The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  ‘It’s a fake!’ someone shouted.

  ‘How do you know?’ admonished Alexander severely.

  ‘My father told me–he’s an–an omiologist,’ shrieked a small fat boy, with a pair of severe spectacles, who seemed beside himself with excitement.

  They were impressed by this superior information and the outcry grew stronger again. They began to press towards the improvised rostrum as if they were about to unseat the orators.

  ‘Belt up!’ screamed Eric, jumping up and down in his excitement. Water splashed up from the inside of the boat, soaking Adrian who turned to him threateningly. He subsided at once but no one had taken the slightest notice of him and the noise continued until Alexander managed to make himself heard.

  ‘I’ve seen it–listen, you goops–I’ve seen it.’

  Once again there was a temporary lapse in the hubbub and he took immediate advantage of it. His voice was breathless as he began to relate the quickly primed fabrications.

  ‘Listen–I was on the pier with–with Mr. Latimer. It was last week. He was fishing and I was mucking about with the slot machines. It was just getting dark. Suddenly all the water boiled up–I thought it was a–a–tidal wave or something–’ he paused for effect, surprised at his own powers of description–‘it almost came up to the top of the pier–I don’t know why but I was dead scared before I saw anything at all.’ Alexander paused again–a surge of panic creeping over him as he groped for the quickly rehearsed details of Adrian’s story. Whatever happened, he had to hold their attention. He continued, his voice wavering in face of his faulty memory.

  ‘Anyway–there was a funny smell and I looked over the side and there it was. A sort of sea serpent. There was a head and a couple of fins. It was about–I don’t know–about twelve feet long.’ He suddenly became more inventive and began to elaborate a little. ‘It had a funny scaly head and there was stuff all round its eyes and mouth. Sort of black stuff. I only saw it for a minute.’ Adrian gave him a warning glance and he controlled the sudden impetus of his imagination. ‘I knew it was–well obviously not a dragon–but a monster anyway. Absolute whopper. Then it disappeared and the next minute it was about fifty yards out at sea. Set up a terrific wash and it nearly swamped Mr. Latimer’s boat below us. He was scared to bits–but I told him–to keep calm and stay where we were.’ Adrian looked at him again with a doubtful expression. ‘We watched–it–swim out to sea. It went very fast. Looked like a submarine or something when it was a long way out. Mr. Latimer said he wasn’t going to tell anyone–and he told me not to tell anyone either. So if anyone tells I’ll get them.’

  Alexander paused truculently, gauging the reaction.

  ‘Why did Mr. Latimer say he wasn’t going to tell anyone?’ asked a sceptic as the back.

  ‘Because he wants to investigate it–he thinks everyone will laugh at him–he wants to photograph it–he’s going to wait with his camera until it comes back.’

  ‘Perhaps it won’t come back,’ returned the doubter.

  ‘It will,’ said Alexander, his desperation returning. ‘Mr. Latimer thinks it sleeps under the pier. He says all the little fish have disappeared and there’s slimy stuff all over the water.’

  There was an unsettling pause for consideration. The little ones seemed quite impressed by the references to Paul’s part in the drama, but the older boys were apathetic. Alexander dropped all caution and said:

  ‘Anyway, we can prove it.’

  ‘How?’ asked someone.

  ‘By going to look for it,’ said Alexander emphatically.

  ‘What’s the Secret Society for?’ came another question.

  ‘We’re going to kill the monster,’ was the confident rejoinder.

  A raucous cheer went up and a group of older boys began to sing ‘Rule Britannia’.

  Alexander stepped back. He had failed to convince them and had lost considerable face. How on earth could they be expected to believe him anyway? It was all so stupid.

