Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

'You'd better go to bed,' said Pat's voice.

Gerard lifted his head. He had been dreaming about Sinclair and Rose. He had been young in the dream. It took lihn a second or two to remember that he was no longer young mid Sinclair was dead. 'How long have I been asleep?'

'Some time.'

'You go to bed. I'll fix things. We must ring up the undertaker -'

'I've done that,' said Patricia, 'and I've rung the doctor ihout the death certificate.'

'I'll ring Violet.'

'I've done that too. Look, Gerard, we were talking the other I.ty about the house in Bristol, why don't you go and live lure? You said you loved that house. You don't have to live in,ondon now.'

Gerard became wide awake. Typical Pat. 'Don't be silly, why should I live in Bristol, I live here!'

'This house is far too big for you, it doesn't suit you, you're Mly here by accident. I've just been talking to Gideon on the c1cphone. We'll buy it off you. You'll like Bristol, you need a Range:'

,Oh shut up, Pat,' said Gerard, 'you're crazy. I'm going to bed.’.

`And another thing, now Dad's gone I want to be on that committee.'

`What committee?'

`The book committee. He was on it, to represent the family. Now I should be.'

'It's nothing to do with you,' said Gerard.

`It's our money you're spending.'

'No, it isn't.'

`That's how Dad saw it.'

Gerard went upstairs into his bedroom. The sun was blazing in. He pulled the curtains and dragged the bedclothes aside and began to undress. As he lay down he began to remember the strange events of the night which were now confused, ugly and sinister, with his sister's words into a cloud of fantasy which seemed to be hanging above the heavy weight of that dead body which lay so still and so close, its face blinded. Oh my poor dead father, he thought, and it was as if his father were in terrible pain, the pain of death itself. He turned on his face and groaned and shed some tears of misery into the pillow.

`Well, what do you propose to do?' said Duncan Cambus.

‘I’m going,' said Jean.

'You're going back to him.'

'Yes. I'm sorry.'

'Did you arrange to meet him?'

'No!’

'So you decided this with him last night?'

'Last night – it is last night, isn't it – or this morning. We it, In't say anything to each other last night. We didn't exchange a single word.' Jean Cambus's eyes widened and glowed as she acid this.

'You think he'll expect you?'

' I don't think anything – I'm going. I've got to. I'm very sorry. Now.'

'I'm going to bed,' said Duncan, 'and I advise you to do the same. I advise you, I ask you, not to go. Stay, wait, please.'

' I must go now,' said Jean, 'I can't wait. To wait would be -impossible – all wrong.'

'An error of taste, a lapse of style?'

These were the first words exchanged by Duncan and his wife since their departure from Levquist's rooms. The walk to the car, the drive to London, during most of which Duncan had slept, had been accomplished in silence. Now they were hoine, back in the sitting room of their flat in Kensington. On arrival there both of them had felt it imperative to step out of their crumpled evening clothes, and had, in different rooms, hastily, as if arming for battle, put on more sober gear. Duncan, seated, had taken off his damp and muddy evening trousers and put on some old corduroys, with a voluminous blue shirt, not buttoned, not tucked in. Jean, standing before him, had covered her black petticoat and black stockings with a yellow and white kimono, pulled in fiercely at the waist. Duncan was no longer flushed with alcohol, but his tired face looled disintegrated, wrecked, a senseless massive face, pale and flabby, covered in soft pencilled-in lines. He sat very still, staring at his wife, leaning forward a little, his big hands pendant from the arms of the chair. He had washed his face and his hands and cleaned his teeth. Jean had washed off her elaborate make-up and brushed her thick dark straight hair, which stayed where it was put, back over the crown of her head. She had been a striking beauty when, in another era, in that now so remote, so dream-like past, she had flirted with Sinclair Curtland. Jean had known Sinclair, through Rose, when they were all children. He and she had been 'close' before Sinclair went up to Oxford, they had somehow, inconclusively, remained so, after, always, in spite of Gerard. Had they ever seriously considered that match which everyone seemed so anxious to bring about? Jean's older face was beautiful too, a little sulkier, still delicately china-pale, wilful and keen, often now recalling that of' her Jewish father, so obsessively devout, so obsessively successful. Her mother, also Jewish, had been a talented pianist. They had observed the festivals. Jean had cared for none of these things, not synagogue or music, or the romance of business in which her father had tried to interest her, his only child. She had been obsessively intellectual. Some wondered why she married Duncan, others why she married at all. Her parents had loved her, though they had wanted a boy. Her mother was dead, her father flourishing in New York. He had dreamed of a Jewish son-in-law, but Sinclair was special.

Duncan rubbed his eyes, he found himself swaying slightly, a desire to sleep could be imperative even now.'When will you come back?' he said. He had taken in the situation, he did not mean tomorrow or next week. He added,'You pulled it off last time, coming back I mean.'

'You wouldn't stand it a second time,' said Jean. 'And yet -who knows what you might stand. I love you, but this is different.'

'Evidently.'

'I love you forever – but this is – Anyway they won't be able to stand it, and that will affect you.'

'Who's "they"?', as if he didn't know. `Gerard, Jenkin, Rose. Married people shouldn't have best friends. Maybe we'd always have been better off if we hadn't always been continually watched, oh how closely they watch. And they'll stick with you, like they did last time. It's you they care about, not me.'

Duncan did not dispute this. 'They're not against you, they won't be, Rose won't be, you have an eternal pact with Rose.'

`You think women too have life-long friendships sealed in blood. It isn't so.' Yet it was true that she had an eternal pact with Rose. 'The two princesses' Sinclair had called them. 'Why the hell did you let Crimond throw you into the Cher, why did you tolerate it!'

'I didn't have much choice.'

`Don't play the fool now!'

`Jean -!’

`All right, all right. What happened?'

'I can't remember very clearly,' said Duncan.'I wasn't after him. I mean I wasn't looking for him. We met suddenly in the dark. I don't think I said anything. I think I hit him, or tried to. We were just beside the water. He pushed me in.'

`God. It was just like – it was just like the other time. Why are, you so weak, why can't you get things right?'

'You mean kill him?' said Duncan.

'It's as if you enjoyed it – of course I know you don't, you Just bungle everything. Did you hit him with your fist or with your open hand?'

'I can't remember,' said Duncan. In fact he could remember very well; and reflected how often, how interminably, he would relive that scene, just as he did the other one, the UrsZene. Retiring to relieve himself, he had come face to face with Crimond in the dark. It only now occurred to him that Crimond must have been watching him, trailing him, and had engineered the sudden meeting. It was the kind of unexpected encounter where one would be shocked into doing something, clasping an extended hand, offering an impromptu kiss or a Blow. Duncan had moved his right hand, deciding, he rememhered, not to close it into a fist. He had intended to slap Crimond on the side of the head, but had again, evidently, decided not to, but had hit him on the shoulder, quite hard it seemed since Crimond had jolted back a pace. Then Crimond had seized him, holding him by his clothes, and swung him round toward the edge of the r iver. Duncan lost his balance and fell down the bank. Yes" he remembered it all. He wondered whether, if it had been the other way round and he had pushed Crimond into the Cherwell, Jean would now be leaving.