The Diviners (26 page)

“
What?
”

“It’s true,” Brooke grins. “I was absolutely determined I wasn’t going to be pushed around. We used to have kit inspection and drill and things like that. I worked at it like fury. I was a Sergeant at the age of eight. What do you think of that?”

He is laughing, but Morag cannot. She stares at him.

“You can’t mean it.”

“Come now, love,” he says teasingly, “don’t take it so seriously. It wasn’t so bad. I rather enjoyed it. I didn’t mean to turn this into a horror story. It isn’t.”

“I think it was pretty awful of your parents to ship you off like that.”

“They didn’t have many alternatives. My mother didn’t like it much, I suppose, although she never said so. Anyway, one thing I do know–I shall never be like my father was. Never. How his students must have railed inwardly against him. As I did.”

“You couldn’t possibly be like that in any way at all. Your students adore you. I did, when I was a student. I still do, although in a slightly different way of course.”

“How–different?”

“Sexier.”

“Well, that is what I call the beginning of a good bedtime story.”

Nowadays, when they make love, they almost always come at the same time, and often sleep the night in each other’s arms, still joined. Sometimes in the morning he is still inside her, and they separate slowly, reluctantly, but their inhabitance of one another never really ceases and never will.

“Brooke–couldn’t we make love and not mind if we had a child? I mean, just let it happen if it will?”

He outlines her face with his hand, as though his fingers are memorizing it.

“Aren’t you happy as we are, Morag?”

“Of course. Of course I am. You know that.”

“Well, relax then, my love. Plenty of time.”

That night Brooke does not sleep well. He is restless, turning away from her, and finally he begins moaning in his sleep, a weird low anguished voice, totally unlike his waking one. Morag puts a hand on him and finds the hairs on his chest wet with sweat.

“Brooke–wake up.”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh–was I? Thanks, love.”

“Brooke–you were talking, sort of. I could only make out one word.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“It sounded like
Minoo
. Is that a Hindi word?”

“It’s–well, not exactly. It’s a name.”

“For a man or a woman?” She despises herself for asking this, and not unnaturally Brooke is annoyed.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Morag. It’s a woman’s name. I can’t think what it meant. Now can we get some sleep, please?”

“I’m sorry, Brooke. I didn’t mean–”

But he is asleep again. What does it matter? It doesn’t. Morag does not own him or what goes on in his head, nor does she imagine he has not been with many women. If age sixteen, he would have been old enough. It would not matter at all, had he not sounded so hurt, in ways he would never admit to, when awake.

She wants to console him, for whatever it was, but how could you do that for hurts which must have gone deeper than he wants to know? He is enormously strong within himself.
But once he wouldn’t have been. Once he would have been a six-year-old who had to teach himself never to give in, never to reveal his pain. What was it really like for him, away back then? Why would he not say? If he cannot tell Morag, who can he tell? Perhaps no one.

This is a frightening thought. She pushes it away, but lies unsleeping for a long while, beside him.

Memorybank Movie: The Young

Morag Skelton, age twenty-four, has now lived in Toronto for four years. She is able to go downtown without getting hopelessly lost. She has long since learned the various colleges of the university, which city bookshops are the best, where to buy clothes that Brooke will like on her, and how to do verbal battle with hairdressers in order to achieve (even if only partially) the style she wants, without submitting to the outlandish creations which they always seem to want.

She does not venture downtown very often, because unfortunately the city still scares the bejesus out of her. She does not, however, mention this fact to anyone.

Her long straight black hair has been cut much shorter and permed in the prevailing manner of the day, described by Helen of Miss Helene as
just a few soft curls, Mrs. Skelton, and a little swirl over your brow
. She feels slightly peculiar each time she gets her hair done, but Brooke likes her this way, and she has to admit it does look more feminine.

She watches her diet carefully and is slender. She wears lightly tailored suits in the daytime, with pastel blouses, sometimes frilled. In the heat of the summer, cotton dresses with flared skirts. Her shoes have what is known as Illusion heels, so that she will appear to be wearing high heels without
adding too much to her height. In the evenings, meeting academic friends, she goes in heavily for the little black cocktail dress, not necessarily black, of course. She looks smart.

