by Iris Murdoch
‘Oh come on, come on, give me the money, and make it two hundred while you’re about it. I want to pay poor bloody Mitzi what I owe her, I’ve been borrowing from that poor cunt, excuse my French, that’s what I’ve come to, Sir Matthew.’
‘I’ll give you two hundred,’ said Matthew. ‘Austin, I beg you, just try to conceive that we might be friends. Why should we be the slaves of this sort of black magic? I’m harmless to you.’
Austin got up and helped himself from the decanter. ‘I hear you’ve been seeing Mavis.’
‘I had lunch with Mavis. Don’t worry. It wasn’t a success. No need to get excited.’
‘I’m not excited. Just keep clear of Dorina, that’s all. Leave us alone at least. I think I’d kill Dorina rather than let her have anything to do with you.’
Matthew said, imitating Austin’s quiet voice, ‘Well, that won’t be necessary. In any case there isn’t any harm I could possibly do to your marriage even if I tried.’
‘Not this one,’ said Austin. ‘I’ll see to that.’
‘What do you mean, “not this one”?’
‘Don’t pretend, because we haven’t discussed it, that you don’t know, and that you don’t know I know!’
‘Be careful, Austin.’
‘Be careful, be careful, nothing hasty, love and reconciling, anything but the truth, write the bloody cheque, will you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know Betty committed suicide because of you.’
Matthew sat at the desk and wrote the cheque. Pay Austin Gibson Grey the sum of two hundred pounds signed Matthew Gibson Grey. He said, ‘Austin, please keep some contact with reality. Betty’s death was an accident.’
‘So we all said. But it wasn’t, you know. Betty drowned herself.’
‘Austin,’ said Matthew, ‘keep a grip on yourself. And curb your spite before it drives you completely crazy. Betty didn’t commit suicide. She couldn’t have.’
‘How do you know? As you said yourself, everyone has wounds which they hide.’
‘I saw —’ Matthew checked himself. ‘Betty wasn’t a suicide, she wouldn’t and couldn’t have done it. And if she had, it certainly wouldn’t and couldn’t have been because of me.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
The door bell rang. ‘Excuse me,’ said Matthew. He handed the cheque to Austin and went out to the front door. The person on the doorstep this time was Garth.
Garth said, getting under way with what sounded like a prepared speech, ‘Uncle Matthew, you know who I am, I hope, and I trust you’ll forgive me for taking this step of calling on you without ceremony. I thought of writing and I thought of telephoning, but —’
‘Your father’s here,’ said Matthew.
‘Oh,’ said Garth, pressing his lips together. Then he said, ‘In that case perhaps —’
‘Bring him in, bring him in,’ said Austin from behind.
‘Come in,’ said Matthew.
Garth followed him into the drawing-room. As they came in Austin, who was holding the cheque, folded it in two and began tearing it up into little pieces. He screwed the pieces into a ball and laid the ball tenderly in one of the Chinese bowls.
‘Hello, Father.’
‘Hello, son. Touching meeting.’ Austin sat down. ‘I suppose you two have been chatting about the Absolute.’
‘I haven’t seen Garth for years,’ said Matthew. ‘I hardly recognized him. Have a drink, Garth.’
‘No, thanks.’ Garth was looking round the room. ‘You’ve got a lot of things.’
‘Possessions, yes.’
‘Why do you call them that?’
‘Well — they are — possessions.’
Matthew looked at Austin who met his eye with a look almost of complicity. Austin looked quite calm. How could he be so calm after all that emotion, after all those lies? Austin was relaxed, the put-upon spectator. He would sit out his son’s visit. He would not tactfully make way for Garth, leaving Garth behind to discuss Austin with Matthew. Meanwhile Garth was testing the atmosphere, wondering what to do. God, he’s like his mother, thought Matthew, watching the thin frowning nervous face. Betty had been a bony untidy charmer with straggling black hair, but red cheeked, with some gaiety. Betty was drowned in a deep lock on the river, her hair floated upon the water, it was an accident.
