by Iris Murdoch
‘Oh totally. But so are you.’
Gerda pressed her lips together. She turned round to look at him again, her glowing eyes, so like his own, full of unshed tears. ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you, Henry.’
‘It is sometimes impossible not to quarrel. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t think you’re serious. If you are—it seems to me—that you are not following your heart, but following some sort of— plan of cruelty.’
‘You know nothing about my heart,’ said Henry. ‘You never did. You despised me and neglected me when I was a child.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Gerda softly. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She said. ‘Do you mean to say that you are going to bring that woman here?’
‘There won’t be any “here”.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mother, don’t scream or faint or anything. And don’t think I’m joking. I’m going to sell the place.’
‘Henry, what are you saying?’
‘Just this, Mother. I’m going to sell the Hall, the park, the cottages, and all the farm land. I do not want to be a landowner, I do not want to be an English country squire. I do not want to be a rich man. And I do not see why, out of piety to a tradition which I regard as stupid and wrong, I should sacrifice my life to these values, to these things. You’ve had your life here, Mother, and you’ve enjoyed it, at least I hope you have. I am not going to follow my grandfather and my father and Sandy. Why should I. I am a different person and I belong to a new age. Sandy belonged to the past. I don’t. If you reflect you will see, see that there is nothing very extraordinary in what I say. I can’t stay here and become a Sandy, even to please you. And if I go away, I’m still tied by these things, so long as they remain my property and my responsibility. To run away, to leave it to you, to leave it all to carry on as before, to keep this house, this useless land, all the money that lies behind it, as a sort of Marshalson mausoleum, would be not only frivolous but absolutely macabre. I didn’t want this to happen, I didn’t want to inherit the place, I didn’t choose this fate, but now it’s come about and I have to cope with it, I have to decide. Please don’t accuse me of cruelty or of doing it out of any funny thing about Sandy or—I’ve never been more serious or more rational in my life. Mother, it’s got to go, this way of life has got to go. When there are poor people and homeless people I can’t just sit on all this property and all this money. I’m going to disperse it, I’m going to give it away. I can’t live as you do. You care for trees and plants more than for people. Forgive me, I know it’s a shock. But in a little while you’ll see I’m right, or at least you’ll understand—’
Gerda showed no signs of screaming or fainting. There were no tears now. She sat turned towards him, looking at him intently. With her wide nostrils expanded, her large face red, her shabby macintosh collar turned up about her hair, she looked suddenly strong and brutish, like a man. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘this is not going to happen.’
‘It is, Mother. Sorry. It’s all planned. I’ve been into it with Merriman—’
‘With Merriman?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I had to ask him to keep it a secret. The whole estate can probably be on the market in a matter of weeks. Of course I shall make arrangements for you. I am having two of the Dimmerstone cottages made into a little house, it’ll be very nice and there’s quite a good garden. I shall give Bellamy his cottage and sell the others. You’ll be comfortable in Dimmerstone, and it’ll be away from the housing estate—’
‘The housing estate?’
‘Yes. I’m going to give the upper parkland on the Laxlinden side to the rural district council, on condition they build a model architect-designed council estate, in fact Giles Gosling has come up with a splendid plan, all faced with local stone—’
‘I don’t think I want to hear about that,’ said Gerda.
‘I don’t want the place to be spoilt—’
Breathing hard, almost panting, but controlled, Gerda had turned away. She gazed down at her boots and began pushing the encrusted mud off with one finger. ‘And what does that girl—your—Sandy’s friend— think of all this?’
‘Oh, she loves it,’ said Henry. ‘She hates the rich! She’s a communist!’ He laughed again, crazily, curling his feet up under him upon the seat. ‘Oh God, I feel so relieved at having told you, Mother, don’t think this has been easy—it’s been a test and a challenge. Forgive me for thinking about myself here—about my integrity and my future—I couldn’t compromise. I just couldn’t. Please say you understand a little, you don’t think it’s just madness or—I don’t know—revenge—or—You’ll get used to it and see it’s best. After all, you did things your way in your own time—and now it’s my turn. Please say you’re not angry.’
