by Iris Murdoch
‘I’ve got to keep my head,’ said Hilda, thinking aloud.
‘Don’t worry so, Hilda.’ Julius was leaning forward intently across the tea table. His fingers touched the back of her tensed hand. His dark thickly-lidded eyes gleamed at her, with reassuring humour, with pleading affection. His hair was a little shorter and more sleeked back, which made his face seem younger and more nakedly aquiline. His long curly mouth smiled, then drooped with sympathy. ‘My dear, relax. Remember that you are confronted with a number of little things, not with one big thing.’
‘A lot of little things make a big thing.’
‘No, not in this region. Rupert’s misdemeanours, if they are such, are quite scattered probably quite momentary and random lapses. All right, suppose he did lie to you the other evening. Suppose he has given Morgan money. Suppose they have exchanged a letter or two, and been seen about together. These things should not be added up. It is far more just to see them as a series of impulses than as a deliberate policy.’
‘Given her money?’ said Hilda. This was a new idea.
‘Well, why not?’ said Julius. ‘I confess this was just something which I assumed or guessed. Morgan seems to have got some money from somewhere lately. Consider all those rather expensive new clothes. And I certainly haven’t given her anything.’
Hilda blinked at the garden which was damply sunny now, glittering here and there with sparks of light where some last drops of rain hung downward from the leaves. Well, why not? But the idea of Rupert secretly giving Morgan money for clothes was somehow appalling. Perhaps he went with her to the shops—‘No, no,’ said Hilda. ‘No, I doubt it—yet the clothes—I did wonder—’
‘It’s not a very grave matter after all,’ said Julius. ‘Come. Do you tell Rupert exactly how you spend your money? No little secrets?’
‘No secrets at all.’ Well, almost none, thought Hilda. I never told him I’ve been subsidizing Peter. But that’s different. Different yet still a falsehood, a rift in the structure.
‘Well, I think these things are tiny,’ said Julius, ‘and you ought to set your mind at rest. It’s better to know than not to know. I expect you’ve already had a quick look through Rupert’s desk.’
‘No, I haven’t!’ said Hilda. ‘I wouldn’t dream of searching Rupert’s desk! Besides, he’s such a careful man—’ Where am I going? she thought. I have leapt in a second from indignation at the very idea to the thought that anyway it would be profitless. How quickly can one lose one’s faith and abandon one’s standards.
‘Hilda, Hilda, don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t thinking of a search for incriminating documents, for I’m sure there aren’t any. I merely thought that it might relieve your mind. I mean, suppose you found some quite casual note from Morgan, affectionate, ordinary. That would give you an inside look at their relationship. And that is exactly what you need—to calm all those ridiculous fears.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not going to search Rupert’s desk!’ said Hilda.
‘Quite right, my dear, if you feel like that. But do please believe me that it’s all just an unconnected pile of trivialities. No love affair, no grand passion, nothing with consequences. You do really believe this, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Hilda. But the word felt dead in her mouth.
‘Then relax a little. May I hold your hand again? I think physical contact is so important. Our foolish conventions are even now too shy of it. Younger people know better. We beings are so briefly in this vale of tears. We must neglect no method by which we can comfort and console each other.’
‘You are very kind, Julius,’ said Hilda, surrendering her hand. She returned the pressure of his and looked into the very dark brown almost black violet velvety eyes. The long mouth drooped and quivered.
‘Dear Hilda, it is you who are kind to me. It is an act of kindness if someone lets you help them in however small a way. I am a lonely and deprived man, without family ties. I hope you will not mind my saying that you have given me a vision of friendship and affection.’
‘I am glad of that,’ said Hilda. ‘You must know now that you can always come to see me—Have you no living relations?’
‘No one. I have been what is called a successful man. I am well known in my work. I have an independent income. I ought to have no worries. But it is hollow within, Hilda, hollow. One is so much alone.’
‘You’ve never seriously thought of getting married?’
