by Iris Murdoch
They went down, crunching over the stones, to the edge of the water, where the waves struck the stones and dragged them down. Here they swiftly undressed and plunged in naked. They could master the stones, they could breast the water, they swam far out, where the quiet lilt of the water silently lifted them up and laid them down, then after much dolphin play they were standing and climbing easily up the sloping shore and onto the beach, and on to where they had left their rucksacks. They lay down naked upon warm stones, finding how pleasantly tired the lovely sea had made them. They put on shirts and slowly ate their delicious lunch and opened their bottle and drank a little wine. After that they slept.
Sitting upon the stones they had already noticed, upon a quite high hillock beyond the so-called ‘road’, a sort of hut, solitary it seemed, not large. Time, they realised, had passed now and they were still quite a long way from their next destination. Soon it might be twilight! Randall suggested that they might spend the night in that hut - it had been such a hot day, it must be a warm night! Edward, the cautious one, said that the hut was not theirs, it was someone else‘s, anyway it was probably locked up, and anyone might come to inhabit it at any moment, after all they had seen nobody coming or going. Randall said they were miles from anywhere, it would take ages to drag their bikes up to the main road, and he for one was feeling very tired. Anyway it would be an adventure, and they could easily get up to the hut. Edward, to please him, at last agreed, and they set off with their rucksacks, then unleashing their bikes and loading them up and pushing them first along the sandy verge, then, just after reaching the little ‘road’ that they had come along, discovering a path which seemed to lead straight up to the hut. They abandoned their bikes, chained up and covered over in brambles, in a ditch, and struggled on up the rather steep way with their rucksacks. The hillock was a little higher than it had seemed from below, and it appeared it must be reached through a meadow, after a crawl under some barbed wire. Here they paused for a dispute. Edward said that it was ridiculous, evening was coming on, they should carry on with their bikes, surely they would soon find some pub and relax, as they had done before. However he gave way to Randall’s excited begging that at least they must go on now as far as the hut and perhaps - As they reached it, at last, with caution, dragging their rucksacks exhaustedly through the long grass, the sun was falling behind the hills beyond. They stood still for a short while outside it, breathing deeply. They could hear nothing. They cautiously pushed the door, which to their joy was not locked. They stepped inside. The hut consisted of one small empty room, with a pile of wood in a grate with a chimney, which they had not noticed from below. It was all made of wood, the floor, the walls, and the roof, with a delicious woody smell, very clean and neat. Whoever lived there, or more likely visited there, must be a careful, fastidious, perhaps thoughtful, person, they agreed. It was now beginning to be a little dark in the hut. Randall suggested that they could make a fire in the grate, but Edward vetoed this. They would not want to draw attention to themselves - that is supposing they were to stay - Randall then discovered beside the fireplace a small box containing candles, and insisted on lighting one at once. He declared that in this little house, which was just for now their own, they would not light a fire, but they must have candlelight to celebrate their feast after which they would sleep. The hut was already very warm from the sunlight. Edward was still anxious, but was overcome by Randall’s childish delight. They began to unpack. It was then that Randall suddenly noticed that after all some contents of his rucksack, including the bottle of wine, which he had put in a separate bag, had been left down on the beach! Edward suggested just leaving them but Randall insisted that they must have their wine to drink by candlelight, it would be so romantic, and anyway the tide might cover that part of the beach during the night. He said he would run and fetch it all in no time, and Edward could stay and light the candles. Edward, who felt very much like resting now, hesitated, then he thought I must go with Randall, he might get lost or fall or hurt himself on the wire. So they set off together in the twilight, back down the hill.
The sun had almost set and the cloudless sky had become a darkening blue. The moon, nearly full, was now faintly gleaming. Randall commented upon the fact that it had been invisible before. A perceptible wind was now blowing. Edward thought, we shall be jolly cold in that hut at midnight! However he did not say that to Randall. They got through the wire all right, passed their bikes invisible in the ditch, then ran down to the track and out onto the beach. They could hear the strange rhythmic grating sound of the great waves upon the stones. It took them a little while to find the bag, now lying almost invisible. Edward picked it up. He felt the wind blowing. Randall had run past him to look at the sea whose harsh grinding sound of the waves breaking was louder now in the quiet darkness. Edward followed him slowly, then as he neared him he saw that Randall was undressing. Edward was at once alarmed. ‘Oh Randall, not another swim, and it’s getting dark, and -’
Randall, now undressed, was standing up, his body pale in the uncertain light, looking down at the crashing waves which were scrabbling at the shifting wall of stones. He cried, ‘A moonlight swim, you must, come on, the water will be warm — ’ He began descending, holding his balance upon the shifting stones, seeming to vanish in the coming waves, then seen instantly a little farther out, bobbing about in the white crested water and waving to Edward.
