The Sandcastle (8 page)

Mor protested, smiled, and finally put the ear-rings in his pocket. They left
the shop together.

Chapter
Five

WHEN
Mor awoke next morning he found, with his first W consciousness, that he felt
extremely light-hearted. It was as if a good angel had passed in the night. For
a while he lay marvelling vaguely at his condition. Then it came back to him
that of course he had now at last
decided.
In the light of the actual
decision the moves necessary to carry it out seemed very much easier. What was
necessary was possible. Recalling the previous evening, and asking himself what
exactly had happened, it seemed to Mor that Tim Burke had suddenly been able to
communicate to him a new sort of confidence. He wondered why. His thoughts
switched to Miss Carter, whom he would be seeing at lunch-time today; and then
it seemed to him that in some strange way it was Miss Carter who had been
responsible for his ability to decide, having given him, by her mere existence,
a fresh sense of power and possibility. Mor mused for a while upon this
mystery. Eccentric people, he concluded, were good for conventional people,
simply because they made them able to conceive of everything being quite
different. This gave them a sense of freedom. Nothing is more educational, in
the end, than the mode of being of other people.
The morning passed quickly, and a little before one o‘clock Mor set out on his
bicycle for Mr Everard’s luncheon party. In the bicycle basket he had placed a
small packet which contained the complete works of Demoyte and which in
accordance with his promise he was taking to Miss Carter. A cycle track, for
the use of masters only, led down the hill through the wood towards the
neglected garden of the Headmaster’s house. As Mor free-wheeled through the
trees, his bicycle bumping about agreeably on the undulating track, he
experienced a profound sense of well-being and general benevolence. The weather
was still extremely sunny, but today there was a soft breeze which seemed to
bring, from not so very far away in the south, the freshness of the sea.
Benevolently Mor thought about Mr Everard. There came back to him the remark
which Miss Carter had made about his having no malice in him. It was true. Evvy
had no malice. In some sense of the word Evvy was undoubtedly a good man. He
was well-intentioned and unselfish; indeed he seemed utterly to lack the
conception of getting anything for himself. Evvy’s life was not constructed, it
seemed to Mor, in such a way as to leave any place in it where he could store
things for himself. Most people’s lives had a sort of bulge or recess in which
they piled up their selfish acquisitions, their goods, their fame, their power.
Evvy had no such private place. He lived in the open, with simplicity, seeming
to lack altogether the concepts of vanity or ambition, weaknesses which he was
equally incapable of harbouring within himself or of recognizing in others. If
he hurt people, it was through indecision or sheer obtuseness and not through
any preference for having things his own way, since his own way was something
which had never really developed.
Doubtless such a character ought not to be in a position of power. All the
same, it occurred to Mor more forcibly than ever before, there was something
impressive about Mr Everard. And he wondered, too, how it was that while Mr
Everard was so gentle and unselfish, and Mr Demoyte so much the reverse, he
felt deep love and tenderness for Demoyte and could hardly summon up any
affection at all for poor Evvy. Mor wondered whether this reflected badly on
his own character. Here was another mystery. He seemed to be surrounded by
them. As Mor thought this, he found that it was rather a pleasant thought; and
as he sailed on down the hill the soothing sense of mystery became transformed
into the more precisely pleasurable anticipation of meeting Miss Carter again.
The approach to Mr Everard’s house was by a gravel drive, which connected with
the main road, and on to which the cycle track eventually emerged at right
angles. Mor dismounted at the drive, as the coarse gravel was not pleasant for
cycling on, and pushed his bicycle up towards the white house. The yellow
gravel expanse in front of the house was dotted with concrete tubs which
contained geraniums and between which visiting cars had to pick their way. Mor
saw that a car was standing at the door. He saw as he drew closer that it was a
long dark green Riley. He looked at it with desultory admiration. Mor had never
been able to dream of affording a car. He took his bicycle round to the side of
the house, and then came back into the entrance hall. He hung his coat up on a
peg and mounted the stairs to the big room which served Mr Everard as both
drawing-room and dining-room.
As he entered, Mor saw that Bledyard and Miss Carter had both arrived. He was
sorry at this, as he would have liked to have witnessed the encounter. They
were both standing about in silence, Miss Carter leaning against the
mantelpiece and Bledyard looking out of the window. Mr Everard was not famous
for putting his guests at their ease.
