The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  ‘It was certainly rather a fearsome joke.’

  He had hardly noticed Virginia Townshend in the group and he felt the familiar shock of the strange contrast that her voice made with those of the others. It was very deep and hardly seemed to emanate from her at all. She was particularly thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and her large hands fell clumsily from thin wrists. Her clothes, slightly of the folk-weave variety, hung on her and her hair was worn straight and short. Perhaps it was a dynamo of energy that consumed her flesh–certainly she was fantastically virulent. Paul was invariably amused by her relationship with Storm–it was the most superficial thing about her. Virginia consistently competed with Lancing for Storm’s affection, and as a result of this they both conducted their own private war which was waged continuously from term to term. Like children, they bickered and squabbled over the tiniest details, and only showed a relative unity in Storm’s presence. It was amazing the unconscious power he held over them; they worshipped him, their competition becoming more intense as his commands were undertaken. Each was as anxious as the other to mother Storm, to obey him, to please and to placate him. They consistently vied for his praise and a harsh word for one would invariably mean that the other became more animated and certainly happier. Paul remembered when Lancing fell from grace for at least two weeks over some minor defect in his interpretation of Storm’s perfectionist intent, and it was during this period that he saw Virginia at her happiest. Lancing seemed positively suicidal. His round, shining face beamed no longer and he wore the same waistcoat throughout the entire period. Everyone knew that he was a broken man. But Paul knew that this would be the only light in which they appeared ridiculous. Discounting this defect they were both purposeful teachers and Paul felt both jealousy and admiration.

  He turned towards Virginia and she smiled seriously at him. Her face was narrow and the skin round her neck hung in loose folds that made her seem older than her forty years. Virginia’s hair, in contrast to Laura’s excesses, seemed to fit her head like a skull cap.

  ‘Joke?’ Paul looked at her with bewilderment. This had not occurred to him.

  ‘Rather a bloody sense of humour, surely?’ Laura’s eyes were still angry and she spoke viciously.

  Perhaps we are too casual, thought Paul. He knew that his own mind had registered very little. Any event, macabre or otherwise, rested lightly upon the surface and would become insignificant. A certain registration, however superficial, might be made and stored somewhere that was swiftly forgotten. As all his mental activity was introverted, and concentratedly so, it was impossible for outside disturbances to penetrate the self-interest that seemed vital if there was to be any kind of answer to his particular problem. His mind, drifting away from the conversation, started to battle against the conscious belief that there was, in fact, no solution and never would be.

  Paul realised that conversation had faltered and something was being demanded of him. Had someone asked a question? Virginia had, and was waiting impassively for a reply.

  ‘I’m so sorry–I didn’t quite catch–’

  ‘You weren’t even listening, Paul, were you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Virginia–I feel tired–’

  ‘I said that with some of the little horrors we’ve got here it could well be a joke. You’ve no idea what odious senses of humour some of them have got. Quite frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t been garrotted here yet. Perhaps that’s the next step. Or perhaps they’ll hang each other first.’

  Laura Strang frowned and Lancing gave an uneasy titter. Laura’s large grey eyes turned themselves in irritation on Virginia.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Townshend, but if anyone has an odious sense of humour, as you put it, it seems that it’s yourself. I fail to see anything remotely funny in this rather unpleasant situation, and I’m absolutely certain that no child here would be capable of doing anything like this.’

  Virginia flushed and Lancing looked embarrassed. Paul felt a flash of irritation–why on earth couldn’t they behave like adults instead of this eternal squabbling? He wondered what the others were saying.

  Lancing, trying to smooth the situation over, only managed to make matters worse. ‘I’m quite sure Virginia realises how unpleasant this has all been–’

  ‘Do step out of the role of eternal diplomat, Gerald. It dissipates so much of your energy.’ Virginia knew how to deal with him.

  Lancing, crushed and embarrassed by the unaccustomed use of his Christian name, struck a match and spilt the box on to the floor. No one attempted to help him pick them up as he scrabbled around their feet.

