The Sandcastle (23 page)

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?
Perhaps, indeed, Nan is not serious, Mor thought. But that isn’t the point. As far
as Nan is concerned our marriage may be solid enough. But why shouldn’t it be,
for her - since it’s always been an arrangement devised for her convenience?
Possibly I too am one who is to decide whether our marriage is solid. And it
will not be solid - if I decide to break it. He leaned against a tree,
disturbing the ferns with his foot. For the hundredth time he conjured up
memories from the past, memories of the long long quarrels with his wife, from
which he would emerge feeling as if every bone in his body had been broken, and
she would emerge fresh and smiling, with the familiar mockery upon her lips.
But this time the memories would not perform their task. Mor no longer felt any
anger. Instead he saw again, clear as in a photograph, the look which he had
received from Donald in the chapel. He closed his eyes. Oh God, what a mess he
had made of it all. Only one thing was dear. He would not surrender Rain. The
prospect of doing this, when he came to contemplate it, as many times in every
day as he forced himself to do so, was like the prospect of cutting off his own
arm at the shoulder with a blunt knife.
A long time had passed. Mor looked at his watch. He was almost late. He turned
and began to walk through the wood in the direction of the squash courts. Now
that the heat wave had broken, the weather was pleasantly warm and cloudy. A
scent of moist sand and moss was rising from the crisp path beneath his feet
and small white clouds, seen for a moment between coniferous branches, were
tumbling down in the direction of the valley. Mor began to wonder where he
would go with Rain that afternoon. They could go away somewhere in the car,
somewhere a long way off, London perhaps, or perhaps over the top of the downs
to the coast, to the sea. So slowly and reassuringly the idea of her took
possession of his mind. She drew him. He quickened his pace.
As he went, his path crossed another path which led down the hill from
Prewett’s house. Here some of the younger boys were padding about, dressed in
bathing wraps and rubber shoes, bound for the swimming pool. When they saw Mor
they shouted ‘Good afternoon, sir!’ and stood aside to let him pass. With a
hasty salute he hurried across and plunged into the deeper wood, leaving the
path now, and ran down the hill through the dragging bracken and the brambles
until he saw close to him through the trees the pale rough-cast walls of the
squash courts. The building was plain and oblong with an entrance at each end
and a pointed glass roof. Within, it consisted simply of the six adjacent
courts with the corridor which joined them, and a narrow overhanging gallery
for spectators. Mor came running across the open grass, swung in through the
door, and straight into the first court.
A person was standing there; but it was not Rain. It was Bledyard. It took Mor
a second to recognize him and another to conclude that he was not there by
chance. They looked at each other in silence. Mor waited for Bledyard to speak.
Bledyard was dressed in his Sunday clothes, a black suit and an unusually clean
shirt. He looked at Mor from under his eyebrows. He seemed a little
embarrassed. Mor was panting from his run and leaned back against the dirty
green wall of the court. Once the first shock was over he felt strangely little
surprise at seeing Bledyard there. It was all part of the madness of the
present time.
Bledyard said at last, ‘I sent her away.’
‘You sent her away?’
said Mor. He almost laughed at the impudence of it.
‘How dare you do that? She’s not a child.’
‘Well, you know you know she is a child,’ said Bledyard.
‘Which way did she go?’ said Mor. ‘I regret that I can’t stay to tell you just
what I think of this perfectly idiotic interference.’
‘I have things to say to you,’ said Bledyard.
‘I have no time to listen to you,’ said Mor. They stood for a moment, Mor
glaring and Bledyard squinting at the floor. Mor made another impatient
movement. He was extremely angry and upset and anxious to go to find Rain,
wherever she might be, distressed no doubt by the unspeakable Bledyard. However,
he was also rather curious about what Bledyard was up to. He still hesitated.
‘I want to talk to you about the things you are doing now,’ Bledyard, ‘to your
wife and Miss Carter.’
