by Iris Murdoch
He struggled, or rather he did not struggle, he lived, with black demons of jealousy and resentment and remorse, with sins which were new and alien to him. He would not have believed that he could be so bitter. His quiet cloistered love had been turned by a brief hope into a possessive rage. Endlessly he rehearsed it all in his mind to see what he had done wrong. If he had only tried harder, if he had only been more positive, more aggressive, put his love more on display, been less discreet, less high-minded, less honourable. As it was the woman he loved had been taken by a simpler and less scrupulous man. The Count smiled blandly and chatted courteously with Tim and Gertrude, while a black veil covered his eyes. He had faith that the wicked bitterness would pass. But the pain, that would not pass.
He looked back upon the luncheon which he had had with Gertrude in the little Italian restaurant off Wardour Street on the day after Gertrude’s resolve to wed had failed her. She did not tell the Count then that she had dismissed Tim, but he knew it and rejoiced. And, set free, she had come at once to him. That tête-à-tête was probably the happiest time in the Count’s whole life, and, as he saw it now, his last happy time, the end of his happiness.
It was evening, about seven o’clock. A warm thundery day had ended in a light silver rain which was now gently, steadily falling. Anne had closed the windows. She was writing an application for a job when Peter suddenly rang her bell. She had put her name down for ‘supply teaching’ and had received a notice of a temporary post to teach French at a school in Edmonton, not however to start until January. Anne could not interpret his evident agitation, but this time she did not imagine that it betokened a declaration of love.
‘Something terrible? What, Peter? Oh what is it, what’s the matter?’
He walked to the window and stood for a moment with his back to her, as if to compose himself. His hair was darkened by the rain and adhered in long dark streaks to the white collar of his shirt at the back. He had dropped his wet mackintosh on the floor in the hall. The stormy light in the room was dark yet vivid, and as he turned towards her his face had a kind of lurid radiance, almost as if he were not appalled, but stunned by some revivifying amazement. He leaned back against the window.
‘Something - extraordinary. But it can’t be true.’
‘Peter, what? You’re upsetting me so much, you’re frightening me.’
‘Oh, don’t be frightened.’ He looked at her for a moment with that look of pale lucid gentleness which she now knew so well and which made her long simply to run to him. Then the lurid mask returned and he grimaced with a concealed emotion.
‘What?’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s so odd - and I don’t know what to do - It’s - yesterday evening, quite late, Manfred rang up and asked me to go round to see him, and I went round because - it sounded as if he had something important to tell me.’
‘Yes - go on -’ Anne had sat down on the upright chair, staring at him.
‘Well, he told me this. Ed Roper has been in Paris. When he was there he met in a bar a man called Jimmy Roland, who is a friend of Tim Reede -’
‘Yes?’
‘And this man Roland told Ed that - that - Oh it’s scarcely credible -’
‘Go on!’
‘That Tim has got a mistress, someone he never told Gertrude about at all, and whom he still sees - and that - that he and the mistress had madea-a sort of plot that Tim should make a rich marriage and go on keeping this girl as his mistress -’
Anne waited. Peter, after his utterance, reeled back against the window pane, almost cracking it. Behind him the sun was trying to shine through the rain.
‘Is that all?’ said Anne, after a moment’s silence.
‘Is that all?’
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘if this is simply a story told by a man in a bar it’s obviously false. It’s a fabrication or a misunderstanding. I am surprised at - at Ed Roper even repeating it - or Manfred taking it so solemnly - or -’
‘How can they not repeat it and consider it? Of course it may be false, but -’
‘Yes,’ said Anne slowly, ‘of course one can’t - not - go into it somehow.’
Anne now understood the wild lurid look upon Peter’s face. However much he condemned himself for doing so, how could he not delight in this horror? If this was the end of Tim and Gertrude.
‘But has anybody gone into it?’ she said. ‘Does anyone know who this secret mistress is? Has anyone told Gertrude this story?’
‘No, of course not. Ed Roper was absolutely stunned, and he just told Manfred, and Manfred just told me. Manfred felt he ought to do something, but he couldn’t think what to do. He suggested I should come and see you.’
‘But you haven’t said, are there any facts? It’s all so impossible, so crazy. Where is this man Roland now, is he -’
‘Well, he’s disappeared, that’s part of the trouble. Apparently he’s a sort of roving chap, a bit shady, no fixed address.’
‘Well then! Does Ed know him well?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But Ed believed the story, he didn’t think Roland had made it up, and after all why should he make it up, he could have no motive to.’
‘How do we know? Is he a friend of Tim’s?’
‘Yes, but Ed thought more like a sort of pub acquaintance. He knows both Tim and the girl.’
‘The girl - who is she?’
‘She’s a girl called Daisy Barrett, she’s a painter. Apparently she and Tim have been living together for years and years.’
‘And he never told Gertrude this?’
‘Manfred is pretty sure he didn’t, but of course we can’t be certain, and anyway he can’t have told her about - about the plot -’
‘And he’s been back with this girl since he’s been with Gertrude? ’
‘Yes. So it’s said.’
