Read The Good Apprentice Online
Authors: Iris Murdoch
The Good Apprentice (10 page)
Edward Baltram was crossing Fitzroy Square. It was raining.
It was the day following Stuart’s homily and Edward’s discovery of the card about the seance. It was a Thursday, half-past four in the afternoon. Edward was going to hear the dead speak.
Edward did not exactly believe that this would happen. He was impressed by the strange way in which the card had suddenly appeared on the floor of his room. He had of course later realised how it had come there. He remembered that on that terrible night Sarah Plowmain had said something about a seance, and that it would be ‘fun’ to go to one. No doubt she had slipped the card into the pocket of his jacket, and he had pulled it out accidentally without noticing. Nevertheless he felt he could recognise the hand of fate, and fate was just what, at that moment, he needed in his life more than anything, some significant compulsion, even if the significance were dark. To be under orders, to have something he must do. He felt weak and fatalistic. But suppose the dead did speak, and in terrible tones, the message of Mark’s mother spoken by Mark, denouncing him as a murderer? Might not that drive him into madness? Even then it would be fate, it would be part of a fated punishment, it would be a
step
upon a
road,
which might lead perhaps in the end to some better state, would at any rate lead
somewhere.
The sense of nowhere-to-go, no space, no time, no movement, was a part of his utter and deep misery. He did not really hate Stuart and Harry. He had even listened to Stuart sufficiently to recall some of his advice. When that morning Edward awoke from drugged nightmares to see that the daylight had returned, and to hear the birds singing in the garden, and after he had passed from the moment of not-knowing into the agony of
yes
, it
happened, that
happened’, he also remembered what Stuart had said about holding onto the birds and keeping them away from the blackness. He tried to do this. He felt at once the pressure of a huge black irresistible force. His effort lasted for a microsecond; then grief blotted out the sound and he returned to his mechanical conversation with Mark and his wailing regret that he could not change the past: oh if only that vile girl hadn’t rung up, if only I had come back sooner, if only … So little needed to be changed for it all to be different.
step
upon a
road,
which might lead perhaps in the end to some better state, would at any rate lead
somewhere.
The sense of nowhere-to-go, no space, no time, no movement, was a part of his utter and deep misery. He did not really hate Stuart and Harry. He had even listened to Stuart sufficiently to recall some of his advice. When that morning Edward awoke from drugged nightmares to see that the daylight had returned, and to hear the birds singing in the garden, and after he had passed from the moment of not-knowing into the agony of
yes
, it
happened, that
happened’, he also remembered what Stuart had said about holding onto the birds and keeping them away from the blackness. He tried to do this. He felt at once the pressure of a huge black irresistible force. His effort lasted for a microsecond; then grief blotted out the sound and he returned to his mechanical conversation with Mark and his wailing regret that he could not change the past: oh if only that vile girl hadn’t rung up, if only I had come back sooner, if only … So little needed to be changed for it all to be different.
I’m so alone, he thought, no one helps me, no one
can
help me, I don’t even want anyone’s help. But what is to become of me, would I not be better dead? I am simply cumbering and fouling the earth. I am dead, I am the walking dead, people must see that, why don’t they run away? They do run away, everyone shuns me. No voice can reach me. I won’t be able to think again, I won’t be able to work again, I am permanently damaged. I have no free thinking mind any more, my mind is totally poisoned, clogged up with black poison. I am a little machine, no longer a human soul, my soul is dead, my poor soul is dead. He wished that he could shed tears over his soul, his face screwed up for tears, there was a little moisture in his eyes but not the streams that he desired. Yet while he thought these thoughts, explicitly worded, indeed composed, in his mind, his feet were automatically leading him toward a street which he had looked up on a map to be sure that he knew where it was. Even the name, Mrs Quaid, was in his head as he walked, as he marched, for he was a suffering robot.
can
help me, I don’t even want anyone’s help. But what is to become of me, would I not be better dead? I am simply cumbering and fouling the earth. I am dead, I am the walking dead, people must see that, why don’t they run away? They do run away, everyone shuns me. No voice can reach me. I won’t be able to think again, I won’t be able to work again, I am permanently damaged. I have no free thinking mind any more, my mind is totally poisoned, clogged up with black poison. I am a little machine, no longer a human soul, my soul is dead, my poor soul is dead. He wished that he could shed tears over his soul, his face screwed up for tears, there was a little moisture in his eyes but not the streams that he desired. Yet while he thought these thoughts, explicitly worded, indeed composed, in his mind, his feet were automatically leading him toward a street which he had looked up on a map to be sure that he knew where it was. Even the name, Mrs Quaid, was in his head as he walked, as he marched, for he was a suffering robot.
