by Iris Murdoch
‘Gerard and I walked to the village this morning,’ said Jenkin to Tamar, ‘and the village pond was frozen – well, of course it was frozen – and the ducks and geese were walking about on the ice. They looked so touching, so awkward and puzzled and indignant! You could see how heavy those geese were, planting their feet so carefully, they were quite aggressive too, they wouldn’t get out of the way, the skaters had to avoid them. They must have felt it was the last straw, their pond gone solid and humans rushing about! We went to the Pike. They’ve got the Christmas decorations up. I always love this time before Christmas, don’t you, when people start setting up Christmas trees and hanging holly wreaths on their doors. When do you put up your decorations?’
‘We don’t put up decorations.’
‘Well, neither do I much – just a few old baubles. The Pike is nice and friendly, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t like pubs.’
‘You should give them a try. You needn’t be nervous.’
‘I’m not nervous.’
‘See how red the sky has become, and everything’s so motionless and so quiet, like an enchantment. Now we’ve left the others we might be in Siberia! Do you know, we haven’t seen a single bird since we left the house? I suppose they’re all hiding in the thickest bushes with their feathers fluffed up. I can’t think how they survive in this weather.’
‘They don’t, lots of them die.’
They had been tramping across the grass whose longer blades appeared here and there above the snow, outstretched like little green ribbons hatched over with crosses made by the frost.
Jenkin had been busily making conversation, trying to stir Tamar’s attention, pointing things out to her, the tracks of animals, the perfect shape of a leafless oak, a small holly bush covered with red berries in the hedge that bordered the meadow. Now they had reached the river and looked down in silence at the stiff frozen shapes of broken water plants which rose out of the quite thick fringe of ice which bordered either bank. In the centre the river rushed, fierce, silent, fast, fed by other snows, and black, black in between its edges of ice and snow.
Tamar looked down, lowering her head and fumbling at the knot of her scarf, then pulling the scarf more closely forward over her brow.
Jenkin had been watching Tamar since their arrival at Boyars. He shared the common knowledge of her troubles, he so acutely felt, now, her sadness, her unapproachable remoteness, he wished he could ‘do something’ for her. He had known her all her life, but never well, had never figured as ‘jolly uncle Jenkin’, or as someone in whom she might confide or trust. Jenkin, for all his schoolmasterly talents, had never achieved with Tamar, as child or adult, the easy and authoritative relationship which Gerard enjoyed with her.
While Jenkin was wondering what topic of conversation to try next, Tamar suddenly said, ‘Do you think Jean will come back to Duncan?’
He said at once, ‘Yes, of course. Don’t let that make you sad!’
‘Has he heard from her just lately?’
‘Well – he had a solicitor’s letter, but he wrote saying he loved her and expected her back, and there’s been nothing since, which must be a good sign. That other thing can’t last – it didn’t before and it won’t now. She’ll be back!’ Jenkin was not sure whether he really felt this confidence, but he wanted to reassure Tamar.
‘It’s such a pity they never had children,’ she said, still looking down at the river, ‘but perhaps they never wanted any, not everyone does.’
‘Duncan certainly did, he was longing for a child. I’m not sure about Jean.’
‘Oh look – isn’t that a dead cat?’
Something humpy and streaky and dark was tumbled by in the fierce rush of the river. It was a dead cat. ‘No, no,’ said Jenkin, ‘it’s a bundle of reeds. Come on, let’s go back. Why, I think it’s starting to snow again.’
Lily had finished lacing her boots, but was sitting paralysed, watching the distant gyrations of Rose and Gerard. ‘Come on,’ said Gulliver, ‘or are you funking it? Never mind, I’ll have a try. Pray for me.’
