The Good Apprentice (11 page)

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Authors: Iris Murdoch

BOOK: The Good Apprentice
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The people round about him were no longer entranced, they moved, a woman picked up her handbag, a man coughed, someone got up, the show was over. The door opened and people began to go away. Mrs Quaid stood for a moment stretching her arms and breathing deeply, then walked slowly across to the heavy ‘chenille’ curtains and pulled them back a little and the terrible cold pale daylight of a grey afternoon came into the room. The last clients, transformed into ordinary people with coats and umbrellas and shopping bags and ordinary anxious faces and coughs, were leaving the room, shuffling the chairs and making way for each other as they shambled off. Edward was left alone with Mrs Quaid, who was standing at the window looking out at the street. He searched for his mackintosh, which had been displaced in the movement of the chairs, and put it on. It was still wet. Mrs Quaid said aloud to herself, ‘Double glazing makes all the difference.’ Then she turned and noticed Edward and made a gesture towards the door, inviting him to go. In the ungracious light she looked tired and much older.
‘Mrs Quaid,’ said Edward, ‘please may I ask you something. If someone — if some spirit voice — comes through with a message — like just now — does it mean that that person is dead?’
‘Does it mean what?’
‘That the person — that the voice that speaks has to be that of a dead person, I mean a dead person not a live person?’
‘How do I know?’ said Mrs Quaid in a petulant tone, ‘I am a
medium,
you understand what that means, I only convey what is sent to me by my guide.’ She added, ‘It’s very tiring you know.’ She carefully took off her turban and put it on a chair, and smoothed down her wispy grey hair.
‘But when you said “There’s someone here who has two fathers — ”’
‘I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what the spirits said.’
‘Someone said my name. You don’t know my name, do you
?
’
‘No, of course not, never seen you before in my life.’
‘But do living people ever speak like that — ’
‘I dare say anything may happen to those who are in tune with nature. Now I’ve got to have my tea.’
‘Perhaps I imagined it,’ said Edward.
‘Perhaps you did. Sorry, dear.’
Edward went out of the room which seemed so dull and lifeless now, and passed out of the open door of the flat and down the stairs. Outside in the street the rain had stopped and the light had changed, become a bright rainy light with the sun shining momentarily through clouds, there was a fragment of rainbow and everything about him shone radiantly in vivid colours, the glittering pavement, the wet railings, the brick fronts of the houses, the clothes of the passersby, the Post Office Tower. Edward walked a few paces, then stood still. Whatever had happened? He felt a painful excitement, a sick ominous feeling of extreme fear, a desire to vomit. Surely he
had
heard that strange voice utter his name? He had certainly heard ‘Come to your father, come home.’ It must be for him, that message to the one who had two fathers. But suppose he were being summoned by a
dead
father?
 
 
 
