The Sandcastle (13 page)

‘They were on the dining-room table,’ he said. ‘Handy had got them that far on
the way back. Now I must go and see about the brandy.’ He left the room again,
closing the door behind him with a bang.
Mor felt acute distress at Demoyte’s having seen the passing of the letter.
Everything seemed to be conspiring against him to make something which was
really unimportant look like something important. Now both Tim Burke and
Demoyte would be thinking that something was going on, whereas in reality
nothing was going on. What Mor had hoped to terminate and bury was being lent a
spurious significance by these witnesses. He looked at Miss Carter dumbly,
almost angrily.
‘The car is all right,’ she said in a soft voice. She had risen too. They stood
together near the mantelpiece.
‘I’m very glad,’ said Mor, ‘and I’m so sorry I was so hopeless yesterday. Did
you tell Mr Demoyte about it?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Miss Carter. ‘Perhaps it was silly of me, but I felt
somehow I didn’t want to. I just said the car had gone for repairs.’
‘It’s just as well,’ said Mor. He spoke softly too. ‘I haven’t told my wife
either. That note explains.’
‘Then it’s to be a secret between us,’ said Miss Carter.
Mor didn’t care for this phrase, but he nodded. ‘I insist on paying the bills,’
he said. ‘You must let me know -’
‘Of course not!’ said Miss Carter. ‘The insurance will pay, that’s what they’re
for!’
At that moment Demoyte returned noisily into the room. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘the
brandy was in here all the time!’
Mor now felt a deep sadness that what were probably the last words which he
would ever exchange
tête-à-tête
with Miss Carter had been such futile
ones. He sat down gloomily and accepted a glass of brandy.
Miss Carter seemed to be in good spirits. She turned to Mor. ‘Do you mind if I
draw you,’ she said, ‘as you sit drinking the cognac?’
Mor Was surprised and flattered at this request. He blushed again, this time
with pleasure. ‘Please do!’ he said. ‘Am I all right as I am?’
‘Exactly as you are,’ said Miss Carter, ‘is how I want you.’ She picked up her
sketch book, produced a pencil from her handbag, and began to draw, sipping
brandy now and then as she did so.
Mor sat perfectly still, conscious on the one side of the gentle intent glances
of Miss Carter, and on the other of the sardonic covertly amused attention of
Demoyte. He felt like a man with one cheek exposed to the fragrant breezes of
the spring, while upon the other is let loose an autumnal shower of chilling
rain.
Demoyte seemed to have decided not to take any part in the conversation. He sat
at his ease looking first at Mor and then at Miss Carter. Mor thought, he wants
to force us to talk so that he can observe us, the old fox.
Miss Carter said, ‘What is your son’s name, Mr Mor?’
‘Donald,’ said Mor.
‘I was so sorry I didn’t meet him the other day,’ said Miss Carter, her eyes
moving to and fro between Mor and her sketch book. Have you any other
children?‘
‘I have a daughter,’ said Mor, ‘about fourteen. Her name is Felicity.’ It gave
him pain, somehow, to speak of his children to Miss Carter. She herself must
be, he reckoned, no more than eight years older than Donald.
‘What is Donald going to do?’ said Miss Carter.
‘He’s taking College entrance in chemistry in a few weeks,’ said Mor. ‘I
suppose he’ll be some sort of chemist.’ Mor wished he could have said something
else about Donald.
‘And your daughter,’ said Miss Carter, ‘what will she do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mor. ‘I expect she’ll have another term or two at school
and then do a secretarial course next year. She’s not very clever.’
Demoyte could not let this pass. ‘Oh, what rot, Mor!’ he said. ‘You don’t
seriously mean that you’re going to let Felicity leave school? She’s just slow
at developing. After a year or two in the Sixth Form she’ll be a different
person. She ought to go to a university. Even if she couldn’t get into Oxford
or Cambridge, she could go to London. Give the girl a chance, for heaven’s
sake. Or would you rather see her as a little secretary reading the fashion
magazines?’
Mor felt hurt and irritated. He turned towards Demoyte, but turned hastily back
again as he saw Miss Carter’s pencil poised. In fact, he was of Demoyte’s
opinion. But there was Nan, and the financial situation to be considered. Anyhow,
nothing had been settled yet. He had only answered in that way so as to have
something definite to say - and also, it suddenly occurred to him, because he
had wanted, for some reason, to make everything look as dreary as possible.
He said to Miss Carter, Mr Demoyte has a rather exaggerated view of the
benefits of education. He thinks that no one can stand up unless he’s had the
stuffing put in by his school and college.‘
Demoyte said sharply, ‘Don’t attribute that cant to me, if you please. Someone
like Miss Carter, for instance, could stand up whatever her education had been.
It’s people like you and your daughter that need stuffing put into them.’
This was so spitefully uttered that Mor was silent. He felt quite unable to
reply. Miss Carter’s pencil was still.