‘Revenge,’ said Gerda thoughtfully, still busy with her boots. Then she said. ‘Oh, I can imagine that it hasn’t been easy—’
At that moment Lucius arrived, having climbed up the terrace steps from the bottom. Ostentatiously puffing he laid his stick on the balustrade. ‘What a pull! I’m not as young as I was. Good morning, Henry. I’m afraid I was late for breakfast again. Well, my dear, what a lot of lovely flowers you’ve picked—’ Lucius became aware that something was wrong, and stopped.
‘Henry is going to sell the estate,’ said Gerda. ‘The Hall. Everything.’
Lucius threw back his head, and with careful deliberation undid the front of his overcoat, the buttons of his jacket, then of his shirt. He loosened the silk scarf around his neck. Then he took his hat off and ran his fingers carefully through his fine mane of white hair, tossing it back.
‘Did you hear?’ said Gerda.
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘You don’t seem very surprised. Perhaps he told you?’
‘No, no, he didn’t. But—well—in these days—one must expect changes—’
‘I’m glad you understand so quickly that I really mean it,’ said Henry to Gerda, ignoring Lucius. ‘Please don’t think it’s malice, it isn’t, it’s not like that at all. I’ve just got to survive—and of course I’ll do all I can—’
‘I am to live in a cottage in Dimmerstone,’ said Gerda to Lucius. ‘I don’t think there are any plans for you.’
‘I suppose I can live with Audrey,’ said Lucius. ‘I might get some sort of little job—it’s not the end of the world.’
‘You see, he’s not as feeble and pathetic as you imagine,’ said Henry. ‘We shall all manage.’
‘Did you say I was feeble and pathetic?’
‘He asked if you were my lover,’ said Gerda. ‘That was part of the reply.’
‘Well, I suppose I might be your lover, it isn’t inconceivable—’
‘What about Rhoda?’ said Gerda, to Henry.
‘I’ll pension her off.’
‘No problem about Bellamy. John Forbes will snap him up, or else Mrs Fontenay.’
‘I’m glad you’re both being so decent—’
‘When are you getting married?’
‘Oh, are you marrying Colette Forbes?’
‘No, I am not marrying Colette Forbes.’
‘He is marrying a prostitute called—What is she called?’
‘Stephanie Whitehouse.’
‘She was Sandy’s mistress. Sandy kept her in a flat in London.’
‘Did he? What surprises one gets about people. I would never have dreamt—’
‘I don’t know when I’m getting married. Soon.’
‘Fancy old Sandy—’
‘I’m going to lie down,’ said Gerda. She got up abruptly and went into the house through one of the drawing-room windows.
Lucius said, ‘How long did Sandy—’
But Henry was gone. He had whirled on his heel and sped away down the steps, leaping down the first flight like a wild goat, and vanishing downwards in the direction of the lower terraces.
Lucius stood for a little while leaning on the balustrade and pressing his hand against his heart. He not
iced that Henry in his speed had dislodged a large cushion of furry yellow moss from between the paving stones. With his toe Lucius pushed the moss back into place and patted it down. So disaster had come, more completely than he had ever imagined. At least he had behaved in a seemly manner and had had the grace to despair at once. If Henry were to offer him a small pension would he be humble enough to accept it? There could alas be little doubt about that. But Henry would not offer it. Henry obviously thought that he was a mere burden on Gerda. Gerda herself had probably told Henry so. As separate pains he felt distress at Gerda’s contemptuous words, despair at her unspeakable defeat, helpless squirming rage against Henry. So Gerda could be defeated and the world could change; and what would now become of him? Rex would never let him live at Audrey’s. He stooped and picked up Gerda’s basket of flowers which she had left behind. Most of all the vision of a collapsed defeated Gerda appalled him and filled him with a child’s terror. He went into the drawing-room.
Gerda was sitting facing the window, bolt upright in a chair, with fixed staring eyes. For a moment Lucius thought that she had had some kind of seizure.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’
‘Yes, of course. Shut the window, there’s a frightful draught.’
