by Iris Murdoch
Not least was Henry pleased with himself for his inspired resolution in simply and without preliminaries taking the girl to bed. It was so right. She had trembled in his arms as he undressed her, gazing at him with such a look of submissive gratitude in her round blue eyes that Henry himself had wanted to shout out with gratitude and joy. And when he had embraced that plump warm trembling body, those large breasts, he had been carried far beyond doubts. For the first time in his life he felt, without calculation, without thought, quite simply in the right place.
Afterwards they had had tea. Completely, strangely calm, as if he had known this woman for years, Henry lingered on. They talked now, easily, about every sort of thing and their conversation often had the triviality of a converse of old friends. She talked a little about her past, but reluctantly, and Henry did not press her. She was thirty-four, two years older than Henry. She talked a bit about the strip club, and how she was supposed to dance, only nobody taught her to dance, it was just assumed that all women could dance. Henry told her, in a rather muted and selective way, about the Hall, about his childhood, about America, even, with important omissions, about Russ and Bella. He held hands with Stephanie and they talked like confident children. He left her happily, unintensely. ‘You’ll come again soon?’ ‘Yes, I’ll telephone you, soon. Don’t worry.’ ‘I’m not worrying. Thank you, God bless you.’
Electric with physical vitality, rejuvenated Henry ran down the steps of the terraces, leaping the last flight onto the springy turf. He bounded away in the direction of the stables, and ran breathless onto the gravel underneath the clock. The sun was shining on the stable block, making the grey-blue slates, wet from last night’s rain, glisten dazzlingly. Henry noted that some slates needed replacing, then smiled at himself. He went into the loose box where the yellow Volvo was stabled, and lifted the bonnet and leaned for some time studying the engine with pleasure and satisfaction. Russ and Bella both drove cars but without any conception of engines. Henry had been the mechanic. However could they be managing without him?
In answer to their first letters Henry, unable to utter any serious statement, had sent them each a comically worded picture postcard. To Russ he had sent a card of the Post Office Tower. To Bella he had sent a coloured card of Laxlinden Hall which he had bought in the village. He wrote on the back: See ancestral home overleaf. Life here is, roughly, hell. Missing you, honey. Today replies had come from both. Russ had countered with a postcard of the St Louis Arch, and the message: Redbirds beat Braves. Wish you’d been there. When coming home? Bella had written a long letter. When can we come and stay? But, seriously, darling, if it’s hell, or even if it isn’t, come back to us soon, or you’ll have us worried … Henry was glad to hear from them, he was glad they loved him, glad that they existed, that they were there, establishing for him a refuge, another place. But he knew that he would not write to them properly until the next things in his life had been settled. He wondered, where shall I be this time next year? Back in Sperriton, coming home from the campus to Bella’s powerful martinis, telling them his day? It seemed, in its separated way, an image of innocent happiness.
Henry closed up the yellow Volvo and shut the door of its house and strolled away in the sunshine, now walking uphill, without crossing the stream, towards the greenhouse. This had been for him, as a child, a mysterious attractive slightly sinister palace, and as he approached it now his heart beat suddenly with old undeclared memories. The greenhouse was a large Victorian cast iron structure with a big central dome and two smaller supporting domes. Its glory had now mainly departed, the heating system was no more, the decorative tiles were cracked or missing, and much of the glass was broken at one end. Many of the plants and trees, put there by Henry’s grandfather and great grandfather, survived, however, grown into huge ragged forms, pressing against the roof, and on a sunny day perfuming the hot air with exotic smells: camellia, plumbago, bamboo, mimosa, oleander. Bellamy grew his tomatoes and early lettuces under one of the smaller domes and kept the whole place watered, but most of the greenhouse now simply ran wild. Gerda and Rhoda came in sometimes to pick flowers.
