The Good Apprentice by Iris Murdoch
Midge pushed her multi-coloured mass of hair, which the hairdresser kept so high and fluffy, back from her brow and shook it. Her mouth drooped at the corners. She said, ‘An awful lot has happened somehow.’
‘You mean at Quitterne? Thomas guessing? I’m delighted!’
‘No, he doesn’t guess — and that’s so odd — it’s important — ’
‘God, you don’t mean touching!’
‘He’s so clever and he knows so much about people in a way. But he doesn’t see this. He just doesn’t see. He just trusts me. He’s blind.’
‘Well, what’s happened if it’s not that? Of course, yes, Seegard and so on, but that’s not important in itself, it’s just forcing us to do what we want to do!’
‘You see, I think I had to go to Seegard.’
‘Magnetised by Jesse’s aura, yes, you said! Don’t be plain stupid, my darling. Don’t mix up the past with the future. But go on, why had you to go?’
‘I suppose it was to do with Jesse — ’
‘You never forgot that moment when he said, “Who is that girl?” — and you couldn’t help wondering — whether he mightn’t have wanted you instead of Chloe.’
‘Yes,’ said Midge, throwing back her head. ‘How did you know? Well, yes — but it’s not that — ’
‘You had to triumph over Chloe! I know that’s been one of your aims in life. Chloe dead and Jesse kissing you. And you’ve got hold of me as well. There’s nothing more you can take away from the poor girl.’
‘It was extraordinary — ’
‘Even though he’s old and insane and thought you were Chloe!’
‘Perhaps you can’t imagine — but just to be touched by that man — let alone — ’
‘He grabbed you, he enveloped you, he practically ate you! Shall I take you back to him?’
‘I don’t want to see him again. That was enough.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Something’s unsettled you. So it was Jesse, of course, I understand. You need to recover. But, my darling girl, don’t let us waste any more time. We are larger, we are stronger, the world is ours. Compared with us all that isn’t anything at all.’
‘Jesse was a marvel — ’
‘Yes, good, but — ’
‘He was a beautiful miracle, but not connected with real life — ’
‘Good — ’
‘Except that somehow — I can’t put this — he somehow — mopped up the past — ’
‘You mean your obsession about Chloe — ?’
‘Not just that — it was as if he touched me and then sent me away — like striking something and making it fly off at a tangent — ’
‘He shot you like an arrow! Good, so now we’re both airborne!’
‘It’s not Jesse that’s bothering me. It’s Stuart.’
‘Yes. His knowing is indeed, one might say, a damned nuisance! He might take it into his head to go and inform on us because he felt he ought to. And that’s a very good reason why we should now tell Thomas all about it, in case Stuart does first! Midge, darling, concentrate, just imagine how we’d feel if Stuart did! We’d feel like miserable little criminals, mean little liars, found-out cheats — we’d lose all the initiative. That at least we’ve kept all this time, we’ve chosen how to play it, we’ve chosen. You’re right to say Stuart is the problem. But once you put it like that, you’re right up against the solution!’
‘Stuart won’t tell Thomas.’
‘How do you know he won’t?’
‘He told me so.’
‘He told you so?’
‘Yes, I went to see him this morning and he told me.’
‘You met him at my house, you came to look for me and — ?’
‘No, I went to see him at his lodgings, I wanted to talk to him — ’
Harry jumped up, knocking over his chair, Midge backed her chair against the wall. The small space was still almost bare of furniture, the walls and windows bare. The plain dark brown carpet, approved of by Midge, alone drew the scene together into a room. There was a smell of fresh paint.
‘You went to see Stuart, to talk to him — without telling me? What about? Did you go to beg him not to give us away!’
‘Not beg — yes, I did want to know — but not only that — ’
‘What else for heaven’s sake?’
‘I wanted to see him — ’
‘You mean to stare at him?’
