The Sandcastle (4 page)

Demoyte seemed taken aback for a moment. Mor taunted him with his eyes. ‘Little
puritan!’ said Demoyte. ‘So you reprove us all! Let me fill your glass yet
again.’
No, thank you, Mr Demoyte,‘ said Miss Carter. ’Of course, it takes a long time
to know a man, and this is only an impression. What do you think, Mrs Mor?‘
Mor held his breath. He thought the question rather bold. He hoped that Nan was
not going to dislike Miss Carter.
‘Well,’ said Nan, ‘I think fundamentally Mr Everard is a fool, and if someone
is a fool, especially if he’s in a position of authority, this spoils his other
good qualities.’
‘For once,’ cried Demoyte, ‘I find myself in complete agreement with Mrs Mor.
And now, dear friends, it’s time for coffee.’
Coffee was taken in the library. Mor loved this room too. It lay above the
drawing-room and had the same view, but it was a longer room. There were the
three tall windows, corresponding to the ones below, and then an extra piece on
the front side of the house giving to the library one of the big bow windows
which faced the drive. Directly below this, cut off from the drawing-room, was
a little room which Miss Handforth, making what was always supposed to be a
joke, would call her boudoir. The bow window on the other side of the hall
belonged to the dining-room, and above, to Demoyte’s bedroom. Next to the
library at the back of the house was a guest bedroom, which also enjoyed a view
of the lawn, and through whose other window could be seen, once it had grown
dark, a reddish glow which showed, at a distance of some twenty miles, where
London lay.
Demoyte s books were all behind glass, so that the room was full of
reflections. Demoyte was a connoisseur of books. Mor, who was not, had long ago
been barred from the library. Mor liked to tear a book apart as he read it,
breaking the back, thumbing and turning down the pages, commenting and
underlining. He liked to have his books close to him, upon a table, upon the
floor, at least upon open shelves. Seeing them so near and so destroyed, he
could feel that they were now almost inside his head. Demoyte’s books seemed a
different kind of entity. Yet he liked to see them too, elegant, stiff and
spotless, gilded and calved, books to be held gently in the hand and admired,
and which recalled to mind the fact of which Mor was usually oblivious that a
book is a thing and not just a collection of thoughts.
The others sat down near to one of the lamps. Mor wandered about the room. He
felt free and at ease; almost, for the moment, happy. He looked out of the
windows. The Close was never silent, since day and night there could be heard
the hum of the traffic along the arterial road and the distant thunder of
trains and their sad piping cries. Headlights of cars swept by perpetually in
the middle distance, revealing trees and the scored surface of sandy
embankments. Mor turned back into the room. He surveyed the group by the lamp.
His eyes still full of the night, he felt detached and superior. Miss Carter
was sitting with her legs drawn up under her. Her skirt spread in a big arc
about her, and the lamplight falling upon the lower half of it made it glow
with reds and yellows. She looked, Mor thought, like some small and brilliantly
plum-aged bird. He felt he was being rude, and turned to one of the bookcases.
‘Keep your paws off those books!’ called Demoyte. ‘Come and drink your coffee,
or Handy will remove it. You know she only allows seven minutes for coffee.’
Miss Handforth appeared. She was wearing a rather grubby apron and was clearly
in the middle of washing up.
‘Can I take it now,’ she said, ‘or have I spoken out of turn?’ She sneezed. Nan
ostentatiously averted her head while Handy busied herself pulling the
curtains. Mor gulped his coffee down and the tray was removed.
Mor joined the conversation. He could see Nan looking restless and knew that
she was now calculating how soon she could decently rise to go. He could almost
hear her counting.
‘I think we ought to be starting for home,’ said Nan, after some little time.
She looked at Mor.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Mor. He did not want to go yet.
Nan rose with determination. Demoyte did not try to detain her. The company
began to drift in a polite group towards the door.
‘I asked Handy to cut you some roses,’ said Demoyte, ‘but I have an uneasy
feeling she’s forgotten. Handy!’ He shouted over the bannisters, ‘Roses for Mrs
Mor!’
