Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

After that Mor had had great difficulty in persuading Nan to accompany him to Demoyte’s dinners. But he knew obscurely that if it ever became established that he went alone, Nan’s hostility to Demoyte would take a more active form and she would seriously endeavour to bring the friendship to an end. As it was, Nan worked off her spleen on each occasion by making bitter comments to Mor as they walked home. With these comments Mor would often weakly concur, excusing his disloyalty to himself on the ground that he was thereby averting a greater evil. Nan was prepared to tolerate Demoyte on condition that he was judged finally by Mor and herself in unison; and to placate her Mor was prepared to allow the judgement to seem final, and to keep his private corrections to himself.

On this occasion as Mor walked across the asphalt playground in the direction of the bicycle-sheds, averting his eyes automatically from the windows of classrooms where lessons were still in progress, he remembered with a small pang of disappointment that tonight Demoyte would not be alone. Mor would sometimes cycle over to Brayling’s Close in the late evening after supper - but there was something especially sacred about the short encounters before dinner, when the glow of Demoyte’s drawing-room came as a sharp pleasure after the recent escape from school. Mor was glad when Demoyte had guests, but he liked to see the old man alone first, and as he tried to arrive soon after five-thirty he was usually able to do so. This evening, however, the portrait-painter woman, Miss Carter, would of course be present. Mor had a vague curiosity about this young woman. When her father had died some months ago the newspapers had been filled with obituaries and appreciations of his work which had contained many references to her. She was supposed to be talented. Concerning her personal appearance and presence Mor had been able to obtain only the vaguest account from Mr Everard, who, as Nan had remarked, was not generally to be trusted in summing up the opposite sex. Mor’s thoughts touched lightly on the girl and then returned to Demoyte.

In spite of the difference in their political views Demoyte had, somewhat to Mor’s surprise, been very much in favour of Tim Burke’s plan to make Mor a Labour Candidate. ‘You won’t do us any harm,’ he told Mor, ‘since whatever else you’ll be doing at Westminster you certainly won’t be governing the country - and you may do yourself some good by getting out of this damned rut. I hate to see you as poor Evvy’s henchman. It’s so painfully unnatural.’ Mor was of Demoyte’s opinion on the latter point. As far as this evening was concerned, however, Mor was anxious to warn Demoyte not to mention the matter in Nan’s presence. Demoyte’s approval would merely increase her opposition to the plan.

The master’s bicycle-shed was a wooden structure, much broken down and overgrown with Virginia creeper, and situated in a gloomy shrubbery which was known as the masters’ garden, and which was nominally out of bounds to the boys. Beside it was a stretch of weedy gravel, connecting by a grassy track with the main drive, on which stood Mr Everard’s new baby Austin and Mr Prewett’s very old enormous Morris. Mor found his bicycle and set out slowly along the track. He bumped along between the trees, turned on to the loose gravel of the main drive, until he reached the school gates and the smooth tarmac surface of the arterial road. Fast cars were rushing in both directions along the dual carriageway, and it was a little while before Mor could get across into the other lane. He slipped through at last and began to pedal up the hill towards the railway bridge. It was a stiff climb. As usual he forced himself at it with the intention of getting to the top without dismounting. He gave up the attempt at the usual place. He reached the summit of the bridge and began to freewheel down the other side.

Now between trees the Close was distantly in sight. At this place on the road it seemed as if one were deep in the country. The housing estate was momentarily hidden behind the bridge, and the shopping centre, which lay on a parallel road on the other side of the fields, had not yet come in sight. Demoyte’s house stood there, stately and pensive as in a print, looking exactly as it had looked when company had come down in coaches from London, across heaths infested by highwaymen, to report to their friends in the country what was Garrick’s present role and what the latest saying of the Doctor. Mor waited again for a gap in the traffic to get back across the road, turned into Demoyte’s drive, and cycled up the untidy avenue of old precarious elm trees. These trees had long ago been condemned as unsafe, but Demoyte had refused to have them cut down. ‘Let Evvy do it when I’m gone,’ he said. ‘I don’t grudge him that pleasure. He has so few.’

The house was long in the front, built of small rose-coloured bricks, and arching out in two large bow windows. A wide door with a stone pediment faced the avenue across a square of grass. The main garden lay at the side. Mor cycled between two pillars and skirted the grass. He left his bicycle leaning against the wall of what had once been a coach house and made his way on foot towards the front door. He felt that he was being watched, and looked up to see Miss Handforth gazing at him out of the window above the door. He waved cheerfully at her. He was one of Handy’s favourites.

Miss Handforth met him in the hall, sweeping round the white curve of the staircase with a vehemence which made the house shake. She was a stout powerful middle-aged woman with a face like a lion and a foot like a rhino. She had once been an elementary school teacher.

‘Hello,’ said Mor. ‘How goes it, Handy? How’s his Lordship?’

‘No more lazy and troublesome than usual,’ said Miss Handforth in ringing tones. ‘You’ve arrived early again, but I don’t suppose it matters.’ Handy never addressed people by their names. She coughed unrestrainedly as she spoke. ‘I’ve got a most awful cold, though how I could have caught it in this weather’s a regular mystery. It must be hay fever, only the hay’s in, I don’t know if that makes any difference. If you want to wash, go straight through, you know the way, the downstairs toilet this time, if you please. The boss is still getting up from lying down, but Miss Thing is in the drawing-room if you want to be polite. Otherwise go and knock on the dressing-room door. I must go and look at the dinner.’

Miss Handforth went away, coughing and sneezing, through a green baize door in the direction of the kitchen. Mor went through to what she called the downstairs toilet and tried to wash his hands. They were blackened, as usual, by the ancient rubber grips on the handle-bars. Soap made little impression on the dirt, although plenty came off on the towel. Mor, who had deduced from Miss Handforth’s tone that she was hostile to Mr Demoyte’s other guest, decided that he would not be, as she put it, polite, and instead he mounted the stairs and knocked on the door of Demoyte’s dressing-room. A growl came from inside.

‘May I come in, sir?’ said Mor.

‘No,’ said Demoyte’s voice. ‘Go away. You’re infernally early. Three minutes ago I was asleep. Now I have to make a decision about my trousers. I’m not going to receive you in my shift. There’s a charming lady down in the drawing-room.’

Mor turned away and went slowly downstairs again. Half thoughtfully he straightened his tie. As he made for the drawing-room door he saw through a vista of passages straight into the kitchen; the figure of Handy was discovered in a listening attitude. Mor made an ambiguous gesture of complicity. Handy replied with another gesture and a resounding snort. Mor was not sure what she meant. He went into the drawing-room and closed the door softly behind him.