‘Yes. And to talk too. I used to dream about him. At least I dreamed about a pale man on a horse looking at me. Thomas said it was death. I just realised, when I saw him, that it was Stuart.’
‘All right, he’s a gorgon, but Midge, you’re mad, do you realise what it does to me, when you say so calmly that you went to Stuart and talked to him — after all that, and his knowing and his witnessing, and his sitting silent in the car, when we so wanted to be together — ’
‘That was why I wanted to see him.’
‘You mean to tell him how upset you were! How can you have exposed yourself to him? Midge, I can’t imagine this! I hope you told him to mind his own business!’
‘Yes, but that wasn’t what was happening.’
‘You asked him not to tell Thomas, you begged, you crawled — ’
‘No, I didn’t ask him anything. He said he wouldn’t tell Thomas. He said he thought I should.’
‘Confess and ask Thomas’s pardon for a momentary aberration!’
‘He didn’t say anything about us, I mean he didn’t mean to comment. He talked about telling lies and about Meredith. I told you that Meredith saw us, at least he saw me and heard you. I asked him to keep quiet. Stuart thought this was corrupting the young.’
‘Meredith knew — yes — perfectly horrible — ’
Midge was sitting tensely upright on her chair with folded hands like someone waiting in a hospital or law court. She spoke swiftly, monotonously, in a low voice, as if wanting to get the information across as quickly as possible. She looked at Harry’s feet and every now and then shuddered a little.
Harry was aware that the entry of Meredith into the situation was dangerous and awful, but he did not propose to shudder about that now. It was part of the whole problem whose solution must and would issue from his will. He stood still for a moment, then kicked his fallen chair out of the way and began to walk to and fro in the small confined space.
He said, ‘All right; I see how frightful all this is, and I’m sorry — I’m sorry for you, and for myself. We could have done without that bit. Butsince it’s with us, Meredith and all, let’s just make it into one huge packet of reasons for making our big move now, today. You stay here, I’ll go and tell Thomas. Where is he, at the clinic?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do know. Stuart’s right, it’s time to stop lying. I’m going to Thomas to tell him you want a divorce.’
‘No, no — I can’t now, not like that — Harry, don’t go — please don’t go — ’ Midge began to cry in an almost formal attitude sitting slightly forward with her elbow on her knee and her head bowed into her hand, with a kind of quiet, orderly, almost silent hysterics. ‘Oh — oh — oh.’
Harry stood looking down at her. His broad smooth face was calm. He ruffled up his blond hair. He bit his lip a little in calculation. He said softly, ‘Midge, we ought to do it now. Now’s the time. You always wanted to wait for the time. Well, it’s now. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
Midge ceased her gasping. She sighed a long dejected even rather exasperated sigh. She fumbled down for her handbag and handkerchief, her hair falling forward in a mass, revealing the whiteness of her neck. She mumbled, ‘Harry, let’s go to the bedroom.’ Midge always used this phrase, never a more direct one, for their love-making.
‘You’re just trying to distract me,’ he said. But he suddenly felt so tired and so full of desire. Why were they wasting their strength in arguing? Oh God, why did they have to be so unhappy?
‘Harry, don’t torment me.’
‘All right — but we
‘Oh — I’m so tired — ’
‘So am I. Come on. No more fighting. Head up. Have a bit of style. And for God’s sake don’t go near Stuart again, well obviously you won’t.’ He opened the bedroom door. The double bed under its cotton quilt covered with masses of tiny flowers glowed expansively beyond. It took up almost all the room.
Midge rose and rubbed her eyes. She said almost sleepily, ‘Well, I think I must see him again.’
Harry turned back. ‘What on earth do you mean, why? There’s no point, and you must be able to see how utterly I detest the idea!’
‘Yes, but I must see him again. I can’t bear his thoughts. I want him to stop the pain, that pain.’
‘Midge, don’t kill me with this rubbish. Think who he is.’
Midge yawned, distorting her face like a cat.
