by Iris Murdoch
I then thought, supposing she is alone then and supposing she says: take me away. I must have a car. I reflected rather desperately and miserably on this, hope fighting with fear, as I imagined how awful it would be to have the car and no Hartley: the symbol of escape but not the princess. I decided however that I must trust hope and plan for it, so I rang up the taxi man and asked for the taxi to be waiting outside the village church from four o’clock onward tomorrow. After I had done this I felt very much better, as if I had actually improved my chances.
By this time it was after nine o’clock and I decided to go to bed. I drank some wine and ate some bread and honey and then took a sleeping pill. As I lay down I remembered that I had lost James. And as it seemed to me then I had lost him not so much because of his sin, the ‘flaw’ he had spoken of, but simply because he had gone away in his big black car with Lizzie. Gone to perdition, by my doing. There was no getting back to my cousin now ever, through the barrier which he and I between us had so ingeniously erected. We were eternally divided. And it somehow seemed strange to me that this had not happened earlier, so dangerous were we to each other.
The next day was simply a problem of filling the time until four. At first I thought the problem insoluble and that I should run screaming mad with anxiety. However, I managed to pass the time without excessive anguish by busying myself continually with little tasks which had to do with Hartley. I paid some attention to my appearance, though there was an element of pretence in this, since I could not imagine Hartley cared about the details of my looks, and anyway I was quite sufficiently presentable when shabby and untidy, perhaps more so. I washed one of my better shirts and dried it in the sun. I got out my light black jacket and clean socks, and chose a smart pretty tie. I washed my hair and made it fair and fluffy. I had given up swimming, but it was still a bit stiff and salty. I decided it would be wise to pack a small suitcase, ready for possible instant flight, and I did so with a fast beating heart. At lunch time I ate sufficiently, not with appetite but out of a sense of duty, and drank no alcohol.
After lunch I went round the house carefully closing and fixing all the windows. I emptied the water out of the buckets in the attic and replaced them under the hole in the roof. As I came downstairs and into the little red room I suddenly saw, lying on the table and partially concealed by blotting paper, the envelope which contained the long letter which I had written to Hartley before Titus died and which I had never managed to deliver: the letter about how Ben had tried to kill me and about ‘tramping in and out’ and about the little quiet secret life we were going to lead together. Much of this had been made horribly out of date by Perry’s confession and Titus’s death, and I saw it with pain and was about to destroy it but decided to read it first. That I should actually reconsider this letter belonged somehow to the macabre economy of that day. It seemed a pity to waste the eloquence of the early part and the important explanation which it contained, so I destroyed only the last two pages which referred to Titus and Ben. Then I wrote on a separate sheet: I wrote this letter to you earlier but never delivered it. Read it carefully. I love you and we will be together. I also added my telephone number. I sealed it all up in a new envelope and put it in my pocket.
I set off early for the village, carrying my suitcase, and changed a cheque at the shop. I bought, together with razor blades, some cream and face powder of the kind which Hartley used. It was still not yet half past three, and I walked down towards the church. I was feeling sick with fear and hope, ready to vomit, ready to faint. The taxi was already waiting since the taxi man, as he told me, had nothing else to do. I told him to wait until I came. He said laughingly, ‘Three hours?’ I said, ‘If necessary.’ I went into the churchyard and looked at Dummy’s grave and remembered how I had meant to show it to Titus. I went inside the church and sat there panting and then suddenly thought I was going to be late and ran out and hurried up the hill. It was a warm day, but with plenty of sea breeze.
I came up as far as the house and stopped to get my breath with my hand on the blue wooden gate with the complicated latch. The blaze of big garish roses, every possible colour, flickered in the sun. I found that I was still carrying my suitcase, which I had intended to leave in the taxi, and Hartley’s make-up in a paper bag, which I had intended to put in the suitcase. Then I heard something awful, horrible, which chilled my blood and made me gasp with emotion. Inside the house a treble recorder and an alto recorder were in unison playing Greensleeves.
