The Good Apprentice (30 page)

Authors: Iris Murdoch

BOOK: The Good Apprentice

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‘Yes,’ said Bettina, ‘he was beginning to destroy his work. We had to stop him.’

‘It took us ages to get him up the stairs,’ said Ilona.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Edward. ‘Look, do you think we could have a drink? I mean an alcoholic drink, some of that wine.’

‘What about dinner?’ said Ilona.

‘Ilona, go and get some wine,’ said Mother May, ‘and just bring some bread too.’

Ilona departed.

‘You mean you keep him a prisoner?’

‘You keep saying he’s ill and must be cared for, now you say he’s a prisoner!’

‘Of course he’s not a prisoner,’ said Bettina. ‘We told you. He can walk sometimes. He can leave if he wants to. He doesn’t want to, why should he. This is his home.’

‘But what does
he
think? Wouldn’t he like to go to London to have treatment?’

‘No, he wouldn’t.’

Edward said, ‘I can understand your wanting him to be — more articulate — more presentable — before I met him — ’

‘We were waiting for that,’ said Mother May, ‘for his coming back. He does come back.’

‘But you were wrong. You didn’t understand
me.
You thought I’d give up, you thought I’d turn away from him, turn away from you. Of course I’m — disappointed — sorry, that’s a ridiculous word to use. I so much wanted him to be — ’

Ilona arrived with a tray, a bottle of wine and glasses, some bread and apples. Edward seized the bottle, which was uncorked, and poured out four glasses.

Ilona was deploying something which she had brought under her arm. She stretched it out, a piece of material with long trailing ends.

‘What’s that?’ said Edward.

‘It’s a strait-jacket. You see it works like this.’ She began to put it on.

‘How
can
you! Stop it!’ Bettina jumped up, dragged the thing roughly away, and threw it skidding off across the slate floor.

Mother May said, ‘Bettina, please — ’

Ilona, scarlet, her lips tightly closed, moved away to sit by herself further down the table. She covered her face with her hands. Bettina sat down. Edward pushed a glass of wine down toward Ilona. He said, ‘You thought I couldn’t bear the reality, but I can. I shall get to know him, I shall look after him. I’m going to have a real relationship with him. That’s why I came here. He’s my father.’

‘The looking after is a burden best left to us,’ said Mother May. ‘And please don’t go to see him any more just now, it just excites him and confuses him.’

‘He was glad to see me.’

‘He didn’t know who you were,’ said Bettina.

‘He did!’

‘We will tell you when it’s all right to see him,’ said Mother May, ‘I expect it will be soon.
Please
be unselfish enough to do what we want, we know what is best for him.’

‘I’m sure he wants to see me, I’m sure I could help him. Couldn’t you at least ask him? What do you think, Ilona?’

Ilona, who had been drinking the wine, burst into tears.

‘Oh shut up, Ilona,’ said Bettina.

‘Why did you ask me to come here?’ said Edward.

‘We were sorry for you,’ said Mother May. ‘Simply that.’

‘Why did you come?’ said Bettina.

‘For
him
. Because I was so miserable and I thought he’d talk to me and cure me. I thought he’d protect me. I thought he’d be wise and strong. And now — it’s so awful — you’re all
ashamed
of him — ’

‘Oh, really!’ Bettina banged her glass on the table and walked away. The door of Transition banged loudly. Ilona, still audibly weeping, followed her. Mother May did not look after the girls, but kept her gaze fixed on Edward.

He looked at her quiet, intent face, radiant with concern and will. After two glasses of wine he felt drunk, desolated and faint. The black pain was back. ‘Do you want me here?’ he said. ‘Shall I go away?’

Mother May reached across the table and tapped his wrist. ‘We asked you here to do us good. And you will, you will — won’t you?’

Edward was awakened that night by a loud clattering noise which left an after-sound of high ringing. He sat up in the darkness wondering if it might be thunder. He got up and opened the shutters and looked out of the window at the peaceful starry night sky. He closed the shutters again and went to the door and listened without opening it. Then he thought he’d put the chair against the door, couldn’t find it, and discovered it was already against the door, where he must have put it on going to bed. He could not remember going to bed. He lay down again and promptly fell asleep and had a terrible hallucinatory dream about a black humpy monster coming up out of a lake. He was wakened again, in what turned out to be the grey grisly dawn, by the weird sound, very close, of a machine. At least it sounded like a machine, a harsh shrill jumbled rackety repetitive sound which stopped a moment, then started again, stopped then started. He staggered up and again opened the shutters. A swallow was singing just outside the window, sitting upon one of the wires that brought the ‘unreliable’ electricity. Edward banged the shutters and the bird flew away.