‘Suppose you mind your own goddamn business!’ said Mor. He was trembling. Bledyard’s
impertinence was almost beyond belief. Yet it was not as impertinence that Mor
felt these words.
‘I think that you should reflect reflect carefully,’ said Bledyard, ‘before you
proceed any further.’ He was looking directly at Mor now. He was no longer
embarrassed.
‘I know it’s Sunday, Bledyard,’ said Mor, ‘but one sermon is enough. You speak
of matters of which you know nothing whatever.’
Over their heads, upon the green glass roof of the court, birds were moving to
and fro, their shadows flickering, scratching on the glass. A sudden din of
shouts and splashes from near at hand announced that the juniors had hurled
themselves into the swimming pool. The birds flew away.
‘I have to bear witness,’ said Bledyard, ‘and say that I think you are acting
wrongly.’ He stood very straight, his hands hanging down, his eyes wide open
and bulging, looking at Mor.
Mor knew now that he could not go away. He regretted it deeply. He knew too
that he could not fend Bledyard off with anger and indignation. ‘I seem to
remember your saying not so long ago,’ he said, ‘that human beings should not
judge one another.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Bledyard, ‘it is unavoidably our duty to attempt to attempt
some sort of judgement — and then the suspension of judgement is not charity
but the fear of being judged in return.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Mor. ‘Your interference is absurdly impudent and
self-righteous. But I’m insane enough at the moment to be willing to hear what
you have to tell me.’ Something in the seriousness of Bledyard’s manner,
combined with the extremity in which he now continuously felt himself to be,
made him engage the discussion on Bledyard’s own terms. He added, ‘Let me say
at once that I doubt if my conduct is defensible on any front.’
The latter showed no surprise. He replied, ‘That is a very strong position, Mr
Mor! The point is not to lament or cry out
mea maxima culpa
, but rather
to do the thing the thing that is right.’
‘Well, you tell me what that is, Bledyard,’ said Mor. ‘I can see you’re going to
in any case.’ He squatted back against the wall. The lower part of the wall was
covered on all three sides with black footmarks where boys had sprung up
against it in the court of play. Above him hung the face of Bledyard in the
fading greenish light. The roof was darkened. It must be clouding over. A few
drops of rain pattered on the glass. Mor shivered. The screams were still
rising unabated from the swimming pool.
‘You know what it is,’ said Bledyard. ‘You are deeply bound to your wife and to
your children, and deeply rooted in your own life. Perhaps that life that life
will hold you in spite of yourself. But if you break break these bonds you
destroy a part of the world.
‘Possibly,’ said Mor, ‘but I might then build another part.’ What he said sounded
empty and trivial in his own ears. And how can you, an outsider, assess the
value of these bonds, as you call them, in terms of human happiness?‘
‘Happiness?’ said Bledyard, making a face of non-comprehension. ‘What has
happiness got to do with it? Do you imagine that you, or anyone, has some sort
of right to happiness? That idea is a poor guide.’
‘It may be a poor guide,’ said Mor, ‘but it’s the only one I’ve got!’ He spoke
with bitterness.
‘That is not true, Mr Mor,’ said Bledyard. He leaned forward, stooping over
Mor, his long hair flapping. ‘There is such a thing as respect for reality. You
are living on dreams now, dreams of happiness, dreams of freedom. But in all
this you consider only yourself. You do not truly apprehend the distinct being
of either your wife or Miss Carter.
‘I don’t understand you, Bledyard,’ said Mor. He spoke wearily. He felt himself
strangely cornered in the bare monochrome square of the squash court which
seemed suddenly like a cell.
‘You imagine,’ said Bledyard, ‘that to live in a state of ex tremity is
necessarily to discover the truth about yourself. What you discover then is
violence and emptiness. And of this you make a virtue. But look rather upon the
others - and make yourself nothing in your awareness of them.’
‘Look here, Bledyard,’ said Mor, ‘even if it were the case that I could set
aside all consideration of my own happiness and my own satisfaction I should
still not know what to do.’
