Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor had not time even to draw a breath at this discovery before Carde fell. The lightning conductor, with a tearing sound which was audible in the tense silence, came away from the wall, and with a sudden and heart-rending cry Carde fell backwards, turning over in the air, and landed with a terrible sound somewhere upon the heap of blankets. A number of boys had run forward in an attempt to break his fall. Confused cries arose, and a strange wailing sound as of a number of people crying. The crowd closed in upon the place where Carde had fallen. The ambulance was backing across the play-ground. People who were presumably doctors and nurses were clearing a way, helped by Mr Everard and Prewett.

Mor did not look at this. Nor did most of the boys. They were watching Donald. What Mor feared had happened. The lightning conductor, pulled violently from below by Carde, had been jerked upward from the place where it passed under Donald’s legs. Convulsively Donald’s body moved, and for a moment it looked as if he would be swept off the ledge. But his hand-hold upon the tracery was strong enough to prevent this. His legs slithered for a moment over the edge, but holding on fiercely with both hands he managed to clamber partly back, his shoulders now raised a little above the ledge, his head pressed against the backward-sloping stone of the spire, both hands clinging to the masonry, one leg bent and braced against the edge of the parapet, and the other leg dangling in space. In this position he immobilized himself. A groan went up from the crowd. It was not a position which could be held for more than a few minutes. The strain on his arms would be too extreme - and he was patently too tired or too terrified to make the effort, almost impossible in any case, of hoisting himself back on to the ledge.

Mor knew that now it was no use to think of the fire-brigade. If there was anything that could be done it must be done in the next minutes. He looked about him wildly. He saw the ladder which the boys had fetched from the pavilion still lying at his feet. It was a tool. Was there anything he could do with it? Then an idea came to him. It was almost hopeless, but it was something to try. He turned to look for helpers. Rigden was still standing beside him. Mor opened his mouth, and found it almost impossible to articulate in order to explain what he wanted to Rigden. In a sort of snapshot he saw Bledyard standing a few feet away, his face screwed up, his mouth open.

‘Is there a rope,’ Mor said to Rigden, ‘which would be long enough to draw this ladder up to the top window in the tower?’

‘There’s a fire escape rope in one of the upper classrooms,’ said Rigden, ‘which reaches to the ground from there. If we dropped it from the tower it would certainly reach the top of the ladder, if we put the ladder up against the building. He spoke quickly and calmly.

Mor said, ‘If we drew the ladder up to the window of the stack room and then stretched it outward it might be possible to rest the other end of it somewhere on the Library building.’

Rigden understood at once. The Library jutted out into the playground, overlapping the front of Main School, but not coming as far forward as the tower. From the top window of the tower, however, it might be possible to slope the ladder not too steeply downward and rest it either on one of the Library windows, where it could be held in place at that end, or upon the roof. In his new position Donald was more or less above the tower window, and the ladder would then be roughly below him.

‘You come and show me where the rope is,’ said Mor. ‘The others can deal with the ladder.’

Rigden explained quickly to two of his friends, who then began explaining to Prewett. The ambulance bearing Carde was driving slowly out of the playground. The smaller boys were reassembling the tall mound of blankets in a new place. Several of Rigden’s friends began to run towards Library building, while others seized the ladder and began to erect it against the wall of Main School. Mor, tearing up the many flights of stars, could hear Rigden running behind him. They reached the top classroom.

‘There it is, said Rigden. The rope was fixed by an enormous iron staple to the ceiling, and coiled neatly on top of a cupboard. Mor looked at it with despair. There seemed to be no way of detaching it. To cut or burn through it would take minutes and minutes. With a pickaxe one might have dislodged the staple. As it was -

Rigden had placed a chair on one of the desks and was climbing on to the top of the cupboard. Several of the older boys who had followed them stood in the doorway.

We can’t undo it!‘ said Mor.

‘No need to, sir,’ said Rigden. ‘Well throw it out of the window here, haul the ladder up, and then we can just push it on up from here to the stack room outside the building.’

Mor did not pause to think how stupid he had been. He caught the coil of rope from Rigden, and opened the window and threw it out. Looking down, he saw the playground far below, brilliantly lit up and covered with upturned faces. It was already a long way down. At every moment he expected to hear the terrible cry as Donald fell, and he felt in his own bones the frailty of his son’s body. The ladder was leaning against the wall. A boy who had been mounting it caught the rope as it came flying down, tied it to one of the higher rungs, and slithered to the ground. Mor and Rigden began to pull on the rope.

As Mor saw the ladder rising he turned, and let one of the boys take his place. He ran back out of the door and up the two remaining flights of stairs towards the stack room. Two boys ran after him. One had already gone ahead. As he ran an alternative plan occurred to him. It might be possible to push the ladder straight up vertically to Donald, holding it from the windows and resting its base on one of the lower window sills. But as soon as he had thought this he realized that the overhang was too wide — for the ladder to get to Donald it would have to lean out farther from the building than their arms would reach, and this would mean supporting it precariously with the rope. Could they control it then, even without Donald’s weight upon it, and would he be able to turn round and get himself even partly on to it without falling? The swaying ladder, moving about somewhere above their heads, would be as likely to knock the boy off as to bring him down to safety. It was altogether too dangerous. His mind reverted to the first plan. But the first plan was terribly dangerous too. If only he could think clearly!

Mor was now inside the lower segment of the tower, mounting a narrow zigzag iron staircase. His footsteps clattered and echoed. He thought, before I reach the top he will have fallen. His breath came in violent gasps and it felt as if blood were flooding into his lungs. Outside the door of the stack room there was an iron platform. Here a boy was standing, pulling at the handle of the door. Mor reached the top with a rush and began to drag at the door too. He gave a cry of despair. It was locked.

‘Where is the key kept?’ said someone below.

Rigden was now fighting his way up, past several boys on the iron stairs. ‘No time for that,’ he cried, ‘we must break the door!’

Mor stood aside. He saw as in a dream that Bledyard, Hensman, and several other people were standing below him on the next landing. He noticed the curling details of the iron work and the green paint of the walls and the naked electric-light bulb. Rigden and three others were hurling themselves against the door. It withstood them. They began to kick the lower panels. With a loud splintering sound the door was beginning to crack. In a moment Rigden and his friends had kicked a hole in the bottom large enough for them to crawl through. With some difficulty Mor followed them.