by Iris Murdoch
‘You’re enjoying this. You’ve always been against Tim, you’ve always hated him and worked to denigrate him and diminish him -’
‘I’m not enjoying it!’ Oh if you only knew how little, thought Anne. If you only knew with what diligent thoroughness I am working against my own interests!
‘You despise Tim.’
‘I don’t. I only thought, and think, that he’s not good enough for you.’
‘You know nothing about him, you don’t understand him, you’re just jealous, meanly jealous -’
‘At least I’m not after your money,’ said Anne.
The china monkey cellist descended to the floor and smashed to pieces. Anne stood up. The two women looked down at the fragments upon the green tiles of the fireplace.
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Darling, I’m very sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Gertrude, moving away. ‘I’m suffering from shock. I feel attacked. I don’t blame you. But you produce this awful crazy story - with a sort of glee - or perhaps I’m imagining it-I know you don’t want to hurt me. I suppose if people are talking, someone had to tell me. I just wish it hadn’t been you. I wish it had been the Count.’
‘The Count - yes - oh if only you had married him.’
There was a sound outside which made them both stand frozen, then turn to each other staring and quickly dashing away traces of tears. The sound was that of a key inserted in the front door lock.
Tim entered humming, then came on into the drawing-room, carrying his packages.
‘It’s me. Oh hello, Anne.’ He stood looking from one to the other. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ll go,’ said Anne quickly.
‘No, Anne, don’t go. I want you to hear Tim deny all this filthy nonsense.’
‘What is it?’ said Tim. He looked alarmed, then terrified.
‘Tim,’ said Gertrude, ‘have you had a long love affair with a woman called Daisy Barrett and have you been with her since - since France - and did you make a plan together that you should marry a rich woman?’ Her eyes were red, her lips were moist, but Gertrude spoke sternly and coolly.
The effect on Tim was violent and instantaneous. He dropped his parcels on the floor, and a blaze of scarlet flowed up into his neck, into his face and brow. His mouth opened and he gazed at his wife with appalled wretched eyes, the very image of guilt and speechless terror.
Anne ran past him and out of the room. She ran through the hall picking up her black convent mackintosh. She let herself out and raced down the stairs and ran away along the road as fast as she had run yesterday to escape from Daisy Barrett.
‘Oh Tim -’ said Gertrude and her eyes overflowed with tears. Her words sounded like some hollow echo of a final doom.
‘So you know about Daisy -’ said Tim. Confusion, stupidity, misery, and a sort of vindictive rage against fate, against himself, muffled his mind.
‘So it’s true,’ said Gertrude. Her desperate word spoken, she was now again cool, stern, frightful. She searched for a handkerchief in her pocket, then turning from him, in her handbag. She mopped her eyes, then began to pick up the pieces of the china monkey and arrange them on the mantelpiece.
‘Well, yes,’ said Tim, ‘I mean, I don’t know what you’re asking me. I ought to have told you ages ago, I was going to tell you. I know I’ve been very stupid but I think I haven’t been bad, well, I suppose I have been bad, but you see -’
‘You were going to tell me that you had been cold-bloodedly deceiving me?’
‘I ought to have said, only I didn’t think it would matter, I thought I’d wait, it wasn’t like deceiving you, well, I suppose it was -’
‘You’ve been living for years with this woman?’
‘Yes, but -’
‘And you’re still with her, she’s your mistress?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve been with her since we - fell in love - ?’
Like many instinctive uncalculating liars Tim was too lazy to think out his lies with care, and faced with exposure tended perhaps as a token gesture to his conscience, to tell the literal truth. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Then it’s all over, isn’t it,’ said Gertrude. ‘All over between you and me. All finished.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Tim. ‘I did leave her, I did really leave her, and then I saw her again, but it was, it wasn’t -’
‘And you planned with her that you should marry a rich woman to keep you and your mistress in comfort.’
‘We talked of it,’ said Tim, ‘but it was simply a joke, it was a joke between us, we never -’
‘A joke between you,’ said Gertrude. ‘A joke which you have carried rather far. So you joked about marrying me!’
