The Sandcastle (28 page)

Alarmed by the sudden illumination, Donald had moved slightly and shifted the
chamber-pot. It oscillated for a moment, and then came toppling over the edge
of the parapet, flashed downward, and broke into a thousand small pieces on the
asphalt of the playground. A terrible shudder went through the crowd. Mor could
hear one or two of the smaller boys beginning to cry.
Mor studied the tower. If only there were anything, any plan, which could help.
Clearly something had gone wrong about the rope. Mor surmised quickly that the
boys might have ascended from the roof of Main School on the adjacent side of
the tower, helped by a drainpipe which went part way up at that point, far
enough in all probability for them to get their feet on to the tiny ledge,
while holding on to the parapet with their hands. Here they must have managed
to reach over the overhang and fix the rope on to some projection on the base
of the spire. They had then edged their way round to the front, drawing the rope
with them, in order perhaps to get the extra help provided by the lightning
conductor in getting past the overhang. At some point, however, perhaps when
Donald was almost on to the parapet, the rope, which was drawn across the comer
from the farther side of the spire, must have escaped and swung back again to
its former position, out of the boys’ reach.
Was there any way of getting the rope back to them so that they could hold on
to it? Unfortunately they had used only a very short section of the rope, some
three feet of it, and even assuming that it was still securely fixed, it hung
now on the blind side of the tower where there was no window and no way of
getting at it. Someone might reach it by climbing the drainpipe as the boys had
done - but then it would be impossible to bring it round again to the front of
the tower without edging round the comer on the ledge - and the position of the
two boys made any such move impossible. In fact, it was clear that to try to
reach them by climbing, even if anyone was willing to attempt it, would be
useless, and more likely to dislodge them than to bring them help.
Mor turned about to look for Mr Everard. He found that he was still gasping for
breath. He ran into him almost at once, forcing his way through the mass of
fascinated and now almost silent boys.
‘Is the fire-brigade -?’ Mor began.
‘They can’t come,’ said Evvy. They’ve all been called to a big fire on the
railway. We rang through to Marsington, and the Marsington fire brigade are
coming - but they’ll be about another twenty minutes.‘ Evvy was white, and his
lower lip trembled. He held on to Mor as if to support himself.
Rigden appeared, pushing through frenziedly to Mor’s side. ‘The ladder from the
pavilion,’ he said.
The boys laid it on the ground, the top of it lying at Mor’s feet. It was
obviously far too short, that could be seen at a glance.
‘It’s no use,’ said Mor. He wrung his hands. Could the boys hang on for twenty
minutes? It was a miracle that Carde had not fallen already. And if Carde fell,
Donald would be panic-stricken, would try to move, and would fall too. Carde
could be seen shifting slightly, trying to get his arm, which must be taking a
great part of the weight of his body, a little farther on to the upper side of
the parapet.
‘A sheet,’ said Mor. ‘Oh God, if only there was something for them to fall on
to.’ He spoke aloud, and fell to tearing at his fingers with his teeth. He knew
that the school possessed nothing like the professional fireman’s sheet.
‘Bedclothes!’ said Evvy. He was still holding on to Mor’s shoulder.
Mor did not understand him. But Rigden did. ‘School House!’ said Rigden, and
turning about led his crew of followers at a run through the staring crowd.
As Mor looked round after them he saw that in the excitement the flood-lights
had been switched on to all the other buildings as well. The entire school was
floodlit. It was as bright as day in the playground. As he looked he saw a
commotion near the opening that led out to the drive, and then an ambulance
came backing in. The boys were scuffling and pushing to make way for it. A
number of people seemed to have arrived with the ambulance, and a crowd of
outsiders, attracted by the unusual spectacle of the lights, had come in from
the road. One man was taking photographs. Mor turned his head away.