‘Well?’ said Austin. He smiled at Matthew. His consciousness at that moment was almost affectionate.
‘Another time,’ said Matthew to Garth.
‘Sorry,’ said Garth. ‘Sorry to butt in on your — your — Sorry.’
Outside in the garden the Irishman was sitting underneath the walnut tree drinking orangeade out of a bottle.
Matthew felt as if some insect were clinging to him which he wanted to brush off against a hard surface. He would not let Austin drive Garth away like this. He would not let Austin win.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go,’ said Matthew, looking at his watch, ‘at once. I’ve got an appointment.’ This was an invention.
Austin rose and they all three walked rather slowly to the front door which Matthew opened. The boy is angry with me, he thought, and he felt pain. He very much wanted to speak to Garth, to touch him, but it was impossible. It is not my fault, but the boy is angry. They stood on the pavement. Austin was still smiling a spiteful defensive hurt smile.
Matthew said at random, ‘This is my new car.’
For a second all three were blessed with an interest in something alien. The car was admired.
‘One of those big jobs, eh, very nice.’
‘Excellent colour that dark red.’
‘Automatic transmission. Do you miss the gears?’
‘Very good for traffic.’
‘Splendid London car.’
‘Once you’ve had automatic transmission you can’t be without it.’
‘Can I give either of you a lift?’ said Matthew, wondering where he was going.
‘Well, yes, thanks,’ said Austin.
‘Where are you going?
‘Victoria.’
‘That’s on the way. Garth?’
‘I’ll come for the ride. You can drop me at a tube station.’
‘Would you like to drive, Garth?’ said Matthew as they moved to the car. He wanted to make some gesture to please the boy.
Garth hesitated. He touched the car. He obviously wanted very much to drive it. He said, ‘No, thanks.’
Austin was peering in at the dashboard.
‘Would you like to drive?’ said Matthew to Austin.
‘Yes, I would,’ said Austin, ‘if you don’t want to.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m not used to driving on the left yet, actually.’
‘Must feel odd.’
‘Don’t know my London.’
‘Where are you going, Matthew?’
‘The British Museum. I’ll take over from you at Victoria.’
‘If you’re going to the B.M. I’ll come too,’ said Garth.
Austin laughed.
They got into the car, Austin at the wheel, Matthew beside him and Garth in the back.
‘Better get out of here by the back way, Austin, avoid the main road, right then left. No, left. Never mind, take the next turning. How are you getting on, Garth?’
‘Fine.’
‘Glad to be back in England?’
‘Yes.’
‘Found a job yet?’
‘No.’
‘Austin, please don’t drive so fast, Austin, please —’
Austin applied the brakes violently and the big car jerked, shrieked, bumped over something. Somebody screamed. Matthew, before his head struck the windscreen, had a vision of a little girl of about six in a pink dress running into the roadway after a ball. The car moved on quietly, stopped against the kerb, half slewed across the road, Matthew held his head. He looked back. The little girl was lying on the tarmac. Austin was holding the wheel and staring straight ahead as if he were in a trance.
Garth got out and Matthew follow
ed. He saw, very bright and clear, the dusty hot street, the child lying still with the sun shining on a bare arm, the texture of the pink dress, a trickle of blood increasing, a woman in an overall kneeling in the road. The woman was gasping, trying to scream with each gasp, trying, until someone stopped her, to lift up the child’s head.
Garth said, ‘We must telephone, get an ambulance and police.’
A number of people had collected and two other cars had stopped. It was a poorish street, a long wall with gates in it, several small terrace houses and a bomb site with a caravan. Garth said, ‘There’s a telephone box —’ Someone said, ‘I’ve already —’ The sun shone on trickling blood and a pink dress and things from which Matthew averted his eyes. There was no doubt that the child was dead. Someone had picked up the ball and was holding it helplessly in his hand. The woman was swaying and choking, wailing raucously, her mouth wide open and dripping. A man who had come out from the caravan sat down on the pavement with his back against the wall.