Henry entered with a sudden instinctive quietness, almost furtiveness, which must somehow have belonged to his youth. Perhaps he used to hide in here from Sandy, he could not recall. The sudden warmth and the peaty spicy smells made him gasp with memory. A particular smell among the others declared itself, animating a much earlier Henry. Azalea? No, crown imperial. He noiselessly closed the door and stood still. In front of him a vast camellia tree, glossy-leaved and covered with white flowers, rose in an arch, soaring to the roof and bowing to trail along the glass and droop its furthest branches down into a clump of big bamboo. The earth from which it rose was covered with a mauve-flowered aromatic herb whose smell now seemed to Henry dominant in the reminiscent medley. He moved forward, plucked some leaves from the herb and crumpled them beneath his nose. Then, with a little difficulty, he twisted off a camellia flower and put it in his buttonhole. The flowers were double, almost perfectly white, some with a flecking of pale pink in the centre, beneath the stamens. He walked a little, soft-footed, smelling, remembering. The sunlight was curtained on one side by a rampant passion flower which had crawled up the glass almost to the top of the central dome and was now already dotted with its weird pale green and purple blossoms. Henry looked up, seeing the small intent faces of the flowers above him. Then, in the green shade, he looked forward, under the curving plumes of the bamboo, and stood still, rigid with surprise, seeing a girl.
The girl, oblivious of him, was leaning intently over, her head and shoulders only visible through the foliage, her long hair largely obscuring her face, looking down at something below her. Henry, in another second, from something in the attitude, the hair, the curving cheek, recognized Colette Forbes. He felt pleasure, and stole quietly forward to surprise her.
When he was a few feet away she turned her head, saw him and smiled, but returned at once to what absorbed her. Henry saw that she was leaning over an old water tank filled with black glossy water which had been set into the midst of the plants to assist watering. Waterlilies grew at one end of it and its surface was scattered with a reddish water weed. Colette had put one hand into the water, and her hand was surrounded by a swarm of little bright goldfish with silvery bellies, who kept darting and wriggling around about her fingers, which showed a slight peaty brown underneath the surface.
‘They’re eating my fingers!’ said Colette, giving Henry her radiant twisted grin.
Henry examined the fish. ‘Can you feel them biting?’
‘Just a little. It tickles, it’s so nice.’
‘There usen’t to be fish in here. I wonder who put them in.’
‘Do you think they get enough to eat?’
‘Yes, I should think so. It’s become a sort of natural pool by now.’
‘It’s so pretty. The red water weed is enchanting. And the little fish are sweet.’ She drew out her hand and shook the water drops off it.
‘I note that you are trespassing again.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll think about it.’
‘I saw you dancing in the lane the other day.’
‘Why didn’t you come and dance with me?’
‘I thought it might be a private dance.’
Henry inspected Colette. The sun, speckling through the passion flowers, was tracing red and golden lights in her brown hair, and her face, after exposure to a few warm spring days, glowed with a creamier and more transparently youthful hue. She was wearing a summer dress underneath a rather shabby tweed coat.
‘You’ve grown into quite a handsome strapping girl in spite of the fact that you’re only ten and your mouth is much too big and your teeth don’t meet in the middle.’
‘You don’t look too bad either, in spite of being so small.’
‘Small?’
‘Yes. I’m taller than you.’
‘You’re not!’
‘You
r hair stands up more than mine.’
‘You’re wearing high heeled shoes.’
‘I’m not. Let’s measure then. Face me, and each of us look absolutely straight ahead. You’ll be looking at my mouth and I’ll be looking at your eyebrows.’
Henry looked straight ahead into Colette’s laughing brown eyes. ‘This is ridiculous. You’re thinner than me.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘It’s easier for you to stand up straight. And there’s more of me above the eyes than there is of you.’
‘That’s your hair.’
‘It isn’t, it’s my brain, I have more brain cells.’
‘No, you haven’t, you’re older than me, they disappear thousands a day after you’re twenty.’
‘Rubbish.’
