Nuns and Soldiers

by Iris Murdoch

  Tim sprang up like a terrier, dodged round the car and ran lightly down towards the road whose trees soon screened him. He began to run along the road in the direction of the village, soon slowing down, panting and holding his side. Sweat poured, mingling with the drying blood. At least he knew he could not have missed Gertrude, she was bound to come back this way. After a little time he saw her, not bicycling but sitting by the roadside. He ran towards her crying out.

  ‘Oh Gertrude, help, something terrible has happened!’

  ‘Tim, what is it, are you all right? My God, you’re covered in blood!’

  ‘Oh that’s nothing, I crawled through some brambles - but, darling, the worst has happened. Manfred and Mrs Mount have turned up!’

  ‘Oh Lord! What did you say?’

  ‘They didn’t see me. I got out of the kitchen window -’

  ‘Oh - poor Tim - look, quick hide the bike, we’ll get into this field. They might decide to drive to the village to look for me. Thank God they came the other way.’

  There was nowhere to hide the bike except by lifting it over the bank. This they did, dropping the eggs in the process, which smashed in the road. Then they climbed into the field, which was ploughed and full of fruit trees, probably apricots, and sat down with their back to the grassy bank on the other side, invisible from the road.

  ‘Now let’s think - oh Tim, you’re all scratched, like you were that first evening, remember!’

  They sat holding each other’s arms like hidden half-frightened children.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll go away if no one turns up.’

  ‘No they won’t, not they, they’ll stay and make themselves at home!’ said Gertrude. ‘Besides it’s obvious I’m there.’

  ‘Oh God - I’d better hide. I’ll stay here, you go back and get them to leave, then you can come and fetch me.’

  ‘It’s not so easy, they may want to stay the night, and besides -’

  ‘Oh crumbs, oh Christ, I left all my painting kit at the sitting-room door, that rucksack with my name on it - we’re blown!’

  Gertrude in her willow pattern robe, sitting on the little bit of bumpy grass at the foot of the bank, hitched up her skirt over her brown legs. She now held onto the wheel of the bicycle with one hand and onto Tim’s shirt with the other and she thought.

  ‘Oh my darling, whatever shall we do?’ said Tim.

  ‘We can’t conceal you. We must go and see them.’

  ‘But not tell them?’

  ‘No. Tim, listen, I hate this - but perhaps it’s providence that we have to start it so soon -’

  ‘Start what?’

  ‘Lying. But I can’t see any other way. Listen, I’ll go back now and find them, and I’ll tell them you’re on a painting tour of France and you turned up unexpectedly yesterday and that you’re out painting somewhere -’

  ‘Better say walking somewhere, in case they see I haven’t got my stuff.’

  ‘All right. And I’ll arrange to go back home with them at once -’

  ‘Go back home with them - ?’

  ‘Yes, Tim, think. We can’t be there in that house with those two watching us. And we can’t let them leave us alone together, that might sort of interest them.’

  ‘I could pretend to leave, then come back again when the coast’s clear.’

  ‘It’s too risky. Even if they say when they’re going they may change their minds, or they may hang around in the neighbourhood and come back. It’s much better if I go off with them, as soon as possible, this afternoon. We might make some blunder, they might notice something.’

  ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘You say you’re going on with your tour. Don’t forget, you’re travelling, you’re on a tour. I’ll tell you to lock up and leave the keys at the village hotel, only don’t do that, bring them with you, and -’

  ‘But won’t you come back?’

  ‘No. You must make your own way home and we’ll meet in London.’

  ‘Oh Gertrude, no, please not - And they might take you to Rome or something -’

  ‘Do you think I like this? I hate it! But now they’ve come we mustn’t mess around with the situation. I can’t suddenly rush back to France or disappear. I’ll get back to London, if they’re going on they can drop me. Please Tim, you must do as I say. We won’t be parted for long.’

  Tim knelt beside her, pulling her towards him until she knelt too, letting go of the bicycle and they faced each other with the high splintering sun narrowing their eyes.

