The Sandcastle (16 page)

Felicity suddenly began to feel very uneasy. She wanted to go back. She plucked
Donald by the coat which he was carrying over his arm and said, ‘Don, don’t
climb that tower. I know it will end badly.
Please
say now that you
won’t climb it, and then we can both go home.’
Donald looked down at her. He touched her freckled nose lightly with his
finger. ‘We won’t turn back at this point, mister mate,’ he said. ‘As for the
climb, I probably won’t do it. It was all Carde’s idea anyway.’
They walked on very slowly towards the house. In a minute the little path would
reach the low crumbling stone wall at the end of Demoyte’s garden and turn away
to the left towards the road. It was the dead time of the afternoon. Donald and
Felicity, who were familiar with the habits of the Demoyte household, knew that
they could count on Demoyte and Miss Handforth being laid out in their
bedrooms, with drawn curtains, taking their siesta. To enter the house should
not be difficult. The only unknown quantity was Miss Carter herself.
While Donald was peering over the wall, Felicity looked about her. She was
still unnerved by the manifestation of Angus. At the base of the wall a great
many flowers were growing, and the freshness of their opening petals showed
even through the brown dust which lay upon them: ragged robin, tansy, campion,
valerian, and charlock. The flowers that grow in waste places. Felicity looked
down at them tenderly. Then she began to pick them.
‘Christ!’ said Donald. ‘What a moment to pick flowers! Look, we’ll get over the
wall there, behind those bushes, and work our way along under cover of the yew
hedge. Then come up close to the house, out of view of the windows, and walk
round to the front door. If it’s locked, we try the kitchen. If anyone sees us
we say we’re looking for Daddy, we thought he was here. Once inside the house,
listen for sounds - then upstairs, and trust to our luck. The Carter will
certainly be in the corner room at the back. All right? Follow me.’
Donald sounded eager. The excitement of the chase had taken hold of him. He
dodged along by the wall and then climbed over it at a point where it was
covered by a clump of tall syringa bushes growing in Demoyte’s garden.
Clutching her bunch of flowers Felicity followed. This wall was an easy one.
They walked cautiously, keeping close to the hedge, and then passed through the
archway into full view of the windows. In a quick stride Donald crossed the
open piece of lawn and was against the wall of the house. Felicity followed. A
moment later they were at the front door. It was open. They stepped inside the
house.
Within there was complete silence. Both the children were breathing deeply, and
it seemed to them that the sound must be audible on the landing above. They
stood quite still until they had recovered their breath. They looked at each
other with wide shining eyes, and Felicity took Donald’s hand and pressed it
hard. Then with noiseless footsteps they crept across the hall and began to
ascend the stairs. The house was sleepy with the heat. All the windows were
wide open and the warm dusty atmosphere drifted cloudily in from the garden.
The beams of the sun, falling directly upon the staircase, made a zone of hazy
yellow light through which the children ascended on tiptoe. The stairs did not
creak. Once on the landing they could lay their feet upon a long thick
Baluchistan rug. They glided along it and stood poised outside the door of the
guest room. No sound came from within.
The doorhandle was made of yellow crystalline glass and slippery to the touch.
Donald took it very firmly in both hands and began to turn it. He opened the
door sufficiently to put his head through. Its opening had made no sound. It
seemed now as if no sound could be made in this silent and untenanted house.
Donald was still for a moment, and then he leaned gently through the door and
entered the room. With a breath of relief Felicity followed him. The room was
empty.
Once they were inside with the door shut a wild glee overcame them, and they
began to dance noiselessly about the room waving their arms. Felicity paused
and drew the supersonic whistle from her pocket. She was about to blow a
tremendous supersonic blast upon it when Donald stopped her.
‘But it won’t make a sound if I — ’ Felicity began to explain in a whisper. It
was too much for them both. Convulsed with helpless silent giggling they fell
in a heap upon the bed.
‘But you said -’ Felicity began again in a whisper. It was no good. They lay
there writhing with smothered laughter.
At last Donald rose, pulled Felicity up and set the bed to rights. ‘Now quick,’
he whispered, ‘find what we want and go. What shall we take?’
‘Stockings,’ said Felicity firmly. She suspected that Donald had other ideas,
and felt a sudden feminine wish to protect Miss Carter against his
depredations. They began to flit about the room, opening drawers.
