The Sandcastle (29 page)

‘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.
Framed in the small square window and clearly seen in the brightness of the
flood-lights which fell directly upon it was the top of the ladder, which was
being held up by the boys in the upper classroom. Mor threw the window open and
tried to lean out. It was too high. He dragged a chair into position and Rigden
mounted another one beside him. Mor looked down. The crowd was there as before,
now much farther away below him, still looking up. He thought, in a detached
way, Carde can hardly have survived. Above him in the air, as he leaned out to
grasp the ladder, something was hanging, some six feet above him. He knew that
it was his son’s foot. He did not look there. He and Rigden began to draw the
top of the ladder backward into the room. It was still being held from below.
He thought, when we take the full weight of it, it will drop. ‘More hands
here,’ he said.
The boys crowded round the window and began to pull the ladder in. The people
below, whom Mor could vaguely see leaning out of the upper classroom, let go,
and the ladder hung in the air swaying, a small section of it inside the stack
room, and most of it outside, tilting away into space. Diagonally opposite in
the Library building faces were at several of the upper windows and hands outstretched
to catch the ladder. But it was still swinging, a long way beyond and below
them.
Mor looked back into the room. It was now crowded with boys, who were stumbling
about among the books, trying to move a set of steel shelves that stood in the
centre. A steady stream of volumes was falling to the floor, and other books
which had been piled against the walls were collapsing towards the middle of
the room and being trampled under foot. More boys were crawling in through the
hole in the door. Someone who had got hold of an axe was aiming blows at the
lock.
The difficulty was that there was not enough space inside the room to draw
enough of the ladder in through the window to give the leverage necessary to
lift it up towards the top of the Library. And even if we could lift it,
thought Mor, it may just fall to the ground when we begin to pay it out of the
window again. He moaned to himself. He began to wonder, is it long enough in
any case?
The end of the ladder now reached across the room and was jammed against the
angle of the ceiling. ‘Pull it down,’ he said to the boys behind him.
They began to drag on the ladder, swinging on it, and clambering on to piles of
books to get on top of it. Under their weight the near end swung down abruptly.
The longer section, which was outside the window, swung upward. It was now well
above the level of the Library roof. The boys clung on desperately, and the
ladder swung erratically to and fro, pivoting on the edge of the window. It was
very hard to control it.
‘We’ll have to rest it on the roof,’ said Rigden. This was already clear to
Mor. The Library windows were too far below, and the ladder, once the weight on
the near end was released, would probably fall too quickly for the people at
the other end to catch it. This meant, since there was no access to that part
of the Library roof, that no one would be able to hold it at the far end. But
nothing could be done about that.
‘Let it go out slowly,’ said Mor, ‘keeping this end down as long as you can.’
The ladder began to ease outwards through the window. Mor guided it as best he
could. Eight or ten boys were still hanging on to the end, crowding and
climbing on top of each other in the small room, and swinging with all their
weight from the last rungs. As more and more of the ladder came to be on the
outside of the window, it began to incline downward at an increasing pace.
There was a final tumbling flurry inside the room, the near end of the ladder
went flying upwards, and the far end met the Library roof with a clatter. Mor
saw that the ladder had landed in the gutter. He hoped it was secure. It was
not possible to lift it again now.
Mor looked upward. He could see Donald’s foot, clad in a white gym shoe, still
dangling several feet above him. It was not directly over the ladder. Helped by
Rigden Mor began to push the ladder into a more diagonal position, one end of
it in the comer of the window. This made the far end more precarious, but it
still looked as if it were firm, provided the gutter held. The ladder was now
placed as nearly as possible underneath where Donald was hanging.
Mor began to lean far out of the window, putting one hand on the ladder. Rigden
was holding on to his coat. He could now see most of Donald’s leg, and his
other foot drawn up just under the edge of the parapet. The rest was out of
sight above. As Mor saw the body still perched there over the sharp edge, and
as he felt the terrible drop opening beneath him, he was in such an agony of
fear that he almost fell himself. Then he began to try to speak. That Donald
could be spoken to was in itself something fantastic. Mor hardly expected that
the boy would be able to understand him. He took a quick glance to his right.
The arterial road was visible, marked by the flashing lights of cars, for several
miles in both directions. There was neither sight nor sound of the fire-engine.
Mor spoke, his voice coming out strangely into the empty air above him. ‘Don,’
he said, in a loud clear voice, ‘Don — ’ He had to choose his words carefully.
‘Listen. A fire-engine is coming with a long ladder - it’ll arrive soon, but we
don’t know exactly when. If you feel that you can hang on securely till it
comes, then do that. But if you feel that you’re slipping, then listen to me.
