Iris Murdoch - Bruno’s Dream

After sipping a mixture of gin and tears for a while she leaned forward and picked the camera up from the kitchen floor. Her body felt heavy and stiff and old. She wondered if the camera was broken. It must be. Yet when she shook it it didn’t seem to rattle so perhaps it was all right. She hung it round her neck and shed a few more tears.

A little later she heard someone coming down the stairs. She had heard someone mount the stairs earlier in the afternoon and enter Bruno’s room, and she had assumed that it was Nigel, though she had prudently told Will that Nigel was not there. She moved out to the foot of the stairs. Ought she to warn Nigel about Will?

Lisa Watkin passed through the hall and out of the front door. Without a moment’s hesitation Adelaide dashed up after her.

She caught up with Lisa just as she was turning into Ashburnham Road.

”Miss Watkin-“

”Oh, hello.”

”Could I have a word with you?”

”Yes, surely. I do hope you didn’t mind my going straight up to Bruno? I didn’t like to ring the bell in case he was asleep.”

”That’s all right. Look, there’s something I want to tell you.”

”Oh yes. About Bruno?”

”No. About Danby.”

”About-Danby?”

”Yes. You see I know all about you and Danby.”

Lisa slightly quickened her pace and her face put on a cold stiff slightly amused expression which enraged Adelaide. “I am unaware that there is anything to know about me and Danby.”

”Don’t give me that. You know he’s been making advances. He wrote you a letter.”

”Really.”

”Or are you denying it?”

”I object to your rude and aggressive tone of voice.”

”Well, you’ll just have to put up with it, won’t you.”

”I have no intention of putting up with it. You seem to be under some sort of misapprehension. But I am certainly not going to discuss it with you.”

”You can put on airs, but I bet you’re dying to know what I’ve got to tell you.”

”If you have something to say, say it.”

”There you are you see! Well, before you get going with Danby there’s something about him you ought to know.”

”There is no question of my, as you put it, getting going with Danby. I scarcely know Danby.”

”I bet that’s a bloody lie. Anyway, you keep away from Danby. Danby is my lover. We live together. We’ve been lovers for years.”

”I cannot think why you trouble to press this information on me. It’s of no conceivable interest to me and it doesn’t concern me. I can see you’re upset and I’m sorry if I was rude to you just now. Now will you please go back. Bruno may be needing you.”

”I’m not your servant, madam. Do you believe me? If you don’t believe me ask Danby, just ask him.”

”I have no plans for seeing Danby. You are upsetting yourself about nothing. I haven’t the slightest intention of interfering with your arrangements. Now be kind enough not to trouble me any more with this nonsense. Good afternoon.”

They had reached the King’s Road. Lisa darted quickly into the traffic and crossed the road leaving Adelaide standing on the curb. Adelaide stood for a moment, then slowly turned back. Then she paused and pulled off the camera, which had been bobbing round her neck, and hurled it down violently onto the pavement. This time all its inward parts came out and scattered themselves in the gutter. She left them lying there.

It was Sunday. Miles was walking along the crowded pavement of the Fulham Road in the rain. With vague unfocused eyes he sidestepped his way through the oncoming crowds. His hair was plastered darkly to his uncovered head and the raindrops moved down his face like tears. He came to the discreet doorway of the Servite church and went mechanically through it. He needed somewhere to sit and think.

Miles had been to see Bruno. It had been all right. He had said that he was sorry and almost felt it. Bruno had told some rambling story about a stamp being lost and Danby finding it stuck underneath the stair carpet. None of the women had been mentioned. They had talked at random, darting from subject to subject in a way which Bruno seemed to find quite natural. They had talked about the house where they used to live in Fawcett Street and Miles had said it was all let out in flats now. They had talked about the printing works and about Miles’s job and about the state of the economy. They had re called a dog called Sambo who had been part of the family when Miles was a child. Miles had discussed whether Bruno would like to have a cat since he knew someone whose tabby had just had most attractive kittens, and Bruno had said no, he would get too damned attached to the cat and then it would be certain to run away or get run over. They had discussed the difference between cats and dogs. They had talked about spiders. It had all been quite easy. Bruno was quite rational and much more relaxed, and looked a good deal less appalling. No terrible memories had been stirred, only innocent and sad ones. Miles had not thought about Sambo in years. He came away, moved by the old man, and with a fresh and strangely pathetic sense of himself.

Now however he had already ceased to think about Bruno. He went through the corridor into the cold inward light of the church. There was a plaintive urgent melancholy sound of chanting, but after he had stood for a moment just inside the door he made out that there was no service in progress. The singers must be the choir, who were practicing invisible to him in a side chapel at the far end. The body of the church was almost empty, though here and there between bunchy brown granite pillars he could see one or two people kneeling before the shrines which arched along the side walls in a series of rich shadowy caverns. The plain-song chant ceased, leaving an intense quietness behind it. Miles knew the place. He had come here in the past to meditate. He took off his drip ping mackintosh and hung it over the back of the pew in front. He sat down and began to dry his face and hair with his hand kerchief.

What on earth was he going to do about Lisa? She had avoided him on Saturday, leaving for work early and coming back late. He had managed to see her for a moment early this morning in the garden, when all she had said to him was, “I’ve got to go away. Don’t let it start, don’t let it start” But this was impossible, it had already started. On Saturday evening, after Lisa had resolutely planted herself in the drawing room with Diana, he had withdrawn to his study. What had the women said to each other after his departure? Perhaps nothing. Before going to bed he had tried Lisa’s door. It was locked.

He had not spoken of the matter to Diana either, after a very brief exchange which they had had after Miles came to bed in the early hours of Saturday morning. Diana had of course seen what had happened between him and Lisa. It must have been fairly obvious: those looks, those sighs, those shudderings, those significant almost-touches. She said, “I knew it would happen one day.” Miles did not believe her. He did not believe that the possibility had occurred to Diana for a single second. She said, “She’s much better for you than I am. You ought to go away together.” Miles said, “Nonsense, Diana. I’m married to you. Now shut up.” They had lain rigid and sleepless side by side until the daylight came.

Miles had thought at first in these terms: as it is utterly impossible and inconceivable that I should part from either of them there is really no problem. The only question is how exactly to manage it, how to juggle it. There is no question about whether it should or can be managed. And fortunately the question of concealment does not even arise. This extremely simple and as it seemed to him radical way of seeing the problem persisted with him, together with sensations of mad joy, throughout most of Saturday. It had been almost a relief to be at the office, to perform neutral compulsory activities, and to think about Lisa dreamily and abstractly without considering any plan of action whatsoever. Saturday evening had been rather a trial, particularly the experience of leaving the two women behind together in the drawing room, reading their books. No eyes had been raised to meet his as he lingered at the door. The light head and the dark head both remained resolutely bowed. After he had walked for about half a mile up and down the three-pace extent of his study he had considered the possibility of creeping downstairs to see if they were talking about him, but the idea seemed too sickeningly nightmarish.