by Iris Murdoch
‘If only Stella were here,’ said Gabriel, as she spread out a large tartan rug, ‘it would be — ’ she was going to say ‘perfect’, only honesty compelled her to realize that no such picture with Brian in it could be perfect - ‘so nice.’
Stella, who had not reappeared, was now said, in terms of a rumour which probably had no sounder foundation than the one that pronounced her dead, to be staying with friends in London.
‘Stella hated this jamboree as much as I do,’ said Brian, kicking a stone. ‘And if we must come I fail to see why we have to have those bloody outsiders.’
The persons gathered, now scattered, upon the windy sunny beach were as follows: Brian, Gabriel, Adam and Zed, Alex and Ruby, George, Tom and Emma, and Hattie and Pearl. Alex had prompted Tom to bring Emma. Tom, who loved the occasion, would have come anyway, and the two ‘idle louts’ as Brian called them, had evidently found no difficulty in escaping from their university work in London. Gabriel had also, to Brian’s disgust, invited Hattie and Pearl, encountering them one day at the Baths. She did this partly out of benevolence to one generally agreed to be a waif, partly out of a sort of motherly possessiveness which she had enouraged herself to develop about Hattie and which had so far found no other expression, and partly out of an obsessive irritated envy and curiosity which she felt about the fortunate tenant of the coveted Slipper House. Anyway, there they all were.
The Brian McCaffreys had driven themselves, together with Tom and Emma, in Brian’s old Austin. Pearl had driven Hattie in a hired Volkswagen. (The girls had never been allowed to have a car of their own, but Pearl had learnt to drive in America where they were occasionally permitted to hire a car.) Alex had driven George and Ruby in William Eastcote’s Rover, which William always pressed her to borrow whenever she needed it. (It had never for some reason been ‘the thing’ to invite the Eastcotes, William, Anthea, and when she was alive, Rose, to join this family occasion.) The cars were parked on a track at the upper end of the long sheep-dotted yellow field of wiry wind-combed grass down which they had walked to the sea. The grass ended in a wire fence through which one crawled on to the dark rocks, easy to descend, which fringed the beach all along. The beach itself was gritty, the coarse sand mingling with small pebbles, and the dark raggedy rocks began again seawards, covered with golden brown seaweed and extensively visible at low tide.
Various ‘camps’ had been established and sheltered spots for undressing ‘bagged’. Gabriel had undone her corded bales well out in the middle of the sand, as she never bothered about hiding to undress. Alex and Ruby occupied a little cave-like recess in the landward rocks which was traditionally theirs. Hattie and Pearl had walked away shyly along the beach and evidently found a similar retreat, since they were no longer to be seen. Tom and Emma had carried their kit to a summit of the landward rocks where the serrated tops surrounding a hollow composed a citadel. Adam and Zed had of course run down to the sea whose distant wavelets they were approaching by slithering over the seaweedy rocks, with many pauses to inspect the exciting pools. George, isolated upon a low rock which reared itself some distance away in the midst of the sand, was sitting and gazing at the sea. Further away along the coast, one topmost corner of Maryville could just be seen above the rocks which rose at that point almost to the dignity of cliffs.
A prompt start had been made and it was still early in the day. The usual procedure (‘usual procedures’ are sacred upon such family occasions) was that there should first be swimming, organized from the separate camps, then sunbathing, should that be feasible, and strolling about, then drinks (a ceremony especially sacred to Gabriel and Alex) with the company gathered together to form a ‘party’, then lunch, also taken more or less together as far as was convenient in terms of using rocks for seats and tables, then more strolling and wandering including sometimes a special short walk (not Brian’s walk) inland to a ruined manor house with a wild garden, then a second bathe for those who felt strong enough, then tea, then more drinks, then time to go home. It made a long day. Ruby and Gabriel ‘did’ all the food (Gabriel loved doing this) and Gabriel and Alex provided all the drinks. On this occasion Gabriel had packed the extra rations for the visitors (outsiders), Emma, Hattie and Pearl.
