by Iris Murdoch
Dora stayed where she was. She could see well enough from there, especially now the balcony had emptied. She looked down at the still crowded terrace on which people were milling to and fro and saw that Noel had mounted on top of one of the stone lions at the foot of the staircase and was taking a photograph. This done he jumped off and started to run along by the side of the procession. The Girl Guides, who had been formed up near the gates to the stable yard, were just struggling through with a vigour which did credit to the quasi-military qualities of their organization, and it was difficult at this point to distinguish the procession from the crowd that surrounded it. Noel looked up and saw Dora. He beamed. Then he waved his camera case rhythmically to and fro and clapped his hands. Dora stared at this pantomime. Then it occurred to her that of course Noel was referring to last night. He must have been there; and that was how he felt about it. Dora smiled wanly and waved a feeble hand. Noel was pointing towards the lake. He wasn’t going to miss his chance of another picture. Dora shook her head and he charged off through the mob. She could see him, head and shoulders above the others, outdistancing the Girl Guides and catching up with the head of the procession which was now nearing the causeway. The sun was beginning to break through its white veil and long scurrying shadows appeared on the grass. The choir burst into song. At the far end of the causeway Dora could see the great gates of the Abbey opening slowly.
She was alone now on the balcony. The crowd were mostly collected along the banks of the lake on either side of the causeway. The bell, moving slowly and smoothly, was going up the very slight slope from the bank to the causeway and came more fully into view. The sun shone, gilding its white canopy and gilding the white robes of the Bishop. The wind, less boisterous now, fretted the satin ribbons and ruffled the pale flowers with which the trolley was heaped. The Bishop walked stiffly, head a little bowed, leaning on his crook. The white surplices of the choir boys fluttered about them as they importantly raised their sheets of music. The bell was now on the causeway, moving more slowly over the slightly uneven stones. The other figures were following. The mist lay quiet over the water, still reaching to the top of the causeway, so that the procession, as they strung out on to the lake, looked as if they were walking on air. Dora leaned well forward to see better.
The choir broke into song. The more ambitious music was being reserved for the climax at the Abbey gate. Meanwhile, Father Bob’s wishes had been over-ridden by local sentiment:Lift it gently to the steeple,
Let our bell be set on high,
There fulfil its daily mission
Midway ’twixt the earth and sky.
As the birds sing early matins
To the God of Nature’s praise,
This its nobler daily music
To the God of Grace shall raise.
And when evening shadows soften
Chancel cross and tower and aisle,
It shall blend its vesper summons
With the day’s departing smile.
The singing continued. The Morris dancers, walking gingerly two by two, had by now left the shore, and the little girls were following, looking very cold in their white satin dresses. The bell was moving very slowly indeed and had almost reached the middle of the causeway where the wooden section was set in, commemorating the brave nuns of the sixteenth century. Dora’s glance strayed to the crowd. She could not see Noel now. She spotted Patchway, who had declined to join the procession, and was standing stolidly at the back of the crowd in a place where he obviously couldn’t see. Then something began to happen. Dora looked back quickly to the centre of the scene. A quick sigh went up. The choir boys’ song faltered. The bell had stopped on the wooden boarding in the middle of the causeway and the workmen seemed to be scuffling round it. The Bishop had motioned the choir to move back. The procession was at a standstill. Raggedly the music ceased; and then in the murmur that followed a loud grinding sound was heard. The bell seemed to be tilting slightly to one side. An excited buzz arose from the crowd. Then very slowly the wooden supports sagged, the wooden surface sloped, the trolley inclined, and the bell, poised for a moment at an almost impossible angle, plunged sideways into the lake, taking the trolley with it.
The thing happened so quickly that Dora could hardly believe her eyes. There was the procession, still standing strung out on the causeway in the sun. There was the sagging hole in the centre, with two of the workmen marooned on the far side of it. The invisible water could be heard surging and gurgling. The bell had utterly vanished. A cry went up from the crowd which was half a groan and half a cheer. Those who had come for a show were getting their money’s worth.
Dora ran down the steps and on towards the lake. Father Bob Joyce was hustling the procession back off the causeway, while at the shore end dozens of people were trying to push their way on. Someone, Dora could not see who, had fallen in. Shouts arose, and one of the choir boys was crying. The Bishop, conspicuous in the sun, was still standing where the bell had been, looking down into the water and talking to one of the workmen. The mist was clearing a little and the lake could be seen still churning away under the wooden piers, strewn with a circle of white flowers. Nothing of the bell or the trolley was visible above the surface. Several people by now had pushed past the Bishop and jumped the gap to survey the scene from the other side. The Abbey gates were unobtrusively closing once more.