He came forward now to welcome Mor. ‘Bill, I’m so glad you’ve come. Now we can
have some lunch. I believe you know Miss Carter, and here is Mr Bledyard. You
left your coat downstairs? Good, good.’
Mr Everard had a plump healthy face of the kind which passes imperceptibly from
boyhood into middle age without any observable intermediate phase. He always
wore a tweed suit and a dog collar. His expression was habitually gentle, his
eyes doe-like. His hair was light brown and rather fluffy and unruly. As a boy
he must have been pretty; as a middle-aged man he appeared candid and disarming
to those who did not see him as looking stupid.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Mor. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’ Evvy had once tried to persuade
Mor to call him by his Christian name, but Mor could not bring himself to do
so.
Mor cast a quick glance at Miss Carter, and she nodded to him. She was wearing
a close-fitting blue silk dress which made her look smarter and more feminine
than Mor had yet seen her look. She seemed very preoccupied. Clearly what
preoccupied her was the presence of Bledyard. Mor observed this with an
unpleasant pang which he was surprised to identify as a sort of jealousy. He
would have liked Miss Carter to have shown more interest in his own arrival.
His mind reverted again to the odd scene in Bledyard’s room. He felt uneasy,
and turned towards Bledyard, who still presented his back to the company.
‘Come along now, lunch-time!’ said Evvy. He had a rich deep public school voice
which could make any statement seem portentous. He began to usher his guests
down the room towards the dining-table, which was laid at the other end. In
Demoyte’s day things had been far otherwise; but now the furry den-like
interior had gone, and the room seemed longer and lighter, and prints of the
French impressionists hung upon the walls from which Demoyte’s rugs had been
stripped.
‘Mr Bledyard, you sit here,’ said Evvy. ‘Oh, Miss Carter, please, you here, and
Bill by the sideboard. You can help me with the plates, Bill’
Mr Everard believed keenly that the servants should be spared. He had
introduced the policy as far as he could in the face of protesting parents into
the school regime: cafeteria lunches, and the boys to make their beds, clean
their shoes, and wash up twice a week. In his own household Evvy was able to
proceed unchecked, especially as he had refused to draw the considerable
entertainment allowance which Demoyte had established as part of the
Headmaster’s emoluments. Except for extremely ceremonial occasions, there was
no waiting at Mr Everard’s table. His daily help, who disappeared shortly
before one, left behind such hot or cold offerings as she thought fit for his
guests to consume, and Evvy presented these as best he could. The offering
today, Mor saw with some relief, was cold. One blessing was that meals with
Evvy were at least brief; no dawdling with sherry beforehand, or lingering over
wine or liqueurs, prolonged the episode which proceeded usually with a
consoling briskness.
Evvy handed the plates of cold meat and salad from the sideboard, and Mor
distributed them, and then poured out water for the guests. Miss Carter seemed
a little paralysed. Bledyard sat as usual quite at his ease in saying nothing,
moving his large head gently to and fro, as if he had just had it fixed on and
was trying to see if it was firm. Bledyard’s age was hard to determine. Mor
suspected him of being quite young, that is in his thirties. If he had not
looked quite so odd he might have been handsome. He had a great head of dark
hair which was perfectly straight and worn a little long. It soughed to and fro
as he moved or talked. He had a large moon-like face and a bull neck, big
luminous eyes like a night creature, and a coarse nose. His mouth was formless
and sometimes hung open. His teeth were good, but were usually concealed behind
the massy flesh of his lips. He rarely smiled. His hands were big too, and
moved about in slow gestures. Bledyard had an impediment in his speech which he
had partly overcome by the expedient of repeating some words twice as he
talked. This he did with a sort of slow deliberation which made his utterance
ludicrous. It had long ago been discovered that a lecture from Bledyard reduced
the whole school to hysterical laughter within a few minutes - and, rather it
seemed to Bledyard’s chagrin, he had been rationed to one art lecture a year,
which he gave annually late in the summer term.
Evvy, whose ability to think of only one thing at a time made him far from
ideal as a Headmaster, having satisfied himself that each of his guests had a
plate of food and a glass of water, addressed himself to conversation. ‘Well,
Miss Carter,’ he said, ‘and how are we getting on with the picture? Soon be
done, will it?’