He rose to his feet, balanced upon the ridiculously thin edges of the skates, which at once sunk into the snowy grass. Stretching both arms out to balance himself and lifting up each foot carefully he made his way down the slope. Unfortunately there was nothing to hold onto, no friendly tree extending a sturdy branch. Near to the brink, he thrust one foot forward onto the ice. The foot rejected the hard slippery alien surface, declining to plant itself firmly as a foot ought to, but moving uneasily, slipping away, turning feebly over on its side. Gulliver withdrew the foot. If only he could stand on the ice for a moment or two he might manage to move cautiously forward in some reasonably skaterly manner. After all, he could skate, that is he had proceeded on skates in an upright position for short distances on ice rinks of his youth. He edged carefully forward a little so that both his skates were embedded at the verge of the ice, which was not at all clean-cut, but a messy area where humpy earth and grass were covered with a brittle mix of ice and snow. Here he again got one foot forward onto the smoother ice. But the other foot, taking his weight for a moment, had sunk a centimetre or two deeper into the earthy perimeter. The problem of removing it while balancing on the forward foot seemed insoluble. In calm despair, with arms outstretched, Gulliver gazed ahead of him into the red dusk. He thought, I can’t go forward, I can’t get back, I shall have to sit down. Thank God Rose and Gerard are somewhere else, I can’t even see them. At that moment a hand appeared and took hold of his outstretched hand. Lily had evidently ventured down to the edge behind him.
Gulliver gripped the supportive hand and by some miraculous manoeuvre managed to get his other foot onto the ice, while resting quite a lot of weight upon Lily’s hand, and now upon her arm which had also appeared beside him. He was standing! He let go of Lily and began to walk upon the ice, not sliding but walking, balancing as on stilts. Now, how did one get going? His legs resisted the desire of his ankles to turn quietly over, his expensive boots bore him stiffly up, his stomach, his diaphragm, his shoulders, his pendant arms, sought intently for a certain rhythmical movement, a leaning and a swaying, a distribution of the weight, so that the feet, used after all to taking turns on terra firma, could in this weird and artificial predicament, proceed to a harmonious cooperation. Gulliver inclined himself forward, advancing one skate, then as it slid a little and took his weight, with an instinctively remembered motion bringing on its fellow. He was still upright! He could do it! He was skating!
At that moment somebody appeared beside him and said, ‘Well done!’ It was Lily. She moved past him. She was skating too. What was more, and Gulliver somehow took this in instantly, not only could she skate, but she could skate very well indeed. Lily was now in front of him, moving backwards. He saw in the crimson twilight her face under her black fur hat, with reddened cheeks and nose, bright with triumphant joy. She made a little circle, then a larger one, then with a wave set off across the ice at an astonishing speed. Gulliver sat down abruptly.
Rose and Gerard, who had been skating together holding hands at the farther end of the meadow where a few villagers, mainly young boys, still lingered, were returning toward the centre when they met Lily. They heard her before they saw her, since Lily as she was released into an element which suited her perfectly, uttered, as her speed increased, a loud cry, like a savage bird’s cry, or the aggressive scream uttered by Japanese masters of the martial arts. Lily, with a group from her school, had learnt to skate as a child at the rink at Queensway. The others gave up, she stayed, she had, a teacher told her, a natural talent, she learnt to dance, she learnt to leap, she won a competition. For a short time skating seemed a means of dominating the world; but somehow she never really believed in it, the glamorous enclosure of the ice rink was a dream palace which she always left with a sense of doom, a secret artificial place which made the squalor of her real place more awful by contrast. It brought her no social life, and she lacked the will and confidence to
take up the challenge of becoming even better. So the pursuit lost its charm amid the miseries and muddles of her student life, and when the money came and she had so many gratifications and so little sense of the value of anything it did not occur to her to return to what now seemed like a phase of her girlhood. Her paralysis in the scene at the water meadow arose from a sudden painful memory, as her hands touched the laces of the boots, of her younger unspoilt self; also, like Gull, she was not at all sure she would be able to do it. Of course she would still be able to skate, but would she still be able to skate very well? The wild scream expressed her instant discovery that her talent had not abandoned her.
Just before Lily appeared, swift as an arrow or an announcing angel in the middle of the ice, Rose had suggested to Gerard that they might now, since almost everyone had gone, put on some waltz music on their side of the meadow and dance, as they always did, had done for years and years in winters when the ice was hard. The both danced well, but were tactfully anxious not to impose their display upon other enjoyers of the ice. Now when they had the meadow almost to themselves they might evoke the sudden magic of the music in the winter picture. Gerard and Rose had also, with tact, kept well away from Gull and Lily so as not to risk being witnesses of their perhaps more modest performance. Now, suddenly, here was Lily Boyne, flashing past them, returning from a distance at express speed, waving one leg while spinning on one foot, leaping high into the air and landing on the tips of her skates, seeming to move not on the surface of the ice but above it. Gerard cried out, ‘Lily, Lily, you’re a star!’
