Iris Murdoch - Time of the Angels

To Eduard Fraenkel

The quotation at the beginning of Chapter
Fifteen is from Heideggers Sein und Zeit .

PATTIE.

Yes.

Have you lit a fire in Miss Elizabeths room?

Yes.

Its so cold.

What did you say?

Its so cold.

Yes.

Pattie stretches out her plump arms, rich brown in colour, just a little darker in hue than a cappuccino, and with cramped chilled fingers claws at cinders in the bottom of the narrow gate. The whitish cotton smock, bulkily tucked up to the elbows, which she wears over her jumper and skirt is patterned with red strawberries. A flowery rayon scarf, not very clean now, contains her inky black hair.

Pattie beast.

Yes?

Whats that funny noise that keeps coming?

Its the underground railway. It runs right underneath the house.

The underground railway. I wonder if we shall get used to it.

Pattie crumples up crisp clean pages of The Times and lays sticks cross-cross above. She puts old rusty misshapen cinders on top of the sticks.

Mind that spider, Pattie, rescue him, would you. Thats right. May I light the fire?

The match flares, revealing on the crumpled back page a picture of some black men torturing some other black men. The paper blazes up mercifully. As Pattie sighs and sinks back on her heels, a ladder darts up her stocking like a little lizard.

Dont forget those mousetraps, will you, Pattie. Im sure I saw a mouse in my bedroom.

Yes.

The sticks subside crackling into the inferno of blazing paper. Pattie picks small shiny lumps of coal out of a dusty coal-scuttle and drops them into the grate. The papery blaze warms her face.

And, oh Pattie.

Yes.

If my brother Marcus rings up tell him Im not available. If anybody rings up tell them Im not available.

Yes.

The rescued spider stops shamming dead and rushes underneath the coal-scuttle.

How terribly dark it is inside. The fog seems to have got into the house.

Yes, it is dark inside.

Could I have some milk, Pattikins?

There isnt any milk. Ill borrow some from the porter.

Well, never mind. Dont exhaust yourself, will you, sugar plum Pattie?

Someones got to do the things.

The black cassock brushes the stretched stocking of her bent knee and a cold finger caresses the prominent vertebra of her inclining neck. Footsteps move away and the frou-frou of the cassock ascends the stairs. Without turning round, Pattie rises.

A huge glass-fronted bookcase which has not yet found its place in the new house stretches diagonally across the hall where Pattie has been lighting the fire. The floor in front of it is covered with books upon which she stumbles now as she steps back. Falling over Sein und Zeit, she loses a slipper and kicks Sein und Zeit petulantly with a cold stockinged foot. Patties shoes all become mysteriously too large for her very soon after she has bought them. A faint sound of music comes from above. Swan Lake. And for a second Patties body feels all feathery and light. Pattie has seen ballet, watching from far above the white figures moving like animated flowers. But I am fat now, she thinks at the next instant, I am a fat girl now.

The front door bell rings with a threatening unfamiliar sound and Pattie opens the door a little way. She does not open it properly because although it is very cold in the house it is even colder outside. Fog comes rushing in, making Pattie cough. In the yellowish haze of what is supposed to be early afternoon she can just discern a middle-aged lady with bright wide-apart eyes standing upon the pavement. Wisps of damp hair emerge from under her smart fur hat and cling streakily to her cheeks. Pattie scrutinizes, prices, and covets her coat of Persian lamb. Her suede boots leave clear imprints in the frost upon the paving stones as she tramples to and fro a little with the cold. Her la-di-dah voice comes as no surprise to Pattie. An enemy.

So terribly sorry to bother you. My name is Mrs Barlow. Im from the pastorate. I wonder if I could see the new Rector?

Im afraid the Rector is not seeing anybody at present.

Id only keep him for a moment. You see, actually

Im sorry, weve only just moved in and theres such a lot to do. Perhaps you could call later.

Pattie shuts the door. In the foggy interior a youth of singular beauty and perhaps twenty summers walks or rather glides. His closely cropped hair is the colour which Pattie has learnt from her magazines to call strawberry blond. He looks about him with curiosity, starts to examine the books on the floor, and then seeing Pattie slinks back under the stairs in the direction of the kitchen. Pattie, who thinks that all young persons are sneering at her, notes with disapproval his pointed footwear. Another enemy appears.

Oh, Pattie.

Yes, Miss Muriel.

Who is that frightfully good-looking boy I saw just now?

Hes the porters son.

Oh, have we got a porter? Whats his name?

I dont know. Some foreign name. Would you like a fire lit in your room?

No, dont bother, Ill go in with Elizabeth. Theres the telephone, would you answer it, Pattie? If anyone wants me say Im out.

A mans voice speaks, very hesitant and apologetic.

Oh, hello. This is Marcus Fisher speaking. I wonder if I could speak to my brother, please?

Im afraid the Rector is not available.

Oh. Could I speak to Elizabeth, then?

Miss Elizabeth never comes to the telephone.

Oh. Perhaps I could speak to Muriel?

Miss Muriel is not here.

Oh. When could I get hold of the Rector?

I dont know, Im sure.

Who is that speaking, please?

Miss ODriscoll.

Oh, er, Pattie. Im so sorry I didnt recognize your voice. Well, I suppose Id better ring again, hadnt I.

Goodbye, Mr Fisher.

A dark figure at the top of the stairs murmurs approval and a paper dart takes the air and sweeps down to tap on Patties smock a little above the heart and fall to the ground at her feet. Without looking up, Pattie smooths out the paper to put it on the fire, and as she does so reads the new address which is printed on it. The Rectors Lodgings, St Eustace Watergate, London, E.C. She still cannot quite believe that she is in London.

A soft voice above her sings Frre Jacques, Frre Jacques, dormez-vous? and an opening and a closing door releases a momentary whisper of Swan Lake. A train passes beneath and jolts everything in the house a millimetre or two and jolts Patties heart with a little reminder of death. She murmurs the poetry which takes the place of the prayer which took the place of the poor defeated magic of her childhood. Turn away no more. Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, the watery shore, is given thee till the break of day.

She goes into the kitchen where the strawberry blond is waiting to take her to see his father.

*

Pattie in the porters room soon begins to feel a different person. The blond youngster, whose name is Leo, has mouched away and the porter, whose name is something odd which Pattie still cannot catch, is handing her a miraculous cup of tea. The porter, who is clearly a foreigner, has a gentle mournful face like an animal and thick drooping rusty-brown moustaches. Pattie likes men who look like animals and she takes to the porter for this reason and also because she is quite certain he is not sneering at her.

The porter has been explaining the heating system of the Rectory, after which he looks. The system is complicated and it occurs to Pattie that it seems to heat the boiler room and the porters room and very little else. Pattie inspects the porters room. It is a concrete box which looks like an air-raid shelter. There is an odd smell which Pattie imagines to be incense although she has never smelt incense before. A curious steel cage turns out to be two bunks, one above the other, only the lower one being made up as a bed. The upper one, covered by a board, supports the most extraordinary picture which Pattie has ever seen. It is painted on wood and partly with golden paint, real gold Pattie thinks it must be since it glows as if it were on fire. It shows three angels confabulating around a table. The angels have rather small heads and very large pale haloes and anxious thoughtful expressions.