‘Here we are,’ murmured Felicity. She drew a pair of nylon stockings out of a
top drawer, waved them at Donald, and put them in her pocket. They turned to
go. Felicity took a last look round the room. She picked up the flowers which
she had left on a chair. The writing-desk beside the window stood open,
littered with papers. Felicity went over to it and began turning them over.
‘Come on!’ hissed Donald.
Felicity said, ‘Why, here’s a letter from Daddy, I wonder what he says.’
‘Never mind,’ said Donald, ‘better not look at it. Let’s get out.’
‘It doesn’t matter, silly,’ said Felicity, ‘it’s only Daddy!’ She pulled the
letter out of the envelope and read it. She stood quite still. Then she put the
letter back on the desk and came away.
‘What did it say?’ said Donald.
‘Nothing,’ said Felicity. ‘Let’s go quickly.’ She began to pull him to the
door.
Donald looked at her face. Then he went back to the desk, found the letter, and
read it.
‘Come, come, come,’ said Felicity. She opened the bedroom door and stepped out
on to the landing. Donald followed. They walked with firm silent steps to the
top of the stairs and began to descend.
Half-way down the lower flight Felicity stopped in her tracks. Donald paused,
and then walked down to join her. Standing watching them from the drawing-room
door was Miss Handforth. She looked at the children. They looked at her.
‘Well, well, what a surprise!’ said Miss Handforth, her voice echoing through
the house. Miss Handforth was not a friend of the Mor children. ‘This is a new
way to pay visits!’
The Close seemed to shake at the sound and shiver into wakefulness. Donald and
Felicity stood there paralysed.
‘Come on,’ said Miss Handforth, ‘has the cat got your tongue? What have you two
been up to up there, may I ask?’
Donald and Felicity were silent. At that moment the front door opened and Rain
Carter came into the hall. All three turned towards her. She wore a white summer
dress with an open neck, and for a moment as she entered the sun blazed behind
her. She shut the door, and put her hand to her eyes, blinded for a moment by
the change of light. She took in the little scene in front of her; and then
turned questioningly to Miss Handforth.
Miss Handforth said, ‘These are Mr Mor’s children.’ Her deep voice expressed
incredulity and disgust.
Rain turned towards them. They stood, as in a group by Gainsborough, Felicity
posed with her hand upon the banister, Donald more sulkily behind her.
‘I am so glad to meet you at last,’ said Rain. ‘I think - Donald - I have at
least seen before - but I am so glad to meet you properly. And I haven’t ever
met - Felicity. How are you?’
Donald said nothing. He looked straight at her unsmiling. Felicity came
forward. She smiled at Rain. ‘We just came over,’ she said, ‘to give you these
flowers. They are wild flowers, but we hope you’ll like them.’ She handed her
bouquet to Rain.
Rain took them with an exclamation of pleasure and held them to her face. She
was a little shorter than Felicity and had to look up at her. ‘They are
beautiful
,’
she said. ‘I love these English wild flowers. I really really cannot think of
anything that would have pleased me more. How very kind of you to think of this.
They are lovely flowers.’ She held them close to her.
Donald came down the stairs and stood beside his sister. He took her arm.
‘You aren’t going already?’ said Rain. ‘Do stay and talk to me. Miss Handforth,
I wonder if - some tea? It’s about tea-time anyway, isn’t it? I don’t want to
bother you. Or perhaps just some milk and cakes if there are any?’
Miss Handforth said nothing.
‘I’m afraid we have to go at once,’ said Felicity. ‘I’m so sorry. We’re
expected at home and we’re late already. We just called to bring the flowers.’
‘How very dear of you,’ said Rain. ‘You
have
made me glad. Thank you so
much. I hope we shall meet again soon.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Felicity. ‘Well, good-bye. Good-bye, Miss Handforth.’ The
two children disappeared rapidly out of the front door.
They walked quickly through the front gates of Mr Demoyte s garden and then
along the little path that led back again into the fields. Once Felicity was on
the path she began to run, and Donald had to run hard to keep pace with her. As
soon as they were well clear of the house Felicity turned off the path, ran
across a field, and threw herself down in the stubble in the shadow of a hedge.
Donald joined her and sat down beside her. They were silent for some time.
