by Iris Murdoch
‘He’s been inspecting the property, he’s going to renovate the cottages at Dimmerstone—’
‘When is he going back to America?’
‘He isn’t, he’s going to—’
‘Lucius, you can’t mean what you said about Marxism. Any rational scheme for social justice—’
‘By the way, is it true that you’re going to build on the Oak Meadow?’
‘I haven’t the money, if I had I’d build twenty houses like a shot. The housing shortage in the village—’
‘So you aren’t going to build?’
‘The housing shortage in the village is nothing short of heartbreaking—Bellamy was telling me—’
‘But to come back to Colette—’
‘Housing is the chief social problem today—’
‘Has she got a boy friend!’
‘How many rooms are there up at the Hall? Twenty, thirty?’
‘I was just wondering if Colette had a boy friend.’
‘Colette! How do I know? I’m only her father.’
‘Not engaged or anything?’
‘They don’t get engaged these days, they just get pregnant.’
‘By the way, Gerda sends her love to Colette and—’
‘Lucius, what is all this? Does Gerda want to buy the Oak Meadow back?’
‘No, no—’
‘Because if she does—’
‘No, she just sends her love to Colette and hopes to see her up at the Hall, and you of course—’
‘Gerda must be getting softening of the brain. Lucius, why don’t you come round sometimes? I must set you right about Socialism, or won’t Gerda let you?’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘I hate seeing you being that bloody woman’s pet, any man of spirit would have cleared out long ago.’
‘It just happens that we love each other!’
‘Fiddlesticks! Married people love each other, they have to, they grow together. You and Gerda have been living for years on a stale old fag end of a sentimental friendship which was only an illusion anyway even at the start.’
‘You can’t speak about other people’s lives in that way, you don’t know—’
‘Christ, I saw it, I saw you falling in love with Gerda, it was like a bad film!’
‘Of course you thought you had the perfect marriage and everyone else is living in a bad dream—’
‘You shut up about my marriage. You encouraged Gerda to laugh at Ruth, you said she was a blue stocking—’
‘I didn’t—’
‘I won’t let you speak about Ruth, I won’t have her name in your mouth or in the mouth of that snobbish bitch you sponge upon.’
‘I didn’t say anything about Ruth—’
‘You did, you implied—’
Colette came in. She had undone her hair, which just combed, flowed neatly down her back. She had changed into a billowing ankle-length dress of lilac-coloured cotton. She came in quickly, like someone bringing a message.
Lucius and John rose.
‘You look like Athena on our tapestry,’ said Lucius.
‘You mean Gerda’s tapestry. Colette, for God’s sake keep your skirt out of the electric fire! What have you changed for? There isn’t a party.’
‘Gerda sends you her love and hopes—’
‘Colette, I forbid you to go near those bloody people, not that you would anyway. Look, Lucius, I’m sorry, one must be rational and not quarrel, I apologize, do come here and let’s talk now and then, but just don’t bedevil me with her ladyship and that weed Henry, the mere thought if them makes me want to spew!’
Safe at home later, beside a warm log fire, Lucius had been interrogated.
‘So he’s not going to build on the Oak Meadow?’
‘No.’
‘And she’s not engaged or anything?’
‘No, free as a bird.’
‘And they were friendly?’
‘Oh very.’
‘You gave them all my good wishes and so on?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And they seemed pleased?’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘Those Quakers have their heads screwed on all right. John Forbes was off the mark like a flash when he got wind of the meadow being for sale.’
‘Mind you, they’re proud people.’
‘Oh I’ll be tactful, I’ll invite the girl to—’
‘Better wait a bit, it doesn’t do to be too eager—’
‘Perhaps Henry could—Anyway as far as you could see they were interested, that’s good, you have done well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lucius.
Henry came in in search of brandy. His presence during dinner had precluded discussion.
‘Henry dear, why don’t you ask Colette Forbes over for a game of tennis?’