  ‘I’m sorry to be rude,’ flashed Laura, ‘but in the face of all this I find your attitude deplorable.’ She turned very quickly and ruined her exit by almost falling over Lancing as he sought out the last of his matches.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, do you always have to clown about?’ She swept out of the door, her hair bobbing untidily behind her.

  Lancing rose to his feet, pink with exertion and embarrassment. Virginia gave a loud snort of laughter and Paul turned away to hide his amusement. Everyone had broken off their conversations and turned at Laura’s abrupt exit, and Paul, Lancing and Virginia found themselves the subject of a curious scrutiny.

  ‘Something wrong with Laura?’ asked Martin Forrest, his moustache quivering with anticipation of further scenes.

  ‘I think I’ve made her angry.’ Virginia’s voice assumed a puzzled tone. Paul gave her a purposefully cynical glance.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Leo Carpenter, ‘now there’ll be more scenes.’ He shook his spinsterish head and began to bite at his nails.

  Paul was suddenly sick of them all and their petty little world. They were all so damn selfish; they all secretly enjoyed antagonising each other, and relished the after-effects. However well they taught during the day they were like a bunch of sulky children together. Perhaps he was being a little unfair, but tonight they seemed particularly irritating. The lack of reasonably intelligent conversation in the staff-room was ridiculous and it seemed as if they were unable to relax together. He interposed:

  ‘Laura’s a bit under the weather this evening–I suggest we don’t discuss her. Storm’s asked me to talk to you about next week’s timetable. He’ll be along himself this evening, but a bit later. Meanwhile, there’re one or two alterations.’ Paul’s voice gathered brisk authority. ‘Mr. Lawrence, do you think you could possibly swop your Monday double period with Mr. Forrest? I know it’s a nuisance but–’

  It was a nuisance, and Mr. Lawrence had a number of objections. But at least it changed the subject and they began to grumble amicably about the lack of a coherent timetable. This seemed to cheer everyone up and the buzz of conversation was happily restored. Paul relaxed and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Well done,’ said Virginia, eyeing Paul with amusement.

  ‘I wish you’d keep the peace–the last thing I feel like is one of Laura’s bad weeks. The smallest thing seems to set her off and then it’s left to me to sort it all out.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She grinned. ‘The temptation overcame me.’

  ‘Then try your best to restrain it. Anyway, the incident’s more serious than you seemed to think. The head was completely severed–it was a filthy thing to do and I wouldn’t like to think anyone here was responsible.’ Paul felt himself growing rather pompous.

  ‘But surely everything points that way–why should anyone else want to do it? Particularly anyone outside the school? Who did the cat belong to anyway?’ Virginia’s sudden spate of inconsistencies amused him–and he smiled wryly at her, saying,

  ‘This is the point–no one here. That’s why I’m sure that no one here had anything to do with it. But what I’d really like to know is–how the hell does everyone know so much about it–who told you, for instance? Storm buried the thing immediately it was discovered.’

  ‘Yes–but the head was missing, wasn’t it?’ She ignored his question. ‘What’s the betting it turns up in my bed? I know those little b
easts.’

  Paul looked at her stonily. ‘I can never work out whether you’re joking or not, Ginnie, but I honestly don’t think you’ve either got things in proportion or are taking this business seriously enough.’

  ‘Don’t be so pompous–and such a damned fool.’

  Suddenly Paul felt himself on the verge of losing his temper very badly. ‘I’m being neither–I just don’t think much of your sense of humour–that’s all.’

  ‘Go on–stamp your foot.’

  ‘Oh–balls!’

  ‘How charming–try and remember people still think of me as a lady.’

