by Iris Murdoch
‘Sorry. I’m sorry I forgot the bread -’
‘Oh darling -!’
Gertrude was wearing, over her dress, a brown dressing-gown which looked as if it might have been Guy’s. She sat down on the bed and gently stroked her friend’s covered form. Anne twitched with irritation. The room had got darker. Gertrude could not see Anne’s face properly as Anne was rolling her head about so much. Anne could not see Gertrude at all, except as a blur ... in the corner of her eye. As the room got darker, the atom-fringed hole in the centre of her vision seemed to get brighter. In order to distract herself from the sickness and from a new localized pain in the back of her head, she concentrated upon the empty brightening circle. She wondered if something would suddenly appear inside that lurid hole, Jesus Christ perhaps. She wished Gertrude would go away.
‘Anne, you won’t ever leave me, will you?’
‘No.’
‘I mean - whatever happens -’
‘What’s likely to happen?’ said Anne.
‘I don’t know. Anything might happen to anybody.’
‘If you’re in a wheelchair I’ll push it.’
‘I want us to grow old together.’
‘Great.’
‘All right, my dear, I’m going. I love you.’
‘Ditto.’
Gertrude went out carrying the hot water bottles. When she had receded down the stairs Anne pulled herself up, dragged herself to the bathroom and tried to vomit. She could not.
‘How’s Anne?’ said the Count.
‘She’s got a terrible headache,’ said Gertrude. She put the bottles down and forgot them.
‘CanI-can I get you a drink, Gertrude?’
‘I’ll help myself.’ Gertrude poured herself out some whisky.
‘You?’
‘Yes-I think - some whisky - just today -’
‘You’re becoming quite a toper, Count.’
‘Shall we turn on the light?’
‘No, let’s look out.’
They took their glasses to the window. The rocks had continued, even on this evening, to muster up some light, a kind of grey light which paled them slightly against a darker sky. They had abandoned their usual spotty flickering and seemed to be moving slowly up and down in vertical grooves. Below the rocks the valley was visible in a murky sulky subaqueous twilight, the stretched-out tugged-at branches of the olives and willows could be seen streaming in the wind, streaming as it seemed noiselessly since the wind took up the sound into its own monotonous roar.
‘What a terrible noise.’
‘Look at those poor trees.’
‘And look at the terrace.’
The terrace was covered in a shallow stream of moving leaves, and was also covered with a less mobile deposit of twigs and branches and what appeared to be stones. Several chairs seemed to have disappeared. Beyond, the wind was passing like a moving wall between the house and the rocks.
‘I hope those aren’t slates off the roof.’
‘We’d have heard them fall.’
‘Not in this row.’
‘My God, what’s that?’
There was a crashing sound and something banged and bumped violently against the wall of the house.
‘I’ll go and see,’ said the Count.
‘Don’t go out of the glass doors! Better go by the archway. I’ll come with you. Wait, I’ll hold the door!’
They negotiated the door, got out and shut it, then made their way along the terrace keeping close to the house. The wooden loggia (which Tim had mended) had come down and lay scattered in a mass of criss-crossing poles and vine branches.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, the vine is broken!’
‘Only one branch I think - yes, just this branch - shall we - shall we bring the grapes in?’
‘Better bring the whole thing - oh damn -’
Moving against the wind they carried the broken branch between them, slipped in through the folding door which behaved like a wild thing as soon as it was unlatched, and brought the long trailing trophy into the sitting-room. They laid it along the narrow sideboard under the Munch print of the startled girls. Gertrude turned on the light.
‘Oh what a shame!’
‘How beautiful it is!’
The broken undulating stem had already arranged itself into a graceful form. The sudden light showed the brilliant emerald green of the veined leaves, with casually here and there a hint of purplish furry underside. The green unripe grapes gleamed, faintly transparent, like little pyramids of precious stones, punctuating the posed classic immobility of the serrated leaves.
‘It looks like an eighteenth-century decoration.’
‘Or something by Fabergé!’
