A Word Child by Iris Murdoch

portraying a scorched galleon, which was turned on for guests. There was the wooden table, which only had a cloth on on Saturdays, and a sideboard of shiny veneered wood with a row of ebony elephants upon it. There was Crystal’s little narrow bed with a green satin bedspread. There were two junk shop armchairs and three upright chairs and a thin dark trampled carpet which seemed to be growing upon the floor. The faded wallpaper had a design which it was hard to believe that any sentient, let alone rational, being could have invented. There was a wireless set but no television. I would not let Crystal have television. She might have picked up a few facts from it, but better decent ignorance than such a teacher. Also I connected television with the orphanage where I had become an addict, and deprivation of it had been a regular punishment far more effective than thrashing.
    As I came in the two women rose. Tommy looked very nervous and anxious until reassured by some ineffable feature of my manner. They could both read me as dogs read their master, probably noticing tiny traits of behaviour of which I was myself unconscious.
    â€˜I told you not to come,’ I said to Tommy. ‘You’ve got a cold.’
    â€˜I haven’t got a cold,’ said Tommy bravely. ‘You’ve just got a silly phobia about colds, hasn’t he?’ She was perky and timidly uppish because she saw that I was sorry I had hurt her in the morning.
    â€˜If Crystal gets that cold there’ll be trouble.’
    â€˜I don’t think Tommy’s got a cold,’ said Crystal.
    They both smiled at me. I threw off my coat and sat down at the table which had been covered with a white lace cloth in my honour. I felt a bit better. Every occasion of entering Crystal’s presence was an access of brightness, a lightening of the load. They sat down too and Crystal poured out a third glass of sherry for me.
    â€˜Is it still raining?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    I knew that Tommy would have said nothing to Crystal about what had happened that morning at my flat, nothing about the way I had received her, nothing about my sudden departure, nothing about whatever had happened (whatever that had been, another subject for anxiety) after I had gone. I had trained Tommy well. Equally of course she would make no reference to such matters now. There were in fact so many subjects which the three of us could not discuss, and a fortiori which Tommy and Crystal could not discuss, that it might have seemed that conversation would languish. However we always chattered easily enough about trivialities, and I imagine Crystal and Tommy did the same when I was not there.
    â€˜What’s the weather forecast?’
    â€˜Rain, and colder.’
    â€˜The shops are getting ready for Christmas already.’
    â€˜They are beginning to put up the decorations in Regent Street.’
    I detested the subject of Christmas and steered off it. ‘Show me the stuff your new lady brought.’
    â€˜Oh yes! I was just showing it to Tommy.’
    Crystal took the stuff from a box on the bed and spread it on the table. The design was a close relation of the wallpaper. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’
    â€˜Lovely.’
    Crystal folded the stuff into the box and took it away into the little kitchen where she kept her materials in a trunk.
    Tommy was sitting next to me with her skirt hitched up displaying those long perfect legs. (Quite unconsciously. She was, apart from Crystal, the most uncoquettish woman I had ever met.) (Crystal’s legs were like tree stumps.) She now began to roll up the sleeve of her jersey, and looking at me meaningfully, displayed two large dark spotty bruises just above the elbow. I looked at the bruises and then at her face. She knew at once she had done wrong. Any surreptitious behaviour or hint of secrets was absolutely taboo. Also I was prepared to be sorry, but not to be grossly reminded of my fault. I frowned. Tommy