by Iris Murdoch
When she had disappeared over the crest Tim leapt up. He paused to drink from his water bottle, then scrambled along after her. From the summit he could see, intermittently, the blue patch of Gertrude’s dress. He also saw, quite near, the bushy fig tree, and under it the basket which he had left there on the day when the canal nearly drowned him. He picked up the basket and followed Gertrude, who was walking very slowly. She did not look back. He watched from above as she went, with her slow desolate sometimes wavering step, through the vines, through the poplars, across the stream, through the olives, and at last right into the house. Then he turned back among the rocks.
He walked a little, then sat down. He looked at his watch. It was not yet eleven o’clock. He could not decently go back to the house until the late afternoon. Gertrude would hate him if he intruded on her grief. He wondered what to do. He did not want to go anywhere. He did not want to paint. He began to feel utterly miserable, and the misery was upon him like a sickness. His legs ached, his head ached. He had a dark iron feeling in his stomach. He got up laboriously, as Gertrude had done, and took a few steps, then stood aimlessly like a dog. He suddenly recalled how Gertrude had swum in the crystal pool, but he did not want to go there, he did not want to see the Great Face. He thought, perhaps I shall never go there again, perhaps I shall forget the way.
He thought, what’s the matter with me? I feel terrible, useless, utterly sick of myself. Where am I going, what am I for? What has my life been, what will it be? I just live by lies, by deceiving myself. I can’t paint, I can’t earn money, I can’t do anything. I’d better give up painting, I’ve tried long enough and it’s clear I’m no good. Better to chuck it and admit I’m a fake, a bloody fake, nothing but that.
He took off his rucksack and threw it on the ground and kicked it. He recalled Gertrude’s crying face and he wanted to cry himself but he couldn’t. He thought tomorrow Gertrude will go. Then Daisy will come. I don’t want to see Daisy, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m no use to Daisy, she’s no use to me. That’s a bloody lie too.
And he thought, I won’t show the Great Face to Daisy, I won’t show her the canal. I don’t want her here at all. I don’t want myself here, or anywhere else either. I wish the whole bloody masquerade was over, I wish I was dead.
Lying on her bed Gertrude had started to cry again. She cried quietly, wearily, it was like a natural function. She lay limp, unable even to get up to find a dry handkerchief. The one with which she was fruitlessly mopping her face was so wet she could squeeze the tears out of it. Her face felt raw with weeping. She was sick and dizzy with grief.
Since Guy’s death she had watched herself suffering, she had seen herself wanting to suffer, then very gradually wanting not to suffer, wanting to recover, wanting to want to live. Now, in this place, so full of Guy, full of his thoughts and his ways, his knowledge and his happiness, she had seemed to be surviving so well. She had even endured without too much pain seeing Tim Reede riding Guy’s bike. And now all the little tissues and tendrils of her recovery had been clawed away. She was back in the old deadly misery. She thought, I’ll never recover now, it’s the proof.
She had not been worried about Tim Reede’s presence, she had been on reflection glad that someone would be there, that she would not be alone at Les Grands Saules. She had never been alone in that house. Guy had always been there. She had never, she thought, even walked alone, only with him. In fact, she realized now, she had always been afraid of those rocks, of that silent empty countryside. Guy had defended her from that fear, as he had defended her from all fears.