‘But the grapes aren’t ripe,’ said Gertrude.
‘Wouldn’t they be now?’
‘Not quite. Anyway one couldn’t eat anything so exquisite. I’ll put this end in water so it’ll last. Oh I am stupid, I should have brought the chairs in this morning.’
‘They haven’t blown away?’
‘Yes, they have. Didn’t you see, they’re all gone!’
‘Shall I go -?’
‘No, no, they’re just somewhere down the hillside, it’s not the first time.’
‘At least it’s not raining -’
‘What’s that, oh no!’
They ran to the study. The tinkling crash betokened the smashing of the cracked window pane. Through a jagged gaping hole the wicked wind was streaming in.
‘What can we - what can we mend it with?’
‘We can’t mend it,’ said Gertrude. ‘Come on, we’ll just shut the door. Oh God, I hate this, I hate it!’
She slammed the door and they returned to the sitting-room.
‘Would you like some supper, Gertrude? Can I -?’
‘No, you have some, make yourself some soup. Don’t stand there shivering, put on a jersey, I can lend you one of Guy’s.’
‘Oh no -’
‘Oh Count, you look so cold and so thin! Wrap yourself in something, even if it’s only a blanket!’
‘I’m all right.’
The Count had put on a light jacket over his blue open-necked summer shirt. He stood with lifted shoulders, wrinkling his brow, and his long hands and bony wrists protruded stiffly as if they were made of wood. He could not resolve to sit down or to go away, he could do nothing with himself. He dangled awkwardly like a marionette, in the now so comfortless brightly lit room, reflected in the black shiny window panes, unable to fit himself into space or time. He looked helplessly at his stopped watch. Gertrude regarded him with exasperation. She turned her back on him and pulled the curtains. The valley and the rocks had disappeared. Then she opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out a chess board and chessmen. She sat down and opened out the board and began to set out the chessmen to see that they were all there. The Count watched her uneasily.
He had still not been able to tell Gertrude the story of the letter and of his conversation with Tim, and he felt that he ought to do this. She had asked no questions, and twice when he had tried to say something about the letter she had shut him up. ‘All right, all right, no more.’ She clearly assumed the letter had been delivered and there was no reply. However the Count felt that he ought to tell her at least one of the things that Tim had said, and that he ought to insist upon this if necessary.
‘Gertrude, I must tell you - it won’t take a moment and then I won’t mention the matter again - about Tim and your letter-I must tell you -’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Gertrude expressionlessly, still setting out chessmen. She had turned up the collar of the dressing-gown and its too-long sleeves. The Count watched her hands which had been browned by the sun.
‘There’s not much to tell. I found Tim at his studio. Just him - there - he said he was giving the place up. I gave him the letter and I saw him read it and he didn’t say anything about a reply -’
‘It’s all clear,’ said Gertrude, ‘why labour the point?’
‘I’m not
labouring the point,’ said the Count almost angrily. ‘What I wanted to say was this, that he said he had never plotted against you to use your money for his mistress.’
‘He’s still with her -’
‘Yes.’
‘Finished?’
‘You mean have I finished what I had to say? Yes. I won’t mention it again.’ The Count thought, it sounds as if I just wanted to say something against Tim, not something for him. Perhaps I should go on and try to convey - but no, it’s no good.
‘Let’s play chess,’ said Gertrude. She motioned the Count to sit at the table opposite to her. He automatically sat down. Gertrude began to study the board.
‘Can you play chess?’ he said.
‘Would I suggest this if I couldn’t?’ said Gertrude, still looking at the board. ‘I used to play with Guy. I’m not asking you to teach me!’
The Count knew that it was absolutely impossible that he should play chess with Gertrude. ‘Gertrude, my dear, I can’t play with you.’ It was the first endearment he had ever uttered to her.
‘Why not? You’re rather good at chess, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, you can’t have forgotten it!’ Gertrude moved a pawn.
‘It’s impossible,’ said the Count.
She looked at him now and they stared at each other intently across the board. Gertrude’s brown eyes expressed irritability and aggression. The Count’s pale eyes spoke abjection, desperation, love.
