by Iris Murdoch
I was now trying very hard to steel myself to take Hartley to London, to drag her to the car, to delude her by telling her she was going home. I felt the time had come to do this, although I was far from sure that it was the right move. Shruff End might have ‘bad vibes’ as Titus put it, but it was my home, I was used to it. And here I could communicate quietly with Hartley, there was a thin pure stream of communication, especially when we talked about the past. In an odd way we were at ease together. Surely there must soon be some break-through, some dialectical change. What on earth would I do in London with a distraught weeping Hartley in that awful little flat with the chairs piled on the table and the china not unpacked? To whom could we go in London? I did not want to exhibit Hartley to people who, however helpful, would secretly mock her. The fact was I wanted, perhaps we both wanted, someone to look after us, at least someone to be there as a sort of protection and guarantee of ordinariness. Titus and Gilbert might be of little use but simply their presence made the situation more bearable.
However, since Rosina’s visit, Titus and Gilbert had been in a state of subdued revolt, they were mutinous. I think Ben’s silence was upsetting them too, in different ways. They wanted a showdown, a dénouement. They wanted an end to the situation which would relieve their minds. Gilbert was simply frightened of Ben, afraid of fights and thuggery. What Titus felt I was unsure. Sometimes I felt terrified of what Titus might be thinking. Since Hartley’s arrival I had not talked to him properly. I ought to have done, I wanted to do so, but I had not. It was possible that Titus was in an agony of tension and indecision, wanting and yet not wanting to run to his father, to be reconciled, or even to suffer punishment, to escape from his mother, to escape from me. The possibility of anything so awful in the boy’s state of mind made me afraid to probe him when I had so much else to envisage and decide. Meanwhile he had withdrawn, a little sulky, wanting to be wooed. I would woo him, but at present had not the wit or the strength. And I was disappointed in him. I needed his help, his loving support, with Hartley, his ingenuity, his commitment. But he showed plainly that he had, at any rate in this weird context, given up the problem of his mother. He preferred not to reflect upon the obscene embarrassment of her incarceration. He did not want to associate himself with me as a fellow gaoler. This was understandable. But he annoyed me by seeming to enjoy himself. He swam, he sang, he sat on the rocks with Gilbert drinking white wine and blackcurrant juice (their latest drink). He behaved like the scrounger he had so proudly denied himself to be. As Gilbert now declared that he was afraid to go shopping by himself, Titus went with him and they bought quantities of expensive food and drink with my money. They did not run into Ben. Perhaps Ben had gone away? Where to? Whom to? These mysteries did me no good.
One form taken by the mutiny of Gilbert and Titus was that they began to suggest that I should do something about Ben. At least Gilbert made the suggestions, but Titus was certainly associated with them. What I was to do was not so clear, but they wanted an initiative. There was by now a little less singing, a little more sitting in the kitchen and plotting; and even in the midst of my other preoccupations and miseries I felt jealousy, stupid blank jealousy, when I saw those two heads together, and they fell nervously silent as I came in. They ran out all the time to look for letters. Gilbert even bought a large square basket which he mounted on stones inside the dog kennel to be sure that any letters which came would not get wet or blow away. I avoided discussion, since I so much feared to hear Titus announce that he would go over to Nibletts to spy out the land. What if Titus went to Nibletts and did not return? Of course I did not tell the others about Rosina’s crazy boast, which I decided on reflection was intended simply to annoy me. Nor had I stopped thinking about what else she had told me, although I was trying hard to dismiss her from my mind. I hoped she had gone back to London.
Towards the evening of that day I got as far as concluding that if Ben made no move I would do something on the next day: something clarificatory, something decisive; although I could not yet see quite what this liberating move would be. Most probably I would take Hartley and Titus to London. I had waited long enough upon Hartley’s will, and I was beginning to believe that she wanted me to force her. When I felt that I was nearly desperate enough to decide, I felt some relief. But the tomorrow upon which I was to make my decision never, in the form in which I had envisaged it, arrived.
