Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘He said they’re going ahead with the presentation dinner for Demoyte’s picture,’ said Nan. ‘It’s happening on Tuesday.’

Of course they’re going ahead!‘ said Mor. ’Or does Evvy think the school ought to be in mourning? Yes, I know it’s Tuesday. Will you come - or shall we send an excuse? It’s perfectly easy to get out of it now.‘

They came to an open glade where the trees drew back to circle an expanse of mossy earth and short grasses. Mor recognized the place, with the dull revolving sadness that he now felt continually when he was in the presence of his wife.

‘I shall come, I think,’ said Nan. ‘We’d better go on making life as normal as possible - it’ll keep us from fretting too much. I even let Evvy persuade me into saying a few words. I just hadn’t the strength to say no. He said something very short would do.’

‘You’ll answer the toast!’ said Mor. ‘I’m so glad.’ But he was not glad, he thought, any more about anything connected with Nan. He felt as if he were talking to someone who was already dead, but who didn’t yet know it. He felt such intense sadness at this thought that he would have liked to ask Nan to comfort him in some way, but with the impulse he remembered that this too was impossible. Nan was the one person who could not ever give him ease for the pain that was in him now.

They passed by Prewett’s house. It had an empty abandoned air, doors and windows left open, silent of boys.

‘I wish Felicity would cheer up a bit and not be so wretched.’ said Mor. He had to talk to stop himself from thinking.

‘She got a bad cold down at the sea,’ said Nan. ‘I found her wandering about in her bathing suit late one evening. She hasn’t been well since.’

As they reached the gravel path behind the Library a sound was to be heard of cheerful voices, laughter, and singing, and when they emerged on to the playground they saw the crowd of boys waiting with their hand luggage near the entrance to the drive. A charabanc had drawn up and some of the boys were climbing in. In the background, beyond School House, a few private cars could be seen drawn up on the grass, their doors wide open, being loaded with suitcases, tennis rackets, cricket bats, and other paraphernalia. The mass of those who were not yet called for stood by in a joyful chanting crowd to wave away the departing ones. On this day all feuds were forgotten, and the most puny and unpopular boy in the form would get a warm unanimous shout of farewell, heartening and misleading to his parents, especially if the latter arrived to fetch him in the latest Bentley or the oldest Rolls.

The charabanc had filled up, and began to move away amid shouting and waving. A dozen boys ran after it down the drive, pushing it while it crawled slowly from the asphalt to the gravel, and then pursuing it as it gathered pace, to escort it as far as the gates. Hands were flapping out of every window. The charabanc disappeared into a cloud of dust and cheering. Meanwhile the crowd in the playground were dancing a Highland reel, accompanied by human voices imi tating bagpipes, while through the windows of echoing and empty classrooms a few late lingerers leaned out to shout to their friends or to unwind, contrary to Mr Everard’s most explicit wishes, long rolls of lavatory paper which undulated in the wind like streamers.

‘Let’s go round the other way,’ said Mor. He looked on the scene with revulsion.

‘Don’t be silly, Bill,’ said Nan. She drew him firmly on across the playground towards the drive, keeping close to the wall of Main School. A group of reelers removed their capering for a few steps to let them pass.

Good-bye, sir, happy holidays!‘ called one or two voices.

‘Good-bye, good-bye, happy holidays!’ came the echoing cry from the rest of the crowd.

Mor felt that he was anonymous. He was just one of the masters. He felt almost annihilated by the presence of so much happiness. ‘Good-bye,’ he said, ‘happy holidays to you too.’

They turned along the drive. As they neared the gates a car passed them slowly. The window came down and the small head of Rigden came out, bobbing violently as if it were on a spring.

‘Good-bye, sir,’ cried Rigden. ‘Good luck - and see you next term!

Rigden’s parents, who knew Mor slightly, could be seen waving within, anxious now to escape and to avoid any last-minute courtesies. The car reached the main road and joined the endless procession of fast-moving traffic, London-bound, flying away into the world that lay outside St Bride’s at an increasing pace as Rigden’s father, who was a very successful barrister, stepped hard on the accelerator.

Mor and Nan turned into the suburban roads of the housing estate. In a minute or two they had reached their own house. Felicity met them at the door.

‘Any news?’ she said. Her eyes had grown big and blood-shot with intermittent weeping and continual expectation.

‘No,’ said Mor. ‘Did anyone ring?’

‘No,’ she said, and went back to sit at the foot of the stairs.

Nan said, ‘I’ll make some coffee. Then I really must do that ironing. What are you going to do, Bill?’

Mor was going to see Rain at Brayling’s Close. He said, ‘I’ll go down to the Public Library on my bike - and then I’d better go back into school and do various jobs.’

‘Must you really work today?’ said Nan, staring at him from the kitchen door. ‘I thought holidays had started.’

‘I’ve told you a hundred times,’ said Mor, ‘holidays don’t start for me at the end of term.’ He went into the drawing-room. Now that the weather was cool it seemed a tiny room, hideously crowded with objects and jumbled with colours and designs. He loathed himself.

‘Don’t sit in that draughty place, darling,’ Nan was saying to Felicity. ‘Come and have your coffee.’

Felicity said, ‘I don’t want any coffee. I’m going to lie down for a while.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Nan, ‘you’ll only start crying again if you lie down. Why not wash all your underclothes now while the water’s hot? I’ll leave out the ironing board, and I can iron them for you this afternoon.’

Felicity made no reply, but walked upstairs with a heavy tread and closed the door of her room.

Nan brought in a tray with coffee and biscuits. They sat looking out of the window. The garden was damp, and tousled by the wind.

‘The autumn is coming,’ she said. ‘It’s strange how early you can see it. As soon as the phlox comes out you know that the best part of the summer is over. Then you can soon expect the falling leaves. You remember how pleased Liffey used to be when the leaves began to fall? She would go on and on chasing them about the lawn in such an idiotic way. Then when you had raked them together in a heap she would charge into it and scatter it and you would be so cross.’

‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘I remember.’ He finished his coffee quickly. ‘I must be off now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back for lunch.’

Nan got up and followed him into the hall. ‘I think I’ll just look in on Felicity,’ she said. ‘The child will make herself ill with this grieving.’

Mor left the house. He took his bicycle, started off in the direction of the Library, turned sharply back down another road, and joined the dual carriageway near the brow of the hill. Then he sailed swiftly down the other side towards Demoyte’s house, the wind pressing upon his cheeks and jerking at his hair. The clouds came low over the road ahead of him, which went straight on into the far distance, an arrow pointing towards London. The wind was fresh and carried a smell of the countryside. Mor threw back his head. He existed still, he, Mor, and could do what he would. In a minute he would see his dear one, whose presence would dispel all horror and all grief. Already the splendour of it touched him, driving the blackness out of his flesh - and all things began to fall into place again as preliminaries to a life of renewed truthfulness and love. By the time he reached the door of the Close his heart was light.