  ‘Gertrude, if we part suddenly like this we won’t find each other again. We haven’t had long enough. I’ll turn up at Ebury Street and you’ll be a different person, you’ll have forgotten me. Don’t go away with those two, they’ll take you over, Mrs Mount will marry you to Manfred.’

  ‘Tim, please, we’re bound to each other, you know that, I love you -’

  ‘And you’ll marry me - sorry, I mustn’t ask -’

  ‘I love you. I hope - Oh don’t torment me now. Please be sensible - it’s best - anything else will turn into some kind of awful muddle.’

  ‘But then when I get back, I mean how will I find you, what -’

  ‘Just ring up. I’ll be at Ebury Street.’

  ‘But I’ll not say - no, of course - and I won’t come round, I’ll ring - I’ll be discreet - I’ll do whatever you say - oh what hell this is, why did those bloody people have to turn up and spoil it all!’

  ‘We would have had to go back soon anyway. Our reality lies there, Tim, over in London, and we’ve got to go and find it there. Now help me with the bike.’

  ‘Wait, I’m all confused. I’m to stay here a bit and then come back and pretend I’ve been out painting, I mean walking -’

  ‘Yes, and don’t forget to be surprised, and don’t you forget you arrived yesterday. Oh you’re so dirty and covered in scratches - poor dear Tim, poor sweet love -’

  ‘I’ll say I fell in a bramble bush.’

  ‘You’d better give me half an hour or so, don’t leave it too long. I’ll keep them to lunch and then we’ll go.’

  They got the bicycle back onto the road and Gertrude mounted. She seemed now in a frenzy to get away.

  ‘Gertrude, wait, you will remember me, won’t you -’

  ‘Tim, don’t be a fool.’

  In a moment she was away, pedalling hard, speeding along the narrow tarmac road, her dress fluttering on either side.

  Tim gazed down at the mess of broken eggs and touched it with his foot. He groaned and looked at his watch and stood there miserably. All his scratches were searing hot and his head ached.

  ‘So Tim Reede just arrived and foisted himself?’ said Mrs Mount. ‘Poor old you.’

  ‘Well, he only came yesterday,’ said Gertrude, ‘I’ve hardly seen him. He’s just passing by, you know. He’s been out sketching or walking this morning, I don’t know where he is. I went to the village to shop. I imagine he’ll be back for lunch.’

  ‘And it’s OK if we whisk you off?’ said Manfred.

  ‘Oh absolutely, you’re heaven-sent. I was wanting to get away. I’ve done what I came to do. But are you sure you don’t want to go on to Italy?’

  ‘No, we changed that plan.’

  ‘We couldn’t stop worrying about you,’ said Mrs Mount.

  They were sitting on the terrace on wooden chairs in the shade of the fig tree drinking white wine.

  ‘Why there he is,’ said Gertrude.

  Tim had appeared in the valley near the stream and was now coming up through the olive grove as he had done on the first day. There was a moment’s silence as they watched the approaching figure.

  ‘He won’t want to come with us, will he?’ said Mrs Mount.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ said Manfred.

  Tim crossed the meadow, his shirt sleeves rolled up, swinging his arms. His face looked very red against the white shirt. He glared at the assembled company.

  ‘Why, what a surprise!’

&n
bsp; ‘Hello Tim.’

  Gertrude noticed that he must have washed himself in the stream and the bramble scratches were less evident, though his shirt was stained with blood.

  ‘I fell in a bramble bush.’

  ‘What people suffer for art!’ said Mrs Mount. ‘Why, he’s as red as a lobster! Give him a drink, Manfred.’

  ‘Manfred and Mrs Mount are very kindly taking me back,’ said Gertrude. ‘We’ll be leaving after lunch. You can stay on a bit if you like, leave the key at the village hotel when you go.’

  ‘Oh, OK, thanks. I might stay a day or two.’

  ‘I liked your drawing of that rock,’ said Manfred.

  ‘What rock?’ Tim glared at him.

