Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

Later that morning Rose was sitting in the library, where Reeve Curtland had been writing letters answering the numerous expressions of condolence upon Laura's death. Thc young people had departed, Neville to St Andrews where fir was in his last year of studying history, Gillian to Leeds whei r she was in her first year of psychology. Both of them had failed to get into Oxford, but were proving it possible to flourish elsewhere. Reeve, who had also failed to get into Oxford had, as he often complained, passed a gloomy and profitless perloil at a minor London college. It had only lately occurred to hri that Reeve, who was about her age, might have envied and perhaps disapproved of the golden times which Sinclair and the others were obviously having at the old university. Reeve had cheered up considerably, however, as uncharitable observers remarked, when his father inherited the title. The Curtlands were Anglicans, not Nonconformists or Quakers, but there was a puritanical streak which emerged at intervals. A Curtland had been an officer in Cromwell's army. Rose's Anglo-Irish mother had cheerfully tolerated Sinclair's homosexuality, but her gentle father had been quietly shocked. Of course Rose had never discussed these matters, orindeed anything of grave importance, with Reeve. Always searching for likenesses, she discerned in Neville's blond handsomeness a certain look of Sinclair. It was certainly clear that Neville, always nearly engaged to different girls, did not share his Cousin's ambiguous propensities. Reeve bore no marked resemblance to any of his relations or ancestors, he certainly lacked the jaunty look which Curtland men seemed to have had, judging from the family portraits, a look which both Sinclair and Neville pre-eminently incarnated. He was not, like them, tall. He had mousy brown hair, not grey but balding a little, dark brown soft puzzled anxious eyes, a ruddy complexion and a much lined brow where the pitted rubbery flesh rose in little hillocks. His lips were anxious too. His eyebrows thick and furr y. He somehow managed to look young. He was often shy and even gauche in conversation, unlike his son. He liked to stay at home all the time and work on innumerable jobs. He always wore a tie, even when out on the tractor. In spite of his awkwardness and sometimes maddeningly tentative approach to the world, he did not lack charm, perhaps the charm of some timid touching animal. As people also observed about him, he did in fact, for all his poor showing, manage his estate, and his investments, reasonably well. He also played the piano creditably and painted in watercolours.

`Reeve, I must go back to London,' said Rose, uttering words she had wanted to utter for some time.

`Oh no! Why? The children have gone but there's still me to look after! And how will the house run without you? You haven't anything to do down there. I've often wondered why you weren't with us oftener. You should regard this place as it second home.'

`Oh I do,' said Rose vaguely.

`Evidently you don't, as you're so mean with your time! You know how attached the children are to you, how much they depend on your advice.'

Rose could not recall ever having 'advised' Neville and Gillian, who were bouncily independent young people, though it was true that she had had some `good talks' with them during this, exceptionally long, stay at Fettiston.

`How much they need you,' Reeve went on, `and will – even more – in the future-‘

Rose heard uneasily the slight weight which he put upon these words. She said, rather firmly, wanting now to be clear, `I must get back. Gerard is in a rather unhappy state because a friend of his died in an accident.'

‘Jenkin Riderhood.'

`Yes. I didn't know you knew -' Rose was surprised.

`Francis Reckitt told me, you know, Tony's son. Someone in London mentioned it to him quite recently and lie remembered the chap's name. I met him with you once, yearn ago.'

`Of course, you met Jenkin, I'd forgotten.'

`Odd business – that man Crimond, wasn't it – that Communist or whatever -'

`Yes.'

`I'm sorry. I didn't say anything to you. I felt we had enough on our plate.'

`Indeed. Anyway – I feel I must go home – I'm sure you understand.'

`I think this is your home, but I won't argue! There aren’t many of them left now, are there -'

`You mean -?'

`Gerard and his friends. He's living with his sister now, isn't he?'

`Yes.'

`Well, come back again soon. We do need you very much. Things are going to be different now – and – Rose – blood is thicker than water.'

`A lot of things have happened since you went away,' said Gerard.

Rose had telephoned him on her return and he had come round at once.

`So you're living in Jenkin's house?'

`Yes. He left everything to me. I think I shall stay there.'

`So Patricia and Gideon got you out after all!'

`Yes. But I wanted to go. I'm tired of being surrounded by possessions. It's time for a radical change.'

`You mean you'll become like Jenkin?'

`Don't be silly.'

`Sorry, I'm being stupid. I feel terribly stupid just now.'

It was late evening. Rose professed to have had supper, though she had only had a sandwich. Gerard also said he had eaten. They were drinking coffee. He had refused wh isky. The preliminaries of their conversation, so much looked forward to by Rose, had been awkward, almost irritable, as though they had both forgotten how to converse. She thought, he's angry with me for having stayed away so long. I hope it's only that.

Gerard looked different. His curly hair was dull and disordered, standing out in senseless directions, like the fur of a sick or frightened animal. His sculptured face, whose fine surfaces usually cohered so harmoniously, looked disunified and angular, even distorted. His mouth was awry, twisted in repose by a twinge of distress or anno yance. His normally calm eyes were restless and evasive, and he kept turning his head away from Rose in a sulky manner. Sometimes he became still and abstracted, frowning, as if listening. Oh he is ill, he is not himself, thought Rose miserably, but it seemed that she could do nothing now but irritate him.

`You know Duncan's resigned from the office?'

`No.’

`Of course that's since you went away, you've been away such ages. He kept saying he'd resign, and now he's resigned. They're in France now looking for a house.'

`What part?' said Rose.

`I don't know what part!'

`I rang their number, I wanted to see Jean. So they're away. How are they?'

`Very cheerful, not a care in the world.'

`How are Gull and Lily? I hope they're all right.'

`Not very,' said Gerard with an air of satisfaction. 'You know Gulliver ran off to Newcastle? Yes, of course you know that. Lily hasn't heard from him.'

`I expect she thinks he's got a girl up there! I think she should go after him. So you've seen Lily?'

`No, of course not!'

`Perhaps he wants to vanish until he can return intriumph `In that case he'll just vanish.'

`But you've seen Tamar?'

`You think I've seen everybody! Actually, I have literally Tamar, but not to talk to. My God, she's sleek, you wouldn't recognise her.'

`What do you mean, "sleek"?'

`Well, fit, in cracking form.'

`Really – how splendid!'

`I don't know whether it's splendid,' said Gerard, `it doesn't seem real. I think she may be deranged or drugged or something.'

`I could never make out what was the matter with her -.just Violet I suppose.'

`Do you know, I don't think Tamar cared at all – about Jenkin -'

Rose said hastily, to cut off his emotion, 'I'm sure she cared. She's such an odd girl, she conceals things.'

`She's been seeing that priest, your parson.'

`Father McAlister.'