An Unofficial rose

by Iris Murdoch

  He had set her, then, upon a long path. And just as she had started, so secretly and happily, upon her task of loving him, he had fallen in love with Emma Sands. Mildred, in those early days of her transformed consciousness of Hugh, had suffered. Emma was an old acquaintance of Mildred's, they had been at college together: someone, even then, a little nervously and uneasily to be reckoned with, never quite a friend. And it was with much curiosity, some triumph, and a little sympathy that Mildred had invited Emma to stay with her at Seton Blaise after the catastrophe. In another clairvoyant crystal of memory Mildred saw Emma on the lawn in a short white tennis dress, being captivated and consoled by the boy Felix. But her dark eyes had rested thoughtfully upon Mildred and she had read Mildred's mind, and her sharp clever dog-face had closed and hardened. They had parted then, not to meet again.

  She need not have hated me, thought Mildred, for I gained nothing by her loss. And for a moment she felt quite sentimental about herself and about the years which the locusts had eaten. Yet the next moment she told herself that in a way she had quite enjoyed it all, she had enjoyed making up her myth of being in love with Hugh, and embellishing it and adding to it, and having it as a secret when in a way it was hardly a thing at all. But now, she thought, now I shall make all those shadows into the shadows of something. I shall make that long road a road that shall have led, after all, somewhere.

  As she now went down the steps she heard from the stables the sound of Humphrey starting up the Rover, and as she reached the lawn she saw Felix at the side of the house, his head deep inside the bonnet of the very dark blue Mercedes. She came towards him, and saw beyond him the Rover disappearing down the drive.

  'Really, Felix, said Mildred, 'I believe you love that car more than you love any of us!

  Felix lifted his head and smiled. He leaned on the side of the bonnet wiping his hands on a bit of newspaper. 'It's the only thing I've got to look after! .

  'And whose fault is that, pray? said Mildred.

  Felix was Mildred's half-brother, and fifteen years her junior. He was a very tall man in his early forties with a big face and very blue eyes and a lot of short receding colourless fair hair which stood up fluffily upon his head. His face was pleasantly weather-beaten and worn into all. Expression of non-committal professional superiority, and revealed little of what, if anything, he felt. There was no subtle play of light, no gradual dawning of awareness, but only the sudden gaiety of a very brilliant smile and then a return to routine solemnity. Felix treated his sister with an unvarying amused politeness and usually foiled her attempts to run him by ignoring them altogether. He did not reply to her last remark, but bent forward again to inspect the interior of the Mercedes.

  'Felix, I want to talk to you seriously, said Mildred. 'Close the bonnet of the car.

  Felix obediently closed it arid went on wiping his hands. He let Mildred draw him by the sleeve, and they began to pace together upon the lawn.

  'Felix, said Mildred, 'it's about Ann. Now what are you going to do about Ann?

  Felix was silent. He threw the piece of newspaper down in the comer of one of the rose-beds and waited while his sister picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He said, Must we have this Mildred? He had a way of pronouncing her name which made it sound like a monosyllable.

  'Yes, we must, said Mildred. 'I wish you weren't so infernally clammed up! I want to help you, but you won't give me a chance. She thrust her Ann through his. He was so much taller than her that she could not see his face properly.

  'I'd rather you didn't help me, actually, said Felix. They walked on slowly.

  'Don't be silly, said Mildred. 'Now you must simply give me some information. I'm not asking you to use your mind yet. That will come later. You must admit that I've been awfully delicate and tactful about Ann. I've never even questioned you before. So you must bear with me now.

  'Mildred, said Felix, 'I'm sorry to disappoint you, I mean to disappoint your curiosity and your interest, but there is nothing here.

  'What do you mean, «nothing here»? Must you talk like a telegram?

  'Nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen.