Since a little time has passed, some explanation is necessary concerning the present state of the parties. The university term had started and Tom and Emma had officially removed themselves to their digs in King’s Cross. However, the young Osmores were prolonging their stay in America, and Tom McCaffrey was to be seen at Travancore Avenue oftener, it was said, than was consistent with strict attention to his studies. Of course many Ennistonians now, with the improved rail link, commuted daily to work in London, but it was agreed to be a tiring and time-consuming journey. However that might be, Tom, and sometimes Emma, tended to appear at weekends. Tom had a reason for these sojourns in his native town since he had become involved in the production of The Triumph of Aphrodite which was to be performed in June, with assistance from the Arts Council. Tom now, in fact, figured as coauthor with Gideon Parke, having learnt to imitate the style of the eighteenth-century poet, providing yards of handy additional stuff which was rumoured to be ‘better than the original’. This included a charming extra song for the boy (Olivia Newbold’s younger brother Simon) who was, on the advice of Jonathan Treece (formerly choir master at St Paul’s, now organist at an Oxford College), to sing the jester’s part designed for the undiscoverable countertenor. During rehearsals Tom inevitably saw a good deal of Anthea Eastcote and was to be seen walking with her about the town, thereby reviving old speculations and driving Hector Gaines more often than before to the contemplation of suicide.
Of course Tom had, even in the company of the agreeable Anthea, very odd secret thoughts in his head. In fact he was worrying and annoying himself into a frenzy. He thought he could actually see lines appearing on his forehead. The ridiculous misbegotten interview with Hattie had left a painful throbbing scar upon Tom’s soul. Tom was accustomed to an unscarred soul; an aspect of his cheerful temperament was indeed a calm modest sunny little self-satisfaction of which he allowed himself to be aware as harmless. He had had a poem accepted by a periodical, a real literary magazine, not a senseless rag like the Ennislone Gazette; but he noticed with horror that this success gave him less than the expected amount of pleasure. His pleasure was being stolen. He felt that he had done badly, he even suspected that he had behaved like a cad, a role in which he had never dreamt to see himself. At the same time the whole thing was hideously obscure and he couldn’t clearly make out how he had done what he ought not to have done, and even what it was that he had done. When he had discussed the matter with Emma, he had hung his head at his friend’s strictures without however receiving any enlightenment from him. Yes, perhaps he ought not to have agreed to Rozanov’s dotty idea, which he had seen in the light of an innocent lark. It had then seemed reasonable to go and see the girl, so as to satisfy the philosopher if for nothing else. The trouble (was that it?) was that the philosopher had not properly warned the girl, had perhaps even misled her, which was certainly not Tom’s fault. And she had been so cold and hostile from the start that he had been unable to get any grasp upon the situation. (‘You’re annoyed because you failed to charm her,’ said Emma.) Now there was a blot upon the world which Tom heartily wished to remove but could not; indeed it paralysed him. He considered writing a letter of apology to Hattie, but any letter he envisaged could be seen as a continuation of some unpardonable rudeness. He told himself that he ought to write to Rozanov and tell him that he had failed. But he hated the idea of writing this letter too. Would he really then have to affirm that he would never speak to the girl again? And now here she was, invited by tactless Gabriel to spoil the family picnic.
‘How soon can we go home?’ said Scarlett-Taylor, sitting beside Tom on their citadel rock.
‘Don’t be silly, you’ve got to enjoy yourself first.’
‘Swimming in this wind, in that choppy dark-green sea?’<
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‘It’ll make you feel wonderful. Look, there’s Maryville. You can just see the top window and the edge of the roof. I suppose you’ll say, no wonder Alex sold the place.’
‘No, I think this is all marvellous.’