Anne thought, if Tim had told Gertrude of a long-standing liaison, Gertrude would certainly, out of a self-defensive prudence, have said something about it at some point to Anne, especially since she was so sensitive about Anne’s sceptical view of Tim. She would have said, ‘Of course Tim has had a girl friend for some time, but that was over before he began to love me.’ Since Gertrude had said nothing of this kind it was quite probable that Gertrude did not know of any such girl.
‘It’s pretty shadowy,’ said Anne. But already her swift mind had set it out. Tim and Daisy, Gertrude and Peter. No wonder Peter looked so guiltily excited.
He came now abruptly away from the window and sat down on the sofa, almost disappearing behind his knees.
‘Anne, could I have a drink, please? I feel so shocked.’
Anne moved slowly to the cupboard and poured out sherry. She gave him the glass, their hands not touching. She was always careful not to touch him. She said, ‘It’s very possible that he’s had a long-standing mistress and kept quiet about it. But I can’t believe he’s been with her since his marriage, and as for this idea of a plot to have a rich wife so as to keep his mistress, that’s impossible; that would be wicked, and Tim’s not wicked. I think he’sa-I’ve never said this to you before -’
‘What?’ The Count looked at her eagerly.
Oh he’s so pleased, she thought in despair. ‘Only impressions - I think Tim’s just a sort of natural liar, he wants everything to be easy and nice and he wouldn’t tell any unpleasant truth unless he had to - he’d always have some way of convincing himself that it didn’t matter. Of course I may be quite wrong -’
Peter, more soberly, said, ‘I’ve always liked Tim and I’ve never - made any estimate of him - morally. Why should I? It’s not for me to judge -’
Anne watched his scrupulous gentle puzzled look and groaned to herself. ‘Only now perhaps one has to. But what on earth can we do? It’s just a wild story. We’ll have to ignore it. It really isn’t our business.’ But already Anne could see before her the absolute necessity of pursuing the matter, of sifting it, of finding out the truth - the truth which could be her ruin. And to which she must run as if to her
beloved.
‘You mean leave it and forget it - and let it blow over?’
Anne could see in Peter’s face, could read clearly in his mind, the counterpart of her own scrupulous calculation. Peter would not pursue his own advantage any more than she could pursue hers. Now that, after the first excitement, he saw the situation and where he stood, how to gain and how to lose, he would have to say: leave it, do not disturb them, do not do anything, anything in the world, that might divide those two. The sharp necessity of action rested with Anne.
The light had died out of Peter’s eyes. ‘You are right, Anne. We have no business to do anything. I’ll tell Manfred. As you say, it’s so shadowy.’
‘But as you say, how can we not consider it and go into it?’
‘Yes, butI-now that I think about it-I see that it’s not proper. A wild story, it’s not evidence - We can’t possibly interfere -’
‘We ought at least to make some sort of discreet inquiry if we can, try to find out if - if it’s even partly true.’
‘Yes, but I see now that it can’t be true.’
‘What does Manfred think that we ought to do?’
‘He doesn’t know. He’d like to consult with you. He thought that maybe we could find out a little more.’
‘Has Manfred told anyone else?’
‘No. But he couldn’t see how we could find out without - and it would be so awful if -’
‘The Roland man has disappeared, but what about the girl, Daisy Barrett? Does anyone know where she is?’
‘No - at least there’s some pub where she and Tim used to go and it was in that pub that Jimmy Roland heard them making this plan -’
‘Oh no, it’s too disgusting, Peter, I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither can I. I wish I hadn’t told you. Let’s leave it alone.’
‘We can’t. Where’s this pub?’
‘It’s called the Prince of Denmark, near Fitzroy Square.’
Anne rang the bell.
‘Hello,’ said a voice from the speaker beside the door.
‘Is that Miss Barrett?’
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘I’m a friend of Tim Reede, can I come in for a moment?’
There was a pause. ‘Are you female?’
‘Yes.’
There was a buzz and the door opened. Anne went in.
The hall was dark and smelly. Miss Barrett’s name was in the slot marked Second Floor. Anne mounted the stairs and knocked.
‘Come in.’
Daisy had not been difficult to find. Anne herself had gone to the Prince of Denmark. When it had become so dreadfully clear to her that she must uncover the truth, however awful, she was possessed of a ferocious urgent energy. The task was hers and hers alone. Manfred was full of scrupulous worries and doubts. He asked Anne, via the Count whom she saw again on the day following his disclosure, to come and discuss the matter, but she said this was unnecessary. It appeared that, in spite of vows of discretion, Ed Roper had already told the rumour to some of his friends, and that Moses Greenberg had heard it somehow, and had telephoned Manfred. It seemed clear, at any rate Anne announced that it was clear, that someone should investigate, that she would do it, and at once. She explained her plan to the Count. It was the simplest possible. She would find and talk to Daisy Barrett; and if she decided there was ‘nothing in it’ would depart without revealing her purpose. She decided against inventing any elaborate falsehood. She felt sure that she would soon discover what was necessary, and that it was better to speak impromptu and without any previous scheming. The Count was understandably paralysed. He said in his quaint old-fashioned way that surely he should escort Anne to the pub. Anne replied with unusual brusqueness, ‘Peter, I am not a nun.’