Harry stared at her. He came back and gently pulled her. ‘You’re tired, and you’ve gone a little crazy. Everything has been too awful. You’ll get better. I’ll look after you. Come this way, come with Harry. Into the deep river.’
Notridge House,
East Foncett,
Suffolk.
Dear Mr Baltram
Thank you so much for your letter which has been forwarded to me by the bank. I am so sorry we were not at Flood Street to receive you! Now that the children are grown up we have moved out into the country! As you probably know, we bought the Flood Street house from your father whom my late father, who was in industrial design, knew slightly at one time. We were living in Hampstead before that, but the children always wanted to be by the river, I think children always want to be near water, I don’t know why. I can remember meeting Jesse (if I may call him so, we always spoke of him familiarly!) on several occasions, and found him most impressive. After we moved in we invited him and his wife two or three times, but they never came! (Perhaps they were afraid we might have ruined the house. It certainly did look different inside!) We bought two of his drawings, rather odd but nice. I am so sorry to hear that you have lost touch with your father, that must indeed be most worrying. I am afraid that I cannot be very helpful, we never really knew Jesse and had no contact with his ‘world’. I gather you have tried the ‘obvious’ places, like the RCA and the dealers. I expect he had some favourite ’pubs’, but I’m afraid I’m not an expert on these! You asked about friends, but the only one I can remember being mentioned was a painter called Max Point whom my father spoke of as having been (if you understand me) a rather special friend of Jesse’s. He told me not to repeat this, people were more secretive about such things in those days, but I expect it doesn’t matter now! Anyway he may be dead, poor man. He lived on one of those barges on the Thames off the end of Cheyne Walk, his barge was called Fortaventur, I happen to remember, we thought it such a funny name for a little barge that never went anywhere! I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance to you. If I can think of anything else I’ll write again. I hope and expect that by now you have been reunited with your father. As I said, we were disappointed not to be at home when you called! A nice American who made a lot of money out of I think toothpaste, something hygienic anyway, has bought the house, as I expect you’ve found out. It would have been nice to meet you. I wonder if you are a painter too? I often wish I was one, they have such happy lives. Perhaps we may meet one day. Let me know later if I can help in any way. My husband and daughters join with me in sending you our kindest regards.
Yours sincerely
(Mrs) Julia Carson-Smith
With this unexpected letter in his pocket Edward was stepping off the jetty onto a rather narrow and insecure plank which ran along between a crowded miscellany of large and small residential barges. There was nobody about to ask. The tide was in and the assembly of craft was well afloat, bobbing and knocking and gently nudging each other upon the gleaming water which was being agitated by a lively east wind. There was a sharp silvery northern light. The boats, drawn up in lines three or four deep on either side of the jetty, seemed deserted, as Edward walked cautiously along looking at the names. There was no sign of Fertaventur. He made out that access to the outermost craft must be gained by climbing over the boats in between, and was soon scrambling boldly across decks and jumping from one to another. The little hamlet of floating homes was full of variety, both in the form and size of the boats and in the evident life style of the owners. Some poor shabby hulks, with split and flaking woodwork, seemed ready to descend onto the mud never to rise again. Others were newly and gaily painted, with traditional waterway designs of birds and flowers, or with more modern abstract or fantastic decorations. Peering into interiors, Edward saw some furnished with a mere bed, or even pallet on the floor, whereas others were positive floating drawing-rooms, with plush furniture, bookcases, and pictures on the walls. Here and there a curled-up resident cat betokened a continuous home life. The names were equally various, traditional or exotic. Edward’s sadness, as his footsteps echoed through the hollow boards, was increased by realising how much he would have enjoyed this excursion if it were not for the doom which lay upon him. He had come out without a coat and the wind, racing up the river from the sea, and scribbling black lines upon the water, bit through his thin and scantily clad body. He was almost ready to give up, when upon a boat which appeared (as some of them did) to have no name he saw a white lifebelt hanging up with the word Fortaventur running round it in extremely curly letters. He jumped down from the rather higher deck of the next boat, landed with a thud, and stood nervously wondering if someone would now emerge from the cabin. No one did. Probably there was no one there. When Edward read Mrs Carson-Smith’s letter he had vaguely recalled hearing Max Point’s name mentioned somewhere together with the information that he was dead. Edward had come to the barges partly so as to occupy his time with something, with some work which related to his misery about Jesse, and partly just because of the name of the boat. He advanced to the faded blue door of the interior and knocked. As there was no answer he turned the loose dinted brass handle. The door opened upon darkness.
