The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  ‘I hope you won’t mind,’ exclaimed Meg, ‘but I’m so tired I’ll positively drop if I don’t get into bed right away.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Storm for the second time. He sounded relieved, as if one woman less would be marvellous. He could then apply himself to coercing an unwilling Lettie into going to bed and returning to safe school subjects with the impassive Virginia. He was interested in her ideas about the brochure, and distinctly uninterested in any impending social chit-chat.

  Formalities complete, Meg left them, smiling for a moment as she had a last glimpse of them grouped about the heavy table, as awkward and impersonal as the furniture around them. They were all so obviously completely unattuned to each other and she closed the door with relief.

  Casey was dreaming about a place he knew under the pier. He was walking through a moss-green cavern of girders–and he could hear it singing in a high clear voice. He was reminded of the boy soloist that he had heard on the wireless in a broadcast from the chapel at Cambridge. The swelling and throbbing of sustained notes rose to the immeasurable heights above him. Sometimes the chapel and the cavern seemed to be one and the livid green of the seaweed-hung piles became darker and richer until he could see the glimmering candles above and around him. Below his feet the hard flat sand was streaked with the pale rust of the iron pillars that surrounded him, and there were dark pools whose scum surface shuddered with the convulsive movement of their inhabitants, who groped and clawed in vain at the moss drift that imprisoned them.

  The voice changed pitch, becoming thin and reedy, and slowly Casey picked his way towards the source. As in all dreams he seemed unable to reach it, and because he knew it was going to be difficult he was not surprised. After what appeared to be hours, the song seemed as far away from him as when he had first begun to walk towards it. The soloist paused and the silence was at first stupefying, then intensely frightening. He stopped his unrewarding progress–not daring to move in case he should break the cold stillness of the utter quiet.

  The song began again, this time a little nearer–and then stopped. Then again–and more silence. Staccato halts and abrupt penetrating silence, with the voice seeming to gather momentum with each break. Desperately wanting to be nearer he raced across the sand, leaping over the girders, jumping the dull foetid pools until he came to the edge of the sea. The wilderness of rusting iron ran on into the sea that moved around the struts of the pier in little eddies, gently, playfully slapping at the immovable bars of shadow. It was shallow at first and although he felt things move between his toes he waded on interminably, the water warm and heavy around his ankles. It was like wading through thin syrup–and soon he realised it was similar in substance and his legs were sticky with the cloying liquid.

  Eventually, far away, he saw the chorister on a rock, singing metallically. The figure seemed the only clear, cool thing around him–and he began to race towards it, gaining no ground until the water became deeper and he turned, frightened, to wade back. But as he began to struggle towards the shallows he fell into great pits in the sand and the syrup closed over his head, entered his mouth, nose and ears. As he sank he made out, for one moment, the outline of the erect figure, singing gustily, on an outcrop of rock. He could see in a flash a ragged, barnacled mane of spiky pinnacles, and a tail that curled hard in tight rings of scaled translucence. It shone with an effervescence of burnished jade that countered the nugget-black brilliance of the deep-set eyes that seemed to bore into him as he felt the soft warmth of the liquid intrude suffocatingly inside him. His final sensation as he slipped gently a hundred miles beneath the hardening fluid of the treacle ocean, was a last hypnotic glimpse of the winking coals of his Seahorse.

  Meg was not by nature a solitary person, and her conviviality was now consistently frustrated–yet she felt so alien to them all that for a fleeting moment she almost revelled in her own company. Meg was beginning to enjoy being matron–a fact that never failed to astound her. The bald knowledge that she was unlikely to have another child, coupled with Stephen’s death, had originally made contact with children unbearable. Now the loss had been reduced to a memory that hurt, rather than a presence that actually obsessed, and even the memory was fading. Almost unemotionally she was able to remember Stephen as a little boy she once knew–and now had nearly forgotten.