In fact she had felt shy and nervous when, at six o’clock the previous evening, she entered the Prince of Denmark. She particularly dreaded an immediate public confrontation with Daisy Barrett, the necessity of requesting a private talk. And suppose Tim were actually there with her . . .? She wanted to find out where Daisy lived. Suppose people questioned her, asked her why, told her to mind her own business? No such difficulties arose. She asked the publican who asked a man sitting at the counter who asked someone else (who happened to be Piglet) who produced the address.
‘Friend of Daisy’s?’ ‘Yes, I’ve just come to London.’ ‘She may be in later.’ ‘Thanks.’ Anne had postponed her visit till the next morning.
It was about midday. It had been raining earlier. Now the sun shone upon wet roofs and pavements, bringing out a blue glare. Daisy’s little room was bright with reflected light and Anne blinked as she entered. Although the window was open the room smelt of alcohol.
At first there seemed to be no one there. Then, behind a lattice screen in a corner to her right, she saw a tall thin woman in jeans and a khaki shirt, fiddling at a gas stove.
‘Just making lunch,’ said Daisy Barrett. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘My name’s Anne Cavidge. Please forgive me -’
Anne had deliberately arrived without an idea in her head. Now she felt suddenly at a loss, as if she were making an embarrassing social call; and indeed in a way that was just what she was doing.
‘Have a drink,’ said Daisy.
She emerged from behind the screen and Anne saw her more clearly. She was tall, a little taller than Anne, and very thin and gaunt. Her hair, a greyish-darkish mixture, was rather tangled, cut short and swept back behind her ears. Her face was weary. It was not markedly wrinkled but was moulded by anxiety and exasperation, eaten by time, although she looked still young, even handsome. Remnants of bright powdery-blue make-up surrounded the large dark brown eyes, and dry faded flaky lipstick spotted the long mouth whose corners drooped into long pencil-thin lines. Anne felt sudden pity, and at the same time a sense of something formidable in this shabby unkempt figure. Daisy was not at all what she had expected; and she realized now how naïve she had been to imagine that ‘the mistress’ would turn out to be something small and pert and fluffy.
Anne was about to refuse the drink but then thought she had better accept it. ‘Thanks.’
Daisy gave her a large glass of vin rosé from a flagon and sat down at the table and poured out one for herself. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Is it raining?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I suppose it can’t be, that stuff looks like sunshine out there. What did you say your name was?’
‘Anne Cavidge.’
‘Never heard of you. Do you paint?’
‘No.’
‘I can’t make head or tail of you then. Heigh ho. Would you like some lunch? There’s nothing but beans today. Today, I say, as if there was fillet steak other days. Are you a vegetarian?’
‘No.’
‘You look like a vegetarian.’
‘I won’t have any lunch,’ said Anne.
‘Just as well, there ain’t enough for two, I wasn’t serious anyway. Drink up. You haven’t said what you want. How did you find me anyway?’
‘I asked at the Prince of Denmark.’
‘I’ve never seen you at the Prince. How did you know I knew Tim? Silly question, everybody knows.’
‘Of course I knew about you and Tim,’ said Anne. ‘I know you’ve been together for years and -’
‘OK, OK. You’re a funny piece. How do you know Tim, were you at infant school together? Are you looking for a long-lost friend?’
‘No -’
‘What’s it in aid of then? Are you from the police? You could be a policewoman now I come to think of it.’
‘No. What makes you think of the police?’
‘I’m always thinking of the police. And Tim is capable de tout. He’s not in trouble, well he’s always in trouble, he’s not in any special trouble is he?’
‘No.’
‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Let’s not talk about Tim, I’m not in the mood. Let’s talk about you. How old are you?’
&nb
sp; Anne blushed at the direct question. ‘Thirty-eight.’
‘What do you do for a living? Your mac is quite expensive, though not new. Do take it off by the way and sit down.’
Anne took off her black convent mackintosh and sat down on a rickety kitchen chair. She was wearing a white Liberty summer dress closely covered with a pink cherry-blossom design, a present from Gertrude. She nervously tucked in the skirt behind her knees. She sipped her wine.
‘I seem to be making all the conversation. Don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to eat you. I’m glad of a mystery visitor, I don’t have many visitors, mystery or otherwise. I like the way you do your hair, it’s like mine. Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Gay?’
‘What?’
‘Queer?’
‘No.’
‘What do you get up to then? Are you a writer?’
‘No.’
‘I am. Have another drink. You’re not drinking up.’
‘I thought you were a painter,’ said Anne.
‘No - used to paint - gave it up - I’m a novelist. Writing’s hell though. But what do you do if you’re not a writer or a painter or a homosexual or a housewife?’
‘Until lately I’ve been a nun,’ said Anne. The conversation which was not going at all as she had intended, was confusing her and she could not invent a lie. Nor did she want to. She found herself unable to help rather liking Daisy. But it was time to take control of the interrogation and find out exactly what she needed to know. There might be no other chance. In fact a vague acquaintance leading to another meeting was unthinkably out of the question.
‘A nun? Oh Jesus! Not the kind that’s all shut up and looked at through bars?’
