Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor had supper at home at seven-thirty, saw Nan off to her Women’s Institute meeting, and then, at about a quarter past eight, left the house on foot. He told Nan, who was not particularly interested, that he was going to call on Demoyte, a thing which he often did on evenings when she was engaged. Mor usually cycled over to the Close, but this time he felt more like walking. It was a very clear warm evening. The good weather certainly seemed likely to last, thought Mor, and they could even hope for a fine day for the House Match. He walked along, wrapped in a pleasant pensive veil. The more disagreeable aspects of the task before him were not then in his mind. He seemed to enjoy the warmth and light of the evening with a simplicity which he had not known for many years; and he wondered why so much of his life was passed in fretfulness, and why moments such as these were so very rare. He walked a little way along the main road, and then struck off it across some fields by a path which led him eventually into Demoyte’s garden. As the low stone wall and the mulberry trees came in sight, however, excitement and nervousness replaced his tranquillity. The conveying of a clandestine letter was something which Mor had not done before, and which he hoped he would not have to do again.

He entered the hall without ringing, and was greeted by Miss Handforth, who told him, ‘His Lordship is in the library.’ Mor mounted the stairs, but found the library empty. It was dark now, lowering with books, and melancholy. Its silence caught Mor, and half relieved he sat down for a moment beside one of the tables. Then Handy returned, and sticking her head round the door announced, ‘Sorry, he’s down in the drawing-room with Miss Thingumajite.’

Mor went down, knocked at the drawing-room door, and entered. The drawing-room was softly lit by many lamps and the curtains were drawn across. Demoyte was standing, lean ing against the mantelpiece, and Miss Carter was sitting in a chair, enthroned upon a sort of white sheet beside an easel which was erected in one comer of the room. Mor was surprised and pleased to see the easel. It was the first time that he had had any material evidence that Miss Carter was a painter.

‘Good evening,’ said Mor, ‘good evening. I see the picture has begun.’

‘Begun!’ said Demoyte. ‘I’ve been sitting all day for a portrait of one of my rugs. Come and look at this masterpiece!’

Miss Carter rose and stood aside. Mor came and looked at the canvas. It seemed to be empty, except for one small finely worked square of colour in the corner. A few faint lines were scattered about on the rest of the expanse. It looked odd to Mor, but he supposed Miss Carter knew what she was doing.

‘Well, well,’ said Mor.

Demoyte laughed explosively. ‘He can’t think of anything to say,’ he said. Never mind, missie, they’ll all be crawling to you later on.‘

Mor was irritated. Demoyte was making it look as if he had been rude. ‘Miss Carter knows I have complete faith in her talent,’ said Mor. This sounded idiotic. He tried to help it out by giving Miss Carter a rather rueful and very friendly look. She smiled back with such warmth that Mor was quite consoled.

‘That’s cant,’ said Demoyte. ‘You know nothing whatever about Miss Carter’s talent or anyone else’s. This man doesn’t know a Rubens from a Rembrandt. He lives in a monochrome world.’

Mor felt this was cruel, as well as being unjust. He tried to carry it off. ‘I spoke of faith,’ he said. ‘Blessed is he who has not seen, but has believed! I believe in Miss Carter.’ This was weak, but Miss Carter was still smiling at him in an encouraging way and that seemed to make the words stand up.

‘Oh well,’ said Demoyte, ‘now you’re talking about Miss Carter, not her talent. This conversation is degenerating into imbecility. Have you dined?’

‘Thank you, sir, yes,’ said Mor.

‘So have we,’ said Demoyte, ‘and Miss Carter was painting until a few minutes ago. I suggest we all have some brandy. Miss Carter must be exhausted. She’s been painting, or pretending to paint, for about six hours.’

‘I am tired,’ said Miss Carter. ‘Mr Demoyte doesn’t believe it, but I’ve done a great deal of work today.’

Mor was surprised to hear this. He had vaguely imagined that after the trials of yesterday Miss Carter would have spent today lying down in a state of collapse. He gave her a look of admiration, which he hoped she was able to interpret. Miss Carter was wearing her trousers, and had tossed off her overall soon after he entered to reveal a plain white cotton shirt. With her short dark hair and the strong dusky red of her cheeks she looked like Pierrot, and had, it suddenly seemed to Mor, something of his grotesque melancholy.

Mor and Miss Carter moved to chairs beside the hearth. Demoyte was fiddling in a comer cupboard. ‘Where the hell are the brandy glasses?’ he said. ‘Handy will use them for drinking lemonade out of in the kitchen. I must go and find them. You two can amuse yourselves.’ He turned and went out of the door, leaving it open.

Mor knew that now was his chance to give Miss Carter the letter. He was overcome with confusion and stood up, blushing violently. Miss Carter looked up at him, a trifle surprised. Mor fumbled in his pocket for the letter, and took a moment or two to find it. Then he drew it forth and threw it quickly on to her knee. It fell to the floor, and she picked it up with a puzzled look. As she did this, a movement caught Mor’s eye and he looked over Miss Carter’s head to see that Demoyte was standing at the open door and had witnessed the scene. Miss Carter, who had her back to the door, had not observed him. She put the letter quickly into her handbag, which lay beside her, and looked up again at Mor. Demoyte withdrew for a moment and then re-entered the room noisily bearing the glasses.

‘They were on the dining-room table,’ he said. ‘Handy had got them that far on the way back. Now I must go and see about the brandy.’ He left the room again, closing the door behind him with a bang.

Mor felt acute distress at Demoyte’s having seen the passing of the letter. Everything seemed to be conspiring against him to make something which was really unimportant look like something important. Now both Tim Burke and Demoyte would be thinking that something was going on, whereas in reality nothing was going on. What Mor had hoped to terminate and bury was being lent a spurious significance by these witnesses. He looked at Miss Carter dumbly, almost angrily.

‘The car is all right,’ she said in a soft voice. She had risen too. They stood together near the mantelpiece.

‘I’m very glad,’ said Mor, ‘and I’m so sorry I was so hopeless yesterday. Did you tell Mr Demoyte about it?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Miss Carter. ‘Perhaps it was silly of me, but I felt somehow I didn’t want to. I just said the car had gone for repairs.’

‘It’s just as well,’ said Mor. He spoke softly too. ‘I haven’t told my wife either. That note explains.’

‘Then it’s to be a secret between us,’ said Miss Carter.

Mor didn’t care for this phrase, but he nodded. ‘I insist on paying the bills,’ he said. ‘You must let me know -’

‘Of course not!’ said Miss Carter. ‘The insurance will pay, that’s what they’re for!’

At that moment Demoyte returned noisily into the room. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘the brandy was in here all the time!’

Mor now felt a deep sadness that what were probably the last words which he would ever exchange tête-à-tête with Miss Carter had been such futile ones. He sat down gloomily and accepted a glass of brandy.

Miss Carter seemed to be in good spirits. She turned to Mor. ‘Do you mind if I draw you,’ she said, ‘as you sit drinking the cognac?’