by Iris Murdoch
The appearance of the well-known authoress had been at first sight disappointing. Ann had vaguely expected something more dashing; and there was at first something almost pathetic in this slow crumpled elderly person, with her air of a determined valetudinarian, seeming older than her years could possibly warrant. Yet the face was clever. The face was also in some curious way alarming. Ann had not shaken off the alarm; but she had not been long in company with Emma before she found herself cheered by her guest's intelligent friendly curiosity, and made to talk as she had not talked in years. She felt herself relax, as in a warm salty bath. She had an agreeable sense almost of being seduced.
Yet their talk had been random, disjointed, even trivial. Emma had questioned her about the children, about the nursery, about her friends in the village, about the Bowshotts' television, and about a recipe for quince jelly which Ann promised to get for her from Clare Swann. The only subject which had not arisen was Randall.
Since Mildred Finch's momentous visit Ann had been in a state of considerable wretchedness. Mildred had given her two shocks, one concerning Randall and one concerning Felix; and these two concerns worked in her mind somewhat absurdly jumbled together. Ann had been sincere in saying that she did not want to know what Randall was up to in London. She thought it better that her imagination should not entertain images of her husband's unfaithfulness: and in a way which was obviously incredible to Mildred she had not even felt curiosity about Randall's doings when he was away from home. How true her instinct had been she had occasion to know after Mildred had suddenly crystallized the situation by mentioning a name. The knowledge of a particular named rival made her whole situation seem different and at moments intolerable; and round the object named there flickered, casting upon it a vague but lurid light, intermittent flames of anger and jealousy which had been absent before. Ann suffered. She did not ask herself whether she was still in love with Randall. Her disillusionment about her husband had been, even before Lindsay, in a sense complete. Perhaps after: so many years it hardly made sense to speak of love save as a blind yet powerful experience of their belonging irrevocably to each other. What had so grown together she had not yet in her imagination begun to set asunder.
Yet there was Felix. The extent to which there now indubitably was Felix she had also had occasion, since Mildred's visit, to observe. Ann had, and she admitted it to herself with some shame, averted her attention from what had certainly been for some time an increasing interest in Mildred's handsome brother. Ann had become aware, even years ago, that Felix was partial to her. She had accepted his exceedingly discreet homage, so discreet that it was, she was sure, invisible to all other eyes, with a warm and amused gratitude, as the sentimental foible of one who was by now a confirmed bachelor. She and Felix were, after all, dreadfully old. But she had liked it; and when, during the last year, Felix had been, when alone with her, the smallest bit more frank, as if taking for granted a hazy and never actually mentioned something between them, she had liked that too. Then there was an occasion at Seton Blaise, when they had wandered away from the others along the shore of the lake, and in a moment of silence he had taken her hand. She had let him then look at her with eloquent eyes; and although she remembered the occasion with a certain alarm she remembered it too with a certain joy. There had been, she saw to it carefully, no development or recurrence of the scene: but Felix, both pleased and penitent, had drawn a step nearer. She knew of course that it would be insane of her to fall in love with Felix. But as soon as she had got as far on as to say these words to herself her heart began to flutter. She and Felix were, after all, dreadfully young.
Yet these imaginings had often seemed, when Randall was in the house, flimsy enough. They were a foolish solace, nothing dangerous. The reality of Randall was overwhelming, and with a total grasp of his existence which was perhaps, after all, love, Ann apprehended her husband, and was grateful for the extent to which, difficult as he was, he filled the scene. A Randall intermittently and still slightly apologetically in London had kept an unslackened hold upon Grayhallock and upon her. But a Randall gone to London in anger, a Randall quite generally known to be living with another woman, might be something of a different matter. Ann had, as yet vaguely, a sense of being abandoned, and with this a sense of a vacuum created into which something else might rush. More realistic now, she simply feared this. She decided for the present not to see Felix; and conjectured, half sadly, half with relief, that he had made some corresponding decision with regard to her. For she did not believe that Felix had authorized Mildred's recent invitation.
When Emma's visit had been announced Ann's first thought had been for Fanny, and her second for herself. The connexion between Emma and Lindsay Rimmer made the presence of the former at Grayhallock particularly shocking; and for a while Ann was ready to feel herself insulted. Yet Emma herself, working hard, almost terrier-like, ever since her arrival had managed quite to dispel the suspicious stiffness with which Ann had greeted her.