We’ve stretched a ladder across from here to the Library building, passing just
underneath you - it’s about five feet below. If you feel you can’t hang on,
then drop on to the ladder and clutch on to it hard, and we’ll pull you in
through the window. So - if you’re secure, stay where you are — if you’re not,
drop on to the ladder. We’ll just be waiting here.’
There was silence. Mor swayed back into the window. He leaned his head against
the frame of the window and looked straight out into the night. In the pit of
darkness before him he could see, after a moment or two, a few dim stars. He
began to pray. He was muttering words half aloud. He heard a faint movement
above him. Donald’s foot was moving. It swung a little and was still. There was
a scraping sound from the parapet. Then with the violence of a missile Donald’s
body struck the ladder. He flung his arms out, clutching on to it. The ladder
rocked, and sagged in the middle. But it stayed in place, Rigden and several
others holding firmly on to the near end of it.
A second later all was still again, the ladder suspended between the two
buildings and Donald lying upon it lengthways, his head towards the window, his
arms and legs twined into the rungs. He lay there quite still, his face turned
sideways. He seemed to be scarcely conscious. Mor began to lean out again.
Donald’s extended hand was within reach of his.
‘No, leave this to us,’ said a voice behind him, and someone was dragging at
his coat. It was Hensman. Mor stepped, or fell back into the room. He saw that
someone had got the door open and there was a crowd upon the stairs. He saw
Bledyard climbing past him towards the window. Hensman and Rigden were leaning
far out, being held from behind by those inside. Mor could see that they had
each secured hold of one of Donald’s arms, and were trying to draw him towards
them. This was difficult, because his legs were entwined in the ladder. As he
felt the pressure on his arms Donald began feebly to try to get his legs free.
His head was moving upward towards the window. More hands were stretched out.
Then the ladder began to tilt. One side of it seemed to have come clear of the
guttering at the Library end. It swayed. Then, as Donald’s head and shoulders
were to be seen at last appearing at the window of the stack room, the ladder
tilted right over and fell into the gap between Main School and the Library,
landing on the asphalt with a resounding clatter. Donald was pulled head first
into the room.
Mor found that he was sitting on the floor, sitting somewhere in the sea of
books, and leaning his back against more books. The body of Donald, breathing
and unbroken, lay somewhere near him. He stretched out a hand and touched his
son’s leg. People were leaning over them both. Someone was offering him brandy.
Mor drank a little. His relief was so intense that he was stunned by it. He
could see Donald being raised and propped up against the other wall. The boy’s
eyes were open and he seemed to be taking in his surroundings. He turned his
head and accepted some of the brandy. Bledyard was kneeling somewhere between
them and trying to say something.
Donald was sitting more upright now. He drank some more and looked about him.
He put his hand to his head. Then after a little while he tried to get up.
People were saying soothing things to him. He pushed them aside, and began to
stumble to his feet. He stood for a moment, staring about the room, his feet
spread wide apart upon the sea of books. Then without warning he made a dive
for the door. The boys scattered before him. His recent peril had made him
numinous and alarming. He could be heard clattering away down the staircase.
Mor got up. He rubbed his hands over his face. He did not try to follow.
Several boys were running down the stairs after Donald. A minute later Rigden,
who had stayed beside Mor, and had now mounted one of the chairs by the window,
said in an astonished tone, ‘There he goes!’
Mor mounted the other chair and looked out. He saw once again far below the
lighted expanse of the playground, scattered with groups of people. Then he saw
a running figure. Donald had issued at speed from the door of Main School and
was streaking across the asphalt towards the darkness of the drive. The crowd
of boys stood there and stared at him. It was a moment before they realized who
it was. By then Donald had almost reached the drive. A cry arose from the
School. Donald disappeared into the darkness, running fast. Like a pack of
hounds, the other boys began to stream after him, shouting incoherently as they
ran.
Mor got down from the window. He subsided again on to the floor. Two figures
were leaning over him. They were Rigden and Bledyard, who were the only people
left in the room. They were saying something. Mor did not know what they were
saying. He leaned his head back wearily against the wall and lost his
consciousness, half fainting and half falling into an exhausted sleep. In the
far far distance now he began to hear the clanging bell of the fire-engine.

Chapter
Seventeen

NAN
thrust her arm through Mor’s as they began to walk slowly back up the hill,
taking the little path that led from the Headmaster’s garden into the wood. It
was the end of term. They had just been talking with Mr Everard. It was now
four days since the climbing of the tower, and nothing had been seen or heard
of Donald since the moment when he ran away across the playground and
disappeared into the darkness. The boys who had pursued him as far as the main
road had lost him there in the wilderness of fields and waste land on the other
side. He had vanished, and there had been no news of him since. After two days
of waiting, Mor had asked the help of the police, but without much hope of
results. Nan and Felicity had of course returned home at once, and now one of
them was always in the house in case the telephone rang. But it did not ring,
and Donald’s absence and silence continued.
