The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch
‘If you only knew,’ said Nan, ‘how pathetic you are! Just see yourself, Bill, for a moment. Just look at yourself in a mirror. Do you seriously imagine that you could make anything out of a love affair with an attractive, flighty little gipsy with a French upbringing who might be your daughter? Don’t make yourself more ridiculous than you already are! If the silly child seems attached to you at the moment, and isn’t just being kind so as not to hurt your feelings, it’s probably because she’s just lost her father.’
‘I’ve thought of that too,’ said Bill.
‘Well, I’m glad you see the point,’ said Nan. She hiccuped violently and disguised it as a cough. ‘Now you get yourself sorted out and stop seeing this girl - and we’ll say no more about it. You know I don’t want to make a fuss.’
‘I can’t stop seeing her,’ said Bill. He was still leaning against the wall with a sort of exhausted lassitude.
‘Oh, don’t be so unutterably spineless and dreary!’ said Nan. ‘You know perfectly well you’ve got no choice.
‘Nan,’ said Bill, trying to look up again, ‘how did you find out?’
‘I overheard the children talking on the telephone,’ said Nan.
Bill jerked himself upright. He said, ‘The children know, do they - Oh, Christ!’ He turned to face the wall and leaned his head against it. The shoe hung limply from his hand behind him.
‘Don’t use that language, Bill,’ said Nan. ‘It’s not a very nice thing to inflict on them, is it? At least the children won’t tell anybody. I only hope the gossip hasn’t started already. Does anybody else know about this little caper?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Bill, ‘no one who’d talk, that is. I think Demoyte has probably guessed. And Tim Burke knows.’
‘Tim Burke knows?’ said Nan. She leaned back among the cushions. A feeling of extreme tiredness came over her, and with it the nausea was renewed. The strength which had carried her through the interview faded from her limbs, leaving them heavy and restless. She knew that the misery was still there, after all, waiting for her. She wanted to end the conversation.
‘Oh, go away, Bill,’ she said. ‘You know what you ought to do, just go and do it.’
Bill stood irresolutely at the door. ‘Are you going to stay here now?’ he said. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, go away,’ said Nan. ‘Go away into school and don’t come back for a long time. When I’ve had a rest I’m going back to Dorset.’
‘Going to Dorset?’said Bill. He seemed alarmed. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you stayed here?’
‘To keep an eye on you?’ said Nan. ‘No, Bill, I trust you completely. I don’t want to spoil Felicity’s holiday. — and I don’t want to make people talk by suddenly reappearing here. I leave you to finish this thing off by yourself.
‘But, Nan — ’ Bill began to say.
‘Oh, get out!’ said Nan. ‘I’m tired, tired of you. Get out. I’ll write to you from Dorset.’ She turned over on the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions.
She heard Bill take a few steps across the room as if he were going to come to her. Then he stopped, turned back, and went out of the door. A minute later she heard the front door close behind him. Nan waited another minute, and then she got up, went into the kitchen, and was extremely sick.
Chapter Thirteen
IT was Sunday. Mor was sitting in his place in the school chapel. Although it was well known that he had no religious faith, he felt bound, as a housemaster, to attend Mr Everard’s Sunday afternoon services. These functions were attended by all the boys whatever their denomination - although in fact most of the boys at St Bride’s were Anglicans. The chapel was a high oblong building with cream-washed walls, somewhat resembling a parish hall. The congregation sat on rather comfortable modern wooden chairs. The altar was a large table, decorated with flowers, not unlike the sort of object that would be found in the waiting-room of a progressive country doctor. The tall neo-Gothic windows on either side of it were of plain glass, and outside in a tree birds could be seen tumbling about and chirruping. A plain cross hung above the altar, and a low wooden stockade, folded up by one of the senior boys when not in use, divided the chancel from the nave. A sort of crow’s nest of light oak, to which access was had by a pair of rickety detachable steps, stood at the side, and served Evvy as a pulpit, from which at this moment he was preaching.
The chapel was consecrated as a church in the Anglican communion and every morning something which Evvy insisted, to the manifest irritation of Mr Prewett, in calling Mass was celebrated at seven on ordinary days and eight on Sundays, either by Evvy himself or by the local parson or his minion. On Sundays a large number of boys usually attended this ceremony; but on week-days, except just before confirmation, very few turned up. Often, as Mor knew, there was nobody present except Evvy and Bledyard. His mind dwelt upon this gloomy rite. His nonconformist upbringing, still strong in him, gave him a general distaste for such goings-on. In addition, the thought of Evvy dispensing the body and blood of Christ to the solitary Bledyard was faintly ludicrous and, in some obscure way, appalling.