Ann was still walking up and down as she talked, a thing which she rarely did, and the conversation continued to wander on fairly agreeably at random.
'What a delicious cake, said Emma. 'May I have another? Have you got a cat?
'We had a cat, said Ann, 'a sweet cat, a big grey tabby called Hatfield. He was Fanny's cat, you know. But when she died he ran wild in the fields. I've seen him once or twice in the distance, but he won't come near the house.
'Oh, said Emma. And after a pause, 'It's odd how animals know. The subject had raised a little awkwardness. To send it away Ann said, 'You so often introduce cats into your books. Are you fond of them?
'I love the creatures. But I could hardly have one in my flat. It would mean too many open doors and windows, and I'm such a malade imaginaire.
'I do enjoy your books, said Ann. 'I hope there'll be another one soon.
'I'm glad if they entertain you, said Emma, 'but of course they are trivial. I wish I could have written a real book.
'I expect you will. I mean — but I do like what you write.
'There's no time now, said Emma sombrely.
The door opened and Miranda, in a purple-and-white striped dress, skipped in with the roses. Penn hovered in the doorway, uncertain whether to follow her in. Miranda brought the big jumbled bunch, which she was holding lightly together in her hands, up to Emma, curtsied and decanted it into her lap. Then before Emma could thank her she ran back out of the door, seized Penn by the Ann and jerked him after her out of sight.
'What an amusing child, said Emma. 'She seems almost capable of irony.
'Yes, she's a clever little girl, said Ann. 'Brighter than poor Penny, I'm afraid.
'Isn't he in love with her?
'How quick of you to notice! Yes, I'm afraid so. But she's too young to take anything like that seriously and she just teases him.
'I wouldn't have thought she was too young, said Emma. 'I would guess that young lady was capable of anything. Though I can imagine young Penn is not her cup of tea. She began to examine the roses one by one. The thorns made them cling to her dress. 'Now you shall tell me the names of these.
Ann spoke their names: Agatha Incarnata, Due de Guiche, Tricolore de Flandre, Sandy de Parcere, Lauriol de Barny, Bell de Crecy, Vierge de Clery, Rosa Mundi.
'What lovely stripes, said Emma, 'just like Miranda's dress. And what names! I really must write a murder story in a nursery garden. But there, how shocking I All I can think of when I find something beautiful is how to make it an occasion for violent death. The telephone rang.
'These old roses are more beautiful, said Ann. 'But of course the nursery really depends on the hybrid teas. Excuse me while I answer the phone.
She went into the dining-room and lifted the phone. 'Hello. This is Netherden 28.
After a moment a woman's voice at the other end said briskly, 'I wonder if l could have a word with Miss Emma Sands, if she's with you, please?
Ann felt confused, and then even before she knew the cause, angry
.
She said quickly, 'Yes, could you hold' on, please? and put the receiver down on the sideboard. She felt herself blushing with a sudden mixture of anger and fear. It must be Lindsay Rimmer. With this there came back to her that sensation of being encompassed and plotted against with which she had first met the news of Emma's coming. The next moment she thought: is Randall with her? And she was near to tears.
She went back to the drawing-room. Emma was still examining the rose. 'You're wanted on the phone.
Emma looked surprised and began to get up. Ann helped her, supporting one Ann. The roses clung by their thorns to Emma's dress. Ann picked them off and pricked herself in the process. Emma followed her slowly to the dining-room.
'There it is, said Ann. She went out and shut the door. She intended to return to the drawing-room. But she found herself standing still where she was. Emma's conversation was audible through the door. 'Well, so I imagine. I don't know who else would ring me here.
How are things at your end? Pause.
'I see. So was it really necessary to phone me? Pause.
'Very comfortable, thank you. Hugh drives beautifully.
Pause.
'More or less. I'm not sure.
Pause.
'Naturally. I expect about eight o'clock. Would you do my sandwiches and milk as usual? Pause.
'I bless you, my child. Good-bye.
