The Sandcastle (6 page)

‘What is it?’ asked Miss Carter. She was still stretched out on the bed,
watching Mor intently through the bedroom door.
He came back and stood over her. He did not want to raise his voice.
‘Bledyard!’ he said. ‘But he’s gone now.’
Miss Carter sprang up and began to smooth down the counterpane. She was
extremely flurried and apologetic. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘He didn’t see us, did
he? I
am
so sorry.’
Mor told her it didn’t matter, and then led her away quickly down the back
stairs. He felt annoyance with himself for not having spoken at once to
Bledyard and with the girl for the thoroughly silly way in which their afternoon
had ended. Here, it seemed, was another foolish small secret between them. Mor
disapproved of secrets.

Chapter
Four

NAN
never managed to look like anything in her outdoor clothes. She could look
handsome and well got-up at an evening party - but her coats and hats never
looked quite right. Mor could see her now, as he gazed over the heads of his
audience, sitting near the back with a slightly superior smile on her face. She
wore a rather characterless felt hat, and although it was a warm evening, a
coat with fur on the collar.
Mor was giving his WEA class. The evening was nearly over. He often wondered
why Nan insisted on coming and what she made of those performances. She was not
on easy terms with Tim Burke, who always acted as chairman and entertained them
afterwards, and Mor could hardly believe that she came to hear him talk. In any
case, she never referred later to anything that he had said. If she ever asked
a question, it was a simple and sometimes a stupid one. Mor felt that she did it
merely for appearances, and wished that she wouldn’t.
Donald Mor was also present, not sitting with his mother, but in a seat at the
side near the front, leaning his back against the wall, one long leg crossed
over the other. He had a special dispensation from St Bride’s to attend these
sessions. Marsington was three stops along the railway, and just inside the
London area, but a fast train would bring the boy back to school well before
midnight. Why Don came was no mystery to Mor. He came for the sake of Tim
Burke, whom he adored, and from whom he scarcely took his eyes throughout the
evening. Mor doubted whether Donald listened to a single word that was said.
Mor was anwering a question. ‘Freedom,’ he said, ‘is not exactly what I would
call a virtue. Freedom might be called a benefit or a sort of grace — though of
course to seek it or to gain it might be a proof of ment.
The questioner, a successful middle-aged greengrocer, who was one of the props
of the local Labour Party, was hanging grimly on to the back of the chair in
front of him, whose occupant was leaning nervously forward. The greengrocer who
had made the remark that surely freedom was the chief virtue, and wasn’t it
thinking so that differentiated us from the Middle Ages? stared intently at Mor
as if drinking in his words. Mor thought, he is not really listening, he does
not want to hear what I say, he knows what he thinks and is not going to
reorganize his views. The words I am uttering are not the words for him.
He felt again that sad guilty feeling which he had whenever he caught himself
going through the motions of being a teacher without really caring to make his
pupils understand. How well he knew that many teachers, including some who got
high reputations by doing so, contented themselves with putting up a show,
often a brilliant one, in front of those who were to be instructed - and of
this performance both sides might be the dupes. Whereas the real teacher cares
only for one thing, that the matter should be understood; and into that process
he vanishes. Mor hated it when he caught himself trying to be clever. Sometimes
the temptation was strong. An adult education class will often contain persons
who have come merely to parade a certain view-point, and with no intention of
learning anything. In response to this provocation it was tempting to produce
merely a counter-attraction, a show, designed to impress rather than to make
anything clear. But to make anything clear
here,
Mor felt with a sudden
despair - how could it be done? With this feeling he irrelevantly remembered
Tim Burke’s moving proposition, and felt a sudden shame at this evening’s
efforts.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Staveley,’ said Mor, ‘I’ve said nothing to the purpose. Let me
try again. You say surely freedom is a virtue — and I hesitate to accept this
phrase. Let me explain why. To begin with, as I was saying in my talk this
evening, freedom needs to be defined. If by freedom we mean absence of external
restraint, then we may call a man lucky for being free — but why should we call
him good? If, on the other hand, by freedom we mean self-discipline, which
dominates selfish desires, then indeed we may call a free man virtuous. But, as
we know, this more refined conception of freedom can also play a dangerous role
in politics. It may be used to justify the tyranny of people who think
themselves to be the enlightened ones. Whereas the notion of freedom which I’m
sure Mr Staveley has in mind, the freedom which inspired the great Liberal
leaders of the last century, is political freedom, the absence of tyranny. This
is the condition of virtue, and to strive for it is a virtue. But it is not
itself a virtue. To call mere absence of restraint or mere kicking over the
traces and flouting of conventions a virtue is to be simply romantic.’
