The Sandcastle

  Benevolently Mor thought about Mr Everard. There came back to him the remark which Miss Carter had made about his having no malice in him. It was true. Evvy had no malice. In some sense of the word Evvy was undoubtedly a good man. He was well-intentioned and unselfish; indeed he seemed utterly to lack the conception of getting anything for himself. Evvy’s life was not constructed, it seemed to Mor, in such a way as to leave any place in it where he could store things for himself. Most people’s lives had a sort of bulge or recess in which they piled up their selfish acquisitions, their goods, their fame, their power. Evvy had no such private place. He lived in the open, with simplicity, seeming to lack altogether the concepts of vanity or ambition, weaknesses which he was equally incapable of harbouring within himself or of recognizing in others. If he hurt people, it was through indecision or sheer obtuseness and not through any preference for having things his own way, since his own way was something which had never really developed.

  Doubtless such a character ought not to be in a position of power. All the same, it occurred to Mor more forcibly than ever before, there was something impressive about Mr Everard. And he wondered, too, how it was that while Mr Everard was so gentle and unselfish, and Mr Demoyte so much the reverse, he felt deep love and tenderness for Demoyte and could hardly summon up any affection at all for poor Evvy. Mor wondered whether this reflected badly on his own character. Here was another mystery. He seemed to be surrounded by them. As Mor thought this, he found that it was rather a pleasant thought; and as he sailed on down the hill the soothing sense of mystery became transformed into the more precisely pleasurable anticipation of meeting Miss Carter again.

  The approach to Mr Everard’s house was by a gravel drive, which connected with the main road, and on to which the cycle track eventually emerged at right angles. Mor dismounted at the drive, as the coarse gravel was not pleasant for cycling on, and pushed his bicycle up towards the white house. The yellow gravel expanse in front of the house was dotted with concrete tubs which contained geraniums and between which visiting cars had to pick their way. Mor saw that a car was standing at the door. He saw as he drew closer that it was a long dark green Riley. He looked at it with desultory admiration. Mor had never been able to dream of affording a car. He took his bicycle round to the side of the house, and then came back into the entrance hall. He hung his coat up on a peg and mounted the stairs to the big room which served Mr Everard as both drawing-room and dining-room.

  As he entered, Mor saw that Bledyard and Miss Carter had both arrived. He was sorry at this, as he would have liked to have witnessed the encounter. They were both standing about in silence, Miss Carter leaning against the mantelpiece and Bledyard looking out of the window. Mr Everard was not famous for putting his guests at their ease.

  He came forward now to welcome Mor. ‘Bill, I’m so glad you’ve come. Now we can have some lunch. I believe you know Miss Carter, and here is Mr Bledyard. You left your coat downstairs? Good, good.’

  Mr Everard had a plump healthy face of the kind which passes imperceptibly from boyhood into middle age without any observable intermediate phase. He always wore a tweed suit and a dog collar. His expression was habitually gentle, his eyes doe-like. His hair was light brown and rather fluffy and unruly. As a boy he must have been pretty; as a middle-aged man he appeared candid and disarming to those who did not see him as looking stupid.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ said Mor. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’ Evvy had once tried to persuade Mor to call him by his Christian name, but Mor could not bring himself to do so.

  Mor cast a quick glance at Miss Carter, and she nodded to him. She was wearing a close-fitting blue silk dress which made her look smarter and more feminine than Mor had yet seen her look. She seemed very preoccupied. Clearly what preoccupied her was the presence of Bledyard. Mor observed this with an unpleasant pang which he was surprised to identify as a sort of jealousy. He would have liked Miss Carter to have shown more interest in his own arrival. His mind reverted again to the odd scene in Bledyard’s room. He felt uneasy, and turned towards Bledyard, who still presented his back to the company.

  ‘Come along now, lunch-time!’ said Evvy. He had a rich deep public school voice which could make any statement seem portentous. He began to usher his guests down the room towards the dining-table, which was laid at the other end. In Demoyte’s day things had been far otherwise; but now the furry den-like interior had gone, and the room seemed longer and lighter, and prints of the French impressionists hung upon the walls from which Demoyte’s rugs had been stripped.

  ‘Mr Bledyard, you sit here,’ said Evvy. ‘Oh, Miss Carter, please, you here, and Bill by the sideboard. You can help me with the plates, Bill’

  Mr Everard believed keenly that the servants should be spared. He had introduced the policy as far as he could in the face of protesting parents into the school regime: cafeteria lunches, and the boys to make their beds, clean their shoes, and wash up twice a week. In his own household Evvy was able to proceed unchecked, especially as he had refused to draw the considerable entertainment allowance which Demoyte had established as part of the Headmaster’s emoluments. Except for extremely ceremonial occasions, there was no waiting at Mr Everard’s table. His daily help, who disappeared shortly before one, left behind such hot or cold offerings as she thought fit for his guests to consume, and Evvy presented these as best he could. The offering today, Mor saw with some relief, was cold. One blessing was that meals with Evvy were at least brief; no dawdling with sherry beforehand, or lingering over wine or liqueurs, prolonged the episode which proceeded usually with a consoling briskness.

