Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

When he entered the house he had still not resolved the problem. He was met in the hall by Nan, who said, ‘Well, dear, you’re home at last, are you, I thought you were never coming. Look, your supper’s in the oven, and I’ve made a cake, which is on the sideboard, if you want some. Felicity’s had her supper and gone to the pictures, and I’ve got to go out this very minute to see Mrs Prewett. You can imagine how delightful that prospect is! It’s Women’s Institute tomorrow night and she wants to hear my views on how to get the women to come along other than by dances and film shows. I told her over the phone that there isn’t any other way, but she still wants me to come over. I hope I won’t be long, but you know how that woman pins one down!’ And a minute later Nan had gone out of the front door.

Mor sat down to his supper. He felt that that, in effect, decided the matter. If he had been going to tell the truth that was the moment for telling it. But the moment had passed now. Nan had accepted the fiction, and it was better that he should not upset her view. If she had questioned him he would have owned up. As it was, he would leave things as they were. After he had cut the cake, however, it occurred to Mor that there was something else that needed doing, and that was to let Miss Carter know that he had changed his mind about telling his wife. If he did not do this, and do it soon, she might drop a brick. He paused to ponder over this. Then he began to wonder whether she would have told Demoyte about their outing. This notion made Mor uneasy. He thought, I must see her tomorrow, find out whether she’s told Demoyte, and if necessary shut them both up. Mor knew that he could rely on Demoyte’s discretion also; but he could not help hoping that the old man was not to be in the secret. He could imagine the sarcasms which he would have to suffer if he was. He thought it just possible that Miss Carter would not have told him. She was a curious independent sort of girl and would know how to keep her own counsel.

On further reflection Mor decided that since the matter was of a certain delicacy it was quite likely that Miss Carter would not have told Demoyte about it. It also occurred to him that it might be difficult, in the nearer future, to procure a long enough interview alone with Miss Carter to make the matter decently clear. He was teaching most of tomorrow, and could only be sure of getting away at some time in the evening, when Miss Carter was likely to be in company, at least with Demoyte, and perhaps with other people too. He knew that it was hardly safe to ring her up, since with Handy as intermediary no embarrassment would be spared. Mor decided that the most sensible thing to do was to write a letter, to carry it in person over to Demoyte’s house, to see Miss Carter alone if possible, and if not to find some opportunity of passing the letter to her unobserved.

Mor found these speculations extremely absorbing. Once the matter was settled, of course, he would have no more to do with the young lady, and would scarcely see her except at a party or two and at the ceremonial dinner. There was no problem about that. All the same, when it seemed to him that it was necessary to write her a letter he found that this prospect was not unpleasant. He went upstairs to his bedroom, which also served as his study, collected plenty of paper, and settled down to draft the epistle. It was not a simple task. There were interesting problems about how to begin and end it, how much to say, and how exactly to say what was said. Mor had several tries. What he wrote at first was:

Dear Miss Carter,

When I arrived back last night I found that the friend whom I had intended to visit had officiously supported my false story. So in the circumstances I have decided not to tell the true one. I hope you will understand - and excuse me for having involved you in this decepdon.

I hope that the car is all right. It grieved me to leave you like that. insist on being allowed to pay the bills. Yours sincerely.

Yours sincerely,

William Mor

Mor looked at this for a while, crossed out ‘It grieved me, etc.’, and finally tore the whole thing up and sat, brooding. He reflected that if he was indeed to pay the bills he would have to have further clandestine converse with Miss Carter. He could of course simply tell her to send him the bills. But would she? That girl, of course not. Alternatively, he could send her a sum of money. This was difficult and embarrassing. To send too small a sum would be mean and disgraceful - whereas the idea of sending a sum large enough to be sure that it was not too small unnerved Mor, who was, if not exactly parsimonious, at any rate extremely careful with his money. He decided eventually not to say anything at all about paying the bills in the letter and to trust that he would have an opportunity in the ordinary course of events to discuss this with Miss Carter before she left. He then wrote a second letter as follows:

Dear Miss Carter,

This is just to tell you that I have decided, after all, for reasons which it would take too long to explain, to deceive my wife. I hasten to tell you this so that you may act accordingly; and I beg you humbly to excuse me for having involved you in this unpleasantness. I hope that the Riley survived its strange experience and will soon be on the road once more. I am sorry to have been, in that adventure, so inept and so useless.

Yours sincerely,

William Mor

P.S. - Have you told Mr Demoyte about our expedition? If you have, I should be grateful if you could signify as much to me, discreetly, as soon as possible. And please burn this letter.

There’s no need to bring Tim Burke into it, thought Mor, and brevity and vagueness, except on essential points, are what we need here. He studied this version for some time; then he destroyed it too. It was scarcely necessary, after all, to tell her to burn the letter. This request only made the thing seem more significant and conspiratorial. She would have enough sense not to leave such a document lying about. Mor started again. This time he would aim at being very brief and business-like, and in this way he would also be able, he felt, to strike a more sincere and serious note. He wrote as follows:

I am very sorry-I have decided after all not to tell my wife about our outing. So I beg you to keep silent about it. I apologize very humbly for all the trouble I’ve caused you, in this connexion and about the car. I hated leaving you alone - and I hope the car will be all right.

W.M.

Mor looked at this for a while. It satisfied him, and he sealed it up in a plain envelope. He had left out any mention of Demoyte - and thought that he would rely on finding out somehow, from the girl or from Demoyte himself, whether anything had been told. If he found Miss Carter alone he could ask her, if he found her with Demoyte he could rely on the old man’s making some mocking remark on the subject fairly quickly, if he knew anything about it. If he found company at Brayling’s Close, that would be a problem - but one which he would deal with as he found it. Looking at his watch, Mor discovered that he had passed two hours in total absorption drafting the letters. Felicity had come home and had retired to her own room. Nan was still not back. Mor hid the envelope carefully and burnt the fragments of the earlier drafts. He felt as if he had accomplished a good evening’s work. He went to bed and slept excellently.

When Mor awoke in the morning he found himself much less sanguine about the whole business than he had been the night before. He felt regret and distress at finding that not only had he decided to deceive Nan but he had even made complicated arrangements to do so. It also occurred to him now, and shocked him, that he had been entirely responsible for damaging a very expensive car - whereas yesterday evening the fate of the Riley had figured in his mind, absurdly as it now seemed, as part of an adventure. Mor sobered himself considerably by thinking about the bill. As for the course of action which he had chosen, he felt himself, for all his misgivings, to be committed to it, and indeed the tasks of the day left him little time for reflection; and as the afternoon wore on what more and more recurred to his mind, in the intervals of teaching, was the not unpleasant prospect of going over that evening to Brayling’s Close and seeing Miss Carter again, and all this with a certain inevitability.