Demoyte was sorry at once, and said, ‘There now, Mor, I didn’t really mean it,
but you provoked me.’
‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Mor.
There was a moment’s silence. Miss Carter then said, ‘If you’ll both excuse me,
I think I’ll be off to bed. I really am very tired indeed, I can hardly keep my
eyes open.’
Demoyte was obviously upset. He seemed to think that Miss Carter was retiring
as a protest against his rudeness. She tried gently to convince him that it was
not so. Mor looked on. He felt intense disappointment that Miss Carter was
going away so soon. It was the last time he would really see her. He drained
his glass.
‘May I at least see the picture of myself,’ he said, ‘before you go?’
Miss Carter looked into the sketch book and then closed it. She looked rather
oddly at Mor. Then she said, ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s not very good. Sorry,
I’d rather not show it to you, it really isn’t anything.’ She moved away
towards the door. Mor stood by the mantelpiece while she lingered in the doorway,
still disputing with Demoyte. Then she said ‘Good night’ abruptly, and
disappeared.
Demoyte came back to the hearth, shuffling his feet. Without a word he refilled
Mor’s glass. They both sat down and looked at each other irritably. Mor thought
it quite likely that it
was
Demoyte’s rudeness that had driven Miss
Carter away, and he felt correspondingly annoyed with Demoyte. They sat for a
while, glumly.
‘You haven’t got to rush away, have you?’ said Demoyte.
Mor knew that, for all his irritation, the old man badly wanted him to stay.
‘No, sir,’ said Mor. ‘This is Nan’s Women’s Institute night. I’m in no hurry.’
They settled down to their brandy. Mor wondered if Demoyte would mention the
incident of the letter. He was sure he was thinking about it.
‘She is so small,’ Demoyte began thoughtfully. ‘What is she like? A small boy,
of course, but what else, with her small hands and her big eyes, and the way
she togs herself up in bright colours? She’s rather like a clown or a
performing dog-in fact, very like a performing dog, with a pretty check jacket
on and a bow on its tail, so anxious to please, and doing everything as if it
were not quite natural, and with those eyes.’
Mor thought this disrespectful. ‘She seems very serious about her painting,’ he
said.
‘You’re a dull dull fellow, Mor,’ Demoyte said suddenly.
‘What’s that one for, sir?’ said Mor patiently.
Demoyte smiled. ‘I saw you pass her a letter, he said. ’I ask no more about
that. I just wonder whether you can really
see
her.‘
They looked at each other. Mor thought to himself, the old man is a little bit
in love with her - and he wondered what Miss Carter would think if she knew of
the tenderness she had inspired in this unexpected quarter. He felt he should
disillusion Demoyte. ‘The letter had no sentimental significance,’ he said.
Demoyte looked at him critically, a little sceptically. ‘Then so much the worse
for you, my boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about something else - Felicity for
instance. You didn’t mean what you said just now about the secretarial course?’
‘Not altogether,’ said Mor, ‘but it’s not so easy to see what to do. An
academic career would be a gamble for Felicity. She might develop-I believe she
would - but she might just bungle it, and not be happier in the end. And
there’s the question of financing her. Even with a county grant, it’ll cost a
packet to put Donald through Cambridge. And I just don’t know that I can manage
it for both of them.’
‘Mor,’ said Demoyte, ‘are you going to be an M.P.?’
‘I’m going to be a candidate,’ said Mor. ‘Whether I’ll be an M.P. depends on
the electorate.’
‘It’s a safe seat,’ said Demoyte. ‘So you’ve decided at last. Nan came round,
did she?’
‘I haven’t told her yet,’ said Mor. He spoke tonelessly, swinging his brandy
round in the glass and looking down into it.
‘I take back what I said just now,’ said Demoyte. ‘I only said it to hurt you
anyway, as you well know - and because I was for a moment - never mind that.
I’m immensely glad that you’ve decided. My only sadness is that I may lose your
friendship when you’re an important man.’
This sounded so grotesque that Mor had to look up to see whether the old man
was serious. ‘I’ll never be important,’ said Mor, ‘so don’t worry!’ He felt too
moved to reply seriously.
‘I’m immensely glad,’ said Demoyte. ‘You’ll get out of this hole, away from
pious Evvy and dreary Prewett, and dotty Bledyard, up to London, where you’ll
meet all sorts of people. And women. Out of this hole, where all one can do is
pass the hours until it’s time to die.’
Nan had called Demoyte morbid. Mor himself knew something of the old man’s
moods, and of the melancholy which afflicted him when he was alone. He said
briskly, ‘Come, sir, none of that. I certainly don’t despise this place. I only
hope I’ll be up to the other job. And by the way, please don’t mention this to
anyone
just yet, not till it’s officially made public.’
‘With an M.P.’s salary,’ said Demoyte doggedly, ‘you can send Felicity to
college.’
