Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

The room was full of yellow evening light and its three tall windows were wide open on to the garden. It faced the side of the house, overlooking a long enclosed lawn which was separated from the front drive by a brick wall. Beyond the lawn was a thick dark yew hedge cut in the centre by a stone archway beneath which an iron gate led into a second garden which was invisible from the windows. This garden consisted of another lawn, with a wide herbaceous border at either end. Beyond it and at a higher level lay a third garden which was reached by a flight of stone steps. On either side of the steps were two clipped holly bushes, and on either side of these a low box hedge which grew on top of the flower-hung wall which marked the difference of level between the two gardens. This last one was the rose garden, a triangular strip ending in an avenue of mulberries which led towards the farthest tapering point of Demoyte’s estate. After that there were taller trees through which in winter were revealed the red roofs of the housing estate, but which in summer enclosed the horizon except where at one place their line was broken by the upwardly pointing finger, just visible from the house, of the neo-Gothic tower of St Bride’s.

The drawing-room was empty. Mor felt some relief. He fingered his tie again, and sat down quietly in one of the chairs. He loved this room. In his own home, although there were few ornaments, and such as there were were chosen carefully by Nan to harmonize with the curtains, no part of it seemed to blend into a unity. The objects remained separate, their shapes and their colours almost invisible. Here, on the contrary, although the room was overcrowded and its contents extremely miscellaneous, all seemed to come together into a whirl of red and gold wherein each thing, though contributing to the whole, became more itself. A rich Feraghan carpet covered the floor, almost entirely obscured by equally splendid rugs which lay edge to edge over its surface. Pieces of furniture stood about, without plan or pattern, their only obvious intention being to provide as many smooth surfaces as possible upon which might be placed cups, bowls, vases, boxes, together with a variety of smaller objects made of ivory, jade, jet, glass, and amber. Petit-point cushions crowded so thick upon most of the chairs that it was quite hard to find anywhere to sit down. The walls were papered in a gold-and-white pattern, but were rarely visible between the most splendid of the rugs which hung upon them, stretched at various angles between the floor and the ceiling, and glowing there with silky vitality like the skins of fabulous animals. Mor half closed his eyes and the forms about him became hazier and more intense. He let the colours enter into him. He rested.

Then suddenly with a strange shock of alarm he realized that upon a table at the far end of the room a very small woman was kneeling. He had not noticed her as he came in, since the colours of her dress faded into the background, and he had not expected to see her at that point in space. She had her back to him, and seemed to be examining one of the rugs which hung on the wall behind the table.

‘I’m so sorry!’ said Mor, jumping us.‘I didn’t see you!’

The young woman turned abruptly, tilted the table with her weight, tried to spring off it, and then fell on the floor. Mor ran forward, but she had recovered herself before he reached her.

‘You frightened me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

They looked at each other. Mor saw a very short youthful-looking girl, with boyishly cut dark hair, and darkly rosy cheeks, wearing a black cotton blouse, an elaborately flowered red skirt, and a necklace of large red beads; and he became for an instant acutely aware of what the girl was seeing: a tall middle-aged schoolmaster, with a twisted face and the grey coming in his hair.

‘I am Rain Carter,’ said the girl.

‘I am William Mor,’ said Mor. ‘I’m so sorry I alarmed you.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I was just looking at this rug. She spoke in a slightly prim way.

‘That’s one of Mr Demoyte’s treasures,’ said Mor. ‘I believe it’s a Shíráz.’ He thought, how very small she is, and how like a child. Perhaps Evvy was right after all. Her eyes were dark brown and fugitive, her nose rather broad and tilted. A not unpleasant face.

It is a Shíráz,‘ said Miss Carter. ’Do you notice how mysteriously the colours behave here? Each piece has its own shade, and then there is a sort of surface colour which the whole rug has which is different, a sort of blush.‘ She spoke with a pedantic solemnity that Mor found touching and absurd. He found himself wondering if she could really paint. He stretched out his hand to touch the rug, and as he moved it its lustre changed. The surface was extremely close and smooth. He caressed it for a moment.

Before Mor could think of a suitably impressive answer to Miss Carter’s remark, Demoyte came in. Mor turned about, and looked at Demoyte with some surprise. At this time in the evening the old man was usually to be found wearing a frayed velvet jacket, of a tobacco-stained red colour, and a rather limp bow tie. This evening, however, he was wearing a grey lounge suit, which Mor had rarely seen, and an ordinary tie. He had put a clean shirt on. He came in with head thrust forward and bore down upon them. Though he stooped now, he was still a tall man and with a head only just not grotesquely large for his body. His nose seemed to have grown bigger with age. His eyes were blue and looked out between many ridges of almost white dry skin. Scant white hairs still clung in a gentle film to his bulging skull.

‘What!’ shouted Demoyte, ‘you haven’t given Miss Carter a drink! Mor, you are only fit to be a country schoolmaster. Excuse our provincial habits, Miss Carter, we don’t know any better. You will have some sherry?’ He began to pour it out.

“Thank you,‘ said Miss Carter, ’but do not blame Mr Mor. He has only this moment seen me. He thought I was part of a rug.‘ As Miss Carter replied to Demoyte her primness became coyly animated. Mor looked at her again. Although she had no accent, she spoke English as if it were not quite her native tongue. He remembered that her mother had been French.

‘And so you might be, my dear,’ said Demoyte; ‘a flower, a bird, an antelope.’ He handed her the glass with a flourish.

Miss Handforth was discovered leaning in the doorway. ‘The dinner’s ready,’ she said, ‘but I suppose you aren’t.’

‘Go away, Handy,’ said Demoyte. ‘You’re far too early. You all seem to want to get the evening over quick. Mr Mor’s better half is still to come.’

‘Well, what am I to do about the dinner?’ said Miss Handforth. ‘Spoil it by over-cooking, or let it get cold? I don’t mind which it is, but just let me know.’

There was a knock on the outside door, and then Nan stepped into the hall. Mor saw her head appear suddenly behind Miss Handforth.

‘Nan!’ he said, as if to protect her from the hostility of the house against her. He went to help her off with her coat, a service which it never seemed to occur to Demoyte or Miss Handforth to perform, and then led her back into the drawing-room, holding her by the hand. Nan had made what she herself would call a real social effort, and was dressed in a smart well-fitting black dress with which she wore a pearl necklace which Mor had bought once from Tim Burke at a reduced price as a wedding anniversary present. Her wavy hair, glossy and impeccably set, framed the pale oval face, smoothly powdered and unmarked by wrinkles, the long mouth and the shrewd eyes, intelligent, practical, reliable, full of power. She looked a tall handsome woman, well dressed and confident. Mor looked at her with approval. In any conflict with the outside world Nan was invariably an efficient ally.