Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

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.