The Sandcastle (19 page)

Mor went up to her. ‘Bledyard may be right,’ he said, ‘I’ve no idea. But it’s
obviously a good picture - and if it has weaknesses, perhaps you can still mend
them?’
He bent over her, aware of the crispness of her dress, and remembering the
smell of the cotton as he had pressed his head against her. He felt very large
and gross. He was sorry that he was still in his shirt sleeves. The
perspiration was staining his shirt at the armpits and he felt in need of a
shave. He drew back a little, sure that his proximity must be offensive to her.
‘I must paint the head again,’ said Rain. She put her cup down and turned to
face Mor. He had the sense once more of being in her presence and with it a
blessed relaxing of tension. A weight was taken off him. He said quietly, ‘I
was so glad to see the car on the road again.’ The others were not within
ear-shot.
Rain fingered the cup. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but
remained silent.
‘I shall have to go away in a moment,’ said Mor, speaking very gently, ‘and I
should like to take this chance to say that I’m very sorry — ’
Rain interrupted him. ‘Could you have dinner this evening with me and Mr
Demoyte at the Saracen’s Head?’
Mor was surprised and moved. He could hardly think of anything he would like
better. But he remembered at once that he was bound to dine with Evvy. ‘I
can’t, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m dining with Mr Everard.’
A feeling of intense disappointment overcame him. This might be his last chance
to see Rain. This very moment was perhaps his last opportunity of speaking to
her alone. He looked into her face, and was astonished to see what an intense
almost wild expression was in her eyes. He looked away. He must have been
mistaken. He clutched the side of the table. He could hear Evvy saying, ‘Well,
we must be off now, I’m afraid.’
Mor said quickly, ‘Why not drop in for a drink at my house tonight on your way
back from dinner? Perhaps about nine, just for a little while?’ He uttered the
address.
Rain avoided his eye, but nodded her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Evvy passed by, clucking. They went in procession after him to the Riley, and
Rain drove them back to the school. She left them in the drive, and drove away,
swinging the car violently round, its tyres grinding on the gravel. Evvy and
Prewett began to hurry back towards the cricket field. The school grounds were
empty and silent. The hollow ringing sound of bat upon ball could be heard in
the distance. The game had started again. Bledyard mumbled something and set
off in the direction of the studio.
Mor stood by himself in the drive. The sun was declining. Birds walked upon the
grass verge, casting long long shadows upon the grass. Mor watched them. He
knew that he had done wrong.

Chapter
Eleven

IT
was a quarter past nine. Mor had found the time on the way back from Evvy’s
dinner to buy a bottle of white wine and a bottle of brandy. He had tidied up
the drawing-room carefully and set the bottles there with wine-glasses upon a
tray. He had laid out a dish of biscuits. Now he ensconced himself in the
dining-room window, which looked on to the road, to wait to see his visitor
coming. At about dinner-time the sky had begun to be overcast, and by now it
was entirely covered with thick black clouds. The heat was intense and
quivering. A thunderstorm seemed imminent. But still the warmth and the
oppressive silence continued, seeming endless. The light faded, and a lurid
premature darkness came over the scene. ‘It’s like the end of the world,’ a
woman said in the road. Her voice echoed upon the thick atmosphere.
Mor sat in the window, shivering. He could not bring himself to turn the lights
on. He felt no pleasure of anticipation, no joy at the thought of what he was
bringing about. He did not know clearly what he was bringing about. He wished
that he had not spoken. He would not have spoken if he had not seen that look
upon her face. But what did the look signify? He knew that once again he had
taken a step along a road that led nowhere. And he had made it that much more
difficult for himself, and possibly for her, to dissolve this ambiguous thing
that was taking shape between them. Was it something, or was it nothing? He
must believe it to be nothing. At moments he could do so.
Earlier in the evening he had consoled himself with the thought that perhaps
she would not come. She would realize that he ought not to have spoken, and she
would know that he would have realized this too, and she would simply not come.
After all, the meaning of his five days of silence could not have escaped her.
He saw himself so clearly as contemptible: a middle-aged man deceiving his
wife, inefficient, blundering, and graceless. Surely she would not come. Now,
however, although Mor had no expectation of joy from her coming, he was in an
agony lest she should not come. He looked at his watch for the hundredth time.
It was twenty minutes past nine. It was now almost totally dark outside.
There was a sound upon the path. She had come through the gate without his
seeing her and had reached the front door. From the darkened window Mor watched
her tensely. She stood on the step. She was wearing a mackintosh, in the
pockets of which she fumbled for a moment. Then she drew out a letter, slipped
it noiselessly through the letter-box, and turned and walked quickly away down
the path.
Mor did not hesitate for a second. He sped out of the room and through the
hall. He did not stop to pick up the letter. He swung the door open and left it
wide behind him. He covered the garden path in three bounds. He saw the small
figure some way down the road, running now. Mor shot after her. The pain in his
heart turned into a fierce delight. He came up with her just at the corner of
the road and caught her by the wrist. It was like catching a thief. He said
nothing, but turned her about and began to pull her back towards his house. She
scarcely resisted him. Together they ran back down the road, Mor still gripping
her arm in a tight grip. As they ran it began to rain. They went in through the
front door like a pair of birds. Mor closed it behind them.
