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The Green Knight

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

IDEAL CHILDREN

'Once upon a time there were three little girls —'

'Oh look what he's doing now!'

'And their names were —'

'Come here, come here.'

'And they lived at the bottom of a well.'

The first speaker was Joan Blacket, the second was Louise Anderson, the one so urgently summoned was a dog, the little girls mentioned were Louise's children, the place was Kensington Gardens, the month was October.

The dog, whose name was Anax, a distinguished and unusual collie with blue eyes, and long silver-grey fur blotched with black and white, came bounding back to the two women. They were of youthful middle age and had been at boarding school together, though not for long since Joan (a bad girl) had been expelled two terms after Louise (a good girl) had arrived. However, that time had sufficed to establish a lifelong friendship. Joan's lawlessness had cheered the docile younger child, new to imprisonment, with visions of a larger freedom; while Louise, to Joan's disorder, had brought near a soothing possibility of order, at least of the permanence of affection. Neither, in later life, had profited much from the other's example. And now they were both widows with almost-grown-up children.

'This dog business will end in tears,' said Joan.

Louise, who also thought that it would end in tears, said, 'Oh no, he's quite settled down with us, he's forgotten his old master.'

'Dogs don't forget. He'll run away.'

The 'old master' referred to, Anax's former owner, whose name was Bellamy James, a friend of Louise's deceased husband, was by no means 'old,' but had decided in the middle of life's journey to abandon the world and become some sort of religious person. This new existence, not yet fully entered upon, involved the surrender of temporal pleasures such as alcohol and dog-owning. So Bellamy had handed Anax over to the Anderson family.

'Besides,' said Joan, 'Bellamy is a fool.'

Louise who also, in her mild way, thought Bellamy a fool, said, which she also believed, 'He's a very kind generous man.'

'In a moment you're going to say he's a "good man"! He's had a messy life. I think he's become a bit batty, he has a death-wish. Is he really living in poverty in East London? Will he sell that seaside cottage you all go to, where the seals are?'

'Yes. The seals have gone.'

'Poisoned I suppose. That must be a blow to you and the girls.'

'I think I'll put Anax on the long lead, I usually do. Come, come, good dog. Sit. Sit!'

Anax sat while Louise clipped on the lead. He looked up at her with what his ex-master used to call his 'sly judgmental eyes'.

'And how is young Harlequin?' This was Joan's nickname for, not all that young though eternally youthful, Clement Graffe, also a friend of Louise's husband.

'He's all right, but he's terribly anxious about his brother.'

'That still goes on? No news of him I suppose.'

'No, none.'

'By the way, is Clement paying for this trip to Italy? I imagine Bellamy can't. He can give up the world but he won't miss a free jaunt! Where are they now, do you think?'

'Somewhere in the Apennines.'

'I wish I was. Paris has been so stuffy this summer. Now I come to London, and everybody's away.'

Joan, whose mother was half French, had lived now for some time in Paris. Her mother, whom she rarely saw, was living with a rich Frenchman in Antibes. Her father had died long ago in a railway accident. Her husband, who had left her after six years of marriage, had later gone to Canada and disappeared. Joan's life in Paris was mysterious to her London friends. She worked in a 'fashion house,' but in what capacity was not clear. She complained of poverty while also implying that she was 'getting on perfectly well'. Louise, visiting her, was kept at a distance, not invited to her flat, meeting only in restaurants. Joan, once rated 'a beauty,' was still, though a little haggard, very handsome and much stared at by men. She wore skilful aggressive make-up, dressed eccentrically but smartly, and liked to be taken, in some rather old-fashioned sense, as an actress. She was tall and had a long stride and fine legs. Her copiously flowing hair, dyed for many years, was a darkish 'Titian' red. Her pretty nose was faintly retroussé, and her blue eyes, outlined in black between heavy lashes, glittered and sparkled.

Harvey Blacket, aged eighteen and now in the Apennines, was Joan's son and only child. His father had defected when he was five, his birth having precipitated the disastrous marriage; and Harvey had lived since then in a tempestuous mutually possessive relationship with his mother. Money had come from somewhere. The father, while still in England, paid something, Joan worked as a secretary. She had, it was said, 'men friends,' the cause, in due course, of quarrels with her son. When Harvey was fifteen Joan fled to Paris, leaving the boy, still at school, with a tiny one-room flat off North End Road, and a tiny allowance, under the wing of various self-appointed 'foster parents' of whom Louise was one and 'Harlequin' another. Harvey, evidently judged to be grown up, proved in fact quite able to look after himself, and at eighteen won a scholarship to study modern languages at University College, London. He had elected to spend a year off before taking up his place and had promptly acquired a bursary to spend four months studying in Italy. He had spoken French as a child with his mother and grandmother, and had learnt German and Italian at school. The Italian 'jaunt' was a preliminary treat before his settling down in Florence.

