Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

At the same moment the door of Felicity’s room opened and Rain came out. She had already dressed herself. She must have heard the bell before he did. She was carrying her stockings over her arm as she had done on the day of the Riley disaster. He read upon her face the same frozen horror as he felt upon his own. The bell began to ring again and went on ringing. The whole neighbourhood must be being wakened by the sound. It rang out with violence in the dreary pallid silence of the morning.

Mor took Rain’s arm. Neither of them dared to speak. He began to lead her down the stairs. She was trembling so much that she could hardly walk. Mor was trembling too in fits which shook his body from top to bottom. The bell was still ringing. It stopped just as they reached the foot of the stairs. Here they were only a few paces from the front door. Mor drew in his breath. Their footsteps must be audible. He could hear the patter of the rain outside. He hoped that it would drown the sound they were making.

He drew Rain, half supporting her, through the kitchen, and unbolted the kitchen door. His shaking hands could scarcely control the bolt. The front-door bell rang again. Mor threw the kitchen door open and pointed to the gate in the fence beyond which was an alley which led away into the next road. For a moment he put his arms about her shoulders, and then he turned back towards the front door.

As he did so his heart sank utterly. He did not know what sort of demon of fury and suspicion might now confront him. He felt as if Nan would launch herself upon him like a tiger as soon as he let her in. Slowly he began to draw back the bolt. Then he opened the door.

Mor stood petrified with amazement. A man was standing on the step with his back to the door. Violently, amazement was followed by relief. The man turned his head slightly, then turned right round and looked at Mor with equal surprise. They stood for a moment staring at each other. Then Mor recognized the man. It was the gipsy-looking woodcutter whom they had seen in the wood, playing with the cards. A second later Mor realized the fantastic thing that had happened. The gipsy had been sheltering from the rain under the porch, and without noticing it he had been leaning his shoulder against the bell.

In a wild relief Mor put his hand to his face. At the same moment he felt anger against the gipsy for having given them such a fright. He said, ‘You’ve wakened the whole house up. You were leaning against the bell. Didn’t you hear it ringing?’ The sound of his voice was strange, coming after the terror and the silence.

The gipsy said nothing. He had not taken his eyes off Mor’s face. He turned and went away without hurry down the path. The rain fell relentlessly upon his black head.

Mor closed the door. He ran towards the kitchen. Heaven only knew how far Rain might have got by this time. He ran out of the kitchen door and nearly fell over her. She had been waiting just outside the door. He pulled her back into the house and began embracing her like a mad thing.

‘Mor, Mor,’ said Rain, ‘what was it?’ Her face was still twisted with fear and her hair was plastered to her head, blackened by the rain.

‘It’s mad, mad,’ said Mor. ‘We must be haunted. It was that gipsy. The one we saw in the wood. He was sheltering at the door and leaning with his shoulder against the bell.’ He began to laugh in a helpless desperate way, clutching her to him.

‘Oh,’ said Rain, closing her eyes, ‘I was so frightened!’

‘So was I!’ said Mor. He was still laughing, almost hysterically, and holding her.

‘Mor,’ said Rain, ‘did you give him any money?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘of course not! I was very cross with him.’

Rain released herself from him. ‘Please, please,’ she said, ‘you should have given him money. If we had given him money the last time he wouldn’t have come this time!’ She looked at him, her eyes still strained with terror.

Mor felt a chill at his back. ‘My dear one,’ he said, ‘if you wish it I’ll go after him now and give him some money. He can’t have gone far.’ They looked at each other.

‘Go, please,’ said Rain. ‘I know I’m stupid, but please go.’

Mor went into the hall and drew on a coat over his pyjamas and put on a pair of shoes. He found some silver. He left the house at a run.

The sudden chill silence of the morning appalled him. The rain was falling steadily from a white sky. It must be nearly six o‘clock. He looked both ways along the road. There was no sign of the gipsy. He ran a little way and turned into the lane that led towards the fields. His damp footsteps resounded strangely. As he turned the corner he saw the man some thirty paces ahead. Mor ran after him, and as he came up to him he touched him on the shoulder. The gipsy stopped and turned to face him.

‘Excuse me,’ said Mor. He suddenly felt very apologetic to the man and a little nervous. ‘I do hope you will accept this. I’m sorry I turned you away so harshly.’ He held out the money.

The man looked at him silently. He was wearing an old mackintosh which reached well below his knees. From out of the upturned collar his streaming head, carved by the rain into something more unmistakably Oriental, was turned in Mor’s direction. There was no comprehension in his face; but neither was there questioning or any alarm. He looked at Mor as one might look at a momentary obstruction. In that instant it occurred to Mor that the man might be deaf. That would explain this strange stare and why he hadn’t heard the bell ringing. When he had thought this he was certain that he was right, and with the thought came a certain awe and distress.

The man turned away, ignoring Mor’s outstretched hand, and continued to walk at the same steady pace towards the fields. His soaking mackintosh flapped at his heels as he walked.

Mor stood still and watched him till he was out of sight. Then he began to walk slowly back. He was very shaken, both by the ringing of the bell, the horror of which was still with him, and by the gipsy’s silence. He decided that he would not reveal what had happened. He walked back through the abominable rain and stillness. The light was increasing, but always with the same dead pallor. The rain fell steadily, steadily. But for his footsteps there was no other sound. The sleeping houses lay about him. He turned into the garden and came through the door to find Rain waiting in the hall.

‘Did you give it to him?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes,’ said Mor. ‘I did.’

‘What did he say?’ said Rain.

‘Oh, he mumbled some sort of thanks,’ said Mor, ‘and walked on.’

Rain sighed with relief and let him embrace her.

He took her into the drawing-room, pulled back the curtains, and poured out a glass of brandy. ‘Dear child,’ he said, ‘you’ve had a terrible hour. I’m deeply sorry. It was somehow my fault. Drink this.’

Rain sat on the sofa, holding the glass, while Mor sat on the floor and laid his head upon her knees. They stayed in this way for a long time.

So that this was the spectacle which greeted the eyes of Nan when twenty minutes later she came in through the drawing-room door. She had entered by the front door, which Mor had left unbolted after his return. The patter of the rain had prevented the lovers from hearing the sound of her approach. The first they knew of her presence was when they looked up and saw her standing in the doorway and looking at them.

Mor was the first to recover. He gently and quite slowly disengaged himself from Rain and stood up. He was about to say something when Nan turned, and rushing away across the hall ran out of the front door.

Mor was about to follow her when Rain said, ‘Do not go.’ She had risen too. Now that the real horror had come she was much calmer. Her hand upon his arm was chill but only slightly trembling.