Iris Murdoch - An Unofficial rose

'What about — Marie-Laure? said Ann. She receded from him now step by step toward the window.

'Well, what about Marie-Laure?

'You once said you'd show me a picture of her, said Ann. She was strained and white and small.

Why does she torment us both, thought Felix. 'Yes, he said with irritation. 'I've got one here. Would you like to see it? He fumbled in his pocket. Marie-Laure's letter was still there, and with it the photograph which he had slipped into the envelope some time ago. With a slight shock he glanced at the photo: the clever long-nosed girl with the narrow dark eyes and the great cascade of almost black hair. Marie-Laure. Mon beau Felix, souhaitez-vous vraiment me revoir? He handed it to Ann.

Ann took one look and began to cry.

'Oh, my God I' said Felix. He started to walk up and down the room.

'I'm sorry, she said, controlling herself and laying the photo down on the table. 'I didn't mean to inflict this on you.

'Look, Ann, said Felix, 'to the devil with Randall and Marie-Laure. They've got no business here. We're both tired and overstrained and it was lunatic of me to come so late at night. Go to bed now and in the morning we can talk again.

'No, no, said Ann, all tearful now, 'I couldn't bear it, Felix.

'You're not sending me away now?

She nodded mutely, gazing into her raised handkerchief, the tears still slowly falling.

'Ann, said Felix, 'do you love me?

She was silent, and then still staring at the handkerchief said in a dull hoarse voice, 'Yes. But not enough I suppose. Or not in the right way.

Felix went cold and rigid. He said stiffly, 'Well, why didn't you say so at once? This makes everything much simpler. Of course I shall go. But you should have told me sooner.

'Ah, I don't mean that! she said, raising her head, and her face was wild with some appeal. 'I don't mean that. I do love you. God knows I love you. But I can't see my way out. I'm still too involved with Randall. He's too real. I don't understand it myself. But I do love you. Oh Felix, I'm wretched, help me, help me! Her voice ended in a high-pitched wail. She sobbed for a moment and then was quite still, her hands hanging at her sides, the tears coming.

Felix looked at her miserably. 'There's no need to be kind to me, he said. 'There's no need to be evasive with me. Naturally l. won't press you or bother you. Don't worry about me. I'll go to India. I won't trouble you any more. I think you're wrong about Randall. But I suppose you have a right to love him and not me. I suppose you have a right to think as you please — about your husband.

The word fell dully between them and Ann moaned. She said again, scarcely articulately, 'I love you, Felix, I love you.

He said, 'I know. It's all right. You don't have to be kind. He picked up his coat. He pocketed the photograph of Marie-Laure.

For a moment they stared at each other. 'Don't go, said Ann, almost in a whisper, her tears suddenly checked.

Felix shook his head. 'You're right, he said. 'It's better to do it quickly. I have no taste for suffering. Forgive me for having troubled you. He made for the door.

He dragged savagely at the wheel of the very dark blue Mercedes and drove it half across the lawn towards the gates. A strange cry seemed to linger in the air behind him. He pressed his foot down and down on the accelerator until the car screamed under him. He was paying the penalty, he knew it even then, for being an officer and a gentleman.

MIRANDA, curled upon the window-sill, watched the lights of the very dark blue Mercedes disappearing down the drive. She watched the bright illumination move, with sudden glimpses of green trees, at an increasing pace down the hill until it vanished. The sound of the engine remained with her, at first growing louder as the car gathered speed, and then quickly diminishing. At last there was complete silence. Miranda listened to the silence. Then she moved with a kind of lassitude back into the bedroom. A world had ended. An enterprise was complete.

She knew what had happened in the drawing-room. She had listened long enough at the door. She stood now as if at a loss, without employment, not knowing what to do. Then she pulled the curtains, locked her door and knelt down to rummage under her bed. She dragged out a large wooden box, a box designed for books with a strong lock on it. She searched the table drawer for the key and opened the box. She tilted it over until its contents streamed on to the rug. She began listlessly to sort them.

There were a few letters and a lot of cuttings and photographs.

There was that photo of Felix in tennis kit as a boy of fifteen which she had stolen from Mildred's album. There were several photos of Felix at Grayhallock, pictures taken years ago at some party: Felix talking to Ann and Clare Swann, Felix talking to Ann and Nancy Bowshott, Felix talking to Ann. There was an old picture of Felix with Hugh, with herself, a little white-frilled and bowed creature in the foreground. There were pictures too of Felix and Mildred which Ann had acquired sometime and which Miranda had filched from her desk; and one or two treasured pictures, similarly acquired, of Felix in dress uniform. But the ones she liked best were the ones of Felix in ordinary uniform, Felix during the War, Felix shaggy, Felix armed, Felix in the desert, Felix examining a map in some desolate unknown piece of country. Then there were the wartime cuttings, including the account of how Felix won his M. C. at Anzio. And the peacetime cuttings, including the ones from the Tatler with pictures of Felix dancing with Lady Mary Hunwicke and drinking champagne with Miss Penelope Fanshawe. And 'Colonel Felix (Yoyo) Meecham and friend at Ascot. More precious even than these were the letters, the letter he wrote to her when she had mumps, the letter he wrote to her when she had chicken pox, a postcard he once sent her from New York. Alas, their correspondence had come to an end when she was seven.

Miranda had loved Felix Meecham with all her heart ever since she could remember. She could not trace the moment at which her childish adoration of that tall gentle-spoken demi-god had changed into the possessive jealous agony with which she now lived day and night. It sometimes seemed that her love had always been the same, always equally great in sum, only at a certain time it had been set on fire. And in those flames she writhed. It was not, as a child, that she had not suffered, that she had not missed him, yearned for him, and felt wild joy on his occasions of return. She had suffered bitterly because of his interest in Steven, who also idolized him, and his comparative lack of interest in herself. But at least as a child she had not conceived of possessing him. The terrible pain began when, at some half-noticed turning of the way, she found herself in the same world as Felix. For now that nothing separated them everything separated them.

Miranda was of course aware of a certain something, a trembling of interest and sympathy, between Felix and her mother. This too, she felt, she had always known about; but when her love burst into flames she was driven to a sharper curiosity and a more exact observation. There was in truth little to observe, nor did Miranda conjecture more than she saw. But what she saw was enough, and she watched and suffered.

Miranda was sure that no one knew about her condition. Asked at the age of five whom she wanted to marry, she had answered without hesitation 'Felix'. Everyone had laughed, but no one had remembered. That her love was in secret became the more important as she observed, sharp-eyed and prophetic, the breakdown of her parents' marriage; and as she saw the pattern of events develop in an ever more menacing way her hopeless will to have Felix produced, as a secondary growth, a more viable will at least to prevent her mother from having him. Miranda had been fond of her mother, she supposed, in earlier years; but the mother of her childhood was an anonymous faceless figure. All the colour of that early world had belonged to her father. Her mother first gained individuality and personality as her rival; and to the prosecution of that rivalry Miranda dedicated herself with ferocious efficiency.