Mor was touched. He knew that the roses were really for him, in response to his
having, a few days ago, expressed admiration for the rose garden.
Miss Handforth appeared from the kitchen with a loud clack of the green baise
door. ‘I didn’t get down the garden today,’ she announced.
‘Well, get down
now
,’ said Demoyte in an irritated tone. He was tired of
the evening.
‘You know I can’t see in the dark,’ said Miss Handforth, well aware that
Demoyte was not serious. ‘Besides, the dew is down.’
Nan said simultaneously, ‘Don’t bother, please. They would have been
lovely
,
but now don’t bother.’ Mor knew that she was not interested in the roses. Nan
thought on the whole that flowers were rather messy and insanitary things. But
she was quite pleased all the same to be able to underline that Handy was in
the wrong.
‘Let me go!’ said Miss Carter suddenly. ‘I can see in the dark. I know where
the roses are. Let me cut some for Mrs Mor.’ She ran ahead of them down the
wide staircase.
‘Capital!’ said Demoyte. ‘Handy, give her the big scissors from the hall
drawer. You go with her, Mor, and see she really knows the way. I’ll entertain
your lady. But for Christ’s sake don’t be long.
Miss Carter took the scissors and vanished through the front door. Mor ran
after her, and closed the door behind him. The night was cool and very dark. He
could not see, but knew the way without sight to the wooden door in the wall
that led into the main garden. He heard the door clap before him, and in a
moment he felt its surface under his hand, cool and yielding. He emerged on to
the quiet dewy lawn. He heard the distant traffic and saw the interrupted
flashes from the headlights, but all about him was dark and still. He blinked,
and saw ahead of him the small figure hurrying away across the lawn.
‘Miss Carter!’ said Mor in a low voice, ‘wait for me, I’m coming too.’ After
the brilliance of the house the garden was strange, pregnant with trees and
bushes, open to the dew and the stars. He felt almost alarmed.
Miss Carter had stopped and was waiting for him. She seemed less tiny now that
there were no objects with which to compare her. He saw her eyes glint in the
darkness. ‘This way, she said.
Mor blundered after her. ‘Yes, you can see in the dark,’ he said. ‘I wish I
could.’ They went through the yew hedge under the archway into the second
garden.
They walked quietly across the lawn. Mor felt strangely breathless. Miss Carter
was laying her feet very softly to the earth and made no sound at all as she
walked. Mor tried to step softly too, but he could feel and hear under his feet
the moisture in the close-cropped grass. An intense perfume of damp earth and
darkened flowers surrounded them and quenched the noises of the world outside.
Mor could see very little, but he continued to follow the dark moving shape of
the girl ahead. He was still dazed by the swiftness of the transition.
They reached the steps which led up into the third garden. Miss Carter went up
the steps like a bird and for a moment he saw the pallor of her bare arm exposed
against the black holly bush as she turned to wait for him. Mor plunged
forward, his foot seeking the lowest step. He stumbled and almost fell.
‘Here, come this way,’ she said from above him, ‘this way.’ She kept her voice
soft, compelled to by the garden. Then she came back down the steps and he
realized that she was reaching out her hand. Mor took her hand in his and let
her guide him up the steps. Her grip was firm. They passed between the black
holly bushes, and released each other. Mor felt a strong shock within him, as
if very distantly something had subsided or given way. He had a confused
feeling of surprise. The moon came out of the clouds for a moment and suddenly
the sky was seen in motion.
The rose garden was about them now, narrowing towards the place where Demoyte’s
estate ended in the avenue of mulberry trees. Mor had never seen it by night.
It looked different now, as if the avenue were immensely long, and Mor had a
strange momentary illusion that it was in that direction that the house lay,
far off at the end of the avenue: Demoyte’s house, or else its double, where
everything happened with a difference.
‘
Quelle merveille!
’ said Miss Carter in a low voice. She took a few
quick steps across the grass, and then stopped, lifting her face to the
moonlight. A moment later she began to run and threw her arms about the trunk
of the first mulberry tree of the avenue. The branches above her were murmuring
like a river.