  Evvy handed the plates of cold meat and salad from the sideboard, and Mor distributed them, and then poured out water for the guests. Miss Carter seemed a little paralysed. Bledyard sat as usual quite at his ease in saying nothing, moving his large head gently to and fro, as if he had just had it fixed on and was trying to see if it was firm. Bledyard’s age was hard to determine. Mor suspected him of being quite young, that is in his thirties. If he had not looked quite so odd he might have been handsome. He had a great head of dark hair which was perfectly straight and worn a little long. It soughed to and fro as he moved or talked. He had a large moon-like face and a bull neck, big luminous eyes like a night creature, and a coarse nose. His mouth was formless and sometimes hung open. His teeth were good, but were usually concealed behind the massy flesh of his lips. He rarely smiled. His hands were big too, and moved about in slow gestures. Bledyard had an impediment in his speech which he had partly overcome by the expedient of repeating some words twice as he talked. This he did with a sort of slow deliberation which made his utterance ludicrous. It had long ago been discovered that a lecture from Bledyard reduced the whole school to hysterical laughter within a few minutes - and, rather it seemed to Bledyard’s chagrin, he had been rationed to one art lecture a year, which he gave annually late in the summer term.

  Evvy, whose ability to think of only one thing at a time made him far from ideal as a Headmaster, having satisfied himself that each of his guests had a plate of food and a glass of water, addressed himself to conversation. ‘Well, Miss Carter,’ he said, ‘and how are we getting on with the picture? Soon be done, will it?’

  Miss Carter looked very shocked. ‘Heavens,’ she said, ‘I haven’t started yet. I’ve made some pencil sketches of Mr Demoyte, but I haven’t yet decided what position to paint him in, or what clothes or expression to give him. Indeed, I am still quite at a loss.’ Her shyness made her seem foreign.

  ‘What would you say, sir, said Mor wickedly, ’was Mr Demoyte’s most typical expression?‘ He wanted to incite Evvy to be malicious for once.

  Mr Everard considered this, and then said, ‘I would say a sort of rather suspicious pondering.’

  This was not bad, thought Mor. Accurate and not uncharitable. His opinion of Evvy went up a point. He glanced at Bledyard. Bledyard was sitting abstracted from the scene, as if he were a diner at a restaurant who had by accident to share
a table with three complete strangers. He got on with his meal. Mor envied Bledyard’s total disregard of convention. He agreed with Demoyte that Bledyard was undoubtedly a man. There was something exceedingly real about him. He made Evvy seem flimsy by comparison, a sort of fiction. Miss Carter was very real too. Am I real? Mor wondered with a strange pang.

  Mr Everard was now touchingly anxious to make conversation. His forehead wrinkled with the effort, and he turned a worried face towards Miss Carter between every mouthful. ‘I believe you have lived abroad a great deal,’ he said, ‘and that you are quite a stranger to this island, Miss Carter?’

  ‘Yes, I have lived mostly in France,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I was brought up in the South of France.’

  ‘Ah, the shores of the Mediterranean!’ said Evvy, ‘that “grand object of travel”, as Dr Johnson said. You were fortunate, Miss Carter.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Carter, turning seriously towards him. ‘I am not sure that the South of France is a good place for a child. It is so hot and dry. I remember my childhood as a time of terrible dryness, as if it were a long period of drought.’

  ‘Ah, but you were by the sea, were you not?’ said Evvy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter, ‘but a melancholy sea as I remember it. A tideless sea. I can recall, as a child, seeing pictures in English children’s books of boys and girls playing on the sand and making sandcastles — and I tried to play on my sand. But a Mediterranean beach is not a place for playing on. It is dirty and very dry. The tides never wash the sand or make it firm. When I tried to make a sandcastle, the sand would just run away between my fingers. It was too dry to hold together. And even if I poured sea water over it, the sun would dry it up at once.’

  This speech caught Bledyard’s attention. He stopped eating and looked at Miss Carter. For a moment he looked as if he might speak. Then he decided not to, and went on eating. Mor looked at Miss Carter too. She seemed to be overcome with confusion, either at the length of her speech or at Bledyard’s attention. Mor was both touched and irritated.

  Mr Everard pursued his conversational way relentlessly. ‘You are an only child, I believe, Miss Carter?

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Miss Carter.

  ‘And did you always live with your father? You must have led quite a social existence.’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Carter, ‘my father was rather a solitary. My mother died when I was very young. I lived alone with my father, until early this year, that is, when he died.’

  There was a silence. Evvy toyed with the remains of his meal, trying to think what to say next. Mor stole a glance at Miss Carter, and then sat petrified. She had closed her eyes, and two tears had escaped from them and were coursing down her cheeks.

  Mor was pierced to the heart. How little imagination I have! he thought. I knew she had just lost her father, but it didn’t even occur to me to wonder whether she was grieving. He also tried to think, in vain, of something to say.

  Bledyard saw the tears and threw down his knife and fork. ‘Miss Carter,’ said Bledyard, leaning forward, ‘I am a great admirer admirer of your father’s work.’