There was a faint sound at the other end of the greenhouse. Colette suddenly turned and melted away like an animal into the light and shade of the overarching bamboo. Henry was after her like a flash, but when he got out of the door she was already some way off, bounding across the grass towards the drive. He walked after her and she waited for him on the gravel.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Bellamy came in. Anyway I’ve got to get home, I’m late.’
‘Which way are you going?’
‘Your way, over the gate, it’s quicker.’
They walked along past the stables and past the birch wood in the direction of the big yew hedge. A faint pearly mist covered the longer wetter grass and the budding birch trees emerged a brilliant green, dripping with light. A laburnum, drooping on the edge of the grove, made a streak of yellow against the blue and misty interior. The daffodils were over and the leaves were already becoming limp. Dark vigorous clumps of green betokened the early tulips, some of which were just coming into flower.
‘Those tulips are all yellow. I don’t like yellow tulips. They should be red and white.’
‘I’ll make a note of it.’
‘I like white flowers. Your yew hedge needs clipping. The statues are quite overgrown.’
‘I’ll make a note of that too.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The statues? Goddesses.’
‘They look rather creepy peering through the greenery.’
They came among the conifers and reached the gate. In a second, without halting, Colette had sprung up onto it and was lifting one long leg over the spikes at the top. The other leg swung over and she leapt to the ground on the far side. They looked at each other.
‘I must get this gate unlocked.’
‘No, don’t, it’s fun to climb.’
‘You’re younger, as you pointed out. Here’s a white flower for you.’ Henry took the camellia from his button hole and held it out to her through the bars. She snatched it, flourished it, and ran away down the road. Henry turned back smiling, then began to think about Stephanie Whitehouse.
He returned along the drive, kicking at the weeds as he went. When he came into sight of the house he saw with irritation his mother advancing towards him over the lawn. In the farther distance, Lucius, wearing his straw hat, was strolling back from the direction of the big trees. Henry hesitating, began to veer in order to avoid his mother, but it was too late.
‘Henry!’ Gerda was beaming. She was wearing an old macintosh and Wellingtons and carrying a flat basket on which lay a variety of clippings for one of her flower arrangements: chestnut buds, beech buds, cherry, a few of the tulips.
‘Hello, Mother.’
‘I saw you with Colette Forbes.’
‘Oh.’
‘How did she get out?’
‘Over the gate.’
‘I’ll get Bellamy to unlock it.’
‘I like it locked.’
‘It’s the quickest way to Pennwood.’
‘Who’s going to Pennwood?’
‘It’s so warm isn’t it, like summer. Let’s sit on the seat outside the drawing-room and sun ourselves, shall we?’
Henry followed his mother up to the terrace, where they walked round to the south side and sat down on an ancient teak seat against the wall of the house. The sun-baked ironstone exuded warmth and the little shell-fossils glittered in the bright light. Gazing down at the lake, Henry blinked into the sun.
‘I saw you looking at the yew hedge. I’m afraid it needs attention.’
‘I see the pleached limes have gone to hell too.’
‘Bellamy gets round as best he can. It’s not like in your father’s day. Henry—’
‘Yes.’
‘I did just want to say—how much I like Colette Forbes.’
‘She’s a scream.’
‘She’s a thoroughly nice girl, it’s a thoroughly nice family.’
‘Except that her father’s a coarse bullying swine.’
‘Henry, no! He’s an excellent sincere person. And her brother’s your best friend.’
‘My best friend is a man called Russell Fischer.’
‘Well, Cato is an old friend, and old friends are important, aren’t they?’
Frowning down towards the valley Henry saw in the distance straw-hatted Lucius coming into view again, strolling now in the direction of the lake. ‘Like him,’ he said.
‘Like—oh, like Lucius—I’m getting so short-sighted.’
‘Is he your lover?’
Gerda, who had been holding the basket of cuttings on her knee, put it down abruptly on the stones. ‘Henry, don’t use that tone to me.’