  ‘That big rock over the pool. I was looking at your sketch book, I hope you don’t mind. Is it for sale?’

  ‘How do you know about that rock?’

  ‘Manfred has often been our guest here,’ said Gertrude. ‘Now you all stay. I’ll just quickly put some lunch together.’

  ‘Can I help?’ said Mrs Mount.

  ‘No, no, stay here.’

  ‘Is it for sale?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  What’s happened? thought Gertrude, giddy and frightened as she laid the table in the shadow of the archway. I’ve suddenly told a lot of lies, I’m involved in a whole lying situation, yet what was the alternative, and I suppose it’s sensible to go off with them at once, but it’s so awful and I won’t have a chance to speak to Tim again, and we simply mustn’t make a mistake. Tim and I could have found it so hard to decide to leave. Perhaps it’s just as well Manfred has decided it for us. But this deception is absolutely hateful.

  She looked out at the three people sitting in the sun. How small Tim looked compared with Manfred, how red and agitated. He’s so thin, she thought; and she thought suddenly, that’s what it’s going to be like, in the future. He has such thin arms. He’s not an impressive figure. Now Tim was leaning forward tilting his chair, staring into his glass, scratching his ankle. Manfred, dressed in a dark lightweight suit and wearing a tie in spite of the heat, had stretched out his long legs and was telling some motor car story. Mrs Mount, looking unusually smart in a red and white dress, was laughing at Manfred’s story. Gertrude was visited by a very precise desire to comfort Tim by touching his cheek, by stroking his rough glowing cheek very gently.

  A ghost scene from the past breathed upon her. The two men were Guy and Stanley, the woman Janet. That was the last time she had looked out in just this way through the arch.

  ‘Good-bye!’

  ‘Good-bye!’

  ‘Have a nice paint!’

  ‘Bon voyage!’

  ‘Good-bye, Tim!’

  They had gone. After an argument, Gertrude had insisted on getting into the back of the car. He saw her tousled hair and bright smile.

  He returned to the empty terrace. Manfred had stepped on the line of journeying ants.

  Tim carried the plates to the kitchen and washed them up. He had already decided to leave at once. He did not want to spend the night with any ghosts which might have been enlivened by recent events. There was also the very physical ghost of Gertrude to be reckoned with.

  He went upstairs and packed his bag. He locked the bicycles up in the garage. He ran round the house closing the windows and fastening the shutters and turning off all the things he had turned on when he arrived. That was nine days ago. My God!

  He was now in a frenzy to leave. Manfred and Mrs Mount had been maddeningly unhurried and it was now late in the afternoon. Tim decided he would spend the night at the village hotel and leave for England early in the morning. Lunch had been torture, although Tim had been amazed to find how well he and Gertrude managed. Given a background of habit, the human capacity to dissemble is almost limitless. It had been unnervingly easy to pretend to be strangers. The merry discussion had ranged easily over the local landscape, French and Italian politics, motor cars, the weather at home, whether a stop in Paris was feasible, what Balintoy was up to in Colorado, what Rosalind Openshaw would study at the university. It occurred to Tim that he had never seen Gertrude in just this sort of social scene before. How young and attractive she was, how much she laughed at Manfred’s stories. Tim laughed too.

  He secured the sitting-room door and then in the shuttered dark found his rucksack and suitcase and went out by the archway door, closing and locking it behind him. In his hasty tidying up he had noticed the cracked window pane in Guy’s study. Neither he nor Gertrude had got around to having it mended. Now without looking back he walked along the terrace, down the gravel path to the garage, past the ditch from which he had observed Mrs Mount powdering her face, down the little bumpy driveway to the road, and then on towards the village. The afternoon heat was already over and the coolness and vivid light of evening was rising as if from the earth.

  Something beside the road caught his attention. It was the brown paper bag and scattered remains of the dozen eggs, which had tilted out of Gertrude’s basket that morning as they were hastily bundling the bicycle over the bank. Tim paused to contemplate the viscous mess already much explored by insects. It looked strange and in an odd way exciting, wet and slimy and iridescent, a kind of alien emergence from the dry land. He thought, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Then he thought, well, here are broken eggs, but no omelette! He went on to the village.