He consulted the card again, although he clearly remembered the number, and stopped outside a tall brick terrace house, the kind of house of which there are so many, some grand, some dingy, in that part of London. This house, was one of the dingy ones. A card similar to the one he was holding was pinned to the side of the door, with the message
First floor
hand-written upon it. There was a bell beside the door but Edward saw no point in ringing it since the door was open. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes to five. He wondered if he should walk around for a bit, but decided it was psychologically impossible. Besides, he had come without an umbrella and his hair and his mackintosh were already rather wet. He went in, mopping his hair with his handkerchief, and climbed some shabbily carpeted stairs. On the first floor there was one door, standing ajar, with a hand-written notice on it saying
SEANCE 5 p.m. Please walk in.
Edward walked in.
First floor
hand-written upon it. There was a bell beside the door but Edward saw no point in ringing it since the door was open. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes to five. He wondered if he should walk around for a bit, but decided it was psychologically impossible. Besides, he had come without an umbrella and his hair and his mackintosh were already rather wet. He went in, mopping his hair with his handkerchief, and climbed some shabbily carpeted stairs. On the first floor there was one door, standing ajar, with a hand-written notice on it saying
SEANCE 5 p.m. Please walk in.
Edward walked in.
He was in the corridor of a flat, with various closed doors and very little light. There was a rather unpleasant dusty sweetish smell which could have been old cosmetics or some kind of dry rot. He felt his heart-beat, holding his breath, and after listening for a moment, coughed. A door opened and in the still dim light he saw a woman covered in jewels. That at least was his first impression. Then he saw a small woman with a fat neck wearing a dark red and blue robe and some sort of turban on her head and a great many necklaces. Some of the necklaces were short, cutting into her flesh, others were longer and hung down in rows as far as her waist. She also wore long earrings which glittered and swung. The necklaces clicked a little and tinkled. The woman spoke, ‘You’re early, dear. But come on in then.’ She spoke with a slight Irish accent. Edward followed her.
He came into a fairly large room with three tall windows. The curtains on the windows were drawn so as to admit very little daylight.
‘I’m Mrs Quaid.’ She turned on a shaded lamp, and Edward saw a semicircle of chairs, heavy furniture against the walls, a fat sofa and two sloppy armchairs, a fireplace with a grate full of ashes, a sideboard with lace and china ornaments, a television set with a shawl over it. Mrs Quaid pulled the curtains more carefully. She said, ‘You’re new.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ever been to a seance before?’
‘No.’
‘You have to pay, you know.’
Edward had expected this. He handed over the fee, which was surprisingly modest. He did not find Mrs Quaid very impressive. Her ‘jewels’, now more visible in the close lamplight, were of the home-made ‘folk’ variety. He said to himself, these people are all charlatans.
‘I’ll explain later when everyone’s here,’ said Mrs Quaid. ‘Won’t be many today I think. Sit down, sit
there.’
She left the room and closed the door. Edward put his wet mackintosh under the chair. He was struck by the fact that she had chosen his seat.
there.’
She left the room and closed the door. Edward put his wet mackintosh under the chair. He was struck by the fact that she had chosen his seat.
The dark room was stuffy and smelt more strongly of the corridor smell, perhaps furniture polish covering some more dirty musty odour. The curtains were made of some thick furry stuff to which Edward instinctively attached a word which he did not know he knew, ‘chenille’. They seemed dusty and he resisted an urge to go and finger them. A large old-fashioned globe of whitened glass hung from a wire in the middle of the ceiling. The banality of the room seemed ill-omened, even evil. The vases on the dirty lace on the sideboard were exceptionally ugly, grossly so. Edward returned to the familiar misery, the familiar fear. He listened to his breath, then to the distant noise of traffic, but the room continued to feel heavily silent. The dusty sweetish smell troubled his breathing and reminded him of something. He realised what it was: the incense which Sarah Plowmain had had burning in her darkened room, when he was in bed with her and Mark was dying.
Someone entered, slinking silently through the door, and sat down not far from Edward. It was a man who, after a quick glance, bowed his head as if in prayer. Edward could hear a faint panting sound. Several more people, men and women, came in with the same surreptitious tread and sat with bowed or covered faces. Edward was uncomfortable, unable to submit to the mood of the scene, his hair was still wet, his trousers were wet and seemed to have shrunk, he felt cold, a smell of damp wool arose from the collar of his jacket, he fidgeted. At about five minutes past five Mrs Quaid came in, attired as before except that she had put some jewels into her turban. She turned the single lamp down further, turning a switch which made the light reddish and very dim.