‘I can’t play tennis.’
‘I thought you might have learnt in America.’
‘I didn’t.’ Henry went out, slamming the door.
John Forbes, going to bed, said to his daughter. ‘What the hell was all that in aid of, Lucius Lamb coming round like that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Colette.
‘It beats me. Perhaps he’s decided to escape at last. I ought to have been more sympathetic.’
‘I saw your kestrel again,’ said Henry.
‘Oh, you came that way,’ said Cato.
‘The waste land is rather dramatic, you get all sorts of views. What are they going to build?’
‘A luxury hotel.’
‘Well, I suppose people need hotel rooms.’
‘They need cheap hotel rooms.’
‘I wasn’t sure if I’d find you still here.’
‘You nearly didn’t. I’m going tomorrow.’
‘Where to?’
‘To stay with a priest, Father Graddock. I’ll give you the address.’
Cato had been putting off seeing Brendan until he had thought out his position. Now suddenly, in what seemed to him a merciful collapse into weakness, he had decided to put off considering his position until after he had seen Brendan. Did he then want Brendan to influence him, to say, stay with God, go on loving Beautiful Joe? These ideas now constituted, for Cato, the sum total of heaven: if he could only continue inside his religion and learn from it how to keep that boy near him without somehow destroying them both. He had packed his suitcase. He had summoned Joe to say good-bye. He was not yet sure how he would say it; a short good-bye, a casual good-bye, a portentous good-bye? Cato felt that there was something hard and clear which he ought to say to Joe if he could only find the words. It seemed to him now that their conversation was always the same, always a sort of self-indulgent emotional sparring match, which in some deep subtle way was being organized by Joe. If he could only break through to some kind of real directness, to some kind of truth with the boy. Cato did not fail to notice that the prospect of this ‘break through’ also filled him with self-indulgent emotion, and he wondered how much he ought to, or wanted to, tell Brendan about it. However, he was relieved to be able to feel that nothing could be decided until later on, and also that his good-bye to Beautiful Joe was in no danger of being a final one. The thought that later in the evening he would see the boy again made him, and he did not attempt to evade the knowledge of this, physically disturbed and crazily happy.
Perhaps I should relax more, accept it all, wondered Cato; and then wondered if he were only thinking this because tomorrow he would be safe with Brendan. He also noticed that, in the great metaphysical crisis of his life, he was now thinking more about Beautiful Joe than about God. Was that too because he felt that, soon, Brendan would tell him about God, that Brendan was keeping his God safe for him, unhurt by dangerous thoughts? Or was it, more deeply, that in all these troubles he still inevitably, trustfully, and after all without doubt believed in God, knew Him as the ground of his being, and turned to Him for light upon the very thoughts which threatened His existence? Who am I to think about God, wondered Cato. Lord, I believe, help
Thou mine unbelief.
Henry had arrived unexpectedly while Cato was packing. He was glad to see his friend, but he felt tired and preoccupied and unready to respond to Henry’s evident programme of talking a lot about himself. Henry, he noticed, treated him, with a naïve and touching trust, as a priest, that is as one who has no problems of his own and is unweariedly prepared to give his whole attention to others.
‘I’m sorry this place is closing,’ said Henry. ‘I’d have liked it here. I warn you, you are soon going to have an atheistical lay helper following you around.’
‘You mean you? Don’t be silly. Anyway, I don’t know where I shall be. I don’t even know if I’ll still be a priest.’
‘Now, Cato, you are not to lose your faith just when I need it! I can’t believe in God, but you can do it for me, that’s what priests are for.’ Henry was clearly unwilling to discuss Cato’s difficulty or even to think it existed.
‘That’s not a bad idea of a priest,’ said Cato, ‘but I may not be up to it.’
‘What happened to that boy, the pretty one with the glasses and the girlie hair?’
‘Oh, going to the devil in his own way. He spotted you as a gentleman.’
