by Iris Murdoch
Julius rose. ‘May I come and see you again, Hilda? I don’t mean to talk about that. That will soon be ancient history. It has sometimes distressed me to feel that you thought—less than well of me.’
‘I think very well of you, Julius.’ She got up and gave him her hand. He retained it, pressed it, began to lift it formally to his lips, turned it over and let Hilda’s fingers brush lightly along his cheek.
‘I am glad, my dearest Hilda. You are a strong person and I admire you. More than that, more than that. I am a homeless man. I have no family and fewer friends than you could conceive of. A steady friendship with a steadfast woman—No dramas, no passions, no fear. Are such things possible? Who knows? I am tired of adventures, Hilda. But this is not the moment to tell you about myself. Perhaps another time. Good night, my dear.’
A little later Rupert’s step was heard below and he was switching on the lights in the hall. Hilda was standing near the top of the stairs. She had covered her face with cold cream to disguise the fact that she had been crying. She called down.
‘Hello. Did you have a good evening with Julius?’
‘Yes, fine. He sends you his greetings. How was your committee meeting?’
‘Very amusing,’ said Hilda. She retired into the bedroom and switched off the light on her side of the bed.
CHAPTER TEN
THE PIGEON WAS STANDING, almost invisible in the corner, behind a pile of wooden planks, just at the bottom of the first escalator on the Bakerloo side in Piccadilly Circus station. Morgan saw it with an immediate sick thrill of pain and fear.
She passed it by. She stopped and came back. She had just been paying an afternoon visit to the London Library and was intending to return to Fulham via South Kensington. She avoided Earls Court. She looked down at the pigeon. It stood there immobile, well back in the corner, its eye bright and inexpressive. Many people were passing by, most of them coming down the escalator. It was the beginning of the rush hour. No one paid any attention to Morgan or to the pigeon.
Morgan stood there as motionless as the bird and her heart beat as hard. She had seen Rupert last night. It had been a terrible evening. As soon as he arrived the telephone had started ringing. She could not answer it. It had gone on and on ringing while she and Rupert sat eyeing each other, tried to talk, and then fell silent. It went on ringing for nearly twenty minutes. Then Rupert had broken down. She sat dry-eyed and stiff throughout his incoherent torrent of self-reproach. His letters were becoming more distraught than passionate and now he seemed to want to talk all the time about Hilda, about the terrible pain he felt at lying to her and the agony of having lost the daily contact of absolute trust and love. He besought Morgan to leave London.
Morgan said she would not, she could not, at least not yet. Where could she go where she would not be miserable? She turned away almost angrily from the distracted figure of Rupert, suddenly so undignified and pathetic. ‘Well, you started it!’ ‘No, you started it!’ They almost quarrelled. Why do I have to suffer like this? thought Morgan. After so much misery and so many disappointments and so many people letting me down, I at last discover the one person who could really help me—and he has to go and make himself impossible. If only Rupert would keep his head. Everything could be perfectly all right. She tried to explain it to him.
‘I love you, darling Rupert. And I trust your love for me. And you’ll soon feel so much calmer when you get more used to seeing me. We’re rational beings, we must construct a friendship here, we can. We mustn’t just throw love away, it’s rare enough in this beastly world. And real love is wise, you said so yourself. I need you, Rupert. No one will be hurt.’
‘I don’t love you with a love that is wise,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s all becoming a nightmare.’
‘You must try to. You must practise what you preach.’
‘I can’t, I can’t!’
Morgan moved nearer to the pigeon. It did not stir. It was a healthy-looking bird and seemed to be quite unhurt. Morgan laid her handbag down on top of the pile of wood. She edged round the wood and very cautiously began to bend down towards the bird, her hands spread out wide. Just as her fingers were almost touching the soft grey feathers the pigeon flew up into her face. It passed over her shoulder, glided over the heads of the hurrying people, and perched on top of a projecting poster facing the bottom of the escalator.