‘Why? You play bridge with me, why won’t you play chess with me?’
‘Chess is different,’ said the Count.
‘How, different?’
‘Gertrude, it’s impossible that we should play chess because I am so much better at it than you are that we would be playing different games.’
Gertrude stared at him and her eyes grew quiet. They continued to look at each other. And suddenly, in the vast starry cosmos of the emotions, Gertrude and the Count were very close indeed, closer than they had ever been before. Then she said, ‘Oh, all right.’
The Count wanted to say, I love you, Oh I love you, I love you with all my heart and I want you to be my dear wife. But he could not say it. He was afraid to.
After a moment Gertrude got up, jolting the table and upsetting the chessmen. She said, ‘I’d better go and see how Anne is. Oh damn, I forgot her hot water bottle. What a bloody nuisance it is about that window pane.’
How exactly what happened to Tim next happened, he was not able in retrospect quite to determine.
The weird amazing joy he had experienced in Hyde Park ebbed from him in the days, indeed in the hours, that followed. It seemed to him later to have been something freakish, almost shameful. It left behind it an empty exhausted state of mind. There was an emptiness as if a lot of demons who had for long supported him had gone away leaving him weak and vacant. No hanged men or floppy ghosts now in his dreams: he scarcely seemed to dream at all. The parting from Daisy was something epoch-making, shattering. He never let himself doubt that it was final. He was surprised to find himself regarding it as the end of his youth, as if so conventional an idea could find lodgement upon such an abysmal precipice. The difference between this parting and the other was as great as the difference between the two women. The loss of Gertrude was bedevilled by a muddled guilt, the pain of which at times drove him almost mad. The loss of Daisy had this curious (he could only think of it so) white character, as if he had died and found himself entirely wrapped in cloud, aware of absolute and irreversible change. This was terrible pain too but being devoid of guilt it provided the energy which would at last be its cure.
He went back to the studio and tidied it up. He did not go again to the Prince of Denmark. He went to his local pubs, the Tabard, the Pack Horse, the Emperor, the Barley Mow, or else roamed, as he used to do, in northern London. He still had some of Gertrude’s money. He thought how he would pay it all back one day, he would send a cheque to Moses Greenberg. He even composed in his mind a dignified letter to accompany the cheque, while terrible savage yearnings for Gertrude prowled on the edges of his thought. This misery, felt as remorse, utter loss, banishment from paradise, coexisted with that energy, gradually recognized as a new sense of freedom, which he derived from his decision to leave Daisy. The eternal question remained, how on earth was he to earn money. In answer to this he had two strokes of luck straightaway, as if the patient gods were sending him an approving signal. He took three of the cat pictures to a local pub and sold them at once (for a miserable sum it is true) to an Irishman who was starting a shop in Acton. On the same day Brian the garage man (who thought what Tim did little short of miraculous, but rarely expressed his appreciation by a purchase) bought another of the cats. Term was just beginning at the art schools and all jobs would have been filled long ago, but Tim went along on the offchance to the polytechnic at Willesden where he used to teach. The shadowy precious two-day job which had so beckoned in the spring was of course gone, since Tim, otherwise engaged during the summer, had failed to nurse it along. However he was offered a one-day-a-week post until half term because someone was ill. This was not great, but it was a good deal better than a slap in the face with a wet fish. It gave him a sense of mastery over time which helped to allay the prowling misery.