‘Well then — ’
‘I just don’t want to swim. But I love this sort of coast. I love the rocks and the seaweed and that black-and-white-striped lighthouse and the gulls crying like that. It reminds me of Donegal. Only,’ he added, ‘Donegal is far far more beautiful.’ And Emma thought to himself how terribly sad it was that he could not love his native land or return to it with pleasure any more. And he thought how sad it was that he loved Tom, and yet that love could not go out and reach its object. It seemed to vaporize, to dissolve as at some invisible barrier. And he thought about his mother, to whom he had paid a guilty, scrappy two-day visit just before term began. And he thought about his singing teacher, Mr Hanway, and how he had not yet managed to tell him that he had decided to give up singing. And shall I really never sing again? he thought.
‘Look at old George sitting there and brooding. Whatever is he thinking, I wonder!’
‘Why has he come?’
‘To act lonely and misunderstood. Look at that pose.’
‘I want to talk to George,’ said Emma. ‘I want to have a long talk with him.’
‘You want to help him, everyone does, isn’t he lucky!’
‘Don’t you want to help him, don’t you love him?’
‘Oh, I suppose so, but what can love do if it can’t get in, wander round wailing?’
What indeed. ‘How I wish I hadn’t missed seeing Stella that day at Brian’s place.’
‘Yes, you just missed her. Stella’s strong, she’s stronger than any of us. And so beautiful - she’s like an Egyptian queen.’
‘But where is she?’
‘In London. Or gone back to her father in Tokyo is my guess.’
‘Isn’t it odd?’
‘Yes, but George and Stella have always been odd.’
‘Why, there’s Miss Meynell and Miss Scotney.’
‘How do you know the maid’s name?’
‘I heard it at the Baths.’
‘Good heavens, they’re starting to undress, they don’t know we’re up here and can see them, quick!’
Tom and Emma slithered down the side of the rock and ran away across the beach towards the water.
The drinks before lunch had been as follows: Gabriel had brought a gin and fresh orange juice mixture all cold in thermos flasks. Alex had brought two bottles of whisky and two soda syphons. Pearl had brought Coca-Cola. Yugoslav Riesling had been served with lunch. The food at lunch had been as follows: Gabriel’s ‘spread’ consisted of pate with oatmeal biscuits, Danish salami, slices of tongue, lettuce salad, tomato salad, watercress, new potatoes, rye bread with caraway seeds, cottage cheese, summer pudding and grapes. While Ruby provided ham sandwiches, egg sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, sausages, veal-and-ham pie, water biscuits, Cheddar cheese, Double Gloucester cheese, custard tarts and bananas. As Ruby and Gabriel never consulted each other about how much to bring, both made sure of feeding everybody, so there was plenty to eat. Emma achieved his ambition of having a conversation with George. He made a point of sitting near him and questioned him about the Ennistone Ring and the Museum. There was a general embarrassment (enjoyed by George) when Emma (who did not know of George’s exploit) expressed regret that the Museum’s unique collection of Roman glass, about which he had read, was not on display. Coughing by Brian and a kick from Tom then terminated the brief conversation. However, it had been a conversation and there had been a little perhaps absurd surprise at the spectacle of George behaving in a perfectly ordinary way. (Yet how did they expect him to behave?) George displayed no eccentricity except that, while answering Emma’s questions, he stared fixedly at Hattie. He had taken off his jacket and waistcoat, displaying a new plumpness. His round face looked pleased and calm, and his stare was benevolent though intense. Hattie, aware of it, averted her head. Before lunch Tom had politely asked Hattie if she did not find the sea cold, and she had politely answered that it was no colder than Maine. At lunch he had endeavoured to sit next to Hattie, but had been prevented, intentionally or not, by Pearl who, in the awkwardness of their sitting down on rocks and rugs, took the vacant place. Alex, looking slim and youthful in trousers and a brilliant blue beach shirt, her bushy peppery-salty hair gleaming in the sun, made herself agreeable to the girls, while being acutely conscious of George. Gabriel, also acutely conscious of George, could not help looking at him with a little smile which expressed, look how good he’s being. She even turned to Brian, indicating George’s splendidly normal behaviour with an approving nod. This annoyed both Brian and Tom.