‘That’s just what I think I can’t do,’ said Mor. ‘It’s too risky. In my present
situation at least I know exactly how much money I can reckon on. But in
that
job, with unpredictable expenses, it’ll be a long time before I know where I
stand. Anyhow, Nan would never agree. It’ll be hard enough to get her to accept
the M.P. plan at all - and she’d never agree if we were going to run this extra
financial risk as well. I might get away with one of these things, but not with
both.’ As he put it thus, it occurred to Mor that in a way he was sacrificing
Felicity’s future to his own. This was an extremely unpleasant thought.
‘Oh, Nan, Nan, Nan!’ said Demoyte. ‘I’m tired of that woman’s name. Who is she
that she has to be consulted about every damn thing that you do?’
‘She’s my wife,’ said Mor.
‘You’re as timid as a water-snail,’ said Demoyte, ‘and a meaner man with money
I never encountered. Pah! I despise this meanness. Felicity must have her
chance. Listen, and don’t turn down this proposal because I’ve been rude and
you feel you have to put up a show of pride. Think of your daughter’s future
instead. I’ll pay for Felicity to go to the university. She’ll get a county
grant anyway, so it won’t be much. I’ve got a pile of money in the bank, and
there’s nothing to spend it on in this God-forsaken backwater, and as you know
I hate travelling, and as you also know I’ll very shortly be dead. So let’s
have no false reluctance or other posturing. I want that girl to go to college
and there’s an end to the matter. I shall be wretched if she doesn’t. Don’t
cross me here.’
Mor sat rigid, leaning forward and still staring into his glass. He suddenly
felt as if he wanted to weep. He didn’t dare to look at Demoyte. ‘You are
immensely good, sir,’ he said, ‘and I am very moved indeed, I think you know
how much, by your saying this. I won’t pretend that I just couldn’t accept the
offer. But it needs some thinking over. I might be able to afford it myself.
Also, quite honestly, I’m not sure that Nan would agree to our accepting money
from you.’
‘Oh, give me patience!’ said Demoyte. ‘Then deceive her, boy! Tell her it’s a
bonus from Evvy, tell her you found it in the street, tell her you won it on a
horse race! Deceive her, deceive her! Only don’t bother me with this nonsense.’
‘I’ll think it over, sir,’ said Mor. Demoyte then filled up Mor’s glass and they
began to talk about something else.
It was about an hour later that, rather full of brandy, Mor decided that he
must go home. Demoyte was already getting sleepy, and Mor saw him up the stairs
to his bedroom. Then he came down again, put on his coat, and let himself
quietly out of the front door.
He had to pause immediately when he got outside, so brilliant and heavily
perfumed was the night. The moon was rising, and was visible as a great source
of light behind the trees, and there was an immense concourse of stars,
crowding up towards the milky way. It was one of those nights, so rare in
England, when the stars give positive light to the earth. The garden was
present on either side of him, dearly visible and, although he could feel no
breeze, rustling softly. He looked up and could see the light on in Demoyte’s
room, above the door on the left. The right-hand window was the end window of
the library, which stood above Handy’s boudoir. It was dark. Mor walked across
the gravel on to the grass and passed through the door which led to the big
lawn at the side of the house, outside the drawing-room window. As he walked,
the moon rose above the trees and cast his shadow before him. He paused,
enjoying the sensation of walking quite silently upon the moonlit grass, and
turned to see his footsteps left behind him, clearly marked in the dew and
revealed by the moon. He felt an extreme lightness, as if he had become a
spirit. Very distantly the traffic rumbled upon the main road. But here the
silence hung in the air like an odour. He moved out into the middle of the lawn
and looked up at the house.
The room at the end of the house to his right, which adjoined the library and
had one window looking out at the back and one window looking on to the lawn,
was the best guest-room. There was a light on in this room. The curtains were
tightly drawn. That must be Miss Carter’s room, thought Mor. She hasn’t gone to
bed after all. It must have been a fiction, about being tired. She must have
been fed up with Demoyte. Or with me, he thought ruefully. Then quite
unexpectedly Mor was struck with a dolorous pain. He was really unsure at first
whether it was a physical pain or some sort of thought, so quickly did it come
upon him. He realized in a moment that it was an agonizing wish to see Miss
Carter again, to see her soon, to see her now. Mor stood quite still, breathing
rather fast. I’m drunk, he said to himself. He never remembered feeling quite
like this before. He wanted terribly, desperately, to see Miss Carter. I must
be ill, thought Mor. He wondered what to do. It was all so inexplicable. He
thought, it would be quite easy to go back into the house. The front door is
still unlocked. And go up the stairs and along the corridor and knock at her
bedroom door. At the thought that this was possible and that absolutely nothing
stopped him from doing it if he wished Mor felt so amazed that he swayed and
almost fell. The pain of knowing that it was possible was for a moment extreme.