  Mildred was silent for a moment. 'Have it your own way. Let us talk about a related subject. You want to get married. Or, let me make things even easier for you, and simply say I want you to get married. I want the Meechams to go on, since the Finches obviously aren't going to. I want your children, Felix. I can't be a grandmother, but I shall be a quite formidable aunt.

  'Sorry, Mildred, to disappoint you again.

  'Come, come, said Mildred. She drew him along coaxingly. 'What about that froggy girl, the one you met in Singapore? Come, unbend a little about her. Do that tiny thing for your aged sister: 'Marie-Laure, said Felix stiffly.

  'That's right. What was her name?

  'Marie-Laure Auboyer: 'Well, what about her? Where is she now, anyway?

  'I'm sorry to keep saying the same things, but there's nothing there either. She's in Delhi, I think.

  'Delhi! cried Mildred. 'And you want to persuade me there's nothing I With you going so conveniently to look after those Gurkhas I Not that I want you to marry a frog, but she sounded quite a nice girl, and at least she's a girl.

  They reached the seat under the cedar tree and sat down. The thrush was silent. The garden, dissolved in granular points of colour by the intense evening light, seemed to quiver quietly before them.

  'I'm not going to Delhi, as it happens, said Felix. He crossed his legs and thrust his hands into his pockets and looked away towards the bridge. 'I'm going to take a job in England.

  'Felix! cried Mildred. You might have told me! I'd quite counted on our going to India together. You are a pig.

  'Sorry, Mildred — it's only just been decided. Well, it's not entirely fixed yet, but more or less.

  'You mean you've only just decided it. What is it to be? Guarding Buck House?

  'No, I've done my stint. It's a thing in the War Office, in the Military Secretary's department, actually, dealing with postings and pro., motions and decorations. All that. Very dull.

  'At least they'll promote you, dear boy, you'll be a brigadier?

  'Yes.

  'But without a brigade?

  'Quite. It was a sore point.

  'Ah well, said Mildred, 'I always thought you were far too nice for the Anny. I can't think now why you ever went into it. I never advised it. Not that you haven't done frightfully well. Anyhow, you'll be in England after all. And that brings us back to Ann.

  ' Mildred — will you — leave off? said Felix. He cast her a frowning sidelong glance and made to rise. She detained him.

  'Please, Felix, don't be cross with me because I see you think only of that. And don't try, this time round, to put me off with your «nothing here» stuff. You must make some decision about Ann. You're fretting yourself to pieces and preventing yourself from thinking about other women that you might have. And you must be worrying Ann too.

  Felix was very stiff now, sitting very upright and staring ahead of him. The colours in the garden had reached their peak and were now subsiding into twilight as one by one the nebulous grains turned to blue and purple. One huge bright star trembled above the darkening chestnut grove. He said, 'You think I'm — acting improperly.

  Mildred sighed. She knew from his more than usually strangulated utterance that she had his attention at last. She said carefully, 'No, certainly not. What I mean is nothing to do with giving Ann up, but with getting her. She isn't young, but she's young enough to bear you a child. She was a child herself when Steve was born. And the point is that you love her. And she loves you. And Randall has gone.

  'What makes you say that? said Felix sharply. 'Which? about her loving you?

  'Yes. He shifted his legs, staring ahead intently as if he were watching something.

  'Well, she does, doesn't she? said Mildred. She had no idea. Felix was silent. Then he said, 'I don't know anything about what she thinks of the matter. Naturally.

&n
bsp; 'I like your «naturally»! said Mildred. 'You wouldn't be here unless you thought she — didn't positively mind. At least she knows what you feel?

  Felix was silent again. He said, 'I think she — understands. He tried to compress the last word into a single grunt.

  'Of course she understands, said Mildred. 'She's not a complete fool. And women always know. Forgive my being so crude, old thing, but have you ever kissed her?

  'Certainly not! said Felix in a shocked tone. He added the next moment more softly. 'Yes, of course she knows. But we've never — mentioned it, you know.

