The Sandcastle (18 page)

I seem to have changed my mind, Mor thought gloomily. Very lately he had been
absolutely determined to go on. Now he was delaying again. It was only a delay,
of course; but he didn’t like giving Tim this answer all the same. The fact was
that his rage against Nan had quite evaporated. He felt, rather, a sense of guilt
which took away any pleasure or interest he might have had in reading the two
letters which she had sent since her arrival in Dorset. This was no moment for
punishing Nan. It was rather he himself who deserved punishment. He must wait,
and patiently attempt to make her see his point of view. If he was firm enough
in his resolve she would
have
to agree in the end. Moreover, he was
still feeling very upset and disquieted by recent events. He could not afford,
at this time in the summer term, to have two crises on his hands at once. The
battle with Nan, when it came, and especially if it came as a result of
aggressive action on his own part, would be violent and bloody. He could not
undertake it while he was involved, however momentarily, in another struggle
too. Of course, the other matter could safely be regarded as closed; but he had
to be realistic enough to see that it would be some time before he regained any
sort of peace of mind. He just could not face fighting Nan just now.
The crowd behind them thickened. Tim Burke thrust his neck forward and was
looking into Mor’s eyes as if he were about to remove a foreign body from them.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘that I oughtn’t just to beat you into it at this
point. Haven’t I spent a year and more coaxing you and petting you until you’re
willing to do what your plain reason should have told you to do from the start?
And now you’re still dithering!’
‘I’m not dithering,’ said Mor impatiently. ‘I’ve decided definitely to stand.
It’s just a matter of getting Nan used to the idea. Give me another three
weeks, and for Christ’s sake, Tim, don’t make a fuss. I really can’t endure
it.’ He returned his cup and saucer to the table with a crash.
‘All right, don’t bite my head off!’ said Tim.
Donald was coming towards them through the crowd. Mor reflected that if Tim had
not been there Donald would certainly have avoided him. The boy greeted them
shyly and accepted their congratulations on his innings. He bent down to scrape
ineffectually at the green patches upon his white flannel trousers where the
grass had stained them. Mor noticed how his face was forming and hardening. But
Donald always looked more grown-up in the context of something that he could do
well. A little more confidence would do him a lot of good.
‘What can I show you now?’ said Tim. ‘Let me see what I have in my pockets.’
Tim had done this ever since Donald and Felicity were quite small children, and
he did it now with exactly the same tone and gestures. He fiddled in his
waistcoat pocket. Tim usually affected rather dandified velvet waist-coats, but
today, in deference to the solemnity of the occasion, he had put on an ordinary
grey suit, which he usually wore on his infrequent visits to church. What Tim
drew out of his waistcoat pocket, and held between finger and thumb, was a gold
cigarette lighter. It was made to resemble a ‘hunter’ watch case, and was
marked in a complicated floral pattern on both sides. It came apart on a hinge
in the middle, revealing itself to be a lighter. Tim flicked it and the flame
appeared. Mor rapidly produced cigarettes for Tim and himself. Donald was under
promise not to smoke until he was twenty-one.
Tim handed the lighter to Donald to look at. The boy turned it over admiringly.
It was heavy, and the gold was warm and strangely soft-feeling to the touch.
The work was intricate.
‘Where did-you get it?’ said Mor.
‘It’s a little thing I made myself,’ said Tim.
Mor never ceased to be surprised at what Tim Burke was able to do.
‘Do you like it?’ said Tim to Donald, who was flicking the flame into existence
once more.
‘
Yes!
’ said Donald.
‘Well, you keep it,’ said Tim, ‘and let it be a reward for a fine cricket
player.’
Donald closed his hand round the lighter and held it, wide-eyed, looking at his
father.
‘Tim!’ said Mor, ‘you have no common sense at all. That thing’s very valuable,
it’s gold. You can’t give an expensive thing like that to the boy!’
‘Just you tell me one sensible reason why I can’t!’ said Tim Burke.
‘He’ll only lose it,’ said Mor, ‘and anyway it’ll encourage him to smoke.’
‘Och, don’t talk through your hat,’ said Tim. ‘He can use it to light
camp-fires or look at the names of roads at night. You keep it, me boy.’
Donald still stood looking at Mor.
