The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch
‘Marvellous!’ said Mor. ‘It’s unrecognizable.’
‘You relieve my mind,’ said Hensman. ‘I feared some traces might remain! You know Evvy’s motto - if a thing’s worth doing it’s worth just blundering through somehow. I thought I’d better take things in hand. I’m afraid the walls are rather discoloured where we’ve taken the monstrosities away, but when it gets dark and you’ve got nothing but candlelight that won’t show.’
‘I’m sorry you won’t be here,’ said Mor.
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Hensman. ‘There’s another party below stairs! The man I’m sorry for is Baseford - he’ll never get over missing this spread. Two kinds of wine, and all! By the way, did I tell you how the sherry battle ended? Evvy has now demanded the very best Spanish and nothing else will do!’ Evvy had previously been of the opinion that South African sherry, if served from decanters, would be quite good enough for his guests, especially as, in his view, it was mere snobbery to pretend that there was any difference in taste.
Mor laughed. ‘You’d better go and change,’ he said. ‘It’s after seven.’ Hensman was still dressed for tennis. Junior masters had been invited to the brief sherry-drinking before the dinner; for this they had been let off with lounge suits.
‘I’m not coming,’ said Hensman. ‘I bequeath to you the company of Sir Somebody Something-Something, Bart, and other such late joys. I must start organizing my own party. I’m just off to fetch my guitar. Cheerio! Happy drinking.’
Mor was left alone. He blew out the candles which Hensman had left burning, and began to look up at the picture of Demoyte which was hung high up, Rain was sure to think too high, above the ornate Victorian fireplace. It was a sunny evening, and the light was still good. The masters’ dining-room was situated at the end of the upper floor of the Phys and Gym building and was served by a kitchen which was now incorporated in Mr Baseford’s flat. It faced west, so that the sun was shining in past the heavy rep curtains, the colour of an old inky desk top, which Mor reflected must not be drawn together on any account. The picture of Demoyte looked different again. Bledyard had said that the man in the picture did not look mortal. To Mor then it seemed a very mortal face. But he knew that he was touched by the occasion, and by memories of the almost incredulous regret he had felt at the thought that the old tyrant, who had been used to an almost complete authority over hundreds of souls that feared him, was to be reft of his power and sent into exile, able now only to oppress and punish those who loved him. The number of those, Mor thought sadly, was few enough. This evening’s gathering would number more of Demoyte’s enemies than of his friends.
At that moment an efficient-looking butler, hired for the occasion, appeared and ushered Mor away into the adjoining Common Room. The butler then returned to put the finishing touches to Hensman’s masterpiece. As Mor entered the Common Room, Evvy came in the door, followed by Prewett. Another butler materialized with a large silver tray covered with sherry-glasses which had already been filled. Mor suddenly began to feel extremely nervous and apprehensive. Rain’s terrors had not left him untouched. He tried to calm himself by picturing the relief which he would feel when this absurd and hateful evening was over.
‘Ah, my dear fellow,’ said Evvy, ‘I’m so glad you’re here early. Yes, yes, I’ve seen the dining-room. Hensman’s done a fine job of work. I hope he’ll be able to be with us for the sherry - but he said he had a meeting of Scouts this evening and mightn’t manage to come.’
‘He’s gone off to Scouts, I’m afraid,’ said Mor. He was too depressed to take any pleasure in Hensman’s little joke.
Too bad!‘ said Evvy. ’I wanted his opinion on the sherry. Spanish, you know!‘ Evvy made a face like a choirboy acting a French roué in a parish play. ’No point in spoiling the ship for a ha‘porth of tar, is there? That’s my text for first School Service of next term, so I thought I’d better be guided by it! I only hope the Governors won’t think we’re indulging in unnecessary expense.
‘No,’ said Mor, ‘they’ll be delighted.’ The irresponsible reactionary old sybarites, he added to himself. Demoyte had always been quite right about the Governors.
‘It’s only once in a while, isn’t it?’ said Evvy. ‘Do you think one might just sip some sherry before our guests arrive, to try it? I must confess, I need some Dutch courage. Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking“ is the simple truth for me, a sermon isn’t the same thing at all, and the prospect will quite spoil my dinner. By the way, Bill, I’m so glad your wife has agreed to speak, it’s terribly kind of her to take it on. She really was my last hope. I’d asked at least twelve people before I got to her.
Mor noted this instance of Evvy’s tact, saw Prewett note it, and forgot it at once. ‘I’m glad too,’ he said. ‘It’ll be good for her.’ The words were empty. The future in which Nan would enjoy the benefit of her daring did not belong to him.
The door opened to admit Sir Leopold Tinsley-Williams, the man with whose company Hensman was so ready to dispense, followed by Bledyard and two other masters. Evvy, who had just taken a glass of sherry from the tray, turned with inarticulate cries of embarrassment and welcome, and spilt the sherry with one hand, while the other sawed to and fro, undecided whether it should shake hands with Sir Leopold or offer him a drink. The butler took charge of the situation, spreading social calm by the very bend of his head.