  Adrian began to speak:

  ‘Listen to me–there really is a monster–although you don’t believe it. Alexander may have got the size a bit wrong–p’raps it’s smaller than he thinks. But it’s a real monster all right–and we’re going to kill it. Just think–we’ll be famous–we’ll be in the papers–we’ll be on the telly. It’s dangerous–it might kill us. I expect it’s pretty fierce. But it won’t stand a chance against us all. We’ll creep up when it’s asleep under the pier. You can see its eyes glowing under the water–at least that’s what Alexander says. I haven’t seen it but I believe him. After all–he’s school captain–he wouldn’t make up a silly story. We’d soon find out if he was making it up all right, wouldn’t we? But there’s only one way to find out and that’s to go and see. If we see his eyes winking away down there we’ll run a–a lance through them. That’ll kill him for sure, won’t it?’

  Alexander watched him astonished. Somehow Adrian seemed so much more convincing than he did and the proof was already in their eyes–for a moment they seemed quite frightened.

  ‘Does he sleep with his eyes open, then?’ asked an insistent, logical voice.

  ‘I don’t know. Alexander told me he does. But I haven’t seen it. But I’ve already said there’s only one way to find out and that’s to go and see. We’ll repair this boat, all of us, it’s not too bad. If we patched it up it would float. P’raps we could make some sails. Be fun doing it–build our own boat and everything.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be allowed.’ One of the younger boys looked tearful.

  ‘We’ll do it in the cave–keep it a secret.’

  ‘We can’t all get in it,’ said the anonymous materialist.

  ‘No–we’ll draw lots or something for the assault party–we can get about twelve in, I should think.’ Adrian parried the doubters with the feigned confidence of political evasion.

  ‘If we find out there’s no monster then Alexander will be a liar.’ This remark came from the back and it was difficult to identify the anonymous voice. They all looked at each other in surprise.

  ‘What do you mean?’ exploded Alexander, his authority waning. ‘Who are you calling a liar?’

  ‘We can prove it one way or the other when we get out there,’ said Adrian, interceding smoothly. ‘Alexander will tell you a bit more about the Society now.’

  Taking his cue he began trying to re-establish his former crisp tones. His image, he felt, was severely damaged. He knew their attention kept wandering back to Adrian all the time–he had to reinstate himself rapidly. The sky was still clouding over and a sheaf of dull cloud covered the sun.

  ‘Look–I really did see it. If you don’t believe me then do what Adrian says–go and look for yourselves.’

  Alexander looked towards the pier and the others followed his gaze. White-capped waves had whipped up around the piles of the pier, and there was a grating sound as a moored steamer rose and fell by the adjoining landing-stage. The water was iron grey, laced with spumes of white foam. Seagulls rode the crests and the girders of the pier were covered with them, perched in every conceivable cranny. Their mewing grew louder as the waves gathered force, and suddenly, as if at a signal, they rose and flew away from the flounced structure, settling with the others on the tops of the waves. Soon the spurts of foam and the dappled white gulls became indistinguishable from each other, fusing into a single impression of lightly gathered down.

  They watched the monotony of the peppered sea and then turned in anticipation to Alexander. This time he was ready for them.

  ‘You’ll be sworn in next time we have a meeting–meanwhile you all know what’ll happen to anyone who tells.’ He glanced round ferociously, but there was little reaction. There seemed nothing left to say, but Alexander felt that he should, at least, conclude with some finite enticement. Nothing came to mind and he merely finished lamely with:

  ‘That’s it–you’d better bathe if you are going to or it’ll be too late. I’ll let you know when the next meeting will be.’

>   Immediately he had finished they made a rush for the sea. Shirts and shorts were torn off and the beach resounded to the shrill screams of the bulk of the newly formed society as the numbing water immersed them. Quite soon it began to rain hard, intensely cold drops pitted the sand and tore at the surface of the sea. For a while they stayed in, intent on avoiding the sting of its full driving force. Then gradually, one by one, they crept out, blue with cold and teeth chattering, and ran up the beach towards the scant protection of the breakwaters and their damp clothes. Alexander had disappeared but Adrian was still there, his shoulders hunched against the rain, watching them as they came out of the water. When the last boy emerged he turned and Eric followed, as if at some unspoken signal. They climbed on to the broken promenade and walked back to the school, incongruous, inconspicuous and particularly vulnerable in the thinning drizzle.