‘No. Forgive me, Hilda. Morgan is sweet, but she’s—well, we both know her—she’s unstable. And of course there have been others. I am no longer young. I don’t want to sound sorry for myself. Women always leave me and then I feel relieved. I think probably marriage is not for me. I need the steady friendship of an older woman, married herself, someone wise and clever and warm-hearted. Someone like this.’ He pressed her hand. ‘You know that you are very much cleverer than your sister. There are many strange things I could talk to you about. One day I will tell you all about myself, if it wouldn’t bore you and you would like to hear.’
‘Oh Julius, you know I’d love to hear, and you couldn’t possibly bore me!’
‘I am a homeless man—’
‘Let this be your home. You know we would be so pleased—’ Hilda stopped. That ‘we’ had been instinctive. But there was no ‘we’ any more. There was no home any more. Only a house where people watched each other. How mechanically she had reacted. And how odd it was to be able at such a time to feel pleasure in the touch of Julius’s hand, to feel deeply comforted by that warm strong grip and those velvet eyes, to feel flattered that Julius might tell her about himself so that she would know more about Julius than Rupert did. Rupert would be impressed. ‘Julius never reveals himself,’ he had said once. They would invite Julius. But there was the same mistake again, the same natural extension into a future which didn’t exist any more. She must keep her head. There were only a lot of quite disconnected little things, quite unimportant, quite temporary. Nothing had happened, nothing had happened at all. Hilda burst into tears.
‘My dearest—’ Julius had come round the table and was kneeling beside her. ‘Now don’t weep. The sight of tears upsets me so terribly. I shall start crying myself and then where shall we be!’
‘Oh Julius, I know I’m being stupid, but I’m so miserable—’ Hilda fumbled for her handkerchief and gave herself up to sobbing.
Julius patted her and rose.
‘Mother!’
Peter had come into the drawing room.
Hilda gave a little cry and buried her face in her very small wet handkerchief. Julius retired tactfully to the other side of the room. Peter threw himself onto the floor beside his mother.
‘Mother darling, what is it, oh stop, stop please, I can’t bear it.’ He clutched her, one hand on her knee, one arm round her shoulder, pressing his face down into the crook of her arm.
Hilda tried to master the tears. ‘It’s all right—it’s nothing—’
‘Something terrible’s happened,’ said Peter. She could feel his lips moist on her dress. ‘There’s been an accident—or you’re ill—’
‘No, no, no accident, no one’s hurt. I’m not ill. I’m just being silly. Now, Peter, please don’t panic, help me to be sensible by being sensible yourself. Nothing at all’s the matter.’
‘Then why are you crying in this awful way? People don’t cry like that for nothing.’
‘May I suggest some more tea?’ said Julius. ‘Or possibly a drink?’
‘Tea, yes, please, Julius, I’ll—’
‘No, no, I’ll make it,’ said Julius. ‘You stay here and talk to Peter. I’ll take the teapot into the kitchen and make us some more tea.’ He marched off, closing the door behind him.
‘Mother, what is it? You’ve terrified me.’
‘Peter, it isn’t anything, truly. I’m just overtired. These tears mean nothing. I cry very easily.’
‘That’s not true. I’ve never seen you cry in my life before. Never ever in my life before.’<
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‘You must have done. Anyway it’s all over now, see, no more tears. It was just a silly moment.’
‘You’re ill, mother. They’ve just told you. You’ve got cancer or something.’
‘No, I’m in perfect health. And so is your father. And everything is perfectly all right. I was just feeling tired and stupid, the way women do, and now it’s over and you mustn’t embarrass me by making a fuss!’
‘Do you promise that you haven’t got some awful illness?’
‘I promise. There. Now we’re both quite sensible again, aren’t we! How very very nice to see you, Peter. Have you been good and done some work like you said you would?’
Peter sat back on the carpet at her feet. His face was still creased up with pain and shock. ‘Mother, it was awful coming in and finding you like that. You’ve frightened me so.’
‘Stop it, dear. Now tell me about yourself.’
