Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor Was surprised and flattered at this request. He blushed again, this time with pleasure. ‘Please do!’ he said. ‘Am I all right as I am?’

‘Exactly as you are,’ said Miss Carter, ‘is how I want you.’ She picked up her sketch book, produced a pencil from her handbag, and began to draw, sipping brandy now and then as she did so.

Mor sat perfectly still, conscious on the one side of the gentle intent glances of Miss Carter, and on the other of the sardonic covertly amused attention of Demoyte. He felt like a man with one cheek exposed to the fragrant breezes of the spring, while upon the other is let loose an autumnal shower of chilling rain.

Demoyte seemed to have decided not to take any part in the conversation. He sat at his ease looking first at Mor and then at Miss Carter. Mor thought, he wants to force us to talk so that he can observe us, the old fox.

Miss Carter said, ‘What is your son’s name, Mr Mor?’

‘Donald,’ said Mor.

‘I was so sorry I didn’t meet him the other day,’ said Miss Carter, her eyes moving to and fro between Mor and her sketch book. Have you any other children?‘

‘I have a daughter,’ said Mor, ‘about fourteen. Her name is Felicity.’ It gave him pain, somehow, to speak of his children to Miss Carter. She herself must be, he reckoned, no more than eight years older than Donald.

‘What is Donald going to do?’ said Miss Carter.

‘He’s taking College entrance in chemistry in a few weeks,’ said Mor. ‘I suppose he’ll be some sort of chemist.’ Mor wished he could have said something else about Donald.

‘And your daughter,’ said Miss Carter, ‘what will she do?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mor. ‘I expect she’ll have another term or two at school and then do a secretarial course next year. She’s not very clever.’

Demoyte could not let this pass. ‘Oh, what rot, Mor!’ he said. ‘You don’t seriously mean that you’re going to let Felicity leave school? She’s just slow at developing. After a year or two in the Sixth Form she’ll be a different person. She ought to go to a university. Even if she couldn’t get into Oxford or Cambridge, she could go to London. Give the girl a chance, for heaven’s sake. Or would you rather see her as a little secretary reading the fashion magazines?’

Mor felt hurt and irritated. He turned towards Demoyte, but turned hastily back again as he saw Miss Carter’s pencil poised. In fact, he was of Demoyte’s opinion. But there was Nan, and the financial situation to be considered. Anyhow, nothing had been settled yet. He had only answered in that way so as to have something definite to say - and also, it suddenly occurred to him, because he had wanted, for some reason, to make everything look as dreary as possible.

He said to Miss Carter, Mr Demoyte has a rather exaggerated view of the benefits of education. He thinks that no one can stand up unless he’s had the stuffing put in by his school and college.‘

Demoyte said sharply, ‘Don’t attribute that cant to me, if you please. Someone like Miss Carter, for instance, could stand up whatever her education had been. It’s people like you and your daughter that need stuffing put into them.’

This was so spitefully uttered that Mor was silent. He felt quite unable to reply. Miss Carter’s pencil was still.

Demoyte was sorry at once, and said, ‘There now, Mor, I didn’t really mean it, but you provoked me.’

‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Mor.

There was a moment’s silence. Miss Carter then said, ‘If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll be off to bed. I really am very tired indeed, I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

Demoyte was obviously upset. He seemed to think that Miss Carter was retiring as a protest against his rudeness. She tried gently to convince him that it was not so. Mor looked on. He felt intense disappointment that Miss Carter was going away so soon. It was the last time he would really see her. He drained his glass.

‘May I at least see the picture of myself,’ he said, ‘before you go?’

Miss Carter looked into the sketch book and then closed it. She looked rather oddly at Mor. Then she said, ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s not very good. Sorry, I’d rather not show it to you, it really isn’t anything.’ She moved away towards the door. Mor stood by the mantelpiece while she lingered in the doorway, still disputing with Demoyte. Then she said ‘Good night’ abruptly, and disappeared.

Demoyte came back to the hearth, shuffling his feet. Without a word he refilled Mor’s glass. They both sat down and looked at each other irritably. Mor thought it quite likely that it was Demoyte’s rudeness that had driven Miss Carter away, and he felt correspondingly annoyed with Demoyte. They sat for a while, glumly.

‘You haven’t got to rush away, have you?’ said Demoyte.

Mor knew that, for all his irritation, the old man badly wanted him to stay.

‘No, sir,’ said Mor. ‘This is Nan’s Women’s Institute night. I’m in no hurry.’ They settled down to their brandy. Mor wondered if Demoyte would mention the incident of the letter. He was sure he was thinking about it.

‘She is so small,’ Demoyte began thoughtfully. ‘What is she like? A small boy, of course, but what else, with her small hands and her big eyes, and the way she togs herself up in bright colours? She’s rather like a clown or a performing dog-in fact, very like a performing dog, with a pretty check jacket on and a bow on its tail, so anxious to please, and doing everything as if it were not quite natural, and with those eyes.’

Mor thought this disrespectful. ‘She seems very serious about her painting,’ he said.

‘You’re a dull dull fellow, Mor,’ Demoyte said suddenly.

‘What’s that one for, sir?’ said Mor patiently.

Demoyte smiled. ‘I saw you pass her a letter, he said. ’I ask no more about that. I just wonder whether you can really see her.‘

They looked at each other. Mor thought to himself, the old man is a little bit in love with her - and he wondered what Miss Carter would think if she knew of the tenderness she had inspired in this unexpected quarter. He felt he should disillusion Demoyte. ‘The letter had no sentimental significance,’ he said.

Demoyte looked at him critically, a little sceptically. ‘Then so much the worse for you, my boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about something else - Felicity for instance. You didn’t mean what you said just now about the secretarial course?’

‘Not altogether,’ said Mor, ‘but it’s not so easy to see what to do. An academic career would be a gamble for Felicity. She might develop-I believe she would - but she might just bungle it, and not be happier in the end. And there’s the question of financing her. Even with a county grant, it’ll cost a packet to put Donald through Cambridge. And I just don’t know that I can manage it for both of them.’

‘Mor,’ said Demoyte, ‘are you going to be an M.P.?’

‘I’m going to be a candidate,’ said Mor. ‘Whether I’ll be an M.P. depends on the electorate.’

‘It’s a safe seat,’ said Demoyte. ‘So you’ve decided at last. Nan came round, did she?’

‘I haven’t told her yet,’ said Mor. He spoke tonelessly, swinging his brandy round in the glass and looking down into it.

‘I take back what I said just now,’ said Demoyte. ‘I only said it to hurt you anyway, as you well know - and because I was for a moment - never mind that. I’m immensely glad that you’ve decided. My only sadness is that I may lose your friendship when you’re an important man.’

This sounded so grotesque that Mor had to look up to see whether the old man was serious. ‘I’ll never be important,’ said Mor, ‘so don’t worry!’ He felt too moved to reply seriously.