 
‘Do you think we should stop Meredith from seeing Stuart?’ Midge McCaskerville asked her husband, as she sat on his desk dressed to go out in her smart black mac and blue and red silk scarf.
‘Why
?
’
‘He’s become so emotional and peculiar, he might preach his religious mania to Meredith — and — well — ’
‘You think he might spring upon the boy?’
‘No, of course not, but I don’t want Meredith involved in an emotional friendship with Stuart.’
Thomas, who had laid down his pen, picked it up again. He said, ‘I don’t see any problem, we might just create one by interfering.’
‘I wish Edward would attend to Meredith more, he’s very fond of Edward, not much use at the moment of course. Stuart is so sort of unreal and inhuman. Of course it would be difficult, we don’t want to give offence. Are you writing about Mr Blinnet?’
‘No.’
‘Does he still think he murdered his wife and buried her and she’s grown into a laburnum tree? What’s his latest, if it’s not secret?’
‘Oh, he tells everybody. An old schoolmaster of his in Manchester is sending out steel wires which enter into Mr Blinnet’s head and convey slogans.’
‘Slogans?’
‘But not of any interest. Like “Eat more cheese”. Mr Blinnet is bored by the slogans. Sometimes the schoolmaster manipulates the wires causing pain to Mr Blinnet as a punishment for his indifference to the slogans. Some of the wires are steel and some are made of gold. The gold ones produce small fires inside Mr Blinnet’s head, the effects of which are sometimes visible as flames resting on his hair.’
‘Have you seen them?’
‘No.’
‘Poor man,’ said Midge, ‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to think things like that. Mad people, are so inventive. No wonder poets are supposed to be mad.’
‘Mad people are quite unlike poets,’ said Thomas. ‘Their fantasies are detailed and ingenious, but somehow dead. Not surprising in Mr Blinnet’s case, since he also believes that he is dead.’
‘And that he’s the Messiah! Of course he’s Jewish.’
‘He is a quiet unambitious Messiah.’
‘He’s creepy. Meredith is afraid of him. I wish you hadn’t had him here that time the clinic was closed. He smiles that awful bland smile but his eyes stay sharp and inquisitive. And you say he always wears his hat, even when he’s with you.’
‘When I give up the clinic Mr Blinnet will be a problem,’ said Thomas. ‘We could live in the country then. When Meredith goes to boarding school.’
‘You’re not giving up the clinic,’ said Midge. ‘I hope you’re not being taken over by Mr Blinnet, I don’t think you want to cure him at all! You’ll be late back tonight?’
‘Yes. You’re out to lunch with your American school pal?’
‘Yes, she’s put off going home. Don’t forget Meredith’s school concert, by the way.’
‘What flowers will you buy today?’
‘Irises and tiger lilies.’
Shifting his mobile chair Thomas stretched out his hand and Midge descended onto his knee. ‘Darling Midge, have a nice day.’
‘
You
have a nice day. Are you seeing someone this morning?’
‘Yes, Edward.’
‘Edward? Really
? Did you tell him to come?’
‘No, he rang up.’
‘So you were right.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so fond of Edward, I feel I could help him. Shall I see him too?’
‘Not yet. Goodbye, mop-head. You look about seventeen.’
 
 
 
