The Sandcastle (17 page)

‘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 spoke very slowly as if deliberately to
torture his interlocutor.
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 stood up on the ladder, folded up the silk, and
held it out to Bledyard. Her legs were bare and very smooth. Both men averted
their eyes and looked up into her face. She looked down upon them with the
slightly prim slightly pleased expression of a Victorian little girl.
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!’
Mor stood close beside her. His breath came quickly. He did not look at her
yet. He said, ‘
Rain
.’
Rain saw at once that something had happened and she saw in the same moment
what it was that had happened. She froze, her hand still holding her ankle, and
looked down towards the ground. Then gradually she relaxed. She said very
softly, almost thoughtfully, ‘Mor,’ and again ‘Mor.’
At the same instant they both turned to look at each other. Perched upon the
ladder her face was level with Mor’s. He leaned forward and very. carefully
enclosed her bare shoulders in his arms. Then he drew her towards him and
kissed her gently but fully upon the lips. The experience of touching her was
so shattering to him that he had now to hide his face. He let it fall first
upon her shoulder, and then, as he felt the roughness of his chin touching her
flesh, he bent down and laid his head against her breast. He could smell the
fresh smell of her cotton dress and feel the warmth of her breast and the
violent beating of her heart. His own heart was beating as if it would break.
All this happened in a moment. Then Rain was gently pushing him away, and
getting down from the ladder. She stood before him now, very small, looking up
at him. ‘No,’ she said in a very quiet pensive voice. ‘No, no, please, dear
Mor, dear, no, no.’ It was like the moaning of a dove.
She said, ‘Would you mind taking the ladder back to the studio? You could leave
it just outside in the yard.’ She picked up the jacket of her dress, which had
been lying on the grass, and drew it on.
Mor stood as she spoke, his hands hanging down, looking at her unsmiling as if
his eyes would burn her. He had heard the beating of her heart.
She hesitated, looking down, her hand involuntarily held to her breast. Then
she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Then she turned and ran away very quickly into the
wood.
Mor did not attempt to follow her. He stood for a moment, leaning with one arm
upon the step-ladder. Then, like one who is fainting, he sat upon the ground.

Chapter
Ten

THE
day of the House Match was, as everyone had predicted, a fine day. The heat
wave had been lasting now for more than a month. The sun shone from a cloudless
sky upon the cricket field, which was tanned to a pale brownish colour except
where in the centre assiduous watering had kept the pitch a bright green. Mor
was standing behind the double row of deck-chairs near the pavilion. He was in
his shirt sleeves and suffering considerably from the heat. He would have liked
to go away anywhere into the shade, preferably into the darkness. He would have
liked to sleep. But he had to be there, to show himself, to walk and talk as if
everything were perfectly ordinary.
Not that Mor was unmoved by the House Match. An irrational excitement always
surrounded this ritual. Even the masters were touched by it; and this year Mor
found himself almost excessively upset. He could hardly bear to watch the game.
His own house were fielding. They had been batting in the morning and early
afternoon and had put up a total of a hundred and sixty-eight. Prewett’s were
now batting, and one of the two batsmen who had been in now for some time was
Donald Mor, who had gone in first wicket down. Donald was playing extremely
well, with style and with force, and two fours which he had recently hit had
won prolonged applause. He had made twenty-three, and looked as if he was
settling in. Prewett’s total stood at fifty-two for one.
Jimmy Carde had just come on to bowl. Carde was attached to Mor’s house by an
arrangement whereby the scholars were, for certain purposes, distributed among
the other houses. In effect, this merely meant that they played games for these
houses and sometimes travelled with them on expeditions. Carde was a rather
ostentatious fast bowler, with a long run and a good deal of flourishing and
bounding. The ball came down the pitch like a thunderbolt when launched by
Carde, but not always very straight. Mor watched him bowl once to Donald. Then
he turned away his head. He was moved by the spectacle of his son, and his
identification with him was at that moment considerable.
Mor began to mooch along slowly behind the deck-chairs. He was feeling
extremely unhappy. He looked across the field to where the housing estate lay
spread out along the far boundary, a sprawling conglomeration of bright red
boxes. He looked back over his shoulder towards the wood. It looked cool and
dark. Mor wondered if he could decently escape, and decided that he couldn’t. A
burst of clapping arose, and he looked round to see that Donald had just driven
the ball past cover point for another four. Donald s success was obviously
pleasing to the school. He was standing now in the middle of the pitch,
conferring with his fellow batsman. Carde came down and said something to them
and they both laughed. Mor mooched onwards, watched as he passed by boys
anxious to descry whether his loyalties at that moment were with his house or
with his son.
