Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

Underneath the sibilant hum of' the trains and the loud announcements of departures and the clatter of luggage troleys and the bird-like mutter of human talk and the purposive walking of many people there was a kind of silence like a clarity under a mist. Gulliver found a seat and after sitting motionless for a time began to feel a little dazed, almost sleepy, He thought, yes, this place is like a church, a place of meditation, or perhaps it's like a Greek orthodox church where you can walk around too and light candles. I wonder when the bar opens? He meditated for a while, watching his thoughts at first scampering, then drifting. He thought, perhaps I'm only just discovering what it's really like to bc unemployed, when you're tired with trying and you give up and just sit about without any will to do anything or go anywhere. I suppose you'll be watching television if you can afford it. Gull became aware that someone was sitting beside him on the seat, a man. Gulliver and the man briefly inspected each other. The man, who had no coat, was wearing ancient blue jeans and a shabby lumpy jacket over a stained jersey, His face was thin, his hair was thin but still brownish, till. stubble on his face and neck was grey. He held what appeared to be a cider bottle from which he took occasional gulps. I Iv coughed. His hands, emerging from too short sleeves, were rep and crabbed and swollen, they trembled. His eyes, blue as Gulliver saw when they turned towards him, were watery and rimmed with red as if his eyelids were turning inside ow, Gulliver moved instinctively away from the man. He wanted to say something to him but could think of nothing to say. He felt upset and startled and annoyed.

At last the man spoke. 'Cold, in'it.'

'Yes.'

'It's the wind.'

'Yes, it's the wind.'

'Snowing too, in'it?'

, Yes.'

There was a silence.

Do you believe in God?'

'No,' said Gulliver, 'do you?'

'Yes, but not in logic.'

'Why not in logic?'

‘If there's God should be all OK, an'it? But it's bloody rotten. We're rotten. You and me, sitting here, we're rotten.' I don't think we're rotten,' said Gulliver. 'We're just unlucky.'

‘Unlucky, you can say that again. No, I'm not unlucky, I'm right bastard. That's why I believe in God.'

'Why?'

'What else? Got to. Sin brings you to it. I know all about that. If I didn't believe in God I'd jump under one of them diesels. Where you going, anywhere?'

'I'm going to Newcastle to look for a job.'

'Newcastle? You crazy? There ain't no jobs up there, just a lot of bloody Geordies, they'll knock your eyes out.'

'I suppose you haven't got a job either,' said Gull. Silly question, but he didn't like the man's tone, and he had thought about those Geordies too.

‘Job? What's that? All I work at is where to spend the night.'

'Where do you live?'

'Live, is that what I'm doing? I do it here at the moment.'

'You mean -?'

‘Here in this bloody station. I move about, see, 'cause they get to know you. Paddington, Victoria, Waterloo, they're all the same, they move you onand you have to walk about till: winething opens. Even the pubs won't let you in if you're I filthy like me. And they call this place England!'

'Have you any family?' said Gulliver desperately.

'Family? They said "ge t lost", and I got lost! Once you start going down you can't stop, you can't ever get back where you once were. And when you get to the bottom – it's black down there. Oh God. I'll die of cold soon and that'll be it. Do you believe in hell?'

`Yes. It's here.'

`You're bloody right.'

A deadly gloom settled over Gulliver. Why did he have to meet this awful pathetic man? You can't ever get back where you once were. Perhaps I shall be like that one day, the thought, perhaps sooner than I imagine, this must be my alter ego, something horrible and prophetic which had crawled out of my unconscious mind and is sitting beside me! Why should he fasten onto me? He's making me feel not only miserable but bad, rotten, like he said I was. That balance that was going to tilt toward something better, at least to a decent mediocre life, perhaps that's what it's tilting to, hating oneself not only in oneself but in other people! He may beas innocent as Christ, but I'm making him the cause that evil is in me. Why aren't I sorry for the bugger? I'm not, I can't be, and of course he's not innocent, he hates me, and I hate him. I'd like to push him under a train.

