. Outside the wind was a restless sea. He greeted her inquiringly. On the sofa facing her was a young man. A flash of recognition – the man in the cathedral.
    â€˜How can I help you?’ Dr Mowbray asked. The young man burned on the edge of her vision.
    â€˜Do you have Seven Reasons why God Used Dwight L. Moody ?’ A pause.
    â€˜Not off hand.’ She saw he was laughing at her. A snarling look came across her face.
    â€˜It’s a book.’ All the time the young man was lounging on the sofa. She could see the insolence of his posture without looking at him, and his presence somehow made it impossible for her to be nice .
    â€˜Yes. I’m sorry. I have the book. And you, I take it, would like to borrow it. Let me see – you’re one of the new postgrads, aren’t you? Women and sectarianism?’ She inclined her head.
    â€˜Well,’ he began when she said nothing. The word teetered. He sprang on to a secure phrase: ‘And how are you settling in?’
    â€˜All right.’ Another silence yawned like a mineshaft. He looked around as if wondering where the next piece of solid ground might be. Why did he remind her of an old sea captain?
    â€˜And your name is?’
    â€˜Mara Johns.’
    â€˜Mara,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m James Mowbray, and this is . . .’ He stopped in the act of turning to the young man on the sofa. She could see a sentence forming in his mind as clearly as if he had a cartoon thought-bubble drifting out of his head. You must be Morgan Johns’ daughter , it said. Her expression became very nasty indeed.
    â€˜You must be’ – and, catching sight of the expression, he changed tack – ‘a person in your own right.’ A rare smile flashed across her face. It vanished just as suddenly.
    â€˜I’m Morgan Johns’ daughter,’ she said.
    He laughed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I realized that. How is your father these days? A bit of a lone voice crying in the wilderness, I’d have thought. High churchmen in favour of women’s ordination are a rare breed. I’ve just read his latest article.’ He paused, perhaps to see if she had any comment to make, then leapt on to another solid-looking idea: ‘He and I were at theological college together, you know.’
    She made no reply. The conversation disintegrated beneath him, and they stood in silence. She could see he wanted a cosy chat about the Johns family and she dared not encourage him.
    â€˜Well, well, well,’ he said at length. ‘We have met before, actually, only you won’t remember it. You would have been about seven. It was in Lyme Regis.’
    Suddenly she remembered and spoke involuntarily. ‘Do you have a boat?’
    He smiled. ‘I used to have a very small yacht. No longer, sadly. Yes. You were wild about the sea.’
    She could hear the ropes slapping on the masts all around, each giving a different note, as though they were bells not boats rocking and cockling on the waves. Her face softened at the memory. I was going to run away to sea.
    â€˜You grilled me on the names of the sails on square-rigged vessels,’ Dr Mowbray continued. ‘I was a sad disappointment to you.’ She hardened herself and there was another silence.
    They stood for a while. Then, having clearly just