The House Match, which was the final in a knock-out contest, normally lasted
for two days, but it was the first day which was the great occasion; it ended
with a dinner given by the Headmaster to the housemasters, a festival which
under Evvy’s consulship had reached an unprecedented degree of dreariness. Mr
Baseford, who was a man who liked his bottle, had tried to coach Evvy into
making something of this dinner, so far with little success, and now Baseford
was away Mor did not care enough to try to continue his work. In the morning
and afternoon, parents and other visitors were not encouraged to appear,
although a few did sometimes turn up. The match was kept as a domestic
occasion, the two lines of deck-chairs being occupied mainly by masters and by
their families if any, and a few local friends. The School lounged along the
edge of the wood, half in and half out of the shade, wearing the floppy canvas
sun hats which St Bride’s boys affected in the summer, or else crowded near the
pavilion within talking distance of the batting side. Mor judged that almost
every body must be present. The crowd by the wood was especially dense.
Occasionally a soft murmur arose from it, or the voice of a boy was heard far
back under the trees, but mostly there was complete silence except for the
intermittent patter of applause.
Mr Everard was sitting in one of the deck-chairs in the front row talking to
Hensman, who was always the hero of this particular day. Prewett was just
emerging from the pavilion. Tim Burke, who was present as usual on Mor’s
invitation, was also sitting in the front row. He seemed in good spirits,
looking slightly bronzed and healthier than usual, and was talking over his
shoulder to one of the Sixth Form boys. Tim always got on well with the boys.
Mor decided that it was about time he went back to Tim or else sat down near
the wood, but he did nothing about it. On this occasion no women were present.
Nan, whom duty would have constrained to come, was away, and Mrs Prewett, who
was an enthusiastic cricket fan, was at home suffering from a touch of
sunstroke. Mor looked round the edge of the field and sighed. He wished the day
was over.
It was now five days since Nan’s departure and since the extraordinary scene in
the wood. Since that time, Mor had not met Rain, nor had he made any attempt to
meet her. She on her part had equally avoided him. He had caught not even a
glimpse of her in the intervening days. Mor had gone to bed that night in a
state of dazed and blissful happiness such as he could not remember having ever
experienced before. He woke on the following morning in despair. He was ready then
to attribute his outburst to a sudden relaxing of tension connected with Nan’s
disappearance, to a revengeful anger against Nan for her behaviour, to
overworking, to the relentless continuance of the heat wave. Whatever the
explanation, it was clear that nothing more must come of this. To have made the
declaration at all was insane; he could not think how he could have been so
foolish.
He was, in particular, astonished that he could have let himself be so moved
and softened merely by putting to himself the idea that he was in love. It
seemed almost as if this phrase in itself had done the damage. Yet he knew
perfectly that the notion of being in love, which was all very well for boys in
their twenties, could have no possible place in his life. Mor took seriously
the obligations imposed by matrimony. At least he supposed he did. He had never
really had occasion to reflect on the matter. He had always been scrupulously
responsible and serious in everything that related to his wife and children.
But it was not so much considerations such as these which made him feel that he
had acted wrongly. It was simply the non-existence in his life, as it solidly
and in reality was, of any place for an emotion or a drama of this kind. When
he had imagined himself to be swayed by an overwhelming passion he had been a
man in a dream. Now he had awakened from the dream.
It was not a happy awakening. Mor was tormented by the thought that he had
startled Rain, perhaps shocked her, and might, for a while, be contributing to
make her unhappy, or at least anxious. He had no idea what exactly her thoughts
and feelings might be; but he was certain that her concern with him could not
possibly extend farther than a mild and vaguely friendly interest. That being
so, his outburst and subsequent withdrawal were not likely to cause her any
serious suffering. At worst, there would be a certain amount of embarrassment
at such few inevitable social encounters as might remain to be got through
before she went away for good. All the same, it grieved Mor to think that he
had subjected her to this unpleasant experience. Then he reflected also upon
their previous
tête-à-tête,
and concluded that really Rain must have a
very poor view of him indeed; and he was tempted to write her a note of
apology. He resisted this temptation. The idea of writing to her was at once
suspiciously attractive, and Mor had been made wary by his earlier experience
of letter-writing. To write would merely be to add yet another act to a drama
which had better simply terminate at once. He would just be silent and absent
and hope that Rain would understand.
He had been anxious that morning in case she might take it into her head to
come and watch the House Match. Evvy would have been certain to invite her to
come. But she had not appeared, and would not be very likely to come at this
late hour. Mor’s attention returned abruptly to the pitch. Donald had hit a
ball short to mid-on, had decided to run, and had been almost run out. The
School gasped and relaxed. It was the last ball of the over, so now Donald had
to face the bowling again. Mor wished half-heartedly that he would soon be out.
The strain was too disagreeable. Anyhow, it was nearly time for the tea
interval, thank heavens.