Ann had been standing listening and looking with fascination at the little bead of blood which had appeared upon her finger. As she heard Emma replace the receiver she retreated hastily to the drawing-room door, from which she advanced again to take charge of her guest. They returned to the drawing-room in silence.
Emma resumed her seat. Ann picked up the jumbled pile of roses from the floor and dumped them on the table. A few petals fluttered down. She put the tea-cups noisily on to the tray. A3 the silence continued and something new now hovered between them, Ann thought, if she mentions Randall I shall burst into tears. Anger at the possibility of being so humiliated brought her yet nearer to tears. She said, 'I must go and do the lunch. I'll return you to Hugh.
'Hugh can wait. He'll keep, said Emma. 'And lunch can wait.
'Don't go yet. She looked up at Ann with a questioning, pleading look. She seemed to be trying to frame some important request. 'What do you want? said Ann. She looked down at the older woman, standing one hand on hip with an air of hostility and authority.
The question, in its vagueness, was startling enough. 'What do I want? said Emma. 'Ah — many things. To understand you, for instance. But you must forgive me — you had forgiven me — for having come. I did once love your Absurd father-in-law very much indeed.
Ann was wondering how to reply to this when something else distracted her attention. She turned slightly to the window and saw that the very dark blue Mercedes had just swept in through the gates.
Everything left her mind except the proximity of Felix. No one else drove that car. A different blush now reddened her cheeks. She went over to the window.
The car stopped a little short of the house and Penn and Miranda came running towards it. Hugh also was hurrying across the lawn to greet the new arrivals. Mildred Finch got out and then Humphrey and Felix. When Ann saw Felix's tall figure beside the car she felt her heart turn over and fall like. a stricken bird. That 'yes' had done its work.
'What is it? said Emma.
'It's Mildred Finch, said Ann. 'She's just arrived with her brother.
'Felix Meecham! said Emma. 'Why, I was in love with him too, once upon a time.
'You in love with Felix! said Ann, turning in amazement. 'You too? She realized too late her misunderstanding and the suggestion which her words carried.
Emma laughed. 'Well, for about four days, you know. One can be in love for four days. It was long ago, when I stayed with them once, and he was a boy scarcely older than Penny. I was very sad about something at the time — well, about Hugh. And Felix consoled me. Quite unconsciously, you know. He just was, and that consoled me. He was an exquisite boy.
She got up and joined Ann at the window. The group was still by the car. Mildred was talking to Hugh and Humphrey was talking to Penn. Miranda had got hold of one of Felix's hands and was tugging him. He was laughing.
'You loved Felix, said Ann. She looked out at him laughing there With Miranda. Then he cast an anxious look at the house. Tears came up in Ann's eyes and began to pour down her cheeks. She turned away from the window with an exclamation and buried her face in her handkerchief. 'Ah, said Emma. And then, 'Tiens! She followed Ann and put an arm round her shoulder. 'There, there, my child. You go and do the lunch. You have been patient with an inquisitive old reptile. I shall go out and greet my oId friend Mildred Finch. Yes, I think I shall join them now. She will be pleased to see me!
Chapter Seventeen
'BUT what was she doing there? asked Mildred for the tenth time. 'Sort of sentimental journey, I suppose, said Felix. 'Cheese, Mildred?
They were sitting over lunch at Felix's flat in Ebury Street. Felix had prepared the meal. He prided himself on certain simple accomplishments. There had been pate de foie gras, a spanish omelette with an excellent salad, and now a good selection of cheeses with celery and various biscuits in a big tin. A bottle of Lynch-Gibbon Nuits de Young 1955 had been almost finished.
'Sentimental journey pooh! said Mildred. 'Is the Camembert ripe? No, well I think I'll have some of the Cornish cream cheese. Mildred helped herself to cheese and spent some time selecting a biscuit. As Felix was gloomily silent she went on, 'She seems to have got poor old Hugh back into her clutches.
'I wouldn't exaggerate that, Mildred, said Felix. 'You're such a schemer yourself, you're a bit too ready to attribute schemes to other people.
'Well, somebody's got to do some scheming, said Mildred. 'Or let's call it planning, shall we? As you won't raise a finger to help yourself, dear boy, I have to try to help you. And then I'm accused of scheming!
