by Iris Murdoch
Tamar had taken the half-day off in order to visit Lily Boyne. In her lonely agony, Lily seemed to be the only person who could organise the practical assistance which Tamar now urgently needed at least to consider.
When, after her visit to the chemist’s shop, Tamar, alone in her little bedroom, had established without doubt that she was carrying Duncan’s child, she thought that she would go mad, she thought she would have to kill herself, the idea of doing so was indeed the only barrier against madness. In her few timid amours Tamar had always had a dread of pregnancy, this dread had been a chief reason for her avoidance of, almost repugnance for, physical love. She had witnessed the sordid miserable dilemmas of her fellow students; and some instinctive puritanism, a part of her severance from her mother, made her fastidious about anything at all approaching promiscuity, and gave her a deep and not just prudential horror of the idea of children out of wedlock. She had been happier without ‘involvements’, and was sure she had never been really in love. About the occasions when she had been got to bed she felt guilt and remorse. She had not in any way anticipated her sudden intense feelings about Duncan, protected against any such development by the fact that he was so much older. She was used to him as an elderly friend, an avuncular figure, remoter than Gerard and subsidiary to him. When Tamar found herself beginning to fall in love with Duncan she was surprised, unnerved as by something weird and uncanny, then pleased, even exalted. It, or something very like it, had happened at last, but (and was this not, for her, the point?) in the most confined and fruitless way. Falling in love: to be so utterly in the power of someone else, all one’s freedom, all one’s reality, stolen away into another place and controlled by another person. And precisely because it was a totally blocked path (Tamar saw this later) she, immured, enchanted, gave herself up to the new sensation as to a delightful purifying painful fate. This was what she felt, briefly enough, but with a careless intensity, before the love-making. He would, of course, never know. She would serve and help him, would somehow (she knew not how, but perhaps this too was fated) reunite him with his wife; then retire with her secret pain which would in time be transformed into a source of untainted pleasure.
After the love-making Tamar’s state of mind, which had been clear and single, even a kind of peace of mind, became a dark battlefield of incompatible emotions. To have actually taken her big animal-beloved into bed, to have hugged him in her arms and consoled him thus, could not but produce a mad elation which fed and fed upon an increase in her love. But this terrible love was now doomed and wicked. At the same time she found herself trying to continue her dream of somehow ‘making it all good’, for them, and for her. Was there not still a way, was there not always a way, to be innocent and unselfish? Apparently not, since by her wilful act she had done some irreparable spiritual damage, some huge damage which would have consequences for herself and others. She had lost that original and blameless Duncan whom she had held so tenderly within her reticent and silent power, giving him up forever, in return for the momentary pleasure of telling her love. And yet again, how could she have resisted, how denied him then when he begged her to love him? She would have seemed to him selfish and cowardly and cold, turning her very love into a lie, he would have felt himself rejected, he would never have forgiven her and she would never have forgiven herself. Sometimes she thought, or was tempted to think, since she regarded the idea as a consolation, that the vast ‘damage’ with its awful consequences was something which applied only to herself, not touching Duncan or Jean at all. Was it not the damage to her self-esteem, was it not the result of that, the marring of her role, that so terrified her? Whatever those larger ‘consequences’ might turn out to be, there were immediate baneful and hateful ones which demanded her attention. She would have to imagine Duncan’s feelings and behave accordingly. She guessed that he would now be regretting the episode, would be anxious to ‘cool’ it, to put an end to any absurd ideas which she might harbour about it. After all he had other troubles and could persuade himself not to take her ‘childish’ avowals too seriously. He would rely upon her ‘common sense’. Later on the matter could seem trivial. There would be no portentous sequel, his feelings would remain kindly, even affectionate, even grateful; for the present, he would distance himself. One day, when Jean was home again, he would tell her and they would smile over it. Or would he tell Jean? Tamar hated wondering about this, and tried to stop herself from doing so. She fully intended to assist the painful distancing process. So it was after the act, and before the terrible discovery. Tamar had trusted Duncan entirely when he said he could not have children, there had been no question of ‘precautions’. Not believing the evidence of nature, she had given herself a pregnancy test chiefly as an exercise of superstition.
Now the implications of her position unfolded around her. The child was an impossibility, an abhorrence; yet it was a child, a real creature with, if it lived, an infinitely extended future: Duncan Cambus’s child, her child. She had often heard it said that ‘they’ had wanted children. She had also heard it said that Jean would certainly come home. She had seen the death-misery in Duncan’s face. She had imagined his joy when his wife returned. Duncan had wanted a child. Well, now he had a child.