It was generally agreed that while Joan had led, and it was presumed still led, a rather rackety life, une vie de bâton de chaise as she herself expressed it, Louise by contrast led a life which, even after its great catastrophe, was quiet and calm, a sensible rational life, a decent satisfactory cheerful life, as presaged by her kindly gentle parents and her orderly high-minded school. The catastrophe was the sudden death by cancer, at a surprisingly early age, of her husband Edward Anderson. Out of a serene childhood Louise, after a year at a London college, had moved smoothly into that wonderful marriage. She had seemed to advance, as one guided, under a happy star. Edward, known as 'Teddy,' Anderson, several years her senior, was an able and much respected accountant. Prudent insurance had left his family fairly well provided for. After the catastrophe sensible rational Louise struggled with a word processor and took a part-time job. Her orderly life continued. Her children were angels. Friends surrounded her: childhood friends such as Joan and Connie and Cora, and also her husband's loyal friends from Cambridge days, Clement and Lucas Graffe, and Bellamy whom, even as students, they had called 'the chaplain'. Louise's calm bland broad face bore no wrinkles, no evidence of grief or mental strife such as marked, not unattractively, the more striking countenance of Joan Blacket. But Louise's heart had been broken and had not mended.

'Does it never stop raining in England?'

'It's not raining now.'

'Is there nobody in town?'

'Yes, a few millions.'

'Why do you always say what is obvious?'

'I say what is true.'

'Why can't you tell me something funny and stirring, such as whose marriage has broken up, who's in bed with whom, who's bankrupt or disgraced or dead?'

Louise smiled. They were walking over wet grass upon which a pert chill breeze was moving, like hands covering and uncovering in some swift mysterious game, the huge brown leaves of the plane trees heavy with rain. The Serpentine, in fugitive light, was grey and silver through the trees. The pinnacle of the Albert Memorial, which on a sunny day looked like Orvieto Cathedral (or so Joan said once), was streaked and formless like a melting icicle. The sky was black over central London but the rain had ceased for the moment. Joan, who had just put down her big umbrella, was wearing a smart green suit trimmed with narrow bands of grey fur, a black fedora, and high black boots. Louise, who quite liked a little rain on her hair, was wearing a voluminous shapeless black mackintosh with the hood trailing down her back. Her thick brown hair, straight and stiff like horsehair the girls said at school, swept back from her large brow and collected itself in an orderly way upon her neck. Her complexion was pale, freckled in summer, her attentive eyes a mild golden brown, the colour of plane tree leaves in autumn. Her expression was patient, calm, faintly quizzical, benign; someone said, always faintly smiling.

'Are you all right in Harvey's flat?'

'No. That folding bed is damp if you fold it up, and if you keep it unfolded all day there's no room to move. It's very uncomfortable anyway, and the place smells. But seriously, who is in town? I must be fed and looked after. We know who isn't in town, Harvey, Bellamy, Clement, Lucas. What about Tessa Millen?'

'I don't know. I suppose she's here.'

'Of course that girl is Adolf Hitler in knickers, but I like the type. Why don't you like her? You like almost everybody, why not her?'

Why not indeed? Joan liked Tessa, Louise did not. Sometimes she thought she knew why Joan liked Tessa, and she did not like that either.

'I'm afraid Connie is out of town too, the whole family is in America, Jeremy has a case there.' Constance Parfitt, later Constance Adwarden, who had also been at the famous high-minded school, had renewed acquaintance with Joan later in France in what they referred to as their 'unbridled youth'. Jeremy was a lawyer, Connie wrote children's stories.

'Pity, we need her boys. Don't we need her boys? Will they be back in time for the masked ball? Jeremy was always a bit sweet on you.'

'No masked ball, only a little party, the children are making masks. You'll stay?'

'I've no idea. I need to be amused. I suppose Clement and Bellamy will come back when they've deposited Harvey in Florence. Are Clive and Emil still together?'

'Yes — but they're in Germany at present.'

'AIDS frightens the young off sex these days, off all sex, such a pity, they don't have fun like I had at their age, they daren't try themselves out, they daren't experiment. We'll have a generation of monastics. That would suit Bellamy I imagine. You know, I think Harvey's still a virgin, I don't think he's had any sex life at all. Has he told you?'

'He tells me nothing,' said Louise. She was always careful what she said to Joan about Harvey. Louise had known Harvey, as her oldest friend's child, all his life. She had watched over him, she had kept her distance; perhaps she had become, out of loyalty to Joan, too distant. When Harvey's father vanished, Harvey needed a father. At first Teddy was this person. When Teddy died, Bellamy and Lucas and Clement became his fathers. When Joan went to Paris she sold her London flat, bought Harvey his tiny flat let out of the proceeds, and also set up a bank account into which she paid a small sum, promising more sums, which did occasionally materialise. Lucas and Clement paid for Harvey to attend the austere boarding school which they themselves had attended, and quietly kept him in pocket money and in credit. It was impossible for Louise not, at that time, to make some signal to the boy. Louise, who had three daughters, had wanted a son. She loved Harvey. But she was not his mother. Perhaps she had been too scrupulous, she hoped the boy understood. Louise had often done for him what mothers do, mended his clothes, cooked for him, given him presents, given him advice. He was often in her house, her daughters were like sisters to him. For a time she had shopped for him and cleaned his flat, but silently judged this to be 'too much'. He could begin to think her intrusive. Of course it was not strictly that Harvey 'told her nothing'. At one time, just after his mother's departure, he had told her too much, for instance about the terrible unhappiness of his early childhood. Louise had not invited these confidences. Later, older, he said less. Louise did not know anything about Harvey's sex life, he had shown no inclination to tell her, and of course she had not approached the subject; although, more recently, it had been much in her mind.

