by Iris Murdoch
Rozanov stared at her with a gathering frown and his big soft mouth puckered up into an ugly pout of loathing. He said, almost in a whisper ‘You disgust me.’ He wrenched his sleeve away and went out of the door.
Pearl followed him across the grass to where the path between the trees began. She heard the back gate slam and the taxi start. She stood still a while. Then she returned to the house. When she looked in through the doorway and saw the hall all pretty and tidy and bright she uttered the second scream which Alex heard that evening; only it was not a scream, it was more like an animal’s long howl. She went into the house and shut the door with such violence that a piece of the cracked glass in the landing window fell out on to the lawn. She felt a pain which ran all the way down the front of her body as if she had been ripped open with a knife. She went upstairs to her bedroom and fell like a dead thing face downwards on the bed.
Tom rang the bell at Diane’s address. There was only one bell. (He had discovered her address in an old telephone directory. Later directories did not list her.)
Diane, on the entry phone, said, ‘Who is it?’
Tom, on the spur of the moment, said, ‘George’.
Diane knew it was not George, who always entered with his own key, but she pressed the entry button all the same; she had been doing some solitary drinking and for once didn’t care who it was.
Westwold is a quiet little suburb, agreed to be ‘dull’ (even the Three Blind Mice is usually empty after 9 p.m.) and Tom met very few people on his walk. As he huddled into the narrow doorway beside the Irish Linen shop he looked quickly up and down the street, but there was no one in sight.
He opened the door and, as he went up the dark stairs immediately inside, a light went on above. He arrived on a landing face to face with Diane, who was standing at the door of her flat.
She peered. When she recognized Tom she moved quickly back into the flat. Tom promptly put his foot in the closing door.
‘Please, Diane, let me talk to you just a moment, it’s important, it’s about George.’
Tom now introduced his body after his foot into the aperture and began to push the door open against Diane’s pressure. He felt suddenly excited, not happily, rather unpleasantly.
Diane gave way, let him enter, quickly closed the door behind him, and said, ‘You mustn’t stay, you mustn’t be here. I shouldn’t have let you in.’ She moved back out of the tiny hall into the little lighted room beyond, where a radio was playing pop music. There was a strong stuffy smell of cigarettes and wine.
Diane was now quickly darting about, stooping and picking up what appeared to be underwear from the floor. She opened another door and hurled a pale frilly armful through and then shut it again. She turned the radio off. She emptied an overflowing ashtray into a vase, and kicked a jangling suspender-belt in under a chair. There was now also a sweaty smell of unwashed clothes. Tom, blinking, took in the room which seemed to him so full of things that he and Diane would have to stand there with their hands stiffly at their sides. He could not at first see a chair or discern the chaise tongue, which was also covered with clothes and with a Paisley shawl which had crumpled itself up into mounds and hummocks. A wine bottle and a whisky bottle and two glasses stood on a dirty little ebony table. The velour curtains were drawn and two fringed lamps gave a dim pink light and a tiny narrow gas fire glowed pinkly. Tom, moving slightly, found his leg stoutly impeded by a leather hippopotamus and, stepping back, crunched his foot into a basket full of magazines.
Diane, in the soft sweetish light of her crammed little room, looked quite different from the shy trim person Tom had been used to seeing at the Institute. She looked, here, older, more painted, more animal. Her hair, which looked as though it had been lacquered, was sleeked down over her little dark head and came forward in two pointed curves over her cheeks. Her face looked yellowish and seemed without make-up except for the moistly scarlet lips. Her eyes were sunken and shadowed, both her small hands were brown with nicotine. She was wearing one of the black dresses which George liked, an old-fashioned cocktail dress which she had bought in a second-hand shop with a V-neck and black shiny beads sewn on to the bodice, and a long fringed hem beneath which were visible shiny black high-heeled boots with pointed toes. Her feet were also very small. Around her thin neck she wore a circlet of polished steel teeth which, not fitting well, poked her flesh, making red marks. She looked to Tom, as he gazed down on her, so little and so touching. He had often seen her in a bathing costume, but with her ‘daring’ black attire and awkward collar she seemed far more undressed. For a moment he forgot why he had come.
