by Iris Murdoch
Ducane did not seem disposed to pursue the matter of the dogs. He began pounding his nose with his handkerchief, staring straight ahead of him into the wood. The sex-mad cuckoos darted past again with their irregular side-slipping flight. Cu-cuckoo.
He looks his least attractive at this time of year, Kate was thinking. He murders his poor nose so, it’s quite red, and his eyes are always watering. He doesn’t look a bit like the Duke of Wellington now. His face is a nice colour, though, that reddish brown, and so glossy and shiny where the bones stick out, I think he’s got even thinner. It suits him actually. How oily his hair looks, it darkens it like black rats’ tails; I expect it’s the heat, perspiration perhaps. Poor fellow, he is sweating. Why does he wear that ridiculous flannel shirt on a day like this? I must give him a nylon one.
We’re out of key, she thought. I’m clumsy with him today. But it’ll pass. Just being silent together like this helps. I knew from the start that I’d have to work at this. Men are so obtuse, they don’t understand that one has to work at a relationship. If things aren’t quite in harmony they get grumpy and desperate at once. I can’t possibly kiss him yet. He doesn’t desire me, she said to herself, at the moment he doesn’t desire me. How does one know? Then she thought, and I don’t desire him. But this cloud between us will pass. We must just get quietly used to each other again. I won’t fuss him or press him. I’ll just leave him to himself a little and attend to something else.
She said aloud, “John, do you mind if I just glance through my letters to see there’s nothing awful? There’s always such a pile when one gets back from holiday, it’s quite a chore. I’ve got them all here in the basket and if you don’t mind I’ll just sort them out. You stay here if you like, or perhaps you’d rather walk down to the sea. You might meet Barbie coming back from her ride.”
Kate up-ended the Spanish basket and strewed about thirty letters about on the dry pale yellow mats of the hay. She leaned forward and began turning them over and laying them out in rows.
Ducane, suddenly interested, leaned forward too, inspecting the letters. Then with a soft hiss he reached out a long arm and snatched up a brown envelope which lay at the end of one of the rows. Fingering the letter he turned to face Kate, frowning and narrowing his blue eyes against the sun. The frown made his face look even bonier and thinner, a wooden totem anointed with oil.
Kate felt a sudden slight alarm. He looked so stern; and her first thought was, he’s jealous of someone. Who can it be? He’s recognized someone’s writing. Kate, who was on very affectionate terms with a number of men, preferred for humane reasons to keep her friends in ignorance of each other. However, the writing upon the envelope, a rather uncultured hand as far as she could see, seemed unfamiliar.
“What is it?” she said playfully. “You’re stealing my mail!” She reached out for the letter but Ducane withdrew it.
“Whatever is it, John?”
“Will you do me a great favour?” said Ducane.
“Well, tell me what it is.”
“Don’t read this letter.”
Kate looked at him with surprise. “Why?”
“Because it contains something unpleasant which I think you shouldn’t see.”
“What sort of thing?”
“It’s—it’s something concerning me and another person. Something that belongs entirely to the past. A malicious busybody has written to you about it. But there is absolutely no point in your reading the letter. I will tell you about the whole thing myself later on, now if you wish it.”
Kate had turned sideways and they faced each other knee to knee. The hem of the striped dress brushed the hay. She did not know what to think. She was still a bit alarmed by Ducane’s sternness, though relieved to find that the misdemeanour in question appeared to be his rather than hers. She thought, perhaps it’s to say that he was once a homosexual. He might not understand that I wouldn’t mind. She felt very curious about the letter.
“But if it’s to do with the past and you’re going to tell me anyway, why shouldn’t I see the letter? What harm can it do?”
“It’s better not to touch pitch. A really malicious letter should be read once only and destroyed, or best of all not read at all. These things lodge in the mind. One must have no truck with suspicion and hatred. Please let me destroy this letter, Kate, please.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kate. “This letter, whatever it says, can do you no possible harm with me. How little you trust me! Nothing can harm or diminish my love for you. Surely you know that.”
“It’s a sense datum,” said Ducane, “a sense datum. It’s something which you would find it hard to forget. Such things can be poisonous, however much love there is. I am to blame, Kate. But I would rather explain the thing to you myself in my own way. Surely you can appreciate that.”
“No, I can’t appreciate it,” said Kate. She had moved forward so that their knees were touching. “And I don’t know what you mean by a ‘sense datum’. It’s much better that I should read the letter. Otherwise I shall be endlessly wondering what was in it. Give it to me.”
“No.”
Kate drew away a little and laughed. “Aren’t you rather taxing my feminine curiosity?”
“I’m asking you to rise above your feminine curiosity.”
“Dear me, we arc moral today. John, have some common sense! I’m dying to know what it’s all about! It can’t possibly harm you. I love you, you ass!”
“I’ll tell you what it’s all about. I just don’t want you to see this ugly thing.”
“I’m not as frail as all that!” said Kate. Shesnatched the letter from him and stood up, retreating behind the wooden seat.
Ducane looked up at her gloomily, and then leaned forward to hide his face in his hands. He remained immobile in this attitude of resigned or desperate repose.