‘Where have you been?’ said Alex to Ruby. ‘I’ve had to do all the clearing-up myself, everyone’s gone away.’
‘I went for a walk.’
‘A walk ? You don’t walk.’
‘I went to look at the house.’
‘Maryville? We don’t want them to think we’re spying! Please finish all this now. I’ve done most of it anyway.’
Alex walked away. She was quite suddenly feeling the most intense regret about having sold Maryville. She thought, I could have invited him there, a sort of house party, it would have made sense, he would have come. She had been so near to getting him in through the door of Belmont that time when he appeared with the bottles. What did they mean? She felt lonely and resentful on the empty beach and the sound of the sea made her think about death. She wanted to find George, but he had gone; everyone had gone. Looking to see the time, she found that her watch was no longer on her wrist; she must have dropped it somewhere. Moaning with vexation, she began to search the sand.
‘Where’s George?’ said Brian to Tom.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did Gabriel come with you?’
‘No, I haven’t seen her.’
Brian had walked along beside the rocks, the lighthouse way, not the Maryville way, with Adam and Zed. He thought Gabriel had set off that way, but she was not to be seen. He hurried back, leaving Adam and Zed on the beach near their camp, ‘Don’t swim until I come back,’ and then ran all the way to the ruined manor house. There was laughter in the garden, Tom, Hattie, Pearl and Emma, but no Gabriel. Brian thought, she’s somewhere with George. Puffing, he began to run back to the beach.
‘I want to sort of apologize,’ said Tom to Hattie. They were for a moment alone together in the wild garden, where the box hedges had grown into ragged monsters twelve feet high. Fragments of old paving, of statues and urns and balustrades, lay about half-buried under grass and moss, and great prickly arches of roses run wild. A distant cuckoo chanted. Invisible larks were singing high above in the blinding blue air.
‘Why, there’s a hand!’ said Hattie. She detached a life-size stone hand from a tangle of brambles.
‘How beautiful, how strange.’
‘Would you like it?’
‘No, it’s yours.’
‘Is it marble?’
‘Limestone, I think.’
‘Why sort of?’
‘What?’
‘Why just “sort of” apologize?’
‘Why indeed. I want to apologize.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I don’t know how to do it — ’
‘Don’t then.’
‘I mean - I thought your grandfather had told you — ’
‘Told me what?’
‘That he wanted - well, that he wanted us to get married.’
Hattie was silent for a moment looking at the hand. Her hair, fuzzy from immersion in the sea, held at the back of her neck by a ribbon, swarmed down her back. She put the hand in the pocket of her dress (she was wearing her new summer dress from Anne Lapwing’s Boutique), but the hand was too heavy and the dress sagged. She took it out again.
‘All right. I regard you as having apologized.’
‘But — ’
&nbs
p; ‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.’
‘It sounds crazy, doesn’t it — ’
‘What does?’
‘What he wanted.’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean - he is a bit eccentric - things don’t happen like that, do they — ’
‘No.’
‘Will you tell him?’
‘Tell him what?’
‘That I visited you - that I - that I tried — ’
‘No. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s nothing whatever to do with me.’
‘Oh - all right — ’ said Tom unhappily. ‘I’ll write to him.’ He had hoped that his ‘apology’ would free him from guilt and the feeling, which Tom hated, that someone thought ill of him. But now it all seemed even worse. What a muddle.
‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time,’ said Emma. He and Pearl were alone together in another part of the garden where there was an overgrown lily-pond at the bottom of a broken flight of steps. The lilies had covered almost all the surface of the water. Just here and there, in dark-green windows, there was the quick golden flash of a huge orfe.