‘So I’m feeble and pathetic. Well, I suppose I am. Did you tell Henry I was sponging on you?’
‘I can’t remember. I may have done. I was annoyed at his assumption that you were my lover.’
‘I don’t see why you should be annoyed.’
‘That’s not important—Listen—’
‘It’s important to me. Perhaps it is time that we parted!’
‘Oh stop being so frivolous, Lucius.’
‘I think it’s very brave the way you’ve accepted it—and come to that, the way I’ve accepted it.’
‘I haven’t accepted it,’ said Gerda.
‘You think Henry’s not serious?’
‘Oh, he’s serious. He’s been influenced by that woman. But it’s not going to happen. We are going to prevent it.’
My dear Cato,
I am sorry you went. I’m sorry I lectured you, I got everything wrong. As for the boy, that was just a hunch. Maybe kicking over the traces and loving him is the way to save him. Who knows? I certainly don’t. Why don’t you bring him here? I could even put up both of you if necessary. Anyway, please come back and for God’s sake don’t now regard me as the Inquisitor’s clerk! I had to say a word about this in higher quarters, but no one got excited, you know how they take things. Your antics are likely to be ignored for the present, so don’t feel that you have to decide anything quickly or that, by running away, you have in fact decided. It’s not so easy to get out of that net, my dear, and of course I don’t mean the stupid old order or even, sub specie temporis, the odious old church. Fishes move in the sea, birds in the air, and by rushing about you do not escape from the love of God. I feel inclined to say: don’t even worry about the priesthood. I mean, you could give that up and not lose your religion. Though, on the other hand, I also feel inclined to say: for you, being in God is being a priest. If ever I have seen a priest I see one in you. And though it may seem almost frivolous to say so, you did make a solemn promise. Do not reject the one who made that promise, be faithful at least a little longer, wait to be taught. The spirit as experience, as vision, as joy will return. Wait. I am not belittling your ‘intellectual crisis’. We are intellectuals, we have to undergo these crises, in fact to undergo them is an essential part of our task. We have to suffer for God in the intellect, go on and on taking the strain. Of course we can never be altogether in the truth, given the distance between man and God how could we be? Our truth is at best a shadowy reflection, yet we must never stop trying to understand. You know all this, Cato. I am not saying that you should not ‘wrestle’, but that you should do it inside the church, close to what you once felt so certain about. You said ‘Christ invaded my life’. Whatever it was that happened then, something happened. You have not just ‘made a mistake’. Hold on and accept change with the openness of faith and the hope of grace. Do not run, do not hide, stay beside your revelation and be faithful to it as it renews itself. For this is what will happen if you will only wait. There is a mystical life of the church to which we must subdue ourselves even in our doubts. Do not puzzle your mind with images and ideas which you know can be only the merest glimmerings of Godhead. Stay. Sit. You cannot escape from God. And meantime let your task of priesthood hold you. Say mass even if you feel it’s really ‘hocus pocus’! And come back here. Ever, in Christo, yours with love,
Brendan
My dear son,
Brendan has told me of your troubles, I hope you do not mind his telling me. As you may know, I have been ill. Will you not come and see me? I was worried and saddened to hear that you had been speaking of leaving the order. Do not hasten to decide, and do not mistrust the revelation that led you to God. You saw Him then in a clarity and with a gladness that is denied to many who are holy. Abide for this time in that former assurance. Darkness comes to us all and we must attempt humbly to guard the flame of faith in our hearts when there is no light. Do not strain anxiously after any new certainty. Your will power can do nothing. Your task is love and love is your teacher, rest there and wait quietly to be shown truth. You know I am not a learned man, or a philosopher or a theologian like Brendan, who I’m sure can argue with you far better. I cannot argue, only point to Him who is our way and our truth and our life. Look there to Christ and see the living truth of perfect love. There all speech is silence, and there is all that matters and is needful. In charity and austerity of soul, hold to what you know to be precious and holy in your life, my dear child. I would be happy if I thought that you were with Brendan and not alone. If it is not too difficult, please come and see me. I hope you can read this shaky writing. May God bless you, dear Cato, and keep you safe within His wisdom.
