The Good Apprentice (66 page)
Read The Good Apprentice Online
Authors: Iris Murdoch
Thomas McCaskerville was sitting in his study at Quitterne reading an article on May Baltram’s memoirs by Elspeth Macran. He had also read the second instalment of May’s ‘ramblings’. He had been alone at Quitterne now for two days. A journalist had rung up on the first day, after that he had silenced the telephone. He had however made some calls, to the clinic to postpone his patients, and to the boarding school where Meredith was to go in the autumn to ask if he could be admitted now. (They said he could.) He had written and received no letters concerning what had happened. He had sent no signal to
them.
He wondered when Harry would come to see him. Harry would
have
to come to see him; Thomas willed him to come and had only to continue his punishing silence to compel him to do so. Thomas wanted to see Harry here at Quitterne, he wanted Harry to come to him under a nervous compulsion as, what — a suppliant, a penitent, an enemy? Whatever it was, Harry would be tormented into coming by an agonising increasing anxiety about Thomas. Thomas had planned no strategy for this encounter. He knew that when the time came he would find the right tone, the words, the mask. Until then Thomas would not move in the matter of Meredith. He must, till Harry came, till he could thus
find out
something, be simply silent and absent. Of course there could be no question of speaking to anybody else. When he had received information, then he could begin to act. He wanted to get Meredith out of that house. He wanted him to be somewhere absolutely else, on neutral territory, where he could be attended to without — it seemed incredible how much had changed — having to treat with alien powers. It was hard on Meredith to translate him so rapidly. But it was hard on Meredith anyway. The idea that his son had ‘surprised’ Midge and her lover in Thomas’s house was detestable to him, his wounded imagination kept returning to it to supply an endless variety of detail, and this alone could make him feel that he would never again have clean thoughts. He had always been quietly strict with Meredith, Midge had sometimes accused him of being too severe, but this regime was contained within a deep wordless understanding between himself and the boy who was so like him. Thomas respected the laconic dignity of his son and gestureless love passed between them. Against this bond, against the possibility of either silence or speech, an obscene offence had been committed. However Thomas did not conceive of any loss of the boy; in the face of whatever might be, he and Meredith were one.
them.
He wondered when Harry would come to see him. Harry would
have
to come to see him; Thomas willed him to come and had only to continue his punishing silence to compel him to do so. Thomas wanted to see Harry here at Quitterne, he wanted Harry to come to him under a nervous compulsion as, what — a suppliant, a penitent, an enemy? Whatever it was, Harry would be tormented into coming by an agonising increasing anxiety about Thomas. Thomas had planned no strategy for this encounter. He knew that when the time came he would find the right tone, the words, the mask. Until then Thomas would not move in the matter of Meredith. He must, till Harry came, till he could thus
find out
something, be simply silent and absent. Of course there could be no question of speaking to anybody else. When he had received information, then he could begin to act. He wanted to get Meredith out of that house. He wanted him to be somewhere absolutely else, on neutral territory, where he could be attended to without — it seemed incredible how much had changed — having to treat with alien powers. It was hard on Meredith to translate him so rapidly. But it was hard on Meredith anyway. The idea that his son had ‘surprised’ Midge and her lover in Thomas’s house was detestable to him, his wounded imagination kept returning to it to supply an endless variety of detail, and this alone could make him feel that he would never again have clean thoughts. He had always been quietly strict with Meredith, Midge had sometimes accused him of being too severe, but this regime was contained within a deep wordless understanding between himself and the boy who was so like him. Thomas respected the laconic dignity of his son and gestureless love passed between them. Against this bond, against the possibility of either silence or speech, an obscene offence had been committed. However Thomas did not conceive of any loss of the boy; in the face of whatever might be, he and Meredith were one.
Thomas was able, now, to
think
about Meredith, and about Harry. He was able to ‘take up positions’. About Stuart he decided not to speculate, content for the present to regard him as an aberration which would pass leaving Harry in possession. He could not think about Midge, in relation to her he was a raw mass of suffering. His mind, unable to sustain coherent understanding, fell apart into craven incredulity, bleeding deprivation, sobbing childish misery, tragic attitudinising, cold cruel curiosity, and rage. He was astounded to discover how much anger he was capable of. Of course ‘anyone could have told’ Thomas, and indeed he told himself that it was likely that his young wife would attract admirers. She was so pretty, so animated, so well-dressed, so unlike the person whom younger Thomas had expected and
wanted
to marry. She was, for him, an improbable wife, a marvellous visitation, a strange juxtaposition, and that had been for him a source of joy never of uneasiness. Her falling in love with him, and she had indubitably been in love with him, was a proof of the abundant unpredictable richness of life, an over-plus of quite surprising delight. She gave him a happiness which he had imagined to be unattainable, even alien. Within him now his love, intact, even his happiness, his ignorant incredulous happiness, remained to torment him, a huge trembling sensibility which could suffer but not diminish or die. I love her, I love her, he said to himself, sometimes covering his face and moaning. Why cannot that be enough to be the whole of reality?