Kate was now very upset. She hesitated, fingering the letter, but her curiosity was too strong. She opened it.
There were two enclosures. The first read as follows:
Dear Madam,
in view of your emotional feelings about Mr John Ducane I feel sure it would be of interest to you to see the enclosed.
Yours faithfully,
A Well Wisher
The second enclosure was an envelope addressed to Ducane, with a letter inside it. Kate pulled out the letter.
My dearest, my dearest, my John, this is just my usual daily missive to tell you what you know, that I love you to distraction. You were so infinitely sweet to me yesterday after I had been so awful, and you know how unutterably grateful I am that you stayed. I lay there on the bed afterwards for an hour and cried—with gratitude. Are we not somehow compelled by love? I shall not let one day pass without giving you the assurance of mine. Surely there is a future for us together. I am yours yours yours.
Jessica
Kate looked at the date on the letter. She felt sick, stricken, as if some heavy black thing had been rammed into her stomach. She clutched the back of the seat, turned as if to sit down, and then moved a little away and sat down on the grass, covering her face.
“Well?” said Ducane after a while.
Kate found a rather shaky voice. “I think I see now what you mean by a sense datum.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ducane. He sounded quite calm now, only rather weary. “There’s not much I can say. You were sure it couldn’t damage things and I can only hope you were right.”
“But you said it belonged to the past—”
“So it does. I’m not having a love affair with this girl, though the letter makes it sound as if I am. I ceased being her lover two years ago, and was unwise enough to go on seeing her.”
Kate said in a forced voice, “But of course you can see whom you like, do what you like. You know I don’t tie you in any way. How could I? I’m just a bit surprised that you sort of—misled me—”
“Lied to you. Yes.” Ducane got up. He said, “I think I’d better go now. You’ll just have to digest it, Kate, if you
can. I’ve acted wrongly and I have in a way deceived you. I mean, I implied I had no entanglements and this certainly looks like one. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going back to London?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh John, what’s happening?”
“Nothing, I daresay.”
“Won’t you—at least—explain?”
“I’m sick of explaining, Kate. I’m sick of myself.” He went quickly away through the gap in the spiraea hedge.
On her knees Kate slowly gathered up the scattered letters and put them back in the Spanish basket. Tears dropped off her sun-warmed cheeks on to the dry hay. The bird in the wood cried out, hesitant and hollow, cu-cuckoo, cu-cuckoo.
Thirty-one
“THERE’S going to be a Happening,” Pierce announced to anyone who was listening.
Saturday lunch was over. Ducane and Mary and Theo still sat at the table smoking cigarettes. Kate and Octavian had retired to the sofa and were talking in low voices. Paula and the twins had gone out on to the lawn where the twins were now playing Badgerstown. Barbara was sitting on the window seat reading Country Life. Pierce was standing in a poised ballet dancer’s attitude near the kitchen door.
“What sort of happening, dear?” asked Mary.
“Something violent, something awful.”
Barbara continued to be absorbed in her article.
“You’ve already done something violent, something awful,” said Ducane. “I think you should be content with your career of crime.”
“Violent to yourself, or to someone else?” Theo asked, interested.
“Wait and see.”
“Oh you are boring,” said Barbara. She threw the magazine down and went quickly out on to the front lawn. A moment or two later she was laughing loudly with the twins.
Pierce sat down on the window seat and started looking hard into the copy of Country Life. He was flushed and looked as if he might burst into tears. The three at the table began to talk promptly about something else. After a minute Mary got up and said something inaudible to Pierce who shook his head. She went on into the kitchen. Ducane stubbed out his cigarette and followed her. He was unutterably oppressed by the confederate presence of Kate and Octavian.
“Can I help you at all, Mary? You’re not going to wash up, are you?”
“No. Casie will do it. She’s just gone to the kitchen garden to see if there are any artichokes for tonight. They’re so early this year. I’m taking some raspberries up to Willy.”
“May I come?”
“Yes, of course.”
She doesn’t want me, he thought. Well, I’ll just go as far as the cottage. Where can I put myself now?
The dark shut-in velvety smell of the raspberries hung over the kitchen table. Mary put a white cloth over the basket, and they went out of the back door and began to walk up the pebble path beside the herbaceous border. It was very hot. Big orange furry bees were clambering laboriously into the antirrhinums. A little flock of goldfinches which had been searching for seeds along the foot of the brick wall took refuge among the broad pale leaves of the catalpa tree.
“Look at those thistles! It’s easy to see the gardener’s on holiday. I really must do some weeding. Casie hates it.”
“I’ll do some weeding.”
“Don’t be silly, John. You’re on holiday down here. Kate would faint if she saw you weeding. Aren’t you awfully hot in that shirt?”
“No, well, I rather like to be in a bath of perspiration.”
“I wish you’d talk to Pierce.”
“You mean—?”
“Tell him to grit his teeth a little about Barb. He will go on annoying her and annoying all of us. I know it’s awful, but he must just face it. I keep trying to persuade him to go and stay with the Pember-Smiths. They even have a yacht!”
“If you can’t persuade him how can I?”