Well, what’s wrong with being romantic?‘ said Mr Staveley obstinately. ’Let’s
have “romantic” defined, since you’re so keen on definitions.‘
‘Surely, isn’t love the chief virtue?’ said a lady sitting near the front, and
turning round to look at Mr Staveley. ‘Or does Mr Staveley think that the New
Testament is out of date?’
I’ve failed again, thought Mor, with the feeling of one who has brought the
horse round the field a second time only for it to shy once more at the jump.
He felt very tired and the words did not come easily. But he was prepared to go
on trying.
‘Let’s leave “romantic”,’ he said, and stick to one thing at a time. Let me
start again — ‘
‘I’m afraid,’ said Tim Burke, ‘that it is time to bring this stimulating
session to a close.’
Confound him, thought Mor. He’s ending early because he wants to talk to me
about that other matter. Mor sat down. He felt defeated. He could see Mr
Staveley shaking his head and saying something in an undertone to his
neighbour.
Tim Burke stood up and leaned confidentially forward across the table in the
manner of one pretending to be a public speaker. Mor knew his timidity on these
occasions.
“I am sorry, friends,‘ said Tim Burke, ’to terminate this most educational
argument so abruptly, but time, as they say, waits for no man. And Mr Mor will,
I am sure, not be offended if I say that we shall all appreciate a short spell
in the adjacent hostelry during which his words of wisdom may be digested
together with a pint of mild and bitter.‘ The termination of the meeting well
before closing time was one of the few matters on which the Marsington WEA was
in complete agreement.
‘And with this,’ said Tim Burke, swinging back upon his heels, ‘we terminate
yet another series of profitable talks from Mr Mor; talks, I may safely say,
from which we have all profited one and all, and which will stimulate us, I
have no doubt, to private studies and reflections in the months that lie ahead,
before our class reassembles here in the autumn. And by which time, if I may be
so indiscreet, we all have hopes that Mr Mor will have been persuaded to fill
another. and a more exalted post for which the people of Marsington think him
to be most eminently fitted. On which delicate topic I say no more - and close
proceedings with a request that you express your grateful thanks to Mr Mor in
the customary manner.’
Loud and enthusiastic clapping followed, together with cries of ‘Hear, hear!’
Damn! thought Mor. He could see Nan clapping daintily, her eyes cast down. Mor
disliked Tim Burke’s public eloquence in any case, and his persona of a student
of politics in particular. When he encountered Tim in the context of the WEA he
was made aware of him as an awkward half-educated man, ill at ease and anxious
to impress. Mor was fond of Tim, there were even things about Tim which he
wished to admire, and he was hurt for him by these appearances. He preferred to
see his friend relaxed in a pub, or business-like in a committee, or best of
all talkative and serene in the dark encrusted interior of the jeweller’s shop.
But it was a sad paradox of their relationship that Tim was continually trying
to please Mor by a parade of his scanty learning. To instruct him was
difficult; to have checked him would have been unthinkable. So Mor continued to
be irritated. He had not, however, expected this evening’s indiscretion. Just
when Nan needed to be handled especially carefully, Tim had elected to put his
foot in it. Now she’ll think I’ve arranged everything with Tim behind her back,
thought Mor.
The meeting was breaking up. Mor rose to his feet and stretched. He felt only
tired now, his eagerness dissipated. He hoped that he would be spared a private
interview with Mr Staveley, and moved nearer to Tim Burke for protection. Tim
was gathering up the papers with which he felt it part of his duty as chairman
to strew the table. Tim was an old friend of the Mor family. They had met
through Labour Party activities, when Mor had been teaching in a school on the
south side of London, and Mor and Nan had to some extent taken Tim, who was a
bachelor, under their wing. They saw less of him now than formerly, but Mor
still counted Tim as one of his best friends. He was a trifle older than Mor, a
lean pale man with a pock-marked face and large white hands and rather thin
pale hair of which it was hard to say whether it was yellow or grey. He was
distinguished chiefly by his eyes, of a flecked and streaky blue, and by his
voice. Tim Burke had left Ireland when he was a child, but there was no
mistaking his nationality, although long residence in London and the
frequenting of cinemas had introduced a Cockney intonation into his brogue and
a number of Americanisms among the flowery locutions of his Dublin speech. He
was an accomplished goldsmith and could have been richer if he had wished.
‘Take it easy, chief, we’ll get you out of this if it’s the last thing we do!’
said Tim, casting a wary eye at Mr Staveley, who was standing by himself in
brooding meditation.