Towards six thirty in the evening the thick blue air seemed to be getting darker and more stifling, although the sun was bravely shining and the sky was unflecked. It was as if the sun were shining through a mist, but a mist made out of the dark blue globules of the sky itself. I remember the lurid impression of that evening, the vivid dark light, the brilliant vibrating colours of the rocks, of the grass on the other side of the road, of Gilbert’s yellow car. There was no breath of wind, not the softest breeze. The sea was menacingly quiet, utterly smooth, glassy, glossy, oily, a uniform azure. Then there were silent flashes, extraordinary lightings up of the whole horizon, like vast distant fireworks or some weird atomic experiment. Not a cloud, not a sound of thunder, just these huge displays of quick silent yellowish-white light.
I had been talking to Hartley, talking about the past, enjoying that thin pure line of easy communication with her which I could persuade myself was becoming deeper and wider. It was true that, so far as we did communicate, the ease of it was exceptional, the flavour unique. Here I could post the banner of my love, hope gradually to convince. Loving her took at this time so intensely the form of pity, compassion, an absolute desire to cherish, to cure; to stir the desire for happiness and to make it grow where it had not been before. To this end I tried cunningly to exclude the idea of a return home, picturing it casually as something now impossible; and meanwhile let Hartley continue to calm herself by an illusion of a return which she would soon see as unthinkable and as something which she no longer wanted. Surreptitiously I increased the pressure and the emphasis. My policy of gradualism had been right and would shortly be confirmed as successful. Hartley went on saying that she must go back to her husband, but she said it fairly calmly and it seemed to me less often and the words sounded emptier.
I left her at last. I did not now bother to lock her door during the day. Her desire to hide, to hide from Gilbert and above all from Titus would keep her effectively enclosed by day. In any case, how far could she run undiscovered? The night despairs were another matter. The front door bell rang. As I came down into the hall I saw the wire quivering just before I heard the bland clangour of the bell in the kitchen. I thought: Ben. And I wondered: alone? I moved to the door quickly and incautiously to forestall my fear. I did not put the door on the chain but opened it wide at once. The man standing outside was my cousin James.
James was smiling, with the calm inane self-satisfied smile which he sometimes put on. He was carrying a suitcase. I could see his Bentley on the road parked next to Gilbert’s Volkswagen.
‘James! What on earth are you doing here!’
‘Have you forgotten? It’s Whit weekend. You invited me.’
‘You invited yourself. And of course I’ve forgotten.’
‘Do you want me to go away?’
‘No—no—come in—for a moment anyway.’
I felt confused, exasperated, profoundly startled. My cousin was always an unnerving portent. His presence in the house would change everything, even the kettle. I could not tolerate or manage James here, I could not continue to run my life with him upon the scene.
He walked in and put down his suitcase, looking around him with curiosity. ‘I like your situation. And that bay with the spherical boulders is quite extraordinary. I came by the coast road of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘That huge rock out in the sea covered with guillemots—you know where I mean?’
‘No.’
‘Haven’t you seen it? It’s—Well, never mind. I see there’s a martello tower. Does that belong to you too?’
‘Yes.’
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‘I see the point of this place. What’s the date of the house?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, nineteen hundred, earlier, later. Oh God.’
‘What’s the matter? Look, I’m sorry, I ought to have written to warn you. I tried to ring up but I gather you’re not on the ’phone. I don’t have to stay here, I passed quite a nice-looking hotel a mile or two back—Are you all right, Charles?’
‘Come into the kitchen.’
Because of the weird light it was rather dark in the kitchen. Just as we entered, Gilbert and Titus came in from outside, the strange silent midsummer lightning signalling behind them.
Introductions were inescapable. ‘Oh hello. This is my cousin James who’s just dropped by. Gilbert Opian. And this is a young friend of mine, Titus. There’s no one else here, this is our complement. ’ As I said this I laid my finger as if by accident upon my lips. I hoped it was not too dark for them to see.