‘No. You haven’t understood,’ he said. He was trying now to remember what he had said in the last few minutes. ‘It’s true that I saw Daisy after you -’
‘And made love to her?’
‘Yes. After you sort of dismissed me, after you said it - it wasn’t on-I went back to her -’
‘You went home to her, you’d never left her at all.’
‘I had!’
‘I never said it wasn’t on,’ said Gertrude. ‘I meanI-I was discouraged and unhappy and - and bereaved - it was a bad time-I needed you most of all just then - and you ran off and -’
‘But it’s over, it’s over, I haven’t seen Daisy -’
‘Where have you been this morning?’
‘Gertrude! I’ve been at the shops buying - Oh God - buying paints and crayons - and I got a little-a little present for you - Gertrude, you can’t think that I would do - you know I wouldn’t -’
He was holding out his hands towards her but she would not look at him. She stared at the china pieces and pushed them about.
‘I’ve lost my faith in you,’ she said wearily. ‘I think you’re a liar. At any rate you’ve told me some very important - and damaging - lies - You’ve been deceiving me, perhaps you still are. Everyone said you were a liar and a worthless man -’
‘Gertrude, darling, my love, don’t talk to me like that -’
‘You’d better go back to Daisy. From what Anne says about her she should suit you better than I do.’
‘Anne? What’s Anne got to do with this? It’s all Anne’s doing, she hates me -’ For the first time Tim began to wonder how it had all happened to him. Why had the world suddenly collapsed on him now, so dreadfully, so unfairly, like this?
‘Anne went to see your Daisy Barrett and your Daisy Barrett said it was all true. I didn’t believe it. Now I do.’
‘But it isn’t true!’
‘You said it was just now.’
‘Yes, but not like that - and I have left her - oh it’s all such a jumble -’
‘So it seems. I dislike jumbles.’
‘But Anne - seeing Daisy - how could it be?’
‘Your friend Jimmy Roland met Ed Roper in Paris and told him all about it. That’s how we heard. Then Anne found out where your mistress lived and visited her. It’s quite simple.’
‘But Gertrude,’ said Tim, ‘have you known about this for a long time - ?’
‘No, of course not! I’m not an actor and a liar like you. Could I have been with you - as I have been - if I’d known of this - foul deception? Anne told me this morning. Apparently everybody knows. I’m just the last to be told. At any rate they’ll all have the satisfaction of saying “I told you so”.’
Terror was depriving Tim of his wits. ‘But, Gertrude, surely it doesn’t matter all that much, my not telling you about Daisy, I know I ought to have -’
‘Not matter that my husband is using my money to keep a mistress? ’
‘But I’m not, I’m not, I’m NOT -’
‘I can’t trust you, Tim,’ said Gertrude. ‘I don’t know what you planned or half planned or intended or half intended. You just aren’t mine any more.’
‘I am! Oh damn the money -’
‘Why damn it? Didn’t you marry me for it?’
‘No. I love you. You know that -’
‘Maybe. But it seems that you love her more.’
‘I don’t, I don’t -’
‘Shouting won’t help. We’re finished, Tim.’
‘But it was all ages ago-I mean not very long ago but -’
‘Yesterday perhaps or this morning. It’s a bit late to cashier her now, just because you’ve been found out. Besides it isn’t fair to her. Don’t you think she has rights? How many years have you been with her?’
Tim was silent. Then he said, ‘Many years.’
‘Well, then -’ said Gertrude. She looked at him at last, and for a moment they were both silent.
The telephone rang. Gertrude picked it up. ‘Hello, Manfred . . . Yes . . . Yes, Anne told me. I’d like to see you, now if possible . . . No, I’ll come to your place . . . Yes, lunch, but I don’t exactly feel like eating. And do you think you could get hold of the Count and Moses? . . . Yes, I shall be needing Moses’ advice. Thank you for ringing. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.’ She put the ’phone down.
‘But, Gertrude, we’re having lunch here, you and me, I’ve been looking forward to it all the morning. I’ve got some plums and Caerphilly cheese and I want to show you your present -’ For a moment Tim seemed to have forgotten what had happened.
‘No. Poor Tim,’ said Gertrude in her weary voice. She crossed the room, making a detour to avoid him. She went into the bedroom. Tim followed her and stood at the door. She was packing a suitcase.
