Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

Jenkin's present restlessness had also much to do with what he thought of, with a smile but soberly, as `Gerard's proposal's He had, since that meeting, been several times alone with Gerard, but neither of them had made any direct allusion to what had then been said. This reticence was, in different ways, characteristic of both. Gerard, too dignified to repeat himself, was clearly prepared to wait indefinitely for Jenkin's response or indeed to do without any response except the one he had istantly received. Jenkin, afraid of giving, to someone so meticulous, so demanding of exactitude and truth, the wrong inpression, thought it better not to blunder into words until lie had something clear to say. But when would that be? Jenkin had been very impressed, more so even than he had realised at the time, by Gerard's statement. Jenkin preferred to think of it in fact already changed the world, and had in some ineffable sense been answered. Their meetings now, with no word uttered on the subject, were different, there was a new gentleness, a douceur, a closeness. They looked with a new calmness into each other's eyes. These were not 'meaningful' or `questioning' looks. They were undemanding gazes which quietly Ird their new sense of each other. They also laughed a lot, winctimes perhaps at an intuition of something harmlessly ludicrous in the situation. These communions made Jenkin led extremely happy. It was like – well, it somehow was – being in love, and perhaps just that was what had been aimed at and achieved by the statement itself and nothing more had to be done. They had never, it occurred to Jenkin, actually honked at each other so much before.

However a query had been set up in his life by Gerard's prescient dimarche. Was he going to go or to stay? Jenkin, in home pain, had gone over possible compromises and rejected them. If' he did what he was intending to do he would be getting right away from Gerard and from his present 'world' altogether. He would be somewhere else, in another country with other people, doing new things, and as he saw it very absorbing and demanding and time-consuming things. Taking a plane to London for an occasional lunch with Gerard did not seem to fit into this picture; and such glimpses were likely to be more distressing than satisfying. Some comfort, some satisfaction, which belonged to his staying was just entirely incompatible with his going. If he went away he would lose, would never develop or regain, that peace which at times he now experienced and knew that Gerard experienced, in their mutual presence, a sense of having come to rest in absolutely the right place. His departure would destroy that for ever. It was not at all that he imagined that Gerard would resent his decision and somehow cut him off, it was just that an almost continuous absence would make them into strange They might try to overcome this alienation but time and spats would not be denied. Whatever happened Jenkin knew that Gerard's behaviour to him would be perfect. But such an absence would starve love of anticipations and treats and make of their old long friendship something smaller and different. The thought was agonising. Of course Jenkin had faced the prospect and felt the pain of it before but now what was to be lost had gained considerably in volume. The ideas of home and of peace which Gerard had trailed so temptingly before him did attract him deeply and did surprise hint as things which he had never really thought he would achieve. He had, without reflection or regret, dismissed them as, lot him, impossible, and so not objects of desire. He had had of course his own peace of mind which depended on his solutide. He had never even thought that he would ever get to know Gerard any better or come any nearer to him than what hail been their splendid but static friendship of so many scoot standing. Now, if as Gerard had actually envisaged (and this still amazed Jenkin) they were to share a house this would involve what he had never in relation to Gerard dreamt of, a genuine life together. Jenkin had considered a shared life as, for him, out of the question, utterly not his lot, had not even, save in the vaguest way when he was very young, wanted it. His relations with women about which he had been so successfulls secretive had never brought him at all near to notions of marriage; and he had settled down quite early in life to being cheerfully celibate and solitary, his only stead yand importaw relationship being with Gerard and the set which had so long ago crystallised around him. Now this possible shared life with his oldest closest friend seemed immensely attractive to him and not only attractive but somehow in prospect easy, natural, appropriate, proper, fated. In this prospect problems about sex bothered Jenkin not at all. He had always since he first saw him when they were both eighteen adored Gerard. The idea of bring in bed with him had never occurred to him for an instant and would have seemed, and seemed now, actually comic. Jenkin in fact felt perceptibly flattered by Gerard's (evidently) not finding his old friend unattractive; though this too was immensely funny. Gerard's lovers had all been beautiful, Sinclair and Robin for instance, or formidabl yhandsome, Duncan. But possible 'dramas' on that front were not part of his worries. Here again, whatever happened or more likely did wit happen, Gerard would be perfect. Contemplating Gerard diving their recent peaceful meetings Jenkin had even rflected that an old dog might still be taught new tricks; and this idea too made him laugh, afterwards. However all these tempting and beautiful thoughts, these deep tender desires, ran harshly up against Jenkin's equally deep resolution about the necessity of an absolute departure; and he felt uncomfortably that the voice of dut yalso spoke on that side. Jenkin did toot want just yet to have that uncomfortable interview with duty. He was, he was aware, putting it off, being drunk upon the honeydew of Gerard's love.

Such thoughts were in his head when Tamar appeared at his door at about ten o'clock. He was not expecting her.

"Tamar, what luck, you've just caught me, I was just going out shopping. Come in, come in!'

He ushered Tamar into his sitting room and turned on the lights and lit the gas fire. It was cold and misty outside. He went to the kitchen and brought back a mug with holly in it and put it on the mantelpiece. He thought, when I'm in Spain ,it Christmas I shall get a sign. Tamar refused coffee, hot soup, toast. She kept her coat on. The ysat down in the cold room, huddled near the fire.

'Not at the office?'

'I'm on sick leave again.'

'Well, how is it with you, my dear, and how are you?'

' I think I'm done for,' said Tamar. She spoke calmly and Itrt face, still thickened and dulled as Jean had seen it on the previous day, was not jerking in spasms of pain, nor were her stra ying about. She kept moistening her parted lips and looked down steadily at the green tiles infront of the little spluttering fire. She breathed deeply.

`What's happened?'

'I've told Jean.'

'You mean about Duncan and the child?'

'Everything.'

Jenkin was dismayed to hear this. 'How did that come about?'

'I just couldn't bear not knowing whether Duncan had told her. He hadn't. But I went to her and blurted it all out, for nothing as it were. Now she'll tell him I've given him away and that he made me pregnant and the child is gone and so on.' She spoke slowly.

Jenkin's thoughts raced about in man ydirections. 'Jean and Duncan will survive. It won't wreck them all over again, You aren't afraid of that, are you?'

'No, I'm not.' Tamar went on with her terrible calmness, staring down at the green tiles. 'I'm not concerned about them. I'm concerned about myself'

'What did Jean say?'