Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

He had been anxious that morning in case she might take it into her head to come and watch the House Match. Evvy would have been certain to invite her to come. But she had not appeared, and would not be very likely to come at this late hour. Mor’s attention returned abruptly to the pitch. Donald had hit a ball short to mid-on, had decided to run, and had been almost run out. The School gasped and relaxed. It was the last ball of the over, so now Donald had to face the bowling again. Mor wished half-heartedly that he would soon be out. The strain was too disagreeable. Anyhow, it was nearly time for the tea interval, thank heavens.

Just then a peculiar figure emerged from the wood. It was Bledyard. Bledyard seemed to think it incumbent on him on occasions such as this to make some sort of an effort to fit him self into the picture. His effort, in this case, consisted mostly of dressing himself in white flannels and wearing a blazer. It was through phenomena of this kind that Mor had become aware on purely sartorial evidence that Bledyard was an old Etonian. Bledyard came towards him, nodded, Mor thought a trifle coldly, and then went on to take a deck-chair in the second row by himself. Mor felt curiously wounded by Bledyard’s coldness. Although he rarely reflected upon it, he valued Bledyard’s good opinion. A gloomy guilty feeling crept through him, which changed into an exasperated misery. Everything was against him.

Then somewhere beyond the pavilion a patch of white shimmering light began to form itself. It quivered at the corner of Mor’s field of attention as he was wandering slowly back again in the opposite direction. He stopped and took in what it was. It was Rain, who was approaching the scene across an expanse of open grass. She was dressed in a light-blue cotton dress with a wide skirt and a deep round neck, and she was carrying a frilly white parasol. She had rather a diffident air, and twirled the parasol nervously as she came forward. The moving pattern of shadows fell upon her face. Mor looked at her, and he felt as if an enormous vehicle had driven straight through him, leaving a blank hole to the edges of which he still raggedly adhered.

Rain’s arrival created a stir. Someone tapped Mr Everard on the shoulder and pointed. All the incumbents of the deck-chairs began to jump up and to run backwards or forwards. Sixth Form boys began picking up chairs and moving them to what they took to be suitable places. Evvy struggled up, tried to squeeze backwards between the chairs, caught his foot in one, lost his balance, and was set upright again by Hensman. The eyes of the School were turned away from the cricket field. Everybody was looking at Rain, who was now walking along in front of the deck-chairs. Evvy was squeezing back again between the chairs so as to hand her to the seat next to his. Even some of the fielders were turning round to see what was happening, shading their eyes as they did so. ‘Over!’ shouted the umpire, waking up to his duties. The field began to change places. Donald, who had stolen another run, was still at the batting end. The ball was thrown to Carde.

As Carde crossed the field, he passed near to Donald. ‘Your pappa’s poppet!’ he said - and he went away down the pitch dancing and whistling ‘A nice girl, a decent girl, but one of the rakish kind!’ and tossing the ball rhythmically up and down.

Donald coloured violently, looked towards the pavilion, then looked away and leaned over his bat, keeping his head down. He straightened up to face the bowling.

Carde took his usual long run and bounded up to the wicket like a performing panther. The ball left his hand like a bullet. Donald poked at it ineffectually; and turned to find that his middle stump was lying neatly upon the ground. There was a burst of applause. Donald turned at once and walked rapidly towards the pavilion. He did not look at Carde.

Mor turned about to see that his son had been clean bowled. Amidst the other shocks this shock was separately felt, palpably different in quality. Rain had seated herself beside Evvy, and the other spectators had settled back. Now they were clapping Donald into the pavilion. He had made thirty-one. The next batsman was walking out. Mor wondered whether he should go away. One of the junior masters came up to him and engaged him in conversation. He replied mechanically.

Two overs later it was time for the tea interval. Mor was still there, standing uneasily in the waste land between the deck-chairs and the wood. He saw Tim Burke coming towards him, and together they set off in the direction of the marquee which had been set up at the far end of the field. Mor deliberately blinded himself to what Evvy’s party was doing.

‘A fine show young Don put up,’ said Tim Burke.

‘Yes, Don did well,’ said Mor.

They entered the stifling marquee. There was a powerful smell of warm grass and canvas which brought back to Mor the long long series of past summer terms. A crowd of boys was already there fighting for their tea. A special buffet had been reserved for the masters, and here Mor and Tim were evidently the first to arrive. Mor pressed a tea-cup and a cucumber sandwich on his guest. With an effort he did not look back over his shoulder.

Tim Burke was saying something. He drew Mor away into a comer of the tent. ‘We haven’t had a moment to talk yet.’

Mor’s heart sank, he hardly knew why.

‘Look now, Mor,’ said Tim, ‘you said you’d give me the all clear today, and I’m asking you to give it now. The time’s short enough, and we must get cracking. You have it agreed with your wife, have you not?’

Mor shook his head. He had simply not been thinking about this matter at all. But now he knew that he could not, or at any rate not just now, carry out what had been his firm resolve to go ahead regardless of Nan. ‘You must give me a little more time, Tim,’ he said. ‘Nan is still terribly opposed. I will bring her round, but I don’t want to act now while she’s so obstinate.’

I seem to have changed my mind, Mor thought gloomily. Very lately he had been absolutely determined to go on. Now he was delaying again. It was only a delay, of course; but he didn’t like giving Tim this answer all the same. The fact was that his rage against Nan had quite evaporated. He felt, rather, a sense of guilt which took away any pleasure or interest he might have had in reading the two letters which she had sent since her arrival in Dorset. This was no moment for punishing Nan. It was rather he himself who deserved punishment. He must wait, and patiently attempt to make her see his point of view. If he was firm enough in his resolve she would have to agree in the end. Moreover, he was still feeling very upset and disquieted by recent events. He could not afford, at this time in the summer term, to have two crises on his hands at once. The battle with Nan, when it came, and especially if it came as a result of aggressive action on his own part, would be violent and bloody. He could not undertake it while he was involved, however momentarily, in another struggle too. Of course, the other matter could safely be regarded as closed; but he had to be realistic enough to see that it would be some time before he regained any sort of peace of mind. He just could not face fighting Nan just now.

The crowd behind them thickened. Tim Burke thrust his neck forward and was looking into Mor’s eyes as if he were about to remove a foreign body from them. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘that I oughtn’t just to beat you into it at this point. Haven’t I spent a year and more coaxing you and petting you until you’re willing to do what your plain reason should have told you to do from the start? And now you’re still dithering!’

‘I’m not dithering,’ said Mor impatiently. ‘I’ve decided definitely to stand. It’s just a matter of getting Nan used to the idea. Give me another three weeks, and for Christ’s sake, Tim, don’t make a fuss. I really can’t endure it.’ He returned his cup and saucer to the table with a crash.