  ‘What’s going on–why the mass meeting?’

  Casey, shivering, shook his head. ‘P’raps they’re going to run away.’

  Paul smiled and unsuccessfully tried to start the outboard again. ‘Damn–what’s wrong with the blasted thing?’

  Breakfast was at eight thirty and without the engine they were going to be late. He hardly ever used it and his knack for the starting operation had never developed. This morning, however, there was something drastically wrong.

  Exeter Court rose at seven, washed, scrubbed and shivered, and was turned out of doors for three quarters of an hour before breakfast. This normally applied in both seasons, although the gym was used largely in winter for physical exercise. In spring and summer, however, Storm encouraged them to get out of doors as soon as possible, take in great draughts of fresh salty air, and bathe if the temperature permitted. There was no supervision and the boys were left to their own devices.

  This morning Paul had decided to risk Storm’s censure and take Casey for a sail. Paul’s boat–a small sailing dinghy–was his pride and joy, and as it was the only boat available in the school, there was intense competition to become one of the privileged few to go out in it. He had been careful to restrict Casey’s part in the boat, partly to avoid a wave of unpopularity sweeping over Casey, and partly to avoid accusations by Storm. This was the first time they had sailed together since the previous summer.

  Apart from the eccentricity of the outboard which had choked, spluttered and finally given out, the morning had been perfect. The temporary promise of the sun, the fleeting yet strengthening wind, and the increasing glow of his own body were nothing to his pleasure at being with Casey. Quite when the association had been formed was never apparent–it had been at no definite time that Paul knew he loved Casey as much as his dead son. The knowledge was, like the first flush of unfulfilled sunshine, a furtive pleasure that contrasted with the monotony of his guilt. He revelled in it–yet still half disbelieved it. But this morning father and son, harmonious in an unspoken love, mucked about in a small boat, far away from responsibility and disapproval.

  As they sailed round the curve of the bay, tacked past the pier again and beyond it, Paul first saw the group on the sands. He recognised Alexander standing on some object that protruded from the few scattered rocks and saw Adrian standing just behind him. Around them were grouped about twenty boys who seemed to be listening intently. Then gradually they dispersed and began to change into swimming costumes by the breakwaters. Paul was changing course as a stronger wind caught them and they veered homewards, back towards the pier. Once the helm was set Paul turned again to Casey.

  ‘Did you want to swim with them?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘No–’ said Casey, and Paul’s heart warmed. Leaning back he gave way to the luxury of dwelling on the more recent past.

  Paul’s love for Casey had grown in strength each day. Twice, Storm had reminded him that he was to stop isolating himself with the boy and so obviously granting him favours. But the structure of Exeter Court, unlike a normal school, was such that special attention was paid to each pupil, and should a boy fall behind it was quite often the normal procedure for a member of the staff to spend a double period giving him individual attention. As there was a large staff and a small complement of boys this was a practical idea and had proved successful in application. It also gave Paul every excuse to see Casey as often as possible.

  He had arrived at the school two years ago; an undersized, excruciatingly shy nine-year-old who seemed determined to say absolutely nothing at all. It was as if he simply did not speak the same language as anyone else–questions would produce a strange mystified stare and replies were almost impossible to get. Casey had an almost indistinguishable trace of brogue in his voice which, when he eventually did speak, was very attractive.

  ‘I’m sure he’s a little bog elf who’s just landed accidentally on our doorstep,’ Virginia had said to Paul at Casey’s silent stage, and he had been amused by her sudden whimsy that was so out of character.

  The day that Casey arrived Paul had had a blazing row with Meg over something he had now forgotten. It had been unimportant and they both soon forgot the cause and tore at each other, relishing each new wound. They were both guilty of bringing everything up, the only hallowed reservation being Stephen, a subject on which argument was irrelevant. The row had been interrupted by Storm, who opened their door without knocking, and finalised by Meg, who burst into tears and ran from the room. Storm apologised, Paul took a couple of aspirins, and Meg sobbed unrestrainedly in the next room. In the midst of this upheaval a taxi drew up at the front door and Casey and his father arrived.