He went back and sat on his bed and remembered the loud sound and then the dream. Then he remembered the events of yesterday afternoon and evening. He had become quite drunk. After Bettina and Ilona had gone to bed he had, watched by Mother May, consumed some more of the wine. After that, after, he thought, saying goodnight (or did he just reel away?), he had gone along to Transition hoping to find Ilona, but the melancholy rooms were empty. Before going to bed he had actually made a short attempt at washing up and at sweeping the stone floor of the kitchen, always covered with potato peelings and onion skins from the impetuous cooking of the women. He recalled his last glimpse of Mother May, sitting alone at the table with an untouched glass of wine and the bread and apples. Had they eaten anything? He could not remember. He felt very peculiar indeed. He thought, here even the wine is drugged. He got dressed and looked at the dawn whose grey had turned to gold, a quiet lovely gold revealing all. The trees outside, the dark yews, the budding oaks, were motionless and solemn, potent, as if they had been thinking all night. Something in the quality of the dawn light made him feel the most terrible anguish and he thought about Mark and felt that he must have come to this place to die. Then he was overcome by an intense desire to see his father again, not soon but today,
now
: later they might find ways of preventing him. He looked at his watch. They would not be up yet. He must go at once.

Edward opened the door. The key was still in the lock outside, but had not been turned. The downstairs door, also with the key in it, actually stood ajar. Evidently there was, after the shocks of last night, some disarray. The bottle and glasses, bread and apples, were still upon the table in the Atrium.

Jesse, sitting up, seemed to be expecting him. He showed no surprise, but nodded his large head several times, opening his very red lips, and gazing at Edward with intent dark rather prominent round eyes. His eyes had a wet jelly-like appearance and seemed to be entirely dark, a reddish brown in colour, with no white area visible. They were gentle eyes rather like a cow’s, yet also huge like the eyes of a tree. His nose was strongly aquiline. He had indeed still got his teeth and hair, as Ilona had said; the dark hair, though receding a little at the brow, grew into a copious crest and fell in long locks as far as his shoulders. The hair of his head and beard, which had been trimmed a little, was silky and dead straight. It showed no grey. His hands moved a little upon the sheet as if he were playing the piano, as he contrived, without exactly smiling, to nod his head. The hands were large and long-fingered, white and blue-veined, covered in long dark hairs which grew down as far as the fingernails. One finger wore, embedded in straggly hair, a big golden ring with a red stone. Edward noticed that the whitish-yellow pyjamas were badly frayed at the cuff and showed a long tear in one sleeve. The bed was disordered, the blankets falling off at one side.

Edward remembered afterwards that once he was in Jesse’s presence the terrible
fright
which he had felt as he ran through the house left him entirely, and it was as if he knew, or were being told, exactly what to do. He did not speak, but moved forward and began to set the bed to rights, lifting up the blankets and smoothing out the sheet, accidentally touching the straying hands. Then he drew up a chair to the side of the bed and stared at his father, feeling suddenly like a favoured visitor, a necessary acolyte, someone summoned. He studied the big head, so close now, discerning squares and hexagons in the wrinkled skin. He became aware of a strong smell, a smell of urine, of sweat, of old age. Of course his father was not really old. Yet in spite of the dark strong hair, he seemed old.

Jesse was now hunching his shoulders and putting his head on one side with an air of whimsical thoughtfulness, almost playfulness. Edward took the near hand, the left hand, the hand with the ring, and, with the same sense of confidence, bent his head and kissed it. He released the hand which returned to its play.

He said, ‘Father — ’

‘Jesse.’

‘Yes — ’

‘Say — Jesse — ’

‘Jesse — oh — Jesse — .’ Edward felt an impulse to weep but knew that he must control it, stay clear-headed, as one entrusted with a message, or to whom important secret news was to be imparted. He had not expected Jesse to speak. Yet he had not not expected either. Everything seemed inevitable.

Jesse said something.

‘Say it again.’

‘You — didn’t — come — ’

The second time the words were fairly clear. Edward did not know how to reply. ‘I’m sorry — I didn’t know — ’

‘I wanted — you — I wrote — ’

‘I never had a letter.’

‘Well — they didn’t s end — I wrote — I think — I forget — ’

‘I’ve come anyway,’ said Edward, ‘here I am and here I stay. I’m so glad — ’ He thought, I wanted to tell him about Mark, but of course that’s impossible, it doesn’t matter. I must keep him talking, I must keep
this
going on.

‘They — the ones downstairs — the — the — ’

‘Your wife, daughters — ?’

‘No, no, the — what’s word — ’

‘The women?’

‘The women — fancy forgetting
that
— ’

Edward was now noticing, through the hesitant utterance, Jesse’s voice, his slightly drawling enunciation, his
accent.
He had been born in Stoke-on-Trent and still had an accent. This particularity seemed so surprising, so out of place, so very moving.

‘It’s nearly — the end — you know — ’

‘No, Jesse, no. You’ll get better, you’ll paint. Do you still paint?’

‘No — can’t concentrate — never mind — the paintings — I want you to have — ’

‘A doctor could make you better — ’

‘Listen — you have it all — the house — the paintings — the — the stuff — ’

‘Would you like me to take you to London? We could see a good doctor.’

‘My will — I’ve hidden it — over there — ’ Jesse waved toward a wall with a sort of metal square adhering to it, perhaps an old radiator.

‘I want so much to help you,’ said Edward, ‘to bring you anything you want.’

‘I’d like — yes — ’

‘Tell me.’

‘A bit of — ’

‘A bit of — ?’