Tim was useful as someone before whom she had to keep up appearances. And there was, she thought, a further bonus, which arose from Tim’s own perfect selfishness. Tim’s tactless inability to be suitably solemn had had something of a cheering effect on Gertrude, his simple absorption in his own interests, the absence of any intrusive desire to console, to possess or probe. She was soothed by his detachment from her troubles, his unashamed ability to look eagerly elsewhere. This self-centred cheerfulness made a kind of space, a relief from being pitied and looked after. Only now, when she had escaped from it, did Gertrude feel how tired she was of the solicitous curiosity and busy sympathy of those who had surrounded her: a sympathy which, it occurred to her, was in many cases insincere. How much did Janet Openshaw or even Stanley really care about Guy’s death? It merely put them in mind of the day when their children would inherit Guy’s money from Gertrude. No wonder Rosalind Openshaw wrote her such splendid carefully worded sympathetic letters! Gertrude could measure now how much Guy’s family was not really her family. Anyway, people always delight in the misfortunes and griefs of others unless they are positively wounded themselves. What did Mrs Mount care, or Gerald, or Victor, or (another splendid letter-writer) Balintoy? Sylvia Wicks had not even written at all. What did Manfred care? Sitting in a café while Manfred was parking the car, Mrs Mount idly chattering had revealed, what Gertrude had never suspected but Mrs Mount evidently assumed she knew, that Guy and Manfred had never got on very well, had always regarded each other with rivalry and suspicion. Gertrude now thought she could recall, especially after he became ill, a kind of irritation in Guy concerning Manfred. Manfred was probably secretly glad that Guy was gone. Guy had overshadowed them all. His evident superiority must have irked them. Why had Gertrude imagined that they loved and revered him so much? They had envied him and his evident distinction had made them feel inferior. Only the Count had truly loved Guy, and now truly missed him. And Anne, dear dear Anne, had truly sorrowed in Gertrude’s sorrow, had truly cared for her and tended her. Yet even Anne, thought Gertrude - how could Anne not be somehow pleased that just as she returned to the world there I was needing her so much? She must have been pleased, she must have found it so satisfying, so gratifying, to be able to cut all the others out and look after me!
Gertrude, her tears abating, pictured that dear head, the thin pale silvery furry head, the narrow clever blue-green eyes. Brilliant strong Anne Cavidge. What a long way they had come together since that night when Anne had rung up from Victoria Station. And she remembered Anne, naked Anne with the cross round her neck, entering the sea like a damned soul. And how she had seen Anne dashed by the waves, struck down, nearly killed before her eyes. And how she had rushed into the foam, suddenly buffeted herself by the huge waves, her dress clinging to her legs and impeding her. And this fierce water mingled in her vision with the deadly racing water of the canal and the bloated twisting corpse of the dog which had suddenly spurred her grief.
Gertrude became breathless and had to sit up, gasping and panting. She squeezed out her handkerchief and mopped her eyes. Anne was so necessary. But would she go away? What judgement would Anne make upon Gertrude’s life? She had said she must be alone, she had encouraged Gertrude to go to Italy with Manfred and Mrs Mount. Would Anne end up by returning to the living death of her convent after all? She recalled something Anne had said, a medicine no doubt for Gertrude’s desperation. ‘One can always live by helping others, it’s a consolation that is always to be had.’ Could I live so, Gertrude wondered, if Anne were to leave me? Of course Anne won’t leave me I know. But I can’t exist just through Anne forever, it wouldn’t be fair to her. She thought, I’ve helped Tim Reede, does that console me? Yes, a little. And how extremely easy it was! Who else could I help, who else could I make happy? Someone said Sylvia Wicks was in some sort of trouble, they didn’t say what. I could help Sylvia. I could help Mrs Mount. I could help the Count. She pictured the Count, so thin, so straight, looking down at her with anguish in his pale, pale blue eyes.
Then in a flash she understood something. Why had Guy said to her, ‘if you marry someone, marry Peter’? Because he wanted to cut out Manfred, to divert her from that terrible choice, the choice of his rival! That he should be dead and Gertrude in Manfred’s arms; was this the nightmare which had tortured Guy, made him cry out at last, ‘I want to die well, but how is it done?’ He had not really wanted her to marry t
he Count. He had simply wanted her not to marry Manfred.
‘I wish you had let me cook,’ said Tim, ‘I can cook.’
It was the evening of the black dog day, and they were sitting down to supper in the sitting-room.
Tim had taken his misery away among the rocks and found a shady place where he had had an early lunch, eating little but drinking up the wine in his rucksack and also the wine that remained in the basket. After that he fell asleep. He returned to the house at half past four and knocked on Gertrude’s door offering to bring her some tea.
