Chapter five

When Mor awoke next morning he found, with his first consciousness, that he felt extremely light-hearted. Then it came back to him that of course he had now at last decided. In the light of the actual decision the moves necessary to carry it out seemed very much easier. What was necessary was possible. Recalling the previous evening, and asking himself what exactly had happened, it seemed to Mor that Tim Burke had suddenly been able to communicate to him a new sort of confidence. He wondered why. His thoughts switched to Miss Carter, whom he would be seeing at lunch-time today; and then it seemed to him that in some strange way it was Miss Carter who had been responsible for his ability to decide, having given him, by her mere existence, a fresh sense of power and possibility. Mor mused for a while upon the mystery. Eccentric people, he concluded, were good for conventional people, simply because they made them able to conceive of everything being quite different. This gave them a sense of freedom. Nothing is more educational, in the end, than the mode of being of other people.

The morning passed quickly, and a little before one o'clock Mor set out on his bicycle for Mr Everard's luncheon party. In the bicycle basket he had placed a small packet which contained the complete works of Demoyte and which in accordance with his promise he was taking to Miss Carter. A cycle track, for the use of masters only, led down the hill through the wood toward the neglected garden of the Headmaster's house. As Mor free-wheeled through the trees, his bicycle bumping about agreeably on the undulating track, he experienced a profound sense of well-being and general benevolence. The weather was still extremely sunny, but today there was a soft breeze which seemed to bring, from not so very far away in the south, the freshness of the sea.

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 Ewy was undoubtedly a good man. He was well-intentioned and unselfish; indeed he seemed utterly to lack the conception of getting anything for himself. 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 dismounted at the drive, as the coarse gravel was not pleasant for cycling on, and pushed his bicycle up towards the white house. 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 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 seen 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 Ewy 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.

Ewy 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. Bledyafd'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. 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 atterance 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 Ewy to be malicious for once.

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.

Mr Everard was now touchingly anxious to make conversation. His forehead wrinkled with the effort, and he turned a worried face toward 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 Johnson³⁰ 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 tide less 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 rriake 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, this 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 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 of your father's work".

Mor's heart warmed to Bledyard. Miss Carter dashed away the tears very quickly. Evvy 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. Mop helped him. It was stewed fruit and ice-cream to follow. The ice-cream was rather melted.

"In fact, you can't teach children to paint", said Bledyard. "They already know how to paint. It is the only art that conies 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 to paint at about the time when they lose their innocence. They have to learn all over again after that". 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 Ewy 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.

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 Ewy. "The coffee is almost ready". Bledyard, Mor and Miss Carter rose from the table.

"Yes, please", said Miss Carter.

"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".

"What do you think of the coffee this time, Bill?" said Mr Everard. "A bit better, isn't it?"

"It's very good, sir", said Mor, pouring the insipid stuff hastily down his throat.

"Are you suggesting", said Miss Carter to Bledyard, "that we should treat the representation of the human form in some way quite differently from the presentation of other things?"

"As you know", said Bledyard, "we find it natural to make the distinction. Only we do not make it absolutely enough. When confronted with an object which is not a human being we must of course treat it reverently. We must, if we paint it, attempt to show what it is like in itself, and not treat it as a symbol of our own moods and wishes. The great painter the great painter is he who is humble enough in the presence of the object to attempt merely to show what the object is like. But this merely, in painting, is everything".

"How I agree with you!" said Miss Carter. Distantly from the school the two-fifteen bell was heard ringing.

"But", said Bledyard, "when we are in the presence of another human being, we are not confronted simply by an object—" He paused. "We are confronted by God".

"Are you teaching the first period, Bill?" said Mr Everard. "I'm sorry, I should have asked you earlier".

"No, I'm not, in fact", said Mor.

"Do you mean that we ought not to paint other human beings?" asked Miss Carter.

"Who is worthy to understand another person?" said Bledyard. "Upon an ordinary material thing we can look with reverence, wondering simply at its being. But when we look upon a human face, we interpret it by what we are ourselves. And what are we?" Bledyard spread out his two hands, one of which held the untested cup of coffee.