Below the tower a strange scene was developing. Rigden and his friends had
rushed into School House and were now staggering out with piles of sheets,
blankets, and pillows in their arms. They ran, with warning shouts, through the
crowd and deposited these at the base of the tower. Then they ran back for
more. Mor understood Evvy’s idea. He shook his head. It was no use. The drop
was colossal. A few blankets on the ground would hardly help. Other boys were
now rushing to assist Rigden. They crowded in a struggling mass into School
House. Those who could not get in through the doors went in through the
windows. Others could be seen running down the paths that led to the other
houses. Small detachments set offin the direction of the hall and the Gym and
could be seen returning bearing the curtains from the windows and from the
stage which they had ripped down. The pile of stuff at the base of the tower
grew higher and higher. Almost all the boys were now running to and fro, cannoning
into each other, falling, getting entangled in the textiles, and finally
struggling forward to climb on to the mounting heap in order to put their
burden on the top, slipping, and rolling down again upon those that followed
them. They ran now in silence, breathlessly, in their hundreds, vividly
revealed, each with several shadows from the opposing lights of the four
illuminated façades.
Mor still stood looking up, as if with the very force of his will he could keep
his son from falling. The fire-brigade should be arriving now very soon. Only
let their ladder be long enough! Suppose it were not? Or suppose — So intently
was his gaze now fixed upon the motionless extended form of Donald, that it was
not until he heard a gasp of horror from the crowd who had now stopped their
racing to and fro, and were staring upward, that he transferred his attention
to Carde. Carde was swaying. His head had dropped forward and his arm was very
very slowly sliding off the parapet. As this arm supported gradually less and less
of his weight, he gripped more and more frantically on to the lightning
conductor, trying to pass the hand by which he held it through between the
conductor and the stone. He had been spreadeagled against the wall. Now he
began to swing slowly round, as one arm moved from the parapet and the other
attempted to twine itself about the wire of the conductor. His feet, which had
been perched sideways upon the tiny ledge, turned until he was gripping the
ledge with his toes. Then Mor saw something terrible. The lightning conductor,
now beginning to take most of Carde’s weight, was slowly parting company with
the wall. But this was not what was, for Mor, the most dreadful. He saw that
the conductor passed upward, over the parapet, across the wider ledge and under
his son’s body. If the wire were ripped right away it would dislodge Donald
from the ledge.
Mor had not time even to draw a breath at this discovery before Carde fell. The
lightning conductor, with a tearing sound which was audible in the tense silence,
came away from the wall, and with a sudden and heart-rending cry Carde fell
backwards, turning over in the air, and landed with a terrible sound somewhere
upon the heap of blankets. A number of boys had run forward in an attempt to
break his fall. Confused cries arose, and a strange wailing sound as of a
number of people crying. The crowd closed in upon the place where Carde had
fallen. The ambulance was backing across the play-ground. People who were
presumably doctors and nurses were clearing a way, helped by Mr Everard and
Prewett.
Mor did not look at this. Nor did most of the boys. They were watching Donald.
What Mor feared had happened. The lightning conductor, pulled violently from
below by Carde, had been jerked upward from the place where it passed under
Donald’s legs. Convulsively Donald’s body moved, and for a moment it looked as
if he would be swept off the ledge. But his hand-hold upon the tracery was
strong enough to prevent this. His legs slithered for a moment over the edge,
but holding on fiercely with both hands he managed to clamber partly back, his
shoulders now raised a little above the ledge, his head pressed against the
backward-sloping stone of the spire, both hands clinging to the masonry, one
leg bent and braced against the edge of the parapet, and the other leg dangling
in space. In this position he immobilized himself. A groan went up from the
crowd. It was not a position which could be held for more than a few minutes.
The strain on his arms would be too extreme - and he was patently too tired or
too terrified to make the effort, almost impossible in any case, of hoisting
himself back on to the ledge.
Mor knew that now it was no use to think of the fire-brigade. If there was
anything that could be done it must be done in the next minutes. He looked
about him wildly. He saw the ladder which the boys had fetched from the
pavilion still lying at his feet. It was a tool. Was there anything he could do
with it? Then an idea came to him. It was almost hopeless, but it was something
to try. He turned to look for helpers. Rigden was still standing beside him.