‘Darling! Don’t be mad, don’t leave me, don’t go to them!’
‘You’ve left me.’
‘I haven’t! I can’t think what we’ve been talking about, a lot of different things got mixed up together, you’ve got the wrong idea, don’t go away now in this awful way, I can explain, I haven’t been bad, I haven’t, I swear -’
‘Oh never mind how bad you’ve been,’ said Gertrude. ‘You’ve been bad enough. If I was a different sort of person it mightn’t matter. But I’m not that different person. I’m me. I can’t sort of share you, on any terms, with a mistress you’ve had for years and years. I can’t just say OK and go on - even if you say you’ll leave this woman.’
‘I’ve left her!’
‘I can’t necessarily believe you. I can’t live wondering all the time where you are and what you’re doing. I gave you all of myself. I don’t want just a part of you.’
‘You haven’t got just a part! Gertrude, I haven’t told you lies - I mean, I just didn’t tell you the truth soon enough, and it’s not all the things you said - won’t you listen, and then forgive what needs to be forgiven?’
‘You haven’t understood,’ said Gertrude. ‘There isn’t any question of forgiving or not forgiving. This thing between us is broken, it’s not there any more.’
‘But I can explain - Oh don’t stop loving me or I shall die.’
‘Don’t appeal to me like that,’ she said, doing up her suitcase. ‘It’s just emotion. Do you think I don’t feel emotions too? I loved you and I married you against the advice of everyone I trusted. And when I was still in mourning. How do you think I feel now? If we were to weep and fall into each other’s arms it would all just be to do again.’
‘But Gertrude, where are you going, when will you be back? You must let me defend myself, you’ve got it all wrong, or partly wrong anyway, it’s different from what you think, and -’
‘I’m going to stay away for a while with someone somewhere, I don’t know who, but where you can’t find me and please don’t try. Tim, honestly, it’s better to do it quickly like this - we shall both die of pain otherwise. I know you love me, sort of, but it’s no good, it’s no good to me, you’re not good enough, like everybody said.’
‘But my darling, my wife, what am I to do? You mustn’t go away, you mustn’t leave me - tell Manfred you’re not coming - stay and let me -’
‘You can stay here - Well, not, I’d rather you didn’t. I won’t be back for some time and I want you to be gone when I return. I’d rather you went away as soon as you conveniently can, and take your stuff. Go to her. Only please don’t bring her here, that’s all I ask.’
‘Gertrude, you’re killing me, you’re mad, there isn’t anything like what you’re saying, I’m yours, I’m not anyone else’s - please, please, please don’t go, don’t leave me, my darling, my darling -’
‘Tim, don’t, just don’t - be kind to me, and don’t. I know you’re sorry, you’re miserable at being found out, but you’ll soon feel better.’
‘You can’t just go -’
‘We are not as we were - Oh how I wish we could be but we’re not - it’s all changed, all spoilt. Get out of my way, please.’
‘I won’t let you go.’
‘Don’t touch me. Please.’
Gertrude’s tears were flowing now. She picked up the suitcase and moved to the bedroom door. Tim tried to hold her arm but she evaded him and walked quickly across the hall.
‘Don’t follow me. I don’t want a scene in the street.’ She slipped out of the door and slammed it.
Tim wrenched the door open. ‘Gertrude!’
The street door slammed below. He ran down a few stairs then came slowly back. He went into the flat, into the drawing-room. He lay down on the floor amidst the scattered packages and howled.
CHAPTER SIX
‘WHAT A BORE YOU ARE, dear,’ said Daisy. ‘Now we see you, now we don’t. I thought I’d got rid of you. I am just starting to celebrate this fact when you turn up again, surprise, surprise! And you aren’t even cheerful about it.’
Tim was sitting on Daisy’s bed staring straight in front of him. He was motionless, his face was blank, only his eyes blinked and rarely.
‘Come on, Blue Eyes, cheer up, show some sign of life. I’ve never seen you like this. Usually you’re frigging around like a water beetle, never still a moment. Now you sit for hours like a bloody statue. What am I supposed to do, perch on your head?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tim. The words came out in a whisper. He remained perfectly still, staring at the window.
