by Iris Murdoch
When he reached it he looked back. Already the high wall of the enclosure seemed far away. He reflected that he might yet have to return at a run. He faced the little door. The wall here was lower, but too high to see over. It disappeared into the shade of trees on either side; but there were no trees beyond the wall. The avenue ended at this point. Toby put his hand on the latch and took a deep breath. He pressed the latch down and the bar rose with a loud click. He pressed the door which groaned a little and began to open slowly. The noise alarmed him, but he went on pushing the door which opened onto a carpet of close-cut grass. He stepped through the opening and found himself in a cemetery.
The unexpectedness of the scene made Toby rigid in the doorway, his hand still on the door. He was in a green space enclosed by a rectangle of walls, within which there stretched neatly row after row of graves, each with a small white cross above it. A line of rather gaunt black cypresses against the sun-baked wall on the far side gave the place a strangely southern aspect. His alarm at the vision was hardly increased by seeing quite near to him two nuns who were apparently tending the graves. One of them had a pair of shears in her hand. A lawn mower stood by but had evidently not been in use or Toby would have heard it. Toby looked at the nuns and the nuns, who had straightened up from their labours at the sound of the opening gate, looked at Toby.
The nun with the shears laid down her tool and said something in a low voice to the second nun. Then she came towards Toby, her long habit sweeping the grass. Paralysed with shame and alarm he watched her approach.
When she was near enough for him to focus his distracted glance upon her face he saw that she was smiling. His hand dropped from the gate and he stepped back automatically out of the cemetery. She followed him, closing the gate behind her, and they faced each other in the alley.
‘Good morning,’ said the nun. ‘I believe you must be Toby. Have I guessed right?’
‘Yes,’ said Toby, hanging his head.
They began to walk slowly back together between the trees. ‘I thought so,’ said the nun. ‘Although we never meet, we seem to know each one of you, as if you were our dearest friends.’ The nun seemed quite at her ease. Toby was in an agony of embarrassment and alarm.
‘I expect our little cemetery gave you quite a surprise?’ said the nun.
‘It did!’ said Toby.
‘It’s a beautiful place, don’t you think?’ said the nun. ‘It’s so cosy and enclosed, rather like a dormitory I sometimes think. It’s nice to know that one will sleep there oneself one day.’
‘It’s beautiful, yes,’ said Toby, desperate.
They passed under a large cedar tree from whose spreading lower branches Toby noticed something hanging. It was a swing. Involuntarily he reached out his hand as he neared it and touched the rope.
‘It’s a fine swing,’ said the nun. Her voice was by now betraying her as Irish. ‘Why not try it? It would cheer the old swing up. We sometimes do ourselves.’
Toby hesitated. Then blushing violently he sat in the swing and urged himself several times to and fro. The nun stood by smiling.
Mumbling something Toby got out of the swing. He was ready to run, to dive into the ground. Averting his head he walked on beside the nun, who was still talking, until they reached the gate in the enclosure wall.
The nun opened the gate.
‘It wasn’t locked!’ said Toby with surprise.
‘Why, we never bother with locking the gates!’ said the nun. ‘I expect you enjoyed your climb. Young boys are forever climbing things.’ Beaming she swung the gate open. Toby stepped through and for a moment they looked at each other through the gateway. Toby felt he ought to apologize and struggled for the words.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I know I oughtn’t to have come in.’
‘Don’t be after worrying,’ said the nun. ‘They say that curiosity killed the cat, but I never believed it when I was your age. Besides, we have a special rule which says that children can sometimes come into the enclosure.’ She closed the gate between them and it seemed to Toby that her smile lingered on the outside of the gate for a second or two after it clicked shut. He turned to face the avenue.
All was silent. No one had seen his entry and no one had seen his ignominious exit. He began to run down the avenue, anxious to get as far away as possible from the dangerous and it now seemed to him even more impregnable enclosure. He felt ridiculous, humiliated, and ashamed. He ran with his head down saying, ‘Damn, damn, damn’ to himself as he went along.