The meetings took place in the Parish Hall, an exceptionally featureless
building whose bright unshaded electric lights had just been turned on. The
evening was still blue and bright outside and through it a large part of the
audience were already making their way towards the Dog and Duck. The rest stood
about on the bare boards, between trestle tables and tubular chairs, talking or
listening or casting uneasy glances towards the speaker, wondering if they
dared to ask him a question and whether they could make their question sound
intelligent. Nan was pulling her gloves on in a very slow way which Mor knew
she adopted when she wished to detach herself in a superior manner from the
surrounding scene. Mor had hoped that Nan might make some friends at this
class, and had originally imagined that perhaps this was why she came. But Nan
had steadfastly refused to get to know anyone or to pay any attention at all to
her fellow-students. If Mor ever referred to a member of the class she would be
unable, or profess to be unable, to remember who it was. She behaved as one
surrounded by her inferiors.
Nan came slowly down the room. Donald had already come forward and was holding
on to the table while Tim Burke gathered up his things. At such moments Donald
seemed to attach himself directly to Tim as if invisible threads joined their
bodies. In passing between them, as he moved now past Tim in the direction of
the door, Mor felt a shock. He stopped close to his son, but he knew that it
was Tim only that Donald was aware of, Tim’s gesture and Tim’s voice for which
he was waiting. Don’s admiration for his friend was another thing which
irritated Mor. It was so totally non-rational. He could not conceive why it
should exist at all.
It was customary after these meetings for Tim to carry off the Mor family and
take them down the road to his shop, where he would offer them refreshment
until it was time to take the train. Tim held, and Mor agreed, that it was not
necessary for Mor to run the gauntlet in the Dog and Duck. Tim now took a quick
look at the scene. Mr Staveley was lifting his head. A look of renewed
determination was on his face.
‘Out the back!’ said Tim, and in a moment he had shepherded them out through a
kitchen and an alleyway and round into the road. Marsington was an old village
with a fine broad main street with grassy cobbled edges. The fields about it
had long ago been covered with the red-roofed houses between which the green
Southern Region trains sped at frequent intervals bringing the inhabitants of
Marsington and its neighbouring boroughs to and from their daily work in
central London. The main street now carried one of the most important routes to
the metropolis, and its most conspicuous features were the rival garages whose
brightly lit petrol pumps, glowing upon ancient brick and stone, attracted the
passing motorist. The traffic was incessant. For all that, in the warm twilight
it had a remote and peaceful air, the long broad façades of its inns and
spacious houses withdrawn and reassuring.
Tim Burke’s shop was a little farther down, in the middle of a row of old
shops, dark below and white above. A black sign swung above the door.
T.
Burke. Jeweller and Goldsmith
. Tim stood fumbling for his keys. Mor leaned
against the wall. He felt relief at having escaped, mingled with uneasiness at
the presence close beside him of Nan, who was probably angry and preparing for
a sulk. He cast a quick glance sideways at her. Her lips were pursed. A bad
sign. The door gave way and they all stepped into the shop, and stood still
while Tim turned on a lamp in the far corner.
Mor loved Tim’s shop. The wooden shutters which covered the shop windows at
night made it quite dark now within and in the dim light of the lamp it looked
like some treasure cave or alchemist’s den. Near the front there was a certain
amount of order. Two large counters, each in the form of a glass-topped
cabinet, faced each other near to the street door. But beyond these the long
shop became gradually chaotic. Loaded and untidy shelves, from floor to
ceiling, ran round the three walls, well barricaded by wooden display cases of
various types which stood, often two or three deep, in front of them. Between
these, and in the rest of the available space, there were small tables, some of
them also topped with glass and designed for display purposes. The more
precious jewellery, such of it as was not behind the bars of the shop window,
or hidden in safes in the back room, was laid out in the glass-topped cabinets,
and ranged in fair order. Tim, when he tried, knew how to display his wares. He
loved the stones, and treasured and displayed them according to his own system
of valuation, which did not always accord with their market prices. This week,
Mor noticed, one of the cabinets was given over to a display of opals. Set in
necklaces, ear-rings, and brooches they lay, black ones and white ones, dusky
ones flecked with blue or grey patches, and glowing water opals like drops of
water frozen thick with colour. The other cabinet was full of pearls, the real
ones above, the cultured ones below, and worked golden objects, seals, rings,
and watches. Mor had learnt a certain amount about stones during his long
friendship with Tim. This had been somewhat against his will, since for reasons
which were never very clear to him, he rather disapproved of his friend’s
profession.