Mor coughed. He was slightly embarrassed by these transports. ‘You know, we mustn’t
be too long,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Miss Carter, detaching herself from the tree, ‘we shall pick
them very quickly now. She began to run between the beds, picking out the buds
which were just partly open. The scissors snicked and the long-stemmed roses
were cast on to the grass. The moon whitened the paler ones and made the dark
ones more dark, like blood. Mor tried to pick a rose, but as he had nothing
with which to cut it he only pricked himself and mangled the rose.
‘Leave all to me,’ said Miss Carter, coming to snip off the dangling blossom.
‘There, that should be enough.’
Mor was anxious to get back now. He had a vision of Nan and Demoyte waiting
impatiently in the hall. Also, there was something which he wanted to think
over. He hastened ahead down the stone steps, his eyes now accustomed to the
dark, and ran noisily across the lawn to the yew hedge. Here he waited, and
held the iron gate open for Miss Carter. It clinked to behind them, and now
they could see the lighted windows of the house where already Miss Handforth
had drawn back the curtains in preparation for the night. They passed the
wooden gate, and in a moment they were blinking and rubbing their eyes in the
bright light of the hall. Miss Carter clutched the great armful of roses to her
breast.
‘What an age you were,’ said Nan. ‘Did you get lost?’
‘No,’ said Mor, ‘it was just very dark.’
‘Here are the roses,’ said Miss Carter, trying to detach them from where they
had pinned themselves to her cotton blouse. ‘What about some paper to put them
in?’
‘Here, have the
Evening News
,’ said Demoyte, taking it from the table.
‘I haven’t read it, but to the devil with it, now the day is over.’
Nan spread out the paper on the table and Miss Carter laid the roses upon it,
trying to order them as she did so. ‘How beautiful!’ said Nan. ‘Miss Carter
must have one, don’t you think?’ She selected a deep red rose and held it out
graciously to Miss Carter, who took it and fumbled awkwardly to fix it at her
bosom. She failed, and held it in her hand, against her skirt.
‘Now take your flowers and be off with you,’ said Demoyte, who was yawning and
clearly wanted to be in bed. ‘Good night!’
‘Good night, sir,’ said Mor, ‘and thank you. Good night, Miss Carter.’
‘Good night,’ said Nan. ‘Thank you for the roses.’
‘Good night,’ said Miss Carter.
Nan and Mor were out on the gravel outside the front door. The house glowed at
them for a moment from within, and they saw the figures of Demoyte and Miss
Carter waving them off. Then the door shut and the light above it went out.
Demoyte did not believe in seeing his guests off the premises. Nan waited while
in darkness Mor found his bicycle. They started down the drive, Mor pushing the
machine. Nan took hold of his arm.
‘Thank heavens that’s over!’ she said, ‘it was rather grizzly, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Mor.
‘What did you make of Miss Carter?’ said Nan.
‘Not much,’ said Mor. ‘I found her a bit intimidating. Rather solemn.’
‘She takes herself seriously,’ said Nan. ‘But she’s really a little clown. She
obviously gets on swimmingly with Demoyte when no one else is there.’
‘Maybe,’ said Mor, who hadn’t thought of that.
‘You were ages in the garden,’ said Nan. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mor, ‘absolutely nothing.’
They walked on in silence and turned on to the main road. Mor was reviving in
his mind the curious feeling of shock which he had experienced at the top of
the stone steps. He found it hard to interpret.

Chapter
Three

‘RIGDEN,’
said Mor.
A long silence followed. Mor was taking the Fifth Form Latin class, a chore
which sometimes came his way during the absence on sick leave of Mr Baseford,
the classics master. The day was the day after Mr Demoyte’s dinner party. It
was a hot afternoon, the first period after lunch, a time which Mor hated. A
fly buzzed on the window. Twenty boys sat with the Elegies of Propertius open
before them. Rigden clearly could make nothing of the line in question.
‘Come on, Rigden,’ said Mor rather wearily, ‘have a bash. You can translate the
first word anyway.’
‘
You
,’ said Rigden. He was a slight crazy-looking boy with a small head.
He idolized Mor. His inability to please him was one of the tragedies of his
school days. He leaned intently over his book.