‘Don,’ said Felicity at last, ‘you won’t do that climb, will you?’
Donald did not answer for a moment. ‘It hardly matters one way or the other,’
he said, ‘now.’
They sat looking down into the stubble. ‘Tears of blood,’ said Felicity. This
was an ancient ritual.
Without a word Donald drew a razor blade from his pocket and handed it to her.
Carefully she made a tiny slit be neath each eye. Both the Mor children could
weep at will. A moment later mingled tears and blood were coursing down their
cheeks.

Chapter
Nine

IT
was the day of Nan’s departure. Mor viewed the prospect with relief. For some
time now their small house had been a scene where washing, drying and ironing
of clothes, discovey and renovation of suitcases, unfolding of maps, and
discussion of trains and seat reservations and the weather, had gone on without
intermission until Mor had been obliged to invent excuses for staying in
school. End of term exams were just beginning, and although this meant less
teaching it meant more correcting, and it was about this time too that Mor had
to settle down to the organization of reports and the solving of various staff
problems for next term with which Evvy was patently unable to deal. His house
became intolerable to him. It was always too small, though usually it was better
in summer than in winter, since open windows could lend extra space to the
rooms. But Nan could be relied upon to turn the place topsy-turvy before a
holiday, and Felicity was being more than usually tiresome and tearful. Mor’s
heart sank each evening as he came through the narrow front door, with its
panel of leaded glass, into the small hall-way, filled now with suitcases,
tennis rackets, and other paraphernalia. He would have liked to have gone over
to Demoyte’s house to get away from it all. But although the Close and its
inhabitants were incessantly in his mind, he did not go. A general sense of
unrest and uneasiness filled him. It was now less than three weeks to Donald’s
college entrance exam, and he was worried about him. He had called on him twice
lately to see how he was getting on, but the boy had been very short with him,
and Mor had gone away hurt and puzzled.
On the previous day, Mor had at last made a serious attempt to discuss with Nan
the question of his becoming a Labour candidate - or rather, as Mor put it to
himself, to announce to her his intention of becoming one; only it had not
looked very much like this when he actually came to opening his mouth. Nan had
simply refused to discuss the matter. She had used her most exasperating technique.
When Mor had settled down very gravely to tell her of his hopes, his ambitions,
his plans for how it would turn out for the best, she had laughed her dry
laughter, and sat there on the sofa, her feet drawn, up and her eyes shining,
mocking at him. At such moments she was invested with a terrible power which
shook Mor down to the depths of his soul. She seemed to withdraw into a region
of completely insulated serenity and superiority. Nothing which he said could
touch her then, even when, as he now remembered with remorse, he was driven to
making really spiteful rejoinders. It was not that she did not understand his
arguments. In her presence, in the overwhelming atmosphere of her personality,
his arguments simply did not begin to exist. Mor was astonished yet again at
the tremendous strength of his wife. She was totally impervious to reasoning,
relentlessly determined to get her own way, and calmly and even gaily certain
that she would get it. Throughout the interview she kept her temper perfectly,
laughing and jesting in a slightly patronizing way at her husband, whereas Mor
by the end of it was reduced to almost speechless anger. He had left the room
in the end saying, ‘Well, whether you like this plan or not I propose to go
ahead with it!’
Mor had said this at the time merely to annoy; but on the following morning he
thought to himself that perhaps that was exactly what he would do. The deep
wounds which Nan had inflicted on his pride tormented him without ceasing. He
felt, with a deep spasm of anger, that she had provoked him once too often. She
must learn that to trample upon the aspirations and self-respect of another is
a crime which brings an almost automatic retribution. Mor thought to himself,
when I see Tim Burke I shall tell him to go ahead. When the thing is made
public Nan will have too much pride and too much concern for convention to try
to make me go back on it. She will have to accept it then. Mor got a bitter,
and he knew very unworthy satisfaction out of imagining Nan’s fury when she found
that he really meant for once to take what he wanted. What annoyed him perhaps
most of all about her was the exquisite calmness of her assumption that when
she had made it clear that he was not to do something he would not do it.
All these thoughts, however, with a talent born of years of married life, Mor
buried deep within him, and behaved on the next day with a normal cheerfulness.