'I wonder if he's talked to Harlequin,' said Joan, 'I must find out. So you don't know when Lucas is coming back?'

'No. We don't even know where he is.'

'He must have felt it awfully undignified to be in court, even though he was completely innocent. Did you go to see the show?'

'Go to the court? Of course not!'

'I'd have been dying of curiosity, I'd have wanted to know exactly what happened. I wish you'd told me sooner!'

'We kept well clear. Lucas would have hated us coming to watch like tourists!'

Earlier that year, now several months ago, Lucas Graffe, Clement's elder brother, had had a very unpleasant experience. Out walking at night he had resisted an attack by a mugger with such violence that his assailant had died from a blow on the head from Lucas's umbrella. There was some general indignation (for the incident was briefly in the press) when Lucas was taken to court accused, not actually of manslaughter, but of 'taking the law into his own hands' and 'using excessive violence'. For a few days Lucas was even something of a popular hero. The goodies who wanted to defend the poor mugger were routed when it emerged that he had been carrying an offensive weapon. Lucas, a quiet reclusive academic, a much respected historian, was of course extremely upset by having inadvertently killed a man, even though a bad man.

'He must have been very very distressed,' said Louise.

'He must have been upset by the publicity.'

'He must have been even more upset by killing a man.'

'Nonsense, Lucas is a hero. If more people hit back there'd be fewer muggers. Lucas deserves a medal. You would side with the rotten thief!'

'To end a man's life — he may have had a wife and children.'

'I know, we all treasure Lucas, but he is eccentric. It is just like him to startle us by doing something unexpected. He sits in his dark little house writing learned books, then he goes out and kills someone — that's instinctive courage, and instinctive authority.'

'It was a bit of a freak that the man died — Lucas wasn't trying to damage him, he was just fending him off.'

'I imagine Lucas was angry. It was hard luck on both of them. And now Lucas disappears for ages —'

'I can understand that, he wants to get over the shock, and he wants us to get over it too. He won't want to chat about it.'

'Oh, he won't discuss it with anybody, we won't be allowed to mention it, it will be made never to have happened. But where is he?'

'I expect he's working somewhere, he works all the time, he's in some university city, in some university library.'

'Yes — in Italy, Germany, America. Is he still teaching?'

'Yes, he's still teaching, but he's got some sabbatical leave from his college.'

'He's certainly not very sociable, he's led such a sheltered life, he's a quiet and reticent person, he can't have enjoyed having his name in the papers. You must all look after him when he returns. You take him too much for granted. He's lonely.'

'He likes it that way.'

'Clement must be worried stiff about him. You don't think he's committed suicide?'

'No, of course not!'

'I don't mean because of guilt, but because of loss of dignity, loss of face.'

'No! Lucas has plenty of ordinary sense!'

'Has he? Well — and how are the three little girls?'

Louise's children at nineteen, eighteen and fifteen, were not now so little.

'Aleph and Sefton have done their exams — now they are anxiously waiting for the results!'

'Surely they needn't be anxious!'

Teddy Anderson, having had a classical education, had given his daughters Greek names, Alethea, Sophia and Moira. The girls however, in quiet mutual communion, had decided not to be known by these names. Yet they did not entirely abandon the names either. When the youngest, so much desired by their parents to be a boy, turned out to be another girl, Teddy said 'It's fate!' and christened her Moira, which was easily and promptly shortened to 'Moy'. The other girls had more trouble finding their true names. Alethea, not tolerating 'Thea,' decided at first for 'Alpha,' but as this sounded presumptuous, opted finally for 'Aleph,' the Hebrew name of the first letter of the alphabet, which retained the connection with the Ancient World, and a mysterious bond with her original name. Sophia, who abominated 'Sophie,' worked even harder, but came up at last with 'Sefton'. How she discovered 'Sefton' she never explained. Aleph (nineteen) and Sefton (eighteen) were bookish, destined for the university. Moy, who was not academic 'but clever as a little mouse' in other ways, was preparing for art school. The girls worked hard, loved their mother, loved one another, were quiet and happy and lived at peace. Sometimes they seemed almost too contented with their lot. To look at, Sefton and Moy were not unattractive. But Aleph was voted to be very beautiful.

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Excerpted from The Green Knight by Iris Murdoch. Copyright © 1993 Iris Murdoch. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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