In the darkness of the hall he turned towards her. They were both breathless
from the running.
‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘Rain.’ It did him good to utter her name. He picked up the
letter from the floor. ‘You brought a letter to say that you had decided not to
come.’
‘Yes,’ said Rain. She was leaning back against the wall.
‘Why did you do that?’ said Mor gently, and did not wait for an answer. He
suddenly felt calm. ‘Take your coat off.’
She took it off and he hung it on a peg. She still stood there by the wall. Mor
came to her and picked her up in his arms. She was exceedingly light. He
carried her into the drawing-room, slammed the door behind him with his foot,
and laid her down gently on the sofa. Then he drew the curtains and lighted one
of the lamps.
‘May I read your letter?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said Rain. She was not looking at him.
Mor opened the letter. It read:
I am sorry. I ought not to have asked you to dine or said yes to your
invitation. No more need be said. Please pardon my part in all this.
He put the letter away in his pocket. Thoughtfully he took out a packet of
cigarettes, offered one to Rain, which she took, and selected one himself. Mor
now felt amazingly and unexpectedly at his ease. He was in a terrible fix. He
had behaved wrongly and he had involved another person in his wrong behaviour.
All this would have to be sorted out. But just at this very moment there was an
oasis of calm. He had caught her, he had brought her back, she lay there before
him, she was not going away at once, he would not let her. Then deep within he
felt again the joy which he had felt in the first day when he had looked at the
flaky wood of the station gate. He loved her.
Mor turned and looked at Rain. She was looking at him. He knew that there must
be a sort of triumph in his face. He let her read it there. She began shaking
her head. ‘Mor,’ she said, ‘this is wrong.’
‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘did you
want
to come?’
‘Of course I wanted to come,’ she said. ‘I wanted very very much to come. But I
oughtn’t to have done. If I’d really willed not to come, if I’d felt clearly
enough how bad it was, I wouldn’t have run the risk of delivering the letter-I
would simply not have appeared. But I couldn’t bear the thought of your waiting
and waiting.’
‘You wanted to come!’ said Mor. He could hardly believe it. ‘Will you have some
brandy or some white wine?’ he said. What he wanted now was a moment of quiet.
‘I’ll have brandy,’ said Rain. She sat up on the sofa, running her hands nervously
through her dark hair. It ruffled jaggedly around her face. The rain was coming
down fast now. Its drumming increased in an alarming crescendo. Then there was
a flash and a deafening crack of thunder. They remained immobile looking at
each other.
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘I think I’ll have some brandy too. I feel a bit shaken after
all this.’ The air was growing perceptibly cooler. The drumming continued. Mor
turned on an electric fire.
He came and knelt on the floor beside the sofa. ‘Dear darling,’ he said. He
looked upon her with amazement, with incredulity. ‘How is it,’ he said, ‘that
you could possibly have wanted to come. That amazes me. How could
you
want to see
me
?’ He touched her hair.
Rain took the glass from his hand and laid it upon the floor. Then she threw
both arms about his neck and drew him down until his head lay upon her breast.
She held him close, caressing his hair. Mor lay still. A deep peace and joy was
in him. He could have died thus. For a long time they lay quiet. The thunder rumbled
overhead and the rain came down steadily.
At last Mor lifted his head and began to kiss her. She returned his kisses with
an equal fierceness, her hands locked behind his neck, drawing his head back
towards her. When they were sated with kissing, they lay, their faces very
close, regarding each other.
‘When did you begin,’ said Rain, ‘to feel like this?’
Mor considered. ‘I think the very beginning,’ he said, ‘was when you took my
hand on the steps leading up to the rose garden. Do you remember? The very
first evening we met. I was so terribly moved that you took my hand. But I
didn’t realize properly that I was in love till the day when I found you in the
wood, when the boys were drawing you. Oh, Rain, I looked for you so hard that
day, it was agony.’
She stroked his face, her eyes burning with tenderness. ‘That was a marvel,’
she said. ‘You came and released me from a spell.’
‘When did you first,’ said Mor — he could not find the words - ‘notice me at
all?’
‘Dear Mor,’ said Rain, laughing at him, ‘I think it was when I was drawing you
at Demoyte’s house that it first occurred to me that perhaps I was - falling in
love.’
It stunned Mor to hear her utter these words. He looked at her open-mouthed.
‘This is all beyond me!’ he said.
Rain laughed again, a deep loose joyful laugh that was close to tears. ‘That
was why I went to bed early,’ she said, ‘and why I wouldn’t show you the
sketch. I thought you would certainly be able to read in it what I was
beginning to feel.’
‘Will you give me the sketch?’ said Mor.
‘I want to keep it!’ she said, ‘but I’ll let you see it.’
‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘it was such torment these last few days. I wanted to see you
so much.’ He realized as he spoke that the torment had only not been
unendurable because he had suspected in his heart that he would see her again.