think
about Meredith, and about Harry. He was able to ‘take up positions’. About Stuart he decided not to speculate, content for the present to regard him as an aberration which would pass leaving Harry in possession. He could not think about Midge, in relation to her he was a raw mass of suffering. His mind, unable to sustain coherent understanding, fell apart into craven incredulity, bleeding deprivation, sobbing childish misery, tragic attitudinising, cold cruel curiosity, and rage. He was astounded to discover how much anger he was capable of. Of course ‘anyone could have told’ Thomas, and indeed he told himself that it was likely that his young wife would attract admirers. She was so pretty, so animated, so well-dressed, so unlike the person whom younger Thomas had expected and
wanted
to marry. She was, for him, an improbable wife, a marvellous visitation, a strange juxtaposition, and that had been for him a source of joy never of uneasiness. Her falling in love with him, and she had indubitably been in love with him, was a proof of the abundant unpredictable richness of life, an over-plus of quite surprising delight. She gave him a happiness which he had imagined to be unattainable, even alien. Within him now his love, intact, even his happiness, his ignorant incredulous happiness, remained to torment him, a huge trembling sensibility which could suffer but not diminish or die. I love her, I love her, he said to himself, sometimes covering his face and moaning. Why cannot that be enough to be the whole of reality?
He accused himself, and tried ingeniously to accuse himself more and more. Why had he not, somehow, defended her, kept her safe? Why had he, with his professional knowledge of so many surprising secrets, never conjectured that his wife might look elsewhere? He was perfectly aware that she had acquaintances about whom he knew little, about whom indeed he never even questioned her. He had been inattentive, self-absorbed, his love had been sleepy, he had not only taken her for granted, he had taken his love for her for granted too. No doubt it was also a kind of vanity, a sense of his superiority to any possible rival, a prevailing consciousness that people were always a bit afraid of him and would never dare to cross him. But then, in his defence, his love, his happiness would cry out that he had trusted her so perfectly, with a perfect childlike simplicity which reigned here, and here alone, inside the achievement of his marriage. And then his terrible anger would conjure up the hateful
pdir,
the tormenting
they
who had so utterly destroyed his joy and poisoned his mind and crippled him with pain. He could, he felt, have so much better borne an honest loss, a truthful departure. And how much easier too with another man, a stranger, any man but that man whom he had so full-heartedly liked and trusted.
pdir,
the tormenting
they
who had so utterly destroyed his joy and poisoned his mind and crippled him with pain. He could, he felt, have so much better borne an honest loss, a truthful departure. And how much easier too with another man, a stranger, any man but that man whom he had so full-heartedly liked and trusted.
He pictured his wife’s face, so radiantly full of lively sympathetic self-satisfaction, of what he had read as absolutely innocent
joie de vivre.
Had he regarded her too much as a happy dependent child? That Midge, his own dear loving private Midge, could have planned and executed a long cold-blooded deception … He reflected upon the details of it. He did not dare to doubt the passionate need which had even led his wife to deceive him in his own house. Two years, and how they must have longed for each other. The loving telephone call as soon as Thomas had left the house. The anxious careful planning of timetables. The casual questions about when Thomas would be away, where and how long. The fine calculation, the ruthless scheming which went on behind those familiar smiles. The different face that looked beyond his shoulder as he embraced her. Yes, the ruthless
will
that made him into nothing. The whole full-blooded flow of another life happening in the interstices of his presence to her. So rather he himself, his claim upon her, represented the dull lifeless interval, the tedious and hateful routine to which she returned unwillingly from a bright place of passion and tenderness, with its own private language, its luxuriant mythology and secret codes of love. Thomas saw it now, that other place, as a tented camp, full of activity and joyous bustle, rippling pennants and high silken canopies and stirring trumpet calls and drums. All the colour of life was
there,
while
here
had been drained down to a monotonous grey. Two years; and he had not even noticed, not seen or felt, the relentless process which had been depriving him of what he so utterly relied upon and so much loved.
joie de vivre.
