The Sandcastle (30 page)

How could he tell her how it was? This morning he had suffered to extremity.
This morning he had been a liar and a traitor. But now he could scarcely
remember these things - as perhaps the blessed spirits when they enter paradise
very soon forget the horrors of purgatory which seem to have been a dream until
they vanished altogether from the memory.
‘This morning was all right, said Mor. He had already told her that there was
no news of Donald.
‘Mor,’ said Rain, tugging at his knees, ‘you haven’t - said anything to Nan
yet?’
This was the question which Mor had been dreading. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Will you - soon?’ she asked. Her look of tender anxiety made Mor cover his
face.
‘Rain,’ he said, ‘I can’t give this blow to Nan just now, just when we’re so
worried about Donald. We must wait a little longer.’
‘Mor,’ said Rain, ‘I
cannot
wait. I know this impatience may be very
tiresome or wicked. If it’s wicked, it hardly adds much to the sum of what
we’ve already done wrong. But I think we should tell Nan the truth now, even if
it is a bad moment.’
‘Why now?’ said Mor. ‘Or are you afraid I’ll change my mind?’ He held her by
the chin, and looked into her eyes. He had never known before what it was to
converse with someone, reading their eyes the whole time. Angels must know each
other in this way, without a barrier.
‘Not that!’ said Rain. ‘Yet I am afraid of something, I don’t know what. I want
to bind you to me.’ Her small hands gripped his wrists and tried to shake him.
When Mor saw her intensity and her determination, he felt deep gratitude. He
drew her towards him. ‘So you shall, my dearest,’ he said. ‘But you must leave
this other matter to me. Now tell me about something else. Have you worked on
the picture again?’
‘No,’ said Rain, ‘I haven’t touched it. I feel far too rotten to paint. It’s no
good, but it’ll have to stay like that’
The picture had been taken from the easel and was leaning against the wall in
the far comer of the room. They both looked at it. It seemed now to Mor a
little less good. He even thought he saw dimly what Bledyard had meant. The
colossal strength of Demoyte’s over-sized tyrannical head was not really
present in the picture - though many of his traits were present, especially a
musing thoughtfulness which Mor had not often seen in him, but which he was
ready now to believe to be one of his most fundamental moods. It was a gentler
and more pensive Demoyte that the picture showed - but also one that was less
strong. However, there was no doubt that it was a good portrait.
I’m sorry,‘ said Mor. ’I hate having stopped you from painting.‘
‘Nothing could stop me,’ said Rain, ‘except for a moment!’
‘You know this awful dinner is on Tuesday?’ said Mor.
Rain shuddered. ‘Your wife won’t be there, will she?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘but that won’t matter.’
Rain jumped to her feet. ‘I can’t come to the dinner if your wife is there,’
she said, ‘I
can’t.’
She was almost crying.
‘Darling,’ said Mor, ‘don’t be foolish. It’ll be awful, but it’s just something
we must get through. It’s no madder than everything else is at the moment.’
‘You must tell her at once!’ she said.
‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘leave it to me, will you?’
Rain was suddenly in tears. He embraced her. ‘I can’t,’ she kept saying, ‘I
can’t go to that dinner, I can’t‘
Stop this nonsense,‘ said Mor, ’you must come to the dinner, of course.‘ He
added, ’Anything may have happened by then. I may have told Nan everything. As
for the dinner, if she doesn’t know the worst she won’t attack you, and if she
does she won’t come. So stop crying.‘ But somehow Mor did not believe that he
would have told Nan by next Tuesday. There was some date by which he would have
told her. But it was not next Tuesday.
Rain sat down on the floor again and went on crying. Mor stroked her hair. He
felt a strange diminution of sympathy. He loved her. Now he made her grief. But
soon he would make her happiness. Meanwhile, it was he who was to be pitied, he
who had to act the murderer and the traitor. Her grief was that of a temporary
deprivation. His was a grief for things which would never mend again once they
were broken. There would be a new life and a new world. But that which he was
about to break would never mend, and he now knew he would never cease to feel
the pain of it. Inside all his happiness this pain would remain always intact
until his life’s end. He continued to caress her hair.