Morgan stood watching it for a moment. Then she edged her way through the criss-crossing crowd and approached the poster. She reckoned that she could just about reach the pigeon. If she could only get a firm grip on its legs. What would it do? Would it flutter wildly and be terrified, peck her perhaps? Birds sometimes died of terror if they were suddenly caught hold of. How would she capture and enclose those madly beating wings? Suppose a wing were broken? Morgan’s hands sought her breast, her neck. Then she took several deep breaths and stood on her toes and began slowly to slide her hands up the face of the poster. With a quick clap of wings the pigeon took off again and flew this time half way up the escalator. It perched on the sloping wooden surface between the up and down escalators, quite near to the moving handrail on the up side. Morgan thought, even if I can’t catch it, if I could only drive it up into the upper part of the station, it might see the daylight through one of the exits and fly out. It would have more chance of survival there than if it stays down here. The idea of the bird trapped in that warm dusty electric-lighted underground place filled her heart with pity and horror.
Morgan got onto the upward bound escalator, which was not too full at that time of day, and as she came near to the place where the bird was perched she stretched out her arm as far as she could to drive it on and upwards. As the outstretched arm approached the pigeon flew up a few yards and perched again upon the wooden slope between the two escalators. As Morgan caught up with it again it flew a little further on up towards the top. Then as her hand neared it for the third time, outstretched to drive it out into the space of the upper concourse it rose with an agitated flutter of wings and flew all the way back down again to perch in its former place on top of the poster at the bottom of the escalator.
Morgan stepped off the escalator at the top. She could just see the pigeon, far below her now, perching upon the poster. She hurried across and pushed her way onto the descending escalator and tried to hurry down it. Tired thoughtless people were standing in her way. When at last she reached the bottom of the stair the pigeon was still sitting on top of the poster. Morgan stood below. Desperately and with more determination this time she reached up her hands. People hurried past her, shadows with anxious vague eyes. No one stopped, no one watched, no one paid the slightest attention to what she was doing. She touched the cool scaly feet and had them almost within her grip. But her fingers did not close in time. The pigeon took off again, flying sideways now, and disappeared through the archway which led to the second escalator descending to the Piccadilly Line. Morgan cried out in vexation and distress.
Pushing her way through the increasing crowd she entered the area at the top of the Piccadilly Line escalator. A great many hasty preoccupied human beings jostled her, passed her, and did not see her as she stared about wide-eyed and then began to search along the walls and into the corners for the poor pigeon. There was no sign of the creature. When she was satisfied it was not there she descended the next escalator as far as the level of the trains. She walked slowly along both platforms, looking with an agony of anxiety and hope into all little dusty corners, under seats, behind any object which could afford a refuge. She scanned the brightly lit curving roof. Two trains came and went. The platform emptied, filled, emptied again. At last she turned, still looking round about her, and went slowly back to the escalator. She felt dejection and confused defeated pain for her poor fugitive. Where could it be now? She set her feet upon the moving stair. Then she realized that she had not got her handbag.
Morgan flushed with shock. She recalled that she had left it on top of the pile of wood where she had first seen the pigeon. She began to
run up. She reached the top and ran round through the archway to the place where the wood was stacked. There was no sign of her bag. Perhaps it had fallen down behind. She peered behind, she shifted the wood, she went on her knees. There was no doubt that the handbag was gone. Morgan stood and stared around at the people. Someone had picked it up, perhaps only a moment ago. Someone was carrying it, taking it away. She ran a few steps. She must search, get help, tell somebody. Then she stood still, her face burning with vexation and misery. How could one expect to find a stolen handbag in Piccadilly Circus station in the rush hour? She should never have put it down. She moved back against the wall.