Jimmy Carde had had a miraculous escape from death. He was saved largely by Mr
Everard’s pile of blankets; and was now in hospital with broken ribs, two
broken legs, and a fractured skull. He was declared to be in no immediate
danger, and likely to recover. Two of the boys who had tried to break his fall
were also in hospital with concussion.
Against both Carde and Donald Mor Mr Everard had reluctantly invoked the law
that decreed instant expulsion for climbers. He had been so apologetic to Mor
about this that the latter had virtually had to make up his mind for him,
pointing out that he had no choice but to expel them both. This was grave. What
was in a way more grave was that it was now two days before Donald’s chemistry
exam was due to start. Everard had told Mor that there would of course be no
objection to Donald’s taking the exam at St Bride’s and using the laboratories
as he would normally have done. But Mor knew that now his son would not take
the examination, and was perhaps deliberately staying in hiding until the date
was past. This was very grievous to him; but to think of it in this way a
little relieved his more profound anxieties concerning Donald’s well-being.
On the night of the catastrophe Rain and Demoyte came to see Mor at a very late
hour in Rain’s car, and wanted to take him back then and there to Brayling’s
Close. Mor had refused, since he felt he must stay in his own home in case of
telephone messages or in case Donald came back. Rain had cooked him a meal,
which he was unable to eat, and had administered a sedative. She and Demoyte
persuaded him to go to bed, and then they went away. Since then Mor had seen
her frequently, now always at the Close. He had convinced her of what he
himself hoped was the truth, that Donald was perfectly well but simply hiding
so as to miss his exam. Mor had not yet spoken to Nan about what he and Rain
intended to do. He knew that Rain was by now intensely anxious that he should
speak; but she had not yet attempted to discuss the matter with him again. Mor
found meanwhile that his resolution was unshaken, indeed the stronger for these
new troubles. But he had not yet found the moment at which, in the midst of
such distresses, he could decently tell his wife that he proposed to leave her.
Mor’s anxiety about Donald was intense. But his anxiety about Rain was equally
intense; and he might, even then, have been able to speak decisively to Nan if
the latter had given him the slightest chance. Mor knew that what he needed, in
order to be able to speak with finality, was a moment of violence. If Nan, by
provoking him, or by visiting almost any extreme of emotion, had given him the
gift of anger or the sense of extremity, he would have spoken the words which would
be fatal. But Nan, as if once more to cross him, had been since her return
enormously calm, reasonable, and compliant, doing her best to generate once
more that atmosphere of homely
ennui
which Mor could still remember that
he had once found reassuring.
Nan was very worried too about Donald, but she had reasoned it out with Mor
that the boy had almost certainly come to no harm, and would reappear after the
opening date of the examination. As far as the exam was concerned, Nan was
obviously more glad than otherwise that Don would miss it, but she refrained
from irritating Mor by saying so. The person who was most genuinely afraid
about what might have happened to Donald was Felicity, who busied herself with
imagining the worst possible and was continually in tears. Nan vented some of
her nervousness upon her daughter, but whether intentionally or not did nothing
to upset her husband or to provide the great storm for which he was waiting and
on which alone he would have felt himself able to ride.
‘Evvy has been awfully nice, hasn’t he?’ said Nan, still clinging on to Mor’s
arm.
The wood was silent and empty. Many of the boys had already gone away on early
buses and the rest were hanging about in the playground or the upper drive,
waiting to be picked up. Some more charabancs were due at eleven o‘clock to
take the West Country contingent to the station.
‘He’s very decent,’ said Mor. ‘Did he say anything special to you before I
came?’
Last year’s leaves, and a few that had already floated down from the branches
after the recent storm, drifted about under the trees or blew sharply to and
fro across the path, striking their ankles. It was a dark windy morning.
‘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.
He went straight into the drawing-room, where he found Rain sitting with
Demoyte. They were a great deal together in these days. When Mor came in, Rain
jumped up and ran to seize the sleeve of his coat, while Demoyte looked on with
a sombre expression.
‘This place is turning into a madhouse,’ said Demoyte. He began to gather up
his books preparatory to leaving the room.
Don’t go, sir,‘ said Mor.
‘Don’t give me that stuff,’ said Demoyte. ‘I’ll be in the library, if either of
you wants to see me, which is unlikely.’
As soon as the door closed, Mor picked Rain up violently in his arms and held
her as if to crush their two bodies into one. It seemed as if such an embrace
must surely mend all. He set her down at last, protesting and laughing a
little.
She led him to a chair, in a way that was now familiar to him, and sat on the
ground before him to interrogate him. He had little to tell her.
‘How was it this morning?’ asked Rain.