Marion's Angels

by K. M. Peyton

  Pat came down, in jeans and a blue T-shirt, his hair slicked smooth with a comb. His hands, sea-washed, were large and articulate, spread over the keys.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to work now.’

  ‘It’s all right—I can tell Mr. Voigt. it’s all right?’

  ‘Yes. Mick will see to it. Go and arrange it with Mick.’ He seemed to have lost interest, frowning at the music on the rest in front of him. But as she hesitated, he looked up and said, ‘If this thing happens, and I meet him, and it’s all right, you can be in on it too. You can come over, and Geoff too, if he wants. We could all have supper, when this Festival week is over.’

  ‘And my concert—?’ Her voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I promise.’

  She went back over the dunes to the others, who were all talking with considerable animation about Ephraim Voigt’s invitation and its likely consequences. The talk was technical and involved. The only opinion Marion fully understood was Ruth’s, who was saying fiercely to Mick, ‘Three weeks clear, without any engagements—just coming up . . . and now this! He needs a break! I need him—I need him for three weeks. I did so want it!’

  ‘It’s great; Ruthie—you know it is. You don’t pass over opportunities in this business.’

  ‘He isn’t an accompanist, anyway—’

  ‘He’s a musician, Ruth. He’s a great pianist, and that’s what Voigt wants.’

  Ruth made a face. ‘I know what it will mean. Work, work, work.’

  ‘Is that anything new?’

  ‘Oh, after the Brahms, month in, month out, for two—three—years . . . no—what’s a potty sonata or two? I just think, sometimes, I married a Steinway, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s paying off, Ruthie. You know it is. You don’t get notices like he got today just sitting making daisy-chains.’

  ‘Oh—’ Ruth gathered up the cups angrily. ‘It’s not everything—’

  ‘It is, just now, you know it is.’ Mick’s voice was gentle and quite ruthless at the same time.

  Ruth tried to get the percolator on the tray and couldn’t. Marion bent down and took it off her. ‘I’ll help you.’

  Ruth was close to tears. She got up and started back over the dunes. Marion hurried after her, cold with remorse. It was no good asking Ruth if she minded, for she quite clearly did. Marion couldn’t think of anything adequate to say at all. They went into the kitchen. Great floods of piano-music reverberated through the whole house; Ruth kicked the door to the living-room shut, but it didn’t make much difference. Ruth started to run the water into the sink, but the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of me,’ she said to Marion. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. It was just—’ She stopped.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ Marion whispered.

  Ruth piled the cups and saucers into the bowl. Then she turned round to Marion: ‘Look, you mustn’t mind. I’m stupid. Once I prayed as hard as you—every night—for Pat’s career to be a success.’

  ‘How do you know I prayed?’

  ‘Pat told me, last night. After he had played so well. He made a joke of it, said it was because you prayed for him. But I’ve heard him play it as well as that without prayers.’

  ‘Did he tell you I was going to pray for a rich American?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have, if I’d known—’

  ‘No. Don’t say that. It is a very great compliment, a great opportunity, just like Mick says. I should be very pleased. I am, really, but I just would have liked a week or two first, without any pressures—I was so looking forward to it. He had promised, you see—three weeks, we had kept it free. No engagements, minimal practising. So I’m disappointed. And it is terribly selfish of me—to be cross about such a marvellous thing for him, so that makes me feel even worse. I’m just a mess really. Don’t take any notice.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a mess,’ Marion said, anguished. Even prayers wouldn’t work this one out. ‘Perhaps you can still have the three weeks—there might not be any great hurry?’

  ‘Possibly. But with Mick making the arrangements, it’s not likely.’ She smiled, doubtfully. ‘Anyway, it’s splendid news—it really could save the church, couldn’t it? We can always have our holiday once this is worked out. Please don’t worry, Marion. I’m sorry I’m such a wet blanket. You don’t deserve it.’

  She was back to normal, reaching for the detergent.

  ‘I’ll just do these things, then I’ll dress Lud and go back with you along the beach. I’ve got to do some shopping. We can have an ice-cream in The Copper Kettle. Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I would.’