‘That’s right,’ said Mor, ‘and the second word.’
A yell of uncontrolled laughter went up in the next room. That was Mr Prewett’s
mathematics class. Prewett was unhappily quite unable to keep order. Mor knew
that keeping order was a gift of nature, but he could not but despise Prewett a
little all the same. Mor himself had but to look at the boys and they fell
silent.
‘
Only
,’ said Rigden.
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘now go on.’
Rigden stared wretchedly at the page. ‘
While it is permitted
,’ he said.
‘
Lucet
, you juggins,’ said Mor, ‘not
licet
. Carde?’
Jimmy Carde was one of Mor’s enemies. He was also the bosom friend of Mor’s son
Donald. Mor never felt at ease with Carde.
‘
While there
is
light
,’ said Carde. He spoke in a casual and
superior way, scarcely opening his mouth, as if it were a concession on his
part to support these absurd proceedings at all.
‘That’s right,’ said Mor. ‘Now, Rigden, you go on.’
Rigden was beginning to look desperate. He gazed into the book, biting his lip.
‘Get a move on,’ said Mor, ‘we haven’t got all day.’ He sighed, hearing the
traffic which murmured away sleepily in the distance. There came back into his
consciousness the thought, which had not been far absent from it throughout the
lesson, that at a quarter past three he was to meet the portrait painter, Miss
Carter, and show her round the school. A note from Mr Everard, waiting in his
pigeon-hole that morning, had conveyed the request; and since its arrival Mor
had had little time for reflection. He had felt only, for some reason that was
obscure to him, a slight feeling of disappointment and irritation that his next
meeting with Miss Carter was not to be at Mr Everard’s lunch party, which he
had fixed in his mind as the next occasion when he would see her.
‘Lives do not desert the fruit,’
said Rigden in desperation, throwing
caution to the winds.
‘No,’ said Mor. ‘Did you prepare this, Rigden?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Rigden, not raising his eyes, and trying to invest his voice
with a tone of injured innocence.
‘Well, you’d better stay behind afterwards and talk to me about it,’ said Mor.
‘Our time’s nearly up. Could somebody finish translating? Carde, what about
you, could you do the last six lines for us?’
Carde sat quietly looking at the poem. He was a good performer, and he was in
no hurry. Carde was efficient, and Mor respected efficiency. In the moment of
renewed silence he looked again at the poem. He had chosen it for them that
morning as a piece of prepared translation. Perhaps after all it was too hard.
Perhaps also not quite suitable. His eye passed over the lines.
Tu modo, dum lucet, fructum ne desere vitae.
Omnia si dederis oscula, pauca dabis.
Ac veluti folia arentes liquere corollas,
Quae passim calathis strata natare vides,
Sic nobis, qui nunc magnum speramus amantes
Forsitan includet aastina fata dies.
Carde cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ said Mor. He looked at his watch. He saw that the period was nearly
ended, and a slight feeling of uneasiness came over him.
‘While the light remains,’ said Carde, speaking slowly in his high deliberate
voice, ‘only do not forsake the joy of life. If you shall have given all your
kisses, you will give too few. And as leaves fall from withered wreaths which
you may see spread upon the cups and floating there, so for us, who now as
lovers hope for so much, perhaps tomorrow’s day will close the doom.’
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘yes. Very nice, Carde. Thank you. Now you can all go. Rigden,
wait a moment, would you?’
An immediate clatter broke out, and amid a banging of books and desk tops there
was a rush for the door. Carde was first out. Mr Prewett’s class was evidently
up at the same moment, and there was a confluence of din outside. The
admonishing of Rigden took but little time, and Mor strode into the musty
corridor to disperse the riot. A moment later he emerged from the centre door
of what was gracelessly called Main School into the sunshine and looked about
him.
