The Sea, The Sea - Iris Murdoch [164]
She lowered the blanket a little and her mouth moved.
‘Hartley, you’re going to stay with me forever. This is the first day of our new world—isn’t it? Oh, Hartley—’
She began very awkwardly to pull herself up, leaning her back against the wall, still hiding behind the blanket.
She said in a mumbling, gabbling tone, not looking at me, ‘I must go home.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
‘I came without my bag, without anything, I’ve got no make-up or anything.’
‘God, as if that mattered!’
I could see that, for her, it might matter however. In the bleak drained morning light which filtered in from the window which gave onto the drawing room she looked terrible. Her face was puffy and greasy, her brow corrugated, lines of haggardness outlined her mouth. Her tangled hair, dry and frizzy, looked like an old wig. As I gazed at her I felt a kind of new strength composed of pity and tenderness. And as I thought to show her how little I minded her shabby helplessness, my titanic love could even have wished for greater odds.
‘Come on, old thing,’ I said, ‘get up. Come on down and we’ll have breakfast. Then I’ll send Gilbert over to Nibletts for all your things. It’s perfectly simple.’ Or at least I hoped it would seem so to her.
She pulled herself up slowly, and then got onto all fours and rose laboriously to her feet. Her yellow dress was horribly hopelessly crumpled and she pulled at it ineffectually. Her whole body expressed the slightly ashamed awkwardness of the very afflicted person.
‘Look, I’ll lend you my dressing gown, I’ve got such a nice one.’ I ran to my bedroom and brought her my best black silk dressing gown with the red rosettes. She stood at the door of her room staring at the bead curtain.
‘What’s that?’
‘Well may you ask. A bead curtain. Now put this on. There’s the bathroom, you remember.’
She let me help her into the dressing gown, then walked slowly down to the bathroom. I waited, sitting on the stairs. When she emerged she climbed back up towards her room, moving heavily like an old woman.
‘Wait then, I’ll get you a comb, or you can come and use the mirror in my room, would you like, it’s brighter in there.’
She went on back into her own room. I fetched the comb and a hand mirror. She combed her hair, not looking into the glass, then sat down again on the mattress. There was indeed no other furniture, since the table which Titus had retrieved from the rocks was still downstairs.
‘Won’t you come down?’
‘No, I’ll stay here.’
‘I’ll bring you something.’
‘I feel sick, the wine has made me sick.’
‘Would you like tea, coffee?’
‘I feel sick.’ She lay down again and pulled up the blanket.
I looked at her with despair, then went out. I closed and locked the door. I did not exclude the possibility that after this show of apathy she might suddenly run for it, rushing out of the house and disappearing among the rocks, hurling herself into the sea.
I went downstairs and found Gilbert sitting at the kitchen table. He rose respectfully as I entered. Titus was at the stove, which he had mastered, cooking eggs. He seemed now to be completely at home in the house. At this I felt both pleasure and displeasure.
‘Morning, guv’nor,’ said Gilbert.
‘Hello, dad.’
I did not care for this pleasantry from Titus.
‘If you must be familiar, my name is Charles.’
‘Sorry, Mr Arrowby. How is my mother this morning?’
‘Oh, Titus, Titus—’
‘Have a fried egg,’ said Gilbert.
‘I’ll take her up some tea. Does she take milk, sugar?’
‘I can’t remember.’
I made up a little tray with tea, milk and sugar, bread, butter, marmalade. I carried it up, balanced it, unlocked the door. Hartley was still lying under the blanket.
‘Lovely breakfast. Look.’
She stared at me with almost theatrical misery.
‘Wait. I’ll get a table and chair.’ I ran downstairs and came back with the little table and a chair. I unpacked the tray onto the table. ‘Come, darling, don’t let your tea get cold. And look, I’ve brought you such a lovely present, a stone, the most beautiful stone on the shore.’ I laid down beside her plate the elliptical