It was not simply that a recorder duet was the last thing I now expected to hear. Greensleeves had been, for Hartley and me, in the old days, our signature tune. I had had a recorder on which I laboriously rendered it, and we used to pick it out on her parents’ old piano. We sang it to each other. It was our theme song, our love song. If I had heard it played now on one recorder I would have taken it instantly as a secret message of hope. But on two recorders . . . was it possible that it was a deliberate insult, an intentional desecration of the past? No. She had simply forgotten.
All this passed through my mind during the time it took my fingers to undo the gate. I stepped slowly onto the path. The music ceased and a dog began to bark hysterically. I walked up to the door controlling my mind and already having fresh thoughts. The Greensleeves sacrilege meant nothing. Perhaps he liked the song and she had not been able to prevent its becoming a favourite. The recorder playing meant nothing. Obviously if she were intending to run she would be careful to behave as usual. Or perhaps the tune really had been intended as a sign to me? It was however already obvious that she was not alone. I rang the bell though the dog had made this unnecessary and his frenzied noise drowned the sound.
Hartley opened the door. She had her head thrown back in a way which gave her a proud air, but she was probably just agitated. She stared at me unsmiling, her lips parted, and I stared back, blushing hotly and feeling that my eyes were as round as saucers. I could somehow perceive that Ben was behind her at the open door of the sitting room. Even if I had planned some private communication for this moment it would have been impossible, we were both paralysed. The dog, a slinky black and white collie with a long nose, was now at Hartley’s feet, still barking.
Against the din I said, ‘Good afternoon’ and Hartley said, ‘Kind of you to come.’
I moved in. The smell of the roses, of which there were several vases even in the hall, mingled with the stuffy stench of the house, a sweetish sickly fussy interior smell like the smell of a very old woman’s room.
Hartley said ‘Be quiet!’ to the dog who finished its barking in its own time and then began to sniff me and wag its tail. Ben said from the sitting room, ‘Come in.’
I walked on in. The picture window displayed the sloping meadow and the rise of the blue sea receding into a heat haze and never had a pretty view looked so sinister. The two recorders lay on the wide white window sill, beside the field glasses.
‘Sit you down,’ said Hartley. I noticed she was almost smart today. She had had her hair waved into a respectable mop, and was wearing a straight plain blue shift dress over a blue and white striped blouse. She looked younger and healthier. She said, ‘Would you like to sit there, or there?’
I sat down in a low chair with wooden arms, avoiding the tub chair I had got stuck into before.
An elaborate tea had been laid out on a little round table and on a plate stand. There was bread and butter, scones, jam, some kind of sandwiches and an iced cake.
‘I’ll wet the tea,’ said Hartley and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me with Ben.
Ben, still standing, busied himself with the dog. ‘Chuffey!’ This was evidently the animal’s name. ‘Chuffey, come here. Good dog. Now sit down. Sit.’ Chuffey sat, and Ben then seated himself, by which time Hartley had returned with the tea and Chuffey had got up again.
‘Let it mash a bit,’ said Ben.
Hartley shook the teapot and said, ‘It’s all right,’ and to me, ‘milk, sugar?’
‘Thanks, yes, both.�
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‘You don’t mind milk in first? A sandwich? Or something with jam? The cake’s home-made but not in this home, I’m afraid!’ Hartley poured out the tea.
‘Sandwich, thanks. I love your view.’ This remark was totally automatic, I was almost unconscious with emotion.
‘Yes, it’s fine,’ said Ben. He added, ‘Fine.’ Then to Chuffey, ‘Sit! Good boy.’ He gave him a piece of sandwich.
‘You spoil him!’ said Hartley.
‘That’s the dog from Amorne Farm, isn’t it?’ I said, the automatic machinery still working. I then wondered if I was supposed to know that, then thought, it doesn’t matter.
‘Yes, they breed them,’ said Ben. ‘Good little chaps, Welsh collies. This fellow never cottoned on, though, no good with the sheep, were you, Chuff? You weren’t going to waste your time with those silly sheep, were you, boy?’
Chuffey sprang up again wagging his tail.