  ‘And Mick will run you home when you want. It’s the least he can do, after all you’ve done for us.’

  And Marion waited, doing the drying up. She saw that Pat, engaged with his piano, wasn’t any sort of a companion at all. Even when he was at home. And the rest of the time he was travelling to engagements. And Ruth was, strangely, as lonely as Geoff at times. She remembered the description of Swithin: ‘He lived for his werke and took no wyf,’ and how Ruth had remarked upon it, when they had talked in the churchyard. It fitted in a very curious way. All this thing, saving the church and the angels, was for Swithin really. Waiting for Ruth, Marion found herself watching Pat at the piano, through the glass panes of the dividing door. He was Swithin again, in her mind, the way he looked; he was as remote, unknowable; absorbed, dedicated . . . it gave her an uneasy, rather frightened, cold feeling, to be so deeply involved in relationships outside her understanding. She hadn’t meant, praying, to make Ruth cry, to summon the greatest violinist in the world . . . was it all getting a little out of hand, perhaps? It was slightly ominous, standing there waiting, to feel that she had set in train events that might, in the end, involve far more than the welfare of the twelve carved angels.

  Chapter Five

  MARION, HAVING REPORTED fairly fully to Geoff the result of her visit to Fair Winds, was relieved to hear no more until the following week. Alfred, it appeared, had had a mysterious message from someone whom he said sounded like an American, asking if he had any objections to his church getting a bit of publicity, as some well-wishers wanted to get up an appeal. He had, rather nervously, said no. Two days after this the local paper appeared with excited headlines: ‘American boost for decaying St. Michael’s:Ephraim Voigt to play.’ The following day even the most discreet of the national dailies ran the story. Some rhapsodized about St. Michael’s and ‘the forlorn grandeur of the village cathedral dominating the serpentine estuary, clustered around with thatched, rose-covered cottages straight out of Patience Strong.’

  ‘Who’s Patience Strong?’ Marion asked belligerently.

  ‘A lady who wrote poems.’

  They pored over the printed story, impressed by the evidence that the plan was actually taking shape:

  Ephraim Voigt, leading American violinist, resting in England for six months on doctor’s advice, has decided to espouse the cause of St. Michael’s, a semi-derelict fifteenth-century church in East Anglia. Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds is required to restore the church to make it safe. Said Mr. Voigt last night: ‘I cannot bear to think of this irreplaceable roof being allowed to fall in through neglect and lack of funds. What better way to pay my respects to this lovely country of yours than to lead an appeal to save this beautiful church?’

  Voigt is arranging to play charity concerts for St. Michael’s in London, Cambridge and Norwich. He has invited the young virtuoso pianist Patrick Pennington to accompany him in a programme of Beethoven sonatas. Mr. Pennington said in London last night, ‘I am delighted and honoured by the invitation.’

  ‘He never!’ Marion said. ‘I asked him what he thought and he said the panics—horror, he said. Gloom. Amazement.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s not what you say to a newspaper, nitwit.’

  ‘And Ruth cried.’

  ‘That wouldn’t make a good sto
ry at all.’ Geoff paused and grinned. ‘The best story is yours—conjuring that American out of thin air with your prayers. Lucky the papers don’t know the real truth of it! You’d have reporters queuing all down the lane.’

  Shortly after they had read the story in the paper, Ruth rang up:

  ‘There’s a dinner at the George, and we’ve all got to go—it’s another publicity do. You’re both to come. Ephraim’s most emphatic.’

  ‘Oh, my Gawd,’ Geoff said. ‘Must we?’

  ‘Well, it’s for the church. That’s what I keep telling Pat. You must come, you and Marion. More than anybody.’

  ‘Very well. We are delighted and honoured by the invitation.’

  Ruth giggled. ‘Mick told him what to say. It’s terribly useful to have someone to tell you what to say. Tonight then—eight o’clock.’

  ‘We’ll be there.’

  Geoff put down the receiver and explained gloomily to Marion what was expected of them.

  ‘What are you going to wear?’ he said, worried. ‘It’ll all be terribly smart.’

  ‘Not that awful shiny dress.’