Mor opened his mouth, and found it almost impossible to articulate in order to
explain what he wanted to Rigden. In a sort of snapshot he saw Bledyard
standing a few feet away, his face screwed up, his mouth open.
‘Is there a rope,’ Mor said to Rigden, ‘which would be long enough to draw this
ladder up to the top window in the tower?’
‘There’s a fire escape rope in one of the upper classrooms,’ said Rigden,
‘which reaches to the ground from there. If we dropped it from the tower it
would certainly reach the top of the ladder, if we put the ladder up against
the building. He spoke quickly and calmly.
Mor said, ‘If we drew the ladder up to the window of the stack room and then
stretched it outward it might be possible to rest the other end of it somewhere
on the Library building.’
Rigden understood at once. The Library jutted out into the playground,
overlapping the front of Main School, but not coming as far forward as the
tower. From the top window of the tower, however, it might be possible to slope
the ladder not too steeply downward and rest it either on one of the Library
windows, where it could be held in place at that end, or upon the roof. In his
new position Donald was more or less above the tower window, and the ladder
would then be roughly below him.
‘You come and show me where the rope is,’ said Mor. ‘The others can deal with
the ladder.’
Rigden explained quickly to two of his friends, who then began explaining to
Prewett. The ambulance bearing Carde was driving slowly out of the playground.
The smaller boys were reassembling the tall mound of blankets in a new place.
Several of Rigden’s friends began to run towards Library building, while others
seized the ladder and began to erect it against the wall of Main School. Mor,
tearing up the many flights of stars, could hear Rigden running behind him.
They reached the top classroom.
‘There it is, said Rigden. The rope was fixed by an enormous iron staple to the
ceiling, and coiled neatly on top of a cupboard. Mor looked at it with despair.
There seemed to be no way of detaching it. To cut or burn through it would take
minutes and minutes. With a pickaxe one might have dislodged the staple. As it
was -
Rigden had placed a chair on one of the desks and was climbing on to the top of
the cupboard. Several of the older boys who had followed them stood in the
doorway.
We can’t undo it!‘ said Mor.
‘No need to, sir,’ said Rigden. ‘Well throw it out of the window here, haul the
ladder up, and then we can just push it on up from here to the stack room
outside the building.’
Mor did not pause to think how stupid he had been. He caught the coil of rope
from Rigden, and opened the window and threw it out. Looking down, he saw the
playground far below, brilliantly lit up and covered with upturned faces. It
was already a long way down. At every moment he expected to hear the terrible
cry as Donald fell, and he felt in his own bones the frailty of his son’s body.
The ladder was leaning against the wall. A boy who had been mounting it caught
the rope as it came flying down, tied it to one of the higher rungs, and
slithered to the ground. Mor and Rigden began to pull on the rope.
As Mor saw the ladder rising he turned, and let one of the boys take his place.
He ran back out of the door and up the two remaining flights of stairs towards
the stack room. Two boys ran after him. One had already gone ahead. As he ran
an alternative plan occurred to him. It might be possible to push the ladder
straight up vertically to Donald, holding it from the windows and resting its
base on one of the lower window sills. But as soon as he had thought this he
realized that the overhang was too wide — for the ladder to get to Donald it
would have to lean out farther from the building than their arms would reach,
and this would mean supporting it precariously with the rope. Could they
control it then, even without Donald’s weight upon it, and would he be able to
turn round and get himself even partly on to it without falling? The swaying
ladder, moving about somewhere above their heads, would be as likely to knock
the boy off as to bring him down to safety. It was altogether too dangerous.
His mind reverted to the first plan. But the first plan was terribly dangerous
too. If only he could think clearly!
Mor was now inside the lower segment of the tower, mounting a narrow zigzag
iron staircase. His footsteps clattered and echoed. He thought, before I reach
the top he will have fallen. His breath came in violent gasps and it felt as if
blood were flooding into his lungs. Outside the door of the stack room there
was an iron platform. Here a boy was standing, pulling at the handle of the
door. Mor reached the top with a rush and began to drag at the door too. He
gave a cry of despair. It was locked.