The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch
Mor nodded slowly. He was looking down again, at the floor between his two feet. One foot tapped rhythmically without his will.
‘When did she go?’ he asked.
‘About two hours ago,’ said Demoyte. He turned suddenly on Mor, and his anger shook him so that he had to hold on to the table. ‘Why did you leave her? Why did you leave her for a single moment? You must have willed to lose her!’
Mor did not look up. He could feel the table trembling between them. ‘It was inevitable,’ he said dully.
‘Coward and fool!’ said Demoyte. Nothing was inevitable here. You have made your own future.‘
Mor put his head down upon the table for a moment. He raised it to say, ‘Will we see her — again?’ His voice did not have the cadence of a question.
‘Do not deceive yourself,’ said Demoyte. ‘I shall never see her again. You may meet her once more by accident in ten years time at a party when you are fat and bald and she is married. Would you like some coffee? I’ll get Handy to make us some.’ He rang the bell.
‘Did she leave any message for me?’ Mor asked.
‘She left something,’ said Demoyte. He got up and went to the desk at the far window. ‘Here it is.’
He brought a large plain envelope and put it into Mor’s hand. The envelope was unsealed. In an agony of apprehension and insane hope Mor drew out its contents. It was a sketch. He saw at once what it was. It was the sketch which she had made of him on the first evening when he had come and found her painting, and had sat with her and Demoyte, the evening when she had begun to fall in love with him. She had never remembered to show him the sketch. He looked at it now. She had said that it might have betrayed that she was beginning to love him. He saw upon the paper a young man with a strong twisted humorous face and curly hair, head thrown back in a rather proud attitude, a thick pillar of neck, a hand raised as if in dispute. It bore some resemblance to himself. He laid the sketch down on the table. Nothing was written upon it.
‘Was this all?’ he asked Demoyte.
‘Yes.’
Miss Handforth knocked and came in. She had interpreted the bell and carried a tray with black coffee and a bottle of brandy. She laid it down between them and went away without a word.
Mor mixed some brandy with the black coffee and drank it. He turned now to look at the portrait. He got up and walked across the room to study it more closely. Demoyte followed him. They looked at it a while in silence. Rain had changed the head a great deal. At first sight it seemed as if she had spoilt it. The fine sensitive lines which had built up the quiet musing expression which Mor had liked so much had been covered over with layer after layer of tiny patches of paint. The head stood out now solider, uglier, the expression no longer conveyed by the fine details, but seeming to emerge from the deep structure of the face. Mor was not sure whether he liked it better. He turned away. They both went back to sit at the table.
‘Well,’ said Demoyte, ‘we’ve each of us received a picture of ourselves.’ He poured out some more coffee.
‘I suppose I ought to go back,’ said Mor. ‘Nan will be wondering where I am.’ He said this without thought, automatically. towards him. ‘You
Demoyte pushed the bottle of brandy towards him. ‘You will take on the candidature, of course?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘I will do that now. Nan won’t resist it any more. She’ll abide by what she said last night’
‘If you drop this plan,’ said Demoyte, ‘if you let her cheat you out of that too, I’ll never receive you in this house again. Never. I mean that.’
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Mor. ‘I shall go ahead. I shall go ahead now.’ He drank some more brandy. He got up to go. He found that he still had his coat on with the collar turned up.
Demoyte rose. ‘Aren’t you going to take this?’ He indicated the sketch which still lay on the table.
‘No,’ said Mor, ‘you keep it for me. I should like it to be kept here.’ He turned away from it.
He got as far as the door. ‘By the way, sir,’ he said, ‘could I ask one thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Demoyte.
‘You remember you offered to help us to send Felicity to college if it were necessary? Does the offer still stand?’
‘Of course,’ said Demoyte.
‘Thank you,’ said Mor. ‘I may be glad to accept it. Perhaps I could discuss this with you later.’
‘Do as you like,’ said Demoyte. Good-bye.‘
‘Good-bye,’ said Mor. He felt a desire to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but kept silent, lingering at the door.
‘Come and see me in a few days,’ said Demoyte.
‘Yes,’ said Mor. He left the room. The last he saw of Demoyte, the old man was leaning on the edge of the table, looking gloomily towards the portrait.
Mor went out of the front door and found his bicycle. The sun was shining now, pale yellow, through a white haze. A steady stream of traffic was passing both ways along the main road. Mor decided to return home by the road and not by the fields. He got on to his machine and began to pedal slowly towards the hill. He felt extreme weariness. His headache had not left him. There was a buzzing in his ears and the brandy which he had drunk seemed to make his limbs weighty. The wind was against him.
As he neared the foot of the hill, pedalling with his head down, he heard through the noise of the traffic a strange cry. He looked up. Then he saw Felicity, who was coming flying down the hill on her bicycle, across on the other carriage way. She had seen him and was calling out. She came whirling towards him, dismounted at a high speed, and hurled herself and the bicycle across the grass which divided the two sections of the road. Mor came rapidly in towards the centre to meet her, and rode his bicycle on to the grass. As she came up to him, tumbling off her machine, Felicity called out something which at first Mor understood as ‘Rain’s come back!’ Then he realized that what Felicity must have said was ‘Don’s come back!’ They met with an impact, cannoning into each other, their bicycles colliding.
‘Oh, Daddy,’ cried Felicity, ‘I’m so glad I found you!’ She clung on to him.
‘Did you say Don had come back?’ said Mor.