  They eyed each other furiously. Paul particularly liked quarrelling with Virginia–she was the only person he knew that he could do this with and leave intact. For some reason their arguments were warm and there was a thread of understanding retained throughout. This served to produce a finality that was palatable to both of them. They scored without rancour and forgave easily. This evening, though, Paul felt a mounting irritation–particularly at himself for his original attack on her lack of self-control, and now at his own. He was just about to apologise when Storm came into the room to find Paul and Virginia still livid with each other and the rest of the staff uneasy and quarrelsome. Yet as he entered the uneasy atmosphere immediately seemed to solidify into a united front. It was amazing–Paul felt it immediately. He was consistently surprised at Storm’s unconscious personal magnetism. Storm could walk into a split, argumentative and rebellious community, and suddenly they all seemed to become conscious of only one direction and one concerted aim to be achieved together. Virginia winked at Paul as the atmosphere changed and Paul felt a rush of affection for Storm’s leadership.

  Everyone had stopped talking except Angus Clarke, whose voice rose awkwardly amidst the expectant silence. He seemed determined to wring some kind of answer out of Martin Forrest, who gave an embarrassed, irritable nod of agreement to the other’s closing remarks. Storm had paused by the door, his head tilted a little and his eyes piercing the smoky armour of the room. His stoop seemed a little more pronounced tonight, thought Paul–he seemed tired and even a little listless. Perhaps doubt had been assailing him throughout the evening–Paul hoped he wasn’t blaming himself, in some obscure way, for the cat. No doubt he had been investigating his own abilities for half an hour and had emerged disencouraged.

  Storm walked to the centre of the room and rapidly began to talk.

  ‘Sorry to be so late–I’ve nothing much to say this evening–only thing is I’ve got proofs of the new prospectus. Better pass them round amongst yourselves just in case you spot any mistakes–the wording’s been revised a little and I’ve included some new photographs.’ He drew a ragged bundle of papers from his coat pocket and passed one set to Paul and a second to Leo Carpenter. Paul, who had concocted the wording with Storm, gave it a glance and passed it to Virginia. He was fully aware that there would be no mistakes as Storm had, in all probability, spent hours scrutinising the proofs. Leo Carpenter was reading every word conscientiously, his lips moving as he murmured to himself. The ugly, round lenses of his spectacles almost touched the paper as he read.

  EXETER COURT

  Seahaven, Sussex

  Tel: Seahaven 49114

  Set on the unspoilt Sussex coastline with a background of rolling downland, Exeter Court provides an education for boys between nine and fourteen. A fully qualified staff combine a comprehensive curriculum with particular attention to backward or highly-strung children. We are not a specialist preparatory school, nor do we offer any more than normal medical care. We do, however, aim to concentrate on the boy who has not ‘fitted in’ at previous schools and whose education is being marred by this disability. Each member of the staff is conscious of a special responsibility to these boys and concentrated efforts are made to regain the necessary educational standards. Our past results have been extremely satisfactory and have indeed been those of a well-above-average preparatory school. All of us at Exeter Court are justly proud of these results, yet we continue to raise our ideals higher every term. Each boy is treated as an individual and, owing to the limited numbers in the school, we are able to give him individual attention in the form of separate coaching at least once a week. Classes are small and all subjects are covered including the arts. There are no compulsory games periods but all boys are encouraged to take part in some form of physical activity, for which adequate time is set aside. We believe that we perform a unique educational function here and we gauge our successes on results.

  SIGNED

  S. A. Langham-Green, B.A.

  PRINCIPAL

  There were various photographs scattered over the back page of the brochure. Blurred and barely distinguishable, they had been taken by Storm with a very old box camera. The views of the grounds and classrooms preserved an anonymity that was only offset by the glowing text.

  Paul watched the proofs being passed from hand to hand, scrutinised and returned to Storm who had been standing impassively fiddling with his tie by the door. Vaguely Paul wondered if Angus Clarke would make some damning criticism, but he passed it over with no remark. In fact, there seemed to be a singular lack of response. Perhaps he should say something rather than blunt Storm’s enthusiasm by remaining as silent as the others, but Virginia forestalled him by walking over to Storm and saying:

  ‘I think it’s a very good précis of what goes on here.’

