Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor closed the drawer and sat down on one of the chairs beside the dining-room table. The house was cold and very silent with the death-like abandoned silence of the early morning. He felt sick in his whole body as if ripped by innumerable wounds. He sat for a few minutes listening for a sound, but there was nothing to be heard. Then he decided he must go out into the road. He crept into the hall. At the front door he put his shoes on, donned an overcoat, and went out, closing the door quietly.

He began to walk along the pavement. The morning was exceedingly still and pale. He was reminded of the day of Nan’s return when he had come out into this appalling morning air, and such a feeling of catastrophe overwhelmed him that he had to bite his hands. Today there was no rain, but the sky was pure white, covered over absolutely with an even sheet of cloud. When he reached the main road he wondered what to do. A car went by, desolate and portentous upon the empty road. He decided that he would go to Brayling s Close and wait outside until they were stirring. If he did not at least come near to where Rain was he would fall down faint at the pains that were eating his heart.

He remembered that his bicycle was in the school. In his agitation of last night he had left it there, and had come home on foot. He walked through the school gates, his feet crunching loudly on the damp gravel in the midst of the empty gardens. He found his bicycle lying on the grass where he had thrown it. The Riley was gone. He wheeled the machine as far as the entrance to the drive. There was no point in making haste. No one would be up yet at the Close. He might as well spin out the time between into some sort of motion and activity. He began to wheel the machine up the hill, and then turned into one of the suburban roads which led past his own house to the fields. He thought he would go by way of the fields. He wanted to be in the open and in that kinder solitude to collect himself.

As he came down the road he saw a figure approaching him. It seemed familiar. Then as it came nearer he saw that it was the gipsy whom he and Rain had first seen in the wood, and who had come to shelter under his porch with such strange results. Mor felt an immediate thrill of fear at seeing the man. The gipsy was walking on the opposite pavement with a slow loping stride, and carrying on his shoulder a bundle wrapped in a sheet. He was making for the main road. Mor thought at once: he is going. The man did not look across at him, though he could hardly have been unaware of the appearance in so empty a scene of another human figure. Mor wondered about him, wondering if he was right in thinking that he was deaf. The man passed, and disappeared from view, turning to the left into the main road. Mor walked on pushing his bicycle.

He passed his own house. Then suddenly a sense of great urgency came over him. Why had he been dawdling like this? He must hurry. How could he have endured to delay? Why had he ever left Rain at all on the previous night? He was by now at the beginning of the path across the fields. He jumped on to his bicycle and began pedalling vigorously along the path; and as he rode the blanched coldness of the morning was becoming softer, and a slight almost imperceptible glow was spread through the air, to show that behind the thick expanse of cloud the sun was rising higher.

Demoyte’s house, as Mor saw it from the fields, looked dead, surrounded still by silence and sleep. He turned sharply where the path came up to the wall, and rode along the narrower track beside it until he could turn into the drive. He dropped his machine near the gate, and walked forward on to the circle of grass which lay before the front door. The curtains were pulled in Demoyte’s bedroom. Their faded colourless lining closed the window like a dead eye-lid. Mor stood for a while looking up. Then he went forward and tried the front door. It was locked. He looked at his watch again. It was only six-thirty. Rain must be sleeping. She would surely want to sleep late after her exertions of last night. If he could have got into the house he would have lain down outside her door.

He began to walk round to the garden at the side of the house. He wanted to look up at her window. The lawn was covered with a glistening sheet of dew in which his steps left clear footprints behind. He walked silently across the lawn, looking up at the corner window. Here too the curtains were still drawn. The house was asleep. He must wait. Now that he was so near to her he felt more tranquil. All would yet be well. He would make it so. The strength which all along he had lacked was in him at last, as if he had been touched by a wand and made invincible. He stood there, and his gaze wandered into the sky where a rift had appeared in the clouds and a streak of very pale blue was to be seen. A sharp breeze was blowing. He drew his overcoat more closely about him. He would have liked to lie down on the grass, only the dew was too thick.

Several minutes passed. To warm himself a little he turned to walk a few steps along the lawn, his chilled hands thrust deep into his pockets. Then his eye was caught by a movement in the house. He looked up and saw that in one of the library windows Miss Handforth was standing and watching him. She stood very erect and motionless. It seemed to Mor that she must have been there a long time. She seemed like an apparition. He stopped and looked up at her. He hardly expected that there could be any communication between them, so far away did she seem. So they looked at each other for a moment without any sign.

Then Miss Handforth undid the window and pushed up the sash. In a loud clear voice, without leaning out, she said, ‘She is gone.’

Mor looked down at the grass, at the dew, and at the marks in the dew of his own footsteps. With bent head he began to walk very slowly back towards the front door. When he reached the door he found it open and came into the hall. Miss Handforth was standing on the stairs.

‘Is Mr Demoyte up yet?’ Mor asked.

‘He’s in the library,’ she said, and came down the stairs and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Mor mounted the stairs very slowly. It seemed an effort to lift each foot. He opened the library door, and saw Demoyte sitting at the round table near the window. He was in his dressing-gown. The curtains were all pulled well back and the morning light filled the room, warmer now, turning to a weak sunshine.

Mor took a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the table. He did not look at Demoyte. There was silence for a moment.

‘Oh, you fool, you fool, you fool,’ said Demoyte in a tired voice.

Mor said nothing. He leaned his elbows on the table and began rubbing his eyes and passing his two hands over his brow.

‘What happened?’ said Mor at last.

‘Nothing happened,’ said Demoyte. ‘She went on painting for two or three hours after you left her. Then she came back here and packed all her things, and went away in the car.

Mor turned towards Demoyte. The old man looked ashy grey with his sleepless night. Behind him near the wall Mor saw a square of colour. It was the portrait, which stood on the floor, ropped against one of the bookcases. Mor did not let himself look at it. ‘Is she coming back?’ he asked Demoyte.

‘No, of course not,’ said Demoyte. ‘She said she was going straight to France, but not to her own house. Then probably to America.’

Mor nodded slowly. He was looking down again, at the floor between his two feet. One foot tapped rhythmically without his will.

‘When did she go?’ he asked.

‘About two hours ago,’ said Demoyte. He turned suddenly on Mor, and his anger shook him so that he had to hold on to the table. ‘Why did you leave her? Why did you leave her for a single moment? You must have willed to lose her!’