A Word Child by Iris Murdoch Read Free Book Online Page B

friend tonight.’
    â€˜It’s his girl friend on Thursday!’
    â€˜Hilary — Hilary — listen — isn’t it your girl friend tonight?’
    â€˜I have no girl friend,’ I said, settling down with my back to them and spreading out a case.
    â€˜Oh fib, fib, coy, coy!’
    â€˜Hilary’s a mystery man, aren’t you, Hilary?’
    â€˜He means it’s his lady friend,’ said Reggie. ‘“Hello, hello, who’s your lady friend” —’
    â€˜That’s no lady, that’s my — ’
    â€˜Do shut up, there’s good darlings,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh good, it’s one of Hilary’s soft soap days.’
    â€˜No flying ink pots today.’
    â€˜Hilary, Hilaree, did Freddikins tell you about the panto?’
    â€˜Yes. You are to be Smee.’
    â€˜Hilary is to be the crocodile, only they haven’t told him!’
    â€˜Hilary should just play himself, it would bring the house down!’
    â€˜I gather Edith is to be Wendy,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh witty, witty, clever, clever!’
    â€˜No call to be sarky, Hilary, making inferred allusions to a lady’s age!’
    â€˜Jenny Searle in Registry is to be Wendy, one of Reggie’s numerous ex’s.’
    â€˜No wonder they call me Divan the Terrible.’
    â€˜Reggie is feeling bronzed and fit after a plunge into the typing pool!’
    â€˜They haven’t chosen Peter yet.’
    â€˜Fischy would make a good Peter, he hasn’t reached puberty.’
    â€˜Isn’t Peter usually played by a girl?’ I said.
    â€˜Exactly! Fischy for Peter!’
    â€˜Shall we go and examine his organs?’
    â€˜Edith, you are awful !’
    â€˜We mustn’t be nasty, after all Hilary and Fisch are sort of — aren’t they?’
    â€˜That’s no lady, that’s my Fisch.’
    â€˜That’s no lady, that’s my Burde!’ (Screams)
    â€˜Hilary is so mysterious.’
    â€˜Hilary never tells the truth.’
    â€˜Is that Directory enquiries? What number do I ring so as to have my telephone removed?’
    â€˜Why do you want your telephone removed, Hilo?’
    â€˜The girls won’t leave him alone.’
    â€˜So as to have my telephone removed — ’
    â€˜Fisch keeps ringing him and making improper suggestions.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜Hilary, Hilar ee , why do you want — ?’
    â€˜I want to have my telephone removed — ’
    â€˜Hilary, why — ’
    â€˜A post office engineer will call tomorrow?’
    Skinker, the messenger, came in with the tea. Reggie Farbottom used to make the tea once, now of course no more. I could not prevent Arthur from making it sometimes, thereby bringing comfort to the Witcher interest. Arthur had no sense of status. Skinker was a gentle elongated creature who had been some sort of hero in a German prison camp and had later, or perhaps then, given himself to Christ. He was a lay preacher in an evangelical mission. He was the only person in the office who called me ‘Mr Burde’. The downstairs porters despised me and called me nothing. I was ‘Burde’ (or sometimes ‘Hilary’) for ordinary purposes. Skinker’s ‘Mr’ was a tender attention which I appreciated.
    Perhaps I ought to describe the appearance of Edith Witcher and Reggie Farbottom; not that they are important, but they were at that time my daily bread. In our daily bondage what can be more preoccupying and ultimately influential than the voices of our fellow captives? How they go on and on: nothing perhaps, in sheer quantity, so fills up the head. I suppose there are situations where idle chatter adds to the good stuff of the world. It may be so in happy families. I knew nothing of that. My daily chatter-ration was a daily sin, and I knew it well. That which religious orders are so right to forbid. I lived in the Room in a kind of moral sludge