by Iris Murdoch
The school was a very expensive rather progressive rather old-fashioned boarding school. It was progressive in its political and social ideas, old-fashioned in its discipline and academic standards. Hattie had been a pupil there for five years, during which time her American accent had been overlaid by a very different English one. She had crossed the Atlantic more times than she could remember. She had wanted a pony, then ceased to want one. She had worn a gold band on her teeth, then ceased to wear it. She had plaited her hair in a pigtail, then put it up. She had passed a number of exams. At night she slept curled up with her hands crossed over her breasts. She was very unhappy but she did not recognize what ailed her as unhappiness.
Tomorrow she would have her hair washed by Miss Adkin, who came on Saturdays to wash the girls’ hair. This hair-washing was a ‘funny time’, which Hattie could not decide about; many things at school were like that. Miss Adkin established herself in one of the bathrooms, and the girls, dressed in their pretty dressing-gowns, queued, always laughing a lot; for some reason hair-washing was ridiculous and somehow thrilling. Miss Adkin was a rather jokey lady but looked like a priestess, as if she might suddenly have produced a pair of shears and cut off all the girls’ hair instead of washing it. Her customers sat in turn with their heads over the bath, and Miss Adkin sprayed on hot water, soaped, sprayed, soaped and sprayed and soaped again, while the semi- Inaudible client complained that the water was too hot and the soap was getting in her eyes. Most of the girls had long hair, and there was something strange and shocking in the sudden transformation of dry fluffy tresses into long dark snakes swirling about in the water that kept rising in the bath, while Miss Adkin’s strong claw-like fingers searched each bowed and suppliant scalp. Then a warm white furry towel was wrapped around each damp head and the turbaned victim ran red-faced and giggling away. Hattie disliked having her hair washed, but it excited her.
Beside each bed there was a chest of drawers, and on these the junior girls were allowed to place only three personal objects. Senior girls could please themselves so long as decorum was observed. Make-up was of course forbidden, as was jewellery and anything suggestive of display. Hattie had few possessions. On her chest there was a brown china rabbit scratching its ear, which had come up with her through the school, and which she could not bear to put away though other girls derided it; there was a long sleek Eskimo seal made of black soapstone, and a little pink-and-white Japanese vase (into which she never put flowers as that was not allowed). The dormitory was a weird place, though not terrible like the big dormitories in which, as a younger girl, she had cried herself to sleep every night. The stairs and landings, which were blurred by her little weeping ghost, stained by her tears, had always been strange haunted spaces to her, as if already removed into the brown haze of the past. Was it her future sadness which made the place so dim and foggy? It was hard to believe that soon she would be leaving it forever.
Hattie, though thin and pale, was very healthy and hardy, good at games and gymnastics. She was a pale straight girl, neither tall nor small, with long straight white-blond hair and blue eyes of a disconcerting pallor, as if they had great blobs of creamy whiteness mixed into the blue. Her father, Whit Meynell, had had an Icelandic mother. Hattie had never met her father’s parents. Her mother had died when she was a small child. After that she travelled with her father during his academic peregrinations. Whit Meynell was a sociologist; he had got into an intellectual muddle early on in life and never managed to get out. No one would publish his book, however many times he rewrote it. He was a loving though extremely fretful and anxious and inefficient father. He set up his tents in various different universities, from all of which he was soon tactfully evicted. He never achieved ‘tenure’. His frightful anxieties about the future were mercifully ended by a fatal (entirely accidental) motor crash. Hattie was ten.
