The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch
Mor was inclined to agree with Nan, and the whole story upset him considerably. He couldn’t think what it could mean; and he feared his children especially when they brought gifts. He said, however, ‘You’re fussing about nothing, Nan. It was just a nice idea. I expect Felicity thought of it.’
‘You’re almost as naive as Miss Carter,’ said Nan, ‘and that’s saying something.’
Mor was disturbed at hearing Nan mention Miss Carter’s name. He had by a curious chance seen Miss Carter twice in the last three days, once in the distance walking in the fields, and once passing through the housing estate in the direction of the shopping centre. On neither of these occasions had he spoken with her, but each occasion had given him a strange and deep shock.
The taxi drove up. Mor lifted the suitcases. Felicity appeared and got into the taxi without a word. Mor and Nan packed in and they drove in silence to the station. Mor paid the taxi-driver and stacked up the suitcases on the platform. They waited.
The sun shone from a clear blue sky upon the little station with its two platforms, each covered with a neatly peaked roof, like a toy station. On either side the glittering rails of the Southern Region curved away among pine trees between which here and there could be seen the red roofs of tall Victorian houses. Quite a lot of people were waiting for the London train, many of them known by sight to Mor. It was a scene which he usually found inexpressibly dreary. There was five minutes to wait.
Then it came over Mor like a sudden gust of warm fresh wind that Nan was going. Nan was going. She was going. And this time next year, thought Mor, perhaps everything will be different. Everything is going to be different. He lifted his head. How good a thing it was that he had made his decision. Obscurely in the instant he was aware of the future suddenly radiant with hope and possibility. At the same time he was filled with a great tenderness for Nan. He turned to look at her. She was glancing at her watch and tapping her high-heeled shoe on the platform. She smiled at him and said, ‘Not long now!’ She seemed quite excited. Felicity was standing some way off looking over the wooden palings of the station into the surrounding pine trees.
‘Nan,’ said Mor, ‘are you really all right for the journey? Have you got something to read?’
‘Yes,’ said Nan, ‘I have the day’s paper and this magazine.’
‘Let me get you something else,’ said Mor, ‘a Penguin book - and what about some nice chocolate?’ He ran down the station as far as the little stall that sold papers and sweets. He bought a Penguin book of poetry, and a box of milk chocolates, and two bananas. He came back and stuffed them into Nan’s pockets.
‘Bill, dear, you are sweet!’ said Nan, taking the goods out of her pockets and putting them into a suitcase.
The neat green train sped into sight round the curve of the line. The crowd surged forward. Mor found two corner seats for Nan and Felicity and packed the luggage in. There was not long for farewells. At these small stations the train waited only a minute. Mor kissed his wife and daughter, and then with breathtaking speed they were jerked away. Mor waved - and he saw Nan’s face and her waving arm recede rapidly and disappear almost at once round the next curve and into the trees.
Mor walked very slowly back down the platform. He gave up his platform ticket. He came out into the sun and stood still in the dusty deserted station yard, which was quite silent now that the roar of the train had died away into the distance. Mor stood there, arrested by some obscure feeling of pleasure, and somehow in the quietness of the morning he apprehended that there were many many things to be glad about. He waited. Then from the very depths of his being the knowledge came to him, suddenly and with devastating certainty. He was in love with Miss Carter. He stood there looking at the dusty ground and the thought that had taken shape shook him so that he nearly fell. He took a step forward. He was in love. And if in love then not just a little in love, but terribly, desperately, needfully in love. With this there came an inexpressibly violent sense of joy. Mor still stood there quietly looking at the ground; but now he felt that the world had started to rotate about him with a gathering pace and he was at the centre of its movement.
Mor drew in a deep breath and smiled down at the dry earth below him, swaying slightly on his heels. I must be mad, he thought, smiling. The words formed, and were swept upward like leaves in a furnace. He walked slowly across the station yard to the wooden gate. He caressed the wood of the gate. It was dry flaky wood, warm in the sun, beautiful. Mor picked splinters off it. He could not stop smiling. I must be mad, he thought, whatever shall I do? Then he thought, I must see Miss Carter at once. When I see her I shall know what to do. Then I shall know what this state of mind is and what to do about it. I shall know then, when I see her. When I see her.
He left the station yard at a run and began to run along the road towards the school. It was a long way. The hot sun struck him on the brow with repeated blows, and the warm air refused to refresh his lungs. He ran on, painting and gasping. He must get to his bicycle, which was in the shed in the masters’ garden. His desire to see Miss Carter was now so violent it was become an extra quite physical agony, apart from the straining of his lungs and the aching of his muscles. He kept on running. The school was in sight now. An agonizing stitch made him slow down to walking pace. The pain of his anxiety shaped his face into a cry and his breath came in an audible whine. He turned into the drive and managed to run again as far as the bicycle-shed.