‘You lie,’ said Bledyard. He spoke quite evenly and quietly. ‘You do not know
even remotely what it would be like to set aside all consideration of your own
satisfaction. You think of nothing else. You live in a world of imagined
things. But if you were to concern yourself truly with others and lay yourself
open to any hurt that might come to you, you would be enriched in a way of
which you cannot now even conceive. The gifts of the spirit do not appeal to
the imagination.’
A burst of ear-splitting screams arose from the swimming pool. It sounded as if
hell’s gate had been opened.
Mor was silent. He did not know how to answer Bledyard. He said, ‘I am probably
not capable of what you speak of. Such an austerity would be beyond me. I am
too deeply involved now even to attempt it. Perhaps too I don’t think as highly
as you do of these “bonds” and “roots” All I can say is that this is my
situation and my life and I shall decide what to do about it.’
‘You speak as if this were a sort of virtue,’ said Bledyard, ‘you speak as if
to be a free man was just to get what you want regardless of convention. But
real freedom is a total absence of concern about yourself.’ Bledyard was
speaking earnestly and quickly and was now scarcely stammering at all.
Mor stood up. Bledyard’s didactic tone was beginning to anger him. He had
humbled himself quite sufficiently before the man. ‘I don’t despise what you
say, Bledyard,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s very wise. It just doesn’t manage to
connect itself with my problems. And now, could I ask just one thing, and that
is that you don’t go bothering Miss Carter with any talk of this sort.’
His utterance of the name altered the atmosphere. Bledyard thrust his head
forward and said in an excited tone, ‘You know you are damaging damaging her.
You are diminishing her by involving her in this. A painter can only paint what
he is. You will prevent her from being a great painter.’
He is raving, thought Mor. But the words wounded him deeply all the same. Why
had he been so patient with this maniac? The screaming in the background was
rising to a crescendo. He had to raise his voice to be sure that Bledyard could
hear him. ‘Leave that to me and to her!’ he said. ‘You are not our keeper. And
now enough of this.’
Bledyard went on excitedly, ‘She is young, her life is only beginning
beginning, she will have many things -’
‘Oh, shut up, Bledyard!’ said Mor. ‘You only say this because you’re jealous,
because you’re in love with her yourself!’
The whistle blew shrilly in the swimming pool. There was an immediate silence.
The splashing diminished and ceased. The rain had stopped too, and there was a
sudden and startling stillness. Mor bitterly regretted what he had said.
Bledyard stood looking at the wall, blinking his eyes, a slightly puzzled and
patient expression on his face.
Then Mor heard, very near to him, the sound of voices. The sound came from the
other side of the wall. It must have been drowned till now by the din from the
swimming pool. There was somebody talking in the next court. Mor and Bledyard
looked at one another. For a moment they listened. Then Mor strode back to the
corridor and stepped into the second squash court, followed by Bledyard.
The tableau which confronted them was this. Sprawled with his back against the
wall, one long leg spread out and the other crooked up at the knee, lay Donald
Mor. Lying upon the floor with his shoulders supported by Donald’s lifted leg,
his own legs crossed and one foot swinging was Jimmy Carde.
The four regarded each other. Then as if jerked from above by pieces of wire
the two boys sprang to their feet. They stood erect and attentive, waiting for
whatever storm should break.
Mor looked at them and all his pent-up anger broke through. ‘
Clear out!
’
he said in a low and savage voice. He and Bledyard stood aside. The boys passed
between them without a word.
The distant bell could be heard ringing for evening prep. Mor and Bledyard
began in silence to climb the path that led towards the school.

Chapter
Fourteen

FELICITY
began to swim back again towards the shore with long slow strokes. The sea was
dead calm. She swam breast stroke, very steadily, trying to break the surface
as little as possible. The water kissed her chin like oil. The sun warmed her
forehead and dried the drops of moisture from her cheeks. It was a declining
sun, but still triumphantly in possession of the sky. The coast was deserted.