‘You mustn’t stay,’ she repeated, ‘you mustn’t be here.’
‘Are you expecting George?’
‘No, but he always might.’
‘May I stay a minute, please?’
Diane sat down rather unsteadily on the chaise tongue and poured herself out another glass of wine. ‘Would you like some whisky?’
Diane poured a little wine into the second glass, spilling some. Tom took off Greg’s coat and hat and picked up the wine. He found a chair with a plant on it, put the plant on the floor and sat down. He felt suddenly at home in Diane’s room, and his natural habitual cheerfulness was about to assert itself when he remembered all the horrors of recent days. He said to Diane, ‘William Eastcote has died, did you know? Well, you couldn’t know, he’s only just died.’
‘Lucky man, wish I had,’ said Diane. She took a gin bottle from under the table and poured some into her wine.
‘Diane, I wanted to ask you something, do you mind, that evening at the Slipper House, last Saturday — ’
‘Was it only last Saturday? I lose count of time. What’s today?’
‘Thursday.’
Diane had not seen George since the Slipper House evening, when, from her hiding-place behind the shrubs, she had heard the singing and seen George run away through the garden and had followed him. She knew nothing of the incident with Hattie until she read the Ennistone Gazette article. She read The Swimmer article next day. These effusions had been troubling and confusing her mind ever since. She had not forgotten George’s jokes about Hattie. Now she did not know what to believe. She ate little, drank a lot, checked on the bottle where she kept enough sleeping-pills to finish it all, and waited. The only thing which cheered her up a little was that the article had referred to her as ‘our own Madame Diane’. George had once given her a humorous lecture about ‘whores in literature’ and she remembered there had been a Madame Diane. She and George sometimes referred to these literary ladies in private jokes, and this helped Diane to feel that she had identity in George’s mind. The scurrilous and untrue way in which the Gazette spoke of her did not trouble Diane at all, indeed it pleased her slightly.
‘Did you read that horrible article in the Gazette?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgive me - I must know - did you bring George there, and did you - bring him and - Miss Meynell together?’
‘Miss Meynell?’ said Diane. ‘Oh yes, of course, I must be drunk.’
When she said no more, Tom said, ‘Did you bring George to the Slipper House?’
‘No, he brought himself. As for what Miss Meynell did, don’t you know?’ She was becoming rather dazed with drink, but her senses seemed to have become more vivid. She had lost her urgent terror at the idea of George finding Tom with her. She was looking at Tom and thinking, how tall he is, and what beautiful long curly hair he has, and his long legs in his grey trousers, and his blue eyes like his mother’s, he’s so young. And Diane thought, oh if only life was ordinary for me and I could look at people and be with them, and a tear came into each eye.
Tom said, in answer to her question, ‘No, I don’t!’ He discerned the tears and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Aren’t you going to marry Miss Meynell?’
‘No.’
‘It’s off - because of that?’
‘No! It was never on!’
‘Oh well, I don’t know
what happened. I don’t know anything. I’m just sitting here drinking myself to death.’
Tom thought, I’m crazy, I can’t discuss Hattie like this, it’s awful, how foul my mind is, I oughtn’t to be here at all. And how tiny she is, almost a dwarf, and so unhappy. He said, ‘May I have some whisky after all?’ Inspired by her example he tilted it into his wine and swallowed a little and began to feel rather strange. He said, ‘How did all this happen to you?’
‘You mean on Saturday?’
‘No, I mean, all this, how did it start — ’
‘My being a prostitute?’
‘Look,’ said Tom, ‘I’d better go, I’m very upset about a lot of things, please excuse me — ’
‘Don’t go,’ said Diane, ‘I haven’t talked to anybody for a week. I became a prostitute to get my revenge on men.’