The chief buildings of St Bride’s were grouped unevenly around a large square
of asphalt which was called the playground, although the one thing that was
strictly forbidden therein was playing. The buildings consisted of four tall
red-brick blocks: Main School, which contained the hall, and most of the senior
classrooms, and which was surmounted by the neo-Gothic tower; Library, which
contained the library and more classrooms, and which was built close against
Main School, jutting at right angles from it; School House, opposite to
Library, where the scholars ate and slept; and ‘Phys and Gym’ opposite to Main
School, which contained the gymnasium, some laboratories, the administrative offices,
and two flats for resident masters. The St Bride’s estate was extensive, but
lay along the slope of a hill, which created notorious problems upon the
playing fields which lay behind Main School, stretching away towards the
fringes of the housing estate and the maze of suburban roads in the midst of
which Mor’s house lay. The playground was connected with the main road by a
gravel drive which ran through a shrubbery, past the masters’ garden; but the
largest section of the grounds lay farther down the hill, below the Library
building. Here there was a thick wood of oak and birch, dense with fern and
undergrowth, and cut by many winding paths, deep and soft with old leaves, the
paradise of the younger boys. On the fringe of this wood, within sight of the Library,
stood the Chapel, a stumpy oblong building of lighter brick and more recent
date, looking not unlike a water works. Beyond this, hidden among the trees,
were the three houses to which the boys other than the scholars belonged, where
they lived and took their meals and, if they were senior boys, had their
studies. These were Mor’s house, Prewett’s house, and the third was under the
aegis of Mr Baseford, then on sick leave. The houses dully bore the names of
their housemasters, and a keen rivalry between them was continually fostered by
the teaching staff. Beyond the wood, alongside the arterial road, which skirted
the school grounds on that side, lay the squash courts and the swimming pool -
and upon the other side, upon the edge of the housing estate, were the music
rooms and the studio. At the bottom of the hill was a ragged lawn, a
half-hearted attempt at a flower garden, and beyond these a white stucco
Victorian house inhabited
de officio
by Mr Everard. This ended the
domain.
Mr Everard’s note to Mor had said that Miss Carter would be waiting in the
playground at the end of the first afternoon period. Mor looked quickly about,
but could not see her. The strong sun was slanting in between the Library and
the Phys and Gym, gilding the dark nobbly surface of the asphalt. Warmth arose
from it, and the air quivered slightly. What Mor did see, at the corner of the
playground near the far end of the Library, was his son Donald. Towards Donald,
across the sunny asphalt, Jimmy Carde was making his way by a series of
spectacular skips and jumps. He reached Donald and made violent impact with him
like a bouncing ball. They spun round gripping each other’s shoulders. From a
distance Mor saw this encounter without pleasure.
Mor began to walk across the playground in the direction of Library. He looked
about him for Miss Carter, who was not to be seen, and kept the still rotating
pair in the comer of his eye. As Mor neared the main door of Library he saw
that Donald and Carde had noted his approach. They drew apart, and in a moment
Carde had sped away back across the open space, leaping as he did so madly into
the air and spreading out his arms with palms and fingers extended until at
last, capering grotesquely, he disappeared through the door of School House. Carde
was a scholar. Donald was left standing alone at the comer of the Library
building. He was clearly uncertain what to do. He would have liked to slip
away, but now that his father patently had him in his field of vision, it
seemed improper to do this. On the other hand, Donald had no intention of
making any approach to his father. He stood perfectly still, clutching his book
and watching in a glassy way to see whether Mor would go into Library or pass
round the far side of the building.
Mor also hesitated. Random encounters between himself and his son during school
hours embarrassed both, and Mor avoided them as far as possible. However, he
felt that he could not now ignore Donald. This might hurt the boy even more. So
he turned towards him. Rooted to the spot, Donald awaited his father.
‘Hello, Don,’ said Mor, ‘how goes it?’
Donald looked at him, and looked away at once. He was tall enough now to look
Mor in the eyes; indeed, there was scarcely an inch between them. His
resemblance to his father was considerable. He had Mor’s crisp dark hair, his
crooked nose and lop-sided smile. His eyes were darker though, and more
suspicious. Mor’s eyes were a flecked grey, Donald’s a brooding brown. The
black points upon his chin portended a dark and vigorous beard. His face was
soft, however, still with the indeterminacy of boyhood. His mouth was shapeless
and pouting, not firmly set.