  Paul’s immediate impression was of two birds, poised, hesitant, immovable. They stood at the front door together, Casey with his hand firmly grasped by his father, waiting. For some unspecified reason their tentativeness upset everyone. Storm bellowed, ‘Well, come in then, please,’ in a voice that he never used to new arrivals. Perhaps he felt that he had to shift them from their position now or they would remain hovering for hours. Paul, too, try as he would, found it impossible to be gentle. It was an incredible reaction, for their presence seemed to demand gentleness. Soft voices and kindness were more in order than the over-hearty brutality that was shown to them. Delicate flushed Dresden with water-colour features that would chip and crack at a glance.

  Casey was slightly stockier than his father–a pale mousey-haired boy with a flannel suit that he was lost in. The coat was buttoned up all the way down and the trousers swamped him. He silently contemplated Storm throughout the interview and refused to answer any questions or even say a word. His father was a tall, rather thin Irishman with flaming red hair and the same delicacy of feature. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he wore a pin-stripe suit under a huge overcoat. He had a more distinctive accent than his son and a hesitancy in his speech that was either lack of confidence or the last stages of a conquered stammer. He sat on the edge of a chair, his son standing beside him, giving Paul the impression of two thrushes strung to an inflexibility that would reveal trembling feathers and a patchwork skeleton beneath–frightening to hold and feel the matchstick bones that would break like dry twigs. The man occasionally glanced at Paul, his eyes darting over him almost furtively in their appeal to take care of his son. Casey never glanced at him once but stared steadily at Storm, gravely supplying complete negation to everything.

  Paul had never met anything quite like them. They both fascinated and, unreasonably, slightly irritated him. He felt that they were almost complacent in their vulnerability, almost trading on the fact that they knew it was impossible for anyone intentionally to hurt them. It was a November afternoon, the light was fading and the gas fire roared and spluttered in the study. Lettie brought in a tray of tea and pulled the curtains, and the strange little group were subjected to the further intimacies of the tea-time atmosphere.

  ‘… he’s been to three schools but he doesn’t get on.’ Casey shifted his steady gaze to his father and they held each other’s eyes as he talked. ‘This diabetes business started three years ago and you know he can inject himsel
f–no need for anyone else to do it. He’d rather do it himself. You’ve already agreed to the diet–it’s not difficult.’

  Despite the hesitancy the points were made determinedly and with an underlying appeal. It was unnecessary for him to say–Don’t hurt him–I can’t bear to leave him here in a strange place–How can anyone hurt him?–Do you know how much it hurts to love him? The pain touched Paul for a moment. He looked at the man, feeling genuinely sorry for him.

  ‘He’s got behind, but he’s quite bright. It was the changing about–his mother’s dead and I brought him up with my sister.’ Paul knew all about the private world that had been created between them–the cosy, lined nest into which no one intruded. He remembered Stephen and thought of what had been created with his own son–a private place, remote and hidden from Meg, who was unable to intrude. Even before Stephen died the pain of loving him–the dead weight in his stomach that made the love almost unbearable–was always with him and almost tormented him. In the warm room two years ago he had felt an immediate sympathy with the halting man who was expressing his single-minded, defensive, painful love.

  ‘He’s a bit of a dreamer, too, I’m afraid. That’s my fault, I’ve held him too close in a way. He doesn’t make friends easily and I haven’t encouraged them. I’ve played with him over the weekends, and if he’s been anywhere, it’s usually been with me. We were in Dublin but I came over here about five years ago on business. We lived with my sister in London. It’s not very open-but we used to go out, he and I, and find the parks. He likes the open air–but he’s too used to having no one of his own age to be with. He’s been alone too often. I couldn’t always be with him. He doesn’t read much, and he doesn’t play much either. As I say, he’s a bit of a dreamer and he creates his own places–in his mind–do you know what I mean? Towns and countries and–and things–a sort of place of his own he’s made for himself. He’s got a very vivid imagination.’