The terrible aliveness of the child absorbed her to a degree which almost swallowed thought, as if the child were already an authoritative presence, a prince (for Tamar felt sure it was male) claiming his territory and asserting his rights. This absorption, this sense of a miraculous other being, such a source of joy to a true mother, was here torture. How could Tamar let it be known that she had Duncan’s child, a revelation which would almost certainly prevent Jean’s return, and would, even if Jean did return, darken that marriage ever after? Yet how could Tamar bring herself to destroy the child, the miracle-child of Duncan Cambus and Tamar Hernshaw, her child? Did not the sheer existence of this being make everything else trivial by comparison? Was she doomed to curse her child, to hate it, because of Duncan, because of Jean, because she lacked the special courage that her situation demanded? Would it be possible to conceal the child, pretend he was someone else’s, have him adopted? She knew that if he lived she could never bring herself to let him go. If only she could treat it simply as a matter of Duncan’s rights, and run to him saying, ‘Here is your son.’ Would he be delighted, appalled? He may once have wanted a child, but not now, and not this one. She thought, I’ve done what my mother did, I’ve ruined my life, I’ve got me a child by an impossible man. Oh if only I could disappear, taking the child with me, become someone else and never be heard of again! I can’t gamble with the future like that, I can’t think about it, I need more time, but the clock is ticking.
Would it all have to come out anyway, and if so why not confess it now? She had already told one person, the priest, Father McAlister, who had told her to keep the child and trust in God. Tamar was sure that Father McAlister would not tell anybody. But the fact that she had told him showed that she could tell, and might again. Of course she had not told him any details and had, in the essence of the matter, misled him, so that his advice could have little meaning for her. She had said that she did not know what was the right thing to do, but had not set out the problem. She had refused to discuss the father, just saying he was a student. The priest had realised, and had said as much, that she was concealing something essential, but had added that whatever the situation was, his advice was right. He wanted to see her again, and was ready to come to London, but Tamar, in a state of horror of herself, declined and fled. The unburdening did her no good, it was another thing to regret and to fear.
And now she had committed another folly, she had told Lily Boyne. She already regretted this too. She understood why she had done it, she had done it to gain time, or rather to cheat time. She had felt that, while she was deciding what to do, she might at least establish the details of some of the possibilities. She wanted to find out where and how one could have an absolutely private abortion and how much it would cost. Of course
abortion was legal, she could have one on the Health Service, there were numerous agencies who could advise her, but these open moves would almost certainly lead to discovery. The tale she told to Lily, not without detail, was circumstantially false (she was learning how to lie), about a friend from Oxford who had suddenly turned up for one imprudent night. Tamar was not wrong in assuming that Lily ‘knew all about it’. Lily had had an abortion herself, she told Tamar, and knew how the poor girl felt. She knew just the place, she even offered to pay for it, an offer which Tamar refused. She swore that she would never tell a soul, cross her heart. When Tamar went away, saying that she would think it over, she felt that by talking about abortion with Lily she had in effect made her decision. Was this what she wanted to feel, that the die was already cast? Did she really, after all that she had said to herself, hate her child? Today she was going back to talk to Lily again, as if this had become a significant and fruitful way of passing the time.
Lily was reclining on her sofa which she had made up as a ‘day bed’ with a red- and black-striped sheet and matching cushions from Liberty’s. She was wearing a green light-woollen shift-dress over a white silk shirt. She had put some newly advertised oil on her hair, and her face, with little make-up, was serene. It was very warm in the flat. The curtains were pulled against the fog and all the lamps were on, although it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. Tamar had left her mother’s flat soon after her arrival there, she had only come back to fetch an extra jersey and was anxious not to be detained by Gideon. She spent the interim before the time of her appointment walking round the streets, as her mother rightly guessed she did in the evenings. She ordered a sandwich in a café but was unable to eat it. She and the child walked and walked. She and the child went up in the lift to Lily’s flat.
Tamar had drawn a chair up close to Lily and was sitting with her hands on her knees staring at the ground. She felt so foul, so guilty, so wretched, so torn apart by the decision which she appeared to be making, so agonisingly conscious of that piece of extra being within her, she felt she might be unable to speak. She did speak however, in a dead voice, a corpse voice, asking questions and saying the things that were necessary.