Then she said in a matter of fact voice, sounding more like a nurse or social worker than a handmaid of another world, ‘Could you pull your chairs round please, push the empty chairs back, make a smaller circle, come round me, that’s right.’ Chairs were shifted awkwardly over the sticky resistant carpet, some pushed away, others moved forward. Making a more intimate group the clientele settled down. Mrs Quaid went on, ‘There are two here who have not before attended a group where we speak to those on the other side, and to them let me speak a few words. You have all come here with private needs and wishes, troubles and desires, grieving for loved ones or seeking for guidance. The success of our communication with what is beyond depends upon your serious and close co-operation. Of course you must be silent, please do not exclaim or cry out or attempt to speak to the spirits yourselves. All communication will pass through me, it can no other. Above all you must concentrate, concentrate upon those whom you love who have now passed over, and upon the efficacy and clarity of the channels of vision as these are revealed unto you.
We
depend upon
you
for this help. When I say we, I mean that we are not alone, I am not alone. To reach to those who live in the light, beyond this world, who are trying to speak to us who are left behind in this dark realm, a spirit guide is needed. My guide is a woman, her name is Mary Geddy, and she lived upon this earth in the eighteenth century, she was a housekeeper in a great house in the west country. She will put us in touch. You may hear many voices, the voice of Mary Geddy and then perhaps of other dear spirits who are waiting to get through. It may not be possible to hear the voices of your loved ones, that matter is in the hands of the spirits themselves, but you may be vouchsafed a message. Sometimes the spirits are visible, this does not happen often. You may also feel tangible presences. Do not touch these or try to hold them. You are requested not to leave until I declare the seance at an end. Sit quiet, do not be afraid, concentrate your minds. Sit first for a while in silence.’
We
depend upon
you
for this help. When I say we, I mean that we are not alone, I am not alone. To reach to those who live in the light, beyond this world, who are trying to speak to us who are left behind in this dark realm, a spirit guide is needed. My guide is a woman, her name is Mary Geddy, and she lived upon this earth in the eighteenth century, she was a housekeeper in a great house in the west country. She will put us in touch. You may hear many voices, the voice of Mary Geddy and then perhaps of other dear spirits who are waiting to get through. It may not be possible to hear the voices of your loved ones, that matter is in the hands of the spirits themselves, but you may be vouchsafed a message. Sometimes the spirits are visible, this does not happen often. You may also feel tangible presences. Do not touch these or try to hold them. You are requested not to leave until I declare the seance at an end. Sit quiet, do not be afraid, concentrate your minds. Sit first for a while in silence.’
During this speech, of which at one level of his mind he was fully aware, Edward was also thinking, suppose something terrible and nightmarish happens to me, awful enough to drive me mad, to drive me to destroy myself? Should I not quickly now get up and go? He felt very afraid, panting silently with open mouth, his heart hurting him with its beat, yet at the same time he felt a kind of relief at being trapped, he
could not
go, he could do nothing now. He also thought, I’m vibrating with misery and grief, I’m a great electric storm, a destructive disturbance in the middle of this dark room, I shall make it all impossible, I can’t concentrate, I shall scream. He tried to think about Mark, to see Mark, to propitiate his spirit. After some little time the quietness round about began to affect him and he closed his eyes. Then Mrs Quaid began to speak again, but this time it seemed to Edward that she was putting on a thick west country accent. It sounded forced, like a bad actress. The voice, supposed to be that of ‘Mary Geddy’, said first rather incoherently something which sounded like ‘children’ or ‘my children’, and then, after a coughing sound, clarified and said, ‘I think that there is one here who is thinking of his wife who has lately passed on. She is wanting to come through. Her name is Clara.’ There was a faint groaning sound from a man sitting next to Edward. The voice went on after a moment, ‘Clara says I am to tell him that she is well and happy, there are many flowers where she is, flowers such as marigolds. She says not to be unhappy for her since she is happy and waiting for the one she loves to be with her. She cannot tell more of where she is. She knows he will understand, and asks him to look at her ring which she gave him. She says he is to look after himself and do all things what she told him. There is a debt to be paid. She bids him love her and have faith in the time to come. She bids him
au revoir.’
