father?’
Madeleine raised one eyebrow. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘You see, these kids at the camp, the way they believe’ — Agnes poured boiling water into the teapot — ‘they’re sort of pagan, and herbalists, and they have solstices, and astrology and tarot and — and they don’t have to struggle with it, you know.’
‘So what are you saying? That your faith is a struggle because God’s male?’
‘Is He?’
Madeleine took the mug Agnes handed her. ‘Well, no, I’d say God is beyond gender, wouldn’t you?’
Agnes signed. ‘Yes, of course. Except, why do we choose a male God to pray to?’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, there’s Becky’s death, and then there’s all this business with Sam’s father, and it made me think … What I mean is, if our image of a loving God is based on fatherhood, you only have to look around you to see it isn’t working.’
Madeleine watched her for a moment. ‘Is all this about the order, then? About your meeting with Sister Christiane?’
‘Why should it be?’
Madeleine sipped her tea. ‘Dunno. It’s just, you seem angry.’
Agnes looked at her. ‘Angry? What with? The order? My father?’
‘I was only asking.’
‘I can’t be angry with my father. He’s been dead for years.’ The phone rang and Agnes snatched it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Sweetie, are you free this evening?’ Athena gushed.
‘Um, yes, s’pose so.’
‘There’s an opening at the gallery, private view thing, quite decent wine, I chose it myself. I meant to ask you ages ago. Thing is, Nic is coming, almost definitely, and I thought you two should meet, he’s so interesting about this reincarnation thing —’
‘You do work fast,’ Agnes said.
‘Hardly, it was sheer luck, darling, he came in yesterday evening, the gallery was very quiet, I just seized the moment. He’s gorgeous. Anyway, about six thirty?’
‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’
Agnes put down the phone. ‘What does one wear to private views?’ she asked Madeleine.
‘Heavens, don’t expect me to know,’ Madeleine said.
‘I should have asked Athena. Mind you, she’d have just insisted I borrow her Dalmatian fun-fur mini-dress, and I can’t see it, can you?’ Madeleine was looking at her blankly. ‘What were we saying?’
‘About fathers,’ Madeleine replied.
‘Oh yes, that. Maybe a glass of wine will cheer me up.’
*
‘So where’s the Bakelite radios?’ Agnes said as she walked into the gallery just behind Bond Street where Athena worked.
‘Gone, darling, all packed away to go on tour or something. No, it’s these abstract landscapey things now, hence the bit of a do. Simon, darling, you know my friend Agnes, don’t you?’
Agnes nodded vague greetings to a bustling man in angular tortoiseshell spectacles. ‘Agnes, great you could be here,’ he said, shaking her hand, looking beyond her towards the door. ‘Feel free to buy as many as you like,’ he added over his shoulder as he went away.
‘He’s a sweetie,’ Athena said. ‘And he knows so much about art, you know, not just these sort of things, but Titian and Botticelli and everyone … Oh my God, he’s here! Oh heavens, really, I didn’t expect him to turn up this early. Is my lipstick straight? I’m sure I smudged it earlier —’
‘Athena, your lipstick’s fine,’ Agnes said, surveying the doorway, watching a lean, tall man pause by the entrance, his head slightly on one side as he looked around the room. He was relaxed, upright, his long greying hair tied back at his neck, his leather jacket accentuating the line of his shoulders. He noticed Athena and sauntered over.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Athena smiled up at him. ‘Let me get you some wine,’ she said. ‘This is my friend Agnes: Agnes, Nic.’
‘Hello,’ Agnes said.
Nic was eyeing the paintings that surrounded them. ‘She said these would be my type but I’m not so sure,’ he said. ‘Still, there’s always the
Madeleine raised one eyebrow. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘You see, these kids at the camp, the way they believe’ — Agnes poured boiling water into the teapot — ‘they’re sort of pagan, and herbalists, and they have solstices, and astrology and tarot and — and they don’t have to struggle with it, you know.’
‘So what are you saying? That your faith is a struggle because God’s male?’
‘Is He?’
Madeleine took the mug Agnes handed her. ‘Well, no, I’d say God is beyond gender, wouldn’t you?’
Agnes signed. ‘Yes, of course. Except, why do we choose a male God to pray to?’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, there’s Becky’s death, and then there’s all this business with Sam’s father, and it made me think … What I mean is, if our image of a loving God is based on fatherhood, you only have to look around you to see it isn’t working.’
Madeleine watched her for a moment. ‘Is all this about the order, then? About your meeting with Sister Christiane?’
‘Why should it be?’
Madeleine sipped her tea. ‘Dunno. It’s just, you seem angry.’
Agnes looked at her. ‘Angry? What with? The order? My father?’
‘I was only asking.’
‘I can’t be angry with my father. He’s been dead for years.’ The phone rang and Agnes snatched it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Sweetie, are you free this evening?’ Athena gushed.
‘Um, yes, s’pose so.’
‘There’s an opening at the gallery, private view thing, quite decent wine, I chose it myself. I meant to ask you ages ago. Thing is, Nic is coming, almost definitely, and I thought you two should meet, he’s so interesting about this reincarnation thing —’
‘You do work fast,’ Agnes said.
‘Hardly, it was sheer luck, darling, he came in yesterday evening, the gallery was very quiet, I just seized the moment. He’s gorgeous. Anyway, about six thirty?’
‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’
Agnes put down the phone. ‘What does one wear to private views?’ she asked Madeleine.
‘Heavens, don’t expect me to know,’ Madeleine said.
‘I should have asked Athena. Mind you, she’d have just insisted I borrow her Dalmatian fun-fur mini-dress, and I can’t see it, can you?’ Madeleine was looking at her blankly. ‘What were we saying?’
‘About fathers,’ Madeleine replied.
‘Oh yes, that. Maybe a glass of wine will cheer me up.’
*
‘So where’s the Bakelite radios?’ Agnes said as she walked into the gallery just behind Bond Street where Athena worked.
‘Gone, darling, all packed away to go on tour or something. No, it’s these abstract landscapey things now, hence the bit of a do. Simon, darling, you know my friend Agnes, don’t you?’
Agnes nodded vague greetings to a bustling man in angular tortoiseshell spectacles. ‘Agnes, great you could be here,’ he said, shaking her hand, looking beyond her towards the door. ‘Feel free to buy as many as you like,’ he added over his shoulder as he went away.
‘He’s a sweetie,’ Athena said. ‘And he knows so much about art, you know, not just these sort of things, but Titian and Botticelli and everyone … Oh my God, he’s here! Oh heavens, really, I didn’t expect him to turn up this early. Is my lipstick straight? I’m sure I smudged it earlier —’
‘Athena, your lipstick’s fine,’ Agnes said, surveying the doorway, watching a lean, tall man pause by the entrance, his head slightly on one side as he looked around the room. He was relaxed, upright, his long greying hair tied back at his neck, his leather jacket accentuating the line of his shoulders. He noticed Athena and sauntered over.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Athena smiled up at him. ‘Let me get you some wine,’ she said. ‘This is my friend Agnes: Agnes, Nic.’
‘Hello,’ Agnes said.
Nic was eyeing the paintings that surrounded them. ‘She said these would be my type but I’m not so sure,’ he said. ‘Still, there’s always the
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