The Rebel Angels

"Clem! Dear old Clem! My dear man, how good to see you again!"

"John – I heard you were back."

"And isn't Spook delighted to see me! Haven't I had a real Spook welcome! I've been brushing the frost off my habit all morning. But here I am, with my dear old friend, and charming Molly, who is going to be another dear friend."

"You've met Miss Theotoky?"

"Darling Molly! We've been having a great old heart-to-heart."

"Well, John, you'd better come inside and talk to me. Miss T., I'm sure you want to get away."

Miss T. is what he calls me in semi-formality – a way-station between my true name and Maria, which he uses very seldom.

They went up the steps into his inner room, and I trotted down the two long flights of stairs, feeling in my bones that something had gone deeply wrong. This was not going to be the wonderful term I had expected and longed for.

3

I like to be early at my work; that means being at my desk by half past nine, because academics of my kind begin late and work late. I let myself into Hollier's outer room and breathed in a strong whiff of the stench not very clean men create when they sleep in a room with the windows closed – something like the lion's cage at the zoo. There was Parlabane, stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. He wore most of his clothes but his heavy monk's robe he had used as a blanket. Like an animal, he was aware of me at once, opened his eyes, and yawned.

"Good morning, dear Molly."

"Have you been here all night?"

"The great man gave me permission to doss down here until Spook finds a room for me. I forgot to give the Bursar proper warning of my arrival. Now I must say my prayers and shave; a monk's shave – in cold water and without soap, unless I can find some in the washroom. These austerities keep me humble."

He pulled on and laced a big pair of black boots, and then from a knapsack he had tucked behind the sofa he brought out a dirty bag which I suppose contained his washing things. He went out, mumbling under his breath – prayers, I assumed – and I opened the windows and gave the room a good airing.

I suppose I had worked for about two hours, getting my papers laid out, and books arranged on the big table, and my portable typewriter plugged in, when Parlabane came back, carrying a big, scabby leather suitcase that looked as if it had been bought in a Lost Luggage shop.

"Don't mind me, my dear. I shall be as quiet as a mouse. I'll just tuck my box – don't you think 'box' is the best name for an old case like this? – in this corner, right out of your way." Which he did, and settled himself again on the sofa, and began to read from a thick little black book, moving his lips but making no sound. More prayers, I supposed.

"Excuse me, Dr. Parlabane; are you proposing to stay here for the morning?"

"For the morning, and for the afternoon, and this evening. The Bursar has no place for me, though he is kind enough to say I may eat in Hall. If that is really kind, which my recollection of Spook food makes me doubt."

"But this is my workroom!"

"It is my honour to share it with you."

"But you can't! How can I possibly work with you around?"

"The scholar's wish for complete privacy – how well I understand! But Charity, dear Molly, Charity! Where else can I go?"

"I'll speak to Professor Hollier!"

"I'd think carefully before I did that. He might tell me to go; but then there is a chance – not a bad chance – that he might tell you to go to your carrel, or whatever they call those little cupboards where graduate students work. He and I are very old friends. Friends from a time before you were born, my dear."

I was furious, and speechless. I left, and hung around the Library until after lunch. Then I returned, deciding that I must try again. Parlabane was on the sofa, reading a file of papers from my table.

"Welcome, welcome dear Molly! I knew you would come back. It is not in your heart to be angry for long. With your beautiful name – Maria, the Motherhood of God – you must be filled with understanding and forgiveness. But tell me why you have been making such careful study of that renegade monk François Rabelais? I've been peeping into your papers, you see. Rabelais is not the kind of company I expected to find you keeping."

"Rabelais is one of the great misunderstood figures of the Reformation. He's part of my special area of study."

How I hated myself for explaining! But Parlabane had a terrible trick of putting me on the defensive.

"Ah, the Reformation, so called. What a fuss about very little! Was Rabelais truly one of those nasty, divisive reformers? Did he dig with the same foot as that pestilent fellow Luther?"

"He dug with the same foot as that admirable fellow Erasmus."