‘Discerning child. Cato, you must help that boy. That’s just the sort of work I’d like to do, rescuing delinquents.’
‘It’s not easy. He said you were the sort of gentleman who gets thrills from villains.’
‘He’s been reading a psychology book. Anyway I’m glad America hasn’t altogether declassed me. But you’re not going to leave this sort of work and enter a monastery, are you? You’ll have another set-up like this one?’
‘Maybe. But what about yourself? What have you been up to since you got home?’
‘I’m going to tell you,’ said Henry. He added, ‘Oh, I saw Colette.’
‘Did you? Did you call at Pennwood?’
‘No, of course not. Your father always scared the pants off me, he’s got such a loud voice. I met her—in the village. She’s quite grown-up, isn’t she.’
‘Yes, she’s a big girl now.’
‘It’s funny being back. All the old rituals still go on, I mean we don’t exactly dress for dinner, but it’s like that. It all goes on, only it’s all dead, dead as a door nail.’
‘I expect your mother’s relying on you to make it alive again.’
‘I can’t.’
‘After all it isn’t long since—’
‘I can’t play Sandy’s part.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of your playing Sandy’s part. Of course you’ll do it differently—’
‘Ah. So you think I’ll do it?’
‘Why not? You’re not planning to go back to America, are you? You were talking just now about coming to help me. But perhaps you weren’t serious?’
Henry did not reply to this. They were sitting in the bare upstairs room, Henry on the bed, Cato on the chair. It was evening, and Cato had just turned on the light, to reveal Henry’s small alert face. Henry was clearly in some sort of state of excitement, tangling the small curls of his dark hair into little frizzy balls with nervous fingers, his bright restless eyes darting quick glances at Cato. He seemed half solemn, half inclined to giggle.
‘Cato, did you see much of Sandy, while I was away, I mean?’
‘No, I hardly saw him at all.’
‘You didn’t see him in London, or—meet any of his friends—or anything?’
‘I ran into him at Laxlinden in the village now and then. I asked him to dinner once in London. But look, Henry, I wasn’t suggesting you should just become the country squire. You’re financially independent now, you can go on writing your book on that painter chap I’d never heard of—’
‘I may chuck that.’
‘Well, a book or something, you’re an academic type—’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Or you could do some teaching, if you want to handle delinquents, after all they’re everywhere these days. That would make a lot more sense than following me about as you put it.’
‘I need you in the picture, Cato, I need you.’
‘What picture? You seem quite excited. Of course you needn’t spend all your time down at the Hall. Your mother can run it, I suspect that she did most of the work when Sandy was around. You could live in London, Paris, anywhere. But you may as well, even if it’s only to please your mother, take an intelligent interest in the place. After all it’s got to go on.’
‘Has it?’ said Henry.
‘If you want to change the ritual—What did you say?’
‘I said, “has it?” Has it got to go on?’
‘Well, hasn’t it?’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘And what’s more, Cato—it’s not going to.’
‘But Henry, what—?’
‘I’m going to sell,’ said Henry.
‘To sell—what—?’
‘I’m going to sell the whole thing, lock, stock and barrel, the Hall, the park, the cottages, the farms, the lot. Everything.’
Henry was staring directly at Cato now, his eyes glaring with brightness, his lips trembling with a subdued smile.
Cato hitched up his cassock and crossed his legs. ‘Look, Henry, you’re not serious.’
‘Why not? What makes you think I’m not serious? Look at me. Don’t I look serious?’
‘You look crazy.’
‘It’s going to happen, Cato, and it’s going to happen very soon, just as quick as I can fix it. It’s my property. Property can be sold. They sold the Oak Meadow to pay for an expensive toy which Sandy wanted in a hurry.’
‘But—why be so extreme—why be so hasty—?’
‘You’re surprised!’
‘You want me to be surprised. Yes, I’m surprised—if you really mean it. But whatever does your mother think?’
