Free An Accidental Man by Iris Murdoch Page B

said Clara. ‘Doctor, will you have a little more?’
    â€˜Thank you. Then I must run.’
    â€˜Char?’
    â€˜No, thanks.’
    â€˜Gracie, anything?’
    â€˜No.’
    Like the nurse, Charlotte looked into the mirror and automatically patted her hair. Rarely now did she give more than a quick glance at a looking-glass, more rarely still did she look intently into her own eyes, as young people do. What could she see therein but things better not avowed? She gazed now at her distinguished narrow face and coiled-up pale-grey hair and big violety-blue eyes. Her life was on the change. Would there be a time when it was not pain to regard herself so? How delicate and yet how steely had been the bonds of her servitude. She had the head of a Victorian blue stocking. She should have spent her life fighting for something, education perhaps. As it was it was spent, spent, as she had not even fought for what she had too late come to regard as her rights. It had been given for what she had too late realized were not even her principles. And now she was very nearly old. Yet tomorrow she would be free and rich. And when she had said, surprising herself, ‘I will not have a Roman priest in this house’ she had meant ‘in my house’. Alison had told her that the Villa would be Charlotte’s. Had she told Clara? The sisters never spoke of such things.
    â€˜He isn’t there,’ said George from the door. ‘I left a message. We’ve done all we can.’
    â€˜We mustn’t leave her alone,’ said Clara. She had taken a good dose of neat whisky. ‘Hadn’t we better do something — I don’t know — read the Bible to her or something? It’s so awful not being able to communicate.’
    â€˜You go in and see her, Gracie,’ said George.
    â€˜I don’t want to,’ said Gracie.
    â€˜Charlotte, read something to her, we must, since we can’t talk to her. We can’t just sit and stare at her. She used to care about the Bible.’
    â€˜It’s impertinent,’ said Charlotte. ‘Why should we force religion on her now?’
    â€˜It could do no harm to read a psalm,’ said Clara. ‘That’s not really religion. I’m sure she did say “priest” anyway.’
    â€˜It’ll sound so final. We might as well read the burial service.’
    â€˜Don’t be silly, Char. We must sit with her, and —’
    â€˜Well, you read a psalm if you want to,’ said Charlotte. ‘Anything’s better than squabbling in here.’
    â€˜I couldn’t read,’ said Clara, ‘it would sound awful. You read, George.’
    â€˜We don’t know any psalms,’ said George.
    â€˜Read “The Lord is my shepherd”. What number is it? It’s somewhere near the beginning. Is there a Bible, Char?’
    â€˜Yes. Here.’ There was a Bible. Alison had even asked for it once. But not lately.
    Gracie was talking on the telephone to someone who was presumably Ludwig Leferrier. ‘Darling, I can’t — I’ll ring you again about eleven — We don’t know, but probably — Yes, I hope so —’
    â€˜What number is that psalm, Pinkie, can you remember?’
    â€˜I think I really must go,’ said the doctor.
    â€˜ Please stay,’ said Charlotte. ‘Have another drink.’
    Someone was ringing the front door bell.
    â€˜That’ll be Mr Enstone,’ said George.
    Charlotte went. It was the man next door asking if anyone visiting the house had left their car blocking his garage. Charlotte said no. He asked after Mrs Ledgard and Charlotte said she was as usual. She looked over his head at the beautiful, perky, ordinary, selfish, material world of motor-cars and evening appointments as she closed the door. She had been surprised to see the darkness outside.
    â€˜Gracie, do go in and see grandma,’ said Clara, ‘while papa is