Nan too seemed completely to have forgotten their quarrel and to be looking
forward to the journey with unmixed delight. They were to catch the 10.30 train
to Waterloo, have lunch in London, and then catch a fast afternoon train to
Dorset. A taxi had been ordered to take them to the station, an expense which
Mor disliked, but which Nan’s colossal quantity of luggage seemed to make
inevitable. The taxi was due in a few minutes, and Felicity was still not
ready. She had been sulky and short-tempered all the morning, in spite of being
promised lunch at the Royal Festival Hall, something which usually pleased her
very much.
Nan and Mor had walked out into the front garden. The suitcases were piled on
the step. Mor looked down at the ill-kept tangle of dahlias and asters which
grew on each side of the concrete path. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Liffey’s place is
quite grown over this year. You remember how she used to lie there and sniff
the plants?’
‘That reminds me,’ said Nan. ‘A funny thing. I met that painter girl in the
street, Miss Carter, and she said the children had given her some flowers.’
‘
What
?’ said Mor.
‘Just that,’ said Nan. ‘They both went over to Demoyte’s house, gave her a
bunch of flowers, and came away!’
‘It is rather odd,’ said Mor, ‘but I don’t see why they shouldn’t just have
taken it into their heads. Did Felicity say anything about it to you?’
Of course not!‘ said Nan. ’You know how secretive she is. It’s a delightful
gesture, and Miss Carter, I may say, was tickled pink about it - but
really
,
Bill, you know our charming little dears as well as I do. Would they have just
thought of doing that? It must have been part of some joke.‘
Mor was inclined to agree with Nan, and the whole story upset him considerably.
He couldn’t think what it could mean; and he feared his children especially
when they brought gifts. He said, however, ‘You’re fussing about nothing, Nan. It
was just a nice idea. I expect Felicity thought of it.’
‘You’re almost as naive as Miss Carter,’ said Nan, ‘and that’s saying
something.’
Mor was disturbed at hearing Nan mention Miss Carter’s name. He had by a
curious chance seen Miss Carter twice in the last three days, once in the
distance walking in the fields, and once passing through the housing estate in
the direction of the shopping centre. On neither of these occasions had he
spoken with her, but each occasion had given him a strange and deep shock.
The taxi drove up. Mor lifted the suitcases. Felicity appeared and got into the
taxi without a word. Mor and Nan packed in and they drove in silence to the
station. Mor paid the taxi-driver and stacked up the suitcases on the platform.
They waited.
The sun shone from a clear blue sky upon the little station with its two
platforms, each covered with a neatly peaked roof, like a toy station. On
either side the glittering rails of the Southern Region curved away among pine
trees between which here and there could be seen the red roofs of tall
Victorian houses. Quite a lot of people were waiting for the London train, many
of them known by sight to Mor. It was a scene which he usually found
inexpressibly dreary. There was five minutes to wait.
Then it came over Mor like a sudden gust of warm fresh wind that Nan was going.
Nan was going
. She was going. And this time next year, thought Mor,
perhaps everything will be different. Everything is going to be different. He
lifted his head. How good a thing it was that he had made his decision.
Obscurely in the instant he was aware of the future suddenly radiant with hope
and possibility. At the same time he was filled with a great tenderness for
Nan. He turned to look at her. She was glancing at her watch and tapping her
high-heeled shoe on the platform. She smiled at him and said, ‘Not long now!’
She seemed quite excited. Felicity was standing some way off looking over the
wooden palings of the station into the surrounding pine trees.
‘Nan,’ said Mor, ‘are you really all right for the journey? Have you got
something to read?’
‘Yes,’ said Nan, ‘I have the day’s paper and this magazine.’
‘Let me get you something else,’ said Mor, ‘a Penguin book - and what about
some nice chocolate?’ He ran down the station as far as the little stall that
sold papers and sweets. He bought a Penguin book of poetry, and a box of milk
chocolates, and two bananas. He came back and stuffed them into Nan’s pockets.
‘Bill, dear, you are sweet!’ said Nan, taking the goods out of her pockets and
putting them into a suitcase.
The neat green train sped into sight round the curve of the line. The crowd
surged forward. Mor found two corner seats for Nan and Felicity and packed the
luggage in. There was not long for farewells. At these small stations the train
waited only a minute. Mor kissed his wife and daughter, and then with
breathtaking speed they were jerked away. Mor waved - and he saw Nan’s face and
her waving arm recede rapidly and disappear almost at once round the next curve
and into the trees.