'I'm not accusing you of anything! said Felix irritably, cutting himself a piece of Stilton. He had in fact been very displeased with Mildred when he had learnt that she had, without consulting him, visited Ann and invited her to Seton Blaise. He had, about her refusal to come, mixed feelings. He certainly had a horror of seeming in any way to press or pursue. He was satisfied that Ann perfectly understood his sentiments; and for the present he preferred to wait and see.
He was, concerning Emma Sands, not quite as untroubled as he pretended to his sister to be. Emma had always seemed to him an exotic and slightly dangerous figure. He well remembered her curious brief attachment to him, of which he had been, without showing it, perfectly aware at the time; and he recalled with a mixture of aversion and fascination how she had kissed him when she departed. He had scarcely seen her since then, but she was the sort of person one remains aware of. He had felt dismay at finding her, so unexpectedly, at Grayhallock; and he agreed with Mildred in thinking, however irrationally, that she was up to no good. What no good she was up to he could not conceive; but he saw her obscurely as a threat to Ann.
He was additionally distressed by a dreadful thing which had happened, and of which he had said nothing to Mildred. Mildred had persuaded him against his better judgement to accompany her and Humphrey on the visit to Grayhallock, and he «cursed himself for not having had the sense to stay away. Emma had cornered him soon after his arrival there, before he had even caught a glimpse of Ann, and had made him accompany her down the hill as far as the roses. Then, as they stood there, looking at the scraggy multi-coloured lines of hybrid teas, she had suddenly intimated to him that Ann had confided in her concerning a sentimental understanding between Ann and himself. Felix had been so taken aback that he had made no denial, and his behaviour must have served as a confirmation of what Emma could only have surmised; for he realized almost immediately afterwards that Ann could not possibly have confided in Emma. Felix saw that he had been fooled, and he felt with pain that something sacred had been profaned, something delicate had been
prematurely named, and something precious and fragile made known in a dangerous quarter: for whatever Emma might think about Ann's feelings, his own must, in his confusion, have been made fairly evident. Emma had certainly had a field day. But to Mildred, from whom he would never have heard the end of it, he said nothing of this.
Felix was well aware of his foolishness in having made of his quiet love for Ann, during these last years, a sort of home; and he did not rate as high as Mildred did, indeed he did not rate at all, his chances of ever now having Ann. Ann, when he first met her, was already Randall's wife, and he» had in the earlier time regarded her with an admiring affection which was in no way out of the ordinary. She had seemed to him, somehow, the ideal English woman, and he had been used to say vaguely to himself that he would like to marry someone like her. The years passed, and it became unobtrusively evident that Ann was not happily married; and with an increasing interest in the situation Felix began to realize that what he wanted was not someone like Ann, but Ann. It was of course, he realized, a most improper ambition as well as a foolish one. The fact that a woman's husband is thoroughly unsatisfactory — and Felix regarded Randall as a four-letter man of the first order — does not justify others in paying their attentions to her. Ann was married, and Felix, from the depths of his conventional honourable soul, took the full measure of the great institution which confronted him. He could not, however, at any point quite make up his mind to sheer off. He was fairly certain that Ann in some undefined way cared for him, even perhaps, however vaguely, needed him. He watched with pity and with fascination, and at last with hope, the progressive?degringolade? of Randall’s relations with his wife. He asked no questions about the future. He waited. And he made of his strange friendship with Ann a place of security, a sort of permanent house, an English house for a wandering man, a place where his valued things could be stored in safety. He had come to depend on this.
Felix was not as innocent of sexual experience as his clever sister, with a rare naivety which rather touched Felix, seemed to imagine. He had known, in various parts of the world, plenty of women. These relationships, with something of the brutality of the soldier and the complacency of the sahib, he made comparatively little of, though he was sometimes troubled by general pangs of conscience concerning fornication. Felix was a church-goer and a communicant, maintaining the unreflective unemotional traditional Christianity in which he had been brought up, and which was vaguely connected in his mind with the Brigade and the Queen. He felt he ought not to go to bed with women he was not married to; yet when he was seriously tempted he usually succumbed, especially in hot climates. But in some separate place in his mind he had kept his intention to marry, in the end, an English girl; an intention which gradually merged into his rather hopeless attachment to Ann.