After that, Hattie went to live for a time with her aunt, Whit Meynell’s younger sister, who lived in a small town called Westfield, original home of the Meynells, situated in a woody desolation beside a muddy lake not far from Austin, Texas. Hattie missed her father agonizingly and wept longer than anyone thought at all proper. She got on quite well with Whit’s sister Margot, but the arrangement only lasted a couple of years because Margot, who was unmarried, driven by a sudden and interesting desperation, decided to go and seek her fortune in New York, and could not see how to include Hattie in this enterprise. Margot wrote to this effect to Hattie’s only other visible relative, John Robert Rozanov. John Robert had of course ‘turned up’ in Hattie’s life at intervals. He had never got on well with Hattie’s mother, Amy, though he maintained the forms of communication. Whit he could not stand and was at pains not to see. (There were kinds of intellectual muddle so degrading that John Robert preferred not to be reminded of their existence.) If he was ‘giving a paper’ anywhere near where Hattie’s house happened to be, he would occasionally come and take the child out to tea. These ‘treats’ were rather glum, since Hattie, who heard no good of her grandfather at home, was frightened of him, and both of them were thoroughly awkward. Here too, however, the proprieties were observed, and John Robert replied promptly to Margot’s letter. His idea was that the best way now to dispose of Hattie was to put her in an English boarding school. (He had made himself financially responsible for the child since Whit’s death.) He expressed the wish that Margot might ‘have’ her in the holidays. Hattie was by now twelve. The holidays were at first a jumbled business, with Hattie dispatched to France or Germany to stay with strange families, on arrangements made by the school in accordance with John Robert’s wishes, then whisked across the Atlantic to live in rooms near Margot’s flat, since Margot’s way of life could not just then be shared with an innocent young girl. Margot had by this time got as far towards New York as Denver, Colorado, where she finally married a Jewish lawyer called Albert Markowitz, and was able to establish a respectable home to which Hattie could come, but that was a little later.
Meanwhile something unusual, even odd, had happened in Hattie’s life. An idea had germinated in the brilliant, but (in worldly matters) rather naïve and confused mind of John Robert. Perhaps he felt a bit guilty about having been inattentive, and wished to defend himself against a charge of wilful neglect. Perhaps he wanted simply to save himself the trouble of organizing and supervising Hattie’s movements round the world. Whatever the reason, he decided that Hattie must have a permanent female companion, a person who in the old days could have been called her ‘maid’. And in order to find such a person John Robert came back to Ennistone. He wanted an English girl, he needed advice, he did not want to waste time on the operation. He arrived and established himself (at the Ennistone Royal Hotel, 16 Hare Lane being let at the time). He had written beforehand to William Eastcote (Rose Eastcote was already dead) but Eastcote happened to be away at a Friends’ conference in Geneva. The only other person in Ennistone whom he cared to trust in this matter was Ruby Doyle. John Robert had conceived, not exactly an affection, but a kind of respect for Ruby in the old Linda Brent days when Ruby, then young but looking much the same, had been so discreetly helpful. There was a kind of monumental thing- In- Itselfness about Ruby which pleased the philosopher. Ruby, scarcely capable of speech, was incapable of lies. He felt that Ruby would do the few things that she could do without fuss and without the interference of any messy general ideas. She also knew how to keep her mouth shut. John Robert, by nature secretive, did not want his project discussed in Ennistone. He wrote to Ruby and summoned her to the hotel. Ruby could not read or write but, so I am told, she took the letter to the gipsy camp. She certainly said nothing to Alex. When John Robert had explained what he wanted, Ruby responded promptly and without emotion that she had a connection, a cousin, who was now unemployed and who might suit the professor. How exactly the young woman in question (Pearl Scotney, she was called) was related to Ruby, and to Diane, was a matter of speculation. Some said they were all half-sisters, probably none of them knew for certain. Ruby b
ore, she said, her father’s surname, Pearl bore her unmarried, abandoned, mother’s name, and Diane had borne her unmarried, abandoned, mother’s name (Davis) until her marriage with the disastrous Sedley. It might even have been that the connection between them had been originally suggested by their being called Pearl, Ruby and Diamond. John Robert interviewed Pearl in London and decided that she would do. He gave her an airline ticket to Denver and instructions about where to find Hattie. He also wrote to Margot, who was surprised, annoyed and relieved. Pearl arrived and found Hattie spending her first summer holidays in a dim flatlet in the large complex where Margot lived, and trying to do her holiday tasks while suffering from agonizing loneliness and chronic tears. Hattie was thirteen, Pearl was twenty-one.