Chapter Eighteen
IT was Tuesday. The opening date of the chemistry exam had come and gone, but
Donald Mor had not come home, nor had any news been received which might
provide the slightest clue to his whereabouts. Mor had not told Nan that he
intended to leave her. It was the day of the presentation dinner. Rain was to
be present, of course; and Nan had not changed her mind either about coming or
about replying to the toast.
The dinner was to take place in the masters’ dining-room at St Bride’s, and its
organization had for some time now been producing alarm and confusion among the
school staff who were rarely called upon to stage manage anything more
magnificent than a stand-up tea for Speech Day. The masters’ dining-room, like
so many things at St Bride’s, was misnamed. No one at that institution ever
dined
in that room or elsewhere, since the relevant meal was known, not at all
inappropriately, as supper - and in fact the room in question was not normally
used for eating in at all, but had become the meeting place of the Board of
Governors, the Sixth Form Essay Society, and the Games Committee. To transform
this grim chamber into the setting for a festive scene was not likely to be
easy. Great efforts had however been made, inspired largely by the ubiquitous
Hensman, whose enthusiasm was the more touching as he was not to be present at
the dinner, since after much discussion it had been decided that only senior
masters were to be invited in addition to the Governors.
Mor was in evening-dress. This was, for him, an extremely rare experience, and
he felt very odd. He had bought himself, especially for the occasion, a soft
white evening-shirt to replace the errant carapace by which he had been
tortured in the past; but he still felt at wearing these unusual clothes an
intense discomfort which was caused partly by general embarrassment and partly
by the discovery that he must have grown stouter since the last occasion. The
trousers met, but only just. Fortunately the old-fashioned jacket could be left
unbuttoned. For all that, he thought that he looked well, and he reflected
sadly that it would, if things had been different, have been a pleasant jest to
show himself to Rain in this disguise. This thought shocked him by its
lightness, and he turned quickly back to his griefs. He was in a state of
increasing disquiet about the fate of his son. His imagination had begun at last
to be busy with visions of Donald bitterly resolving never to return, Donald
suffering from loss of memory, Donald suffering from hunger and despair, Donald
derelict, Donald dead. These fears, by a strange chemistry of the afflicted
spirit, slightly eased his other tensions by making it the more obvious that
nothing could be told to Nan until after the reappearance of the boy.
The company was supposed to assemble at seven-thirty in the Common Room which
adjoined the masters’ dining-room. Dinner was to be at eight. Mor had made
arrangements for a taxi to call for Nan just before half past seven, and to go
on to fetch Mrs Prewett. Rain was going to bring Demoyte over in her car. Mor
himself had intended to get dressed much earlier and go over to schoel to offer
his assistance to the staff and make sure that everything was quite ready in
the dining-room. However, his dressing had taken longer than he expected, and
it was nearly seven before he reached the scene. He peered in through the
dining-room door; and then entered, whistling with amazement for the benefit of
Hensman, who was standing by hoping to see signs of shock.
The room had certainly been transformed. The green leather armchairs were
nowhere to be seen, and neither was the ponderous roll-top desk which was
usually slanted across one of the corners, nor the massive deal cupboard whose
contents were unknown since the key had been lost some years ago. Instead of
these, three slim Regency tables, which Mor recognized as belonging to Prewett,
decked the side of the room, adorned with flowers, and a fine sideboard had
appeared to fill the space on one side of the mantelpiece. Of the upright
chairs, the more deplorable ones had vanished, to be replaced by some imitation
Chippendale, also Prewett’s, which did not harmonize too badly with the set of
Victorian chairs which were the normal inhabitants of the room. The long oval
table, usually covered with a length of green baize, was draped now in a
silvery damask cloth which reached almost to the ground, and upon it a thick
array of silver and glass in the light of some of the candles which Hensman had
experimentally lighted. From the mantelpiece the bulbous and inexplicable brass
ornaments had vanished, to be replaced by flowers - and above the mantel, surmounting
all, was hung the portrait of Demoyte.
‘Marvellous!’ said Mor. ‘It’s unrecognizable.’
‘You relieve my mind,’ said Hensman. ‘I feared some traces might remain! You
know Evvy’s motto - if a thing’s worth doing it’s worth just blundering through
somehow. I thought I’d better take things in hand. I’m afraid the walls are
rather discoloured where we’ve taken the monstrosities away, but when it gets
dark and you’ve got nothing but candlelight that won’t show.’