Dora was fairly near to the lake by now, on the right-hand side of the causeway. At what had happened she felt intense horror mingled with excitement. She felt partly as if she must be responsible for this new disaster, and partly as if its magnitude made her own escapade pardonable by comparison. She came to the back of the crowd, watching her chance to get a nearer view. Then someone pushed very roughly past her. Dora said later that if it had not been for that violent shove she would not have paid attention and not have started to wonder. She looked to see who the rude person was who had pushed her and saw that it was Catherine. Having got past her and out into the open Catherine began to walk away along the path that led beside the lake towards the wood. Dora looked back to the spectacle on the causeway. Then she turned thoughtfully to stare after Catherine who was some distance away by now and walking fast. No one had paid any attention to her departure.
It was very unusual, to say the least of it, for Catherine to push people out of her way; and what Dora had seen of Catherine’s face was also rather unusual. Naturally she would be upset; but she had looked strange and distracted beyond measure. Dora hesitated. She was surrounded by people but no one that she knew was within sight. After a moment she began to pick her way back across the grass and followed along the path which Catherine had taken, keeping her in sight. Catherine quickened her pace and plunged into the wood. Dora began to run. Catherine had certainly looked very odd. All the same it was no business of Dora’s. Yet she felt anxious and wanted to be sure that all was well.
Once in the wood she began to catch up. The path was thickly strewn with twigs and branches brought down by the storm. Catherine could be seen stumbling on ahead. Then she fell heavily, and by the time she had got up Dora was almost beside her. Dora called ‘Catherine, wait for me. Are you all right?’
Catherine was wearing an old-fashioned tennis dress, now scored with dirty marks from her fall. She brushed it down and began to walk on more slowly, ignoring Dora. She seemed to be crying. Dora, unable to walk abreast of her on the narrow path, followed, plucking at her arm and asking her if she was all right.
After a moment or two Catherine, brushing Dora off, paused and half-turning said ‘I am all right alone.’ Her face had an odd staring look.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Dora, not knowing whether to leave her or not.
‘You see,’ said Catherine, ‘it was because of me. You didn’t know, did you? It was a sign.’ She began to walk on.
Dora, seeing her face thought: Catherine has gone mad. This was the thought which had struck her at once when she had been rudely pushed aside, but which had seemed too fantastic to
entertain. Catherine had seemed quite normal on the previous day. Surely people don’t go mad suddenly. Dora, who had had no experience of mad people, stood frozen with fear and horror while the white figure of Catherine disappeared along the path.
When she had vanished between the trees Dora’s instinct was to rush back to the Court for help. But then she decided that is was more important to pursue Catherine and persuade her to return. In that condition she might wander away into the woods and not be found. Dora was also moved by a desire not to make a fool of herself or make any more trouble. She might after all be quite wrong about Catherine, and to raise a false alarm when there was so much else for everyone to think about would be more than tiresome. She hurried forward and soon saw Catherine’s white dress ahead of her.
It then occurred to Dora that they would soon be in the vicinity of the barn, and that Paul might still be there. This encouraged her and she ran on, once more calling Catherine’s name. Catherine paid no attention and when Dora caught up with her the second time she seemed to be murmuring things to herself. Looking at that flushed distracted face Dora felt no doubt that her first instinct had been right. She seized Catherine’s dress and at the same time began to shout for Paul. They came out into the open space by the ramp, Catherine hurrying and Dora holding on to her and shouting. There was no response from the barn. Paul must have left it; as it turned out later he had gone back by the concrete road to the Court to telephone a London colleague. Dora and Catherine were alone in the wood.
Dora gave up her shouting and said to Catherine, ‘Do come back to the house now, please do.’
Catherine, without looking round, pushed Dora away from her, and said in a clear voice, ‘For Christ’s sake leave me alone.’
Dora, who was beginning to be a little incensed as well as alarmed, said ‘Look here, Catherine, you’re being silly. You come along with me.’
Catherine turned back at her, grinning suddenly with a smile that resembled the harsh unfading smiles her brother used. She said to Dora, ‘God has reached out His hand. A white garment cannot conceal a wicked heart. There is no passing through that gate. Good-bye.’
They had passed the ramp now and reached a place where the path was very close to the edge, fringed on the lake side by tall rushes. An area of mud and green weeds lay between the bank and the clear water. Catherine turned away from Dora and began to walk into the lake.
She moved so quickly, plunging directly through the wall of rushes, that Dora was left standing, staring at the place where she had disappeared from view. A loud squelching sound came from beyond the rushes. Dora gave a scream and followed. Without hesitation she plunged through the greenery and gave another scream as she felt the ground give way beneath her. She sank in mud almost to her knees. Catherine had managed to take another two steps and was farther out. Almost with deliberation, like a timid bather, she subsided into the gluey mess of weeds and muddy water, struggling to get farther from the shore. She lay sideways, the shoulder of her dress still strangely clean and white above the surface.
