by Iris Murdoch
Cato had got up and was sitting on the bed. He had lain on the floor for a long time. There was an ache in his jaw where he must have been resting it on the ground. He was shuddering with cold. Automatically he pulled the blanket over his shoulders. There was blackness. All previous blacknesses had been grey. There was nothing. All other nothings had been full of secret life, all other voids crammed with debris. Now all was destroyed or surrendered and there was an emptiness that was not even space. Cato sat, breathing. He sat, and the last spark of active spirit in him attended, waited. He was taut, vibrating, strained as if across a whole galaxy of being, in order to be so empty, so quiet, so here.
Then there was a flash of light, only he knew instantly it was not light but sound. Somewhere, not very near but clearly audibly, a woman was screaming. Without any act of recognition he knew that it was Colette. He jumped up, suddenly clumsy, stupid, frantic, uttering wild words to himself. His trousers fell about his knees and he kicked them off. He ran to the door, banged on it, pulled at it, and for the first time since his captivity, shouted. He clawed at the door, rattling the handle, then trying to find a crack for his fingers. He ran back to the bed desperately searching for his piece of piping, but he had left it somewhere on the floor. He stumbled over it, picked it up and rushed back to the door still shouting, roaring, not now with words, but with the crazed rage of an animal. He banged the lead pipe upon the lock, pounding the lock and the wood all around it. Then thoughtlessly, frenziedly, he dug the narrow broken end of the pipe into the crack between the door and the jamb and heaved. His weakened body strained with the leverage and a cramplike pain shot through his entrails. He fell back, then returned, driving the thicker end of the pipe back towards the wall. There was a rending sound of splintering wood and he felt that the locked door was beginning to pull the jamb out of the plaster. He drove his tool further into the opening space, found a purchase for his fingers, and the jamb and part of the lintel came away, carrying the door with it, lock and all. Not shouting now, but wailing with anxiety and fear, Cato scrabbled, but still could not get out. Plaster was falling about his feet. He drove his shoulder, then his leg into the gap between the wood and the wall. There was a further rending of the lintel above him, the gap widened and he struggled through. Still holding the pipe, now by its thinner end, he stumbled forward through a darkness which was already less intense. His hand touched a corner, he swung round it, and saw a long way off a source of light. Colette screamed again.
When Cato reached the room he saw first a weird long panel of spotted grey which he could not interpret, which was the wall seen through the half-open door. Then the light of the candle appalled his eyes. He half fell, saw before him a kind of pulsating pink globe wherein two human bodies were struggling and writhing. He saw Colette’s face covered with blood, her mouth open in a cry. Someone was screaming, he was screaming. He saw a man with a knife and was never sure afterwards whether in that moment he recognized him. He brought the thick end of the metal pipe down with all his strength upon the back of Joe’s head. Then he fell to the floor.
‘By the way, I found those Landseer sketches,’ said Henry. ‘They were in the chest in the gallery. I’ve put them in the portfolio with the Orpen stuff.’
‘Good,’ said Gerda. She ticked the paper.
The sun was shining into the ballroom, where Henry and his mother were sitting together at a table. The room was filled with an orderly jumble of stacked up pictures, rolled up rugs, articles of furniture, several dinner services and a mass of small objets d’art.
‘And the netsuke are all in that box.’
‘You wrapped each one separately?’
‘Yes. Don’t you want any of them, Mother?’
‘No, thank you, Henry. Almost everything is numbered now. You’ve got the lists there?’
‘Yes, in triplicate.’
‘You’d better give them to me.’
‘You’re marvellously efficient, Mother.’
‘The vans for Sotheby’s should come on Tuesday, then all the rest stays here for the auction. The garden tools are all in the stables. You’ll be here tomorrow morning, won’t you? The auctioneer’s men are coming over again.’