"I agree with much of what you say", said Miss Carter, speaking quickly before Bledyard could interrupt her. "Our paintings are a judgement upon ourselves. I know in what way, and how deplorably, my own paintings show what I am".

Mr Everard was looking at his watch and shifting restlessly. He began to say something, but Miss Carter got in first. "What you say is so very abstract, Mr Bledyard. One might think beforehand that it is impossible to depict a human face with sufficient reverence—and perhaps in some absolute sense sufficient reverence there never is. But if we consider painting by Rembrandt, by Goya, by Tintoretto, by—"

Miss Garter's voice was rising higher. She was becoming extremely excited. Bledyard tried to interrupt her. Mr Everard uttered some half-articulate sound.

Mor, speaking very loudly, managed to drown them all. "I've got to go now, I'm afraid". A sudden silence followed.

Bledyard laid his cup down and stood up. He turned to Mr Everard. "Thank you", he said, "for a very pleasant lunch, Mister Everard. I have enjoyed meeting Miss Carter. I hope I have not stayed stayed too long".

Miss Carter stood up. She was looking flushed and agitated. She said, "Thank you very much indeed—it was so kind of you. I have enjoyed it".

Evvy was looking ready to drop with exhaustion. They all walked down into the hall. As Mor descended the stairs he saw the little packet of books which he had left on the hall table. He pounced on it and took the opportunity to hand it quickly to Miss Carter. "The books I promised you".

Miss Carter took them distractedly and said, "Oh, thank you", hardly looking at him. Mor cursed Bledyard. They all came out on to the gravel in front of the house. The blazing heat of the afternoon rose from the earth in waves.

"Oh, Bill", said Evvy, "do make my apologies to your wife. I quite meant to invite her, I really meant to, but you know how inefficient I am. At this time of term my memory quite goes. But do tell her, will you, and make my excuses".

"I will certainly", said Mor, who had no intention of passing this idiotic apology on to Nan. He knew how it would be received.

"And don't fail to persuade her to make that little speech for us at the dinner", said Ewy.

"I'll try", said Mor. He put his hand up to shield his brow from the sun.

"Well I'm so glad you came", said Ewy, "it was so nice. Now I really must get back to my tasks. End of term in sight, you know. Goodbye, Miss Carter, we shall meet again soon—and thank you so much for coming". He retracted quickly into the house and shut the door.

The three guests stood for a moment undecidedly in the drive. Mor thought, if Bledyard says another word I shall crown him. Miss Carter was evidently thinking the same. She scraped the gravel with her feet and said hurriedly, "I must be going too. I suppose I can't give either of you a lift back to the school?" The invitation did not sound very whole-hearted.

Mor realized with a shock of surprise that the big green Riley which stood at the door must belong to Miss Carter. It seemed to him amazing that such a small woman should own such a large car. The next moment it seemed to him delightful.

Bledyard said at once, "No, thank you, Miss Carter. I have my bicycle here. I shall go on that. So I shall say goodbye". He disappeared abruptly round the side of the house.

Mor was left alone with Miss Carter. He thought very quickly. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a most intense wish to ride away in Miss Carter's car. He said, "Yes, please, I'd be very grateful for a lift".

He opened the door for her, and then jumped in himself on the other side. Miss Carter stowed the parcel of books in the back seat.

Then she put on some dark glasses and wrapped a multi-coloured handkerchief round her head. After that she started the engine. As they began to move slowly forward a curious apparition passed them. It was Bledyard, riding his own bicycle and pushing Mor's. He went by at speed, with head down, and turned off the drive on to the cycle track that led back to the school.

The impudence of him! thought Mor. He hoped that Miss Carter would not realize the significance of the spectacle. He feared that she would. Then suddenly he began to laugh aloud.

"What is it?" said Miss Carter.

Mor went on laughing. "What a droll fellow Bledyard is!" he said.

The car gathered pace.