Felicity was in a rocky bay where at low tide there was revealed a great
expanse of rounded boulders heaped at the base of the cliff. At high tide the
water covered them and there was no way. Beyond the headland on either side
were stretches of sand and there the holiday-makers had congregated. But here
there was no one. This was very important just at the moment as Felicity was
about to perform a magic ceremony.
Felicity had realized at an early age that she must be psychic. She had
discovered a witch mark upon her body. This was a very small protuberance a
little below the nipple of her left breast which was not at all like an
ordinary mole. It rather resembled an extra nipple. Felicity knew that witches
were provided with these so that they could be sucked by their familiars; and
although she was not altogether attracted by the idea of furnishing this sort
of hospitality to some being from the other world she was pleased to discover
that she was undoubtedly gifted in this special way and she waited with
interest for further manifestations.
So far nothing very remarkable had happened. Felicity was without information
about the moment at which witches properly came of age. There had been, it was
true, the advent of Angus - but Angus, although he could at times be very
strange and startling to Felicity, manifested himself always, with a sort of
modesty which she realized to be characteristic of him, in some form which
would not shock the sensibility of the other non-psychic people with whom
Felicity was surrounded. Her brother, she had at last to conclude reluctantly,
was not psychic. He had pretended for a long time to be aware of Angus, but it
was now clear to Felicity that it had been only a pretence. He had also taken
part with her in various magic rites - but Felicity had noticed with regret
that Donald’s attitude to these ceremonies had been distinctly frivolous.
Donald did not possess the patient and meticulous nature required for a
magician. He would always forget some detail, and then say that it didn’t
matter, or start laughing in the middle. In fact, because of Donald’s
non-psychic carelessness, the magic rituals had never yet been carried out with
completeness; and lack of completeness in magic is fatal.
Felicity had made a careful study of magic from as many original texts as she
could lay her hands on. She was distressed to find, however, that almost every
magical ceremony that was likely to be any use at all involved the shedding of
blood. Felicity was anxious to fulfil her destiny. On the other hand, the
notion of, for instance, holding an immaculate white cock between her knees,
decapitating it, and drinking the blood from her right hand did not attract her
in the least. Eventually she decided that since she was patently under a taboo
concerning the shedding of blood, she was at liberty to invent her own
ceremonies. This, she felt sure, would be pleasing to Angus, who would be
deeply offended at any shedding of blood, particularly animal blood. Angus was
very fond of animals. Whether Angus would have liked a human sacrifice Felicity
for practical reasons did not specially consider. She had therefore begun to
compose her own rites — and on one New Year’s Eve had written, under
inspiration, a small compendium of various rituals some of which she had vainly
attempted with Donald’s assistance to perform.
Now for the first time Felicity intended to carry out one of these rituals by
herself and to carry it out in its entirety. She had decided to wait, before
putting her plan into operation, for a manifestation of Angus. Angus had been
some time in turning up. That morning, however, she had seen him. He had taken
the form of a man on stilts, with very long blue and white check trousers and a
top hat. She had met him quite suddenly round the comer of a lane. He was
making his way towards a fair which was being held in some fields half a mile
farther on. He said nothing, but raised his hat solemnly to Felicity. It was
quite early and no one else was about. The sudden appearance of this very tall
figure startled Felicity very much for a moment. But then she guessed its
identity and immediately ran home to start making her preparations.
This was one of the direst of the rites and also one of the more complicated
ones. The paraphernalia had all been col lected beforehand and now lay spread
out on top of a large flat rock which was just at the water’s edge. For this
particular ceremony it was necessary to choose a place beside water and a time
when the sun and the moon were both in the sky at once. Fortunately the moon
was rising early and its appearance coincided roughly with low tide. All this
Felicity took as a good omen. It was nearly eight o‘clock and there was still a
strong light from the sun which was now low down over the headland. The moon
was large and pallid, the colour and consistency of cream cheese, risen just
above the sea. Felicity climbed out on to the rock, keeping her dripping body
well away from the magical apparatus. Her swim had not been recreational. It
formed part of the rite. A purificatory wash was essential; also the wearing of
a seamless and sleeveless garment. Felicity’s bathing-costume did duty as the
latter. She dried herself thoroughly with a new and hitherto unused towel which
she had bought that morning.