He emerged panting into the open grassland by the drive, and as he crossed it he saw the Land-Rover come sweeping in through the gates. His heart had time to give one violent jump; but the next moment he saw that it was Mark Strafford and not Michael who was at the wheel.
When he saw Toby, Mark slowed down and called out, ‘Give you a lift? We’re nearly late for lunch.’
Toby climbed in beside Mark and tried, as they drove round towards the house, to make coherent replies to his remarks about the tiresomeness of people in the market at Cirencester. They stopped on the gravel in front of the steps and Mrs Mark at once came bustling up to them, asking her husband if he had remembered all the shopping.
Toby said to her, ‘You don’t happen to know where Dora is just now, do you?’
Mrs Mark turned her round shining face on him portentously. ‘You don’t know?’ she said. ‘Mrs Greefield has left us. She’s gone back to London.’
CHAPTER 14
DORA GREENFIELD WAS LYING IN BED. It was the morning of the same day. Paul had been making love to her. Now he was gone to his work. Dora had submitted to his love without enthusiasm, and after it she felt tired and unreal. Breakfast-time was past and there was no reason to get up now rather than later. She lay looking at the open window where a clear sky was once more displayed. She contemplated this depth of space, wondering whether to call it blue or grey. The sun must be shining and the sky must be blue, only since her room faced north and she could see nothing sun-lit from her bed, the colour eluded her. She pulled the bed-clothes more closely round her and lit a cigarette. It was a chilly morning all the same with an autumnal dampness in the air.
With Paul, nothing had gone right since he had made that little speech about Catherine. It was not that Dora was jealous, or that Paul was really infatuated with Catherine. It was just that Dora had then estimated, with a devastating exactness which was usually alien to her, how much of sheer contempt there was in Paul’s love; and always would be, she reflected, since she had few illusions about her ability to change herself. It did not occur to her to wonder if Paul might change, or indeed to hope from him anything at all. She felt his contempt as destructive of her, and his love, consequently, as unwelcome. Yet all the time, in a shy round-about way, she loved him herself, rather hopelessly and gloomily, as one might love someone to whom one had never spoken.
They had started quarrelling again. Dora had gone round to the parlours, several times, to look at Paul’s books; but, apart from one or two pictures, they seemed to her dull, and Paul exclaimed bitterly about boring her, which made it all the harder for her to show interest. She left him alone now during the day, and mooched about by herself, or else performed small tasks in the house under the direction of Mrs Mark. She felt herself watched. Everyone, she imagined, was covertly observing her to see if she was cheerful, to see if she was settling down again with her husband. She felt organized and shut in. Mrs Mark had now suggested three times that it would be a good idea if she had a talk with Mother Clare; and on the third occasion out of sheer inertia Dora had said perhaps she would sometime. Today, no doubt, Mrs Mark would try to pin her down to a definite appointment. Dora stubbed out her cigarette carefully on the back of a matchbox and began to get up.
On the way to the window she looked at herself in the tall mirror. She was wearing her blue nylon pyjamas which had been lost with the suitcase. She looked at herself gravely, wondering if she was really thinner, and whether cutting down on alcohol had im
proved her complexion. But she could not interest herself in what she saw or quite believe in it. She could not even focus her eyes properly upon the stupefied face of her image. She went on and leaned out of the window. The sun was shining, the lake was hard and full of reflections, the Norman tower presented to her one golden face and one receding into shadow. Dora had the odd feeling that all this was inside her head. There was no way of breaking into this scene, for it was all imaginary.
Rather startled at this feeling, she began to dress and tried to think about something practical. But the dazed feeling of unreality continued. It was as if her consciousness had eaten up its surroundings. Everything was now subjective. Even, she remembered, Paul this morning had been subjective. His love-making had been remote, like something that she imagined, like a half-waking fantasy, and not at all like an encounter with another real human being. Dora wondered if she was ill. Perhaps she ought to borrow Mark Strafford’s thermometer, to ask for something from the medicine chest. She went again to the window, and an idea occurred to her of trying somehow to break into the idle motionless scene. She thought that if she threw something very hard out of the window it would fall into the lake with a splash and disturb the reflections. She opened the window wider and looked for something to throw. The match-box was not heavy enough. She took her lipstick, and leaning well back, hurled it out. It vanished, falling presumably far short of the lake, somewhere in the long grass. Dora felt almost tearful.