Austin was standing behind Matthew. Garth was talking to a man at the telephone box. There was the sound of a siren in the distance. Matthew held his head with both hands. Something was blazing just above his eyes. He said to people standing nearby, ‘The child ran in front of the car.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘Yes, it wasn’t their fault.’
‘The child ran out.’
‘The car was travelling too fast.’
‘Matthew,’ said Austin over Matthew’s shoulder, ‘will you say that you were driving?’
‘What?’ said Matthew.
‘Will you say that you were driving? You’re sober. It wasn’t our fault. No one can say that it was our fault. You’re sober. Do you understand?’
Garth came back. ‘They’ve telephoned for everybody.’
‘Matthew, will you say that you were driving? Do you understand me?’
Someone had taken charge of the woman and led her back to the pavement. The child lay alone, no one near her now. The blood had made a sticky pool in the gutter. The woman sat on the kerb, sobbing now. Two women, passers-by, were crying too.
‘My little girl, oh my little girl — It wasn’t their fault. She ran out. It wasn’t their fault. It was my fault, my fault —’
‘Be quiet, Mary,’ said the man who was sitting against the wall.
Someone said, ‘Are you the child’s parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘My little girl, my darling, oh my darling —’
‘I can’t stand this,’ said someone.
‘It wasn’t their fault.’
‘The car was travelling too fast.’
‘But the child ran out.’
‘It could happen to anyone.’
‘Matthew,’ said Austin. ‘I’m not sober and you are. Will you please please say that you were driving? No one saw. It wasn’t our fault, was it, it really wasn’t our fault. Will you say that you were driving?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Matthew, ‘I can’t.’ He went and sat down on the pavement with his back against the wall, near to the child’s father. His head was on fire. Perhaps his skull was broken. If only that awful sobbing would stop.
Ambulance men were stooping over the poor remains in the road. The man who was holding the ball had put it down in the gutter where the blood had reached it. Austin, pale faced and shuddering, was talking to the police. Matthew fainted.
Dearest Hester,
have you heard the absolutely awful news? Austin Gibson Grey, driving Matthew’s car, ran over a child and killed it. A little girl, about six, Matthew said. Isn’t it ghastly? Apparently the child ran straight under the car, it wasn’t Austin’s fault. But how terrible, imagine it, I suppose it could happen to any of us. I just don’t think I could live with myself after a thing like that, could you? Imagine facing the child’s parents. An only child too apparently. I am so sorry for Austin — and one can’t help feeling it would happen to him. Matthew got a nasty crack on the head hitting the windscreen and has been under the doctor. Oh dear, I can’t think of anything but poor Austin, I must write to him, and I’m sure he’d be glad if you wrote too.
On brighter topics, we’ve fixed the wedding for August 18 after all, as Ludwig will be busy in Oxford from September, and I do hope you and Charles won’t be abroad then. They’ve been offered a college house, which will solve the accommodation problem for the moment, but I do rather see them in the country. There are such lovely Cotswold houses near Oxford. Remember the lovely one Richard Pargeter bought after his second marriage and then they were divorced before the central heating had been installed? Is it true by the way that he’s taking out Karen Arbuthnot? I should think he’s old enough to be her father! Anyway, I rather fancy Gracie as the Lady of the Manor. It’s nice to have a rich child! ! Let me know when you’ll be in town, I’ve found a new Italian restaurant, scruffy but delicious. Are you coming to the opening of Mollie’s boutique?
With love
Clara
PS. When will Sebastian know about his exam? Do write to Austin. Isn’t it awful?