Miss Carter looked very shocked. ‘Heavens,’ she said, ‘I haven’t started yet.
I’ve made some pencil sketches of Mr Demoyte, but I haven’t yet decided what
position to paint him in, or what clothes or expression to give him. Indeed, I
am still quite at a loss.’ Her shyness made her seem foreign.
‘What would you say, sir, said Mor wickedly, ’was Mr Demoyte’s most typical
expression?‘ He wanted to incite Evvy to be malicious for once.
Mr Everard considered this, and then said, ‘I would say a sort of rather
suspicious pondering.’
This was not bad, thought Mor. Accurate and not uncharitable. His opinion of
Evvy went up a point. He glanced at Bledyard. Bledyard was sitting abstracted
from the scene, as if he were a diner at a restaurant who had by accident to
share a table with three complete strangers. He got on with his meal. Mor
envied Bledyard’s total disregard of convention. He agreed with Demoyte that
Bledyard was undoubtedly a man. There was something exceedingly real about him.
He made Evvy seem flimsy by comparison, a sort of fiction. Miss Carter was very
real too. Am I real? Mor wondered with a strange pang.
Mr Everard was now touchingly anxious to make conversation. His forehead
wrinkled with the effort, and he turned a worried face towards Miss Carter
between every mouthful. ‘I believe you have lived abroad a great deal,’ he
said, ‘and that you are quite a stranger to this island, Miss Carter?’
‘Yes, I have lived mostly in France,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I was brought up in
the South of France.’
‘Ah, the shores of the Mediterranean!’ said Evvy, ‘that “grand object of
travel”, as Dr Johnson said. You were fortunate, Miss Carter.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Carter, turning seriously towards him. ‘I am not sure
that the South of France is a good place for a child. It is so hot and dry. I
remember my childhood as a time of terrible dryness, as if it were a long
period of drought.’
‘Ah, but you were by the sea, were you not?’ said Evvy.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter, ‘but a melancholy sea as I remember it. A tideless
sea. I can recall, as a child, seeing pictures in English children’s books of
boys and girls playing on the sand and making sandcastles — and I tried to play
on my sand. But a Mediterranean beach is not a place for playing on. It is
dirty and very dry. The tides never wash the sand or make it firm. When I tried
to make a sandcastle, the sand would just run away between my fingers. It was
too dry to hold together. And even if I poured sea water over it, the sun would
dry it up at once.’
This speech caught Bledyard’s attention. He stopped eating and looked at Miss
Carter. For a moment he looked as if he might speak. Then he decided not to,
and went on eating. Mor looked at Miss Carter too. She seemed to be overcome
with confusion, either at the length of her speech or at Bledyard’s attention. Mor
was both touched and irritated.
Mr Everard pursued his conversational way relentlessly. ‘You are an only child,
I believe, Miss Carter?
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Miss Carter.
‘And did you always live with your father? You must have led quite a social
existence.’
‘No,’ said Miss Carter, ‘my father was rather a solitary. My mother died when I
was very young. I lived alone with my father, until early this year, that is,
when he died.’
There was a silence. Evvy toyed with the remains of his meal, trying to think
what to say next. Mor stole a glance at Miss Carter, and then sat petrified.
She had closed her eyes, and two tears had escaped from them and were coursing
down her cheeks.
Mor was pierced to the heart. How little imagination I have! he thought. I knew
she had just lost her father, but it didn’t even occur to me to wonder whether
she was grieving. He also tried to think, in vain, of something to say.
Bledyard saw the tears and threw down his knife and fork. ‘Miss Carter,’ said
Bledyard, leaning forward, ‘I am a great admirer admirer of your father’s
work.’
Mor’s heart warmed to Bledyard. Miss Carter dashed away the tears very quickly.
Evv hadn’t even noticed them. ‘I’m so glad,’ she said. She sounded glad.
‘Did your father teach you to paint?’ asked Bledyard.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter, ‘he was quite a tyrant. I feel as if I was born with a
paint brush in my hand. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t painting, with my
father standing beside me.
Evvy had taken advantage of this shift of the conversational burden to rise and
remove the plates. Mor helped him. It was stewed fruit and ice-cream to follow.
The ice-cream was rather melted.