It was then that she began to want to go to London. Since her arrival at Imber she had not for one second seriously contemplated leaving. But now, driven by this fit of solipsistic melancholy one degree more desperate, she felt the need of an act: and it seemed that there was only one act which she could perform, to take the train to London. The idea sent the blood rushing to Dora’s head. She felt her cheeks hot, her heart beating: at once more real. She put on her coat and examined her handbag. She had plenty of money. Nothing stopped her from going, she was free. She sat down on the bed.
Ought she to go? Paul would be very upset. But in fact her relations with Paul had been so wretched lately, they could hardly be worse, and she reflected vaguely that the shock might do him good. More deeply, she felt a wish to punish him. He had been, during the last two days, consistently unpleasant to her. Dora felt the need to show him that she could still act independently. She was not his slave. Yes, she would go: and the idea, now it existed more fully for her, was delightful. She would not stay long of course - perhaps not even overnight. She would make no drama of it. She would come back, jauntily, casually, almost at once. She needn’t plan that now. But what a tonic it would be for her - and what a slap in the face for Imber! She packed a small bag and set off unobtrusively on foot for the station, leaving a note saying ‘Gone to London’.
Dora had of course not troubled to inform herself about trains. It turned out, however, that she was lucky and no sooner had she arrived, rather breathless, at the station than a fast London train came in. She was amazed to find, when she stepped out onto the platform at Paddington, that it was not yet midday. She stood for a while and let the crowds course round her, delighting in the rush and jostling, the din of voices and trains, the smells of oil and steam and dirt, the grimy hurly-burly and kind, healing anonymity of London. Already she felt more herself. Then she went to a telephone box and rang Sally’s number. Sally, who was now teaching at a primary school, was at home at irregular times and might just be caught. But there was no answer. Dora felt both glad and sorry since she could now with a clearer conscience telephone Noel.
Noel was in. His voice over the wire sounded delighted, ecstatic. She must come to lunch, she must come round at once, the place was full of delicious things, he had no work that afternoon, nothing could be nicer. Overjoyed, Dora jumped into a taxi. She soon arrived at the house where Noel lived, a great cream-coloured early Victorian mansion with an immense portico in a tree-shaded cul-de-sac near the Brompton Road. Noel lived in the top flat.
The meeting was enthusiastic. Dora could hardly get through the door fast enough. She hurled herself into Noel’s arms. He swung her round, lifted her off her feet, threw her onto the sofa, and bounded about her like a large dog. They were laughing and talking at once at the tops of their voices. Dora was quite astounded at how pleased she was: ‘Gosh!’ she cried, ‘All that noise does me good.’
‘No wonder,’ said Noel, ‘after that ghastly convent. Let me look at you. Yes, paler, thinner. Dear darling, I am so glad to see you!’ He pulled her to her feet and kissed her boisterously.
Dora looked up at him. She touched his plain, irregular features, pulled his floppy colourless hair, and squeezed his enormous friendly hands. How very large he was. And my God, he was easy on the nerves. ‘Give me a drink,’ she commanded.
Noel’s flat was modern. A grey fitted carpet covered all the floors. White painted book-cases contained books on economics and foreign travel. Three walls were yellow and the fourth covered with a black and white paper that looked like a grove of bamboos. Everything was shining and very clean. A hi-fi gramophone in light walnut, piled high with a glossy litter of long-playing records, occupied one corner. The enormous divan was covered with a Welsh bedspread of geometrical design and garnished with innumerable cushions of different greens. The chairs were made of curly sagging steel and exquisitely comfortable. As she heard the chink of ice cubes and smelt the aroma of the lemons which Noel was slicing with a sharp knife Dora spread out her arms. Noel made her feel that it was no scandal to go on being young. She announced, ‘I’m going to have a bath.’