Mor retired a step or two with Prewett, and was glad to find a drink in his hand. Prewett looked rather odd in evening-dress too. Mor was relieved to be with him for a moment. He replied briefly to his inquiries about Don. Some more Governors arrived. Mor and Prewett backed farther away and surveyed the scene, making comments. It was notable that Bledyard’s evening-dress fitted him extremely well, and made him look handsome and slightly wicked. He looked like a man who was used to these garments, and in this respect resembled the Governors rather than the masters. He was talking now in an animated way to several of the former, among whom he appeared to have a number of steady acquaintances.
The old school tie does its stuff!‘ said Prewett. Prewett had been at Bradford Grammar School.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mor. ‘They take him for a person of distinction. And they are right,’ he added.
‘What I hate,’ said Prewett, ‘is to see Evvy crawling to those swine. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s worth ten of each of them.’
Nan and Mrs Prewett came in, causing a stir. Mor turned towards his wife and felt the accustomed shock at seeing her in party array. She was wearing an extremely décolleté black nylon evening-dress, with a very full skirt and sort of bustle at the back. About her shoulders she wore a cloudy yellow stole, made of some gauzy material and run through with golden threads. She also had on the ear-rings which Mor had accepted for her from Tim Burke, although they didn’t quite go with the severe smartness of the dress. Her fine bosom, extensively revealed, was rounded and powdery smooth. Her hair was sleekly curled about her face, in a fashion reminiscent of the nineteen-twenties, which showed off very well the strong shape of her head and the slenderness and pallor of her neck. She surveyed the room without nervousness. Her eyes flamed towards her husband.
After her came Mrs Prewett. Mrs Prewett was a tall stout woman, with a broad tranquil face and very large hands. She had elected to don a dinner-gown made of coffee-coloured lace, with a coffee-coloured slip to match. A serrated line crossed her enormous front from east to west, below it the generous contour of her breasts, above it a flicker of underclothes and an expanse of flesh mottled by the sun to a deep reddish brown. Her arms, which were white and rather plump, swung energetically from the short puffy sleeves of the lace gown as she looked about for Mr Prewett. She saw him and swept forward with a shout. Prewett was obviously delighted to see her. He began complimenting her on her appearance. With a strange pang of sadness Mor turned away to join Nan. Nan meanwhile had been presented to Sir Leopold, and was making herself extremely charming to him. Mor stood by watching, not included and feeling awkward.
Then Rain and Demoyte arrived. A curious synthetic cheer greeted their appearance, and a number of people hastened to surround them and make the pretence of a festive welcome. Sir Leopold, who had always detested Demoyte, made no move, but went on talking to Nan, his eyes riveted to the point at which her dress indicated, but just failed to reveal, the division between her breasts. Sir Leopold was well placed and he made the best of his height. Mor stepped back a little, so that he could observe the newcomers without being anywhere in Nan’s field of vision.
Demoyte looked splendid. He wore his evening-dress like a soldier, and confronted his foes with the familiar front, as shameless as brass and as hard as steel. He cast a belligerent look round the room, his lips already trembling with scorn. Beside him Rain was tiny. She wore a long white cotton evening-dress, very simply covered with blue flowers with black outlines, drawn well in to her small waist. A long twining string of black carved beads seemed to make her neck longer and her black-capped head smaller. Her hair was slightly untidy. She looked like a boy actor. Mor felt his heart twist and turn within him for sheer tenderness. He looked towards them with a love which embraced them both, the old man and the girl.
One of the Governors was being polite to Rain, and cutting out Evvy, who was also trying to talk to her. Demoyte was talking to Bledyard, and conspicuously indicating by his behaviour that this was one of the few people in the room that he could tolerate. Sir Leopold was still concentrating. Nan had turned a little so that she could see Mor. Mor looked away. He tried to attend to the problem of how to be rude enough to Sir Leopold for the latter to realize that the rudeness was intentional without being so rude as to be boorish.
Dinner was announced. Evvy had of course given no thought to the question of precedence. There was a courteous scrimmage in the doorway. The women were pushed forward. Besides Rain, Nan, and Mrs Prewett, there was a Mrs Kingsley, the wife of one of the Governors who had arrived rather late and was patently the oldest woman present. Evvy was now attempting to urge Rain through the door while Rain was trying to give way to Mrs Kingsley. Eventually, after an embarrassed silence had fallen and the protagonists had all started to say something and stopped, alarmed by the pause, Sir Leopold passed through the door first, with Mrs Kingsley on one arm and Nan on the other. Evvy followed with Rain and Mrs Prewett. Demoyte and Bledyard, still talking, went through next, and everyone else came after in a hurly-burly.
Fortunately the places at the table were all clearly labelled, so that the confusion was not repeated in the dining-room. Everyone found his position and Evvy said grace at some length. The company then sat down with relief and immediately received their soup. The place of honour was in the centre of the table facing the picture. Here sat Evvy in the middle place, with Rain on his right and Mrs Kingsley on his left. Demoyte sat next to Rain, and Sir Leopold next to Demoyte. Nan was on the other side of Sir Leopold. Another Governor was next to Mrs Kingsley, and Mrs Prewett sat at the end of the table next to Bledyard, with whom to everyone’s continually renewed surprise she seemed to get on very well. The rest of the company were disposed round the ends of the table and along the side nearest to the fireplace. Here Mor sat, opposite to Sir Leopold, so that both the women were facing him, Nan to his left and Rain to his right farther away. The fish had by now arrived, and with it the welcome glass of white wine. Mor hoped that Hensman had briefed Evvy about quantity as well as quality of wine. He felt an extreme need of alcohol, and spent a vain moment wishing that he were altogether elsewhere with Hensman and the guitar.