  Storm re-lit his knobbly, cherrywood pipe and smiled at her. ‘I was rather hoping that it was a good advertisement too, but I can see you think rather differently–where have I gone wrong?’

  ‘I think it’s a question of being less depreciating–I think you’ve been too modest and you’re underrating the system.’

  Storm’s smile widened and Virginia wondered if he was going to be angry. The others were silent, wondering the same thing. Only Paul knew that one of Storm’s best qualities was that he could take correction on enthusiasm provided he knew there was even more enthusiasm to replace it.

  ‘Come up and talk about it. I’m not really with you, but there’s still time to make alterations.’ He turned to the others. ‘I’ll bash this out with Virginia while we’re both still fresh–there were one or two other things I wanted to talk to you about but they’ll keep. Goodnight then.’ He ended abruptly and vanished through the door with Virginia at his heels. She gave Paul a further wink as she went and he grinned.

  ‘Good old Ginnie,’ said Lancing to everyone at large. There was a murmured assent and a general relaxing air of shuffling, coffee being poured out and pipes re-lit. Paul glanced briefly around them with a rekindled warmth. For all their pettiness they weren’t a bad lot really. They were a community apart from the children–a tiny pocket of identity that was a unity merely in the face of a common situation. Their weakness, so well concealed from Storm, broke out like a rash in his absence. It was a counterblast of dissention that must, at some stage, come near to playing havoc with the policy of ideology that was lived by only one man. The continual cross-currents of the staff-room worried Paul intensely at times–their effect must be felt on the school somewhere. His own weakness prevented him from any attempt at doctoring this insufficiency. He sometimes felt that he would gain from taking Virginia into his confidence more often, but her perpetual flippancy was difficult to understand. It alternately irritated and appalled him, and the row that they had had before Storm came in was typical of his relationship with her.

  Virginia had been at Exeter Court ever since Storm took over–and during those fifteen years she had worked diligently in his shadow, unleashing her curious blend of wry humour and starchy pedantry on those around her–but never on Storm. They remained intent on the task in hand and insensitive to personality. On a personal level they grew wretchedly embarrassed in each other’s company on social occasions, and gave every appearance of being mutually out of their depth with the trivia of sociability. Paul found this amusing, and took a somewhat callous delight in bringing them together as much as p
ossible at school functions of any kind. There was a staff party every year that had been inaugurated by an image-conscious Storm, and it was one event that Paul particularly looked forward to. Its intrinsic value in the running of the school was negligible, yet its entertainment value was, to Paul at least, irreplaceable. Lancing and Martin Forrest became drunk, Angus Clarke argued with everyone in sight, Leo Carpenter flirted unbecomingly and unsuccessfully with a shrill Laura Strang, Emily Sands became completely incoherent, whilst Paul, Storm and Virginia usually formed an awkward group apart. Virginia silently disapproved, whilst Paul tried to conceal his amusement and Storm, quite lost, tried desperately to play the part of the jovial, back-slapping host. The atmosphere generally deteriorated after a while, and even Storm would have to own to its comparative failure.

  Paul looked around him and wished that he was stronger. He could be so much more use to Storm if only the grinding pendulum of his guilt would allow him. If only he could get above it and look down upon it–if only he could immerse himself completely in Storm’s intensity he would have a chance of regaining purpose. On several occasions he had managed it. He had been wallowing in the excitement of an idea that had superseded his single-mindedness. But then everything would slide back within the dry walls of a perpetual state of mind that allowed nothing but groping and straining at a past memory that had become too distorted to produce anything but parody. Paul was left with the sound, vision and stench of the Great North Road on a wet Friday night, the scream of the tyres, and the appalling recollection of burning rubber. Even in the crowded room he could still hear–and see–and smell–his memory. And as he did this, his mind, like a noisy computor, docketed, analysed, and calculated the immensity of his guilt.