Dora called to Catherine, and then screamed again. But who would hear? Everyone was so busy and so far away. She reached out, trying to reach Catherine, lost her balance, and fell forward into the deeper water. The water splashed up over her face. Frenziedly struggling to keep her head up, she felt the slimy weeds dragging at her limbs. With a frantic effort she managed to draw her feet under her and sit in the mud with the water almost to her neck. Ahead of her Catherine was splashing. She had now sunk well into the water and seemed to be caught in the weeds, whose strands could be seen bound round one of her flailing arms. Dora reached forward and managed to catch Catherine by the hand. She shouted her name over and over again, and then screamed as loudly and piercingly as she could. She tried to pull Catherine back towards her.
The next moment she found herself being dragged forward. Catherine, resisting her grip, was pulling her out into the deeper water. Dora let go, but it was too late. She was now well way from the bank. Her feet trampled vainly in a bottomless morass of watery mud and weed. She beat the surface with her hands, shrieking and swallowing water, her head thrown back, her arms half entangled. Something dark was unravelling on the water before her. It was Catherine’s hair. As in a dream she saw Catherine’s shoulder disappearing in the black ooze, her staring eyes cast upward, her mouth open. Fear of death came upon Dora. She fought desperately, gasping for air, but the weeds held her, seeming to drag her down, and the water was at her chin.
Then she heard a distant cry. Dimly, across the surface of the lake, she saw a black figure standing by the wall at the corner of the Abbey grounds, which ended a little way to the left on the opposite bank. Dora, in the last throes of terror, called again. She saw the figure beginning to disrobe. The next moment there was a splash. Dora saw no more; her own fight was near its end. Water streamed into her gasping mouth and the weeds now held one arm pinioned beneath the surface. Her feet trampled deeper in the gluey mud. She uttered a moaning cry of despair. A black tunnel seemed to open below her into which she was slowly being drawn.
‘Don’t struggle,’ said a cool voice. ‘Keep quite still and you won’t sink any deeper. Try to breathe slowly and evenly.’
Dora saw, level with her face and strangely near, a head bobbing in the water, a boyish close-cropped head with a fresh freckled complexion and blue eyes. She stared at it, seeing it with a sort of mad clarity, and for the first moment she thought it really belonged to a boy.
Dora stopped struggling and found to her surprise that she was not sinking. The water lapped the bottom of her chin. She tried to breathe through her nose, but her mouth kept opening in terrified gasps. She saw with amazement, now that she was for a moment still, the two heads breaking the surface in front of her, the rounded head of the nun, who was swimming in the clearer water just beyond the weeds and cautiously edging in towards Catherine, and the head of Catherine, tilted over, her mouth and one cheek now submerged, her eyes glazed. With the same strange clarity Dora noticed that the nun’s face was almost dry.
The nun was speaking to Catherine and was now trying to get a hold on her shoulders from behind and pull her out beyond the weeds. Catherine did not struggle. She was limp, as if unconscious. Dora watched. Catherine was being turned on her back. Her chin rose above the surface, her hair floated out behind her, and the nun was thrusting a white arm through it to hold her more firmly. A ripple reached Dora’s mouth and she began to scream again. Her struggles recommenced, her breath came in staccato gasps. She was sinking now. The water seemed to pour into her, she began to suffocate.
She felt the warm muddy water rising upon her cheek. Then the next moment she heard voices, and two strong hands had seized her from behind. She was lifted from under the armpits. Rising a little from the water and turning, still struggling and gasping, she saw Mark Strafford’s face close above her. He hauled her land-wards, waist deep himself in the mud. Other hands took her there. She lay exhausted on the ground, the water running from her mouth. The shouts continued, and sitting up a moment later she saw James and Mark, both struggling well out, keeping a footing somehow in the mud, and raising the form of Catherine between them. Helpers plunging, linked together, from the shore, dragged them all to land. There seemed to be half a dozen people now squelching about on the muddy verge. Further out the head of the nun could be seen bobbing. She had relinquished Catherine and propelled herself back into the open water. She shouted something and began to swim round towards the ramp.
Dora collapsed again, lying face downwards on the grass. She coughed, spluttered, and moaned quietly with relief. Someone was asking her if she was all right, but she was still in another world. She listened without thinking that she might be able to answer, absorbed in the wonder of finding herself alive. Suddenly someone leaned upon her and began pressing rhythmically on her back. Dora gurgled and sat upright. Giddiness overcame her and she covered her eyes, but remained sitting up, supported by one arm.
‘She’s O.
K.,’ said Mark Strafford. He transferred his attention to Catherine, but someone was already giving her artificial respiration. As Dora watched, Catherine rolled over with a moan, pushing her benefactor away, and sat up too. Her eyes were vacant, her white dress clung transparently to her body, her long wet hair coursed down over her breasts. She looked about her.
A grotesque figure was pressing forward. Dora stared at it in amazement: a short-haired woman, apparently naked to the waist, and dressed in black from the waist down. Then she realized that it was the nun in her underclothing. The nun leaned over Catherine, asking how she was, and then turned to smile at Dora. She was totally unembarrassed and accepted with a polite nod the coat which Mrs Mark was offering her. She seemed a young woman. Her freckled face was still almost dry.