The soup and fish were good. The meat was only middling, but it mattered less as there was a good deal of red wine to wash it down with. Mor heard one of the Governors asking the name and year of the wine and approving of the answer. Evvy had evidently been well schooled by someone, doubtless Hensman. Mor emptied another glass. He began to feel a little less anxious. The evening was now half over and the women had so far not had occasion to notice each other. At this moment they could not even see one another, since they were on the same side of the table, and he could keep them both under his eye. Demoyte and Sir Leopold ignored each other. Sir Leopold talked to Nan, while Demoyte talked to Rain, across Rain to Evvy, or across the table to Mor. When not actually addressed, Mor sat silent, watching his wife and his beloved, turning over in his heart the grievous things that he knew, and waiting for the evening to end.
At last came the toast to the Queen, and the meditative glow of cigars was to be seen appearing here and there along the table. It was quite dark outside by now and the candles gave a bright but soft light to the room, in which gentle illumination the stained walls were, as Hensman had predicted, not conspicuous. Fortunately nobody so far seemed anxious to draw the curtains. Mor discovered to his relief that Madeira was to be served with the fruit. The waiter was not insensitive to his needs, and his glass was filled again. The candlelight touched the wine-glasses and the scattered silver. He looked through a maze of reflections towards Rain, and managed to catch her attention. She flashed him a quick look, humorous and loving, and made as if to close one eye. Mor, with a surreptitious and ambiguous movement, raised his glass towards her. She looked away. He now felt impelled to look at Nan. She was gazing towards him, though in lively and gesturing conversation with Sir Leopold. Mor noticed that she had drunk a little wine.
The first of the official toasts was the toast to Demoyte, which was to be proposed by Sir Leopold and answered by Evvy. The second toast was the toast to the School, to be proposed by Demoyte and answered by Nan. Sir Leopold rose to his feet and a serene silence fell, rich with the harmony which a large quantity of alcohol had introduced into the conscious and unconscious minds of the company. They looked up benevolently at Sir Leopold. Even Mor controlled his nausea. Sir Leopold, it would seem, was faced with the almost impossible task of proposing a toast to Demoyte without saying anything pleasant about him. But Sir Leopold’s ingenuity turned out to be equal to the occasion. He contrived to say nothing pleasant about Demoyte by saying nothing about him at all. He spoke at length about St Bride’s, its history, its high traditions, and the great line of its headmasters, all dedicated, at least those of them who were worthy of their trust, to the task which Mr Everard had so aptly described as ‘the full development of the good seed of the personality’, regardless of intellectual excellence. Hatred of Demoyte had triumphed, in Sir Leopold’s bosom, over contempt for Evvy. He was prepared even to exalt Evvy in order to annoy Demoyte. The latter listened unmoved, showing in lip and eye how impossible he considered it that he could be belittled by such a person. Sir Leopold sat down amid lukewarm applause. He was not, in any quarter, a popular figure.
Mor was wishing that Nan’s speech was not the last one. He was anxious for it to be over, as he was feeling a good deal of nervous apprehension on his wife’s behalf. He imagined how scared Nan must be feeling. He knew that there was a special absurdity in his identifying himself, at this hour, with Nan; but it was the habit of half a lifetime and it was the absurdity which at present composed his whole being. He felt fairly sure that Nan would acquit herself well. She would certainly have something decent to say - only her delivery of it might be nervous and halting.
Evvy was now talking. Long practice in Hall and Chapel had made Mor able to switch off Evvy’s voice completely. With an effort he switched it on again. ‘ — whom we know and love,’ said Evvy. Accustomed as Evvy was to think the best of everybody, it had not quite escaped his attention that Sir Leopold had been rude to Demoyte; and he tried to make amends, laying it on, it seemed to Mor, rather thick. ‘Under whose able and inspiring leadership,’ Evvy was saying, ‘st Bride’s rose from the deplorable slough in which it formerly lay, and became, dare we say it, a sound and reputable public school of the second class.’
Evvy was here excelling himself, having forgotten that one of the Governors present was the younger son of the Headmaster who had preceded Demoyte. Mor looked along the table at this gentleman, whose eyebrows had flown up into furio
‘ — that I did not find it easy to be the successor to such a man,’ Evvy was saying. His speech was turning out to be far too long, as usual. Sir Leopold had set the decanter circulating, and a whispered conversation was going on at the far end of the table. Each man protected himself from boredom after his own fashion: Sir Leopold by drinking and looking sideways into the top of Nan’s dress, Rain by suppressed laughter, Demoyte by amused contempt, Mr Prewett by talking to his neighbour, and Bledyard by talking to himself.