Mor spread out his legs. He felt stiff and restless. Evvy had been going on now for some considerable time and showed no sign of stopping. He had taken it into his head lately to preach a series of sermons on popular sayings. They had already had ‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good’, and ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’, while ‘You may lead a horse to the water but you can’t make him drink’ was rumoured to be still to come. Today it was ‘God helps those who help themselves’. Evvy had started, as usual, with a little joke. When he had been a child, he explained, he had understood the phrase ‘help themselves’ in the sense of the colloquial invitation ’Help yourself!‘ and so had thought that the saying meant that God helped thieves or people who just took what they wanted. Evvy explained this point rather elaborately. The juniors, such of them as were listening, or understood what he was talking about, giggled. The senior boys wore the expression of embarrassed blankness which they always put on when Evvy made jokes in chapel.
Mor was not attending now. He was thinking about Rain. It was four days since the drama of Nan’s return. Nan had carried out her intention of going back at once to Dorset. Since then Mor had received a letter from her in which she repeated what she had said to him. It was a rational, even a kind letter. Everything had happened that might overturn his love for Rain: the sheer shock of being found out, from which he had still not recovered, and which he had thought at first could not but kill his love by its violence, and now in addition the reasonableness of Nan and the manifest sense of what she urged. Yet when Mor had found himself able once again to consider where he stood he found that his love for Rain was still fiercely and impenitently intact. This was no dream. The vision of beauty and happiness and fulfilment with which he had been blessed, so briefly, in Rain’s presence, had come again and with unfaded power. What he rather feared was that the shock which had so much confounded him would have destroyed her.
In fear and trembling he sought her out at Demoyte’s house in the evening of Nan’s second departure, and they had walked round the garden together. He had found her extremely shaken and sobered. She had then reassured him by saying that her feelings were quite unchanged by what had happened - and that the fact that this was so proved to her, what indeed she had scarcely doubted before, that she truly and seriously loved him. But she went on to say that there was no issue. There was, after all, no issue. They had walked through the gate in the yew hedge and across the second garden towards the stone steps. Mor had said in his heart, there must be an issue. To save himself he would have to impose upon her simplicity his own complexity. Only so could he win what he wanted with the desperation of a perishing man, a little more time. He talked with eloquence and subtlety, he argued, he used what he could of his authority — and after he had at last drawn her into discussing the matter he knew with a deep relief that they would not have to part. At any rate, not just yet. And as they
Mor had felt extreme relief at the discovery that the shock which they had undergone had not dislocated their love. Now when they began to talk he was surprised to find himself able quietly to unravel so many deep and obscure thoughts about himself and about his marriage, things which he had in the past but half understood, but which as he drew them out at last in Rain’s presence emerged clear and intelligible and no longer terrifying. He talked and talked, and as he did so his heart was lightened as never before. He was able, a little, to explain how in the long years Nan had frustrated him, breaking within him piece by piece the structure of his own desires. He was able to explain how and why it was that he no longer loved his wife.
As he spoke of this Mor felt suddenly present to him the anger which was the tremendous counterpart of so long and so minute an oppression, and which, because in the end he had been afraid of Nan, he had always concealed even from himself. It was a great anger as it rose within him, complete, as if the memory were by some miracle retained within it of every smallest slight and every mockery, and it brought with it a great strength. Mor bid it welcome. It was upon this strength, he knew, that he would have to rely to carry him through to what he must believe to be possible, an issue. Rain listened to him silently throughout, with bent head, until he had told her everything - except for one thing. In all his outpouring he made no mention of his political ambitions. Demoyte had obviously not spoken of this matter to Rain, and Mor saw no reason to confuse things still further by introducing it. This question stood apart from his immediate problems and there would be time to decide how it should relate to them. Later, much much later, he might try to explain this also. Meanwhile he and Rain had quite enough to think about.
Sitting now in the chapel, and watching through the window the birds spreading their wings in the tree, and hearing the distant drone of Evvy’s voice, Mor was rehearsing what he had said to Rain and wondering if it was strictly true. He had said that he no longer loved Nan. Of course he no longer loved her. But somehow to say this was not to say anything at all. He had lived with Nan for twenty years. That living together was a reality which made it frivolous, or so it seemed to him for a moment, even to ask whether or not he loved her. On the other hand, while his not loving her might not be important, it would be a matter of importance if it turned out that he hated her. Certainly there were times when he hated her. He could see her, as he thought about it, sitting there insulated by calm and mocking superiority, announcing to him decisively that one or other of his dearly cherished plans was merely laughable and out of the question. Mor said to himself, of course there are faults on both sides. I am a clumsy oaf and I’ve given her a dull life. Yet, he thought, I may have failed to understand her, but I have at least tried. I’ve never inflicted on her that terrible crushing certainty of being always right. When I’ve disagreed with her I’ve always been willing to listen, always been ready to come as far as I can to meet her. Indeed, he thought to himself, I have come so far that I have almost invariably ended by doing exactly what she wanted. His anger blazed up, terminating the reverie.
Evvy was still prosing on. When Evvy preached, he puffed up his chest like a pigeon, grasped his vestments firmly in each hand just below shoulder level, and swayed rhythmically to and fro upon his heels. His earnest boyish face, shining with a benevolent zeal, was bent upon the congregation. Mor began to listen to what he was saying.
