The Bell - Iris Murdoch [23]
He shaded his eyes. All the electric lights were so bright at Imber. The door opened straight into what must be the living-room. In a quick dazzled glance Toby saw a large stove in the wall, two sagging wickerwork armchairs, an immense deal table, a wireless set, and a great many newspapers strewn on the floor. There was an unpleasant smell of stale food. The dog was barking and jumping about. A man who had been sitting behind the table had risen and was looking at Michael.
'The great man himself!' said Nick Fawley, 'I didn't expect you. One is not often visited. One is gratified.'
'I brought young Toby along,' said Michael, amid the continued din of barking.
'Shut up, Murphy!' said Nick. 'Shut up!'
Murphy was a rusty brown dog, of indefinite terrier breed, with a white beard and an intelligent monkey-like face. He had a long sleek mud-coloured tail which hung limply from his rump as if stuck on as an afterthought. Becoming silent, he stood near Toby, legs stiff and fur slightly rising, looking up at him with inscrutable hostility. A long gleaming fang carelessly wrinkled the soft dark skin of his lower jaw. Toby eyed him uneasily.
'You brought young Toby along,' said Nick. 'That was nice of you.'
Toby stole a glance at Nick. He was immediately startled by Nick's close resemblance to Catherine. Here was the same long slightly heavy face, the leaden slumbrous eyelids, the curling fringe of dark hair over the high forehead, the large eyes and secretive expression. Only Nick was wrinkled about the eyes, which were red-rimmed and watery, as if from much laughing, and this, together with a sagging of the cheeks, gave him something of the look of a bloodhound. His nose was large and covered with tiny red veins. He gave the impression of being a little greasy and of having too much hair. Yet he had a certain handsomeness and even a distant touch of that refinement which breathed so chill and sweet in the beauty of his sister.
Nick was younger-looking than Toby had expected, but certainly seemed the worse for wear. Toby, whose imagination was ready for flights where Nick was concerned, immediately conjectured that he might be a drunkard. This would explain the portentous conversation he had overheard. It was a part of Toby's new sophistication to know that there were also many ways of being a drunkard. There were good drunkards. He decided that Nick was probably one, and with that resolved to like him. At the same moment he noticed a whisky bottle standing on the table, which confirmed his view.
Nick and Michael were looking at each other. Michael still seemed embarrassed. He said, 'I do hope you're giving yourself enough to eat down here. I wish you'd come up to the house occasionally for a meal.' He scanned the table. There was an unsavoury-looking dish of meat near the far end.
'That's Murphy's supper,' said Nick. 'I was just going to give it to him. Doggy, your moment has come!' He decanted the meat off the dish on to the floor with a plop. It fell on to one of the newspapers. It was evident that other newspapers present had served a similar purpose. Murphy ceased his contemplation of Toby and began noisily to eat his supper.
'Mrs Mark must have had a fit when she saw this scene,' said Michael.
'She animadverted, as women do,' said Nick. They were looking at each other uneasily.
'She got Toby's room ready?' said Michael.
'She did something upstairs which I assume was that. She was here an unconscionable time,' said Nick. 'Have a drink.' He picked up the whisky bottle.
'No, thank you,' said Michael. 'I think I'd better go. I just came to deliver Toby.’
'Don't then, and go then,' said Nick.
Michael Meade still lingered, his eyes straying about the room. He looked as if he felt he had not conducted the encounter very well.
'How is my sainted sister?' said Nick, who also seemed to want to prolong the interview.
'She's very well, very happy,' said Michael.
'When I am told that a person is happy,' said Nick,