‘I haven’t told her yet,’ said Henry. He laughed shrilly and threw himself back on the bed for a moment, then resumed his attitude, leaning forward and staring at Cato with bright expectant eyes.
Cato looked into the animated impish face. ‘Look, Henry, just sober up. You can’t do this.’
‘You mean legally? Of course I can. An estate isn’t an heirloom. I’ve gone into the whole thing with Merriman. I swore him to secrecy. I think he’s going to have a nervous breakdown.’
‘I don’t mean legally, I mean morally. It would kill your mother.’
‘I was waiting for you to say that. It won’t you know.’
‘But you mean—sell everything—sell the whole place—where would your mother live?’
‘Oh I’ve thought that all out. You know we own Dimmerstone. Well, there are two derelict cottages there which could be made into quite a nice little house, there’d even be a decent garden.’
‘You can’t expect your mother to leave the Hall and go and live in a cottage at Dimmerstone.’
‘Two cottages. Why not? Why not?’
‘Well—she’d be miserable, she’d die of shame.’
‘Shame? Shouldn’t she feel shame to be living in a big empty house when people are homeless? Isn’t what you’ve just said topsy turvey?’
‘I’m not saying what she ought to feel, I’m saying what she’d feel. And then there’s Lucius—’
‘Is there?’
‘Where’s he to go? Is he to live with her in the little house?’
‘Look, Cato, I don’t care a fuck where Lucius goes. When I’ve told my mother all about this I’m going to give Lucius a pretty strong hint to take himself off. He’s sponged on her long enough, and she’s fed up with him. He drinks, and he shouts at her, and she shouts back. I’ve heard them at it having screaming matches.’
‘People can have screaming matches and love each other.’
‘You’re not suggesting my mother cares for that old charlatan? Don’t let’s talk about Lucius or I shall start getting angry. She’ll be jolly relieved when I boot Lucius out.’
‘But what’ll she live on?’
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‘She’s got a perfectly good annuity of her own, quite enough to keep her in comfort in Dimmerstone. After all, she’s old now, she’s had her life. She’s wearing herself out trying to keep that ridiculous place going, she’s always working in the house or the garden. It’s about time she retired and sat still.’
‘That may not be the way she sees it. But, Henry, you can’t—I mean, what are you going to do—just sell it all anyhow, to anybody?’
‘Not quite. I thought at first I might develop the place myself and make it into a model town—’
‘A model town?’
‘But it would be too difficult and I don’t really see myself as Maecenas, what I want is negative action. I don’t want to go on and on being absorbed in the place and making decisions and having responsibilities and so on, that would just feed my sense of property. I want to get absolutely rid of it all and be free. I’m going to split it up into lots. The bit round the lake would go with the Hall, and the Hall could make some sort of institution, like a school or a training college. I’d sell the farms to the farmers who lease them and the Dimmerstone cottages to the local labourers. Then the upper park on the Laxlinden side could be a housing estate for the village. There’s that young architect chap Gosling who built those council houses near the motorway, he would do a good job—’
‘But wait, stop—I can see that you might want to help the village, in fact you ought to help the village, and sell the cottages cheap to the people who want them and so on—but why rush into selling everything? Besides, what happens next? There you are with a lot of money instead of a lot of land, what will you do with the money?’
‘Give it away.’
‘Who to?’
‘Anyone. To the Laxlinden Rural District Council, to Shelter, to Oxfam, to the National Art Collections Fund, to you, to that boy with the golden hair—’
‘To me?’
‘Yes, to finance your next mission, or whatever it’s called. Why not? You could use money, couldn’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Can’t you see that I just want to get rid of it all?’
‘All right, and may be you should get rid of plenty of it and do some good, but I don’t think you ought to sell the house and—’
‘Why ever not? What value are you defending here? Because bloody Marshalsons have lived at the Hall ever since—?’