  ‘You look a sight in it. Perhaps Carol—Miss Foster—she found you something for the school theatre trip. We really must go shopping one day, Marion.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Ask Miss Foster.’

  ‘All right.’

  Miss Foster was her teacher at school. She was sympathetic to Marion’s problems, and used to rather odd appeals from Geoff. Marion had heard it said by several people that Geoff and Miss Foster made a good pair; people said that Miss Foster liked Geoff, and ‘he could do a lot worse than remarry with a nice girl like her.’ But Marion knew that it had never crossed Geoff’s mind.

  Asking her about something to wear, Marion looked at her closely, working out if she’d like to have her round the house all day, married to Geoff. Carol Foster was slightly plump, brisk and cheerful and very easy to get on with, but Marion thought, on the whole, no. At least, yes for a lot of things, like getting the tea and supplying the right sort of clothes, but not for sitting on the kitchen steps drinking cups of tea and not saying anything much. Funnily enough, Marion could see Ruth doing that very well. Even supplying the right clothes, rather peculiar ones like her own, but undeniably right.

  ‘Well, look, Marion, I’ll ask Mrs. Rowley at lunch-time. Melissa’s your size. I’m sure she’ll find something. Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring something after lunch and you can try it on. I can take up a hem if necessary. Why have they asked you then? Because you look after the church?’

  ‘Yes. And I know Mrs. Pennington. She asked me.’

  She felt like saying, ‘God asked me, because I arranged it all,’ but didn’t.

  Mrs. Rowley sent a perfectly suitable, frightfully boring dress with a cardigan to match and a pair of slimy sandals with silver buckles.

  ‘You look super,’ Carol said.

  Marion didn’t agree, but pretended to. Geoff said she looked like the head girl. Marion said he looked like the bank manager. He wore a dark grey suit that he had worn at Liz’s funeral and a pale blue tie he borrowed from Horry. ‘We really must do something about our wardrobes sometime, Marion,’ he said, but she knew he never would. They drove to Oldbridge and arrived at the George at two minutes to eight. Pat and Ruth were just getting out of their fast car in the car park and Pat said to Geoff, ‘I must have a pint before I meet the Bishop and his gang. We’ve time for a quick one in the Red Lion. What do you say?’

  Geoff was far more at home in the Red Lion than the George and they all went in gratefully, to find courage for the evening before them.

  ‘I don’t mind playing a sonata or two for your rotten church,’ Pat told Marion. ‘But I hate all this guff that goes with it. What’s wrong with you tonight? You look like a banana.’

  ‘It’s this dress.’

  ‘Oh—well—I like bananas.’

  He was wearing a very severe and perfect suit, and Ruth had a long dark dress printed all over with red poppies. Marion thought she looked fantastic.

  ‘I wish I had a dress like that!’

  ‘Do you? I’ll make you one, if you like.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You can choose the material, and I’ll make it, yes. If Geoff approves.’

  Geoff obviously approved, Marion thought, pleased. He was looking at Ruth in a very odd way. As if she was his boat, with admiration and love. No, not love, Marion decided, for Ruth belonged to Pat. Like then. He liked her. We all like her.

  She was saying, ‘We’re sorry about tonight, but it was out of our control. If you like, tomorrow, you can come to supper at home, properly—I mean, just friendly. Ephraim will have gone by then—won’t he, Pat?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  ‘Because, apart from Ephraim and practising the sonatas, we’ve still got three weeks more or less off.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Pat said. ‘If that’s off. . . .’

  ‘No, well. You’ll be at home, I mean.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tomorrow then, for supper. If you come early we can go for a walk first, along the beach. Work up an appetite.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, we’ll come.’

  Dinner at the George was nothing like so casual, as they could sense the moment they entered the hall. The bar was crowded with very smart people—‘The St. Michael’s appeal party?’ the proprietor inquired, shepherding them to join the throng. Through double doors into the dining-room Marion could see a banqueting table laid, with a formidable array of glasses and cutlery to each place, and silver candelabra and flower arrangements and the head waiter checking. Whose money was this, she wondered? Ephraim’s? Or was it to be won back from the appeal?