I had placed my suitcase on the floor beside me and on top of it the paper bag with Hartley’s make-up and my razor blades. I put down my cup, opened the case, put the bag inside and closed the case. I was afraid that Ben would somehow see or intuit what was in the bag. Ben and Hartley watched me.
‘I was interested to meet your army brother,’ said Ben. Hartley could not have discussed my family situation in any detail. Monsters do not have families.
‘He’s my cousin.’
‘Oh yes, cousin. What’s he in?’
‘King’s Royal Rifle Corps.’
‘Green Jackets.’
‘I mean Green Jackets.’
‘Is he still staying with you?’
‘No, he’s gone back to London.’
‘I wish I’d become a regular soldier,’ said Ben.
‘It might be rather dull in peace time,’ said Hartley.
‘I wish I’d done that,’ said Ben. ‘You really know people in the army. You get around. Still it’s nice to be at home too.’
‘Very nice.’
‘How’s your house?’
‘Rain got in.’
‘It did rain, didn’t it.’
‘Have another sandwich,’ said Hartley. ‘Oh, you haven’t eaten that one.’
I clutched the sandwich. I crushed it and some cucumber sped out onto the floor. I started to put the sandwich in my pocket. I said, ‘I am so sorry—I am so sorry about—about—’
‘About Titus,’ said Ben. ‘Yes. So are we.’ He paused, then added, ‘It was one of those things.’
‘It was a tragedy,’ said Hartley. She spoke as if this was some sort of definitive description.
I went on desperately. I wanted to drag us all down into some common pool of feeling, I wanted to stop this conventional machine of awful insincere politeness. But I could not find suitable words. I said, ‘I feel it was my fault—I can’t—I shall never—’
‘Of course it wasn’t your fault,’ said Hartley.
‘It certainly wasn’t your fault,’ said Ben judiciously. ‘It’s more likely to have been his fault.’
‘I can’t bear it, I can’t believe it, I—’
‘We have to bear it and believe it,’ said Hartley. ‘It has happened. It’s no use talking.’
‘No, it’s no use talking,’ said Ben. ‘Like in the war. Something happens, you go on. You got to, eh?’
Hartley was sitting with her hands on her lap. She did not look at me as she spoke. She shifted self-consciously and patted her soft orderly bush of hair. She was wearing no lipstick and her tanned face showed no sign of make-up. She had unbuttoned the neck of her stripped blouse to reveal her sunburnt neck and collarbones. She looked sleeker, cleaner and better cared-for than at any time since our reunion.
Ben too I noticed had an almost prosperous air. He was wearing a clean shirt with a wide stripe and a matching tie. He had a loose brown summer jacket with lighter brown trousers and new-looking white canvas shoes. His shirt-clad stomach bulged comfortably over his tight leather belt. His short school-boy hair was smoothly combed and he was cleanly-shaven. He had a curious expression of distant calmness on his face. His eyelids drooped a little and his short upper lip was tensed, drawn up in a kind of poised fastidious manner. He too did not look at me. He had eaten several sandwiches during the previous exchanges.
‘I suppose so,’ I said, in answer to Ben’s question.
‘Let me give you a serviette,’ said Hartley, ‘you’ve got your hands all sticky.’ She took a paper one from a drawer and handed it to me.
‘You going to spend the winter here?’ said Ben.
They had evidently finished with the subject of Titus.
I could not blame them. Why should they display their emotions to me? They had to recover from that death in their own way. They were relieved that the subject had been mentioned between us and could now be dropped. Possibly that was the point of the meeting.
‘Yes. I live here.’
‘I thought you might go to France or Madeira or somewhere in the winter like rich folks do.’
‘Certainly not. Anyway I’m not rich.’
‘It’s bloody cold here, I can tell you.’
‘Look at him, look at the way he’s sitting!’ said Hartley, indicating Chuffey who was now sitting with his front paws neatly curled in and his back legs stretched out at full length. The dog looked up, pleased with itself.
‘You’re a funny dog, aren’t you?’ said Ben. Chuffey wagged his tail in agreement.