  Meg had become a materialist whose mind, free from the dreadful clutter of sorrow, took pride in creating order out of chaos. This she was gradually achieving and she enjoyed each step forward. Over the last five years she had watched, with an unexacting feeling of detachment, what she thought was the final dissolution of her love for Paul. She had felt it fade and had registered no despair nor any sensation at all. She felt completely uninvolved. The immediate aftermath of Stephen’s death had been an intense, demanding love on her part for Paul. She had needed him desperately, but he had put himself completely out of reach with his self-imposed commitment. She had cried once over the child in Paul’s presence–and his distraction was immediately apparent. He was vaguely consoling, and she withdrew at once feeling as if she had intruded and broken an unspoken bond of silence. At first Meg was stunned–then furious at his rejection. She had never doubted the strength of their love carrying them over and above Stephen. She needed him–and she simply seemed to be irrelevant to a private grief that did not include her. His obsessive guilt and his undemanding introversion produced a miasma of unidentification in her.

  Remembering this, Meg found that she was shaking with anger, standing in front of a notice-board covered with games fixtures. She was surprised at this sudden rush of emotion, but then she recalled how angry she had been with Paul. Bitterness had not come into it–just anger and the sensations of burning cheeks and almost uncontrollable passion. Strange that she should feel this–strange that this was the one emotion that she could remember so vividly. She walked on, and then paused with her hand on the door of the sick-room. Meg had made up her mind that she was going to be as bound up with the boys as everyone else. Thus involved, she could forget she had ever been in love with anyone.

  There were three beds in the room, of which only one was occupied. Adrian was almost asleep when she came in and Meg crossed softly towards his bed, lifting her feet warily over the uneasy boards in case he should wake. She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as she noticed his half-opened eyes.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Meg asked in the brisk voice of an experienced midwife.

  ‘Much, much better,’ the boy replied, lifting his eyes to her. ‘When can I get up?’

  ‘Possibly tomorrow,’ she tempered, ‘but only if I’m convinced that you really are better.’

  How she wished that she could grow to like him more than her instinct allowed her. His eyes seemed so conspicuously minute without the pebbled lenses protecting them–and magnifying them until they swam behind them like minnows, searching and scurrying for plankton in a miasma of weed. Unlike Storm’s eyes they roved blankly–there was no expression in them. The heavy pasty face was saved by the snub, freckled nose, yet was weakened by the moist lips that appeared thin and capricious below. The hair was tumbled, dandruff-flecked and dark, yet alive with a supple light, and the voice was soft, distinct and penetrating. Adrian had a habit of wrinkling his nose as he spoke and perhaps it was this that irritated her most of all.

  ‘Why can’t I get up now?’

  ‘Because I say so–now go to sleep or I’ll make you stay in bed all tomorrow.’

  Adrian rapidly turned over and closed his eyes. He didn’t answer when Meg said goodnight and she closed the door quietly, in case he was really asleep.

  Outside in the corridor she felt, quite suddenly, overpoweringly alone. A large casement window was directly opposite the sick-room and she opened it abruptly, its hinges screaming in protest. A rush of cold air made her shiver and, turning, Meg saw herself reflected in a huge Victorian mirror, whose battered scrolls and scarred glass filled the section of wall opposite the window. Despite the fact that ther
e was no moon some kind of filtered light illuminated the pocked surface of the mirror, and she could dimly make out her own reflection which shuddered within the ornamented frame in a phantom melodrama that made her smile. Her face, even amidst the distortion, looked round and placid–a middle-aged, comfortable face–a bit tired but essentially kind. Phrases like ‘homely body’ and ‘kindly soul’ entered her mind as applied to her features, and she sighed. It was difficult to realise when you were middle-aged–and still more difficult, at least for her, to ward it off with cosmetics. She just couldn’t be bothered.

  The sallow light swam over the mottled glass and the familiar objects on the landing were lean, hunchbacked reflections that seemed imbued with a teetering, unsubstantial movement. She noticed that an ornamented rocking chair–a strange legacy from the previous owners of the house–had taken on the appearance of a large, crouched animal. Almost automatically she turned and touched it, and it moved inanely to and fro, to a decreasing rhythm of protesting mobility. Then it slowed down almost completely except for a slow tremor.