‘Yes, I know. They still haven’t got out the brochure for selling the house. Don’t you want more of this stuff, Mother? I know you’ve got enough furniture, but what about the little things, those rather nice Meissen animals, and those glasses—’
‘There’s not much space and I think a simpler scene is more suitable. We always had too much in this house. After all, I won’t have Rhoda to dust for me.’
‘Oh yes—Rhoda—so she’s not—?’
‘She’s gone into service with Mrs Fontenay’s daughter, you know, over at—’
‘You mean—she’s already gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘I meant to give her something.’
‘Well, you still can.’
‘Who cooked the dinner last night?’
‘I did.’
‘I’m glad you decided to go to Dimmerstone after all. Wouldn’t you like to take some plants from the garden? I’m sure Bellamy—’
‘No, I’d rather start from scratch. It will be an interest for me.’
‘When would you like to move? I’ll fix a van.’
‘It’s quite all right, Giles is going to move me with his lorry, some of the builder’s men will come and help.’
‘Giles? Oh—you mean Gosling.’
Henry got up and mooched over to the great arched window which faced south. Directly opposite to him across the little valley the black granite obelisk was sailing in a blue sky against a fast procession of small gilded clouds. A brisk wind was stirring the woods beyond where the varied greens were tossing and shifting. As in a picture by Claude, two little figures were wending their way along the radiant grass beside the white flicker of the descending stream: Lucius and Stephanie. Henry returned with dazzled eyes towards his mother, knocking over a stack of Cotmans. ‘Damn!’
‘I think you should go over to Pennwood and see Colette—’
‘I haven’t time,’ said Henry.
‘You needn’t stay long. It seems to me just a matter of politeness.’
‘Colette’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, of course. Except that she’s got a scar on her face that will be there for ever.’
‘Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter too much.’
‘It might to a young girl. And being raped cannot be a pleasant experience.’
‘She wasn’t raped.’
‘Anyway I imagine she’s suffering from shock.’
‘So am I. You’ve no idea how awful it was that night, standing in that ghastly place in the dark and listening, and then nobody came, and the police said—’
‘And I think you ought to see Cato too.’
‘He’s in London. Anyway I doubt if he wants to see me. I wouldn’t if I was Cato.’
‘You know that wretched boy died?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Lucius. Who told you?’
‘John Forbes. I suppose John told Lucius. Henry—’
‘Yes.’
‘Do look after Stephanie a bit more.’
‘Mother, please leave Stephanie alone.’
‘I am doing so. I just think you should be kinder to her.’
‘I haven’t time.’
‘You don’t seem to have time to be kind to anyone.’
‘Well, I am kind to her. An outsider can’t always see how kindness happens. Stephanie knows I care, she’s all right, she’s tougher than you think. You don’t realize how much strain I’m under. All that awful night waiting in the dark, and the police said—’
‘I think you ought to go over to Pennwood.’
Henry saw his mother, large and calm and ostentatiously bland, looking as he had so often seen her in the past. He saw that image going back and back as images in opposing mirrors. His mother, cool, invincible, always in
the right. Gerda, dressed today in a coat and skirt of blue and black tweed, her heavy dark hair loose to her shoulders, carefully combed, her large face so pale and smooth, pouting a little with the will to be calm which lent an air almost of self-satisfaction.
Gerda saw her son, so slim and so tense, one leg twisted round the other, one shoulder hunched up to the chin, his mouth sneering with hostility, his burning dark eyes surrounded by wrinkles of mistrust, his curly hair plucked over his brow with tiredness and irritation.
‘Look, Mother, I don’t want to go to Pennwood. I’ve got things to see to here. I’m leaving soon, just as absolutely soon as I can!’
‘Oh, all right—’
There was a moment’s silence, during which Henry viciously kicked the trim foot of a Sheraton commode.
‘Has Lucius decided what stuff he wants out of his room?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Gerda. ‘I’ve got his list here.’
‘What’s he going to do?’
‘He’s going to Audrey’s for the present.’
‘Oh.’
‘What happened to all that money, by the way?’ said Gerda.