‘Titus,’ said James, ‘so you’ve come, good.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said to James. ‘You don’t know him, do you?’
I saw that Titus was staring at James almost as if he recognized him.
‘No, but you mentioned his name to me—remember?’
‘Oh yes—Well, have a drink, James? Before you go.’
‘Thanks, anything. That white wine that’s open.’
‘We drink it with blackcurrant,’ said Titus.
‘Are you his maternal cousin or his paternal cousin?’ asked Gilbert, who liked to get such things straight.
‘Our fathers were brothers.’
‘Charles always pretends to have no family. He’s so secretive.’
Gilbert, affably rolling his eyes, poured out four glasses of wine. He seemed to have lost some weight climbing about on the rocks in his new plimsolls. He looked younger and more relaxed. Titus added the dash of blackcurrant. He was smiling. It was clear that both of them were glad of this diversion, glad to have another person, an untainted outsider, present to talk to, to dilute the atmosphere; glad too perhaps to have an extra fighting man.
‘Yes, you’ve got a very odd and interesting house,’ said James.
‘You don’t feel any bad vibrations?’
James looked at me. ‘Who owned it before?’
‘A Mrs Chorney. I don’t know anything about her.’
‘Can you see the sea from the upper windows?’
‘Yes, but the view’s better from the rocks. I’ll show you if you can spare a minute. What sort of shoes have you got on? It’s a great place for breaking your ankle.’
I wanted to get James out of the house. I hustled him quickly out onto the grass and he followed me a short way over the rocks until we could sit on a warm summit with the sea view. The sea had now changed colour and was a slightly greyish glittering pale azure, crepitating with little movements.
‘How stuffy it is. James, I hope you don’t mind going to that hotel, it’s called the Raven Hotel, and it’s got a lovely outlook over that bay you liked. And you could drive down the coast and look at those seagulls and things. The fact is, I can’t have you because there isn’t another bed. We’re full up. As it is, Titus is sleeping on the floor.’
‘I quite understand the situation.’
You don’t, old cock, thank God, I thought. And I thought, in a minute I’ll take him back to his car.
I looked at my cousin, now vividly revealed in the bright dark light which delineated everything with a fearful clarity. James had carried his glass of wine with him over the rocks and was sipping it with a maddening air of contented repose, looking out over the sea. He was wearing lightweight black trousers with an open-necked mauve shirt and a white summer jacket. He was a careless dresser but could be foppish in his own way. His hawk-nosed face was dark with the irrepressible beard and with the curious cloud, perhaps the effect of his obscure brown eyes, which always seemed to hang over it. His brown hair was jaggedly untidy.
I suddenly thought, if he’s no longer in the army, why does he have to come and see me at a holiday weekend when the roads are full of traffic?
‘Are you doing anything?’ I said. ‘I mean, have you got another job or anything?’
‘No, gentleman of leisure.’
That was odd. It then came to me in a flash that of course James had not really left the army at all. He had gone underground. He was preparing for some top-secret mission, perhaps involving a return to Tibet. Why had he seemed so annoyed that I had seen that strange oriental figure in his rooms? My cousin had become a secret agent!
I was trying to think of some subtle tactful way of letting him know that I had guessed when he spoke again.
‘And what has happened about Mary Hartley Smith?’
‘Mary Hartley Smith?’
‘Yes. Your first love. You told me she was living here with her husband. That boy is her son. I asked you his name. Titus. Have you forgotten that too?’
The strange thing was that I had forgotten, I had completely forgotten telling James that story. Why had James wanted to know Titus’s name? ‘I must be mad,’ I said, ‘I had forgotten, but I remember now. You gave me some good advice.’
‘Did you take it?’
‘Yes. You were right of course. I was just imagining things. The shock of seeing her set off a lot of old memories. I’ve recovered now and of course I’m not in love with her, it wouldn’t make sense. Anyway she’s just a boring old hag now. The boy drops in occasionally. He’s a bit of a bore too.’