‘Are you going to get a dog?’ said Hartley to me.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Cat man, eh?’ said Ben.
‘What?’
‘Cat man?’
‘Oh—er—no.’
‘It’s a bore about the quarantine,’ said Ben. ‘Six months, like here.’
‘The—quarantine?’
‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘We’re off to Australia. No more English winters for us. We didn’t know it was so long when we got Chuff, but we can’t leave you behind, can we, boy?’
‘To Australia, you mean—for good?’
‘Yes.’
I looked at Hartley. She met my glance with her wide open calm violet eyes and with a sort of smile, then got up and took the teapot out into the kitchen.
‘To Australia?’
‘Yes, I can’t think why everybody doesn’t go. Lovely climate, cheaper grub, cheaper housing. God, I wish I was young again, I’d have a go out there.’
‘Ben can draw his pension in Australia,’ said Hartley, coming back with the teapot.
‘Ever been there?’ said Ben.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve been several times. It’s a marvellous country.’
‘Sydney harbour, Sydney opera house, cheap wine, kangaroos, koala bears, the lot, I can’t wait.’
‘When are you going?’ I said, looking at Hartley, who was busied with Ben’s cup.
‘Oh not at once, be five or six weeks. Got a lot of things to fix up, see my sister and that. We’ve been planning it a long time, but with the boy gone it’s easier.’
‘But—so you were always going to do this?’ I tried to catch Hartley’s eye. ‘I mean, it takes some time to plan to go to Australia—I didn’t know you were meaning to leave here—I’m rather surprised you didn’t tell me.’ I said this to Hartley.
‘I could hardly believe it,’ she said, smiling vaguely. ‘It seemed like a dream.’
‘You’ll believe it when you see that opera house,’ said Ben, ‘smiling like a great shell on the blue water.’
If they were leaving in five or six weeks the Australian plan could surely not have been made since I last saw Hartley. Why did she not tell me? What an extraordinary thing to do, not to tell me. Then I thought, maybe she didn’t believe it would happen. And if she was trying to make up her mind to bolt with me she would not tell me, that is just what she would do, not tell. I kept staring at her, but after the vague smile she looked elsewhere.
She said to Ben, ‘Do you think Chuffey will know us after all that time in quarantine?’
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‘ ’Course he will! Won’t you, Chuff, eh, eh?’
‘Have some more tea?’ said Hartley to me. ‘Have a scone, some cake?’
I gulped some down and handed over my cup. I ate the piece of smashed sandwich which I had failed to put in my pocket. I felt completely confused, utterly at a loss, like a man in a strange country who is the victim of some quiet impenetrable charade. I could not understand.
‘I see you’re off somewhere too,’ said Ben, indicating my suitcase.
‘Oh—just a night in London—I’ll be back directly, I’ll be here—’
‘I can’t stand London,’ said Ben. ‘All that noise, all those people, bloody foreigners come to do a bit of shop-lifting.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is rather full of tourists at this time of year.’ I drank up my tea.
‘Well,’ said Ben in a tone which clearly implied the end of my visit, ‘maybe we’ll see you again before we go, but if not cheerio.’
‘Oh I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in the village tomorrow. I’ll be at home all the time, no travel plans. Well, I must be off now. Thank you for the tea.’
I got up. Idiotic Chuffey began to bark at once. I gave a vague wave to Ben, picked up my case and made for the door. Hartley followed me. Ben shouted at Chuffey, then closed the sitting room door after us to stop the dog from rushing out. I was alone with Hartley for a few seconds at the front door.
‘Hartley, you’re not going to Australia, you’re not?’ The dog’s loud barking covered my words.
She shook her head, waved a hand, opened her mouth, seeming to indicate that it was impossible to talk in this noise.
‘Hartley, you can’t go. Come away with me now. I’ve got a taxi waiting at the bottom of the hill. Come, now, run, run with me, we’ll go to London, anywhere you like—look, I wrote you this letter, it explains everything.’ I hardly knew what I was doing. I took the ‘quiet life’ letter out of my pocket and thrust it into a pocket in the skirt of her blue dress.