‘Which? Oh, the ransom money. It’s in London, at the flat.’
‘Hadn’t you better put it into the bank?’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I can’t think of everything.’
Henry had gone back to the window. Suddenly close to now, he could see Stephanie’s big flowered hat appearing on the terrace. Puffing, red-faced, after having climbed the steps from the lawn, unconscious of being observed, she settled her hat, then plumped her shoulders and moved with a little springy swagger towards the drawing-room windows. Watching her, Henry knew that Gerda, watching him watching her, imagined that he felt for his fiancee something like contempt.
‘Here’s Stephanie, I’m going to be kind to her.’
‘I wish you could persuade her to smoke less. And to dress more simply.’
The door closed behind Henry.
Gerda, still seated, straightened out the papers on the rosewood table before her. Then she laid her hands down on top of them, one above the other. She had meant to give Rhoda some of her jewels, but she had not done so. She had meant to kiss Rhoda when they parted, but she had not done so. She and Rhoda had been together for so many years. And now she would never see Rhoda again because Rhoda was a servant and not a friend.
‘Hello, Steph, I like your hat.’
‘Oh good—’
‘It’s new, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I bought it yesterday in Laxlinden.’
Stephanie bought some article of clothing every day.
‘I’m not sure it goes with the dress, but it’s awfully nice.’
Stephanie took the hat off. She was wearing a peacock blue crochet dress which showed off her round breasts and seemed to reflect purple streaks into her round eyes. She had evidently also had her hair done and re-dyed in Laxlinden yesterday.
‘Had a nice walk with Lucius?’
‘Yes. He’s so nice.’
They sat down on the seat up against the yellow ironstone shell-studded wall of the house out of which the sun’s warmth returned to them. Henry put his hand back and touched the wall. The thyme upon the terrace was already covered with little pinheads of pink buds. A few healthy young nettles had rooted themselves among the stones. He looked sideways at Stephanie, at her wonderfully expressive retrousse nose and small protruding mouth. She was blinking serenely in the sun like a cat. Shall I ever know her well? he wondered. Shall I ever know anyone well? Does anyone ever know anyone well? Did he really know Russ and Bella? Of course, they were Americans, total foreigners, enigmas, it was impossible. He got on with them perfectly but they did not know each other, did not look into each other’s eyes and see. Cato? No.
‘You’re sighing.’
‘I’m wondering if I’ll ever know you.’
‘Oh dear, you’re not—’
‘Don’t be tedious, Steph.’
‘Do you think we’ll be happy?’
‘Happiness is not my aim.’
‘Will it really happen?’
‘Our marriage? Yes, I have initiated the arrangements.’
‘I can’t see the future, it’s a blank. It’s like looking in the crystal ball and seeing nothing, as if one will be dead.’
‘There’s nothing to see in crystal balls except one’s own reflection. I can’t see the future either, but it doesn’t matter. Marriage is like that, Steph, it’s a weird business. One hasn’t the faintest idea. I expect everybody getting married feels it’s unreal and practically impossible.’
‘I’m so frightened of Russell and Bella.’
‘Don’t be. They’ll adore you. Bella will boss you. You’ll like our little house. We’ll live simply. You’ll see, you’ll understand. All this has got to be, Steph. I haven’t the guts to live like a saint and anyway the question doesn’t arise, but I can avoid the grosser temptations, thank God. We’ll be poorish and ordinary.’
‘You aren’t ordinary. You’re a pixie. I’m ordinary. I can’t think why you like me.’
‘I don’t like you, I love you. You’re a portent for me, a sign. I’ve always lived by signs. I never had any luck with the girls I ran after. You just happened to me, you fell from heaven.’
‘I wish I wasn’t ordinary, I don’t want to be ordinary, I want—’
‘Well, you’ll be married to extraordinary me, won’t that do? Most women are content to live through their husband’s achievement.’
‘You think I’m stupid.’
