Free An Accidental Man by Iris Murdoch Page A

copious hair was greying into a pleasant peppery salty brown. He could not help looking youthful and calm and debonair. Now he was full of concern, but soon he would be thinking about stocks and shares. Clara looked beautiful, older; her face made keen by anxiety and pain, the light of cheerful self-satisfaction withdrawn. Only her unconscious hair, dyed to a rich dark chestnut and carefully done for the evening, curled with a light casual art about her head, waiting for gaiety to return.
    Alison was trying, terribly, trying, the closed eye twitching.
    â€˜What’s she saying?’ said Clara. ‘What’s that she’s saying?’
    â€˜â€œPriest”,’ said George.
    â€˜No!’ said Charlotte.
    â€˜Oh dear,’ said Clara, ‘do you think we’d better —’
    â€˜Doctor, what do you think?’ said George. ‘Is she conscious enough to — ?’
    â€˜Quite possibly,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s hard to tell.’
    â€˜Who shall we — oh dear —’ said Clara.
    â€˜Don’t be silly,’ said Charlotte. ‘She can’t have said “priest”. Mother would never use that word.’
    â€˜You know she had that Roman Catholic phase,’ said George.
    â€˜She never had a Roman Catholic phase,’ said Charlotte. ‘She abominates Catholicism. Mother, you don’t want a priest, do you? You don’t want a priest surely?’
    The eye turned on Charlotte and the lips moved and the face was very lightly convulsed as with some huge inner effort which could find only a tiny tiny outward expression. Charlotte made herself stiff, controlling sudden choking emotion.
    â€˜I think she does,’ said George. ‘There was that priest she had talks with.’
    â€˜That wasn’t a religious thing, it was about charity.’
    â€˜We can’t know, Char,’ said Clara. ‘We’d better be on the safe side. Hadn’t we better call him? What was his name — Father Mennell —’
    â€˜I will not have a Roman priest in this house,’ said Charlotte.
    There was silence.
    â€˜But if she wants —’ said George. ‘Don’t you agree, doctor?’ He was standing back now, responsible, serious.
    Why did I say that, thought Charlotte. It’s not what I meant. I just meant — I must protect her — we can’t have all that mummery here — we can’t have a priest mumbling over her and scattering holy water — it’s a matter of dignity — We must let her go in peace.
    â€˜Has she some customary spiritual adviser?’ said the doctor.
    â€˜No,’ said Charlotte. ‘She was brought up a Methodist, but she hasn’t been near a Methodist church or any other church for years.’
    â€˜There’s that nice man, the local parson chap,’ said George. ‘Mr Enstone. What about him.’
    â€˜She didn’t say “priest”!’ said Charlotte.
    â€˜Hadn’t we better ring up Mr Enstone,’ said Clara. ‘He knows her quite well, he sometimes came here, didn’t he — and it’s better to be on the safe side, isn’t it. After all she may last for hours or days or —’
    â€˜Charlotte?’ said George.
    â€˜Do what you like,’ said Charlotte. Now she must concentrate on feeling nothing.
    George left the room. As he brushed by Charlotte she smelt whisky on his breath. The doctor was looking at his watch. The nurse was surreptitiously looking at herself in the mirror and patting her hair. George was telephoning in the hall.
    Charlotte turned and left the room. She went into the drawing-room. A decanter and two glasses stood on the table where George and the doctor had been treating themselves. Gracie was sitting on the sofa, her long legs stiff in front of her, her hands stiffly clasped, not looking up. Clara and the doctor came in.
    â€˜I think I’ll have a drink too,’