‘No - really? I can’t imagine — ’
‘No, that’s something I read in a magazine. I don’t know why, I don’t know why anything happened in my life, it’s all muddle and accident and the horribleness of the world. Oh what does it matter. I was forced to pose in the nude. Then when I got pregnant they left me. I wish I’d had the courage to have a child. All I’ve got is George and he’s mad, he ought to be in an asylum chained to a wall, he’ll kill me one day. He said he saw the Meynell girl undressing.’
‘What? How, where?’
‘I don’t know, George is a terrible liar. I don’t know what happened last Saturday. George may have seduced the little girl, I’m sure he wanted to.’
Tom remembered all his griefs, the terrible scene with John Robert, the nightmarish hiding at Travancore Avenue, the loss of Hattie, these crazy tormenting doubts - what was he thinking? The loss of Hattie? He had never had her to lose, he had rejected her. Had he forgotten that? And he had seen her proud eyes reject him. He thought, I must see her, I must. He stood up and put his glass, pushing aside various ornaments, on top of the piano. Then he picked it up again and poured some more whisky into it.
Diane held out her glass and Tom filled it. Tom sneezed. Diane said, ‘You’ve got a cold.’
‘Sorry, yes.’
‘Well, don’t give it to me, for God’s sake. George won’t see me when I’ve got a cold, he hates me. Well, I suppose he hates me all the time, the cold just brings it out. Do you play the piano?’
‘No— ’
‘Funny, none of my gentlemen ever played the piano.’
‘I must go.’
‘Where’s Stella, isn’t it time she came back to join in all the fun we’re having?’
‘I don’t know where she is. I like Stella.’
‘She’s afraid of George.’
‘So am I!’
‘I wish I could go to the south, to the Mediterranean, Italy, Greece, anywhere. I’ve never left England, been to London a few times, big deal. I used to keep a suitcase packed in case some marvellous man came, some prince, I used to dream about him, a rich man, gentle and sweet, and I’d love him like he’d never been loved before, a sad man and I’d make him happy.’
‘Why don’t you chuck George, you’ll never get any good out of him, go away somewhere and — ’
‘Start a new life! You grew up rich and easy, you think people can go away, for you there are other places, anywhere you go you’re somebody, you’re visible, you exist, you can make friends and be with people in a real way. If I left here I’d die in a corner, I’d dry up and shrivel up and die like an insect, no one would care, no one would even know.’
‘Don’t say that - things could change - I wish I could help you — ’
‘Well, you can’t. Don’t say empty untrue things. I’m - like that - finished — ’
‘I wish you could talk to William Eastcote, only he’s dead. He was a good man.’
‘If I’d been that rich I’d have been good too.’
‘But you are good - I mean — ’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. You mean well. You always looked at me kindly, your eyes sent me messages.’
‘Are you really Pearl Scotney’s sister?’
‘Cousin. And Ruby’s. But they don’t want to know. Madame Diane. The Ruby and the Pearl and the Diamond. All fakes. Our fathers were gipsies.’
‘Do you really think that George and that little girl —?’
‘Oh damn her. Damn you. I don’t know.’
‘Diane, I must go.’
‘I won’t say come again. George said he’d kill me if I had anything to do with you and the other brother. Oh God, if I could only talk to people, if I could only have a little bit of happiness, if things could be ordinary — ’ Tears came quietly out of her small doglike eyes. She closed her eyelids slowly, pressing more tears out.
Diane suddenly opened her eyes and the tears seemed to disappear as if abruptly withdrawn into their source. She leapt up, tangling one black heel into the Paisley shawl. Tom leapt up too.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s George. He’s trying to put his key in the door. Quick, quick.’