Rose watched the acrobatics, then decided quickly. She said to Gerard, ‘You dance with Lily.’ Then she sped away at her own fastest pace in the direction of the base camp. A few moments later the music of Strauss transformed the scene.
Gulliver had not arisen after his sudden descent, he had no wish now to explore his recovered ability any further. Shameless and unwitnessed he crawled on the ice back to his starting point, crawled up the slope and hoisted himself onto the log. With relief he undid his boots and released his crushed feet and his aching ankles. His front was covered with mud and snow, and his pale brown corduroy trousers stained and soaking wet. He found he had lost one of his gloves. It had probably come offwhen Lily grabbed his hand. He thought he could see it lying a little distance away on the ice. He sat watching Lily’s distant gyrations. Then Rose suddenly materialised, sprang up the bank on her skates like a goat, and turned on the cassette. At that same moment Jenkin and Tamar appeared out of the dusk.
Gerard and Lily, nearer now, who had been circling round each other and talking, their voices coming as thin but clear indecipherable sounds through the increasingly cold air, as the music started came magnetically together. An irresistible impulse of joy joined them, Gerard’s arm was round Lily’s waist, her hand gripped his shoulder with an unexpected strength. Lily was a better dancer than Gerard, but as when a mediocre tennis player can suddenly improve when matched with a good player, Gerard inspired, and with subtle pressures of her hands and body led, by Lily, danced better than he had ever danced before.
The four upon the bank, Gull sitting, the others standing, watched the dancing in intent silence. Tamar’s scarf had fallen back onto her shoulders and Jenkin, observing her out of the corner of his eye without moving his head, saw, after a moment or two, a tear moving down her cheek. Gulliver, dazed by what was so rapidly happening, watched the astonishing performance as it approached nearer and nearer to them. He became conscious of a strange feeling in his midriff, an electrical disturbance, a pain, a sense of mingled elation and anguish. The gracious powerful bitter-sweet music collected together the darkening sky, the fading glow of the twilight, the intense cold, the pallor of the snow, and the great quiet empty countryside all around, so soon to be entirely dark.
The dance did not last long. Amid plaudits and laughter Gerard and Lily ascended the bank. Lily tossed Gull his glove which she had gracefully retrieved as she glided in. Rose distributed electric torches to everybody, and chattering away they all set out along the footpath back to the house. It had begun to snow again, the white wandering flakes visible in the light of the torches.
‘You put poor old Rose’s nose out of joint all right,’ said Gulliver to Lily.
‘You’re coarse,’ said Lily, ‘that’s your trouble, coarseness.’
It was after dinner. The skating party had descended upon the house tired, cold and excited, to find that it was tea-time in front of the blazing drawing room fire, sandwiches and scones, plum cake and home-made jam and clotted cream, and two big teapots and milk and sugar all standing ready, as Ann-ushka had seen the light of the returning torches from afar. They had been away longer than expected, and not everyone felt like tea. Some were for hot baths, some for drinks. Out of politeness to Annushka everyone drank tea and, when confronted with the goodies, and amid advice about not spoiling one’s appetite for dinner, most of the skaters fumbled with the scones which with blackcurrant jam and cream were delicious. Duncan appeared, looking sleepy and hot, enquired after their adventures, and ate most of the sandwiches. Gerard and Jenkin lingered a while over the scones. Gulliver took a piece of the plum cake away to eat later. After baths and rest and drinks, dinner, served late, was no anti-climax, consisting of lentil soup, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and gooseberry tart and cream. Everyone, except Tamar, ate hugely. After that they all, except Tamar, who said she was tired, sat in the drawing room drinking coffee and cherry brandy and eating some of the heavenly fudge (agreed to be remarkable) which Annushka had made for Jenkin. Rose retired soon, first to visit Tamar, then to her own room. Gull and Lily, yawning hugely, declared themselves for bed and foregathered chez Lily. Duncan and Jenkin and Gerard stayed on in the drawing room with the whisky bottle.