Had he regarded her too much as a happy dependent child? That Midge, his own dear loving private Midge, could have planned and executed a long cold-blooded deception … He reflected upon the details of it. He did not dare to doubt the passionate need which had even led his wife to deceive him in his own house. Two years, and how they must have longed for each other. The loving telephone call as soon as Thomas had left the house. The anxious careful planning of timetables. The casual questions about when Thomas would be away, where and how long. The fine calculation, the ruthless scheming which went on behind those familiar smiles. The different face that looked beyond his shoulder as he embraced her. Yes, the ruthless
will
that made him into nothing. The whole full-blooded flow of another life happening in the interstices of his presence to her. So rather he himself, his claim upon her, represented the dull lifeless interval, the tedious and hateful routine to which she returned unwillingly from a bright place of passion and tenderness, with its own private language, its luxuriant mythology and secret codes of love. Thomas saw it now, that other place, as a tented camp, full of activity and joyous bustle, rippling pennants and high silken canopies and stirring trumpet calls and drums. All the colour of life was
there,
while
here
had been drained down to a monotonous grey. Two years; and he had not even noticed, not seen or felt, the relentless process which had been depriving him of what he so utterly relied upon and so much loved.
Thomas recalled that he had indeed noticed and reflected on Midge’s recent ‘moods’, and had decided not to worry! He decided now that he should not review the intimate details of their marriage seeking for ‘causes’ of what had happened. The causes were no doubt multiform, probably deeply hidden, at any rate not to be probed or brooded over at present. Not everything is improved and clarified by being dug up. Thomas had left his own puritanical shyness undisturbed. He valued chaste instincts and held them, in himself and others, apt to promote happiness and the strong orderly passion of real loving. He had always felt, between himself and Midge, a deep and authoritative sexual flow which mocked the vulgarity of text books. She had loved him, needed him, teased his solemnity, clung to his strength, admired, esteemed and trusted him, given him her lively beauty and the entirety of her physical presence. Or so he had imagined; how far back should he now dare to look and see it all as false?
Thomas was not used to misery, his deep grief at his parents’ deaths had not been like this. It was as if there were a great void where his love for Midge had been, and yet how could that possibly be — it was just that he was suffering in a new and dreadful way, like the invention of a new torture,
real
suffering, his love transmuted into absolute pain. How could he, Thomas, suffer so? He was also not used to uncontrollable anger. He felt at times a rage, which might become obsessive, against the conniving pair, amazement and shock at their treachery, and against Harry sometimes a violent disgust amounting to hatred. Thomas was aware that he must soon check and dissolve these destructive emotions; but he lacked any compelling vision of the territory beyond. His pride, his dignity, deeply wounded, demanded aid, redress. A resigned forgiving surrender which the world would interpret as weakness? (So he cared about the world?) A solitary meditative ‘generous’ understanding, likely to be indefinitely prolonged? A cool plan of campaign to destroy his rival? And regain a sulky hostile consort? There seemed to be no solution. No good would come of rushing to London, he had, for now, to wait upon events, hope for miracles, discipline his mind. His love for Midge, twisting and turning, grown violent and wild, tormented him at times with visions of happiness and joy which were proffered by his craven imagination as a cheating solace, how it would all somehow painlessly ’come right‘ in the end. I love her, I want her, he cried again and again. But he could not have what he desired so desperately and, above all else, his dear wife back as she once was, tender and true.
real
suffering, his love transmuted into absolute pain. How could he, Thomas, suffer so? He was also not used to uncontrollable anger. He felt at times a rage, which might become obsessive, against the conniving pair, amazement and shock at their treachery, and against Harry sometimes a violent disgust amounting to hatred. Thomas was aware that he must soon check and dissolve these destructive emotions; but he lacked any compelling vision of the territory beyond. His pride, his dignity, deeply wounded, demanded aid, redress. A resigned forgiving surrender which the world would interpret as weakness? (So he cared about the world?) A solitary meditative ‘generous’ understanding, likely to be indefinitely prolonged? A cool plan of campaign to destroy his rival? And regain a sulky hostile consort? There seemed to be no solution. No good would come of rushing to London, he had, for now, to wait upon events, hope for miracles, discipline his mind. His love for Midge, twisting and turning, grown violent and wild, tormented him at times with visions of happiness and joy which were proffered by his craven imagination as a cheating solace, how it would all somehow painlessly ’come right‘ in the end. I love her, I want her, he cried again and again. But he could not have what he desired so desperately and, above all else, his dear wife back as she once was, tender and true.
