Henry and Cato by Iris Murdoch

absolutely away, and I can’t—’
    â€˜Oh, yes you can. I must see you, I must talk to you. You’re the only one I can talk to, you don’t know what a star you are in my life, you’re the only thing that’s not bloody rotten and awful around here, you’re the only person I know—’
    â€˜Joe—’
    â€˜If you leave me, I’m really done for, I’ll go berserk—’
    â€˜All right, I’ll—’
    â€˜You saw me, saw something in me, you knew I was worth something—’
    â€˜All right, all right. I’ll see you—next Tuesday—this time—here.’
    Henry Marshalson was standing so still in the evening twilight, standing there beside the iron gate of the park, that someone coming along the little road might have mistaken him for a post, or else not seen him at all as his slim figure blended in the dusk with the dark background of the ivy-covered wall.
    He had deliberately arrived several days early, not informing his mother of his coming. Leaving his luggage at his London hotel he had just packed a small bag and set off after lunch for the railway station. When he asked for a ticket to Laxlinden Halt he was met with incomprehension. The station had evidently ceased to exist. He took a ticket to the next station down the line and thence proceeded by bus to Laxlinden village. He wore his trilby hat, long preserved for the amusement of Russ and Bella, pulled down over his brow. He saw nobody he knew. He walked the two miles from the village just as it was beginning to get dark.
    The hedges had been cut down and the road had been widened. Otherwise everything looked much the same. He could not easily have pictured the road, but at each turn he knew exactly what he would see next: the tithe barn, as bulky as a cathedral, the row of elms on the low green skyline, the glimpse of the canal and a fishing heron, the Horse and Groom set back, with two labourers’ cottages beside it (the cottages had been turned into a smart little house), the ford, no, the ford was gone and a horrible concrete bridge had taken its place, the pretty view of the Forbeses’ house, Pennwood, across the Oak Meadow, the meadow itself, now sown with clover, and the huge oak tree mistily budding, which gave it its name, then at last the ironstone wall of the park with the dark conifers behind it. A host of elder saplings had grown up along the ravaged roadside and beneath them thick clumps of primroses were pallidly in flower. There was also, here and there, the faint purple stain of violets. Henry marched along and as he marched he watched himself. He felt calm, or rather cold, utterly cold. The evening was very still and windless, carrying a damp fragrance. It had rained earlier, and the road surface on which he was walking was wet and a little sticky. A few cars passed him, some with their lights on. The dim road unwound before him as if in a waking dream he were compelling it to do so. He was thinking these dusky yet glowing meadow slopes and these lonely quiet trees.
    It was when he actually got to the wall of the park and to the iron gate that the thing which he had been anticipating launched itself upon him. Standing beside the gate he carefully put his suitcase on the ground and stood quite still taking very long breaths. Then suddenly he fell against the gate, clutching at the wet bars with his hands. His hat fell off. He drooped against the gate, hanging there as if he were pinned to it, his legs swaying and giving way, and the metal made cold wet lines upon his pendant body. His eyes were closed. His cheek was crushed against one of the bars, the rain water was upon his lips. He held onto the gate in a fierce spasm of emotion, as if that old gate were the first thing upon that dream journey which had remembered his name and uttered it. After a minute, as he seemed to be slipping to his knees, he steadied himself, opened his eyes, retrieved and