The Sandcastle Read Free Page A

better get on with writing that school textbook.’

‘I’ve told you already,’ said Mor, ‘it’s not a textbook.’ Mor was writing a
book on the nature of political concepts. He was not making very rapid progress
with this work, which had been in existence now for some years. But then he had
so little spare time.

‘Well, don’t get so upset,’ said Nan. ‘There’s nothing to get upset about. If
it’s not a textbook, that’s a pity. School textbooks make money. And if we
don’t get some extra money from somewhere we shall have to draw our horns in
pretty sharply. No more Continental holidays, you know. Even our little trip to
Dorset this year will be practically ruinous, especially if Felicity and I go
down before term ends.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nan,’ said Mor, ‘do shut up! Do stop talking about
money!’ He got up. He ought to have gone into school long ago.

‘When you speak to me like that, Bill,’ said Nan, ‘I really wonder why we go
on. I really think it might be better to stop.’ Nan said this from time to
time, always in the cool, un-excited voice in which she conducted her arguments
with her husband. It was all part of the pattern. So was Mor’s reply.

‘Don’t talk that nonsense, Nan. I’m sorry I spoke in that way.’ It all passed
in a second.

Nan rose, and they began together to clear the table.

There was a sound in the hall. ‘Here’s Felicity!’ said Mor, and pushed quickly
past his wife.

Felicity shut the front door behind her and put her suitcase down at her feet.
Her parents stood looking at her from the door of the dining-room. ‘Welcome
home, dear,’ said Nan.

‘Hello,’ said Felicity. She was fourteen, very thin and straight, and tall for
her age. The skin of her face, which was very white but covered over in summer
with a thick scattering of golden freckles, was drawn tightly over the bridge
of her nose and away from her prominent eyes, giving her a perpetual look of
inquiry and astonishment. She had her mother’s eyes, a gleaming blue, but
filled with a hazier and more dreamy light. Nan’s hair was a dark blond,
undulating naturally about her head, the ends of it tucked away into a subdued
halo. Felicity’s was fairer and straighter, drawn now into a straggling tail
which emerged from under her school hat. In looks, the girl had none of her
father. It was Donald who had inherited Mor’s dark and jaggedly curly hair and
his bony face, irregular to ugliness.

Felicity took off her hat and threw it in the direction of the hall table. It
fell on the floor. Nan came forward, picked up her hat, and kissed her on the
brow. ‘Had a good term, dear?’

‘Oh, it was all right,’ said Felicity.

‘Hello, old thing, said Mor. He shook her by the shoulder.

‘Hello, Daddy,’ said Felicity. ‘Is Don here?

‘He isn’t, dear, but he’ll come in tomorrow,’ said Nan. ‘Would you like me to
make you lunch, or have you had some?’

‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ said Felicity. She picked up her suitcases.
‘Don’t bother, Daddy. I’ll carry it up.

‘What are your plans for this evening?’ said Nan.

‘I’ve just arrived, said Felicity. ’I haven’t got any plans.‘

She began to mount the stairs. Her parents watched her in silence. A moment
later they heard her bedroom door shut with a bang.
    Chapter
Two
    IT
was a fine dear evening. Mor closed the door of the Sixth Form room and escaped
down the corridor with long strides. A subdued din arose behind him. He had
just been giving a lesson to the history specialists of the Classical Sixth.
Donald, who was in the Science Sixth, had of course not been present. It was
now two years since, to Mor’s relief, his son‘ had ceased to be his pupil. Mor
taught history, and occasionally Latin, at St Bride’s. He enjoyed teaching, and
knew that he did it well. His authority and prestige in the school stood high;
higher, since Demoyte’s departure, than that of any other master. Mor was well
aware