John Robert had not, in conceiving his project, worked it out in any detail; he had not for instance wondered what Pearl was to do when Hattie was at school, and had to have this problem brought to his attention by Pearl. Pearl had no home in Ennistone, and in any case John Robert had made it clear that he did not want her to sojourn, perhaps talk, in his native town. It was decided that Pearl should continue to live where she had been living in north London and, when not in attendance upon Hattie, to continue if she wished her part-time secretarial work, without any diminution of the generous salary which John Robert paid her. Hattie’s boarding school was in Hertfordshire, and here it was also Pearl’s duty to visit her, and see she was contented and supplied with all that she needed.
This idea of John Robert’s, which might, for all the care or common sense that he exercised in setting it up, have proved disastrous, in fact turned out well. Hattie vividly recalled, and she and Pearl often talked it over later, Pearl’s first arrival in Denver. John Robert had sent Hattie a short note to tell her that he had engaged a ‘companion’ for her. Hattie tearfully anticipated the arrival of some gorgon. Pearl on her side was already beginning to regret what had at first seemed a miraculous adventure. What horrid neurotic little brat perhaps awaited her? Pearl went first to Margot’s flat, then to the nearby cubby-hole where Margot had stored Hattie. Hattie’s first sighting of Pearl was not reassuring. It could not exactly be said that Pearl resembled Ruby, yet there was something of Ruby’s ‘Mexican’ look in Pearl’s hard strong face. Pearl was lean with very dark brown straight hair and a sallow complexion and a thin nose which came straight down from her forehead and thin fierce lips. Her eyes were of the greenish light-brown colour known as hazel. She glared nervously at Hattie, and Hattie vanished into the dim haze of her frightened childish face. Then Pearl smiled, and then Hattie smiled. They both said later that they knew at once that it would be ‘all right’, although perhaps all that happened was that Hattie saw that Pearl was considerably younger than the person she expected (John Robert had failed to specify Pearl’s age) and Pearl saw that Hattie was timid and harmless.
Pearl Scotney, born in Ennistone, had grown up in London whither her unhappy mother had transferred her. Pearl could not remember her father. Her mother had followed Diane’s profession, only Pearl never told anyone this. She always said her mother was a dress-maker. The mother drank, then died. Pearl went to a foster home. Up to this time Pearl’s connection with her ‘family’ in Ennistone had consisted of ‘keeping in touch at Christmas’, at least Ruby and Diane sent Christmas cards; giving evidence that they knew Pearl existed and where she was. Pearl sent nothing. Her mother had wanted no family ties, no remembrances, no connection with her nightmarish past. Pearl’s foster-mother rather randomly initiated a rapprochement by writing to Ruby and Diane asking for money. Diane sent some. Ruby came to see the child and manifested some gruff affection. Ruby in fact would have liked to bring Pearl to Ennistone and install her at Belmont, only she could not think out how to suggest this to Alex. As soon as Pearl left school, her main aim in life was to get away from her foster-mother (the feeling was mutual) and Ruby found her a temporary job in Ennistone as a maid and child-minder with some visiting Americans. During this period Pearl taught herself typing (and spelling) and then became a secretary. She had some small messy love affairs and felt very confused and unhappy. However, she was able to earn her living and to begin to be, which she never thought as a child that she ever would be, a real person. She had an uneasy sort of relation with Ruby and Diane. Ruby was moodily affectionate, sometimes suddenly possessive, prompt in detecting rebuffs. Diane was (so Pearl thought) resentful, even envious of a sort of irresponsible independence which she attributed to the younger girl. So things had been going along when John Robert Rozanov interfered in the course of Pearl’s life. John Robert judged that Pearl Scotney ‘had her head screwed on’; and it appeared that John Robert was right.
