The Bell by Iris Murdoch Page A

recreation time and we like to be comfy. The oak panelling isn’t original, of course. It was put in in the late nineteenth century when this was the smoking-room.’
    They emerged on to the balcony and began to descend the right-hand stone staircase.
    â€˜There’s the general office,’ said Mrs Mark, indicating the windows of the large corner room. ‘You’ll see my husband working inside.’
    They approached one of the windows and looked into the light room, which was furnished with trestle tables and unpainted deal cupboards, and seemed to be full of papers, all neatly stacked. Behind one of the tables sat Mark Strafford, his head bowed.
    â€˜He does the accounts,’ said Mrs Mark. She watched him for a moment with a sort of curiosity which struck Dora as being devoid of tenderness. She did not tap on the window, but turned away. ‘Now we’ll cross to the Abbey’, she said, ‘and call on Paul.’
    Seeing Mrs Mark watching her husband, and seeing her now a little stout and perspiring in her faded girlish summer dress, Dora felt a first flicker of liking and interest, and asked, ‘What did you and your husband do before you came here?’ Dora, when she thought of it, never minded asking questions.
    â€˜You’ll think me an awful wet blanket,’ said Mrs Mark, ‘but, do you know, we never discuss our past lives here. That’s another little religious rule that we try to follow. No gossip. And when you come to think of it, when people ask each other questions about their lives, their motives are rarely pure, are they? I’m sure mine never are! Curiosity that is idle soon degenerates into malice. I do hope you understand. Mind the steps here, they’re a bit overgrown. ’
    They had crossed to the Abbey side of the terrace and were going down some stone steps, much riddled by long dry grasses, which descended to a path leading to the causeway. Dora, exasperated, kept silent.
    The lake water was very quiet, achieving a luminous brilliant pale blue in the centre and stained at the edges by motionless reflections. Dora looked across at the great stone wall and the curtain of elm trees behind it. Above the trees rose the Abbey tower, which she saw in daylight to be a square Norman tower. It was an inspiring thing, without pinnacles or crenellations, squarely built of grey and yellowish stone, and decorated on each face by two pairs of round-topped windows, placed one above the other, edged with zigzag carving which at a distance gave a pearly embroidered appearance, and divided by a line of interlacing arches.
    â€˜A fine example of Norman work,’ said Mrs Mark, following Dora’s gaze.
    They went on down to the causeway. This crossed the lake in a series of shallow arches built of old brick which had weathered to a rich blackish red. Each arch with its reflection made a dark ellipse. Dora noticed that the centre of the causeway was missing and had been replaced by a wooden section standing on piles.
    â€˜There was trouble here at the time of the dissolution, the dissolution of the monasteries, you know,’ said Mrs Mark, ‘and that piece was destroyed by order of the nuns themselves. It didn’t help them, however. Most of the Abbey was burnt down. After the Reformation it became derelict and when Imber Court was built the Abbey was a deserted ruin, a sort of romantic feature of the grounds. Then in the late nineteenth century, after the Oxford movement, you know, the place was taken over by the Anglican Benedictines - it was formerly a Benedictine Abbey, of course - and was rebuilt about nineteen hundred. They acquired the manuscripts that interest your husband at about the same time. There’s very little of the old building left now except for the refectory and the gateway and of course the tower.’
    They stepped onto the causeway. Dora felt a tremor of excitement. ‘Will we be able to go to the top of the