Just then a peculiar figure emerged from the wood. It was Bledyard. Bledyard
seemed to think it incumbent on him on occasions such as this to make some sort
of an effort to fit him self into the picture. His effort, in this case,
consisted mostly of dressing himself in white flannels and wearing a blazer. It
was through phenomena of this kind that Mor had become aware on purely
sartorial evidence that Bledyard was an old Etonian. Bledyard came towards him,
nodded, Mor thought a trifle coldly, and then went on to take a deck-chair in
the second row by himself. Mor felt curiously wounded by Bledyard’s coldness.
Although he rarely reflected upon it, he valued Bledyard’s good opinion. A
gloomy guilty feeling crept through him, which changed into an exasperated
misery. Everything was against him.
Then somewhere beyond the pavilion a patch of white shimmering light began to
form itself. It quivered at the corner of Mor’s field of attention as he was
wandering slowly back again in the opposite direction. He stopped and took in
what it was. It was Rain, who was approaching the scene across an expanse of
open grass. She was dressed in a light-blue cotton dress with a wide skirt and
a deep round neck, and she was carrying a frilly white parasol. She had rather
a diffident air, and twirled the parasol nervously as she came forward. The
moving pattern of shadows fell upon her face. Mor looked at her, and he felt as
if an enormous vehicle had driven straight through him, leaving a blank hole to
the edges of which he still raggedly adhered.
Rain’s arrival created a stir. Someone tapped Mr Everard on the shoulder and
pointed. All the incumbents of the deck-chairs began to jump up and to run
backwards or forwards. Sixth Form boys began picking up chairs and moving them
to what they took to be suitable places. Evvy struggled up, tried to squeeze
backwards between the chairs, caught his foot in one, lost his balance, and was
set upright again by Hensman. The eyes of the School were turned away from the
cricket field. Everybody was looking at Rain, who was now walking along in
front of the deck-chairs. Evvy was squeezing back again between the chairs so
as to hand her to the seat next to his. Even some of the fielders were turning
round to see what was happening, shading their eyes as they did so. ‘Over!’
shouted the umpire, waking up to his duties. The field began to change places.
Donald, who had stolen another run, was still at the batting end. The ball was
thrown to Carde.
As Carde crossed the field, he passed near to Donald. ‘Your pappa’s poppet!’ he
said - and he went away down the pitch dancing and whistling ‘A nice girl, a
decent girl, but one of the rakish kind!’ and tossing the ball rhythmically up
and down.
Donald coloured violently, looked towards the pavilion, then looked away and
leaned over his bat, keeping his head down. He straightened up to face the
bowling.
Carde took his usual long run and bounded up to the wicket like a performing
panther. The ball left his hand like a bullet. Donald poked at it
ineffectually; and turned to find that his middle stump was lying neatly upon
the ground. There was a burst of applause. Donald turned at once and walked
rapidly towards the pavilion. He did not look at Carde.
Mor turned about to see that his son had been clean bowled. Amidst the other
shocks this shock was separately felt, palpably different in quality. Rain had
seated herself beside Evvy, and the other spectators had settled back. Now they
were clapping Donald into the pavilion. He had made thirty-one. The next
batsman was walking out. Mor wondered whether he should go away. One of the
junior masters came up to him and engaged him in conversation. He replied
mechanically.
Two overs later it was time for the tea interval. Mor was still there, standing
uneasily in the waste land between the deck-chairs and the wood. He saw Tim
Burke coming towards him, and together they set off in the direction of the
marquee which had been set up at the far end of the field. Mor deliberately
blinded himself to what Evvy’s party was doing.
‘A fine show young Don put up,’ said Tim Burke.
‘Yes, Don did well,’ said Mor.
They entered the stifling marquee. There was a powerful smell of warm grass and
canvas which brought back to Mor the long long series of past summer terms. A
crowd of boys was already there fighting for their tea. A special buffet had
been reserved for the masters, and here Mor and Tim were evidently the first to
arrive. Mor pressed a tea-cup and a cucumber sandwich on his guest. With an
effort he did not look back over his shoulder.
Tim Burke was saying something. He drew Mor away into a comer of the tent. ‘We
haven’t had a moment to talk yet.’
Mor’s heart sank, he hardly knew why.
‘Look now, Mor,’ said Tim, ‘you said you’d give me the all clear today, and I’m
asking you to give it now. The time’s short enough, and we must get cracking.
You have it agreed with your wife, have you not?’
Mor shook his head. He had simply not been thinking about this matter at all.
But now he knew that he could not, or at any rate not just now, carry out what
had been his firm resolve to go ahead regardless of Nan. ‘You must give me a
little more time, Tim,’ he said. ‘Nan is still terribly opposed. I
will
bring her round, but I don’t want to act now while she’s so obstinate.’