‘Oh I’m all right. I’ve done some work. At least I read a book. I came really—I wondered if you knew when Morgan would be back. She said she was going away again, and I’ve telephoned a lot and she’s not there.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know—when Morgan will be back.’
‘You haven’t got her address?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Is father in the house, by the way?’
‘No, he’s working late at the office.’
‘I’m afraid I filled the electric kettle with hot water,’ said Julius, ‘so that it would boil quicker. I hope you have no superstitions about that? Some people think the tea doesn’t taste right unless you boil the water from cold. Here, I’ve brought another cup for Peter. Delicious tea all round. And won’t someone take pity on the walnut cake?’
‘Bless you, Julius,’ said Hilda.
Julius began to pour out the tea.
‘I won’t have any, thanks,’ said Peter.
‘Would he like a drink?’
‘Would you like some sherry, darling? No? What about you, Julius. Something stronger than tea?’
‘No, thank you. But let me get you some whisky, yes, I insist. I know where it lives.’
Hilda sank back in her chair with a sigh, sipping tea and whisky. Peter was sitting on the floor in front of her, with his chin on his knees, regarding her under his flopping fair hair with anxiety and curiosity.
‘There’s something you haven’t told me, mother.’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t believe you.’
‘Oh, Peter, stop it. I’m just terribly overtired and nervous—’
‘Yes, if I may say so—’ said Julius, ‘this isn’t the moment—your mother is exhausted—all those committees—’
Peter bounded to his feet. ‘All right, I’ll go!’
‘Please, darling—’
‘Don’t fret, mother. I’m not cross. I understand. You’re tired. I’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘Yes, yes, come back tomorrow, and we’ll have a nice long talk. Tomorrow morning. You promise?’
‘Yes, I promise. I’ll ring up at nine and we’ll fix things. I do promise.’
As the door closed Hilda said, ‘How very unfortunate. He’ll worry so. And he’ll start wondering and—’
‘What did you tell him?’ said Julius.
‘Well, nothing of course. I said nothing was wrong.’
‘Really, Hilda, you are hopeless. You should have thought of some plausible falsehood. Now of course he’ll wonder and worry.’
‘I’m no good at plausible falsehoods,’ said Hilda.
‘You should have said something. Would you like me to go after him and reassure him? I’ll think of something quite harmless but definite. That will stop him from worrying. You don’t want him to start investigating, do you?’
‘No, no, that would be awful. Yes, do please go after him, Julius. You’re so inventive and quick. Just say something to make him think it’s all right.’
Julius darted out of the room after Peter. Hilda poured a mixture of whisky and strong tea into the spare cup. She closed her swollen burning eyes. What a fuss about probably nothing. When Rupert came back she would look at him carefully and see how calm and ordinary he was after all, just as usual. Custom would console her, it would and it should. Unfortunately he was going to be working late at the office tonight. Late at the office? Why?
After a short while Julius returned. It was almost evening in the garden. The blackbird was singing.
‘What did you say to him?’
‘I told him you had just heard of the serious illness of your dearest friend at school, whom you hadn’t seen for ages, and it brought back so many memories. I said you didn’t want to tell him because you thought it would sound absurd. I even told him her name and said he must have heard you talking about her.’
‘Julius! What is her name? I’d better know!’
‘Antoinette Ruabon. She’s French. Lives at Mont de Marsan. You always refer to her as Toni. You’ve been corresponding for years—’
‘Julius, you really are—’
‘You must learn to invent details if you want to lie well.’
Hilda began to laugh helplessly. ‘Oh you do do me good! I see I shall have to keep the Toni Ruabon myth going forever after!’
‘Ruabon is her married name. Her maiden name was Mauriac. A remote cousin of the novelist. Her husband—’
‘Oh please stop, Julius. I can’t bear it,’ said Hilda, putting her hand to her side. ‘When you make me laugh like that you make me feel suddenly as if I were happy and yet I’m miserable and it hurts! Did Peter believe you?’
‘Absolutely! He even imagined he’d heard you speak of her! And I hope you don’t mind, Hilda, I added a little passing reference to your age, the approach of the menopause, nervous symptoms in middle-aged women—’
‘Well, that bit was perfectly true!’
