Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

The afternoon was darkening but the reddish light was more intense, making the scene for the moment more vivid. The dark figures of the skaters were working, it seemed, upon the hidden ice, making it, by their quick weavings, more visible, instinctively cutting the still unmarked snow with their sharp feet. Most of the villagers, who had a longer walk, home, had gone now, the whizzing priest had disappeared Gull was trying to get his cramped foot into one of his skatin boots. His foot, immobilised with cold and locked into an impossible position, dabbed miserably at the space, which was blocked now by the tongue of the boot. He had taken off his gloves and his hands were frozen.

'Gerard and I walked to the village this morning,' said Jenkin to Tamar, 'and the village pond was frozen – well, of course it was frozen – and the ducks and geese were walking about on the ice. They looked so touching, so awkward and puzzledand indignant! You could see how heavy those geese were, planting their feet so carefully, they were quite aggressive too, they wouldn't get out of the way, the skaters had to avoid them. They must have felt it was the last straw, their pond gone solid and humans rushing about! We went to the Pike. They've got the Christmas decorations up. I always love this time before Christmas, don't you, when people start setting up Christmas trees and hanging holly wreaths on their doors. When do you put up your decorations?'

'We don't put up decorations.'

'Well, neither do I much -just a few old baubles. The Pike is nice and friendly, don't you think?'

'I don't like pubs.'

'You should give them a try. You needn't be nervous.'

'I'm not nervous.'

'See how red the sky has become, and everything's so motionless and so quiet, like an enchantment. Now we've left the others we might be in Siberia! Do you know, we haven't -seen a single bird since we left the house? I suppose they're all hiding in the thickest bushes with their feathers. fluffed up. I can't think how they survive in this weather.'

'They don't, lots of them die.'

They had been tramping across the grass whose longer blades appeared here and there above the snow, outstretched like little green ribbons hatched over with crosses made by the frost.

Jenkin had been busily making conversation, trying to stir Tamar's attention, pointing things out to her, the tracks of animals, the perfect shape of a leafless oak, a small holly bmis covered with red berries in the hedge that bordered the meadow. Now they had reached the river and looked down in silence at the stiff frozen shapes of broken water plants whirr rose out of the quite thick fringe of ice which bordered either bank. In the centre the river rushed, fierce, silent, fast, fed by other snows, and black, black in between its edges of ice and snow.

Tamar looked down, lowering her head and fumbling at the knot of her scarf, then pulling the scarf more closely forward over her brow.

Jenkin had been watching Tamar since their arrival at Boyars. He shared the common knowledge of her troubles, he so acutely felt, now, her sadness, her unapproachable remote. ness, he wished he could 'do something' for her. He had known her all her life, but never well, had never figured as 'jolly uncle Jenkin', or as someone in whom she might confide or trust. Jenkin, for all his schoolmasterly talents, had never achieved with Tamar, as child or adult, the easy and authoritative relationship which Gerard enjoyed with her.

While Jenkin was wondering what topic of conversation to try next, Tamar suddenly

said, 'Do you think Jean will come back to Duncan?'

He said at once, 'Yes, of course. Don't let that make you sad!'

`Has he heard from her just lately?'

`Well – he had a solicitor's letter, but he wrote saying he loved her and expected her back, and there's been nothing since, which must be a good sign. That other thing can't last – it didn't before and it won't now. She'll be back!' Jenkin was not sure whether he really felt this confidence, but he wanted to reassure Tamar.

`It's such a pity they never had children,' she said, still looking down at the river, 'but perhaps they never wanted any, not everyone does.'

`Duncan certainly did, he was longing for a child. I'm not sure about Jean.'

`Oh look – isn't that a dead cat?'

Something humpy and streaky and dark was tumbled by in the fierce rush of the river. It was a dead cat. 'No, no,' said Jenkin, 'it's a bundle of reeds. Come on, let's go back. Why, I think it's starting to snow again.'

Lily had finished lacing her boots, but was sitting paralysed, watching the distant gyrations of Rose and Gerard. `Come on,' said Gulliver, 'or are you funking it? Never mind, I'll have a try. Pray for me.'

He rose to his feet, balanced upon the ridiculously thin edges of the skates, which at once sunk into the snowy grass. Stretching both arms out to balance himself and lifting up each foot carefully he made his way down the slope. Unfortunately there was nothing to hold onto, no friendly tree extending a sturdy branch. Near to the brink, he thrust one foot forward onto the ice. The foot rejected the hard slippery alien surface, declining to plant itself firmly as a foot ought to, but moving uneasily, slipping away, turning feebl yover on its side. Gulliver withdrew the foot. If only he could stand on the ice for a moment or two he might manage to move cautiously forward in some reasonably skaterly manner. After all, he could skate, that is hehad proceeded on skates in an upright position for short distances on ice rinks of his youth. He edged carefully ibrward a little so that both his skates were embedded at the verge of the ice, which was not at all clean-cut, but a messy area where humpy earth and grass were covered with a brittle mix of ice and snow. Here he again got one foot forward onto the smoother ice. But the other foot, taking his weight for a moment, had sunk a centimetre or two deeper into the earthy perimeter. The problem of removing it while balancing on the forward foot seemed insoluble. In calm despair, with arms outstretched, Gulliver gazed ahead of him into the red dusk .He thought, I can't go forward, I can't get back, I shall have to sit down. Thank God Rose and Gerard are somewhere else, I can't even see them. At that moment a hand appeared and took hold of his outstretched hand. Lily had evidently ventured down to the edge behind him.

Gulliver gripped the supportive hand and by some miraculous manoeuvre managed to get his other foot onto the ice, while resting quite a lot of weight upon Lily's hand, and now upon her arm which had also appeared beside him. He was standing! He let go of Lily and began to walk upon the ice, not sliding but walking, balancing as on stilts. Now, how did one get going? His legs resisted the desire of his ankles to turn quietly over, his expensive boots bore him stiffly up, his stomach, his diaphragm, his shoulders, his pendant arms, sought intently for a certain rhythmical movement, a leaning and a swaying, a distribution of the weight, so that the feet, used after all to taking turns on terra firma, could in this weird and artificial predicament, proceed to a harmonious cooperation. Gulliver inclined himself forward, advancing one skate, then as it slid a little and took his weight, with an instinctively remembered motion bringing on its fellow. He was still upright! He could do it! He was skating!

At that moment somebody appeared beside him and said, `Well done!' It was Lily. She moved past him. She was skating too. What was more, and Gulliver somehow took this in instantly, not only could she skate, but she could skate very well indeed. Lily was now in front of him, moving backwards. He saw in the crimson twilight her face under her black fur hat, with reddened cheeks and nose, bright with triumphant joy, She made a little circle, then a larger one, then with a wave set off across the ice at an astonishing speed. Gulliver sat down abruptly.