Lily, looking at Tamar, could see that she was very miserable, and was very sorry for her. At the same time, Lily could not help feeling a little cock-a-hoop, it was a feather in her cap, she felt an access of power. She thought, out of all that precious collection of bloody sages, Tamar has turned to little me! Of course, in such cases a woman runs to a woman, and Lily had a warm feeling about this act of female solidarity. She also felt a little, how could she not: how are the mighty fallen! The fact that grand perfect Tamar was in such a mess made Lily feel a bit more philosophical about her own messes. She felt important too at being trusted with such a secret, and she was happy to feel trustworthy, even wise. She thought, Tamar might have gone to Rose, but Rose would have been shocked, Rose certainly wouldn’t have known where to send her, and would probably have told her to keep the wretched tot! In any case she could hardly expect Rose not to tell Gerard, and that’s just where she wants to keep her image clean! Poor child!
The place which Lily recommended was a private clinic in Birmingham. (Angela Parke had been there in similar circumstances.) Tamar seemed to imagine that anything happening in London would automatically be known to them.
‘It doesn’t hurt, you know, and it’s very quick. You’ve been sensible and acted early. You won’t feel a thing. They like to keep you to rest for a day or two. Then you’ll be as free as air. I can see you’re feeling awful now, you’re taking it hard. This is the worst time, I can tell you. You’ll feel quite different when it’s all over, you’ll feel such relief, you’ll be dancing and singing! See it as an illness which is going to be cured, see it as a growth you’ve got to get rid of. Abortion is nothing, it’s a method of birth control. Don’t be too solemn about it. It happens to all of us – well, almost all.’
‘Will I have to give my name?’
‘Well, some girls give false names, but that’s a risk and the doctors don’t like it. You’d better give your name – have you got any other name besides that funny one?’
‘Yes, Marjorie.’
‘Marjorie, how quaint, that’s not a bit like you! I love your name, actually. You can be Marjorie Hernshaw, that sounds quite ordinary. I wonder if you might pretend to be married, say you wanted to keep it from your husband, that would put people off the track! No, better not. Anyway there’ll be no track. Don’t worry! Of course I won’t breathe a single word. The whole thing will disappear into the past, it’ll blow away like smoke, you’ll feel clean and whole and free again.’
‘Didn’t you feel –’ said Tamar. She could not go on. She must not think about babies thrown away with the surgical refuse, dying like fishes snatched out of their water, dying like little fishes on a white slab. Angrily she rubbed the tears from her eyes, she had no right to tears here. She stared down at the green and ivory squares on the carpet as they danced to and fro. She felt faint.
‘No, I didn’t!’ said Lily firmly. She was not going to let Tamar’s tears affect her, or make her recall her own episode as anything other than a felicitous solution of a problem. ‘Nor will you, after it’s done! Shall I ring up for you?’
‘No!’
‘They may not be able to do it at once, you know, and time does matter.’
‘No. Lily, look, you very kindly said last time that you’d pay –’
‘I will, I will –’
‘I don’t want that, but if it turns out to be necessary I’d be glad to borrow a little –’
Tamar, reflecting afterwards, had been dismayed at the magnitude of the sum required, which she could not see how to squeeze out of her savings. She gave most of her salary to her mother.
‘Yes, of course! I suppose he doesn’t object? Not that it matters if he does, it’s your affair anyway.’
‘No, he doesn’t object.’
‘Why can’t he pay?’
‘He hasn’t any money.’
‘Says he hasn’t!’
‘He’s gone now, anyway.’
‘Bloody men, do anything to get you, take no precautions, then when there’s trouble, vanish. I bet you didn’t even tell him. You must get on the pill, you know. Well, when shall we start? After all, you’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?’
‘No – not yet –’
‘Tamar, darling, don’t be a fool, don’t be sentimental, just think. No man wants a girl with an illegitimate child, they regard it as a slur on their manhood to take on a girl with someone else’s child. If you’re trailing a kiddie it’s hell to get married, it’s even hell to have a lover. The chaps don’t like the idea that some little darling will suddenly open the door! Anyway, what about your career, what about your job, what about your mother? Are you going to ask Violet to look after the little beast while you’re at work? Or are you going to give up work and live at home on national assistance? Think what it’ll be like year after year! The wretched infant will be miserable, it’s a right recipe for misery for two. It’ll hate its school, it’ll hate the other kids, it’ll be victimised, you’ll be victimised. It’s still like that, you know, in the, ha ha, permissive society! And if by any chance you do marry and have other children, that child will be an outsider. Picture it all, for heaven’s sake! And don’t imagine it’s a good idea to put it off and have the child and see how you feel then, or think it’s easy to have it adopted! When it’s there, the dear little bundle, it’ll all be a hundred times more agonising, besides the fact that pregnancy can be ghastly. Do you want to be carrying it around signing forms with tears streaming down your face? Then you’d have the worst of both worlds, because everyone would know! Now no one need know! For God’s sake have the guts to have it done now. Do I make myself clear?’