‘You said you were ordinary. I was just pursuing the idea. Don’t you understand irony? Oh Steph, aren’t you ever cheerful, don’t you ever laugh or make jokes? We’re like two dead people together.’
‘You think I’ve got no sense of humour, and you do think I’m stupid and you only like me because I’m a sort of simple person. You know you can’t argue with me like you would with—’
‘I am arguing with you, you dope!’
‘No, you aren’t you’re just prodding me as if—as if I was an— insect.’
‘I don’t go around prodding insects. Look, would you like to see them again, shall I show you?’
‘Oh, yes please—’
Henry drew an envelope from his pocket and took out two long red aeroplane tickets.
‘See? To St Louis via New York, Mr and Mrs Henry Marshalson. That’s proof, isn’t it? The future’s there, we’ve got it under contract. By the time that aeroplane takes off we’ll be married. You’ll like New York, Steph. You’ll like St Louis, it’s a strange city and so beautiful. Don’t you want to see the Mississippi?’
‘No. Oh darling, I do wish—’
‘Oh, do stop, Stephanie, I’m so tired, I had such an awful night of it waiting in the dark for those crooks, I haven’t got over it yet. I haven’t told you what it was like, the police said—’
‘Henry, please, you won’t ever tell anybody else that I wasn’t Sandy’s girl, you won’t ever tell Lucius or your mother?’
‘No—’
‘Or Russell and Bella?’
‘They don’t matter. When we get to America we’ll be different people, all this will be gone.’
‘You’re sure that you don’t mind that I wasn’t Sandy’s girl?’
‘Oh don’t go on. In a way, Sandy did give you to me.’
‘You feel that? I’m so glad.’
‘I don’t see why. Everybody around here seems to regard Sandy as the sole fountainhead of significance.’
‘You do still find me attractive, don’t you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Kiss me, then.’
Henry kissed her. ‘You’ve got navy blue eyes, and your lips taste of tobacco.’
‘Good. You know I feel so awkward, I feel everybody’s laughing at me.’
‘Nobody’s laughing here—’
‘Henry—’
‘Yes, Stephkins?’
‘You won’t see that girl, will you, that girl Colette, before
we go, you won’t see her, will you?’
‘No, no, no.’
‘I know it’s awful about that boy—’
‘Steph, look, I must go over to the stables, I’ve got to check the list of the garden tools.’
Stephanie walked with him to the top of the steps, swinging her hat by its ribbon. ‘It’s all so beautiful here, so perfect, it just breaks my heart—’
‘Stow it, Steph. Listen. Our bird’s singing our song.’
The little round clouds had gone away and the sky was an untainted blue out of which sunlight blended with the song of an invisible lark was radiating in glittering pulses of energy. The lake was a long flake of azure enamel and the green dome of the folly beyond was lightly splashed with silver. From the lakeside, hazy with feathery willows, the plump green slope of the hill rose towards the wood. The wind had dropped and over the rounded heads of the now quiet trees rose the radiant pale grey tower of Dimmerstone church. Henry looked at it all, and it was like looking at his own mind, his own being, perhaps his only reality. So much the worse for reality then, as thought; and an old favourite Latin tag came to him out of his boyhood. Solitudinem facio, pacem appello. No, no one at the Hall was laughing, Henry had seen to that. It must all be destroyed, all rolled up like a tapestry. No wonder he could not communicate with Stephanie. For the present, for the duration of this work, he was solitary and damned. Then he thought: how I wish I’d been a hero, how I wish I’d rescued Colette. I really was very brave, but nobody knows or cares.
‘Who’s driving the Volvo?’ Stephanie had turned round towards the stable, whence the yellow car could be seen disappearing up the drive.
‘I’ve sold it. Oh Stephanie, don’t take on. Stephanie, don’t cry. It’s just a motor car!’
‘You never asked me—’
‘I didn’t know you’d mind!’
‘You never asked me—it was ours, it was like our house—I loved it so—’