He dragged his bicycle out, manhandling it as if it were a savage animal. It had a flat tyre. Mor threw it on the ground and kicked it, swearing aloud. He looked about and chose another bicycle at random. It occurred to him that the Classical Sixth would be waiting for him at eleven-fifteen, to have a history lesson. But he had no hesitation now. He had recovered his breath, but the other agony continued, biting him in the stomach so that he almost could have cried out with the pain of wanting to see her. He set off on the borrowed machine, bounced badly over the gravel, on to the main road, and started up the hill towards the railway bridge.
The hill was merciless, and his pedalling grew slower and slower, until the bicycle was tacking crazily upon the fierce slope. He got off and pushed it at a run to the top of the hill. Then as he sailed down the other side, seeing for a moment in the distance the glowing walls of Brayling’s Close, he uttered to himself the word ‘Rain’. At a tremendous pace, pedalling madly now to catch up with the speed of the wheels, he plunged onward. He turned the bicycle, without dismounting, across the grassy strip in the middle of the dual carriageway, and launched it like a thunderbolt into Demoyte’s drive. The gravel flew to both sides like spray. He fell off the machine and threw it to the side of the house and then cannoned through the front door. The house was still and fragrant within. Mor crossed the hall and threw open the drawing-room door.
The easel was still in place and Demoyte was sitting in the sun near the window with his back turned towards the door, in an attitude of repose. There was no sign of Miss Carter.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Mor, swinging on the door, ‘where’s Miss Carter?’
‘Accustomed as I am,’ said Demoyte, without turning round, ‘to being treated like an old useless piece of outdated ante-diluvian junk, I -’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Mor, and stepped into the room, ‘forgive me. But I did want to see Miss Carter rather urgently. You don’t happen to know where she is?’
‘Suppose you come round to the front,’ said Demoyte, ‘if you have the time to spare, that is, so that I can at least see your face during this conversation.’
Mor came round and faced the old man, who looked up at him sombrely and waited for Mor to make another remark.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mor. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘If you had come at practically any other hour of any other day,’ said Demoyte, ‘you would have found the young lady here at work. She has been toiling like the proverbial black. But just at this hour of this day she has, unfortunately for you, gone out for a walk.’ Demoyte
Mor saw out of the corner of his eye that a great deal had happened to the canvas since he last saw it, but he did not turn to look. Making an effort to speak slowly too, he said, ‘You don’t happen to know, sir, in which direction she went or where I might have a chance of meeting her on the way?’ The pain within him was continuing to bite.
‘I don’t, as you put it, happen to know this, I’m afraid,’ said Demoyte. ‘I wonder if you realize that your collar has come undone and is sticking up at the back of your neck in a rather ludicrous manner? I have never liked those detachable collars. They make you look like a country schoolmaster. And you seem to have got some oil or tar or something on to your face. May I suggest that you set your appearance to rights before you continue your search?’
Mor jabbed back at his collar, settled it somehow into the protective custody of his coat, and ran his hand vaguely over his face. He turned to go. ‘I think I’ll be off,’ he said. ‘Thank you all the same.’
As he got to the door, Demoyte said, ‘She went by the path over the fields. Not that that will help you much.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mor. He ran out, seized his bicycle, and cycled out of the gate and sharply round on to the little footpath. The machine bucked wildly as he bounced over bumps and tufts of grass. He was riding now straight into the sun and had to keep one hand raised to shade his eyes. There was nobody to be seen on the path, and already the edge of the housing estate was well in view. Mor ran his bicycle through an alleyway and on to one of the roads of the estate. It was hopeless. He had much better go home now, put his face into some cold water, and think again about what he was supposed to be doing. But instead he rode past his house and up to the front gate of the school. It was just conceivable that Miss Carter might have gone into the school to call on Evvy.
At the front gate stood the tall white-clad figure of the games master, Hensman. He was lounging in an athletic way against one of the pillars of the gate.
‘The good weather’s keeping up,’ said Hensman. ‘Perhaps we shall have a fine day for the House Match for once.’
‘Yes, it looks like it,’ said Mor. He had got off his bicycle and was standing irresolutely at the gate.
‘Your son’s not shaping too badly,’ said Hensman. We’ll make a cricketer of him yet. He’s quite the white hope of Prewett’s team. Not that that’s saying much, I’m afraid.‘ Cricket was not, in Hensman’s view, taken quite seriously enough in Prewett’s house.
‘Yes, good,’ said Mor. ‘You haven’t seen Miss Carter go past here, by any chance?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Hensman. ‘I saw her on the playground about twenty minutes ago. She was going down the hill with old Bledyard.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mor. He forced his machine on rapidly down the drive. He felt a slight chill at the name of Bledyard. He left the bicycle at the corner of Main School in a place where bicycles were forbidden ever to be and began to run across the playground. He took the path beyond the Library which led down towards the wood. The path was a bit overgrown and he had to spring over brambles and long tongues of greenery as he ran. Two boys who were coming up the path stood aside and then stared after him in amazement. There was no sign of either Bledyard or Miss Carter. Mor ran into the wood. He stopped running then and listened. There was no sound except the soft continual pattering of the leaves. He walked quickly on, turning off the path and dragging his trouser-legs through the bracken.