Diane pulled Tom, gripping his wrist, round which her short fingers could not join, out on to the landing where she slid back the door of a large built- In cupboard. She pushed a number of dresses along on a rail, making a space into which Tom stumbled. Diane whispered, ‘He always goes to the toilet when he comes, I’ll put the radio on, I’ll come out on to the landing and cough, then you go — ’ She slid the cupboard door back again and was gone.
Tom instinctively adjusted the dresses, pulling them in front of him and pressing himself against the back of the big cupboard. His feet, below the dresses, felt huge. He reached out and moved the sliding door slightly. He felt very unpleasantly frightened and ashamed.
The radio was playing again, quite loudly. He heard the downstairs door open and George mounting the stairs and Diane saying something to him. George went into the sitting-room. A minute or two passed and he showed no sign of going to the lavatory.
Diane’s clothes were not like Judy Osmore’s. Diane’s clothes were musty and in need of washing and cleaning, and smelt of stale tobacco and old cosmetics, cosmetics, which went out of fashion long ago, old powder, old lipstick, old face cream, old magic. Tom began to want to sneeze. Then the radio was switched off.
Tom thought, he knows. But now he could hear George and Diane talking in quiet voices. If he had concentrated he could have heard what they were saying. He thought, I must get out of this cupboard; if George were to find me standing here among these dresses I couldn’t bear it, it would ruin my whole life! He slid the door and stepped very quietly out of the cupboard. The sitting-room door was shut, the voices continued, Tom moved step by silent step toward the flat door which Diane had left open. Already he could imagine himself creeping down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters, putting his feet down with slow care, then the street door and freedom. At that moment Tom remembered that he had left his hat and coat lying on the floor in the sitting-room.
He checked the impulse to run. He could not now run. Diane might see and hide the awful evidence, but she might very well not. He thought, it’ll be worse for her if he sees them when I’ve gone, I can’t go now, I’ve got to see George, I’ve got to face him and try to explain, oh God why did I come here! I’m doing nothing but harm to everybody —
Tom took a deep breath and opened the sitting-room door. He stood in the doorway.
George and Diane were standing near the sofa holding hands. They had an odd formal dated look, like an old photograph or an old film. They turned toward him. Diane’s face expressed open-mouthed, open-eyed terror. George’s face expressed, for a moment, pure surprise. He let go of Diane’s hand. Then almost artificially, as if he were acting, he transformed his face into a wrinkled mask of indignation and fury.
Tom raised his hand with the palm open. He said, ‘George, I’m sorry. I came here to see Diane to ask her something about Miss Meynell. I’ve never been here before. I’ve never talked to Diane before, well, except once we talked a few sentences at the Baths
.’ (Tom felt it essential to be truthful in case the encounter had been witnessed.) ‘I’ve only been here about ten minutes and I was just going to go. Nothing is Diane’s fault. She didn’t want to let me in and when I pushed my way in she begged me to go away. It’s all my fault. I just intruded. It’s nothing to do with her.’
George stepped away from Diane and stared at her as if expecting her to speak, but she was speechless with fear. She stood stiffly, her head turned away from both the men. George frowned, drawing his eyebrows right down over his eyes. He lowered his head. Then he caught sight of Greg Osmore’s coat and hat lying on the floor. He snatched them up and glared at them. Then bundling them up he moved toward the door. Tom dodged promptly out of his way. George went out on to the landing, hurling the bundle in front of him, and kicked it out of the flat and down the stairs. He came back into the room and advanced on Diane, ignoring Tom. He said, ‘Sit down. Sit down there.’ He pointed to a chair against the wall beside the piano. Diane obeyed, putting her hands to her throat. She took off the metal necklace and laid it on the piano.
Tom began, ‘George, listen — ’
‘Who is Miss Meynell?’ said George, still frowning.
‘Hattie Meynell, you know, John Robert’s — ’
‘Oh her. If you refer to her as Miss Meynell you should refer to Diane as Mrs Sedleigh. Don’t you think? What did you want to know about Hattie Meynell?’