  Mor’s heart warmed to Bledyard. Miss Carter dashed away the tears very quickly. Evv hadn’t even noticed them. ‘I’m so glad,’ she said. She sounded glad.

  ‘Did your father teach you to paint?’ asked Bledyard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Carter, ‘he was quite a tyrant. I feel as if I was born with a paint brush in my hand. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t painting, with my father standing beside me.

  Evvy had taken advantage of this shift of the conversational burden to rise and remove the plates. Mor helped him. It was stewed fruit and ice-cream to follow. The ice-cream was rather melted.

  ‘In fact, you can’t teach teach children to paint,’ said Bledyard. ‘They already know how to paint. It is the only art that comes naturally to all human beings.’

  ‘What about music?’ said Mor. He wanted to get into the conversation.

  ‘I know,’ said Miss Carter simultaneously. ‘My father didn’t teach me in that sense till I was quite old. But then he was very severe. I can remember being made to paint the same thing again and again.’

  ‘But they forget it later,’ said Bledyard. It was characteristic of Bledyard s conversation that he did not always attend to remarks made by his interlocutor, but pursued his own train of thought aloud. This was sometimes confusing until one got used to it. ‘They forget how forget how to paint at about the time when they lose their innocence. They have to learn all over again after that. What does that prove? Painting is man’s most fundamental mode of apprehension. We are incarnate incarnate creatures, our mode of knowledge is sensible, and vision is sovereign over the other senses. Before man could speak he could draw.’ It was also characteristic of Bledyard that whereas he might sit completely silent for long periods at a social gathering, if once he did start to talk he would dominate the conversation.

  Miss Carter was not embarrassed by Bledyard. She watched him with lips parted. She clearly found him fascinating. Mor set aside his plate. The ice-cream was tasteless. He hated ice-cream anyway.

  ‘If you will excuse me,’ said Mr Everard, ‘I will start making the coffee. It takes a little time to prepare in my special coffee-machine. No, no, stay where you are. You haven’t finished your fruit, I see. Cheese and biscuits are on the table, so do help yourselves if you want any. I shall just be getting the coffee quite quietly.’

  Evvy escaped from the table. He had lately acquired a coffee-machine, from which Mor had had great hopes; however, since Evvy never put even half of the correct amount of coffee into the machine, the results were just as deplorable as before.

  ‘You think we give significance to the world by representing it?’ said Miss Carter to Bledyard. ‘No, thank you,’ she said to Mor, who was offering her a biscuit.

  Mor gloomily undid the silver paper from a limp triangle of processed cheese.

  ‘Representation is an ambiguous word,’ said Bledyard. ‘To represent something something is a task which must be undertaken with humility. What is the first and most fundamental truth which an incarnate being must realize? That he is a thing, a material object in space and time, and that as such he will come to an end. What is the next next truth which he must realize? That he is related on the one hand to God, who is not a thing, and on the other hand to other things which surround him. Now these other things things,’ Bledyard raised his spoon to emphasize his words, ‘are some of them mere things, and others of them God-related things like himself.’

  Over by the hearth, Mr Everard seemed to be having some trouble with the coffee-machine. Mor saw with foreboding that he seemed to be pouring in a lot of water at the last moment.

  ‘Shall we repair?’ said Evvy. ‘The coffee is almost ready.’ Bledyard, Mor, and Miss Carter rose from the table.

  ‘It is distinctly indicated indicated in the Bible,’ said Bledyard, ‘that the works of nature are placed upon this earth for the benefit of man. Is that not so, Mis-ter Ever-ard?’

  Evvy jumped at being suddenly appealed to. ‘That is so, Mr Bledyard,’ he said. ‘Er, Miss Carter, pray sit here. Do you take milk in your coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Miss Carter.

  ‘It is also the case,’ said Bledyard, ‘that the Bible commands commands us to abstain from the creation of graven images.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind the milk being cold, Miss Carter,’ said Mr Everard. ‘This is rather a bachelor establishment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miss Carter, ‘I like it better like that. Only a little, please.’

  ‘So that we would expect,’ said Bledyard, ‘to find the early Church the early Church in two minds upon the matter of religious painting and sculpture. However, it seems to be the case that the fathers felt no special impediment impediment to representational art, and very soon in the history of the Church we find worship and praise naturally taking the form of representation, as in the noble mosaics
at Ravenna.’

  ‘Ah yes, how very fine they are!’ said Mr Everard. ‘Have you been to Ravenna, Miss Carter?’

  ‘Yes, I often went there with my father,’ said Miss Carter. ‘I know the mosaics very well.’

  ‘The early Church the early Church,’ said Bledyard, accepting his coffee-cup from Mr Everard, ‘does not seem to have made any distinction distinction between the representation of the works of nature and the representation of human forms. So near so near in time to the source of light, their vision was informed by a reverence which penetrated even their method of depicting the human face. However, when we are overtaken by the secular spirit of the Renaissance, we find we find a more exclusive interest in the human shape as such, conjoined alas with a total loss of that insight and that reverence.’