Edward shouted, ‘Hurry up, come in, come back!’ He feared the currents, the wind, the grim force of the waves, more savage now, larger, louder, taller, curling over in great white arches, hurling themselves in deafening impact against the slithering wall of stones, and in destroying themselves, each wave in its demise receding, dragging clattering down a grinding mass of sand and stones. Edward stood for another minute watching, he shouted out to Randall, he thought he could see him far out, he thought, I must go with him, I must look after him, oh dear all this is daft. He took off his jacket, pants and shoes, he tried to walk, searching for a foothold, then fell down the slope of sand and stones, kept his feet for a second as a wave broke violently over him, then found himself swimming. Here, the surface of the sea was a confused churning mass of white foam, coming and going, sucking back, sucking down, leaping up, then suddenly swinging into a trough, waves fighting with each other. Ordinary swimming was impossible. Edward, almost upright in the water, trying to tread his legs below him, swallowing water, attempting a breast-stroke, managed to keep his head up. He tried to move in the direction of where he had seen Randall. He thought that he glimpsed him in the chaotic darkness and tried to move towards him, but great curtains of racing churning heavy waves struck him violently making progress impossible. He kept trying to cry out, swallowing more water. Then suddenly Randall was beside him, he fumbled in the water, trying to grip Randall’s wrist, saying perhaps aloud or to himself, thank God, thank God. He thought he heard Randall say ‘Can’t get out.’ He thought, Randall is terrified and so am I. Holding his brother’s wrist he kept on, not exactly swimming, but moving, trying to paw the water with one hand. Low down, between the wave crests, jerking his head up and swallowing water, he had entirely lost his sense of direction. Randall seemed to be jerking away from him or being pulled away. Edward, now putting his trailing legs into violent motion, thought he had caught a glimpse of what must be land, the final breaking of the waves. He also saw, in sudden glimpse, as if a wave had lifted him intentionally up, the moon now very bright. Edward was thinking I mustn’t let him go - but am I drowning him by holding onto him? He turned his head and glimpsed Randall’s gasping horrified face. Then suddenly he felt the movement of the water changing, they were close to the land, to the place where the waves ended their journey and smashed themselves against the perpetually descending cliff of stones. Edward felt the sudden change, he thought, now I must get a foothold, I must get a foothold, otherwise we shall fall under the wave. He felt water suddenly lifting him up, he lost his grip on Randall, he was caught inside the curling wave as he trie
d to stand, above him the dome of the wave, he could not stand, he was dashed down onto his knees, he struggled, feeling for a second the swift strong moving sand of the undertow, now racing back through his fingers, while the running cliff of stones, falling against him, were making him unable to rise, he was choking, drowning. He got up, crouching, attempting to get his legs apart, he thought, I must stand, or the next wave will kill me. He braced himself to the wave, and found himself still upright, moving, climbing, stretching out his hands against the tumbling stones. He had lost hold of Randall, indeed he had completely forgotten Randall, now he was crawling, now at last standing upon the shore. He turned back gasping, choking, looking back into the violent chaos of the huge towering waves. Where was Randall now - must he go back into this hell and die himself? Surely Randall too must be somewhere near to him, clambering out? Out of the sea, at last, he turned stumbling along, looking out at the waves and screaming. There was no sign of Randall. He returned to the sea, breasting the waves, losing foothold, swimming, choking, then desperately attempting above all with his weary battered limbs, to get back to the land without drowning. His eyes were filled with water. He knelt, he stood, then knocked down to all fours, crept, stood again, desperately at the edge of the sea, staring and calling out. About twenty minutes later or perhaps more he saw Randall, floating face downward, carried in by a wave. He returned to the water, pulling at the limp body of his brother, wailing and crying and screaming, hauling him out onto the stones. He tried to remember what to do, laying him down on his face, pressing his back. It was all senseless and useless. They were alone in the dark on the empty beach. He could find no help.
It was some time after that that a motorist was stopped by a half-clad man, incoherently weeping, pointing down toward the beach. Later, other people came, the police came, Randall’s body was carried away.
Edward now, sitting in the sunlight upon the stones beside the calm sea, was crying, wailing. He had never, until now, returned to this place. The little hut was still there, the sea and stones were there, the emptiness and no one. Edward had for many years wondered if he would ever come back. He had never been forgiven, his father had never forgiven him, his father hated him, he hated himself. Everybody remembered, many pitied him, nobody spoke of it of course. What had made him come now, perhaps he knew. He had made another death, that of Marian. Even if she was alive, she was dead. And between these two deaths, there was yet a third thing, a third crazy thoughtless deed, which must forever be hidden in darkness.
FIVE
Marian, whom everyone was worrying about and searching for, was not dead. She had considered suicide. She had stared down at the shining rails at tube stations and felt in her body the trembling passionate energy which would be needed, timing it carefully, to hurl herself in front of a train. She thought about drowning in some dark place, among abandoned buildings, beside the Thames. But she was a good swimmer and fierce violent instincts would simply prevent her, nor could she imagine thus some slow death. She had no access to poisons. She could of course throw herself in front of a bus, but this might be bungled, leaving her hideously disfigured and damaged. She had always feared high places and could not see herself awkwardly opening windows and climbing onto window sills. All these thoughts were superficial, false, unreal, hideous dreams which segregated her from the ghastly reality of what had happened to her, what she had done, and now forever after would have to live with.
