Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

''They -?'

'Well, we, I've depended on you too, as you know. That's another thing I’ve got to get away from. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Everything I’m saying now can be misunderstood, I wish you hadn't started this conversation, I hate this sort of conversation.'

`You've got to get away from me?'

'Yes, but it's nothing personal, Gerard! It's just part of wanting to be properly by myself. I've begun to feel I was kidnapped in my cradle, kidnapped by a group of the dearest best people in the world, but -'

'I'm sorry it's nothing personal! It isn't – excuse this, but since we're being so frank – it isn't that you're jealous of the others, or imagine that I'm closer to them than to you, because if that's it you've got it very wrong -'

'No, that's not it! Really, Gerard!'

'Sorry. I seem to be making rather a mess of some things I wanted to say to you.'

'Well, I think you've said them and no harm's done, so let's leave it there.'

'I haven't said them, I've given the wrong impression -'

'Let's change the subject.'

'Do you want me to go?'

'No, not unless you want to. Please yourself.'

'Jenkin!'

'I don't understand what all this is supposed to be about, and I suggest that we leave it! There are plenty of other things we can talk about, serious things and nice things – I didn't mean to be short with you – I'm sorry -'

'I'm sorry. May I start again?'

'Oh Lord – if you must!'

'I don't want you to go away and I beg you not to go away. I need you, you, and not anybody else. I love you, I need you -'

'Well, I love you too, old man, if it comes to that, but -'

'Look, Jenkin, this is serious, it's the most serious thing in the world, in my world. I want to get to know you better, much better, I want to come closer to you, I want us to share a house, I want us to live together, to travel together, to be together, I want to be able to see you all the time, to be with you – I want you to come home – you've never had a home – I want you to come home to me. I'm not saying this is possible, I'm telling you what I want, and very very much want – and if you consider what I say and understand it you'll see why it is I don't want you to go away.'

There was a moment's silence. Jenkin stared at Gerard, not exactly with amazement, but with a bright, even radiant, open-mouthed open-eyed attention. 'Gerard – is this a proposal of marriage?'

'It's a declaration of love,' said Gerard in a testy irritated tone, 'and well, yes, if you like it's a proposal of marriage. I expect you find it all a bit quaint, but since you use the phrase -'

Jenkin began to laugh. He rocked. He put his glass down on the tiles of the fireplace and leaned forward, one hand on his ribs, the other pulling at the neck of his shirt, he wailed with laughter until his mouth and eyes were wet, several times he tried to check himself and say something, but the words were overtaken by another paroxysm of mirth.

Gerard watched him sternly, dismayed, but glad that he had managed at last to make something like the clear coherent speech which he had intended to utter. As soon as he had spoken he felt an immediate freedom, an open space, a connection with Jenkin which had been lacking before. That utterance gave him, in his increasing disarray as he watched the effect of his words, a feeling of warmth.

Jenkin at last became calmer, mopping his eyes, his lips, his brow with a large torn handkerchief liberally stained with ink. ‘Oh dear – oh dear -' he kept saying, and then, 'Oh Gerard – I’m so sorry – will you ever forgive me – I'm a monster – how can I have laughed like that – it's disgraceful -'

‘Did you actually hear what I said?'

‘Yes – every word – I took it all in – "come live with me and be my love" – and I'm so grateful, I'm so touched – I feel really – humble, privileged – you quite overwhelm me!'

'Cut that out.'

'A proposal – and sex too? Oh Lord!' He began to laugh helplessly again.

‘Why not,' said Gerard, now cold and frowning, 'but that’s not the point. It doesn’t matter. I’ve said what I mean. I don’t know you very well, Jenkin, I want to know you better, I want our friendship to become closer -'

‘To blossom like an old dry thorn tree?'

‘But since you find it so overpoweringly funny I'd better take that as an answer and take myself off. I'm sorry if I’ve disturbed you, and I shall be very sorry if later on, when you think about it, you find what I've said offensive. I daresay you'll find it ridiculous enough. I hope this curious little episode will not in any way affect the friendship which we have enjoyed so long and which you just now described as an old dry thorn tree.' As he said this Gerard got up and reached for his damp overcoat which he had draped over a chair.

Jenkin leapt to his feet. 'Oh but I won't, I don't, I can't find it offensive or ridiculous or – or – anything like that – of course I'm so flattered -'

‘ I daresay you are,' said Gerard putting on his coat.

‘But – and – you know – of course our friendship is affected, it's deeply affected, it can never be the same again.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘Don't be sorry, please understand, if you wanted us to become nearer together, well, we've come, don't you see? Shock tactics do things, they break barriers, they open vistas -I'm very sorry I laughed -'

'I liked your laughing,' said Gerard, 'but I don't know what it meant and I doubt if it's a good omen for me!'

`Don't go,' said Jenkin, standing where he was by his chair, with his radiant attentive face on which the wrinkles and tears of laughter could still be seen. 'Oh dear – how can I say it – something here is absolutely all right – Why is one so shy of using the word "love"?'

'I'm not. Perhaps you won't go away – leave us – leave me?’

`I don't know. But don't worry. I'm very glad that you said all that. You won't regret it, will you?'

`I hope not. I expect we'll talk again about all sorts of things, those serious and nice things you mentioned earlier.'

`Oh yes – but about these things too – and please – don't be-don't feel – Look, Gerard, stay here for a bit, will you? Let’s just sit quietly and look at each other and calm down and have another drink and listen to the rain. My God, I think I need some whisky after this!'

At that moment, as they stood gazing at each other, there was an extraordinary banging sound. Someone, not finding the bell in the darkness, was pounding on the door with a fist, producing a loud echoing noise. Jenkin sprang across the room and out into the hall. Gerard followed him, instinctively turning on the centre light. He saw, beyond Jenkin, in the now open doorway, a strange figure, which he remembered afterwards as like a tall thin utterly bedraggled blackbird.

It was Tamar, bare-headed, her hair, darkened by the rain and disordered by the wind, covering her brow and cheeks with a dark network, her long black mackintosh shining with water, her arms hanging empty-handed by her sides like broken wings. As she stepped or staggered in Jenkin gripped her and held her. Gerard moved past him to shut the door against the downpour.

Tamar, released by Jenkin, slipped off her coat which fell to the floor. She began slowly, as if every movement were exhausting her, to draw back her dripping wet hair from her face. Jenkin picked up her coat, then materialised with a towel. Tamar began mechanically to dry her face and hair.

Gerard said, 'Tamar, Tamar! What is it? Were you looking for me?’

Tamar, not looking at either of them, said, 'No, I want to talk to Jenkin.'

Tamar's skirt, stained with water, was clinging to her legs. She turned toward Jenkin and seemed about to fall stiffly into his arms. He supported her, then began to propel her into the sitting room.