A woman who has just lost her handbag feels as if she has lost a limb. Morgan felt maimed, naked. She told herself not to be a fool. A lost handbag was not the world’s end. Then it occurred to her that her ticket was gone too and that she was inside the Underground system with no ticket and no money. Tears began to come into her eyes. She would have to go up and explain to the ticket collector. Would he believe her, would he be unpleasant to her? The idea of anyone being unpleasant to her brought on more tears. She thought, I must get out of this ghastly underground place as quickly as possible. I must get some money from somewhere. Perhaps she might meet someone she knew if she went back to the London Library. Or perhaps she should take a taxi to Priory Grove and—no, damn, she couldn’t do that. Oh hell, thought Morgan, all the rest and this as well! And, oh God, her bag was full of credit cards, a banker’s card, a full cheque book, a Post Office savings book. An enterprising thief could rob her of all her money in an hour and run up bills all over London in her name. She dashed the tears from her eyes and got onto the escalator to go up to the top again.
When she was half way up the escalator she suddenly saw Tallis. He was standing on the opposite escalator going down, gliding slowly downward towards her, standing in the long line of people on the right-hand side of the escalator. At first she was not sure whether it really was Tallis or whether it was one of the men whom she now noticed all the time who seemed momentarily to resemble him. The scene shimmered and shook before her eyes, the row of blurred faces moved onward with mesmeric slowness, Morgan gripped the moving handrail, wanting to call out to him, but her tongue was leaden and a sort of large bright humming electric silence all about her held her motionless and wordless. Yes, it was really Tallis. Separated now from the hazy frieze of other forms, she saw his face clearly, anxious, sad, and beautiful-eyed. He was gazing far away and did not seem to see her. Then he was gone, sinking downward past her, and a moment later Morgan was stumbling off the escalator at the top.
She stood aside and let the people stream by. She felt shock, fright, bottomless panic, a quick nausea in her throat. Lights flashed in her eyes and there was a deep blackness near her into which she might fall. She said to herself, I am going to faint. She put a hand out to the wall and tried to breathe slowly and deeply. She thrust her other hand deep into her pocket and touched a coin. She drew out a half-crown. The flashing lights diminished. Morgan thought, I must follow Tallis. I must see Tallis, I must see him at once. She pushed her way across to the descending escalator. The people ahead of her were moving very slowly. As she pressed on down she was trying to think, which way will he go? How does one get to Notting Hill from Piccadilly? Her unpractised mind tried to spread out the map of the London Underground system. She found she had forgotten it. Oh God, was Notting Hill Gate on the Bakerloo? But that wasn’t Tallis’s station anyway. Tallis’s station was Ladbroke Grove and whatever line was that on? Some obscure line that went to Hammersmith. Change at Paddington, change at Hammersmith, change at Charing Cross? She stepped off at the bottom and stood in hesitation beneath the poster where the poor lost pigeon had perched itself such a very long time ago. Right or left? If only she could find a map. The panic was still upon her and a terrible urgency racked her bowels. She bit her fingers with incoherent doubt and fear. Then she began to run along towards the Bakerloo line. Change at Paddington. She ran down the next escalator and heard a train. She saw it leaving as she reached the platform.
Morgan was shuddering and shivering so much that she had to sit down. The platform filled up rapidly. Another train came. She got herself onto it. It was very full and her arms were crushed to her sides, her face close up against other faces. It was hot and there was a smell of human sweat and the rubbery dark smell of the Underground. Rupert is right, she thought. It is all becoming a nightmare. The endless ringing telephone, the trapped pigeon, the lost handbag, the horror of the world. Then she thought, the line divides at Baker Street. Not all the trains go to Paddington. Am I in the right train? She had not looked at the indicator. She could not ask. Her tongue was stiffened and her eyes were hazy. Baker Street. Marylebone. Was that right? Edgware Road. Paddington.