Arrived in Denver, and after her relief at finding Hattie so harmless, Pearl was suddenly filled with power. Challenged by a rather peculiar situation, she took charge of it. She felt all of a sudden free, competent, and (she noticed one morning) very nearly happy. Being a very long way from London, and from Ennistone, helped too. She was in a germless void, and she loved every minute, though also telling herself that it would not last. The first thing was to tackle Margot Meynell. Hattie could wait, and did wait, silent with admiration. Margot, whose love life was in a delicate and complex state, viewed the newcomer with dismay. Margot had not told John Robert that Hattie was not living in her flat. She feared Pearl as a hostile informer and agent of a superior power. However, Pearl had a frank conference with Margot which made the latter feel much better. It was clear, said Pearl, that she and Hattie must find a considerably larger, considerably better flat. John Robert had said nothing about flats. Perhaps he had assumed that Margot would house both the girls. Perhaps he thought Pearl would arrange things as she thought best. Perhaps he had not reflected on the matter at all. Pearl, in her new role, wrote John Robert a ‘business letter’ over which she laboured long, saying that she thought that Hattie and herself should move into a flat near to Miss Meynell’s, as quarters were a bit cramped. This, without lying, implied that Hattie had been living with Margot (not that Pearl minded lying half as much as, for instance, Emmanuel Scarlett-Taylor did). John Robert, who was certainly not short of money, replied that he had opened an account for Pearl in a Denver bank and she was to do as she thought fit. After this Pearl took complete charge and Margot gratefully retired, though without forfeiting the allowance which John Robert continued to pay her.
After Pearl came, Hattie stopped hating Denver. The girls learnt to ski. (Pearl persuaded Margot to ski too, only she promptly broke her leg.) However there was now less of Denver and more of Europe. Pearl delivered Hattie to the ‘families’ or accompanied her to some of the better-known monuments and museums. Hattie could now speak French, German and Italian. Pearl had learnt no language at school and been taught no grammar. For a time she tried secretly, and in vain, to teach herself French. Then regretfully gave up. When they went sightseeing, Pearl had a simpler cause of unease; she was afraid that something might happen to Hattie. She did once lose her in Rome and had a terrible half-hour. Back in the USA there was travelling too. Sometimes John Robert came to Denver, sometimes the girls flew to see him in California, once to Boston where he was spending a semester, once to St Louis, more than once to New York. On these occasions they saw little of the philosopher, meetings being still rather in the ‘having tea’ style. John Robert would then question Hattie about her school studies and about where she had been and what she had done, but he would soon start looking at his watch. Once he asked her to read a passage of Racine. On these occasions John Robert was polite and grateful to Pearl but managed somehow (perhaps unconsciously) to mark the difference between the girls, who by now regarded each other as sisters. Hattie was ‘the mistress’, Pearl ‘the maid’. Pearl put this away in a package of resentment which however remained fairly small. Hattie and Pearl were both rather afraid of John Robert. But during his absences Hattie, at least when she was younger, did not trouble her head about him, whereas Pearl did.
Pearl was an employee, one whose employm
ent could be terminated. This fact which had not at first occupied Pearl’s attention much, or Hattie’s at all, now began to disturb them both. New feelings and understandings were bodying themselves forth in Hattie’s mind. Pearl had been a mother, then a sister. This had never seemed odd before. Why should it feel so now? Once at school Hattie overheard one of the mistresses, talking about her and Pearl, say, ‘It’s an unhealthy relationship.’ Hattie, in secret tears, had been hurt and puzzled. Pearl was an employee, a servant. John Robert had established her by fiat. He could remove her by fiat. And now Hattie was leaving school, that too had been decreed. She supposed there would be more travel, more museums, more and different teachers, the university. Soon she would be eighteen. She felt unready for this or indeed any other future. Had she a future? Or was the problem rather that she had nothing else, an excess of future, white and unmarked and blank? Her future. Could she own such a thing? One of the teachers talked about a crisis of identity. Hattie had no identity and nothing as creative as a crisis. She thought, I am nothing, I am a floating seed which a bird will soon eat. ‘Lives of great men all remind us we must make our lives sublime, and departing leave behind us footprints in the sands of time.’ So they sometimes sang in chapel, where Hattie had acquired some vague Anglicanism. The unprinted sand stretched ahead, making Hattie feel weary, weary, as if her life were already over. Her only positive feeling was a sense of her own innocence. She had not yet ‘become bad’ as so many people, as she knew, became. Evil, that too was part of the white blankness of the future.