‘Darling, you do that small thing!’ said Noel. ‘I’ll bring you your drink in the bathroom. I suppose the sybaritic practice of bathing was forbidden at the convent.’
At Imber the immersion heater was turned on twice a week and a bath list, pinned to the notice board by Mrs Mark, made known the order of priority. Dora, who was only interested in baths as a luxury and not as a necessity had missed hers. Now in Noel’s pink and white bathroom she was running the steamy water, pouring in the odoriferous bath salts, and seeking in the airing cupboard for a warm and downy towel. She was already in when Noel arrived with the cocktail.
‘Now tell me all about it,’ said Noel, sitting on the edge of the bath. ‘Was it hell?’
‘It’s not too bad actually,’ said Dora. ‘I’m only up here for the day, you know. I felt I needed a change. All the people are nice. I haven’t seen any nuns yet, except one that lives outside. But there’s a horrible feeling of being watched and organized.’
‘How’s dear old Paul?’
‘He’s fine. Well, he’s been beastly to me for two days, but I expect that’s my fault.’
‘There you go!’ said Noel. ‘Why should everything be your fault? Some things are perhaps, but not every damn thing. The trouble with Paul is he’s jealous of your creative powers. As he can’t create anything himself he’s determined you shan’t.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Dora. ‘I haven’t any creative powers. And Paul’s terribly creative. Could you hold my glass and pass me the soap?’
‘Well, don’t let’s start on Paul,’ said Noel. ‘But about those religious folk. Don’t let them give you a bad conscience. People like that adore having a sense of sin and living in an atmosphere of emotion and self-abasement. You must be a great catch. The penitent wife and so forth. But don’t give in to them. Never forget, my darling, that what they believe just isn’t true.’
‘You’re drinking my drink!’ said Dora. ‘No, I suppose it isn’t true. But there’s something decent about them all the same.’
‘They may be nice,’ said Noel, ‘but they’re thoroughly misguided. No good comes in the end of untrue beliefs. There is no God and there is no judgement, except the judgement that each one of us makes for himself; and what that is is a private matter. Sometimes of course one has to interfere with people to stop them doing things one dislikes. But for Christ’s sake let their minds alone. I can’t stand complacent swine who
go around judging other people and making them feel cheap. If they want to wallow in a sense of unworthiness, let them; but when they interfere with their neighbours one ought positively to fight them!’
‘You sound quite passionate!’ said Dora. ‘Pass me the towel.’
‘Yes, I am a bit worked up,’ said Noel. ‘Don’t get cold, sweetie. I’ll make you another drink and put on my new long-player. It’s just that I hate to think of those people making you feel a miserable sinner when in fact it’s not all that much your fault at all. And the idea of old Paul playing the aggrieved and virtuous spouse makes me want to vomit. I wonder has that place got any news value. Potty communities are good for a feature. Shall I come and give it the once over?’
‘Oh dear no!’ said Dora, shocked. ‘You certainly mustn’t! They’re getting a new bell soon, the Abbey, that is, a big bell to hang in the tower, and I think there’ll be a statement to the press about that. But otherwise nothing happens at all and they’d be awfully upset if anyone came to write them up. They really are nice, Noel.’
‘Well, if you say so,’ said Noel. ‘Listen to this, angel.’
As Dora slipped into her clothes she heard the steady expectant beat of a drum. Then into the deep rhythmic sound were woven the unpremeditated and protesting cries of a clarinet and a trumpet. The beat, more insistent than ever, was hidden in the increasingly complex golden nostalgic din. The music flowered, rampageous, irresistible. Dora issued eagerly from the bathroom and joined Noel who was already pacing panther-like about the room. They began to dance, very slowly at first, solemn, holding each others’ eyes. Slight movements of head and hand and hip expressed their communion with the rhythm. Then their feet began to move faster, weaving a complicated pattern upon the carpet as Noel, moving to the beat, expelled the chairs and tables from the middle of the room. Then he reached out his hand to Dora, swung her towards him, tossed her away again, turned her and twirled her until she was a kaleidoscope of rippling skirts and flashing thighs and golden brown hair tumbled across the face.