Mor walked very slowly back down the platform. He gave up his platform ticket.
He came out into the sun and stood still in the dusty deserted station yard,
which was quite silent now that the roar of the train had died away into the
distance. Mor stood there, arrested by some obscure feeling of pleasure, and
somehow in the quietness of the morning he apprehended that there were many
many things to be glad about. He waited. Then from the very depths of his being
the knowledge came to him, suddenly and with devastating certainty. He was in
love with Miss Carter. He stood there looking at the dusty ground and the
thought that had taken shape shook him so that he nearly fell. He took a step
forward. He was in love. And if in love then not just a little in love, but
terribly, desperately, needfully in love. With this there came an inexpressibly
violent sense of joy. Mor still stood there quietly looking at the ground; but
now he felt that the world had started to rotate about him with a gathering pace
and he was at the centre of its movement.
Mor drew in a deep breath and smiled down at the dry earth below him, swaying
slightly on his heels. I must be mad, he thought, smiling. The words formed,
and were swept upward like leaves in a furnace. He walked slowly across the
station yard to the wooden gate. He caressed the wood of the gate. It was dry
flaky wood, warm in the sun, beautiful. Mor picked splinters off it. He could
not stop smiling. I must be mad, he thought, whatever shall I do? Then he thought,
I must see Miss Carter at once. When I see her I shall know what to do. Then I
shall know what this state of mind is and what to do about it. I shall know
then, when I see her.
When I see her
.
He left the station yard at a run and began to run along the road towards the
school. It was a long way. The hot sun struck him on the brow with repeated
blows, and the warm air refused to refresh his lungs. He ran on, painting and
gasping. He must get to his bicycle, which was in the shed in the masters’
garden. His desire to see Miss Carter was now so violent it was become an extra
quite physical agony, apart from the straining of his lungs and the aching of
his muscles. He kept on running. The school was in sight now. An agonizing
stitch made him slow down to walking pace. The pain of his anxiety shaped his
face into a cry and his breath came in an audible whine. He turned into the
drive and managed to run again as far as the bicycle-shed.
He dragged his bicycle out, manhandling it as if it were a savage animal. It
had a flat tyre. Mor threw it on the ground and kicked it, swearing aloud. He
looked about and chose another bicycle at random. It occurred to him that the
Classical Sixth would be waiting for him at eleven-fifteen, to have a history
lesson. But he had no hesitation now. He had recovered his breath, but the
other agony continued, biting him in the stomach so that he almost could have
cried out with the pain of wanting to see her. He set off on the borrowed
machine, bounced badly over the gravel, on to the main road, and started up the
hill towards the railway bridge.
The hill was merciless, and his pedalling grew slower and slower, until the
bicycle was tacking crazily upon the fierce slope. He got off and pushed it at
a run to the top of the hill. Then as he sailed down the other side, seeing for
a moment in the distance the glowing walls of Brayling’s Close, he uttered to
himself the word ‘Rain’. At a tremendous pace, pedalling madly now to catch up
with the speed of the wheels, he plunged onward. He turned the bicycle, without
dismounting, across the grassy strip in the middle of the dual carriageway, and
launched it like a thunderbolt into Demoyte’s drive. The gravel flew to both
sides like spray. He fell off the machine and threw it to the side of the house
and then cannoned through the front door. The house was still and fragrant
within. Mor crossed the hall and threw open the drawing-room door.
The easel was still in place and Demoyte was sitting in the sun near the window
with his back turned towards the door, in an attitude of repose. There was no
sign of Miss Carter.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Mor, swinging on the door, ‘where’s Miss Carter?’
‘Accustomed as I am,’ said Demoyte, without turning round, ‘to being treated
like an old useless piece of outdated ante-diluvian junk, I -’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Mor, and stepped into the room, ‘forgive me. But I did want
to see Miss Carter rather urgently. You don’t happen to know where she is?’
‘Suppose you come round to the front,’ said Demoyte, ‘if you have the time to
spare, that is, so that I can at least see your face during this conversation.’
Mor came round and faced the old man, who looked up at him sombrely and waited
for Mor to make another remark.