A Word Child

by Iris Murdoch

  Some boys were flying kites, racing along, trying to persuade strange bird-like structures to rise, to lift themselves mysteriously into the air, to tug, to be checked, to rise again, to float, to soar, until they should become high colourless spots and then vanish into the yellow sky which must after all be composed of mist. Excited dogs with sensitive spotted noses gambolled upon the glaringly green grass, mad with canine joys. Large and small beasts raced and circled in an ecstasy of motion, stopping abruptly to perform those intimate free-masonical ceremonies whereby alsatians, mastiffs, terriers, chihuahuas and pekinese all somehow recognize each other as dogs.

  We admired the cunning speed of the model yachts, their owners swinging round the pond in dignified absorption to catch their vessels on the other side, adjust their sails and send them off again. We watched the diving ducks diving, and the swans swanning and the Canadian geese driving in convoy, groaning softly with excitement as they approached some bread-bestowing child. We watched an old man feeding sparrows, the tiny birds hovering like little frenzied helicopters above his fingers. We saw the beautiful feet of coots through green transparent water. Tommy laughed with happiness and squeezed my arm. I laughed too. We sat down on a wet bench. A collie ran up and thrust its warm firm muzzle into Tommy’s hand.

  I felt extraordinary. I was being kind to Tommy because I could not afford to quarrel with her just then, could not spare the energy for any irrelevant difference of opinion with the dear child, for instance about trivial questions such as whether or not we were going to get married. The idea of this marriage had now become utterly flimsy and unreal. The dreadful light cast by Lady Kitty’s letter had made a new world, or perhaps it was an old world, a primeval world, a world in any case which had never heard of Thomasina Uhlmeister or of the man who had lain in bed with her on Wednesday night.

  On the way to the Round Pond I had taken Tommy roundabout by way of the Serpentine Bridge and had inspected the place where I was to meet Lady Kitty on Monday morning. Of course I felt frightened about this meeting, but also felt, so strangely, a sort of deep calm, the almost confident calm which had accompanied me into sleep on the previous night. I was now in an interim wherein all power of action had been taken from me. I was paralysed and waiting, like a fly stung by a spider, only I was a cool resigned fly, almost without anxiety, so taken over was I by this sudden new power which had entered my life. I had been conscripted, I was under orders. Later of course I would have to make judgments, face dangers, take risks, decide and choose. But in the pure blessed interval between now and Monday there was absolutely nothing I could do but fold my hands and wait. Pray perhaps, not even hope, not even speculate, but wait. I almost wished the time was longer. I felt calm, vigorous and in an obscure way tremendously changed. My bright paralysed serenity communicated itself to Tommy. She interpreted it as my brave resignation to the idea of becoming her husband (this was plausible though wrong) and with her intelligent tact she refrained from putting any sort of pressure upon me. In our crazy separated ways we were almost happy, able at any rate to enjoy the kites, the boats, the dogs, the birds.

  ‘Collies are so clever.’

  ‘Are they, Tomkins?’

  ‘I think they love us more than any other dog does.’

  ‘Is that a sign of intelligence?’

  ‘They communicate, they understand.’

  ‘Do they, Thomas?’

  ‘In Scotland you can see the collie dog on one hillside collecting up the sheep and the shepherd a mile away on the other hillside directing the dog by whistling.’

  ‘Is that what you can see in Scotland, Thomasina?’

  ‘You’re teasing me, Hilary! Isn’t he, collie dog?’

  It was Saturday evening and I had just arrived at Crystal’s place. The evening had brought the light brown fog nuzzling down out of the air, not as thick as last night, but gently smudging lights and outlines, smelling of soot and burning, not unpleasant. I shook my overcoat and laid it out on Crystal’s bed. Her little electric fire, kept on all day, had made the room quite warm. The sewing machine was in its usual place upon the floor, looking like a good dog. The table was laid, the lace cloth spotless.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘Yes, yes — and you?’

  ‘Fine. What’s for supper?’

  ‘Sausages and mashed and beans and blackberry and apple pie and custard.’

  ‘Oh good.’ I opened the Spanish burgundy.

  My enchanted Round Pond mood had undergone some modification under the gloomy challenge of the afternoon. The sheer fright I had felt in the Sloane Square Station bar had returned, the possible torture of a frustrated hope. The notion of any hope here was terrible. What could I possibly hope for? This morning I had felt almost complacent because I imagined that Lady Kitty would tell me what to do and see to it that I succeeded. Now this seemed ridiculous. Lady Kitty was some sort of blind gambler, and she was gambling with me. At least she was proposing to do so. During the afternoon (lying on my bed, alone) I had been thinking about Gunnar. About that house in north Oxford. About Tristram. About the car crash. About how wonderfully kind Gunnar had been to me. About the day when he and Anne brought the champagne. About when I saw him in hospital. About things that must not be thought about.