  The reflections had fascinated her, and she faced the mirror again, watching their ghastly antics as the shadowed parodies were revealed.

  Meg turned away from the mirror and looked out of the window towards the sea. It was too dark to pick out anything but a liquid shadow that moved consistently towards the shore. She looked away from the dull gleam of the water and idly watched the bulbous white shape of the tent billow awkwardly in the wind. With a sensation of slight shock she noticed a figure standing staring up at the house. It turned and began to grope amongst the dusty, uncared-for little bushes that flanked the front door of the house. There seemed to be hesitancy–and then swift movements as if something was awaited, and then caught. After about five minutes Meg was still unable to identify the figure, or its task. Suddenly it seemed to pause, and then it withdrew from amongst the foliage and rapidly disappeared around the side of the house. Almost immediately Meg heard the crunch of loose gravel from the main gates and she awaited the next event with rising curiosity. Another figure–bulkier and less purposeful–emerged and she immediately recognised Paul. He walked slowly up the drive and then went over to the tent, where he seemed to be inspecting the guy ropes. Apparently satisfied that all was secure he walked towards the front door, fumbled for his keys, and then paused. From inside the house came a sound that electrified her, simply because she could not define it. Below her, Paul paused as if he, too, was temporarily mystified. For a moment they both waited and then, quickly, he opened the door and went inside. She heard him running up the stairs, and at this moment Meg realised the sound that she had heard was a sob and that it emanated from Casey. For a reason she could not define she walked on, away from his tears, and went to bed. As she turned the corridor Adrian, pyjama clad, emerged stealthily from the sick-room and tip-toed in the opposite direction.

  Paul ran up the stairs into the dormitory. It was a small room and there were only three beds. One of the boys had been summoned home to a dying relative and the other stood by the door to greet him. His eyes were alight with a mixture of curiosity, interest and responsibility.

  ‘Casey’s having a nightmare, sir. Doesn’t he cry funny, sir? I don’t know anyone who cries like that, do you, sir?’

  ‘Less questions, more action,’ said Paul blandly. ‘Buzz down to matron and if she’s still awake ask her to come up. If she is obviously asleep do not disturb her, but come straight back to me. Clear?’ The boy went away with these detailed instructions and Paul went over to Casey. He was lying on his back, his eyes open, and every now and then a great dry sob escaped him, shaking his whole body. Paul touched Casey’s shoulder and immediately he began to shake from head to foot. Tentatively Paul put an arm around his shoulders and lifted him, sitting him bolt upright on the bed. Still he continued to shake, and as gently as he could, Paul sat on the bed beside him and gripped him very tightly. The shivering seemed to show no sign of abating, and Casey began to moan slightly at the same time. The moaning increased until he was trying to shout out something indistinguishable. Paul simply had no idea what to do and was further dismayed to find the boy had returned without Meg.

  ‘Matron asleep?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I see if Mr. Langham-Green’s awake?’

  ‘Yes–go on then–’

  The boy went away again and Paul tried to reassure Casey.

  ‘Come on, old son, you’re home now, quite safe, nothing to be afraid of. Casey, you’re home, safe, no one’s going to hurt you.’

  As suddenly as he had started Casey stopped shouting, but the sobbing continued. Paul wondered how he could distract the boy’s attention from whatever nightmarish sequence he was grieving over. He felt in his pocket and produced the rough, spiky object that he had assumed was some kind of shellfish. He gave it to Casey without looking at it. ‘I found this on the beach–thought you might be interested.’ Consciously casual he awaited some reaction.

  Casey’s eyes fixed on the object and he gave a little whimper and without warning tears poured down his face.

  ‘That’s better, isn’t it? Go on crying and you’ll feel much better. What is it–do you think? Can’t be some kind of shellfish, can it? I can’t see it very clearly from here. Open your hand a bit more and let’s have a look.’

  Reluctantly Casey opened his hot, sticky palm. Paul peered over his shoulder at it.