‘OK, so it’s over,’ said Daisy. ‘It was hopeless from the start, you said so yourself. Anyone could see it was a mad idea. You’re still suffering from shock. You’ll soon feel wild, joyful relief. Damn it, you’re free! Have a drink for Christ’s bloody sake.’
Tim shook his head.
‘Are you bewitched or something? Deep depression, electric shocks?’
Tim said nothing.
‘It’s a lovely evening, let’s go to the Prince of Denmark. We’ll walk there if you like, like you used to want to and I never would. That would please you, wouldn’t it? A walk would do you good.’
‘You go,’ murmured Tim.
‘Oh Christ! What can I do with you? Why don’t you lie down properly and rest if you feel so damned frail - instead of sitting there like a waxwork? You’re giving me the creeps. Take some pills, if you won’t have decent alcohol. I’ve got some sleeping pills somewhere, at least I think they’re sleeping pills. I’m going to take you to the doctor if you’re like this tomorrow.’
‘No, no - no doctor.’
‘Speak up, can’t you. Why do you whisper all the time, what’s happened to your vocal cords? Are you sick or what? Don’t be such a booby. You arrive here and expect me to welcome you back with open arms, then you instantly become a kind of ghost. Where’s your spirit, where’s your pluck? Try to behave like a man, even if it’s only for my sake.’
‘I’m sorry, Daisy.’
‘So you know who I am. I’ve been wondering if you even recognized me. I’m yer old Daisy, remember. Old Daisy’s Hotel, always open, turn up any time, always a welcome at Daisy’s Hotel!’
‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ said Tim.
‘Oh good, at least you can move your eyes, now we’re getting somewhere!’
Tim had arrived at Daisy’s flat that morning. The previous night he had spent alone at Ebury Street.
Tim had despaired very fast.
There seemed to be refuge only in despair. Hope was too agonizing, too searching, too full of awful light. He had to conclude quickly that it was the end.
After Gertrude left he had sat for a while on the floor among his precious packages, crying in an awful way, not exactly with tears but with a wet mouth and a crumpled child’s face. Then he sat still for a longer time trying to think what had happened. What had he said, what had Gertrude said? He tried to remember the conversation, but already a mist had descended over it. He had run straight into some final absolute catastrophe and he knew it was entirely his own fault, but he could not see quite how and why it had come about.
Tim knew at once that something terrible and irrevocable had happened to him. Like someone apprised of a fatal illness, he knew that he had moved into an entirely new state of being and that he would never be as he once was. He had lost Gertrude, his wife whom he loved. That was the centre of it. But the attendant horror was in the shocking manner of the loss, and the being, himself, that was left behind by this cosmic change. Tim sensed himself as sick, sick forever with a kind of moral sickness which he had never known before. He had ruined himself, utterly disappointed Gertrude and utterly lost her, because of some dreadful, unspeakable moral failure. Tim had not been used to thinking in these terms, they were alien to him. He had never had a high opinion of himself, but he had felt that he was harmless, innocent, kind, an ordinary decent weak man. It shocked him utterly, it scarred his soul, to think that he had done something terribly immoral and thereby destroyed his happiness and lost the precious wife whom, beyond his deserts, he had so amazingly achieved. As often happens, Tim measured the magnitude of the crime by the magnitude of the punishment. Before the axe fell he had felt little guilt, a puny guilt easily dismissed. Now, though vaguely, he felt how terribly he must have erred. How could he have had the moral folly to aspire to Gertrude? The sense of the loss crept into his heart as he sat there on the floor, tearlessly weeping, unable to stop the tattered remnants of his former being from expecting the continual treats of a happy married life. Gertrude would return, he would show her his new acrylic paints (she loved to see his paints), he would give her a funny necklace he had bought for her (her jewellery was so conventional, they always laughed about that), then there would be lunch with plums and Caerphilly cheese, then he would work, conscious every moment of her presence in his life, then there would be drinks, dinner, talk, laughter, plans. They were going to Greece. Then he would lie with her in bed, mouth to mouth, kissing her asleep, sleeping himself away into a deep sea of absolute safety and bliss.