She is a competent cook. Her apricot bread and peanut butter cookies are splendid, and her chocolate cake with fudge icing is beyond compare.

She reads a great deal.

She asks the janitor of the apartment block if people are allowed to keep cats. He says No.

She grows African violets, which are pretty, and potted parsley, which can be used as a garnish on such dishes as tomato jelly.

She writes short stories and tears them up.

One day she throws a Benares brass ashtray through the kitchen window.

Appalled, she flashes down to the back alley and retrieves the brass vessel. It is not dented. They made their brass to last, all right, out there in Benares.

She thumbs rapidly through the Yellow Pages, and phones five firms of repairmen, all of whom say they’ve got more jobs on their plates than they can handle in three months, lady, and very sorry.

It is February. The kitchen is growing icier by the minute.

The sixth attempt produces a repairman who puts in a new window pane. She pays him in cash and flushes the receipt down the toilet, having first ripped it into tiny shreds. All she needs is a blocked toilet right now.

That evening, she and Brooke have their sherry before dinner.

“Brooke?”

“Yes, love?”

“I don’t think I have enough to do. I really think we
should try to have a child, Brooke. Don’t you see? I really want a child of yours.”

Brooke refills his sherry glass and sits on the arm of the chesterfield, putting a hand on Morag’s shoulder.

“I know, love, and I’m glad you do, believe me. But once you have a child, you’ll be awfully tied down with it, don’t forget. You’re still very young for that kind of limited life.”

“You, however,” Morag says, “are thirty-nine.”

Brooke laughs.

“Well, that’s not quite senility yet, my love. Look, I appreciate how you feel, Morag. It’s just that I don’t think you quite realize how tied down we’d be. Also, a flat is hardly the place for a child.”

“Why don’t we get a house, then? I hate this damn apartment.” Morag hears her voice speaking; she sounds like a spoiled child.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Brooke says, withdrawing his hand. “I always thought you liked the place. At least, that’s what you said. I never realized it was such an ordeal for you to live here.”

“Oh Brooke, I’m sorry. Honestly. I didn’t mean it. It’s just that–”

“Well, you know, my darling, one doesn’t just step out and acquire a house. It requires a certain amount of money. We’ve saved a fair bit, but not enough for a down payment on a decent house.”

“We could wait forever, though, and the circumstances would never be entirely perfect for having a child.”

“Personally,” Brooke says mildly, “I like it here with just the two of us. There’s time enough to think of a child when we’re able to get the sort of house we want. For now, isn’t this all right? I feel awfully close to you, my love.”

“Oh Brooke–I do to you, too. You know that. And I’m sorry when I’m unreasonable. Really I am. Please don’t ever leave me, Brooke. I couldn’t bear it.”

He puts his arm around her.

“How could I ever leave you? You’re mine. My woman. I’ll be with you and protect you always.”

Does she really want to be protected, always? If not, this does not seem to be quite the moment to say so.

“Brooke, do you think it would be a good idea for me to get a job?”

“By all means, if you really want to. What sort of job?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A clerk in a store, maybe. A bookshop? Or a job in an office–I can type.”

“I wonder if you’d really care for that kind of routine job, Morag? Go ahead and try it, if you think you’d like to, by all means. But typing business letters or doing filing all day wouldn’t be my idea of fun.”

Nor would it be Morag’s as she now swiftly perceives.

“No, I guess I wouldn’t care much for it at that.”

“What about your writing? Have you given it up?”

“No. But everything I write seems bad.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Have you got any stories?”

“One or two.”

“Well, let’s see them, then.”

Morag reluctantly shows them to him.

“I think these are
quite
good,” Brooke says finally. “They certainly need a little polishing, and I’m not sure of the plausibility of either ending, to tell you the truth, but–yes, they’re definitely worth working on, I’d say.”

She is hungry for approval, but suddenly cannot take what he is saying.