‘I see. So all’s well that ends well.’
‘Have you got a tie?’
‘A tie? Yes.’
‘You’ll need one to get into the dining room at the Raven Hotel. I’ll just see you to your car.’
I escorted him round by the side of the house so as to avoid further conversation in the kitchen.
‘Nice car. New one?’
‘Yes, it goes well. Where can I turn?’
‘Just beyond that rock. How dark it is. You almost need headlights. ’
‘Yes, it’s a funny day. Looks like a storm. Well, thanks for the drink, look after yourself.’ He handed me his empty wine glass.
‘Goodbye, drive carefully.’
The black Bentley moved, swung round, then shot off down the road. James waved, vanished round the corner. Would he come back? I did not think so.
I walked slowly across the causeway and into the house and shut the door. How odd that I had forgotten telling him those things. I must have been drunk. Well, tomorrow was destiny day. I was going to act tomorrow. I thought, I will take Hartley to London. This place is bedevilled somehow.
I stood in the hall for a while. I wanted to be by myself. I put Jame’s wine glass down on the stairs. I could hear the low conspiratorial voices of Gilbert and Titus who were talking in the kitchen. Tomorrow I would speak to Titus. Titus and Hartley and I would be alone together, in another place. My act, my will would create a new family.
I heard a faint straining scraping sound. I looked up and saw the wire from the front door bell quivering. Then I heard the resonant incoherent clamour. Ben? I turned round quickly and flung the door open.
Peregrine Arbelow was standing outside holding a suitcase.
‘Hello, Charles, what a funny place.’
‘Perry!’
‘I wish you’d call me “Peregrine”. How many times have I said that to you? A thousand?’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘What on earth am I doing here, he says. You issued an invitation, I accepted it. It’s Whit weekend, remember? I have had a very long and tiring drive. I have been looking forward to open arms and cries of joy for the last hundred miles.’
I could now see Peregrine’s white Alfa Romeo parked where James’s Bentley had lately stood.
‘Peregrine, I’m terribly sorry, you can’t stay here, there aren’t any beds and—’
‘Look, may I just push my way in?’ He did so.
Peregrine’s loud voice had alerted the conspirators in th
e kitchen.
‘Peregrine!’
‘Gilbert! What a pleasant surprise. Charles, I can have Gilbert’s bed.’
‘You bloody won’t, I shall defend my sofa.’
‘Introduce your charming boy friend, Gilbert.’
‘This is Titus Fitch. Not my property alas.’
‘Hello, Titus. I am Peregrine Arbelow. Gilbert, get me a drink, will you, there’s a good fellow.’
‘OK, but there’s nothing but wine and sherry here, you know. Charles doesn’t drink spirits.’
‘Oh, fuck, I’d forgotten, I should have brought a bottle.’
‘Peregrine,’ I said, ‘you won’t be happy here. There’s nothing for you to drink and nowhere for you to sleep. I’m sorry I forgot the date and I don’t actually think I invited you at all. There’s an excellent hotel just down the road—’
At that moment the front doorbell ran again. Peregrine turned to open the door and over his shoulder I could see my cousin James.
‘Hello,’ said Peregrine, ‘welcome to Hospitality Hall, proprietor Charles Arrowby, there’s nothing to drink and nowhere to sleep but—’
‘Hello,’ said James. ‘I’m sorry to come back, Charles, but the Raven Hotel is full up, and I wondered—’
‘I imagine that’s the place where he wanted to park me,’ said Peregrine.
‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ said Gilbert.
Gilbert went first, then Titus, then Perry, then James. I stood for a moment, then picked up the wine glass from the stairs and followed.
‘I am Peregrine Arbelow.’
‘I think I’ve heard of you,’ said James.
‘Oh goodie—’
‘This is my cousin, General Arrowby,’ I said.
‘You never said he was a general,’ said Gilbert.
‘I never knew you had a cousin,’ said Peregrine. ‘Hello, sir.’