Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

On the previous day, Mor had at last made a serious attempt to discuss with Nan the question of his becoming a Labour candidate - or rather, as Mor put it to himself, to announce to her his intention of becoming one; only it had not looked very much like this when he actually came to opening his mouth. Nan had simply refused to discuss the matter. She had used her most exasperating technique. When Mor had settled down very gravely to tell her of his hopes, his ambitions, his plans for how it would turn out for the best, she had laughed her dry laughter, and sat there on the sofa, her feet drawn, up and her eyes shining, mocking at him. At such moments she was invested with a terrible power which shook Mor down to the depths of his soul. She seemed to withdraw into a region of completely insulated serenity and superiority. Nothing which he said could touch her then, even when, as he now remembered with remorse, he was driven to making really spiteful rejoinders. It was not that she did not understand his arguments. In her presence, in the overwhelming atmosphere of her personality, his arguments simply did not begin to exist. Mor was astonished yet again at the tremendous strength of his wife. She was totally impervious to reasoning, relentlessly determined to get her own way, and calmly and even gaily certain that she would get it. Throughout the interview she kept her temper perfectly, laughing and jesting in a slightly patronizing way at her husband, whereas Mor by the end of it was reduced to almost speechless anger. He had left the room in the end saying, ‘Well, whether you like this plan or not I propose to go ahead with it!’

Mor had said this at the time merely to annoy; but on the following morning he thought to himself that perhaps that was exactly what he would do. The deep wounds which Nan had inflicted on his pride tormented him without ceasing. He felt, with a deep spasm of anger, that she had provoked him once too often. She must learn that to trample upon the aspirations and self-respect of another is a crime which brings an almost automatic retribution. Mor thought to himself, when I see Tim Burke I shall tell him to go ahead. When the thing is made public Nan will have too much pride and too much concern for convention to try to make me go back on it. She will have to accept it then. Mor got a bitter, and he knew very unworthy satisfaction out of imagining Nan’s fury when she found that he really meant for once to take what he wanted. What annoyed him perhaps most of all about her was the exquisite calmness of her assumption that when she had made it clear that he was not to do something he would not do it.

All these thoughts, however, with a talent born of years of married life, Mor buried deep within him, and behaved on the next day with a normal cheerfulness. Nan too seemed completely to have forgotten their quarrel and to be looking forward to the journey with unmixed delight. They were to catch the 10.30 train to Waterloo, have lunch in London, and then catch a fast afternoon train to Dorset. A taxi had been ordered to take them to the station, an expense which Mor disliked, but which Nan’s colossal quantity of luggage seemed to make inevitable. The taxi was due in a few minutes, and Felicity was still not ready. She had been sulky and short-tempered all the morning, in spite of being promised lunch at the Royal Festival Hall, something which usually pleased her very much.

Nan and Mor had walked out into the front garden. The suitcases were piled on the step. Mor looked down at the ill-kept tangle of dahlias and asters which grew on each side of the concrete path. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Liffey’s place is quite grown over this year. You remember how she used to lie there and sniff the plants?’

‘That reminds me,’ said Nan. ‘A funny thing. I met that painter girl in the street, Miss Carter, and she said the children had given her some flowers.’

‘ What ?’ said Mor.

‘Just that,’ said Nan. ‘They both went over to Demoyte’s house, gave her a bunch of flowers, and came away!’

‘It is rather odd,’ said Mor, ‘but I don’t see why they shouldn’t just have taken it into their heads. Did Felicity say anything about it to you?’

Of course not!‘ said Nan. ’You know how secretive she is. It’s a delightful gesture, and Miss Carter, I may say, was tickled pink about it - but really , Bill, you know our charming little dears as well as I do. Would they have just thought of doing that? It must have been part of some joke.‘

Mor was inclined to agree with Nan, and the whole story upset him considerably. He couldn’t think what it could mean; and he feared his children especially when they brought gifts. He said, however, ‘You’re fussing about nothing, Nan. It was just a nice idea. I expect Felicity thought of it.’

‘You’re almost as naive as Miss Carter,’ said Nan, ‘and that’s saying something.’

Mor was disturbed at hearing Nan mention Miss Carter’s name. He had by a curious chance seen Miss Carter twice in the last three days, once in the distance walking in the fields, and once passing through the housing estate in the direction of the shopping centre. On neither of these occasions had he spoken with her, but each occasion had given him a strange and deep shock.

The taxi drove up. Mor lifted the suitcases. Felicity appeared and got into the taxi without a word. Mor and Nan packed in and they drove in silence to the station. Mor paid the taxi-driver and stacked up the suitcases on the platform. They waited.

The sun shone from a clear blue sky upon the little station with its two platforms, each covered with a neatly peaked roof, like a toy station. On either side the glittering rails of the Southern Region curved away among pine trees between which here and there could be seen the red roofs of tall Victorian houses. Quite a lot of people were waiting for the London train, many of them known by sight to Mor. It was a scene which he usually found inexpressibly dreary. There was five minutes to wait.

Then it came over Mor like a sudden gust of warm fresh wind that Nan was going. Nan was going . She was going. And this time next year, thought Mor, perhaps everything will be different. Everything is going to be different. He lifted his head. How good a thing it was that he had made his decision. Obscurely in the instant he was aware of the future suddenly radiant with hope and possibility. At the same time he was filled with a great tenderness for Nan. He turned to look at her. She was glancing at her watch and tapping her high-heeled shoe on the platform. She smiled at him and said, ‘Not long now!’ She seemed quite excited. Felicity was standing some way off looking over the wooden palings of the station into the surrounding pine trees.

‘Nan,’ said Mor, ‘are you really all right for the journey? Have you got something to read?’

‘Yes,’ said Nan, ‘I have the day’s paper and this magazine.’

‘Let me get you something else,’ said Mor, ‘a Penguin book - and what about some nice chocolate?’ He ran down the station as far as the little stall that sold papers and sweets. He bought a Penguin book of poetry, and a box of milk chocolates, and two bananas. He came back and stuffed them into Nan’s pockets.

‘Bill, dear, you are sweet!’ said Nan, taking the goods out of her pockets and putting them into a suitcase.

The neat green train sped into sight round the curve of the line. The crowd surged forward. Mor found two corner seats for Nan and Felicity and packed the luggage in. There was not long for farewells. At these small stations the train waited only a minute. Mor kissed his wife and daughter, and then with breathtaking speed they were jerked away. Mor waved - and he saw Nan’s face and her waving arm recede rapidly and disappear almost at once round the next curve and into the trees.