Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘Why, yes,’ said Hensman. ‘I saw her on the playground about twenty minutes ago. She was going down the hill with old Bledyard.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mor. He forced his machine on rapidly down the drive. He felt a slight chill at the name of Bledyard. He left the bicycle at the corner of Main School in a place where bicycles were forbidden ever to be and began to run across the playground. He took the path beyond the Library which led down towards the wood. The path was a bit overgrown and he had to spring over brambles and long tongues of greenery as he ran. Two boys who were coming up the path stood aside and then stared after him in amazement. There was no sign of either Bledyard or Miss Carter. Mor ran into the wood. He stopped running then and listened. There was no sound except the soft continual pattering of the leaves. He walked quickly on, turning off the path and dragging his trouser-legs through the bracken.

Then quite suddenly he came to a clearing, and in the clearing he saw a strange sight which made him become rigid with mingled distress and joy. There was Miss Carter. But she had been transformed. She was a prisoner. She was dressed in a long flowing piece of sea-green silk which was draped about her body, leaving one shoulder bare. She was sitting in the midst of the clearing on top of a small step-ladder. Seated round about her on the ground with drawing-boards and pencils were about twenty boys. They were drawing her. Master of the scene and overlooking it with a powerful eye was Bledyard, who was leaning against a tree on the far side of the clearing. Before his attention was caught by Mor, he was looking fixedly at Miss Carter. He was in his shirt sleeves and had his hands in his pockets. His longish dark hair fell limply as far as his cheeks. He looked to Mor in that moment like Comus, like Lucifer.

Mor’s sudden irruption into the clearing was noticed at once. Bledyard parted company with his tree, drew his hands out of his pockets, and stood upright. He stopped looking surprised almost instantly and began to smile. His eyes and mouth thinned out into two long sardonic lines. The boys all turned to see who had come and stared at Mor with some astonishment. Mor saw that it was part of the Fifth Form. He reached back mechanically to see whether his collar had stayed in place. It had. Rain signified her awareness of his arrival by a very slight movement of her hand. She was posing like a child, rather stiffly and without making any motion. Bledyard was still smiling, his face stretched and immobile. Mor suddenly felt certain that Bledyard must be reading his mind. He began to walk round towards him, signalling to the boys to continue their work. He tried to make his presence seem more natural by making to Bledyard the first remark that came into his head which happened to be ‘I wonder if I could see you some time about reports?’ Bledyard looked into Mor’s face, still smiling his infuriating smile. He nodded without speaking. The boys had returned to their drawing. Mor began to go round behind them looking at their work. He was intensely conscious of Rain’s presence, but did not dare to look at her. He looked instead at the boys’ drawings. He knew that it would not be very long before the twelve o‘clock bell would ring and she would be set free.

One or two of the boys were working with water-colours, others were using ink and wash, others pencils only. Mor paused to look at Rigden’s effort. Rigden was good at painting, which was just as well, since he was not a star at anything else. He had produced with pen and a brown wash a pleasing sketch, the head extremely well drawn and the drapery falling in a strong flourish. Rigden looked up at Mor. He could hardly believe his luck. Mor looked at the sketch and smiled approvingly. The smile made Rigden’s day. Mor moved on, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. Jimmy Carde was sitting at his ease, his back against a tree, one leg raised in front and the other tucked under him. As Mor approached, Carde was whistling a little tune to himself, the same phrase over and over again. Mor looked at his sketch. Carde was no artist. He was working with a pencil and had a profile view of his subject. He had produced a squat figure, the drapery gracelessly draw tight about the body, the breasts crudely exaggerated. As Mor observed the sketch, Carde looked up, and in spite of himself Mor exchanged a glance with him. He looked away at once. He hated Carde. He was glad that Carde was destined for Oxford, not Cambridge. He did not want him to go on being Donald’s friend. At that moment the bell rang.

Everyone jumped. The boys shifted and some of them began to pack up their things and rise to their feet. Rain stirred upon her pedestal and began to hitch up the drapery. Mor saw this out of the corner of his eye. He looked at Bledyard and found that Bledyard was looking at him. Mor prayed that Bledyard was not blessed with a free period at twelve. Bledyard was not smiling now. He was moving his head gently to and fro in the way that was characteristic of him. The boys had now all risen and were making off into the wood in the direction of the studio to leave their paints and drawing-boards before going up to school for their next lesson. Mor and Bledyard and Rain were left alone in the clearing.

Rain was still sitting on top of the ladder. She seemed to enjoy being there, perhaps because it added to her height. She drew her legs up and turned towards Mor with a laugh. ‘Mr Bledyard captured me, and see what a beautiful stuff he brought out of his store-room,’ she said, unwrapping the green silk from her body and spreading it out. Mor saw that she was wearing a flowered cotton dress which left her shoulders bare.

‘I really must try to buy it from you, Mr Bledyard,’ she said, ‘and hand it over to my dressmaker.’ She stood up on the ladder, folded up the silk, and held it out to Bledyard. Her legs were bare and very smooth. Both men averted their eyes and looked up into her face. She looked down upon them with the slightly prim slightly pleased expression of a Victorian little girl.

Bledyard took the material from her rather gloomily. He cast a look at Mor and seemed to hesitate. Mor stood his ground, trying to look like a man who was willing to stand there all day if necessary.

‘Yes,’ said Bledyard thoughtfully, ‘yes, indeed, indeed.’ His tone made it clear that he was not answering Rain’s question. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must go I’m afraid. I have boys boys waiting in the studio. You were most kind, Miss Carter, to favour favour us with this delightful-’ His voice trailed away. He seemed to have more difficulty than usual in enunciating. He opened his mouth again, closed it, and turned away into the wood. His footsteps could be heard for some distance receding through the bracken. Mor and Rain were left alone.

She sat down again on top of the steps and laughed. She seemed a little uneasy. She said, ‘I love posing for people -’ and began to rub one of her ankles. ‘Oh, I’m stiff though!’

Mor stood close beside her. His breath came quickly. He did not look at her yet. He said, ‘ Rain .’

Rain saw at once that something had happened and she saw in the same moment what it was that had happened. She froze, her hand still holding her ankle, and looked down towards the ground. Then gradually she relaxed. She said very softly, almost thoughtfully, ‘Mor,’ and again ‘Mor.’

At the same instant they both turned to look at each other. Perched upon the ladder her face was level with Mor’s. He leaned forward and very. carefully enclosed her bare shoulders in his arms. Then he drew her towards him and kissed her gently but fully upon the lips. The experience of touching her was so shattering to him that he had now to hide his face. He let it fall first upon her shoulder, and then, as he felt the roughness of his chin touching her flesh, he bent down and laid his head against her breast. He could smell the fresh smell of her cotton dress and feel the warmth of her breast and the violent beating of her heart. His own heart was beating as if it would break. All this happened in a moment. Then Rain was gently pushing him away, and getting down from the ladder. She stood before him now, very small, looking up at him. ‘No,’ she said in a very quiet pensive voice. ‘No, no, please, dear Mor, dear, no, no.’ It was like the moaning of a dove.