‘I’m sorry about the tone. I trust you don’t mind the question—’
‘I object to the question too.’
‘I think I have a right to ask it. I’ll explain why—’
‘My relations with Lucius are nothing to do with you.’
‘He lives in my house.’
‘Henry, you are being very rude and unkind.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother, I don’t intend to be.’
‘I think you do intend to be. You’ve been sulky and rude ever since you came back, I simply can’t imagine why, we’ve made you welcome—’
‘It’s just this “we” that I object to, Mother. Do try and understand.’
‘Since you ask in this gross way, no, of course Lucius isn’t my lover, and never has been!’
‘Yes, well, I assumed that, I just wanted to be sure. Just an old friend—’
‘Not even that, Lucius is a pathetic dependent, he’s somebody who can’t look after himself and has to be looked after, he’s like a demanding child, I can’t tell you what a burden and a nuisance he’s been to me. My lover indeed!’
‘Thank you Mother. That was just what I wanted to know.’
‘As if I’d have a lover at my age.’
‘I don’t see why not, you’re still quite a good-looking woman.’
‘Quite a good-looking woman! Yes, Colette was asking me the other day if anyone had ever told me I was beautiful!’
‘I think that was rather forward of her.’
‘I assure you, I do not think of myself in any such light, nothing is more distasteful than an elderly woman who acts young and wants to be in the limelight all the time. And let me tell you that the sooner I can retire and get rid of the responsibility of running this house the better I shall be pleased.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say that—’
‘It’s time you were married, Henry. When you bring a young bride to the Hall I shall hand over all the arrangements to the two of you and retire absolutely into the background. And let me say now frankly that I think Colette Forbes would make you a very good wife.’
‘Oh—oh—’ said Henry, shifting on the seat, still keeping his narrowed gaze fixed on the distant Lucius who was now walking slowly back in the direction of the house. ‘I see. I’ve been rather slow-witted. That’s what it was all about. I’m afraid it never occurred to me. And looking for the Marshalson Rose—’
‘Did you find it?’
‘No.’
‘I think that Colette would be ideal, she’s a good gir
l, she’s young and charming, and healthy—’
‘Oh awfully healthy. But I’m sorry to disappoint you, dear Mother—I am already engaged to be married to somebody else.’
Gerda moved away, turning towards her son. ‘Not—an American?’
‘No, an English girl. Her name is Stephanie Whitehouse. She’s a prostitute.’ Henry laughed wildly.
‘You’re not serious,’ said Gerda, after a pause. She was stiff, her hands thrust deep into her macintosh pockets, her legs in their muddy boots sturdily apart. Her dark eyes glowed fiercely. Henry moved a little further away. ‘Don’t laugh now,’ said Gerda.
‘I’m not laughing,’ said Henry, glaring back. ‘Listen, Mother.’
‘Please don’t joke about this.’
‘I’m not. This girl Stephanie Whitehouse was Sandy’s mistress for years, she’s a tart, he kept her in a London flat. You didn’t know, did you?’
‘No,’ said Gerda. She looked away.
‘Well, naturally not. Sandy kept her dark. In fact she’s rather a marvellous person. And I love her.’
‘But you can’t—you must have only just met her—’
‘Yes. But a lot has happened. One can be certain. Sandy treated her like a—’
‘Like what she is,’ said Gerda, ‘according to you.’ She was looking away into the distance, rigid with the attempt of self-control.
‘I’m sorry, Mother. I can’t help bringing Sandy into it. Because of him I felt responsible. And then it all became so much more important—’
‘You have been behaving like a perfect fool. There is such a thing as depravity. This woman is after your money.’
‘Oddly enough,’ said Henry, ‘I don’t think there is such a thing as depravity. And there won’t be any money.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t imagine that you’re really serious. I think you’ve simply been affected—in some strange way—by this woman’s connection with Sandy. You always used to copy what Sandy did. I suppose she’s totally uneducated.’