Gulliver regretted his remark, indeed was amazed at it. He was drunk, that was the trouble. The coldness, the exertion, the experiences, the emotions, the hot bath, all that food, all that drink, had produced a condition of unstable excitement which made continued drinking absolutely essential. It turned out that both he and Lily had brought a flask of whisky along ‘just in case’ so there was nothing to stop both of them continuing to indulge, and Lily was rather drunk too. The horrid remark, rightly criticised by Lily, had been, somehow, the outcome of Gulliver’s attempt to make sense of his mixed up state of mind, produced by Lily’s exploits, what might be described as Lily’s triumph. He had not at all minded the first bit when he was so hopeless and she was so brilliant, he had felt no resentment at her flying about like a winged goddess while he was crawling up the bank ruining his trousers. He had easily identified with her glory in a manner expressed by: one up for our side! The dancing was another matter. The pang which it occasioned was easily identified as jealousy, the self-same pain which he had felt on Guy Fawkes night when he had opened the dining room door. But now, as then, he wondered, which am I feeling so possessive about? Or was it just a general sense of being excluded, obliterated, dropped, forgotten and made of no account? His remark about Rose had leapt out as an attempt, he now saw, to lessen his own discomfort by attributing it to someone else.
‘Yes,’ said Gulliver humbly, helping himself to another glass of Lily’s whisky.
They were sitting, in Lily’s bedroom, in armchairs which they had drawn up in front of the blazing fire, onto which Gulliver had just tossed some extra bits of wood from the basket at the side. Sparks which leapt out onto the rug had been hastily stamped upon. Several lamps were lit in the room which was dominated by the huge double bed with its old carved dark oak headboard. The wallpaper, blue with a lattice design, had faded into powdery obscurity, and the furniture, over-awed by the bed, was diffident and shabby. An oak chest under a hanging mirror served as a dressing table, a sideboard without its doors made a bookcase, a small octagonal table near the window supported more books, novels by Lawrence and Virginia Woolf chosen by Rose for Lily, and Lily’s book on Thailand not yet opened. A little green sofa upholstered in much wor
n green velvet in flower and leaf patterns occupied the space between the windows. There were several water-colours representing the Yorkshire property and the ‘old big house’ which had been sold by Rose’s great-great-grandfather. Over the fireplace there was a large modern red and orange and black abstract painting, which Gerard had bought from Gideon for Rose when Rose, prompted by Jean, had admired it at an exhibition. It later became a favourite of Jean and Duncan and was hung in their room and called their’ painting.
‘Are you going to church tomorrow?’ said Lily. ‘Do we have to?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Gulliver, ‘I hope not.’
‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘I got the impression you had been. You were telling me all about it.’
‘I was putting on an act. I’m not only coarse, I’m disingenuous.’
‘Let’s not go to church. We could go to the pub. There’s one in the village, Jenkin said.’
‘It won’t be open till twelve.’
‘Oh. Sunday.’
‘I suppose we could go for a walk.’
‘If we aren’t snowed in. Wouldn’t it be fun to be marooned here like people in a detective story!’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I wonder if it’s still snowing, let’s look.’
They went to one of the windows and dragged back the heavy velvet curtains and thrust up the sash. No diamond-paned Gothic on this façade. A wall of icy air advanced into the room. ‘Turn out the lights,’ said Lily.
They stood in the darkness leaning out of the window. The snow had ceased. A single distant light, a faint yellow spot, showed the outskirts of the village. The white landscape was invisible. But up above, the curtain of cloud had, over a part of the heavens, been rolled back and they could actually see stars, one star in particular very bright, and round about and beyond a hazy mass of other stars, a thick golden fuzz of superimposed stars, almost, at the zenith, completely covering the black dome of the sky; and as they looked in the midst of the gold dust, a star fell quickly and vanished, then another star fell. ‘Good Lord,’ said Lily, in a low voice. ‘I’ve never seen a falling star before, and now I’ve seen two.’