Authors Colette Robinson The Angel in the Marble 
| Classification | |
| Age Range | Adult |
| Category | Fiction |
| Rights | |
| World | Eve White |
| Film | Eve White |
The Angel in the Marble
by Colette Robinson
‘The angel of Mons, you saw it, didn’t you?’
London,1920. In the aftermath of a war that devastated a generation, Mary Holloway is struggling with grief she cannot comprehend. Her son lies dead in a foreign field and she is obsessed with his memory and her own isolation.
It is only when she spots a beautiful marble angel in a cemetery that she finds a new sense of purpose, convinced that by commissioning one just like it, she can at least mark a symbolic resting place for her son and perhaps find some peace for herself…
Frank Tulley is a bitter young veteran, horribly maimed in the fighting and plagued by hallucinations and nightmare recollections of his time on the Belgian Front. He is also a stone mason - creator of the astonishingly ethereal yet human-looking angel Mary has seen.
As Frank carves Mary’s angel, a tentative relationship develops between them and both are forced to confront their own painful insecurities. Rich in historical atmosphere, The Angel in the Marble is a bittersweet love story about the search for faith and resolution, and the answers we must ultimately find within ourselves.
Samples: 1
from THE ANGEL IN THE MARBLE
He started working on a section with his back to her. On purpose, no doubt. She was certain it was on purpose. He had few manners, and presenting his back to her did not encourage further conversation. His back was just his back. You couldn’t exactly talk easily to it, especially if you could only talk uneasily in the first place. And they were not there yet. Nowhere near. She felt her cheeks begin their slow burn once more, and tugged at the collar of the overall she was wearing, feeling very stupid in it. ‘Do you?’ he asked finally. ‘Believe in God? I-I don’t know. I used to.’ ‘But you want this angel.’ ‘It’s different. An angel… can be separated from religion, somehow.’ ‘Can it?’ ‘Yes. For me, at least.’ He seemed to be mocking her again. How could he manage to do that so effortlessly in so few words? ‘Well, I should be going,’ she said later. She went into the workshop and scrambled thankfully out of the overall. She laid it on the bench neatly folded. ‘Thank you for the tea. It was awfully good of you to let me watch you.’ It sounded odd to say it aloud. But then, it had grown so quiet between them, in the little den, that any noise at all that was not the careful tapping or chipping of stone, would have been just as startling.Quick Links
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