The Time of the Angels Read Online Free
Author: Iris Murdoch
love affair with that coloured servant.”
“Pattie? No. It’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible, pray?”
Marcus giggled. “She’s too fat.”
“Don’t be frivolous, Marcus. I must say, I can’t get over her being called O’Driscoll when she’s as black as your hat.”
“Pattie’s not all that black. Not that it matters.”
Marcus had heard the rumour but had not believed it. Carel’s peculiarities were not of that kind. He was a chaste man, even puritanical. Here Marcus knew his brother because he knew himself. He rose to his feet.
“Oh, Marcus, you aren’t going are you? Why not stay the night? You don’t want to go all the way back to Earls Court in this frightful fog.”
“Must go, work to do,” he mumbled. And when, some ten minutes later, he was walking over pavements sticky with frost, his lonely steps resounding inside the heavy cloak of the fog, he had forgotten all about Norah and felt instead the warm seed of joy in his heart which was the prospect of seeing Elizabeth again.
CHAPTER THREE
“SO SORRY TO bother you. My name is Anthea Barlow. I’m from the pastorate. I wonder if I could see the Rector for a little minute?”
“I’m afraid the Rector is not seeing anybody at present.”
“Perhaps I could leave him a note then. You see I really—”
“I’m afraid he hasn’t got round to dealing with any letters yet. Perhaps you could try again later.”
Pattie closed the door firmly upon the faintly wailing, faintly fluttering figure in the fog. She was a hardened door-keeper. Used to this sort of scene, she had forgotten it the next moment. Upstairs she could hear the sound of the little tinkling hand-bell which Elizabeth used to summon Muriel. Retrieving the slipper which had come off as she crossed the hall, Pattie flip-flopped back towards the kitchen.
Pattie was nervous and uneasy. The constant noise of the underground railway jolted her by day and disturbed her dreams by night. Ever since their arrival the fog had enclosed them, and she still had very little conception of the exterior of the Rectory. It seemed rather to have no exterior and, like the unimaginable circular universes which she read about in the Sunday newspapers, to have absorbed all other space into its substance. Venturing out on the second day she had, to her surprise, been unable to discover any other buildings in the vicinity. The fog hummed intermittently with mysterious sounds, but there was nothing to see except the small circle of pavement on which she stood and the red brick facade of the Rectory, furred with frost. The side wall of the Rectory was of concrete, where it had been sliced off from another building during the war. Pattie’s gloved hand touched the corner where the concrete met the brick and she saw a shape to her right which she knew must be the tower built by Christopher Wren. She could just see a gaping door and a window in the dark yellow haze.
Walking along a little further she found herself in a waste land. There were no houses, only a completely flat surface of frozen mud, through which the roadway passed, with small humps here and there under stiff frozen tarpaulins. It seemed to be a huge building site, but an abandoned one. Straying from the pavement, Pattie’s feet crunched little cups of ice and frozen weeds which looked like Victorian ornaments under their icy domes. Frightened of the solitude and afraid of losing her way she trotted hastily back to the shelter of the Rectory. She passed nobody on the road.
The problem of shopping still remained unsolved. Shopping was for Pattie a natural activity, a fundamental form of her contact with the world. Never organized or systematized, it had been a daily ritual, and rushing out again for something forgotten a little busy pleasure. Without it she felt like a hen in a battery. Some instinctive bustling movement was denied her. It
“Pattie? No. It’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible, pray?”
Marcus giggled. “She’s too fat.”
“Don’t be frivolous, Marcus. I must say, I can’t get over her being called O’Driscoll when she’s as black as your hat.”
“Pattie’s not all that black. Not that it matters.”
Marcus had heard the rumour but had not believed it. Carel’s peculiarities were not of that kind. He was a chaste man, even puritanical. Here Marcus knew his brother because he knew himself. He rose to his feet.
“Oh, Marcus, you aren’t going are you? Why not stay the night? You don’t want to go all the way back to Earls Court in this frightful fog.”
“Must go, work to do,” he mumbled. And when, some ten minutes later, he was walking over pavements sticky with frost, his lonely steps resounding inside the heavy cloak of the fog, he had forgotten all about Norah and felt instead the warm seed of joy in his heart which was the prospect of seeing Elizabeth again.
CHAPTER THREE
“SO SORRY TO bother you. My name is Anthea Barlow. I’m from the pastorate. I wonder if I could see the Rector for a little minute?”
“I’m afraid the Rector is not seeing anybody at present.”
“Perhaps I could leave him a note then. You see I really—”
“I’m afraid he hasn’t got round to dealing with any letters yet. Perhaps you could try again later.”
Pattie closed the door firmly upon the faintly wailing, faintly fluttering figure in the fog. She was a hardened door-keeper. Used to this sort of scene, she had forgotten it the next moment. Upstairs she could hear the sound of the little tinkling hand-bell which Elizabeth used to summon Muriel. Retrieving the slipper which had come off as she crossed the hall, Pattie flip-flopped back towards the kitchen.
Pattie was nervous and uneasy. The constant noise of the underground railway jolted her by day and disturbed her dreams by night. Ever since their arrival the fog had enclosed them, and she still had very little conception of the exterior of the Rectory. It seemed rather to have no exterior and, like the unimaginable circular universes which she read about in the Sunday newspapers, to have absorbed all other space into its substance. Venturing out on the second day she had, to her surprise, been unable to discover any other buildings in the vicinity. The fog hummed intermittently with mysterious sounds, but there was nothing to see except the small circle of pavement on which she stood and the red brick facade of the Rectory, furred with frost. The side wall of the Rectory was of concrete, where it had been sliced off from another building during the war. Pattie’s gloved hand touched the corner where the concrete met the brick and she saw a shape to her right which she knew must be the tower built by Christopher Wren. She could just see a gaping door and a window in the dark yellow haze.
Walking along a little further she found herself in a waste land. There were no houses, only a completely flat surface of frozen mud, through which the roadway passed, with small humps here and there under stiff frozen tarpaulins. It seemed to be a huge building site, but an abandoned one. Straying from the pavement, Pattie’s feet crunched little cups of ice and frozen weeds which looked like Victorian ornaments under their icy domes. Frightened of the solitude and afraid of losing her way she trotted hastily back to the shelter of the Rectory. She passed nobody on the road.
The problem of shopping still remained unsolved. Shopping was for Pattie a natural activity, a fundamental form of her contact with the world. Never organized or systematized, it had been a daily ritual, and rushing out again for something forgotten a little busy pleasure. Without it she felt like a hen in a battery. Some instinctive bustling movement was denied her. It
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