These repetitive thoughts, already forming themselves into the mechanical patterns which Thomas recognised and dreaded, were halted by a sound from outside the house, coming to him through the open window, the sound for which he had been waiting of car tyres upon the gravel. Thomas rose and watched from the window as Harry alighted. The car door closed with a discreet click. As Thomas waited for the bell to ring he combed his hair.
‘I believe you don’t care,’ said Harry.
‘It would be convenient for you to think so.’
‘You don’t want a divorce?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘So you don’t mind?’
‘I now know you are a callous liar,’ said Thomas, ‘am I also to put you down as a fool?’
The emotional shock of the meeting for both of them had been even greater than they expected, so that they had spent the first twenty minutes talking almost at random to conceal their agitation. Both were determined to keep calm, to reveal no weakness, to dominate, to win. They had not expected to be overcome by a kind of floundering confusion which landed them in sudden moments of blankness and anti-climax. So far from being too dramatic, the scene was proving, from the point of view of any progress it was likely to make, not dramatic enough. Thomas had an advantage in being less dependent on alcohol, which he was resolutely not offering to Harry, whose need for it in a crisis was even visible in his restless gestures and roving eyes.
‘We’ve got to be calm about this,’ said Harry, ‘be sane and destroy as little as possible. I hope we can remain friends.’
‘Of course we can’t,’ said Thomas, ‘you seem to be incapable of thinking. What did you want anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You came here uninvited, presumably to say something. Could you get on with saying it?’
‘God, you are a cold fish,’ said Harry. ‘Why pretend that you’re surprised that I came, didn’t you expect me, didn’t you want some explanation, some account of it all, or did you just intend to get on with your work and ignore it?’
‘Why have you come running to me? Do you want me to comfort you?’
‘Hell no! I should have thought you were the one in need of comfort.’
‘My wife informed me, and I believe her, that she no longer loves you. She does not want a divorce. I should have thought this leaves you with no alternative but to get out of our lives. I certainly don’t want to go over the details of your defunct love affair. Since you appear to have nothing to say I suggest you go. I see no need to talk to you and I don’t want to see you again. I’ve finished with you.’
This speech was delivered with a venom which surprised and daunted Harry. He realised how, with a double-think which now indeed seemed naive, he had expected Thomas, while certainly upset, even angry, to be also somehow still his old self, ironical, cool, helpful, sympathetic, full of patient understanding. Harry had come to Quitterne because, as Thomas had discerned, he had to, the need to see Thomas, simply to be in his presence was, now that all was known, overwhelming. He needed the comfort, the relief, of having
seen
Thomas and found him, even if not actually forgiving, calm, detached, ready for quiet rational talk. But Harry also needed, before finally determining his own strategy, to find out what Midge had said to Thomas, and to do this without letting Thomas know how little she had said to him. He had, since the revelation, been with her and talked to her but without being able to understand her. She was like a wild thing, restless, very disturbed, averting her head, exclaiming rather than conversing. He had telephoned her house on the evening of the revelation but got no reply. He dared not go round for fear of Thomas. The next day she answered the telephone, told him that Thomas had gone to Quitterne and that he might come and see her. He came, full of hope, and found himself sitting with her in the drawing room like a visitor, like a suitor. The shock of Thomas’s arrival still hung in the room, the papers flung upon the table, the door flung open. Harry was already beginning to regret that he had not stayed and faced Thomas at once, though he realised too that he would have been paralysed and, terrible to admit it, ashamed. If he had stayed he could at least have got, what he now felt sadly without, a general idea of the situation. It was only when he saw Midge again that it occurred to him to wonder whether she had told Thomas about Stuart. He hoped she had not, he hoped and sometimes felt sure that ‘the Stuart thing’ would pass, perhaps very soon, and that all would then be just as he desired, as he had in his imaginings pictured the time ‘after Thomas knew’: Midge in shock, shedding tears of relief, running to Harry, staying with him, settling at last into the joy and rest of being entirely his. With anguish he stared at her, studied her, as she walked about the room, sighing and disordering her hair. She told him, without being asked, that after Thomas’s departure she had gone round to Stuart’s lodging and found him gone, the room vacated, no address left. When Harry rang in the morning her first question had been about Stuart, whether he had come home. When Harry came to her she let him take her hand, but asked him how she could find out where Stuart was, who could she ask? She showed, as she flung about the room, no consciousness of Harry’s distress, his grief, his fear, his need for reassurance which now he dared not voice for fear of prompting some awful dismissal. It was better, for now, if she accepted his presence as that of an old friend, someone with a right to be there, almost like a doctor. At any rate she did not at once send him away, and twice exclaimed in the course of what was virtually a staccato monologue punctuated by his soothing murmurs, ‘Oh Harry — Harry — ’ as if she felt he could help her somehow; and this gave him hope. ‘Thomas has gone.’ ‘Where can I find Stuart? I could ask his friends.’ ‘What have I done, oh what have I done.’ Harry said things like, ‘Do be calm, don’t worry, I’ll find Stuart, don’t worry about Thomas, just rely on me, don’t forget me, everything will be all right.’ He said nothing about his intention to visit Thomas. Once or twice he framed and reframed in his mind the question: what did Thomas say to you? What did he do? But he did not utter it, it was too awful a question to intrude upon her extraordinary state of mind. During this time, and when he saw her again the next day, he formed the view, and there was some comfort in it, that she was actually temporarily insane; and in his double-think image of his meeting with Thomas he included some unimaginable conversation wherein he
consulted
Thomas about Midge’s health.