Edward stared in, seeing a long narrow room with curtains partly pulled. He blinked, then moved in, half falling down two unexpected steps. He stood again, smelling the damp wood. A husky voice from the far end said slowly, ‘And — who — is — that?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said Edward, ‘but I’m looking for Mr Point, Mr Max Point.’
‘I — am — he.’
Edward could now see the interior in the dim light, and a man sitting at a table. The man looked very old, wrinkled, skinny, even emaciated, with a small bony red face, a short snub nose, and a bald crown. On the table there was a glass and a whisky bottle.
Edward advanced a little. The smell of mould now mingled with old sweaty textile smells and alcohol. He caught his foot in a hole in a threadbare rug. The narrow area was made narrower by quantities of pictures, canvases of various sizes propped and stacked against the walls, leaving a small corridor in the centre. Some of the canvases were damaged by long diagonal tears. Edward came and stood beside the table.
Max Point, sitting hunched, peered up at Edward with watery half-closed eyes. ‘Have a drink. There’s a glass. Sit down. What’s the matter?’
‘Please excuse me — I wanted to ask you — ’
‘Have a drink.’
‘No thanks, I just — ’
‘What’s the matter? I used to be a painter. Good for nothing now, only to die. I sit here, no one comes. I’m a liar, a woman comes, God knows who she is, welfare lady, brings me things to eat, otherwise I’d starve, see? Like a parrot — parrot in a cage, old party died and his parrot starved to death, one of the boats, didn’t find him for weeks, parrot hanging upside down from its perch. They won’t find me for weeks, and it’ll be soon. You’d think a parrot would scream if it was dying of hunger, wouldn’t you?
The boat was gently rocking, very quietly and rhythmically rocking, like a cradle touched by a strong loving hand. The slightly irregular slapping of the water on the side made a soft musical counterpoint. Behind the table was an easel with a canvas on it, and a stool with a paint-smeared palette, a palette knife and brushes. Edward said, ‘You’re painting a picture.’
‘Don’t sneer at me — good for a bloody laugh — they all do — or did, they’ve forgotten me now, I’m the forgotten man. Do you know how long that picture’s been there? Years. I forget how many. Five, ten. The paint’s been dry ten years. All dried up and gone solid, like me. To paint you have to con-cen-trate, which I can’t do, see? But what are you doing here anyway, who are you? Have a drink. For Christ’s sake sit down, I can’t see you.’
Edward sat down. He felt a bit sick and a bit frightened, at the same time he felt such pity for Max Point that he wanted to put his arms round him. Perhaps the motion of the boat was making him feel so odd. ‘I came here to ask you about Jesse Baltram.’
‘He’s dead.’
The promptness of the reply shocked Edward. ‘I don’t think so — he’s somewhere in London — ’
‘He’s dead. Take it from me. If he wasn’t he’d have come back.’ Some tears came out of Max Point’s eyes and trickled down into the wrinkles on his red blotched face. ‘Last picture I painted of him was from a bloody photo, painted him again and again and he got older every time. But he never came back. And now he’s dead.’ He put his hand against his wet nose, pushing the end of it up yet further. Then he suddenly sat up straight tilting the whisky over onto some papers which were spread out on the table. He stared at Edward. ‘Who are you anyway, who the hell, let’s look at you then.’