  Here he was surprised to find, on arriving at the little hotel to book his room, that he was already a well-known, even a popular figure. Who was it who had said to him, long long ago, that ‘everybody loves a painter’? Why, it was Gertrude! Although he had seen no one, it appeared that many people had seen him, as he set up his stool here and there upon the rocks or among the olives, and le peintre anglais had been voted quite a picturesque addition to the local scene. The welcome at the hotel, the pretty bedroom with the view of the château, the glasses of Kir which he consumed in the café before dinner, the money in his pocket: all these things ought to have been ingredients of happiness, and he distractedly apprehended them as such without feeling happy. What an idiotic wretched parting. He and Gertrude had scarcely looked at each other during lunch. He had not managed to see her alone, had not dared to try to. Seeing her in Manfred’s big car was like seeing her abducted, kidnapped, lost. What would Gertrude think when after a journey with Manfred and Mrs Mount (they might even stay in Paris) she got back to Ebury Street? What could she think but that she had been temporarily mad?

  Tim had dinner in the hotel. The dinner was extremely good. The excellent wine assisted Tim’s ability to hope. Perhaps all would be well. Gertrude would save him, as good women have always saved sinful men in stories. He thought again about the ‘open and honourable life’, and the ‘new innocence and the fresh start’. And even when he considered the question of whether these things were not, in the last analysis, a function of money, he was not, for that evening at any rate, depressed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WELL, AND HOW IS YEZ?’ said Daisy. ‘You’ve come back to your old Daisy. I thought that French caper was too good to be true.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Tim.

  ‘I didn’t manage to let my flat after all, it fell through.’

  ‘So did mine.’

  ‘Just as well, as things have turned out. So big Gertie’s installed for the summer with manly Manfred and the Snake of Pimlico. No wonder you sneaked off. Rather mean of her, though, after she promised you.’

  ‘She may come back soon, I don’t know-I just - thought I would - come back, I mean.’

  Tim’s hopefulness had disappeared with the effects of the hotel dinner. The next morning he had woken to misery and frenzy. He got himself back to London by the quickest way, by train and ’plane, and rang the Ebury Street number from Heathrow. There was no answer. Of course Gertrude had not yet arrived. Tim went back to his garage studio. The studio was damp and cold. The London skies were grey. He sat on his bed on the floor and moaned with anxiety. He ran out and telephoned.
He telephoned again and again. No answer. Was Gertrude sitting there and listening to the ’phone ring?

  The next morning (still no answer) he decided to go and see Daisy. Neither of them had telephones, so he just turned up about noon and found Daisy still in bed, drinking wine.

  Daisy’s flatlet consisted of one room, with a sink and a gas stove behind a lattice partition. The bathroom next door was shared with other tenants. The room was quite large, with a dirty window looking out onto a tree and a wall and a narrow strip of sky. The walls were painted pale blue and Daisy had at different times stuck posters on them with sellotape. Some of the posters regularly came unstuck and hung out like flags. On the mantelpiece and on the window ledge, surrounded by dirty glasses and cosmetics and dust, stood Daisy’s potted plants, donated mostly by friends who were leaving London. No nameless sprout (which had flowered once and never would again) was ever turned away. Tim, usually an ally of green things, disliked these ailing growths. He felt a spot of euthanasia would do them a lot of good. The room was let ‘furnished’ but there was not much furniture. Some open shelves contained Daisy’s books, mostly novels but some on occult or mystical subjects. She had once read, but did so no longer. There was also a mahogany chest of drawers, quite handsome but extremely marked and battered, a cheap deal wardrobe, some crippled kitchen chairs, a monstrous armchair, a solid table covered by a cloth beside the window where Daisy wrote her novel (she used a typewriter) and the divan bed where Daisy now lay propped up, the two-litre bottle of wine and a glass upon the floor beside her. She had pinned a gay pattern of beer mats onto the lattice partition.