Gertrude had refused but had at last pulled herself together. She got up and washed. She took off her crumpled blue dress and put on a smarter café-au-lait shirt-dress with an open collar. She inspected her swollen face, put on make-up, combed out her hair which was matted and tangled from swimming and crying. She then drank a little whisky from the flask in her suitcase and sat for a while in an easy chair in her bedroom with her eyes closed. She thought, yes, Anne is right, I’ll help people, at the very least I can give them money. I’ll help Tim more. She thought of Tim, his diffidence, his particular egoism, his boyish animal self-satisfaction, his ignorance, his needs. She thought, Tim is so easy to help and she found herself smiling. At half past six she came downstairs and took another tot of whisky with her out onto the terrace. Here she found Tim watching the ants. Now they were at supper together.
Supper consisted of onion soup, black sausage with tomato salad, and a local cheese with herbs.
‘I’m afraid it’s very simple again,’ said Gertrude. ‘You’ll be able to cook tomorrow when I’m gone. You must let me feed you. I can’t do anything else. I can’t paint.’
‘Neither can I!’ said Tim, but he said it cheerfully.
When Tim heard Gertrude stirring, and as the day went on towards supper time, his equanimity returned to him. The strange misery-sickness went away and was succeeded by an almost elated cheeriness. The prospect of food and drink usually restored him. He was happy, and the soup smelt delicious.
‘I’m hungry!’
‘So am I,’ said Gertrude. ‘I hope you had a good day. Do you ever get bored in those long times painting?’
Tim thought of trying to explain what a painter’s concentration was like, then just said ‘No.’ He added, ‘I’m sorry you’re going tomorrow. It’s been fun-I mean -’
‘I’m sorry too,’ Gertrude, ‘but I must get back.’ Why must I, she wondered.
Tim was looking brown and ruddy, he looked a little plumper too, a different man from the pallid weedy rather hang-dog young fellow who had come to Gertrude with apologetic hints about needing money. He seemed bigger, stronger. His lips glowed. His shaven beard shone like a barley field. Red hair curled on his chest in the unbuttoned front of his shirt. As he rolled up his sleeves ready for his supper his arms gleamed with points of light.
It was dark outside, but the landscape was not yet invisible. The feathery leaves of the twisted olives seemed to give out a silver glow, and the rocks retained a curious dark grey light which seemed to vibrate irregularly like a signal.
‘It’s getting awfully dark. Shall I turn on a lamp?’
‘Not just yet. Can you see your soup, Tim? I want to look at the rocks.’
Tim thought, perhaps this is the last time Gertrude will look at those rocks. He said, ‘I wish you weren’t going. It’s been nice just eating and drinking with you, coming home and finding the table laid - You’ve been kind to me, you’ve been a real sport - sorry, that’s not a very graceful compliment!’
Gertrude laughed. She said, ‘We’ve been good companions.’
They ate the soup in silence. Gertrude set out the black sausage and the salad and the cheese. She filled their glasses with the local red wine. Tim sat in a trance looking out of the window. He jumped as Gertrude turned on the lamp and the outward scene disappeared. He looked at her and could see the traces of tears. All the same her strong crinkly hair glittered heroically.
‘It’s silly,’ said Gertrude, ‘but I simply can’t remember how you came into our lives. I mean, how we got to know you.’
‘Through Uncle Rudi. He was a friend of my father’s. Then he was sort of my guardian.’
‘Oh yes. He was musical wasn’t he, your father, he was a composer? ’
‘Sort of. I have no music in me.’
‘Then Guy’s father became your guardian when Uncle Rudi died?’
‘Yes. Then Guy. Your family have been awfully good to me,’ he added.
‘And you’re an only child like me, like Guy?’
‘No -’ Tim had to pause. I’m in an awfully emotional state this evening he thought. He saw Rita’s face so clearly, first laughing, she had had blazing red hair which fell around in straggly coils, and blue eyes to match his own. Then he saw her pale, sad, thin, terribly thin, her eyes so frightened, asking to live but surrounded by a gathering dark. Her sudden death had surprised everybody. It seemed to him that he was the only person who had really noticed how little she ate, how thin and frail she was: and he had not understood. He said after a moment’s silence, ‘I had a sister. She died when I was fourteen. She died of anorexia nervosa.’
‘Oh I’m sorry -’ said Gertrude. ‘Oh I’m - so sorry -’ She turned her head away.
Tim helped himself liberally to some more wine.