  ‘You seem to me a proper pair of ninnies, said Mildred. 'I wish I could put some stuffing into you, Felix. Well, let me repeat my last porot. Randall has gone. Your move. Yes?

  'No, said Felix. He rose now and offered his sister his Ann. 'I wish you wouldn't — fuss about this, Mildred. Randall has gone, but he'll come back. He's only staying in London. Nothing has happened, nothing whatever. And as I told you, nothing is going to happen. You may be right that I'm making a perfect ass of myself. But that's another matter. Let's go in. You must be getting cold.

  'I'm not letting you go just yet, said Mildred. She remained seated and Felix stood now as if at attention before her, his tall form blotting out the evening star. Other stars had come. 'Felix, she said, 'when you say nothing has happened you mean that Randall has not blatantly, publicly, taken up with someone else, he hasn't really «gone off». But if he did — go off-then you'd speak to Ann?

  'But he hasn't — gone off.

  Mildred was tense. 'And if he doesn't do anything public, if he just goes on, however shabbily, keeping up appearances with Ann, you won't ever feel justified in — saying anything?

  Felix breathed deeply. 'No. Shall we go in, Mildred?

  'Ah, you are a fool, she murmured, taking his Ann. 'But I have confidence in Randall. Thank heavens one of you all has some courage!

  Chapter Nine

  'THE sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold and quite unaccustomed to FEAR! sang Penn, as he leaned out of the window of his room, looking towards the light view, over the tops of the beech trees, over the hidden escarpment of roses, towards the grey and green plain of the Marsh, with its yellow lines of reedy dykes and its slowly flapping herons. There was a scattering of sheep in the near fields, seeming like pale spherical bundles. Where the horizon came it was not yet the sea, it was not quite yet mysterious Dungeness.

  The sun was shining, but in a feeble unconvinced sort of way, making a lot of pale bright light. A brisk east wind was blowing. Call this a summer! thought Penn. It would scarcely pass muster as a winter at home. This was the sort of thing he would have liked to explain, in an aggrieved way, to someone; only no one wanted to hear. His mother had said as he was leaving, 'They'll all ask you so many questions about Australia! but his father had said, 'Not they! They don't care a brass farthing about Australia! Only he had used a rather. more Australian expression than that. It looked as if his father was right. Of course he didn't really mind their lack of curiosity; but he did a little mind their assumption that he was not in as good a position to judge them as they were to judge him.

  Today he was certainly feeling a little more touchy than usual; but perhaps that was simply on account of the charades: there had been charades last night at the Rectory, and he had not distinguished himself. Penn, who had never played this game before, had been amazed at the virtuosity of the others, who all dressed up so cleverly and invented the funniest things on the spur of the moment. Miranda had been especially funny, and had looked so pretty and grown-up in some of the costumes, and had dressed up so comically as a boy. The two young Swanns were very brilliant too; though they seemed to put on such airs, and to talk so extraordinary a language, that Penn could scarcely decide when they were acting and when they were not. They were back for a half-term week-end from their school, a place called Rugby which they seemed to think a lot of. They were friendly to Penn but without concealing that they regarded him as rather a joke. None of this diminished his awkwardness. Only Ann had kept him company by being patently unable to act, but she had laughed so much all the time at everyone else that it somehow didn't show.

  He looked across at the other tower of Grayhallock. That other tower, which he had never entered, exercised a looking-glass fascination on his mind. Its shallow stairs and sweep of white-painted metal banister, the replica of his own, seemed like the approach to Bluebeard's chamber. No one had ever suggested that he should mount the other tower, though equally of course no one had forbidden it; and although he had often, deceiving himself with: casualness, wondered whether he might not just stroll up to Miranda's room, he could not confront the idea of passing Randall's door. Now that Randall was gone it seemed no easier. It was not just that he was constantly told that his uncle was expected back from one day to the next. The nature of that departure, the raised voices and banging doors which he had heard, so much appalled him, and in an obscure way so frightened him, that even Randall's empty room seemed a haunted place.