Then a terrible thought appeared in Gulliver's mind. He ought to give this man his overcoat! The thought, appearing suddenly, seemed like something planted by an alien force, Perhaps he was confronted by a demon in disguise. For the alien thought had nothing to do with goodness, it was an obsession, a superstition, a kind of blackmail. Unless he handed over his coat he would meet with every misfortune, li, would never get a job, he would take to drink, he would end up in the pitiful condition portrayed by the hobgoblin at his sid, Whereas if he gave his coat to the prophetic imp all would be well and he could live carefree ever after. The moment of choice had come. I won't give it to him, he thought, I don't care what happens to me! Of course I could buy another coat, but one like this would cost far too much now, far more than I can afford, besides I like this coat, it's my coat, why should he have it, he'd only sell it to buy drink! But then suppose he isn't a demon, or an alter ego, suppose he's Christ himself come to test me, or damn it, suppose he's just what he seems to be, a poor miserable unlucky sod like I might be one day, just himself, ust a miserable accidental stranger? I wish I hadn't thought of giving him my coat, I wish I'd never set eyes on the wretch, but now I've thought of it haven't I got to do it?

Gulliver stood up and unbuttoned his overcoat. He put his band inside into his pocket and drew out his wallet. He opened he wallet and drew out a five-pound note. He handed it to the inan, who seemed to beexpecting it, and said, 'Here, just a little present, good luck to you.' Then, replacing his wallet and buttoning up his coat, he walked briskly away. He was instantly consumed by misery and rage and fear. When he had walked some distance he looked back. The man had gone, probably to get some more drink somewhere and shorten his life a little more. Gulliver wished that he had given the man his root, or rather he wished that in some other ideal life some Gulliver, who was certainly not himself; had been able to react a good action spontaneously without degrading it into a superstition. He sat down on another seat and closed his eyes wid buried his head in his hands.

After a while, retaining self'-consciously the attitude of despair, he opened his eyes and looked miserably down trough his fingers at a small area of the dirty concrete below him, covered with cigarette ends and chocolate papers. He stared at it for a while. Then he removed his hands and sat up a ttle. An odd little round thing about the size of a Ping-Pong ball was lying under the seat. Gulliver wondered what it was. Still sitting he stretched one hand in under the seat but could only touch the little thing with his fingertips. It rolled away. He thought, I'm bewitched today, I must get hold of that thing, what on earth is it? He got up and peered under the seat. The thing had moved again, perhaps accidentally kicked by one of he people passing by. Gulliver knelt down and tried to reach for it again, but now it was lying farther off, out in the open, kirly to be stepped on at any moment. In an anguish of anxiety he pursued it, made a quick dart and seized it, then stood holding it in his hand. When he saw what it was he fared at it with disconcerted surprise.

Duncan was looking at a hammer. It was an old familiar hammer with a heavy head and a shortish thickish well-worn wooden handle. The grain-striped handle was unpolished save by the grip of many hands, and was splintered a little at the end. It was beautifully balanced. Duncan could remember his father using that hammer in a little workshop in the garden where he pursued his hobby of' mending furniture. The hammer had travelled with Duncan, in his bachelor flats, later into his marriage, a friendly serviceable old hammer, always finding its modest place in a suitable drawer, always to hand, ready to tack a carpet, or hang a picture. Its head, with its substantial shining nose, was pleasantly rounded, as if worn, as if it had spent thousands of years in the sea, it looked like a dark glossy ancient stone. Duncan weighed the heavy head in his hand, testing its firmness, caressing it in his palm, then drew his fingers down the warm smooth wooden shaft. It was a good old tool with a friendly face, humble, faithful. He had gently rubbed the end of the handle with sandpaper. He laid it down on the kitchen table and looked at it. It had never before been for him an object of contemplation. It looked primitive, it looked innocent, a quiet symbol of unassuming diligent toil He put it away in a drawer. He drew out of his pocket a letin which he had received two days ago and read many times. It was brief and ran as follows.