‘Oh — ’ said Mor. He meant to say, ‘It’s all right,’ but instead he said, ‘What
the hell does it matter?’ He gave a jerky gesture which was interpreted by
Donald as a gesture of dismissal. The boy turned away and disappeared into the
crowd.
‘You should be ashamed — ’ Tim Burke was beginning to say.
Mor became aware that Rain was standing two or three feet away from him. She
must have witnessed the scene with Donald. Evvy was standing just beside his
elbow and had evidently been waiting to get his word in.
‘I just wanted to say,’ said Evvy, ‘that we’re just going over now in Miss
Carter’s car to Mr Demoyte’s house to look at the portrait. We won’t stay long
- we’ll be back in time for start of play, or just after. Would you and Mr
Burke care to come along, Bill?’
Mor had a second in which to decide his reply. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘we’d love
to come.’
Evvy led the way and they all trooped out of the marquee. Evvy went ahead with
Rain, Prewett keeping up with them on the other side. Bledyard, who was also of
the party, followed a pace or two behind. Mor and Tim Burke brought up the
rear. Mor tried to remember where, on the edge of the wood, he had left his
coat. There was not time to fetch it now. He rolled down the crumpled sleeves
of his shirt. They reached the drive, where Rain’s Riley was to be seen standing
not far from the entrance to the masters’ garden. When he saw the car, Mor’s
heart turned over. It looked perfectly sound, indeed better than before, since
it had been repainted. The question of the bill returned to him painfully.
Tim Burke said, ‘I’m afraid, after all, I must go. I didn’t realize it was that
late. No, I won’t take a lift, thanks, I have my motor-bike just here.’
Evvy said, ‘By the way, Mr Burke, do you know Miss Carter? This is Miss
Carter.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Tim, and with a wave of the hand to Mor he
disappeared smiling. Mor felt both unnerved and relieved at his departure.
They crowded awkwardly round the car. Eventually, after a few minutes of polite
muddle, they got in, Rain and Evvy sitting in the front, and Mor, Prewett, and
Bledyard sitting in the back. Mor still felt dazed at the suddenness of this
development. He felt a little as if he were being kidnapped. Then he began to
blame himself for having come. Rain had not wanted him to come. It had just
been impossible not to ask him. The misery which had been with him all the
afternoon returned with doubled intensity. By now the car was climbing the
hill. As they neared the summit Tim Burke passed them on his Velocette,
saluted, and roared straight ahead in the direction of Marsington. The Riley
was soon level with Demoyte’s gate, had run on to where a gap gave access to
the other traffic lane, and had sped back and into the drive at full tilt. They
began to unpack themselves from the car. Mor wondered whose idea the expedition
was. He thought it must be Demoyte’s, as neither Rain nor Evvy would dare to
descend on the old man uninvited. They went into the house.
Demoyte was standing at the door of the drawing-room, and behind him could be
seen a table with cups upon it, and Miss Handforth who was holding a tea-pot as
if it were a hand grenade. Evvy was putting on the chubby, jovial, conciliatory
look which he always assumed when he saw Demoyte, and Demoyte had put on the
grim, sarcastic, uncompromising look which he always assumed when he saw Evvy,
and which made Evvy more nervous and chubby than before. They crowded into the
drawing-room. During all this time Mor had contrived not to look directly at
Rain. He now tried to occupy himself by talking in a distracted manner to
Handy.
‘Well, come on,’ said Demoyte, ‘come and look at the masterpiece, that’s what
you came for, then you can all have your tea and go.’
The picture was at the far end of the room. The easel had been turned round so
that it faced the room. They all went forward towards it, leaving Rain and
Demoyte standing behind them with Miss Handforth.
When Mor looked at the picture, everything else went out of his mind. He had
thought about it very little earlier, and not at all of late, though he had
known vaguely that it must exist. Now its presence assailed him with a shock
that was almost physical. Mor had no idea whether it was a masterpiece; but it
seemed to him at first sight a most impressive work. Its authority was
indubitable. Mor scanned it. It looked as if it was finished. Fumbling he drew
a chair close to him and sat down.