‘I know,’ said Rain, ‘I too - I’ve thought of nothing else. I knew I oughtn’t
to go to that cricket match. I stayed away all the morning and the beginning of
the afternoon. But then I couldn’t bear it, I
had
to come.’
Mor felt, it is fate, it is not our will. We have both struggled against it.
But it has been too strong. As he thought this, he answered himself. No, it is
our will. And with this came a great sense of vigour and power. He took her
triumphantly in his arms.
‘Mor,’ Rain said, murmuring into his ear, ‘Mor, we cannot do this, we are
behaving like mad people.’
Mor heard her, and her words moved in his head, becoming his own thought. It
was a searingly painful thought. He continued to hold her close to him. Such
pain could not be endured; and if it could not be endured, then there must be
some way to avoid it.
‘We have no future,’ said Rain.
He felt her tears upon his cheek. She is brave, he thought. She says this so
soon. I would have waited. He held her and went on thinking.
‘Mor,’ said Rain, ‘please speak.’
‘Dear heart,’ said Mor. He sat back on his heels. The brandy was untasted
beside him. He drank some of it. Rain sipped hers. He felt as if they were
adrift together. A world of appalling desolation surrounded them. But at least
at this moment they were together. The brandy was putting courage into him. He
could not, he would not, let her go. Yet there was no way.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Mor, ‘but I want to go on seeing you.’ Once he
had said this clearly, he felt better.
Rain was silent. ‘I know,’ she said at last, ‘that I ought to say no to that,
but I can’t. If you want to see me, I shall see you. But we are mad.’
Mor felt profound relief. ‘It can’t be,’ he said, ‘that you really love me. You
must try to find out your real feelings. Let us have a little time at least for
these things to become clear.’ As he said this he felt much better. Here was
something rational to hold on to. The situation was not yet quite clear.
Perhaps Rain didn’t really love him - and if not there was no problem, or at
least not the same problem. They must wait a while to see what their real
feelings were - and during that time they must quietly encounter each other,
patiently waiting.
‘Do not deceive yourself,’ said Rain. ‘If our feelings are not clear now, they
will never be clear. If there is something called being in love, then we are in
love.’
My God, what honesty, thought Mor. But he did not want her to lead him into a
place from which there was no issue. He countered at once. ‘All right, call it
so - though how you can love me is still a mystery. But if it’s granted that we
do see each other again, then at least nothing can be decided at once. We must
wait a while. I feel far too confused to make any decision - except the one
that we’ve made.’
Rain was sitting up in his embrace. She had emptied her glass of brandy. ‘Mor,’
she said with a wail in her voice, ‘what is there to be decided? You are
married. You are not going to leave your wife - and really there is nothing
more to be said. We may see each other again - but in the end I shall have to
go.’ She hid her face in his shoulder.
Mor sat there thoughtful, in a strange repose. He rocked her against him. Was
it unthinkable that he should leave Nan? The thought was so colossal and came
upon him so unexpectedly that he drew in his breath. His mind closed up at
once. He would not think of this. At least he would not think of this now. He
must have time - and meanwhile he must hold Rain and make her trust him and
make her patient. ‘Do not let us torment ourselves any more for the moment,’ he
said.
His tone impressed her. The remained for a while in silence. ‘Have you been in
love before?’ said Mor. He was lying beside her now on the sofa, her head
pillowed on his shoulder.
‘Yes,’ said Rain, ‘do you mind? I was in love when I was nineteen with a young
man in Paris, also a painter.’ She sighed.
Mor felt a fierce pang of jealousy. Rain at nineteen. ‘A Frenchman?’ he said.
‘What happened?’
‘Yes,’ said Rain. ‘Nothing happened, really. My father didn’t like him. He went
away in the end. He got married since, I heard.’ She sighed again, very deeply.
Mor held her violently to him. He wanted her.
‘You know,’ said Rain, ‘like Mr Everard you probably think that I must have
lived a very gay life in France — but it wasn’t so. We lived very simply in the
south, and we didn’t often go to Paris or London. My father was so jealous of
everyone.’
Mor tried to picture her life. It was difficult. ‘You will tell me more,’ he
said, ‘in time.’ It was a consoling phrase.
Mor looked at his watch. Somehow it had got to be half past eleven. Now that he
knew that he would see her again he was not anxious to detain her. He felt that
enough had been said to bind them together - and he did not want to alarm
Demoyte by keeping her out late. He said, ‘You ought to go home, my child.
Rain sat up and made a rueful face. ‘I’ve been very silly,’ she said. ‘I told
Mr Demoyte that I was going up to London and would spend the night there. I had
to say that so as to get away from him - otherwise he would have kept me the
whole evening. And I did intend when I’d delivered the note to get into my car
and drive up to London. It’s parked in the school grounds. But what shall I do
now?’
‘You could go back to Demoyte’s and say you’d changed your mind,’ said Mor,
‘but it would sound rather odd. I think he’d guess the truth or something like
it.’