Now, at present, she was sitting on a bed in a small cheap hotel down a side street near Euston Station. She had cried so much, she was still crying. It was morning. She had, weak with exhaustion, at last slept part of the night. She had dreamed a happy dream, and for a second waking held it. Now the horror was all back again, like a huge steel building collapsing, grinding down upon her. She had lost, she had destroyed, wantonly and forever, everything that was good and happy in her life. She had made an effort to cease her crying, not just the flow of tears, but now the rhythmic wailing, the convulsive repetition of ‘ah!’ ‘ah!’. On the previous day someone had knocked on the door, then opened it, and asked if she was ill. Of course she was ill, but she said no, no, not at all, she was so sorry, she was quite well. Outside the sun was shining. Her watch told her it was morning, after seven o’clock. This was the beginning of yet another day in which she had stayed in the hotel. She must go somewhere, she must do something, but where and what? She thought, I must go back to Canada and never never return to this country again. But why Canada? She could not face her mother, she had ruined her poor mother as she had ruined all the others, all the other people, whom she would never never see again. She still had her handbag with her, her money, her cards. She must get away, somewhere, and become another person. That is the same as dying. Perhaps she should go to a priest. But she had given up priests long ago, as her mother had. Oh her mother, her dear, dear mother - everything had fallen, everything had been destroyed - and so quickly - it is like murder, it is murder - I am ill, I am very ill, she thought, trying now to check her moaning, I am going mad - am I to run out of here, and run about the streets? My face is swollen and hideous, no one will recognise me. She sat upon the bed, gasping, half dressed, stuffing her wet handkerchief into her mouth.
The condition into which Marian had entered, into which she had thrust herself, had origins further back. She loved her sister. But as they grew up her love was, she knew, very slightly touched by envy, later jealousy. Marian was rated more beautiful than Rosalind. It wasn’t that. Marian was not sure what it was. Perhaps it was simply a growing up, and a determined parting of the ways. Rosalind had been bright at school, a ‘scholar’, she was clever, she was going to be an art historian. Marian, though not a fool, and far more naturally sociable, became aware that Rosalind was more sought after, more admired, more witty, more interesting. Rosalind knew what she was going to do with her life. Marian had no idea what was going to happen to hers. Both girls had learnt French, and a little Italian at school. Marian had now forgotten much of hers, whereas Rosalind preserved these, and was adding Russian. They went on pleasant trips to France, Italy, Spain. Marian then decided to go round the world, to brush up her languages, she said laughingly. Anyway she wanted to travel, to get away, to go to strange lands and have adventures. This tour came about, funded by her mother, by Benet, more liberally by Uncle Tim; and at last Marian, taking leave of England with lengthy wavings of farewell, turned her face to the wind and felt more deliriously happy than ever in her life. The beautiful white ship, ignoring Europe (which she assumed her wealthy passengers already knew) passed through the Mediterranean, stopping at Egypt, on down the Red Sea, then on to India, down the coast for temples and swimming, on to Ceylon, then at last the long sea voyage to Sydney. The stay at Sydney was proving unusually long because of some engine trouble. This did not worry Marian. She had made pleasant acquaintances on board, but let loose in Sydney she discovered even more delights and interesting friends. She sent postcards home, especially to her mother, Rosalind, Uncle Tim, Benet, and Edward, mentioning the pleasant delay. Just at this time Uncle Tim had died. There had been some argument about whether or when she should be told. At last a telegram finally brought the sad news. Marian sent a reply: Terribly sorry Uncle Tim. Probably staying on in Australia. Note hotel address. Marian had already informed her lovely white ship (her name was Calypso) that she must now travel on to see New Zealand without Marian. Marian had fallen in love with Australia.
From her hotel in Sydney Marian subsequently sent, not this time a postcard but a letter, to Edward. Marian had for a considerable time been aware that Benet, Tim and others were quietly hoping that she might marry Edward Lannion. Randall’s sudden death had damaged the rather stiff but perceptible connection which had existed between Hatting Hall and Penndean. Mourning for that death existed for a long time. Edward left the university; his father died and Edward took charge of Hatting, spending also much time in London, having, at any rate for the moment, given up his historical novel and his poems. At tha
t time too he became better acquainted with Benet and Tim, and also with the girls. On the boat Marian had been thinking about Edward, and had at her hotel composed and recomposed a tactful letter to him. She received a reply from Edward which, though very characteristically cautious, left her in little doubt. This whispered clarification left Marian suddenly not only more happy but more free. Now she was enjoying Australia. Then, before long, she should fly back. She had money in her pocket. Most of all, she could now toy with the idea of being ‘the Mistress of Hatting Hall’! There was, in her change of plan, another shadowy consideration. Suppose she were to stay too long away, and find that Edward had found some other bride - or decided to marry Rosalind? She wrote a sort of love-letter to Edward, received a vaguely similar reply, and cast away her anxieties.