Rain had represented Demoyte sitting beside the window with one of the rugs
behind him. Outside could be seen a piece of the garden and the tower of the
school beyond, made slightly larger than life. On the table before him were
some papers, held down by a glass paper-weight, and a book which the old man
was holding with a characteristic gesture which the painter had observed very
well. Demoyte had a way of holding a book with his fingers spread out across
the two pages as if he were drawing the contents out of it with his hand. The
other hand was clenched upon the table and the arm straightened above it.
Demoyte was looking inwards across the room. It was the attitude of one who has
been reading and who has now left the page to follow a thought of his own which
the book has suggested. From the extremely decorative background Demoyte’s head
emerged with enormous force. The face was in repose, the curve of the lips
expressing a sort of fastidious thoughtfulness rather than the sarcasm which
was his more customary expression. He must look like that when he is alone,
thought Mor, it must be so. I would never have known that. The features were
meticulously represented, the innumerable wrinkles, the bright slightly bleary
eye of the old man, the tufts of hair in the cars and nostrils. Mor felt that
he was really seeing Demoyte for the first time; and with this a sudden
compassion came over him. It was indeed the face of an old man. In spite of the
bright colours of the rug, the picture as a whole was sombre. The sky was pale,
with a flat melancholy pallor, and the trees outside the window were bunched
into a dark and slightly menacing mass.
Mor let out a sigh. He became aware of his companions. They seemed all to have
been equally struck to silence by the picture. Then Prewett began saying
something. Mor did not listen. He got up. Rain was a considerable painter. Mor
was astonished. It was not that he had not expected this; he had just not thought
about it at all. And as he now let the thought hit him again and again like a
returning pendulum he felt a deep pain of longing and regret.
Evvy said, ‘Miss Carter, my expectations were high, but you have surpassed
them. I congratulate you.’
‘It’s a remarkable picture,’ said Mor, hearing his voice speaking from a great
distance.
‘Is it finished now?’ asked Evvy.
Rain came towards the picture. ‘Oh dear, no!’ she said in a shocked voice.
‘There are all sorts of things that still need doing.’ She reached out her hand
and smudged the line of the brow, drawing a long smear of paint into the golden
brown of the rug in the background. Everybody winced. Mor felt an immediate
sense of relief, Not yet, he thought, not yet.
Demoyte came forward. He said, ‘I begin to feel that I am the shadow and this
the substance. All the same, I can still talk, and would point out that
everyone has now given his view except the only man whose view is of any
importance or likely to be of any interest to Miss Carter.’ He looked at
Bledyard. Everyone else looked at Bledyard. Mor looked back at Rain. She looked
intensely nervous, and it occurred to him with some surprise that she cared
what Bledyard thought.
Bledyard took his time. He had been looking at the picture very intently. He
opened his mouth several times in an experimental way before any sound came
forth. Then he said, ‘Miss Miss Carter, this is an interesting picture, it is
nearly a good picture.’ He was silent, but had clearly not finished. ‘But, said
Bledyard. He held them in suspense again. ’You have made your picture too
beautiful.‘
‘You mean I’m an ugly evil-looking old devil,’ said Demoyte, ‘and ought to
appear so. You may be right.’
Bledyard was one of the few people capable of ignoring Demoyte. He went on, ‘It
is a question of the head head, Miss Carter. You have chosen to present it as a
series of definitions, well executed in themselves, I don’t deny. But as it is
its strength its strength depends upon the power of these definitions to appeal
to a conception of character in the observer. One result of this is that while
your sitter looks old he does not look
mortal.
It is the mass of the
head that ought to impress us if the picture is to have the power of a
masterpiece. The head should be seen as a coinherence coinherence of masses.
The observation of character is very well. But this is a
painting,
Miss
Miss Carter.’
There was a silence. ‘You are absolutely right,’ said Rain. She spoke in a
slightly desolate voice. ‘Yes, yes, yes, you are right. Then she said with a
sudden gesture, Oh dear, it’s no good, it’s no good,’ and turned away.
Everyone except Demoyte and Bledyard looked embarrassed. Bledyard, having said
his say, returned to a scrutiny of the picture.
Evvy said, ‘I’m sure Mr Bledyard didn’t mean — ’
Demoyte looked at his watch and said, ‘If you want to get back to that cricket
game before it’s all over you’d better gulp down some tea.’
Prewett and Evvy accepted tea from Miss Handforth. Mor refused. Rain was
standing by the table, fingering a cup and looking gloomily towards the
picture.