 
‘So you talked to Stuart?’ said Thomas.
‘He talked to me,’ said Edward.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said I should stop reading thrillers and read the Bible, that I should look at azaleas — ’
‘Azaleas?’
‘Well, an azalea. Midge brought me one.’
‘Did she, good.’
‘And listen to the birds singing, and sit quietly, and breathe, and find something good and hang onto it like a terrier — ’
‘And did you?’
‘Of course not. I threw the azalea out of the window. No, I meant to, but he took it away.’
‘Did he touch you?’
‘Touch
me? Good heavens no!’
‘Look, I want you to come off those drugs Ursula gave you. Can you?’
‘Yes, I mostly have. They make no difference.’
‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like to see one of Mrs Wilsden’s letters, if you get another one, I think you said you’d destroyed them all.’
‘Oh, I’ll get another one! She’s an artist. She keeps saying the same thing without repeating herself. She must enjoy writing those letters.’
‘It’s a form of mourning, it will pass, deep grief is like a compulsive song.’
‘That’s what everyone says to me about my thing, it will pass. But it won’t. It’s gone on so long. I’d have to be another person. What’s wrong with me is me. I’m
done for.
You know how if an aeroplane engine stalls at a certain moment it can’t rise, it must crash by its own weight, no power can raise it, it’s just a heavy dead thing bound to fall back to earth. My engines have failed, I’m falling, I’ve
got
to fall, I’ve no energy left, one way or another I’m done for.’
‘You can talk. You are full of interesting images.’
‘That’s because I’m usirig
your
energy,’ said Edward. ‘When I leave you I’ll be back in that black machine. I’m in it now, all this talk is automatic, it’s hysterical, you are producing it. I’m not mentally ill I’m spiritually ill, I never knew what that meant before. It’s the fact, the
fact
I have to live with, what happened, what I did. People say, “you have to live with something”, but I can’t live with this, I can only die with it, except that I don’t die. I wake every day in torment, my whole body glows with pain as if I were being electrocuted, only I can’t die.’
‘Go on, while your eloquence lasts.’
‘I’m frightened of everything, I’m frightened of police and doctors, I’m even frightened of you. You won’t let them give me electric shocks, will you?’
‘There’s no question of that. There isn’t any “them”. There’s only me.’
‘They could get at me all the same. You know I never told anyone this, I told lies at the inquest. I said Mark had some of the stuff and took it of his own accord. That wasn’t true. I gave it to him, I put it in a sandwich. I deceived him, he didn’t know he was taking it, he would never have done it knowingly, he hated drugs, he kept trying to make me stop. Mrs Wilsden guessed that of course. That’s one of the things she goes on about. Do you think I should go and tell the coroner?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Thomas.
‘I’m glad I’ve told you anyway. I know anything I say to you is secret. I’m glad I’ve said it aloud.’
‘One must have things to hang onto. Truth matters.’
‘I’ve lost touch with truth.’
‘No, you haven’t, you’ve just demonstrated that. Your idea of losing the truth is simply an illusion. Unhappy people console themselves with lies, then feel that everything is falsified — ’
‘That’s me. I’m deprived of every possibility of acting rightly or doing any good. It’s a
system
of grief, every grief I’ve ever had enters into this grief and augments it. There’s no cure for remorse like I feel. I haven’t any foothold. It’s like trying to add up figures in a dream. You imagine I can think, I can’t. You appeal to my intellect, it isn’t there.’
‘Ofcourse it’s there, don’t utter blatant lies. Just try to sort the stuffout a bit, get hold of a few concepts. You were glad you told me about something which troubled your conscience. You have a conscience. You can make distinctions. You spoke of grief just now, and remorse. Can you put those things in any sort of order? What’s in the centre of it all? Don’t answer at once, just try to
think
.’
Edward, sitting in an armchair opposite to Thomas’s desk, thought, ‘Oh well — what I’ve just said — it doesn’t help to say the obvious — just what happened and how to unhappen it — what a terrible thing I did — and Mark, whom I love — being — gone — ’
‘That’s a lot of matter. Go on trying. You used the word “love”. You can’t unhappen what has happened. Mark is dead and the dead have to be loved in a special way which has to be learnt. And your “terrible thing” is full of things which need to be separated out — ’
‘God, do you want a list!’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m marked, I’m branded, people can see it, everyone stares at me in the street. I haven’t any real being left, it’s all scratched and scraped away, people shudder away from me, I stink of misery and evil. When I was coming here I saw Meredith come out of the house, and he pretended not to see me and crossed the road, he couldn’t stand the sight of me, that hurt me so much. It’s the shame, the loss of honour, that can never come back. I’m ruined and blackened forever, and I’m so young. And it does connect with unhappening. If only I hadn’t locked the door, if only I hadn’t left him — oh what’s the use — I’m not worthy to live — I’m so weary of grieving and trying to cry — all I want is to be walled up in a stone cell and starve and become a little dried up animal and die.’ As he said this Edward opened his eyes wide and smiled, the weird uncanny gloating smile which had so much appalled Stuart.
‘Your unconscious mind is having a festival,’ said Thomas, who had seen such smiles before. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to see a priest? It’s always worth wondering whether the remnants of your religion could help. A priest could hear your confession and absolve you. These are rites which need not depend on dogma.’
‘No, no priest. So you want me to specialise in feeling guilty?’
‘You could put it so! There’s got to be some point in all this mess of miseries where something creative could come about. You keep harping on the “terrible thing”, and the “fact” and “what happened”, but at the same time you keep spending your energy and your resentment in imagining it hasn’t happened. Your feeling of guilt, if you can isolate it, can provide the place, and the “style” if I may put it so, by which you can get it into your mind and your heart that it
has
happened — and start from there. That place, if you can attend to it, can change the atmosphere, give you more air and light. Loving Mark could be something positive, only it’s no good loving him still alive. And you might
think
about answering Mrs Wilsden, compose a letter.’

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