  He turned back into his own familiar little room. He had made his bed neatly. The box of soldiers was still untouched under the bed. The veteran car book stood on the shelf next to his copy of Such is Life. The German dagger lay unsheathed on the counterpane. The privations of this room was the best thing about being in England. At home he had to share a room with Bobby. Though now, with another Graham baby on the way, perhaps his father would build the annexe which was allowed for in the building plans. He thought with satisfaction of the new baby. The Grahams, after all, were quite a clan.

  «Young man,» said Ahdul, «Has life grown so dull that you're anxious to end your CAREER? »

  Bias, offensively Australian. Yes, the Grahams were a clan to be reckoned with. His grandfather had been a railway union organizer, his great-grandfather had been a drover in Queensland, his great-great-grandfather had been deported from England for persistent Trade Unionism, his great-great-great-grandfather had been a Chartist, his great-great-great-great-grandfather had been a Leveller. (The last three items, entered with little concern for chronology, were unfortunately speculative.) His great-great-great-great-great-grand— father —.

  The German dagger, at which he had been gazing unseeingly, suddenly took possession of his consciousness in a painful way. He thought at first that the pain was simply the realization that he must shortly part with it to Miranda. Then he realized that it was a special pain compounded of this, and of a thrilling alarming consciousness that this would make an excellent pretext for mounting the other tower to her room.

  «Foul infidel, know you have trod on the toe of Ahdul the Bulbul EMIR! »

  He picked up the dagger and drew the beautiful thing lightly through his fingers. It was sharp, polished, dangerous, marvellously integrated and sweetly proportioned. He could not remember when he had loved an object so much. It was even better than the visionary revolver which he had once desired. He caressed its smooth black hilt and traced the enamelled swastika with his finger-tip. He would never see its like. He sighed and went to the window and looked again at the other tower. The wind had dropped a little and from somewhere behind the house a cuckoo was calling its hollow hesitating note. Cuucuckoo. Of course there was no question but that he must give it to Miranda. Ann had said no, but she had only said it out of kindness to him, and he must do his duty in spite of Ann's kindness. The idea of duty brought with it a sort of dignity, and he decided he would do it, he would mount the other tower.

  As he thought this his glance strayed and he saw Miranda below him, having just issued from the front porch. She was carrying a shopping-bag and had now set off along the drive toward the front gate. For a moment he wondered whether he should not take the chance of running up now to her room and laying the dagger on her bed. But he reflected that its sudden appearance there might frighten her. The idea that he was sparing her a fright filled him with a tender protective feeling. Then something about her slowly disappearing form imparted a sense of urgency,
and he slipped the dagger into the pocket of his mackintosh and proceeded down the stairs at a run.

  When he got outside Miranda had disappeared, but he ran a little way along the road which led to the village, and slowed down when he saw her ahead. The road led downhill with the rose nursery upon the left, and he could see Bowshott and one of the men working between the lines of bushes. The farther roses merged into a multicoloured blur. They were all in flower now. He wondered where Miranda was going, and concluded that she was bound for the village shop, which was odd since Miranda detested shopping. At this point she turned round, saw him, and waited.

  When Penn caught up with her he couldn't think quite what to say. He was too shy to hand the dagger to her at once, so he said the first thing that came into his head. 'Have you found Hatfield yet?

  'I'm not looking for Hatfield, said Miranda. They began to walk on slowly together, she swinging the bag.

  'Well, not now I suppose, said Penn, 'but I thought you might have found him, somewhere.

  'I didn't look for him, said Miranda. 'I don't like cats. I prefer hedgehogs. She said this in a judicious way which Penn found a little encouraging.

  By way of making a joke Penn said, 'I thought little girls always liked cats and ponies!

  'I'm not a little girl, said Miranda in a tone which left Penn's imagination reeling as to what indeed she was.

  To recover he said with an even more ponderous air of jocularity, 'And you don't like ponies either?