Under The Net - Iris Murdoch [6]
to be to some extent lucrative, and Mrs Tinckham certainly has money, for she once lent me ten pounds without a murmur, but I am sure that gain is not Mrs Tinckham's chief concern. She just loves to know everybody's business, or rather to know about their lives, since 'business' suggests an interest narrower and less humane than the one which I now felt, or imagined that I felt, focused with some intensity upon me. In fact the truth about her naivet�or lack of it, may lie somewhere between the two, and she lives, perhaps, in a world of other people's dramas, where fact and fiction are no longer clearly distinguished. There was a soft murmuring, which might have been the wireless or might have been Mrs Tinckham casting a spell in order to make me talk to her: a sound like the gentle winding of a delicate line on which some rare fish precariously hangs. But I gritted my teeth against speech. I wanted to wait until I could present my story in a more dramatic way. The thing had possibilities, but as yet it lacked form. If I spoke now there was always the danger of my telling the truth; when caught unawares I usually tell the truth, and what's duller than that? I met Mrs Tinckham's gaze, and although her eyes told nothing I was sure she knew my thoughts. 'People and money, Mrs Tinck,' I said. What a happy place the world would be without them.' 'And sex,' said Mrs Tinck. We both sighed. 'Had any new kittens lately?' I asked her. 'Not yet,' said Mrs Tinckham, 'but Maggie's pregnant again. Soon you'll have your pretty little ones, won't you, yes!' she said to a gross tabby on the counter. 'Any luck this time, do you think?' I asked. Mrs Tinckham was always trying to persuade her tabbies to mate with a handsome Siamese who lived farther down the street. Her efforts, it is true, consisted only of carrying the creatures to the door, and pointing out the elegant male with such remarks as, 'Look at that lovely pussy there!'--and so far nothing had come of it. If you have ever tried to direct a cat's attention to anything you will know how difficult this is. The beast will look everywhere but where your finger points. 'Not a chance,' said Mrs Tinckham bitterly. 'They all dote on the black-and-white Tom at the horse-meat shop. Don't you, you pretty girl, yes,' she said to the expectant tabby, who stretched out a heavy luxurious paw, and unsheathed its claws into a pile of Nouvelles Litteraires. I began to undo my parcel upon the table. The cat jumped from my knee and sidled out of the door. Mrs Tinckham said, 'Ah, well,' and reached out for Amazing Stories. I glanced hastily through the manuscripts. Once before, in a rage, Magdalen had torn up the first sixty stanzas of an epic poem called And Mr Oppenheim Shall Inherit the Earth. This dated from the time when I had ideals. At that time too it had not yet become clear to me that the present age was not one in which it was possible to write an epic. At that time I naively imagined that there was no reason why one should not attempt to write anything that one felt inclined to write. But nothing is more paralysing than a sense of historical perspective, especially in literary matters. At a certain point perhaps one ought simply to stop reflecting. I had contrived in fact to stop myself just short of the point at which it would have become clear to me that the present age was not one in which it was possible to write a novel. But to return to Mr Oppenheim; my friends had criticized the title because it sounded anti-Semitic, though of course Mr Oppenheim simply symbolized big business, but Madge didn't tear it up for that, but out of pique, because I broke a lunch date with her to meet a woman novelist. The latter was a dead loss, but I came back to find Mr Oppenheim in pieces. This was in the old days. But I feared that the performance might have been repeated. Who knows what thoughts were passing through that girl's mind while she was deciding to throw me out? There's nothing like a woman's doing you an injury for making her incensed against you. I know myself how exasperating it is of other