‘Yes,’ said Felicity, ‘at least he’s not actually back yet. He came very late last night to Tim Burke’s house, and Tim rang up about half an hour ago to say that he was going to bring Don over on his motor bike. He says Don is quite all right. They ought to be arriving any moment now. We might see them on the way.’
‘Well, thank God for that,’ said Mor. He picked up Felicity’s bicycle and his own, and they got back on to the road and began to push their machines up the hill. Felicity still clung on to his arm.
‘How did you know where to look for me?’ said Mor.
‘I saw you go out,’ said Felicity, ‘and then I saw you go by again towards the fields. So I thought you might be down at Mr Demoyte’s house.’
Mor was silent. Arm in arm they plodded up the hill.
‘Daddy,’ said Felicity, ‘will you be an M.P. now?’
‘I suppose so, darling,’ said Mor, ‘if I get elected.’ He put his hand into hers.
‘Will we move to London?’ said Felicity.
‘Yes,’ said Mor, “we’ll move to London.‘
‘I’m so glad,’ said Felicity. ‘I shall like that. I’m tired of living here. Daddy — ’
‘Yes?’ said Mor.
‘Need I go on that secretarial course?’ said Felicity. ‘I wasn’t sure before, but now I think I’d much rather stay at school for the present.’
‘You shall stay at school then,’ said Mor, ‘and later on perhaps you’ll go to a university.’
Daddy,‘ said Felicity, ’don’t be too cross with Don.‘
‘I won’t be cross with him,’ said Mor.
‘Do you think Don could work with Tim Burke now?’ said Felicity. ‘He’d much rather do that than chemistry, only he was always afraid to tell you. He’s missed his silly exam anyway.’
We’ll see about that, darling,??
They were nearly at the top of the hill.
‘Daddy,’ said Felicity, ‘when we go to London do you think we could have another dog?’
Mor was very near to tears. Not the tears that he cried, as Rain had told him, inside his eyes, but visible tears that would stream down and wet his cheeks. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I expect we might have a dog when we go to London, if you’d like that.’
They had reached the top of the hill. They mounted their bicycles and began to free-wheel down the other side towards Mor’s house. The tears came to him now, coursing down his cheeks and blown away by the wind. He put one hand to his eyes. By the time he had reached his own front gate they were no longer flowing.
Nan was standing at the door. Mor leaned his bicycle against the fence and came up the path, followed by Felicity. He looked at Nan. He felt that his shoulders were bowed. She looked at him. She looked very tired and like an old woman. Before they could exchange any words a sound was heard which Mor recognized. It was the note of Tim Burke’s Velocette. They all three turned back to the road.
Tim Burke appeared round the corner, riding very slowly now. Donald was sitting behind him on the pillion, his arms clasped round Tim’s waist. The machine stopped outside the house and the two riders dismounted. Donald was still dressed in the flannels and gym shoes which he had worn on the day of the climb. He was also wearing an old mackintosh. His face was pale and withdrawn. Tim held him by the shoulder and turned towards the group at the gate. He seemed as nervous about his own reception as about Donald’s. He said in a defiant voice, ‘The prodigal’s return!’
‘Come inside,’ said Mor. He led the way into the house. Donald followed directly after him, pushed forward by Tim Burke. They all crowded into the hall. Mor turned to Donald. The boy looked at him, raising his eyebrows in a half humorous half desperate appeal. Mor embraced him, holding him fast for a minute in his arms. Then he said, ‘I expect you’re dead tired.’
Felicity was hugging him now and Nan was kissing him on the cheek. ‘I’m exhausted,’ said Donald. ‘I’m afraid I gave Tim an awful night too. We’ve hardly slept’
‘You’d better go straight to bed,’ said Nan. ‘Your clothes look as if they’re sticking to your body. Off with you now, and I’ll bring you up some hot coffee and an egg in bed.’
Donald began to mount the stairs. Mor followed after him and went with him into his bedroom. The door closed behind them.
Nan went into the kitchen. She nodded to Tim Burke to come with her. She put the kettle on the stove, and a saucepan to boil the egg. She lit the gas. Then she looked towards Tim Burke. He was sitting beside the table in an attitude of dejection. He would not meet her eye.
Felicity was sitting by herself on the stairs, half-way up. From the kitchen she could hear the noise of crockery and of the hissing gas. From up above she could hear the quiet sound of voices as Mor and Donald were talking in the bedroom. Everything was all right now. Why was it then that she was starting to cry? She fumbled in her clothes until she found a handkerchief. Her eyes were filled with tears and soon they were streaming down her face. She gave a little sob into her handkerchief. Everything was all right now. It was all right. It was all right.
IRIS MURDOCH IN PENGUIN
Fiction
Under the Net
The Flight from the Enchanter
The Sandcastle
The Bell
A Severed Head
An Unofficial Rose
The Unicorn
The Italian Girl
The Red and the Green
The Time of the Angels
The Nice and the Good
Bruno’s Dream
A Fairly Honourable Defeat
An Accidental Man
The Black Prince
The Sacred and Profane Love Machine
A Word Child
Henry and Cato
The Sea, the Sea
Nuns and Soldiers
The Philosopher’s Pupil
The Good Apprentice
The Book and the Brotherhood
The Message to the Planet
The Green Knight
Jackson’s Dilemma
Non-Fiction
Acastos: Two Platonic Dialogues
Metaphysics As a Guide to Morals
Iris Murdoch, The Sandcastle