Table Of ContentIris Murdoch
The Time of the Angels
1966
To Eduard Fraenkel
The quotation at the beginning of Chapter
Fifteen is from Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit.
CHAPTER ONE
“PATTIE.”
“Yes.”
“Have you lit a fire in Miss Elizabeth’s room?”
“Yes.”
“It’s so cold.”
“What did you say?”
“It’s so cold.”
“Yes.”
Pattie stretches out her plump arms, rich brown in colour, just a little darker
in hue than a cappuccino, and with cramped chilled fingers claws at cinders in
the bottom of the narrow gate. The whitish cotton smock, bulkily tucked up to
the elbows, which she wears over her jumper and skirt is patterned with red
strawberries. A flowery rayon scarf, not very clean now, contains her inky black
hair.
“Pattie beast.”
“Yes?”
“What’s that funny noise that keeps coming?”
“It’s the underground railway. It runs right underneath the house.”
“The underground railway. I wonder if we shall get used to it.”
Pattie crumples up crisp clean pages of The Times and lays sticks cross-
cross above. She puts old rusty misshapen cinders on top of the sticks.
“Mind that spider, Pattie, rescue him, would you. That’s right. May I light
the fire?”
The match flares, revealing on the crumpled back page a picture of some
black men torturing some other black men. The paper blazes up mercifully. As
Pattie sighs and sinks back on her heels, a ladder darts up her stocking like a
little lizard.
“Don’t forget those mousetraps, will you, Pattie. I’m sure I saw a mouse in
my bedroom.”
“Yes.”
The sticks subside crackling into the inferno of blazing paper. Pattie picks
small shiny lumps of coal out of a dusty coal-scuttle and drops them into the
grate. The papery blaze warms her face.
“And, oh Pattie.”
“Yes.”
“If my brother Marcus rings up tell him I’m not available. If anybody rings
up tell them I’m not available.”
“Yes.”
The rescued spider stops shamming dead and rushes underneath the coal-
scuttle.
“How terribly dark it is inside. The fog seems to have got into the house.”
“Yes, it is dark inside.”
“Could I have some milk, Pattikins?”
“There isn’t any milk. I’ll borrow some from the porter.”
“Well, never mind. Don’t exhaust yourself, will you, sugar plum Pattie?”
“Someone’s got to do the things.”
The black cassock brushes the stretched stocking of her bent knee and a cold
finger caresses the prominent vertebra of her inclining neck. Footsteps move
away and the frou-frou of the cassock ascends the stairs. Without turning round,
Pattie rises.
A huge glass-fronted bookcase which has not yet found its place in the new
house stretches diagonally across the hall where Pattie has been lighting the fire.
The floor in front of it is covered with books upon which she stumbles now as
she steps back. Falling over Sein und Zeit, she loses a slipper and kicks Sein und
Zeit petulantly with a cold stockinged foot. Pattie’s shoes all become
mysteriously too large for her very soon after she has bought them. A faint
sound of music comes from above. Swan Lake. And for a second Pattie’s body
feels all feathery and light. Pattie has seen ballet, watching from far above the
white figures moving like animated flowers. But I am fat now, she thinks at the
next instant, I am a fat girl now.
The front door bell rings with a threatening unfamiliar sound and Pattie
opens the door a little way. She does not open it properly because although it is
very cold in the house it is even colder outside. Fog comes rushing in, making
Pattie cough. In the yellowish haze of what is supposed to be early afternoon she
can just discern a middle-aged lady with bright wide-apart eyes standing upon
the pavement. Wisps of damp hair emerge from under her smart fur hat and cling
streakily to her cheeks. Pattie scrutinizes, prices, and covets her coat of Persian
lamb. Her suede boots leave clear imprints in the frost upon the paving stones as
she tramples to and fro a little with the cold. Her la-di-dah voice comes as no
surprise to Pattie. An enemy.
“So terribly sorry to bother you. My name is Mrs Barlow. I’m from the
pastorate. I wonder if I could see the new Rector?”
“I’m afraid the Rector is not seeing anybody at present.”
“I’d only keep him for a moment. You see, actually—”
“I’m sorry, we’ve only just moved in and there’s such a lot to do. Perhaps
you could call later.”
Pattie shuts the door. In the foggy interior a youth of singular beauty and
perhaps twenty summers walks or rather glides. His closely cropped hair is the
colour which Pattie has learnt from her magazines to call strawberry blond. He
looks about him with curiosity, starts to examine the books on the floor, and then
seeing Pattie slinks back under the stairs in the direction of the kitchen. Pattie,
who thinks that all young persons are sneering at her, notes with disapproval his
pointed footwear. Another enemy appears.
“Oh, Pattie.”
“Yes, Miss Muriel.”
“Who is that frightfully good-looking boy I saw just now?”
“He’s the porter’s son.”
“Oh, have we got a porter? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Some foreign name. Would you like a fire lit in your room?”
“No, don’t bother, I’ll go in with Elizabeth. There’s the telephone, would
you answer it, Pattie? If anyone wants me say I’m out.”
A man’s voice speaks, very hesitant and apologetic.
“Oh, hello. This is Marcus Fisher speaking. I wonder if I could speak to my
brother, please?”
“I’m afraid the Rector is not available.”
“Oh. Could I speak to Elizabeth, then?”
“Miss Elizabeth never comes to the telephone.”
“Oh. Perhaps I could speak to Muriel?”
“Miss Muriel is not here.”
“Oh. When could I get hold of the Rector?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“Who is that speaking, please?”
“Miss O’Driscoll.”
