Authors: Iris Murdoch
Scottow had ushered her into a large drawing-room on the ground floor where she now stood alone, fingering an unlit cigarette, and not at all looking forward to ‘the others’. The room smelt broodingly of the past, chilly and obscure in the warm September evening. Two tall sash-windows, which reached almost to the floor, and a high glass doorway communicated with the sunny terrace. They were draped and darkened by swathes of looped-up white lace which was slightly less than clean. Thick red curtains, stiff as fluted columns, emitted a dusty incense, and the fawn-and-yellow carpet gave out little puffs when stepped on. A dark mahogany erection containing a mirror surmounted the fireplace and reached almost to the dim ceiling in a converging series of shelves and brackets upon which small complicated brass objects were clustered. A jet-black grand piano was defended by a troop of little tables draped to their ankles in embroidered velvet cloths. Amid the jumble, pieces of cut glass glittered here and there, and a bookcase with formidable doors supported hazy rows of calf-bound volumes upon shelves with leather fringes. The clutter in the room had about it little suggestion of human use or occupation. Whoever the children might be, they did not come here.
Marian looked cautiously about. There was a yellowish reflected twilight from the sunny evening outside, and an extreme quietness. Yet the room felt watchful, and she almost feared to find that she had overlooked some person standing silently in a corner. She moved noiselessly looking for a match for her cigarette. There was a tarnished silver matchbox on one of the velvet tables but no matches. She peered about near the door for the electric-light switch, found none, and merely dislodged a loose piece of flowery wallpaper. It occurred to her that of course there was no electric light at Gaze. To keep her attention on something and to steady her nerves, she crossed to the bookcase and tried to see the names of the books, but the glass was too dirty and the room too dark. She began to try to open the bookcase.
‘It’s locked,’ said a voice close behind her.
Marian jumped violently round. A tall woman had come very near to her. She could not sec her face clearly, but she seemed to have grey or very fair or colourless hair done up in a bun. She wore a dark dress with white lace collar and cuffs.
Marian’s heart began to hit her so hard that she almost fell down. ‘Mrs Crean-Smith?’
The reassuring voice of Gerald Scottow spoke from beyond. This is Miss Evercreech. Miss Evercreech, Miss Taylor.’
A glow of light grew in the doorway and three black-haired maids entered bearing big oil-lamps with opaque creamy glass domes. They set them down on various tables. The scene became different, enclosed, shadowy, and the figures drew nearer together. Now Marian could see Miss Evercreech. She was thin, with a narrow transparent high-cheekboned face and oily light blue eyes and a long fine mouth. The colour of her hair was still hard to determine. So was her age. She could have been forty or sixty. She stared at Marian unsmiling, frowning slightly, with an intensity which though a little alarming was not hostile.
‘Miss Evercreech is Jamesie’s sister, of course,’ said Scottow. ‘His big sister, practically his Ma.’
‘I don’t know why you say “of course”, Gerald,’ said Miss Evercreech, still intently perusing Marian, ‘or why you permit yourself these references to my age in front of a stranger.’
‘There, there, Violet l’ said Scottow. He seemed a trifle uneasy with her. ‘Anyway, Miss Taylor is not a stranger. She’s one of us, or soon will be.’
Miss Evercreech was silent a moment, then ended her study of Marian’s face. ‘Poor child! Gerald, where is the key to that bookcase? Miss Taylor wants to look inside.’
‘No, indeed, don’t bother -,’ said Marian.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Scottow. ‘It’s never been opened as far as I know.’
‘It must have been opened, dear, to get the books in. The key may be in one of those brass bowls. I seem to remember that it is. Could you reach them down, please?’
With a slightly resigned look which Marian read as a private communication to herself, Scottow began to take down the brass ornaments one by one and placed them on a table where Miss Evercreech extracted from their interiors a miscellany of buttons, paper clips, cigar butts, elastic bands, and what looked like a gold sovereign, which she pocketed. The key was found at last in the pannier of a brass donkey and Miss Evercreech handed it to Marian who, rigid by now with embarrassment, turned it in the lock and affected to look at the contents of the bookcase, since this seemed to be expected of her.
‘Is that all right, child?’ said Miss Evercreech.
Marian, who scarcely knew whether she was being indulged or punished, said, ‘Oh yes, thank you, indeed, yes.’
‘Is Hannah ready to see her yet, Gerald?’
‘Not yet.’
Miss Evercreech suddenly took Marian’s hand in a firm grip and led her over to the window. She drew her right up against the pane so that the girl’s shoulder was driven into the lace curtain, releasing dry dusty smells. Outside the evening was still bright, its colours all washed over with gold, and an orange-and-purple sunset was building up over the sea. But Marian did not dare to take her eyes off the scrutinizing face, lit up now as on a little stage.
‘What is your religion, child?’
‘I have no religion.’ She felt guilty at this, and guilty at so intensely wishing to free her hand. She twitched the curtain off her shoulder.
‘You may find us a little strange at first, but you will soon find your place among us. Do not forget. If you want or need anything in this house, come to me. We do not trouble Mrs Crean-Smith with any practical details.’
‘Hannah will see her now,’ said Scottow’s voice from among the lamps.