‘And your poor parents, they must have been -’
‘Oh my parents - My father cleared off when we were small children. My mother died when I was twelve. We lived with my mother’s brother in Cardiff. It was horrid. Oh never mind, don’t let’s talk of it, sorry -’
‘Sorry, Tim -’
‘No, no, forgive me, I do want to talk in a way. No one’s ever asked me-I was so unkind to my mother, I see it now. She was musical too, you know -’ He recalled suddenly the sound of his mother’s flute, always such a sad sound, heard less and less as the years went by.
‘She was unhappy?’
‘She was anxious and bothered and children hate that. Children are awful. There wasn’t much money. We loved our father because he wasn’t involved in the mess of our lives.’
‘And your father?’
‘He vanished. Killed in a motor accident when we were in Cardiff. Later on of course I escaped and came to London, and became the property of your family!’
‘Of Guy’s family, yes. I have no family. I mean, I was an only child. My father left Scotland and lost touch, he was from Oban. My mother was from Taunton. They were both schoolteachers and we lived a roving life, like being in the army. My parents weren’t well off. It was all very simple and quiet.’ Why do I say this now I wonder, Gertrude said to herself. I haven’t thought anything like this for years. I’ve simply been absorbed into Guy’s life, into his family, into his world, it’s been a home. Now I have no home. I never thought I had a gloomy childhood, surely I was spoilt and happy, yet suddenly it looks like that.
‘I always imagined you were rather rich and grand like Guy. Sorry, I keep saying the wrong thing tonight!’
‘No, no, Tim, say what you like, it’s good to talk! I think I’ll close the doors, it’s getting cool and the moths are coming in.’ Gertrude closed the glass doors and the dark shiny mirror of the window suddenly enclosed them. Tim saw the table, the two figures sitting opposite each other, reflected in the glass.
‘It’s nice here,’ said Tim. ‘It’s sad you’re going, we’re getting to know each other a bit, have some more wine.’
‘Thanks. You mustn’t disappear, Tim. You must come to Ebury Street like you used to. You said you were the property of -’ Would Ebury Street go on, Gertrude wondered. She pictured herself entertaining les cousins et les tantes as the years went by. What value would they put upon her once the interest of her bereavement was over? Did she have then to be assessed by them? She looked at the red tablecloth and the broken bread and the wine.
‘Oh, yes, thanks. Are your parents still alive?’
‘No. My father died when I was in my first job - you know I was
a schoolteacher too?’
‘Oh yes, I know that!’
‘Dear me. My mother died just before I got married. She met Guy. She got a sudden - thing -’
For a moment Tim thought Gertrude was going to cry again. She made a little gesture with two hands, the moment passed.
Gertrude thought, it was so terribly sad, Guy and my mother just missing each other like that. We could have made her so happy. I didn’t do enough for her after Daddy died. Oh why am I thinking these things now? Everything is coming apart, it’s coming unsewn. All my energy, all my youth, went to Guy, as if Guy invented my youth. I went to Guy like Anne went to the convent.
‘Did you have a lot of lovers before Guy?’ Tim asked. He thought, I must be drunk!
‘No. I was never really in love, I was just muddled and unhappy, till I met Guy.’ Then the certainty started. But has it gone now? Did not Guy make me? But am I permanent?
How handsome she is, thought Tim, an Arthurian girl, a heroic girl out of a romantic picture, with her fine face and her brave hair and her pure sincere brown eyes. Her complexion glowed and her eyes were bright with thought. Her mouth pouted a little reflectively, the lips had a gentle look. The gauntness Tim had seen earlier had left her face, as if some force inside her were moulding her, smoothing her in a new way. Her patterned mane shone in the lamplight as if each individual hair had a line and a colour all its own: browns and golds, some reds, some greys. Some locks fell round her neck and brushed the nervous brown hand with which she was adjusting the collar of her dress. The pale milky-coffee colour of the dress showed how much already she had been touched by the sunshine. He thought, she’s so alive, so compact and genuine, how her hair glows and her eyes are such a wonderful pure brown, I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes in a woman. She’s recovering. I’m so glad. He meant to say, You are recovering, I’m so glad. He said, ‘You are beautiful, I’m so glad.’
