Angels and Men by Catherine Fox

fallen leaves, or on the path, her breath coming and going – three paces in, three paces out, in, out, in, out. A blackbird started up out of the undergrowth pinking angrily. On and on she ran to see where the path went. Rejoicing as a strong man to run a race . She laughed in the silent wood. A Bible verse for every occasion. I must know thousands.
    She was in her stride now, running easily. The path now led her up a steep incline, and she ran on without slackening her speed. It hurts, she thought, as each breath became shorter. Why do I do this? ‘Pace yourselves, girls!’ called the voice of her PE mistress. Cross country. Thirty girls setting off, winter-white legs, navy knife-pleated skirts. I was always first, she thought, panting. And I was always sick afterwards. Halfway. ‘Dewi, Dewi, wait for me!’ That’s where I learnt to run. Chasing after my cousin. Three-quarters. I’m slowing. He was four years older than me and I loved him fiercely. But he didn’t want a six-year-old girl with him. His friends jeered. ‘You can play with us if you can keep up.’ And off they went on their bikes. With me – pant, pant – running behind. A mile, two miles. Maybe three. Tears streaming down my face. Sometimes I never caught them. Sometimes they simply set off again. The top. She stumbled on.
    The woods opened out into a field and there in the distance was the City with the cathedral standing guard over it. The sight of it made her stop. Her breath came in huge gasps. Even up here I can hear the bells. They chimed, remote and quiet in the distance. Three o’clock. A slight wind touched her burning face. Two crows were walking in the field and the sun shone off them as though their feathers were made of black glass. She tried to see Dewi’s face. All she saw was his photograph. Where is he now? Not a month went past without her asking that, or dreaming that she had found him at last. She began to run again. His bones might lie in some shallow grave, for all she knew, with crows walking back and forth over his head. The family view was that he had probably gone to Australia. He had never written. But he wouldn’t. Mara brought out another picture: Dewi on a sheep station. She had drawn it to comfort herself. But her memories were worn to threads. He was gone. Why can’t I accept that? Why must there be an explanation for everything?
    She crossed over a road and ran down to the old bridge across the river. When she reached the parapet, she stopped and looked over. A glassy cathedral hung upside down in the water, then fell into a million dancing shards as a boat passed. Slowly it gathered itself again. Walking now to catch her breath, she set off up the road to the college.
    As she rounded the corner, she saw Dr Mowbray disappearing into Coverdale Hall and the sight jolted a missing memory into place. ‘Does your father still have his legendary violent temper?’ How could she have forgotten that? It was so extraordinary. Did that mean he had not always been as he was now – cold, reserved? She heard his biting voice telling her, ‘Control your temper’ when she was in some childish rage. But ‘he was always so passionate about everything’. This would require a lot of thought. She began walking and, as though it were an important form that must be filled in carefully, she set the idea to one side in some safe place or other and forgot it again.

CHAPTER 4
    It was Saturday morning. Behind her open curtains Mara was already at her desk working. Another bad night. As she made herself some coffee, she felt as tired as if she had not slept at all. Her face stared at her from the kettle. The curved steel distorted her reflection. Staring eyes, pale hollowed-out face, black brows and hair. She moved her head until her reflection seemed to be all eyes. Her father’s eyes. That was what everyone said: ‘She has her father’s eyes.’