‘A good lie always has a spice of truth. Anyway, I think you’ll have no more trouble on that front. And now, my dear Hilda, I fear I must go.’
‘Please don’t go. I thought perhaps after Peter had gone you’d—But yes of course you must go, I expect you’re busy. Julius, I still can’t make up my mind about that dinner.’
‘The celebration dinner for Rupert’s book? But of course you must have it.’
‘But it’s tomorrow!’
‘Well, it would look very odd if you cancelled it now. You said you’d sent out the invitations? I’ve certainly had mine.’
‘I got as far as inviting the family,’ said Hilda. ‘Peter, Morgan, Simon, Axel of course with Simon. And you.’
‘I’m glad I count as family!’
‘We were going to invite some of Rupert’s office colleagues and their wives. And that philosopher with the funny name that he admires so. I was going to discuss the list with Rupert—but I put it off—and then I just didn’t—and now—’
‘Well, why not leave it at that, Hilda? That makes a nice little party.’
‘Oh God!’
‘You can’t cancel it, my dear, without letting them know that you know. You must go through with it. I’ll support you.’
‘Julius, you’re an angel. All right. Thank you immensely for your help and advice. I really don’t know what I’d do without you. And please come again. Feel that you can always come. Another time we’ll talk of you.’
Julius’s company had been a stimulus. Now that he was gone she felt utterly dejected and rather frightened. She took the tea things out into the kitchen. She realized that she felt very hungry, having had no lunch. She cut a piece of the walnut cake but found she could not eat it. She went upstairs to her boudoir, lifted the telephone and dialled the Whitehall number. The telephonist at Rupert’s office said there was no reply from his extension. That proved nothing. She went into the bedroom, bathed her face in cold water, and put on some more make-up. The garden was luminous with a heavy apricotish evening light, clear and faintly menacing. The house felt hollow and meaningless and sad, like an empty
house. A homing aeroplane droned overhead. The sun and the evening time were desolate.
Hilda thought, I must do something to stop myself from getting panic-stricken. She went back to her boudoir and sat down at the desk and started fumbling with her papers. She could feel her eyes staring with fright. She thought, I must find something to hold onto, something to peg me down into the real world, something to make me believe in the reality of the past. Perhaps I might look at some of Rupert’s old letters. A word from Rupert, even a years-old word, might ease this awful sick disconnected feeling. She had kept most of Rupert’s letters dating from the earliest days of their courtship. There were few more recent ones since she and Rupert had always been together. The letters were in a secret compartment at the back of her desk. This consisted of a box tucked in behind the lowest drawer, which was correspondingly shortened. The lowest drawer was fixed so that it could not be pulled entirely out, and the box could only be reached by removing the drawer above and reaching in behind the drawer below. Hilda removed the upper drawer and her fingers scrabbled at the hidden box. Even before she was able to grip it and draw it out she realized that it was empty.
She sat still for a while with the empty box lying in front of her on top of her papers. Then she began, slowly, she was breathless but deliberately slow, to examine the desk. She fingered about above and below where the box had been, looking for cracks or crannies. There were none. She opened the other drawers, though she knew that this was futile. More frenziedly now she searched the rest of the desk, she looked under it, she pulled it away from the wall. Then she sat down in an armchair and thought.
The letters were gone. Only Rupert knew where she kept them. Therefore Rupert must have taken them. Hilda sat stiffly in her chair. What an absurd cruel strange mad thing to do, to take away his old letters without telling her. The action made her with a shudder intuit a whole dimension of otherness, Rupert’s otherness. Rupert had all kinds of thoughts and needs and impulses of which she knew nothing, of which she could not conceive. He had wanted—what had he wanted? To meddle with the past? To destroy the evidence? He had come into her room and with some unimaginable expression on his face had furtively thrust his hand in and drawn the letters out of the box. Had he assumed that she would not notice their disappearance? It was indeed nearly a year since she had looked at them. Was he testing her perhaps? What was she to think?
