Iris Murdoch - The Bell

As they neared the Lodge they saw that the door was open. The light from the living-room, through the door and the uncurtained windows, revealed the gravel, the tall grasses, the iron rails of the gate. Paul, beginning to run, reached the doorway before Michael. He pushed his way in without knocking. Michael hastened after him, looking over his shoulder.

The scene in the living-room was peaceful and indeed familiar. The usual litter of newspapers covered the floor and the table. The stove was lit and Murphy was lying stretched out beside it. Behind the table, in his usual place, sat Nick. On the table there was a bottle of whisky and a glass. There was no one else to be seen.

Paul seemed nonplussed. He said to Nick, “Oh, good evening, Fawley.” Paul was the only person who addressed Nick in this manner. “I was just wondering if my wife was here.”

Nick, who had shown a little surprise, Michael thought, at his own arrival, was now smiling in his characteristic grimacing manner. With his greasy curling hair and his grimy white shirt, unbuttoned, and his long legs sticking straight out under the table he looked like some minor Dickensian rake. He reached for the bottle, and raised his eyebrows, possibly to express the slightly patronizing amazement, which Michael had often felt, too, at the frankness with which Paul revealed his matrimonial difficulties.

“Good morning, Greenfield,” said Nick. “No, she ain’t here. Why should she be? Have a drink?”

Paul said irritably, “Thank you, no, I never take whisky.”

“Michael?” said Nick.

Michael jumped at his name, and took a moment to realize what Nick meant. He shook his head.

“Is Toby upstairs?” said Paul.

Nick went on smiling at him and kept him waiting for the answer. Then he said, “No. He ain’t here either.”

“Do you mind if I look upstairs?” said Paul. He pushed through the room.

Michael, who was just beginning to realize that Paul was in fact in a frantic state, found himself left alone with Nick. He cast a glance at him without smiling. He was fairly frantic himself.

Nick smiled. “One of the deadly sins,” he said.

“What?” said Michael.

“Jealousy,” said Nick.

Paul’s feet were heard on the stairs. He came blundering back into the living-room.

“Satisfied?” said Nick.

Paul did not reply to this, but stood in the middle of the room, his face wrinkled up with anxiety. He said to Nick.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Gashe?” said Nick. “No. I am not Gashe’s keeper.”

Paul stood irresolutely for a moment, and then turned to go. As he passed Michael he paused. “It was odd what you said about a bell.”

“Why?” said Michael.

“Because there’s a legend about this place. I meant to tell you. The sound of a bell portends a death.”

“Did you hear that strange sound a little while ago?” Michael asked Nick.

“I heard nothing,” “said Nick.

Paul stumped out of the door and began walking back along the drive.

Michael stayed where he was. He felt very tired and confused. If Nick would only have stayed quiet he would like to have sat with him for a while in silence. But those were all mad thoughts.

“Have a drink?” said Nick.

“No thanks, Nick,” said Michael. He found it very hard not to look at Nick. A solemn face seemed hostile and a smiling face provocative. He cast a rather twisted smile in his direction and then looked away.

Nick got up and came towards Michael. Michael stiffened as he approached. For a moment he thought Nick was going to come right up to him and touch him. But he stopped about two feet away, still smiling. Michael looked at him fully now. He wished he could drive that smile off his face. He had a strong impulse to reach out and put his two hands on Nick’s shoulders. The sound that had awakened him, the moonlight, the madness of the night, made him feel suddenly that communication between them was now permitted. His whole body was aware, almost to trembling, of the proximity of his friend. Perhaps after all this was the moment at which he should in some way remove the barrier which he had set up between them. No good had come of it. And the fact remained, as he deeply realized in this moment, for whatever it meant and whatever it was worth, that he loved Nick. Some good might yet come of that.

“Nick,” Michael began.

Speaking almost at the same time Nick said, “Don’t you want to know where Toby is?”

Michael flinched at the question. He hoped his face was without expression. He said, “Well, where is he?”

“He’s in the wood making love to Dora,” said Nick.

“How do you know?”

“I saw them.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Michael. But he did believe. He added, “Anyway, it’s no business of mine.” That was foolish, since on any view of the matter it was his business.

Nick stepped back to sit in a leisurely way on the table, watching Michael and still smiling.

Michael turned and went out, banging the door behind him.

“WELL, and what happened then?” said James Tayper Pace.

It was the next morning, and James and Michael were in the greenhouse picking tomatoes. The good weather was breaking, and although the sun still shone, a strong wind, which had arisen towards dawn, was sweeping across the kitchen garden. The tall lines of runner-beans swayed dangerously and Patchway went about his work with one hand clutching his hat. Inside the greenhouse however all was quiet and the warm soil-scented air and the firm red bunches of fruit made an almost tropical peace. Today all routines were altered because of the arrival of the bell, which was due to be delivered some time during the morning. The Bishop was to make his appearance during the afternoon, and after the baptism service would partake of tea with the community, a meal which, in the form of a stand-up buffet, was being planned on a grand scale by Margaret Strafford. He would then stay the night and officiate at the more elaborate rites on the following morning.

“Nothing happened,” said Michael. “After I met Paul I went with him to the Lodge. Toby wasn’t there. We came away again and I went back to bed and Paul wandered off to do some more searching. When I saw him this morning he said that he went back to his room about three-quarters of an hour later and found Dora there. She said it was such a hot night she’d been for a walk round the lake.”

James laughed his gruff booming laugh and lined another box with newspaper. “I’m afraid”, he said, “that Mrs Greenfield is what is popularly called a bitch. I’m sorry to say so, but one must call things by their names. Only endless trouble comes from not doing so.”

“You say you didn’t hear any noise in the night?”said Michael.

“Not a sound. But I’m so dead tired these days I sleep like the proverbial log. The last trump wouldn’t wake me. They’d have to send a special messenger!”

Michael was silent. Nimbly he fingered the glowing tomatoes, warm with the sun and firm with ripeness. The boxes were filling fast.

James went on, “One oughtn’t to laugh, of course. I can’t believe anything serious happened last night. Paul is a dreadful alarmist and a chronically jealous man. All the same, we ought to keep an eye on things; and I think it’s regrettable that they’ve gone as far as they have.”

“Yes,” said Michael.

“I’m sure Toby and Dora have done nothing but run around together like a couple of youngsters,” said James. “Dora is just about his mental age anyway. But with a woman like that you can’t be sure that there wouldn’t be some gesture, some word that might upset him. After all, he’s not like my young East-enders. He’s been a very sheltered child. A boy’s first intimations of sex are so important, don’t you think? And tampering with the young’s a serious matter.”