  ‘Why–what a bit of luck–it’s a seahorse–maybe it’s your seahorse–the one you’ve been looking for.’ But Casey was not listening. Taking care not to crush the seahorse he buried his face in Paul’s still rather damp shirt front and began to weep again. He stopped as he felt the dampness and said:

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh–down by the sea. That’s where I found the seahorse.’

  ‘You didn’t find it under the pier?’

  ‘Under the pier–why should I? It’s probably filthy and anyway the tide’s in.’

  ‘You didn’t find the seahorse under the pier?’

  ‘No, it was on a rock on the beach.’

  ‘Then why are you all wet?’

  ‘Oh, I was rather silly. I leant up against a breakwater.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘No, I mean are you sure you didn’t go under the pier?’

  ‘Yes–quite sure.’

  ‘Will you promise me something very important?’

  ‘Well, it depends what it is, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Will you promise not to look for the Seahorse under the pier?’

  ‘But we’ve found him.’

  ‘Yes–but if you looked for another seahorse.’

  ‘All right–I promise I won’t look for him under the pier.’

  ‘Because if you do it’s very dangerous.’ Casey gazed earnestly up at him.

  ‘Well, I’ve promised I won’t.’ Paul took him in his arms again and for a few minutes he was completely relaxed. The boy came back.

  ‘I can’t find Mr. Langham-Green, sir. Shall I see if Mr. Lancing’s awake?’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind–you just enjoy prowling about. Get into bed at once, and if you make the slightest sound I’ll be over to you.’

  Temporarily cowed the boy climbed noisily into bed.

  ‘I said keep quiet–now shut up!’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ came the muffled reply.

  There was silence for a few moments and then Casey said:

  ‘I can hear the Seahorse–he wants to be let in. Can’t you hear him crying to be let in?’

  Paul heard the thud of the breakers on the sand and the boiling of the pebbles as the crests nudged and tore at them, sending them tumbling in the froth.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Under the pier.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Green and shiny–he’s got a prickly mane and big-little eyes. There’s shells caught up in his collar and his tail curls round and round.’

 
; Paul tucked in the blankets, pulling them up to just below Casey’s chin.

  ‘I’ll just go and let him in,’ he said and turned out the light.

  Outside in the corridor Adrian heard the dull click of the switch and rapidly retreated into the shadows as, Paul opened the door. Then he scurried around the corner, his pyjama trousers flapping over his podgy feet and the cord of his dressing-gown trailing behind him. Soon he was back in the sick-room, trying to burrow once again into the tepid hollows of the bedclothes. For a while he panted heavily–then he smiled in the cinder light.

  COLOURED GLASS

  May 1964

  ‘You’re just a stupid shit.’ Adrian pronounced the statement with a finality that forestalled any further conversation. Hundreds of yards away the edge of the sea flashed and glittered like a line of molten gold and the sky was steel blue, cloudless and rain-washed. The prospect was immense–the day seemed to have been sculpted to an ultimate perfection. The words were as clear as the moss-green pools that clustered around the scaled breakwaters. The voice articulated gently but firmly. The two boys sat on a breakwater, looking down at the translucent, unbroken pools. They were about eleven years old and carried swimming trunks. Adrian wore his thickly-lensed glasses and his eyes seemed to scurry behind their pebble-glass prison. He had crept out of bed that morning without Meg’s permission and his temper was not improved by the thought of impending retribution. His companion was smaller and slighter with a shock of wavy hair. He did not complement his friend in the least and went in everyday dread of the little animals behind the lenses. He was frightened of Adrian’s strength, and was terrified of having his arm twisted behind him until he thought it would break, or his balls being kneed until the dull ache seemed unbearable. Most of all, perhaps, he was tortured by the dull, flat voice, the perpetual stream of obscenities that abused him with monotonous regularity, and the way they were delivered. The blasphemy was adult, descriptive and decisive. It was not self-conscious, or furtive or full of bravado, nor did the words seem anything less than grossly obscene. Yet–to Eric–there was a magnetism in the sheer evil contact with such heady abuse. He trembled with a pleasurable fear of worse to come.