Dear Patrick,
I send this by the hand of Williamson minor to say that no I will not see you this evening. After our talk at the pavilion, which I should have thought made the situation abundantly clear, it seems to me pointless to continue arguing. I know you want to because even argument with the beloved object is something gained. But for the beloved object himself it is just a bore. I am sorry that my reaction seemed to you to be, to use your own words, ‘mindlessly conventional’. It is not, actually, convention but psychosomatic instinct which is in question. I enjoyed your company before your curious declaration because you seemed to me to possess an interesting mind. Now that you have, by your own volition, drawn my attention to your hair, eyes, nose, breath, complexion, patchy signs of incipient whisker, in short, and I use the word in a general sense, to your sex, I cannot feel the same unmixed interest which I felt when I conversed freely with what I could take to be an unembodied intelligence. Moreover I now have no inclination to continue colloquies into which you have obviously entered, recently at any rate if not at first, with ulterior motives. Be man enough to see the point and get over this absurdity. And meanwhile keep out of the way and for Christ’s sake keep your mouth shut and don’t make spaniel’s eyes at me in chapel. I presume you do not want to figure in my life merely as a pest. Excuse this rather peremptory manner, but I am older than you and know a good deal more of the world. In case it might help the healing process I may as well tell you that I am in love with a girl. And let us both shut up about this matter as from now. Sorry.
Ralph
My dear Ludwig,
your mother and I have talked the matter over again with Mr Livingstone and he thinks that your wisest course is to plead total conscientious objection. With our religious background, and with Mr Livingstone’s backing, which he promises to give, there is every chance that this would be allowed. What your legal situation would then be in relation to the draft I am not sure, and whether you would be required to do some other form of national service might depend on the view of your case taken by the tribunal. I am making further enquiries about this aspect of the matter, and also about what legal assistance we shall require to contract for. I am afraid it may be an expensive business, and possibly a lengthy one, and should be set in train at once. I suggest that you write to the military authorities, whose address I trust you have retained, today, and inform them that you have only just received the documents, that you propose to return to the United States forthwith, and that you are a total conscientious objector. (Do not use the word ‘pacifist’ which has some unfortunate connotations.) Emphasize that your objections are ‘religious in origin’. Mr Livingstone thought that this would be a judicious phrase. If by any chance you have not retained the address of the military authorities, send me a cable and I will ascertain its details. It is important to get these right. Any suggestion of slovenl
iness on your part at this stage could give the wrong impression and damage your chances. Act please on this advice today, as delay could be most hazardous.
About what you term your engagement, your mother and I have mixed feelings. We want above all things your happiness, and we are sure that Miss Tisbourne is a charming girl. You are possibly a little young to consider marriage. Moreover your immediate future is, to say the least, uncertain. We are glad to know that you did not learn of the young lady’s fortune before you courted her, though we are in any case aware that you are above any mercenary motive. We trust that she and her family knew of your initial ignorance of her circumstances. (When you say that ‘her family are very good’, do you mean that they are ‘high society’?) As I say, we are concerned above all for your happiness and we beg you in this matter to make no definite plans for the present. The young lady looks very young, scarcely more than a schoolgirl, and this is not, as I am sure you will on reflection agree, the moment for you to take on the responsibility of a young wife. Also, and quite in general, your mother and I feel dismay at the prospect of your marrying an English girl. This is not a matter of racial prejudice, but of geography. You speak, it seems to us rather lightly, of our all being united ‘in Europe’. Is this the wish of Miss Tisbourne and her family that you express here? As we have told you, your mother and I have no wish to uproot ourselves at our age and no inclination to return to part of the world which has for us only the unhappiest of associations. Please consider carefully what you feel to be your duty in this respect. You will in any case have to return to this country for some time to sort out your position in relation to the authorities. My advice is that you should explain the whole matter frankly to Miss Tisbourne, if you have not done so already, and explain that you cannot in the circumstances make any definite matrimonial plans. In the farther future, when you have made yourself right with the authorities, Miss Tisbourne and her family might be pleased to come over here and present themselves to us, and this would also be the occasion of a proof of the longevity of your mutual affections. Meanwhile please do not enter into any definite arrangement. You must also of course inform the Oxford College that you cannot at present take up your appointment with them. It is flattering that you should have obtained this honour. You might in the circumstances suggest to them a visit of a year’s duration perhaps in several years’ time. We are surprised in fact that the college should appoint you, having regard to your anomalous position in relation to the United States government. Possibly they are ignorant of it? It is, I need hardly tell you, your duty to inform them of it fully, and when you have done so there is little doubt but that they will advise you to return to your own country at once.