“Brooke,” she says in a hard voice, “they aren’t any good. They’re trivial and superficial.”

He looks at her in surprise.

“Well, if you don’t like them, love, then of course that’s up to you.”

He glances at his watch.

“My God, Morag, we’d better hurry with dinner. My Third Year Honours English students are coming around tonight–had you forgotten?”

“Oh Lord. I’m sorry, Brooke. I
had
forgotten.”

The students, two girls and six boys, troop in about eight o’clock. They drape themselves around the room, some of them sitting on the floor. Brooke sits in the one armchair. He is warm with them, calm even when they make ridiculous statements, dependably friendly and yet never making the error of trying to be one of them. They are confident and yet a little shy with him, arguing tentatively but willing to be convinced when he points out (always carefully, never stabbing any of them to the heart) the flaws in their judgements. Tonight Gerard Manley Hopkins is the subject of talk. Morag sits on a low stool by the window, occasionally chipping in but mostly listening.

“I can’t help feeling,” one of the boys says, “that at least some of the obscurity is done for its own sake–you know, really just to baffle the reader. A kind of intellectual game, the purpose of which–subconscious, no doubt–was to prove that Hopkins’ intellect was superior to most.”

“Well, let’s face it, his intellect
was
superior to most,” Morag finds herself saying. “But you’re right about the spiritual pride, which is what I take it you mean. And also self-pity, in a poem like ‘Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord.’ The point is, he
knew
it. But you’re wrong about the obscurity–almost always,
if you can get inside the lines, you find he’s saying what he means with absolute precision. ‘Sheer plod makes plough down sillion shine’–I’m not sure it really does, but it couldn’t be expressed more concisely and accurately. Or where he says ‘No worst, there is none.’ My God, think of that. There really
is
none–”

She stops. There is silence. Embarrassment.

Then Brooke smoothly leads the discussion into different channels.

When the young have finally departed, Morag turns to Brooke.

“I shouldn’t have butted in like that, Brooke. I
am
sorry.”

Brooke draws her close to him.

“Hush, child. It’s all right. It doesn’t matter a damn. Truly. Everybody makes exaggerated statements from time to time.”

Morag abruptly pulls away from him.

“Brooke–”

“What’s the matter? For heaven’s sake, Morag, you’re awfully touchy today.”

“Brooke, I am not your child. I am your wife.”

Brooke laughs, but partly in annoyance.

“Is that it? I’ve offended your pride? My God, Morag, can’t you see I only used the word as an expression of affection? Remember how you and Ella used to call each other
kid
? What’s the difference, except that I meant this a little more tenderly and in a different kind of relationship?”

Oh God. Quite true. And she has lashed out at him for it.

“Brooke, I’m sorry. I really must be unbalanced. I’m sorry. I love you, Brooke. I do love you.”

“I know, my love. I know.”

Memorybank Movie: Spear of Innocence

Morag begins writing the novel almost unexpectedly, although Lilac has been in her mind for some time. She has no idea where the character has come from. She has never in her life known anyone remotely like Lilac Stonehouse, the fluffily pretty girl from a lumber town who lights out for the city. An old story, but in this case (hopefully) somewhat different, because Lilac’s staggering naïveté is never presented as anything but harmful and in fact it damages not only herself but others. Innocence may well be the eighth deadly sin.

Morag has no idea how long it will take to complete the novel, nor how much rewriting will have to be done, but once started she writes quickly. She knows more about Lilac than Lilac knows about herself, but how to convey this? It is being written in the third person, but from Lilac’s viewpoint, and as this is a limited one, people have to be communicated to the reader solely through their words and acts, which Lilac often does not understand. The difficulties of having a main character who is virtually inchoate. When actually writing, Morag is certain she is getting it across. When not writing, she is certain she isn’t. A seesaw existence.

“What is it you’re writing?” Brooke asks.

“A novel, I think.”

“A novel? Well, may as well aim your sights high, I suppose.”

“Do you think–no, honestly, Brooke, tell me–do you think I’m trying to run before I can walk?”