  I tried to distract my mind by wondering whether I was really going to marry Tommy, and if so whether I ought to tell Crystal so this evening. I thought now in a resigned will-less sort of way that I might conceivably marry Tommy. I did sort of love Tommy. Our little time at the Round Pond had been for me a time of sort of love. And her absolute love for me was perhaps a gift not to be thrown away; just as Arthur’s absolute love for Crystal was a gift not to be thrown away. Thus it is with some marriages and not necessarily bad ones either. Perhaps some sort of contentment might come to me somehow some day if I married little Tommy and let her try to cure my soul? I felt, as I walked through the light fog towards North End Road, tired and sad, distracted for a while from the afternoon’s dread and the fear of Monday, and resolved at last to speak to Crystal about Tommy and about our possible, probable, marriage. Perhaps Crystal was waiting for this, perhaps it would relieve her mind and make her feel happier in her own choice; and if so it was for this reason worth doing. How terribly sad I felt about it now. However it did not after all matter very much to me what I did with myself.

  I poured out a glass of the still rather chilly burgundy. Then I saw that Crystal was crying. A large tear had come from each eye, failed to make it over the plump curve of the cheek and rolled away on either side towards the ear. Two more tears followed.

  ‘Oh my darling, what is it?’

  Crystal quickly dispersed the tears, then went into the little kitchen and turned off the gas under the potatoes. I went after her, terrified. For a moment her face had expressed the most awful helpless grief.

  ‘Crystal, what is it? What is it, my darling girl?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s perfectly all right. I’m so sorry, I’m just being silly.’

  ‘What is it, tell me? Look come back in here and sit down.’

  ‘Don’t sit on your wet coat, dear.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘It’s just that — I’ve broken things off with Arthur.’

  ‘Oh God — ’

  We sat at the table looking at each other. Crystal took her glasses off. More tears came out of her golden eyes and tried to go down her cheeks, but she mopped them away.

  I thought, why? I thought, Clifford Larr. Had I not, in some rotten secret cranny of my soul, been hoping for just this? Clifford had decided, casually, cynically, to prevent the marriage. He had thought that he could do so by moving his little finger and he had been right. I felt distress, disgust, anger. I wondered if I should say what I thought or keep silent. I had to know, the anger was so much. I said, ‘Dear heart, did Clifford do this? Did he write to you, come to see you?’

  ‘No, no — it’s nothing to do with him.’

  ‘He didn’t write or come
or telephone or anything?’

  ‘No, no, no!’

  I wondered if that was true. ‘Then why? I thought you’d decided, I thought you wanted it, I thought you’d be happy.’

  ‘No, it’s just — I’m so sorry — I feel I’m being stupid and awful — I just felt it wouldn’t do.’

  ‘But why, why did you change your mind, has anything happened to change your mind?’

  ‘No, nothing, just my thoughts.’

  ‘You haven’t quarrelled with Arthur?’

  ‘No, we never quarrel.’

  ‘But what in your thoughts, why?’

  ‘Please don’t be angry — ’

  ‘I’m not! You’ve told him?’

  ‘Yes, I wrote him a letter. You see, I was never really sure about it, there were so many things — ’

  ‘It’s not for me, you haven’t broken it off because of me, because of not wanting to leave me alone?’ Oh God, ought I now to tell her about Tommy? What was I to do?

  ‘No, no, it’s not that at all. I just — it’s in my own self — I can’t get married, it’s too late — I’m an old maid already — I’m a happy happy old maid — ’ Now tears were everywhere, soaking her cheeks.

  I pushed my chair up against hers and got her into my arms. ‘Oh my Crystal baby, my love.’ She laid her head on my shoulder and I stroked her funny frizzy hair.

  ‘You always said we were babes in the wood.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, yes.’ How lost, in what a wood. ‘Oh, Crystal, I do so much want you to be happy, I do so blame myself, I’ve wrecked your life, I know I have — ’

  ‘No, you haven’t, I love you, and if I can help you and be with you sometimes then I’m perfectly happy.’

  ‘Over and over like a mighty sea comes the love of Crystal rolling over me.’

  Later on we calmed down and ate the sausages and mashed and I let myself feel profound disgraceful relief at Crystal’s decision. We did not discuss Arthur or Gunnar or Tommy and of course I said nothing about Lady Kitty. We talked a lot about the old days, about the caravan and Aunt Bill and about Christmas times when we were children. And I promised to take Crystal to see the decorations in Regent Street.

  I came up in the lift, which had been mended. It was not late. I had left Crystal before ten. She had become quite calm and almost, in her curious way, radiant. The tears had left her dear face quite bright. And her love for me glowed out of it as it had always done through the long long years. I wondered and wondered what it was that had made her draw back. Perhaps, after all, it was just her sense that, for her happiness, she could love no one but me? Was it indeed perhaps her intuitive identification with me, her sense of my tribulation, and her desire to clear the decks so as to help me in my coming trial? She must feel that with Gunnar’s return I was in some way imperilled. And with me in trouble how could she think of Arthur? Or rather, with me in trouble did she not discover how little she really cared for him?

  In the dreary dull electric light of the landing someone was standing outside the door of my flat. My heart sank into my boots. It was Arthur.

  ‘Oh hello, Arthur. No one at home?’

  ‘I didn’t ring. I knew you were with — her — ’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring, you dolt? Why stand on the landing?’

  ‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance — ’

  I opened the door and we went in.

  Christopher came out of his room, looking very beautiful in a new dragon-embroidered dressing gown. ‘I say, Hilary, Laura was here and — Oh hello, Arthur.’

  Thank God I had missed Laura anyway. ‘Did you get those candles?’

  ‘Oh God, I forgot again, I’m so sorry! Can I make you some — ?’

  ‘No, just buzz off. And don’t start any bloody music.’

  I went into my bedroom and Arthur followed me and we both sat down on the bed. Arthur began to cry.

  ‘Oh Arthur, stop, I’ve had such a day — ’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll change her mind?’

  ‘How do I know? No, I shouldn’t think so.’ And as I saw him sitting there, his silly face all red and wet, I felt very sorry for him, but I also felt thank God that’s not going to be my brother-in-law.

  ‘Sorry, have you got a handkerchief? I don’t seem to have one.’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘If I only knew why. If there was anything I could change, I’d do anything. I’d make myself a different person — ’

  ‘One can’t. Change is impossible. If one is rejected it’s no good wearing a different hat.’

  ‘Do you think there’s someone else?’

  The handsome sardonic face of Clifford Larr rose again before me. No, surely that was impossible. ‘No.’

  ‘She wrote me such a funny letter, would you like to see it?’ He thrust it into my hand — a piece of paper over which, upon widely spaced lines, Crystal’s schoolgirl writing straggled.

  Dear Arthur, it cannot be, I cannot marry you, it is no good, I am no good, I am a person who cannot marry, there are such things in my life as make it not rite, I am so sorry. Please do not come agen, I am sorry, for my sake do not, I must be alone now, I am so sorry. With loving thoughts, yours Crystal.

  I shuddered at this missive which I had not been fast enough to prevent idiotic Arthur from showing me. What an odd little letter. But really there was no mystery. I had been a fool ever to imagine that Crystal would marry. Thank God that scare was over. I felt very exasperated with Arthur for the trouble he had caused us both.

  ‘What can I do to change myself — ’ Arthur was going drearily on.

  ‘Shave off your moustache.’

  ‘Do you mean — ?’

  ‘Oh go away, Arthur, and stop crying. We’ve all got things to cry about. Don’t you think I could drown the world with tears if I started on my own woes? You’re all right. Crystal’s a dotty girl anyway. You’ve had a lucky escape. For God’s sake find yourself some normal dolly bird and get yourself a washing machine and a budgerigar.’

  The lights went out abruptly. I pushed Arthur, still sniffing, to the door. I waited a moment and heard him falling down the stairs. I went to bed and to sleep.

  MONDAY

  IT WAS Monday morning. Sunday had been different again from Saturday. On Sunday I was simply in a sick state of anxiety and fear, as before an exam. The huge shapes of Lady Kitty, even of Gunnar, became luridly indistinct, as if something awful were shining upon me from behind them. I wished intensely that Monday morning could be over without anything catastrophic having happened, while at the same time I could not imagine what its ‘being over’ could possibly be like. I apprehended with vague dread that I would be tried and found wanting, or even that I was being decoyed into a trap. I anticipated some sort of débâcle which would literally drive me mad. I did not see how I could possibly behave like a rational being, not choke or faint. I of course imagined that I would oversleep and miss Lady Kitty and never ever manage to see her again. I went to three cinemas on Sunday and could remember nothing about what I had seen. I awoke at five on Monday. At seven I was walking about the park. It was now five to eight.

  The sun was just rising, perhaps just risen, but had made little impression upon the scene. A hazy pall of dusk still hung over the park and the street lamps were on upon the road that crossed the bridge. It was a cold quiet morning and a grey mist rising from the lake added its veil to the dim roadway. I had already made the circuit of the area on the north of the bridge about twelve times. I had walked westward on the path beyond the Magazine, back as far as Rotten Row, down to the water on the eastern side, back across the car park, onto the bridge, back and off again towards the magazine. The place was not entirely deserted. A few cars were passing and occasionally figures loomed up out of the mist, peered at me and went by.

  I was feeling sick with anxiety and terror as if I might actually have to vomit in the gutter. I regretted terribly that I had destroyed Lady Kitty’s letter
as now doubts assailed me about the time and place of the meeting. Perhaps it was not today, perhaps it was not here. Perhaps it was all a sort of dream anyway. No one would come, I would never see Biscuit again, never hear again from Lady Kitty. The air was intensely cold. I had dressed with modest care, allowing myself an overcoat and scarf but no cap or gloves. The omission of the cap was certainly a mistake. The chill mist seemed already to have soaked me through, laying down a penetrating film of waterdrops upon my coat, my face, my hair. Even my hands in my pockets were wet and cold. I knew that I must be looking terrible, red-nosed and bedraggled and frozen. I tried to warm my nose in my hands. It was impossible. I had no handkerchief. My quick breath was pumping clouds of steam out of dripping nostrils. I took off my scarf and could almost wring the water out of it. Then it seemed too wet to put on again and I held it helplessly in my hand.