Then quite suddenly he came to a clearing, and in the clearing he saw a strange sight which made him become rigid with mingled distress and joy. There was Miss Carter. But she had been transformed. She was a prisoner. She was dressed in a long flowing piece of sea-green silk which was draped about her body, leaving one shoulder bare. She was sitting in the midst of the clearing on top of a small step-ladder. Seated round about her on the ground with drawing-boards and pencils were about twenty boys. They were drawing her. Master of the scene and overlooking it with a powerful eye was Bledyard, who was leaning against a tree on the far side of the clearing. Before his attention was caught by Mor, he was looking fixedly at Miss Carter. He was in his shirt sleeves and had his hands in his pockets. His longish dark hair fell limply as far as his cheeks. He looked to Mor in that moment like Comus, like Lucifer.
Mor’s sudden irruption into the clearing was noticed at once. Bledyard parted company with his tree, drew his hands out of his pockets, and stood upright. He stopped looking surprised almost instantly and began to smile. His eyes and mouth thinned out into two long sardonic lines. The boys all turned to see who had come and stared at Mor with some astonishment. Mor saw that it was part of the Fifth Form. He reached back mechanically to see whether his collar had stayed in place. It had. Rain signified her awareness of his arrival by a very slight movement of her hand. She was posing like a child, rather stiffly and without making any motion. Bledyard was still smiling, his face stretched and immobile. Mor suddenly felt certain that Bledyard must be reading his mind. He began to walk round towards him, signalling to the boys to continue their work. He tried to make his presence seem more natural by making to Bledyard the first remark that came into his head which happened to be ‘I wonder if I could see you some time about reports?’ Bledyard looked into Mor’s face, still smiling his infuriating smile. He nodded without speaking. The boys had returned to their drawing. Mor began to go round behind them looking at their work. He was intensely conscious of Rain’s presence, but did not dare to look at her. He looked instead at the boys’ drawings. He knew that it would not be very long before the twelve o‘clock bell would ring and she would be set free.
One or two of the boys were working with water-colours, others were using ink and wash, others pencils only. Mor paused to look at Rigden’s effort. Rigden was good at painting, which was just as well, since he was not a star at anything else. He had produced with pen and a brown wash a pleasing sketch, the head extremely well drawn and the drapery falling in a strong flourish. Rigden looked up at Mor. He could hardly believe his luck. Mor looked at the sketch and smiled approvingly. The smile made Rigden’s day. Mor moved on, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. Jimmy Carde was sitting at his ease, his back against a tree, one leg raised in front and the other tucked under him. As Mor approached, Carde was whistling a little tune to himself, the same phrase over and over again. Mor looked at his sketch. Carde was no artist. He was working with a pencil and had a profile view of his subject. He had produced a squat figure, the drapery gracelessly draw tight about the body, the breasts crudely exaggerated. As Mor observed the sketch, Carde looked up, and in spite of himself Mor exchanged a glance with him. He looked away at once. He hated Carde. He was glad that Carde was destined for Oxford, not Cambridge. He did not want him to go on being Donald’s friend. At that moment the bell rang.
Everyone jumped. The boys shifted and some of them began to pack up their things and rise to their feet. Rain stirred upon her pedestal and began to hitch up the drapery. Mor saw this out of the corner of his eye. He looked at Bledyard and found that Bledyard was looking at him. Mor prayed that Bledyard was not blessed with a free period at twelve. Bledyard was not smiling now. He was moving his head gently to and fro in the way that was characteristic of him. The boys had now all risen and were making off into the wood in the direction of the studio to leave their paints and drawing-boards before going up to school for their next lesson. Mor and Bledyard and Rain were left alone in the clearing.
Rain was still sitting on top of the ladder. She seemed to enjoy being there, perhaps because it added to her height. She drew her legs up and turned towards Mor with a laugh. ‘Mr Bledyard captured me, and see what a beautiful stuff he brought out of his store-room,’ she said, unwrapping the green silk from her body and spreading it out. Mor saw that she was wearing a flowered cotton dress which left her shoulders bare.
‘I really must try to buy it from you, Mr Bledyard,’ she said, ‘and hand it over to my dressmaker.’ She
Bledyard took the material from her rather gloomily. He cast a look at Mor and seemed to hesitate. Mor stood his ground, trying to look like a man who was willing to stand there all day if necessary.
‘Yes,’ said Bledyard thoughtfully, ‘yes, indeed, indeed.’ His tone made it clear that he was not answering Rain’s question. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must go I’m afraid. I have boys boys waiting in the studio. You were most kind, Miss Carter, to favour favour us with this delightful-’ His voice trailed away. He seemed to have more difficulty than usual in enunciating. He opened his mouth again, closed it, and turned away into the wood. His footsteps could be heard for some distance receding through the bracken. Mor and Rain were left alone.
She sat down again on top of the steps and laughed. She seemed a little uneasy. She said, ‘I love posing for people -’ and began to rub one of her ankles. ‘Oh, I’m stiff though!’