“I’ve got no authority. You have. You could speak to him sternly. Ever since you hit him he’s devoted to you! I told you he would be.”
“Well, I’ll have a try.”
“Bless you. And I do wish you’d have a serious talk with Paula too. She’s awfully upset about something, and she won’t tell me what, though I’ve positively asked her. She’d tell you. She’s terribly fond of you and you’ve got authority with her too, well you have with all of us. Just corner her and ask her firmly what it’s all about.”
“I’m very fond of her,” said Ducane. “I suppose I—”
“Good. And don’t take no for an answer. You’re marvellous, John. I rely on you absolutely. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Oh Christ,” said Ducane.
The effect of Jessica’s letter had been to draw Kate and Octavian together in a new way, a way new at least to Ducane. He had never felt sexual jealousy of Octavian before. He felt it now. He had no doubt that his faithlessness had been revealed and discussed. Of course Octavian said nothing. He went about the house smiling inscrutably and looking more than ever like a fat golden Buddha. Kate had avoided seeing Ducane alone. He had the impression that she was completely bewildered about her own feelings. Possibly she would have welcomed an effort, a desperate effort, on Ducane’s part to explain, to excuse himself, to wrap up in a web of talk and emotion that so disastrous sense datum. But Ducane, who could not bring himself to return to London, could not bring himself to talk to Kate either. He also felt that he ought not to talk to her, though he was not too sure why. He was aware that his refusal to explain now, and his inability to explain at the time, probably made the thing look graver and weightier than it was.
Yet was it not grave and weighty enough? He had made it seem a small matter by deliberately chilling his own feelings and dimming his own thoughts while permitting Jessica to continue in the fantasy world of her wishes. It was easy to see now that it had been wrong. In receiving the force of Jessica’s sense of possession Kate was scarcely receiving a wrong picture. Jessica’s condition was a fact. And if Kate retained the impression that he and Jessica were still lovers, or practically lovers, this was not a completely false impression.
When McGrath had rung Ducane up at the office, Ducane had of course told him to go to the devil. Their conversation had lasted about forty seconds. Ducane had meanwhile been trying desperately to get in touch with Jessica. He had telephoned her ten times, and sent several notes and a telegram asking her to ring him. He had called three times at the flat and got no answer. This from Jessica who, as he knew with a special new pain now, had been used to sit at home continually in the hope that he would write or ring. The feelings with which he turned away from her door strangely resembled a renewal of being in love. He had had, after the third telephone call, no doubt that she had been the first recipient of McGrath’s malice; and it had occurred to him to wonder whether she might not have killed herself. An image of Jessica in her shift, pale and elongated, stretched out upon the bed, one stiffening arm trailing to the ground, accompanied him from the locked door and reappeared in his dreams. However, he did not on reflection really think this likely. There had always been a grain of petulance in Jessica’s love. A saving egoism would make her detest him now. It was a very sad thought.
His thoughts of Jessica, though violent, were all as it were in monochrome. His imagination had to fight to picture her clearly. It was as if she had become a disembodied ailment which attacked his whole substance. Very different were Ducane’s thoughts about Judy McGrath. He remembered the scene in his bedroom with hallucinatory vividness, and seemed to remember it all the time, as if it floated constantly rather high up in his field of vision like the dazzling lozenge which conveys the presence of the Trinity to the senses of some bewildered saint. With a large part of himself he wished that he had made love to Judy. It would have been an honest action, something within him judged; although something else in him knew that this bizarre opinion must be wrong. When one falls into falsehood all one’s judgments are dislocated. It was only given this, and given
that, and given the other, all of them things which ought not to be the case, that it could seem plausible to judge that making love to Judy would have been an honest action. There is a logic of evil, and Ducane felt himself enmeshed in it. But the beautiful stretched-out body of Judy, its apricot colour, its glossy texture, its weight, continued to haunt him with a tormenting precision and a dreadfully localised painfulness.
And this is the moment, Ducane thought to himself, in this sort of degrading muddle, in this demented state of mind, when I am called upon to be another man’s judge. He had been thinking constantly about Biranne too, or rather a ghostly Biranne travelled with him, transparent and crowding him close. The wraith did not accuse him, but hovered before him, a little to the right, a little to the left, becoming at times a sort of alter ego. Ducane did not see how he could let Biranne off. The idea of ruining him, of wrecking his career, of involving him in disgrace and despair, was so dreadful that Ducane kept, with an almost physical movement, putting it away from him. But there was no alternative and Ducane knew that, in a little while though not yet, he must make himself into that cold judicial machine which was the only relevant and important thing. Radeechy’s confession could not be suppressed. It was the completely clear and satisfactory solution to the mystery which Ducane had been briefed to solve. In any case, and quite apart from the enquiry, a murder ought not to be concealed, and it was one’s plain duty not to conceal it. Since these considerations were conclusive, Ducane could be more coolly aware of the danger to himself which would be involved in any concealment. Ducane did not care for guilty secrets, and he did not want to share one with Biranne, a man whom he neither liked nor trusted. And there was also the hovering presence of McGrath, who might know more than Biranne imagined. Ducane knew that if it emerged later that he had suppressed that very important document he would be ruined himself.