‘I’m sorry you won’t be here,’ said Mor.
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Hensman. ‘There’s another party below stairs! The man
I’m sorry for is Baseford - he’ll never get over missing this spread. Two kinds
of wine, and all! By the way, did I tell you how the sherry battle ended? Evvy
has now demanded the very best Spanish and nothing else will do!’ Evvy had
previously been of the opinion that South African sherry, if served from
decanters, would be quite good enough for his guests, especially as, in his
view, it was mere snobbery to pretend that there was any difference in taste.
Mor laughed. ‘You’d better go and change,’ he said. ‘It’s after seven.’ Hensman
was still dressed for tennis. Junior masters had been invited to the brief
sherry-drinking before the dinner; for this they had been let off with lounge
suits.
‘I’m not coming,’ said Hensman. ‘I bequeath to you the company of Sir Somebody
Something-Something, Bart, and other such late joys. I must start organizing my
own party. I’m just off to fetch my guitar. Cheerio! Happy drinking.’
Mor was left alone. He blew out the candles which Hensman had left burning, and
began to look up at the picture of Demoyte which was hung high up, Rain was
sure to think too high, above the ornate Victorian fireplace. It was a sunny
evening, and the light was still good. The masters’ dining-room was situated at
the end of the upper floor of the Phys and Gym building and was served by a
kitchen which was now incorporated in Mr Baseford’s flat. It faced west, so
that the sun was shining in past the heavy rep curtains, the colour of an old
inky desk top, which Mor reflected must not be drawn together on any account.
The picture of Demoyte looked different again. Bledyard had said that the man
in the picture did not look mortal. To Mor then it seemed a very mortal face.
But he knew that he was touched by the occasion, and by memories of the almost
incredulous regret he had felt at the thought that the old tyrant, who had been
used to an almost complete authority over hundreds of souls that feared him,
was to be reft of his power and sent into exile, able now only to oppress and
punish those who loved him. The number of those, Mor thought sadly, was few
enough. This evening’s gathering would number more of Demoyte’s enemies than of
his friends.
At that moment an efficient-looking butler, hired for the occasion, appeared
and ushered Mor away into the adjoining Common Room. The butler then returned
to put the finishing touches to Hensman’s masterpiece. As Mor entered the
Common Room, Evvy came in the door, followed by Prewett. Another butler
materialized with a large silver tray covered with sherry-glasses which had
already been filled. Mor suddenly began to feel extremely nervous and
apprehensive. Rain’s terrors had not left him untouched. He tried to calm
himself by picturing the relief which he would feel when this absurd and
hateful evening was over.
‘Ah, my dear fellow,’ said Evvy, ‘I’m so glad you’re here early. Yes, yes, I’ve
seen the dining-room. Hensman’s done a fine job of work. I hope he’ll be able
to be with us for the sherry - but he said he had a meeting of Scouts this
evening and mightn’t manage to come.’
‘He’s gone off to Scouts, I’m afraid,’ said Mor. He was too depressed to take
any pleasure in Hensman’s little joke.
Too bad!‘ said Evvy. ’I wanted his opinion on the sherry. Spanish, you know!‘
Evvy made a face like a choirboy acting a French
roué
in a parish play.
’No point in spoiling the ship for a ha‘porth of tar, is there? That’s my text
for first School Service of next term, so I thought I’d better be guided by it!
I only hope the Governors won’t think we’re indulging in unnecessary expense.
‘No,’ said Mor, ‘they’ll be delighted.’ The irresponsible reactionary old
sybarites, he added to himself. Demoyte had always been quite right about the
Governors.
‘It’s only once in a while, isn’t it?’ said Evvy. ‘Do you think one might just
sip some sherry before our guests arrive, to try it? I must confess, I need
some Dutch courage. Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking“ is the simple
truth for me, a sermon isn’t the same thing at all, and the prospect will quite
spoil my dinner. By the way, Bill, I’m so glad your wife has agreed to speak,
it’s terribly kind of her to take it on. She really was my last hope. I’d asked
at least twelve people before I got to her.
Mor noted this instance of Evvy’s tact, saw Prewett note it, and forgot it at
once. ‘I’m glad too,’ he said. ‘It’ll be good for her.’ The words were empty.