Donald was long in growing up - too long, Mor felt with some sadness. He could
not but grieve over his son’s strange lack of maturity. At an age when he
himself had been devouring books of every kind in an insatiable hunger for
knowledge, Donald appeared to have no intellectual interests at all. He worked
at his chemistry in a desultory fashion, sufficiently to keep himself out of
positive disgrace; but apart from this Donald seemed to do, as far as Mor could
see, nothing whatever. He spent a lot of time hanging about, talking to Carde
and others, or even, what seemed to Mor odder still, alone. He was to be seen
for half an hour on end just leaning out of his window, or else sitting on the
grass in the lower garden beyond the wood, his arms about his knees, doing
absolutely nothing. This mode of existence was to Mor extremely mys — terious.
But he had not yet ventured to chide or even question Donald concerning the
employment of his time. Donald’s reading, such as it was, seemed to consist
mainly of Three
Men in a Boat
, which he read over and over again, always
laughing immoderately, and various books on climbing which he kept carefully concealed
from his mother. During the holi — days he was a tireless and indiscriminate
cinema-goer. As Mor looked at him now, at his suspicious and sideways-turning
face, he felt a deep sadness that he was not able to express his love for his
son, and that it could even be that Donald did not know at all that it existed.
‘All right,’ said Donald. ‘I’m just off down to the nets.’ Donald was a
fanatical cricketer.
‘You’re in the house team, aren’t you?’ said Mor. Donald was in Mr Prewett’s
house.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Donald. ‘I was last year.’
He half turned, not sure if it was now proper for him to go away.
But Mor wanted to keep him there, to keep him until something had been said
which would be a real communication between them. He wished that Donald would meet
his eyes. He hated his calling him ‘sir’.
‘Carde translated well in my Latin class,’ said Mor. He felt anxious to say
something nice about Carde.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Donald.
Mor wondered whether Donald would tell Carde that he had said that, and whether
it would please Carde to be told. How little he knew about them. He looked at
the book under Donald’s arm. He knew from experience that the boy hated being
asked what he was reading. But curiosity overcame his judgement. ‘What’s the
book, Don?’ he asked.
Donald passed it over without a word. Mor looked at the title. Five
Hundred
Best Jokes and Puzzles.
‘Hmmm,’ said Mor. He could think of no comment on the book. He gave it back to
his son.
At that moment Mor saw, over Donald’s shoulder, a small figure approaching. It
was Miss Carter. Mor saw at once, with some annoyance, that she was wearing
trousers. Donald half turned, saw her, and mumbling an excuse retreated rapidly
and took to his heels, running in the direction of the playing fields.
‘I’m sorry to be so late,’ said Miss Carter, ‘and I hope I didn’t disturb you
just now. One of your pupils?’
‘My son,’ said Mor.
Miss Carter seemed surprised. She looked at Mor curiously. ‘I did not think you
could have a son so old,’ she said, her odd precise voice lilting slightly.
‘Well, you see I can, said Mor awkwardly. He wished that she had not made
herself conspicuous by wearing trousers. They were close-fitting black ones,
narrow at the ankles. With them Miss Carter wore a vivid blue shirt, blue
canvas shoes, and no other adornments. She was slim enough; but all the same
she looked in those garments, Mor thought, rather like a school child dressed
to impersonate a Paris street boy.
‘It must be a wonderful thing to have a grown-up son,’ said Miss Carter.
‘It is good,’ said Mor, ‘but it has its stormy moments. Shall we go this way?’
They began to walk along towards the main door of Library.
‘I can see that you are irritated by my trousers,’ said Miss Carter, ‘and if I
had thought more I would not have worn them. But I have them for working in,
and it didn’t occur to me to change. I will next time.’
Mor laughed, and his irritation vanished completely. He led her up the stairs
to show her the Library. As they walked in silence between the tables, now
loaded with books over which the senior boys were bent at their work, Mor found
himself wondering whether Miss Carter remembered with any sort of interest that
in the garden last night she had taken his hand in hers. He did not imagine
that she did. The speculation came quite quietly into Mor’s mind, and he
entertained it without emotion. As they descended the stairs, he forgot it
again.