‘And so we see,’ said Evvy, ‘that God is to be thought of as a distant point of unification: that point where all conflicts are reconciled and all that is partial and, to our finite eyes, contradictory, is integrated and bound up. There is no situation of which we as Christians can truly say it is insoluble. There is always a solution, and Love knows that solution. Love knows! There is always, if we ponder deeply enough and are ready in the end to crucify our selfish desires, some one thing which we can do which is truly for the best and truly for the good of all concerned. If we will truly gear our lives on to God, and keep moving always towards that distant point, we shall be able, when the scene otherwise would seem dark indeed, to perceive clearly what is that one good thing that is to be done. And indifferent as we shall at such moments be to all worldly vanities and satisfactions we shall know the priceless joy of duty faithfully performed — for “not as the world giveth give I unto you”. Often throughout our lives will the darkness fall - but if we are ready, through prayer and through the ever fresh renewal of our efforts, to “help ourselves”, the grace of God will not be found wanting. And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the bla bla bla bla. …’
The School woke abruptly from its coma and staggered sleepily to its feet, drowning Evvy’s concluding words in a clatter of chairs. There was a white flutter of hymn-books. The organ began to play the introduction to the final hymn. It was Praise, my soul, the King of heaven. This hymn was a great favourite with the School. It had a jolly swinging tune and was good for singing loudly. The boys began to look more animated. Then they burst into song. Evvy had found his way back to the place in the right-hand side of the chapel which he usually occupied at Sunday afternoon services. He stood there sideways on to the congregation, with the other masters in two rows parallel with him, facing each other. The boys faced the altar. Evvy had a serene and satisfied look, as if the tremendous burst of singing were a tribute to the power of his exhortations.
Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,
Who like me His praise should sing?
Praise Him! Praise Him!
Praise Him! Praise Him!
Praise the everlasting King.
sang the School with abandon. As they sang, bent to hymn-books or looking upward in the joyful freedom of knowing the words by heart, their faces glowed with hope and joy. Mor reflected that in most cases it was joy at the termination of Evvy’s sermon and hope of a jolly good tea to follow shortly, but he was moved all the same. It was at such moments that the School en masse was most affecting. He thought to himself, what a sod I am, what a poor confused sod.
The voices rose above him in two layers. The hoarse breaking voices of the older boys were surmounted by the bird-like treble of the younger boys, roughened a little at the edges like unworked silver. Amid the concert it was usually possible for Mor to discern the voice of his son. Donald’s voice was breaking, and from its present raucous clamour a pleasant bari tone seemed likely to emerge. Mor listened, but he could not hear his son singing. Perhaps today Donald did not feel like crying ‘Praise Him!’ Mor turned his head cautiously towards the rows of faces seeking Donald. For a moment he could not find him. Then he saw him standing at the end of a row, his hymn-book closed in his hand. Donald was looking at him. Their eyes met with a shock, and they both looked away.
Mor stared at the floor. He felt himself exposed. His face was suddenly hot and he knew that he must be blushing. The hymn ended. Evvy’s voice was raised, and with an enormous crash the congregation flopped to its knees. Mor knelt gloomily, his eyes wide open in a fixed obsessive stare. Opposite to him he could see Bledyard kneeling. His eyes were shut very tightly as if against a violent light, his face was contorted and his lips were moving. Mor supposed that Bledyard must be praying. Evvy concluded whatever requests he had been making, and everybody got up. Mor stood waiting for the words of dismissal, his eyes glazed lest he should anywhere encounter the glance of Evvy, Bledyard, or his son.
The thought that he would very shortly see Rain came to him now gently and insistently, warm and calming. He had a rendezvous with her in twenty minutes’ time. He had asked her to meet him at the squash courts after the service was over. This was a convenient and secluded meeting place. The courts were strictly out of bounds to the School on Sundays — indeed, by reason no doubt of their peculiar seclusion they were out of bounds at all times except for the actual playing of squash. All games were forbidden on Sundays at St Bride’s,
The organ was playing a cheerful march and the boys were filing out of the chapel. Mor looked up, but he was too late to see Donald go. The truth, had he told Rain the truth? He had not spoken about the children. But what was there to say? Mor turned and began to shamble along towards the other door, close behind Prewett’s back. The music ended abruptly, and he heard his own footsteps shuffling unrhythmically in the direction of the exit. He got outside. He would give the others a little while to disperse and then he would make unobtrusively for the place of meeting. He wandered a short way down the hill and hung about on the edge of the wood.
He had deliberately given Rain the impression that his marriage was a complete failure, a wash-out, something that was already breaking up, quite independently of her arrival. He had, he knew, been anxious, very anxious, that she should think this, lest she should suddenly decide to go away. He wanted to ease her mind and to relieve her scruples. Had he in doing so exaggerated the situation? It was true that Nan had often said to him in the past - why do we go on? And he had always brushed this cry aside. But he had believed that Nan was not serious. Then it had suited him to believe that Nan was not serious. Now it suited him to believe that she was serious. Where was the truth?