The future in which Nan would enjoy the benefit of her daring did not belong to
him.
The door opened to admit Sir Leopold Tinsley-Williams, the man with whose
company Hensman was so ready to dispense, followed by Bledyard and two other
masters. Evvy, who had just taken a glass of sherry from the tray, turned with
inarticulate cries of embarrassment and welcome, and spilt the sherry with one
hand, while the other sawed to and fro, undecided whether it should shake hands
with Sir Leopold or offer him a drink. The butler took charge of the situation,
spreading social calm by the very bend of his head.
Mor retired a step or two with Prewett, and was glad to find a drink in his
hand. Prewett looked rather odd in evening-dress too. Mor was relieved to be
with him for a moment. He replied briefly to his inquiries about Don. Some more
Governors arrived. Mor and Prewett backed farther away and surveyed the scene,
making comments. It was notable that Bledyard’s evening-dress fitted him
extremely well, and made him look handsome and slightly wicked. He looked like
a man who was used to these garments, and in this respect resembled the
Governors rather than the masters. He was talking now in an animated way to
several of the former, among whom he appeared to have a number of steady
acquaintances.
The old school tie does its stuff!‘ said Prewett. Prewett had been at Bradford
Grammar School.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mor. ‘They take him for a person of distinction. And
they are right,’ he added.
‘What I hate,’ said Prewett, ‘is to see Evvy crawling to those swine. He
doesn’t seem to realize he’s worth ten of each of them.’
Nan and Mrs Prewett came in, causing a stir. Mor turned towards his wife and
felt the accustomed shock at seeing her in party array. She was wearing an
extremely
décolleté
black nylon evening-dress, with a very full skirt
and sort of bustle at the back. About her shoulders she wore a cloudy yellow
stole, made of some gauzy material and run through with golden threads. She
also had on the ear-rings which Mor had accepted for her from Tim Burke,
although they didn’t quite go with the severe smartness of the dress. Her fine
bosom, extensively revealed, was rounded and powdery smooth. Her hair was
sleekly curled about her face, in a fashion reminiscent of the
nineteen-twenties, which showed off very well the strong shape of her head and
the slenderness and pallor of her neck. She surveyed the room without
nervousness. Her eyes flamed towards her husband.
After her came Mrs Prewett. Mrs Prewett was a tall stout woman, with a broad
tranquil face and very large hands. She had elected to don a dinner-gown made
of coffee-coloured lace, with a coffee-coloured slip to match. A serrated line
crossed her enormous front from east to west, below it the generous contour of
her breasts, above it a flicker of underclothes and an expanse of flesh mottled
by the sun to a deep reddish brown. Her arms, which were white and rather
plump, swung energetically from the short puffy sleeves of the lace gown as she
looked about for Mr Prewett. She saw him and swept forward with a shout.
Prewett was obviously delighted to see her. He began complimenting her on her
appearance. With a strange pang of sadness Mor turned away to join Nan. Nan
meanwhile had been presented to Sir Leopold, and was making herself extremely
charming to him. Mor stood by watching, not included and feeling awkward.
Then Rain and Demoyte arrived. A curious synthetic cheer greeted their
appearance, and a number of people hastened to surround them and make the
pretence of a festive welcome. Sir Leopold, who had always detested Demoyte,
made no move, but went on talking to Nan, his eyes riveted to the point at
which her dress indicated, but just failed to reveal, the division between her
breasts. Sir Leopold was well placed and he made the best of his height. Mor
stepped back a little, so that he could observe the newcomers without being
anywhere in Nan’s field of vision.
Demoyte looked splendid. He wore his evening-dress like a soldier, and
confronted his foes with the familiar front, as shameless as brass and as hard
as steel. He cast a belligerent look round the room, his lips already trembling
with scorn. Beside him Rain was tiny. She wore a long white cotton
evening-dress, very simply covered with blue flowers with black outlines, drawn
well in to her small waist. A long twining string of black carved beads seemed
to make her neck longer and her black-capped head smaller. Her hair was
slightly untidy. She looked like a boy actor. Mor felt his heart twist and turn
within him for sheer tenderness. He looked towards them with a love which
embraced them both, the old man and the girl.