The next events formed, later, a sort of pattern in his mind. They all seemed to contribute something to the outcome, and without all of them, perhaps, nothing of what did happen would have happened. At the time, however, it was all a jumble. It was partly the leaves. Tim had always liked leaves, knew indeed quite a lot about trees, and had never ceased to draw and paint them. This autumn promised to provide an exceptionally good leaf season. London had been hot and sunny, then had become cold and windy. Frost was forecast. Then the weather partially recovered. Whatever the chemistry of hot and cold exactly was, it was beginning to produce, still in September, a superb collection of early autumn leaves. These little works of art lay about in gardens, stuck to damp pavements, or were collected into little treasure-stove piles by leisurely men in squares and parks. Sometimes they hovered in the air like butterflies in front of Tim’s dreamily outstretched hand. He collected them, at first picking up so many that he had to crush them by stuffing them into his pockets. He could not resist these masterpieces which were lying about free of charge: handsome plane leaves, green and brown or the purest yellow, maple leaves which turned tawny and vivid green or sometimes radiant red, and were often covered with the most elegant spots, curvy oak leaves, palest ochre and gold, beech leaves, brownest of absolute browns, and the more exotic joys of rhus cotinus, orange and blazing red with blotchy veins and streaks of the palest green, dark crimson of many-pointed liquidambar, and huge limp pallid flags of catalpa. Tim soon stopped pocketing these marvels, but carried with him in a large bag a portfolio with many sheets of blotting paper, into which, with increasing discrimination, he carefully put the leafy donations. At home, he pressed them, treated them discreetly with a glyceriny varnish, and then, inspired, began to make them into collages in the Victorian manner. For this purpose, and to show off the larger leaves, he used the parks as his wild countryside and collected bramble sprays and wild rose and old man’s beard. He made his collections early in the morning when no one was about, when the low white mist hung over the steamy surface of the Serpentine. He watched the fishing heron. Once he met a fox.
When he had made a number of collages he framed them in simple black frames, with plastic instead of glass, and showed them to the Irishman in the Barley Mow. The Irishman, called Pat Cameron, a sentimental soul, pronounced them the darlingest things and voted to buy the lot to sell in his shop. Tim made a cannier bargain this time, then ran home to make some more. He also painted several larger and more ambitious cat pictures from the drawings of Perkins which he had in stock. The next thing was that Pat Cameron asked him to come and help decorate his church for harvest festival. Tim agreed, assuming that Pat was a Catholic, and expecting to be ushered into some dark vaulted place ful
l of saints and candles. Not so, Pat was a Protestant, a member of a very exclusive sect who met in a bright corrugated iron shed in Richmond, where there was no cross or altar, only a blue and white banner saying Jesus pardons, Jesus saves. Here the faithful had brought a lot of apples and pumpkins, and loaves of bread and a remarkable number of powerful roses, but had little idea of how to arrange these offerings. Tim took charge. He introduced quantities of Virginia creeper and yellow-fruited ivy and drooping hawthorn berries and red fans of cotoneaster, and produced in the end such a sumptuous series of tableaux that some of the faithful thought it positively Romish. Several people wanted Tim to stay to be pardoned and saved, but he gratefully declined.
During this ‘time of the leaves’, as he later thought of it, Tim was in a strange mixed-up unstable frame of mind. Often he felt weary and empty, and that was not bad. Sometimes he felt practical and busy, and that was not bad either. He was glad to have, for the moment, a sort of job, and to be able to sell something to somebody. He had enjoyed Jesus pardons, Jesus saves, but that was over now. He was curiously lonely, but he did not mind that, he felt that he had always been lonely. His parents, Daisy, had, and not accidentally, made him into a solitary man. He felt that he was reverting to a form of life that was natural to him. It was his proper destiny to be sad and disappointed and alone. Daisy had prevented him from making friends, while at the same time preventing him from having any proper relation with her. Perhaps he had, and not accidentally, performed a similar service for Daisy. He stayed at home a lot. He rearranged the studio and cleaned the skylights and scrubbed the dresser and even the floor. He washed his summer clothes and put them away. He went through all his paintings and drawings and destroyed some and sorted the rest into groups and wrapped them in cellophane and stored them neatly in the angles of the room. He ate frugally and ‘like a cat’ as Daisy had said. He went to pubs, new pubs, and made some casual acquaintances (no girls). He went to the White Hart at Barnes and the London Apprentice at Isleworth and the Orange Tree at Richmond. He became rather fond of Pat Cameron, who regarded Tim with a gratifying kind of awe because he was ‘a real artist’.
