Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

Mor did not look up. He could feel the table trembling between them. ‘It was inevitable,’ he said dully.

‘Coward and fool!’ said Demoyte. Nothing was inevitable here. You have made your own future.‘

Mor put his head down upon the table for a moment. He raised it to say, ‘Will we see her — again?’ His voice did not have the cadence of a question.

‘Do not deceive yourself,’ said Demoyte. ‘I shall never see her again. You may meet her once more by accident in ten years time at a party when you are fat and bald and she is married. Would you like some coffee? I’ll get Handy to make us some.’ He rang the bell.

‘Did she leave any message for me?’ Mor asked.

‘She left something,’ said Demoyte. He got up and went to the desk at the far window. ‘Here it is.’

He brought a large plain envelope and put it into Mor’s hand. The envelope was unsealed. In an agony of apprehension and insane hope Mor drew out its contents. It was a sketch. He saw at once what it was. It was the sketch which she had made of him on the first evening when he had come and found her painting, and had sat with her and Demoyte, the evening when she had begun to fall in love with him. She had never remembered to show him the sketch. He looked at it now. She had said that it might have betrayed that she was beginning to love him. He saw upon the paper a young man with a strong twisted humorous face and curly hair, head thrown back in a rather proud attitude, a thick pillar of neck, a hand raised as if in dispute. It bore some resemblance to himself. He laid the sketch down on the table. Nothing was written upon it.

‘Was this all?’ he asked Demoyte.

‘Yes.’

Miss Handforth knocked and came in. She had interpreted the bell and carried a tray with black coffee and a bottle of brandy. She laid it down between them and went away without a word.

Mor mixed some brandy with the black coffee and drank it. He turned now to look at the portrait. He got up and walked across the room to study it more closely. Demoyte followed him. They looked at it a while in silence. Rain had changed the head a great deal. At first sight it seemed as if she had spoilt it. The fine sensitive lines which had built up the quiet musing expression which Mor had liked so much had been covered over with layer after layer of tiny patches of paint. The head stood out now solider, uglier, the expression no longer conveyed by the fine details, but seeming to emerge from the deep structure of the face. Mor was not sure whether he liked it better. He turned away. They both went back to sit at the table.

‘Well,’ said Demoyte, ‘we’ve each of us received a picture of ourselves.’ He poured out some more coffee.

‘I suppose I ought to go back,’ said Mor. ‘Nan will be wondering where I am.’ He said this without thought, automatically. towards him. ‘You

Demoyte pushed the bottle of brandy towards him. ‘You will take on the candidature, of course?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘I will do that now. Nan won’t resist it any more. She’ll abide by what she said last night’

‘If you drop this plan,’ said Demoyte, ‘if you let her cheat you out of that too, I’ll never receive you in this house again. Never. I mean that.’

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Mor. ‘I shall go ahead. I shall go ahead now.’ He drank some more brandy. He got up to go. He found that he still had his coat on with the collar turned up.

Demoyte rose. ‘Aren’t you going to take this?’ He indicated the sketch which still lay on the table.

‘No,’ said Mor, ‘you keep it for me. I should like it to be kept here.’ He turned away from it.

He got as far as the door. ‘By the way, sir,’ he said, ‘could I ask one thing?’

‘Yes,’ said Demoyte.

‘You remember you offered to help us to send Felicity to college if it were necessary? Does the offer still stand?’

‘Of course,’ said Demoyte.

‘Thank you,’ said Mor. ‘I may be glad to accept it. Perhaps I could discuss this with you later.’

‘Do as you like,’ said Demoyte. Good-bye.‘

‘Good-bye,’ said Mor. He felt a desire to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but kept silent, lingering at the door.

‘Come and see me in a few days,’ said Demoyte.

‘Yes,’ said Mor. He left the room. The last he saw of Demoyte, the old man was leaning on the edge of the table, looking gloomily towards the portrait.

Mor went out of the front door and found his bicycle. The sun was shining now, pale yellow, through a white haze. A steady stream of traffic was passing both ways along the main road. Mor decided to return home by the road and not by the fields. He got on to his machine and began to pedal slowly towards the hill. He felt extreme weariness. His headache had not left him. There was a buzzing in his ears and the brandy which he had drunk seemed to make his limbs weighty. The wind was against him.

As he neared the foot of the hill, pedalling with his head down, he heard through the noise of the traffic a strange cry. He looked up. Then he saw Felicity, who was coming flying down the hill on her bicycle, across on the other carriage way. She had seen him and was calling out. She came whirling towards him, dismounted at a high speed, and hurled herself and the bicycle across the grass which divided the two sections of the road. Mor came rapidly in towards the centre to meet her, and rode his bicycle on to the grass. As she came up to him, tumbling off her machine, Felicity called out something which at first Mor understood as ‘Rain’s come back!’ Then he realized that what Felicity must have said was ‘Don’s come back!’ They met with an impact, cannoning into each other, their bicycles colliding.

‘Oh, Daddy,’ cried Felicity, ‘I’m so glad I found you!’ She clung on to him.

‘Did you say Don had come back?’ said Mor.

‘Yes,’ said Felicity, ‘at least he’s not actually back yet. He came very late last night to Tim Burke’s house, and Tim rang up about half an hour ago to say that he was going to bring Don over on his motor bike. He says Don is quite all right. They ought to be arriving any moment now. We might see them on the way.’

‘Well, thank God for that,’ said Mor. He picked up Felicity’s bicycle and his own, and they got back on to the road and began to push their machines up the hill. Felicity still clung on to his arm.

‘How did you know where to look for me?’ said Mor.

‘I saw you go out,’ said Felicity, ‘and then I saw you go by again towards the fields. So I thought you might be down at Mr Demoyte’s house.’

Mor was silent. Arm in arm they plodded up the hill.

‘Daddy,’ said Felicity, ‘will you be an M.P. now?’

‘I suppose so, darling,’ said Mor, ‘if I get elected.’ He put his hand into hers.

‘Will we move to London?’ said Felicity.

‘Yes,’ said Mor, “we’ll move to London.‘

‘I’m so glad,’ said Felicity. ‘I shall like that. I’m tired of living here. Daddy — ’

‘Yes?’ said Mor.

‘Need I go on that secretarial course?’ said Felicity. ‘I wasn’t sure before, but now I think I’d much rather stay at school for the present.’

‘You shall stay at school then,’ said Mor, ‘and later on perhaps you’ll go to a university.’

Daddy,‘ said Felicity, ’don’t be too cross with Don.‘

‘I won’t be cross with him,’ said Mor.

‘Do you think Don could work with Tim Burke now?’ said Felicity. ‘He’d much rather do that than chemistry, only he was always afraid to tell you. He’s missed his silly exam anyway.’

We’ll see about that, darling,‘ said Mor. ’Perhaps it may be the best thing. But we’ll see.‘

They were nearly at the top of the hill.