The man next to Edward, who had covered his face, groaned again and lowered his head towards his knees.
could not
go, he could do nothing now. He also thought, I’m vibrating with misery and grief, I’m a great electric storm, a destructive disturbance in the middle of this dark room, I shall make it all impossible, I can’t concentrate, I shall scream. He tried to think about Mark, to see Mark, to propitiate his spirit. After some little time the quietness round about began to affect him and he closed his eyes. Then Mrs Quaid began to speak again, but this time it seemed to Edward that she was putting on a thick west country accent. It sounded forced, like a bad actress. The voice, supposed to be that of ‘Mary Geddy’, said first rather incoherently something which sounded like ‘children’ or ‘my children’, and then, after a coughing sound, clarified and said, ‘I think that there is one here who is thinking of his wife who has lately passed on. She is wanting to come through. Her name is Clara.’ There was a faint groaning sound from a man sitting next to Edward. The voice went on after a moment, ‘Clara says I am to tell him that she is well and happy, there are many flowers where she is, flowers such as marigolds. She says not to be unhappy for her since she is happy and waiting for the one she loves to be with her. She cannot tell more of where she is. She knows he will understand, and asks him to look at her ring which she gave him. She says he is to look after himself and do all things what she told him. There is a debt to be paid. She bids him love her and have faith in the time to come. She bids him
au revoir.’
The man next to Edward, who had covered his face, groaned again and lowered his head towards his knees.
This manifestation was followed by a silence. Edward had listened vaguely to the insipid message. He felt warmer and a little sleepy. Mary Geddy’s ridiculously artificial voice started up again but broke off, to be followed after a moment by another voice. This voice sounded real, as if some new person had entered the room and were speaking from near the door. ‘George,’ the voice said in urgent tones. It sounded like the voice of a young man. ‘George, are you there? George, it’s me. You promised, you did. I kept my promise. I’ll always be with you, always. George, are you there?’ The reddish light seemed to be extinguished, or perhaps something had moved in front of it. Edward was suddenly conscious of something which seemed to be coming across the space between him and where Mrs Quaid was sitting. Only now she was no longer there. Something soft seemed to touch Edward’s hand, as if stroking it, and a movement of cold air and substance passed close in front of his face. In the almost complete darkness something which had not been there before seemed to be assembling itself inside the ring of chairs. There was a soft sighing sound as of something deflating and a faint sound like running water. Then there was a stifled cry, or whimper. Edward flinched back and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them the red light was visible and the room was as before except that Mrs Quaid sitting in her chair was holding her hands outstretched in front of her. There was a gleam of light and the sound of a closing door, someone had left the room. It seemed to Edward that it was Mrs Quaid who had cried out.
Mrs Quaid adjusted her turban and composed her hands on her lap. Her numerous necklaces glittered faintly. She sniffed and touched her nose with a handkerchief. She said, after a moment or two, in her own voice, ‘There may be no more messages today. But we shall wait a little while to see if the spirits have anything more they want to tell us. Be still and concentrate your minds.’ Edward breathed deeply and almost at once, as it seemed to him afterwards, fell asleep. The voice of Mary Geddy came to him, recalling him from some dark place. The voice said, ‘There is one among us who has two fathers.’ It repeated, ‘There is one among us who has two fathers.’ Edward was instantly alert, sitting forward, peering into the semi-dark toward Mrs Quaid. Mrs Quaid seemed to be humming very very softly, only now he could not see her because a hovering point of light, like a golden mosquito, was moving in between. Edward had noticed, as he entered the room, the big white globe suspended from the ceiling containing, he assumed, an unlit electric light bulb. This globe seemed to have moved a little, and was now lower down above Mrs Quaid’s head. The little point of light entered the globe. The globe seemed to be vibrating, to be part of a vibration which filled the whole room, and as Edward stared at it it was becoming softly luminous and changing colour. Beginning as a pale gold, it had now become a brown or bronze colour, and something was coming out of the inside of it, or rather holes were appearing in it, like empty glowing eyes and a mouth. A deep voice now issued from what now resembled a more than human size spherical bronze head. The voice spoke with some sort of English slightly drawling accent. It said, ‘Come to your father. Come to your father.’ There was a silence filled with vibration. Edward, clenching his fists, his mouth wide open, stared at the apparition. He then clearly heard the voice say ‘Edward’; and then, ‘Come to your father. Come home, my son.’ Edward gave a little sharp cry, like the cry of a bird. The bronze head dissolved and somehow was no longer there and the light in the room changed and Edward could see Mrs Quaid sitting with folded hands. He could not now recall what had just happened, although he could picture it clearly, as something he had actually seen and heard, it was something of a different kind, as if his own head had become huge and the voice had spoken inside it. He uttered his little cry again, turning it into a sob. He saw Mrs Quaid lean forward and touch the lamp. The red light was quenched and the room was revealed in a brighter but still dim glow. Mrs Quaid said, ‘The seance is now at an end.’
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