Your loving friend,
J. Milsom
With these two letters in his pocket Cato was knocking on the door of a little ground floor flat in Holland Park. It was late afternoon, a murky yellowish light, raining slightly. His cassock was wet. He had been unable to find his umbrella.
The door opened a little on a chain and a woman’s voice inside said ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Beckett?’
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘I’m Father Forbes. You remember, I called on you once before. I’m a friend of Joe’s.’
‘Of who?’
‘Joe. Joseph. Your son. May I come in?’
The door closed. There was a scraping sound as the chain was removed, then the door was not opened but left ajar and Cato heard the slip-slop of the woman’s slippered feet receding. Taking this as an invitation to enter he followed her into a dark narrow passage, closed the door and moved towards a lighted room ahead.
Mrs Beckett was removing from the table a half empty flagon of red wine and a glass. There was a smell of wine in the room.
Cato said, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I hoped I’d find you back from the school.’
‘The school? I don’t go there any more.’
Having put the wine away inside a small sideboard, Mrs Beckett turned to face Cato. She had a black eye and extensive bruising down the side of her face. Her lip was swollen. Cato had seen enough in Notting Hill to know what this betokened and to make no comment.
Although it was light outside the curtains had been pulled and the room was lit by one little green-shaded lamp. Mrs Beckett sat down heavily at the table. Cato sat down opposite her.
‘Which of them did you say it was?’
‘What—oh, of your sons—Joe. You remember I called on you—’
‘I don’t remember. You people are all alike. One was here last week collecting money for something. They never leave you alone, it’s like the secret police, you’re always being pestered and spied on. I suppose they keep a list. I’m not in the church any more, that’s all finished, done with.’
‘I don’t want to pester you,’ said Cato. ‘And I won’t keep you.’
‘You’d better not. If he finds you here he’ll arrange you like he’s arranged me. I suppose Joe’s in trouble.’
‘Not yet, but he probably will be. He hasn’t got a job and my guess is that he’s living on petty crime—’
‘That’s fine, let him stick to petty crime! His brothers are all in big crime.’
‘I’ll be brief, Mrs Beckett.’
‘Dominic’s in prison, Pat and Fran have emigrated, at least I suppose they have, they said they were going to and I haven’t heard in years, Benedict’s being kept by a tart in Birmingham, and Damian died of drugs in January.’
‘I’m so sorry—’
‘Oh don’t be sorry, I don’t care, he only came here to curse me. What’s this about Joe?’
‘I wondered if you had any influence over him, if there would be any point in your trying to see him and—’
‘No. Just no. Would you like some wine?’ Mrs Beckett tilted her chair and reached back to retrieve the flagon of red wine. Sighing heavily she got up and found two glasses.
‘Not for you? Mind if I do?’
‘I wondered if there was anyone in his family who could help, even get him away for a holiday—’
‘It sounds as if his life’s all holiday. There isn’t any family. My brother doesn’t want to know. The rest are lost, God knows where they are, or rather it’s me that’s lost. I think you’d better go now. God, I feel so tired.’
Cato looked at Mrs Beckett. Her straggling dark hair was full of slides and clips and she had put lipstick onto her swollen mouth. Her hand trembled as she held the glass. She looked at her trembling hand. She said again, ‘Oh God, I feel so tired.’ Tears filled her eyes and lapped out a little onto her cheeks.
‘Mrs Beckett, forgive me for speaking to you, but I am a priest and you are, whatever you say, a Catholic. I came to talk about Joe, but how I wish that I could help you. You must find your way back to hope and joy again. The way is open if you will only take it. The way is Christ, the hope is Christ. Take your burdens there and receive His love, hide yourself in His love and be healed. Don’t despair. Whatever has happened, the world can be made new and good again. Come to church, why not, come to mass. I don’t know what your troubles are and I didn’t come here to question you or to pester you. But I wish so heartily and so humbly that I could help you. Come to church sometime, just sit there perhaps. The love of God is with you if you will just breathe quietly and let it fill you.’