She pushed her way out of the train and raced up the escalator. She remembered now that to reach the Metropolitan line she would have to go the whole length of the Main Line station. She came out into the main station and began to run again. The station was very strange, it was dark, unless the darkness was only in her eyes. The huge cast iron vaults were not glowing with light, they were obscure and yellow as if filled with steamy mist, and below them it was as dim and murky as a winter afternoon although the air was hot. Morgan ran past taxis which had turned on their headlamps, past stationary trains where people peered anxiously from lighted windows. She fled up a long flight of steps and down another and came out under the sky which was misty and sulphurous and overcast. As her train came in she heard a distant sound, and heard it again as she came out of Ladbroke Grove station, the sound of thunder coming from far away through still thick hot air. She stared about trying to recognize something, but everything looked unfamiliar. She had never come to Tallis’s house this way before. She ran along one shabby street, paused, and then ran down another. She panted along between houses which were stripped and wrenched and torn, where people sat silently on doorsteps and waited. The horror, the horror of the world.
Tallis’s house was before her and Tallis’s door. The sky was darkening now as the deep yellow was slowly suffused with black. She was gasping for breath and tears like sharp points pricked her straining eyes. The door hung a little sideways, a little open. She pushed it and went into the darkness.
‘Morgan!’
It was Peter.
Morgan pushed open the kitchen door and went in with Peter following. She sat down.
‘Where’s Tallis?’
‘He’s at his class at Greenford.’
‘I saw him half an hour ago at Piccadilly Circus.’
‘You can’t have done. Greenford’s the other way. He goes by bus. Morgan, how absolutely marvellous to see you! I thought you’d gone away.’
‘I went away. I’m going away—again.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve come. This light is so weird, isn’t it. Like the end of the world. I was feeling quite odd. Why, you’re out of breath and—what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ There was a flicker of lightning, electrical and sharp, felt rather than seen. Then after a moment or two a long drum roll of distant thunder.
‘Have you been running? You must rest a bit. I’ve got a hundred things to tell you! You will stay, won’t you? We could go to the pub and have sandwiches, if you wouldn’t mind paying.’
‘What time will Tallis be back?’ said Morgan.
‘He won’t be back tonight. He’s going on from the class to some place in Clapham where someone’s ill and he’s spending the night there. Oh Morgan, do let’s go out and celebrate! Do you know, I’ve actually been working, and—’
‘It’s so hot,’ said Morgan. The thunder came again like distant gunfire.
‘Would you like something to drink here? Tallis has a few cans of beer. Morgan, you’re looking so strange, what is it? Morgan, darling—’
‘I’ve lost my handbag.’
‘Oh I’m so sorry!’ Peter had pulled another chair up beside her.
‘And there was a pigeon�
��in Piccadilly Circus station—at the bottom of the escalator—I tried to catch it—’
The child, thought Morgan, the child might have existed. It would have been a few months old. It might have been the solution to everything. Why had she not understood what a terrible thing it was to deprive that child of life? She had killed it so casually and drunk half a bottle of Bourbon afterwards.
‘The child—’ The horror of the world.
‘Morgan, are you feeling all right?’
The thunder was nearer, more explosive, cracking down upon London. A few huge drops of rain fell, hitting the houses, clattering like pebbles onto roofs and windows. A sudden coolness began to sway through the heavy yellow air.
It was dark in the kitchen. Peter pulled his chair closer still and began to try to take Morgan in his arms. She pushed him roughly away and rose to her feet.
‘Don’t touch me!’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Morgan.’
‘Leave me alone.’
The rain was beginning to spill down like water from a tilted bucket. A huge flash lit up the kitchen for a moment with a cold pallid silvery light, showing Morgan’s staring eyes and Peter’s scared unhappy face. Then the rain itself darkened the scene falling like a dense curtain of grey clangorous metal.
Morgan’s figure merged into the darkness of the doorway and another flash of lightning showed the luminous lines of rain curtaining the street door. Then she was gone, running, fading, dissolving, instantly vanishing into the thick grey substance of the roaring downpour.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘OH, IT’S YOU,’ said Tallis.
‘Were you expecting me?’ said Julius.
‘I thought you’d turn up sometime. Come in.’
Julius followed Tallis into the kitchen. There was a dull quiet mid-morning light.
The floor of the kitchen was extremely wet and sticky as if covered with black oil.