When she was dry and warm she began to prepare the scene. The water lapped just
below the rock, extremely still. It was the dead moment of low tide. Upon the
top of the rock Felicity drew a large circle of sand, and within the circle she
drew a triangle of salt. In the arcs of the circle which lay outside the area
of the triangle she laid small heaps of poppies and dog roses. At the peak of
the triangle, which pointed out to sea, she laid her electric torch which had
been bound round with St John’s wort. This faced towards the centre of the
triangle and was to be illuminated when the ceremony started. In the right-hand
apex of the triangle stood a copper cup containing white wine, a new penknife,
also purchased that day, some camphor and aloes in a packet, a large bottle of
lighter-fuel, a live beetle in a matchbox, the supersonic whistle which
Felicity had taken from her brother, and a pack of Tarot cards. In the centre
of the triangle stood a tripod under which lay some laurel twigs mingled with
wood shavings. Perched in the tripod was a handle-less aluminium saucepan
containing milk and olive oil. In the left-hand apex of the triangle lay an
image of a human figure about eight inches high which had been made out of Miss
Carter’s nylon stockings stuffed with paper. Beside the image lay a fork made
of a single hazel twig, since the image must not be touched by hand during the
ceremony. There was also a box of matches which Felicity had stuck into the
bosom of her bathing-costume.
Now everything was ready. Felicity began to feel nervous and a bit frightened.
She looked up and down the coast. There was no one in sight. Only the randomly
piled up boulders, shapeless and brown, stretched away in both directions. She
looked out to sea. The declining sun was striking its last beams upon the sea.
The moon was higher and smaller and less pale. Out of the hazy light a black
shape came slowly and steadily towards her, moving very close above the surface
of the water. It was a cormorant. It came straight in towards the coast and
perched upon a rock a short distance away. Felicity switched on the electric
torch. The light shining through a wreath of leaves illumined the uneven
surface of the rock.
Felicity opened the ceremony with two silent invocations. The first was the
invocation of the Spirit who was to be bound by the rites to perform for her
what she desired. This Spirit was not Angus, but a greater than Angus to whom
Felicity had not given a name and towards whom she rarely allowed her thoughts
to turn. The invocation was wordless. Felicity had written down various spells
for use on such occasions, but they had all sounded so silly that she had
decided to abandon the vulgar medium of words. She had also decided that it was
neither necessary nor desirable to specify exactly what it was that she wanted
done. The general nature of the ceremony made that clear enough and the details
could safely be left to the Spirit. The second invocation, also wordless, was
one which Felicity appended to all her magical activities. It was to the effect
that whatever else the Spirit, or spirits, should decide to do as a result of
her rites, they should not reveal the future. Felicity had a horror of knowing
the future. She feared very much that this might turn out to be one of the penalties
of being psychic, and she was uneasily aware that unless they are carefully
controlled spirits have a tendency to blurt out things to come.
After that, Felicity took the new penknife and made a small incision in her
arm. This was for use later, but she felt, guided here she was sure by Angus,
that it was advisable to make the incision before she used the knife for
various other purposes. She then cut up the laurel twigs and set light to them.
This was not enormously successful. The wooden shavings burnt quite merrily,
but the laurels, which were rather green, merely became black at the edges.
After several attempts they began to burn a little and the milk and oil in the
saucepan became warm. Felicity threw on to the fire first the camphor and then
the aloes. The flames began to burn yellow and green and a strange pungent
smell arose from under the tripod. After some of the laurel had at last got
burnt Felicity allowed the fire to die down and very carefully scraped up some
of the ash which she was sure was laurel ash and dropped it into the copper cup
of white wine. She stirred it and then lifted it to her lips. It tasted far
from pleasant. Felicity took a sip or two and put it down. No more was demanded
by the ritual, and she feared to poison herself. She then took the Tarot pack
in her hand.