seen
Thomas and found him, even if not actually forgiving, calm, detached, ready for quiet rational talk. But Harry also needed, before finally determining his own strategy, to find out what Midge had said to Thomas, and to do this without letting Thomas know how little she had said to him. He had, since the revelation, been with her and talked to her but without being able to understand her. She was like a wild thing, restless, very disturbed, averting her head, exclaiming rather than conversing. He had telephoned her house on the evening of the revelation but got no reply. He dared not go round for fear of Thomas. The next day she answered the telephone, told him that Thomas had gone to Quitterne and that he might come and see her. He came, full of hope, and found himself sitting with her in the drawing room like a visitor, like a suitor. The shock of Thomas’s arrival still hung in the room, the papers flung upon the table, the door flung open. Harry was already beginning to regret that he had not stayed and faced Thomas at once, though he realised too that he would have been paralysed and, terrible to admit it, ashamed. If he had stayed he could at least have got, what he now felt sadly without, a general idea of the situation. It was only when he saw Midge again that it occurred to him to wonder whether she had told Thomas about Stuart. He hoped she had not, he hoped and sometimes felt sure that ‘the Stuart thing’ would pass, perhaps very soon, and that all would then be just as he desired, as he had in his imaginings pictured the time ‘after Thomas knew’: Midge in shock, shedding tears of relief, running to Harry, staying with him, settling at last into the joy and rest of being entirely his. With anguish he stared at her, studied her, as she walked about the room, sighing and disordering her hair. She told him, without being asked, that after Thomas’s departure she had gone round to Stuart’s lodging and found him gone, the room vacated, no address left. When Harry rang in the morning her first question had been about Stuart, whether he had come home. When Harry came to her she let him take her hand, but asked him how she could find out where Stuart was, who could she ask? She showed, as she flung about the room, no consciousness of Harry’s distress, his grief, his fear, his need for reassurance which now he dared not voice for fear of prompting some awful dismissal. It was better, for now, if she accepted his presence as that of an old friend, someone with a right to be there, almost like a doctor. At any rate she did not at once send him away, and twice exclaimed in the course of what was virtually a staccato monologue punctuated by his soothing murmurs, ‘Oh Harry — Harry — ’ as if she felt he could help her somehow; and this gave him hope. ‘Thomas has gone.’ ‘Where can I find Stuart? I could ask his friends.’ ‘What have I done, oh what have I done.’ Harry said things like, ‘Do be calm, don’t worry, I’ll find Stuart, don’t worry about Thomas, just rely on me, don’t forget me, everything will be all right.’ He said nothing about his intention to visit Thomas. Once or twice he framed and reframed in his mind the question: what did Thomas say to you? What did he do? But he did not utter it, it was too awful a question to intrude upon her extraordinary state of mind. During this time, and when he saw her again the next day, he formed the view, and there was some comfort in it, that she was actually temporarily insane; and in his double-think image of his meeting with Thomas he included some unimaginable conversation wherein he
consulted
Thomas about Midge’s health.
Other books
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder by Marilyn Rausch, Mary Donlon
Now and Then by Mira Lyn Kelly
Skull Duggery by Aaron Elkins
Scandal in the Night by Elizabeth Essex
A New Death (Savannah's Only Zombie Novel) by Vasquez, Josh
The Christmas Catch by Ginny Baird
The Havoc Machine by Steven Harper
Taking a Chance on Love by Mary Razzell
Flirting With Fate by Lexi Ryan
Requiem for a Killer by Paulo Levy