The Angel in the Corner - Monica Dickens [145]
‘What fits? I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t know your Saint Luke, that’s the trouble with you. “The kingdom of God is within you.” That’s what fits,’ Mrs Benberg said triumphantly. ‘Some people think that Christ simply meant that He was standing among the Pharisees – within their company, so to speak. But more likely He meant that He was within their minds, and ergo, the minds of all who had gone before, and who were to come after. That’s you, my precious. That’s why you are your own angel, because Christ can only work through you. He can only help you through your own will to help yourself. How do you think you have made such a good showing with your life so far? You thought you had a guardian angel. Well, you did, only you were looking for him in the wrong place. People pray to the wrong place most of the time. They get down on their creaking knees and they pray to an old man with a beard, somewhere away off in the sky. There’s nothing in the sky to pray to, except the Martians, and I don’t see why they should listen. What you pray to is inside your own self. That’s where God is. Now do you see what it means – about the angel?’
‘Perhaps.’ Virginia lay back. ‘An angel with my own face. I think –’
‘Think no more,’ Mrs Benberg said briskly. ‘You’re half-doped. I don’t trust these doctors with their innocent-looking potions. Think no more tonight. We’ll think about it tomorrow. An angel with your face!’ She chuckled. ‘You like the idea?’
Virginia nodded. Her eyes were closing. ‘If you could believe that, you wouldn’t ever have to give up, whatever happened. In the garden …’ she murmured, ‘the angel didn’t have a scar.’
‘Of course not! Nor lipstick nor powder either. Heavens, how material you are. When will I make you see?’ Mrs Benberg fussed, drawing her wrapper round her, and clicking her teeth. ‘Joe did his best to destroy you, and I don’t mean only at the end. I can say that to you, because you know it too. But he didn’t have a chance. He couldn’t cut into what’s inside you. That’s what he couldn’t bear.’
‘Please don’t.’ Virginia turned her head away.
‘Weep for him if you like. I know you hate me to say his name. But be glad of him too. You did what you could for him, and it wasn’t your fault that it wasn’t enough. But don’t forget, he did something for you too. When he found he couldn’t destroy you, he gave you back yourself.’ She swept to the door with her braids and her voluminous garments, as if she were part of a Wagner opera. From the pillow, Virginia returned her smile, before Mrs Benberg switched off the light and sailed across the passage to the room where Mr Benberg could be heard coughing and calling out feebly to know what was the matter.
Chapter 17
Virginia sat in the airport lounge and waited to board the plane that would take her to New York. Other people were waiting with her, but she paid scarcely any attention to these strangers with whom she would soon be imprisoned in a tiny world pursuing its orbit high over the Atlantic. She did not want to look at them, because she did not want them to look at her. Over her head she wore a soft scarf which was pulled forward on one side of her face, but it could not completely hide the dark, ugly scar that stood out in a thick welt against the pale skin of her cheek.
The loudspeaker drew a breath and spoke. ‘Mr Harold Martin wanted at the ticket desk. Will Mr Harold Martin, passenger for New York, please go to the ticket desk.’
A tall, middle-aged man with dull grey clothes and tired eyes got up, disentangling himself from his coat and hand-baggage, and walked to the door of the lounge. Virginia saw the stoop of his shoulders and the way his jacket bulged with too many things in the pockets. When he had gone through the swing-doors, she remained sitting perfectly still with her eyes fixed on the doors to see him come back.
The passengers had been called to the plane before he returned. As she went forward