This was a crucial moment, since if the draw from the pack was contrary, or
non-significant, the ceremony could not go on. Felicity knew from experience
that she was able to interpret almost any draw in a way favourable to her
designs. This was one of her psychic gifts. She was nervous all the same about
what the pack might tell her. In relation to the Tarot Felicity had developed
her own private symbolism. She had identified various figures in the pack with
people that she knew, the more important people in her world appearing usually
in two roles. Her father was the Emperor, and also the King of Swords. Her
mother was the Empress and the Queen of Swords. Donald was the Juggler and also
the Fool. She herself was the Queen of Cups. The mystic figure of the Pope
represented the unknown person who was to appear one day to transform her life.
The figure of the Papessa or High Priestess was her own transfigured
personality, still distant from her and covered by a veil. For the purposes of
the present ceremony Miss Carter was represented by the Moon Card and the Queen
of Pentacles.
Felicity held in her hand only the cards of the Major Arcana and the court
cards of the four suits. This reduced the chances of a meaningless draw. She
cut the pack and then drew out five cards which she laid face downwards upon
the rock. She paused solemnly, breathless. Then she began to turn the cards
over one by one. She looked - and could scarcely believe her eyes. From left to
right the cards she had drawn were these: the Empress, the King of Swords, the
Broken Tower, the Hanged Man, and the Moon. This was extremely easy to
interpret and very favourable to her ceremony. The centre card was always
crucial. Here, Felicity took the Tower struck by lightning to symbolize the
magical rite itself which was to divide her father from Miss Carter. Her
father’s card and Miss Carter’s card were placed on different sides of the
Tower. Her father appeared in his material guise as King of Swords, not in his
spiritual guise as Emperor. The two women appeared in their spiritual guises.
But her mother was placed next to her father, while Miss Carter was at the far
end next to the Hanged Man. Felicity was not able to interpret the Hanged Man -
but she decided that he didn’t matter. The omen was in any case extremely
favourable.
She proceeded with the ceremony. The next act was to blow a long blast upon the
supersonic whistle. This was the summons to the Spirit. The whistle was
disconcertingly sonic at first, but as Felicity blew harder the note arose high
and higher and disappeared. She looked round to see if she had frightened the
cormorant. He was still there. She then very carefully took the matchbox which
contained the beetle. He was a shiny black beetle, vigorous and healthy. She
moved to the end of the triangle where the lamp lay, its light seeming brighter
now that the sun had disappeared behind the headland, and she upended the box
upon the rock. She then turned the beetle so that his head was towards the
centre of the triangle and let him go. He started to walk. He was to determine
the exact place where the rite was to reach its consummation. As if he knew
what was required of him the beetle ambled along the rock and then stopped in a
small depression not far from the image. Immediately Felicity began to squeeze
her arm. A little blood emerged from the cut which she had made with the
penknife. She mingled this upon her finger tip with a little of the milky brew
and put a drop of it on the rock in front of the beetle. As he showed no
interest in the offering Felicity very gently pushed his nose into it and put
him carefully back into the matchbox. Then upon the place where the blood and
milk were smeared she placed the warm saucepan of milk and oil.
Seizing the bottle of lighter-fuel, she poured a good quantity of it into the
saucepan and then tried to set light to the contents. It refused to light. The
match just went down sizzling into the greyish mixture. Felicity was frantic.
The whole thing was going to go wrong at the last moment. She tried match after
match. She was nearly in tears. Whatever happened, she must not ignite the
image directly. At last she picked up one of the blackened laurel leaves and
floated it in the saucepan. At the same time she picked up the image with the
hazelrod fork. She applied a final match to the laurel. There was a quick
flare, during which Felicity brought the image forward and held it full in the
leaping flame. The flame died down at once; but the image had caught. Felicity
had taken the precaution beforehand of soaking it thoroughly in lighter-fuel.