Miss Evercreech still retained Marian’s hand, squeezing it
very
slightly. ‘We shall meet again soon, Marian. I shall call you Marian. And later on you will call me Violet.’ Her tone made it sound almost like a threat. She released Marian’s hand.
Marian murmured some thanks and backed hastily away. She had found the degree of attention almost unendurable. She turned with relief to the friendly figure of Scottow.
As if deliberately changing the key, Scottow said briskly, There now. Nothing left here, no handbag or anything? I’m afraid we don’t use this room very often and sometimes it gets locked up. Now just follow me, will you.’
They emerged into the hall, where the orange light from without produced a blurred radiant interior. At that moment a man came in from the terrace through the glass doors.
‘Oh, Denis, is that you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Miss Taylor has arrived. Miss Taylor, this is Denis Nolan.’
A maid passed by carrying one of the oil-lamps. The drawing-room was being darkened again. By the passing glow Marian saw a shortish man about her own height who was holding a large tin bowl. He had the dark hair and blue eyes of the region, indeed Marian saw, as he turned towards her before the lamp passed, sapphire blue eyes. He spoke with a strong local accent and looked, she thought, rather sulky and servile.
Scottow went on, ‘Denis is my very able clerk. He does our accounts for us and tries to keep us out of the red. Eh, Denis?’
Denis grunted.
‘What have you got there, Denis? Or I should ask, who have you got there?’
The man thrust the tin bowl forward and Marian saw with a little shock of surprise that it contained water and a sizeable goldfish. ‘Strawberry Nose.’
‘Is Strawberry Nose going to be given a salt bath?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man did not smile.
Scottow said, smiling enough for two, ‘Denis is a great fish man. You must see his fish ponds tomorrow. They are one of our few diversions. Now, up we go. Mrs Crean-Smith is waiting.’
In extreme agitation Marian now followed Scottow up the almost dark staircase, past a lamp on the landing which shone dimly as in a shrine, and some way on until they came to a large double door which he opened softly. They entered a dim ante-room and Marian could see a line of golden light ahead. Gerald Scottow knocked.
‘Come in.’
He entered deferentially and Marian followed.
The room was brilliantly lit with a great many lamps and the curtains were drawn although it was still so bright outside. Marian was dazzled by the soft flooding light and by fear.
‘Here she is,’ said Scottow in a low voice.
Marian advanced across a thick carpet towards someone at the far end of the room.
‘Ah - good - ‘
Marian had, without reflection, expected an elderly woman. But the person who confronted her was young, perhaps scarcely older than herself, and while not exactly beautiful was yet strikingly lovely. She had a tangle of reddish gold hair and eyes of almost the same colour and a wide pale freckled face. She wore no make-up. She was dressed in a flowing robe of embroidered yellow silk which might have been either an evening dress or a dressing-gown.
Marian took the white freckled hand that was offered to her and murmured that she was glad. She was conscious of a familiar pervasive smell which she could not place; and there was a lot of emotion in the room, not all of it her own.
‘How wonderfully good of you to come,’ said Mrs Crean-Smith. ‘I do hope you won’t mind being imprisoned with us here miles from anywhere.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Marian, and then realized this sounded rude. She added, ‘No one would mind being imprisoned in such a lovely place.’ This sounded rude too, so she added, ‘It wouldn’t be imprisonment.’
Scottow behind said ‘Hannah.’
Marian edged back against the wall so that the two could see each other.
‘I expect you’d like to take a bit of supper with Miss Taylor?’
‘Yes, please, Gerald, if that would be all right. Would you mind asking Violet? I don’t want to cause trouble, but it would be so nice and I’m sure Miss Taylor is hungry. Is it not so, Miss Taylor?’
Marian, who was feeling sick, said, ‘Well, yes, but anything will do -‘
There was a short silence. Then Scottow bowed and withdrew and Marian detached herself from the wall.
‘We keep odd hours here, I’m afraid. We have no one to please but ourselves. I do hope you had a good journey? I’m afraid it’s very dull until you get to the mountains. Come nearer to the fire. These evenings are cold already.’
A small turf fire was burning in a big grate and there was fine china on the black marble mantelpiece. There were a great many mirrors, some of them pretty, but no pictures and few attempts at orderly embellishment Two brass vases full of pampas grass and dried honesty had clearly been there for a long time. The room was decrepit and ponderously old-fashioned like the one below, but immensely, almost too much, inhabited; and Marian felt herself shut in, almost menaced, by the circle of faded armchairs piled with books and papers. She noticed upon a leather-topped writting-table littered with manuscript the photograph of a man in uniform. She joined her employer beside the fire and they looked at each other.
Marian now saw that Mrs Crean-Smith was barefoot. This observation at once defined the yellow robe as a dressing-gown ; and with this there came to her a general impression of something very slightly unkempt, the hair tousled, the finger-nails not quite clean, the lovely face a little tired, a little sallow and greasy, like that of a person long ill. Marian wondered at once whether Mrs Crean-Smith were not in fact somehow ill, and she had a guilty little feeling of revulsion. Yet she felt too relief and immediate liking. This person was harmless.
‘I hope you like your room? If you need anything, don’t fail to ask. Please sit down. I expect you’d like some whiskey.’
‘Thank you.’ Marian realized now that what the room smelt of was whiskey.