  While she was still wondering, she found herself being embraced by Ephraim himself, and much hand-shaking going on all round her—with the Bishop, the Bishop’s wife, the Dean of Somewhere and his wife, Canon Somebody-or-other, Lady This and Lord That. Pat and Ruth and Geoff were all involved too, Geoff looking very much as if he wished he were working on his boat and Pat looking as if he were used to it but wishing he wasn’t. Nobody, obviously, could work out where she and Geoff came into it, for Ephraim’s explanation was vague; she wondered if he remembered himself, now. He wore an almost white suit, a black shirt and a silver tie, and had two very astute-looking Americans at his side, introduced as Walt and Jim—fund-raisers. Ephraim was not a bit grand in company, for all his fame, but very friendly and informal, saying, ‘Yessir, I hope that’s the Goddarned truth. . . .’ (what a thing to say to a Bishop, Marion was thinking!) and Marion somehow couldn’t see him looking beautiful over the violin strings as Pat did over the keyboard: he had a monkey quality, she thought, long arms and long, violent fingers which he waved about when he talked. Walt and Jim were watching Pat with narrowed eyes, perhaps assessing his money-making qualities. Mick, looking incredibly elegant and artistic in fawn suede and cream silk, came to Marion and took her hand in his and kissed it and said, ‘My dear little agent, I am delighted to see you again. We owe all this to you!’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, glad to receive her due recognition.

  ‘It was very acute of you to suggest Pat to Mr. Voigt. I couldn’t have been quicker myself. It will be a great opportunity for him, making American connections.’

  A faint warning bell rang somewhere in the back of Marion’s mind, recalling what Ruth had said about Pat’s American aspirations, but at that moment dinner was announced and Pat came to her side and said to Mick, ‘Excuse me, but I’m taking her in to dinner.’

  Marion, wishing desperately that she didn’t look like a banana, blushed with pleasure.

  ‘Do you think Ruth really will make me a dress?’

  ‘If she said so, she will.’

  ‘I’d like one like hers.’

  ‘I’m sure she can manage that.’

  ‘Do you know which knives and forks to use?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve learnt. And not to eat peas with your knife.’


  They were placed impressively near the top of the table, only two from Mr. Voigt, and Geoff made sure he was next to Ruth, although Marion thought his place was meant for Mick. Mick shrewdly got himself opposite hard-eyed Walt and Jim, but had to be charming to church ladies on either hand—no problem for him; Marion thought, if you didn’t know, you’d take him for the pianist and Pat for the agent. Pat and Ephraim were certainly very opposite in character; did that mean they might have difficulty playing duets?

  She asked Pat.

  ‘Quite likely,’ he said gloomily. ‘And as he’s three times older than me and done it all ten times to my once, I shall probably have to do as I’m told.’

  ‘But it’s a great opportunity. Mick said so.’

  ‘Yes. Mick doesn’t have to do it.’

  Marion, her guilt complex returning in a rush, said, ‘But you don’t mind? Not really? You said—’

  Pat smiled and said, ‘Ephraim is a great musician. My only worry is that I won’t be good enough. And that I’m used to.’

  ‘Oh, but you will.’

  The dinner proceeded and Marion, eating hugely and sampling her various wine-glasses, rather lost track. She could see that her father was enjoying himself with Ruth—and the food—and that everyone, including the Bishop, was exceedingly jovial and optimistic. Only Pat at her side was quiet, abstemious, satisfied with her undemanding company. By the time they got to the dessert and the coffee and the speeches, she was feeling rather peculiar, and noticed that her father was glancing at her warily from time to time.

  ‘If she needs fielding,’ he said to Pat, ‘would you—?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said.

  It was just the extraordinary feeling that kept coming at her in waves of talk and laughter, watching everybody, thinking of Herbert and Ted at home in the dusking canopy of the arched timber roof—that all this was because of her. She had made it, willed it. Manipulated it. Even the Bishop, making his speech, was there because she had willed it, on the altar steps. It was her miracle, although no one knew it except the four of them, her and Geoff and Pat and Ruth. Ephraim, even when he referred to her in his speech, didn’t know: