The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  As she recalled now this onset of sensuality Meg still felt a sense of shock that she could so suddenly have been taken by surprise–could so suddenly have desired him. This morning, in the pale, lively spring sun, Meg desperately tried to recall the next five years of happiness. A year later she had had Stephen. She normally tried not to remember his exact features–hoping that by isolating him, deliberately trying hard not to see his face, she would eventually half forget and the still too-clear memories would fade to a shadowy insubstantiality against stronger recollection of other things. She tried to remember the past happiness with Paul–and tried to forget that Stephen had existed for four of those years.

  Then, unbelievably, one night, after showing the baby off to friends, wining, dining and generally having a gay evening, they were driving back along an arterial road that seemed to stretch endlessly before them, running across a valley and up out of sight over the hills. Happily they had sung as they began to speed down the incline of the dip–gloriously happy she had watched the yellow lights stretch out before them, cosily she had felt the steel night outside, black and cold, whilst she nestled beside Paul in front. Stephen was asleep on the back seat. She had looked up at Paul and once again, as on the night when she needed him so badly, she saw the lines on his face deepen in the half light, giving his face an older, more rugged appearance. She began to sing:

  ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.’

  Paul took up the next line, bellowing it out flatly and raucously. ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.’ Even now, as she gazed out of the window towards the sea, trying to force the memory away, the sound and fear came rushing back, jumbled into a cacophony of violent images whose impact she could still feel.

  Together they had begun to sing ‘She’ll be coming round the–’ when violence tore at their secure, warm world of confidence and cigarette smoke. The car seemed to lurch and for a moment it had felt as if they were suspended, not moving at all.

  Meg tried to force the thoughts away but try as she might they were still there–and they rode over, echoing and ending in a rattling screaming sound as once again her imagination recorded the banked roadside rushing towards them and disappearing beneath the wheels of the car. The screaming noise continued as they spun into a miniature valley, turning over and over–the outside a blur of darkness, the inside suffocating with whirling objects. Once again movement seemed suspended–and then there was a dull sound as the car came finally to rest. Still trying to block out the thoughts, Meg remembered the sounds that had impressed her most of all–a kind of tinkling, rushing sound of small objects falling. She had looked down and seen her powder compact incongruously spilt and broken over her dress, and she remembered immediately beginning to worry about the effect of the spilled powder on the black velvet. Then she saw Stephen.

  Irritably Meg shrugged away the familiar horror and began to check a laundry list. But it was blurred, and all she could remember was the way Paul went away from her–further and further away until it had become quite hopeless. Briskly she got out a pencil and began to tick off thirty pairs of shorts, an equivalent number of shirts and three bath towels. Then, quite suddenly, and in a puzzled way, she began to cry. After a while Meg went out and closed the door.

  Adrian picked his nose, examined the result with interest and transferred it appreciatively to his mouth. Paul’s tempered enthusiasm over the adjectival clause seeped into his mind, making a murmurous background to his own thoughts. Gently he scratched at the woodwork of his desk with a compass, prising out the knotted wood and carving his initials over and over again across the scarred top.

  For the third time in his thirteen years, Adrian wanted something so strongly that he was determined to awaken an interest in him. He looked up at Paul and trembled suddenly with anticipation. He glanced briefly towards Casey and his stomach tightened with a wave of dislike. How long the years of hate seemed to bear–undisciplined, childish rage that made him want to inflict the most terrible punishments on the unsuspecting Casey. He remembered how he had felt when he first saw them out in Paul’s boat–a kind of impotent rage that made him cry. Adrian had wanted Paul to take him out in the boat, to talk to him, to go for walks with him, to take the interest in him that was obviously not forthcoming. His jealousy had grown to a point when he had decided that, as a desperate measure, he would bring about something ostentatious enough to eliminate Casey publicly and scorn Paul into taking notice of him.

  The night that he had crept away from Casey’s dormitory and the conversation he had overheard convinced him that Paul and Casey had a liaison, a bond that he must break. Childishly, but perceptively he understood Casey’s fantasy–the importance of it–the absurd proportions of it that had grown large enough for Adrian to pierce its sheer vulnerability effectively enough to shatter it completely. A public ridicule, a staged assault and a general revelation of Casey’s dream figure would break, he thought chaotically, an intimacy that he could not enter. Muddled though his thinking was, Adrian knew what he had to do.

  An analysis of a bully does not always reveal the conventional pattern of some background insecurity or an emotional instability. It was Adrian’s unconscious determination to be powerful that made him a bully. He was a particularly affectionate boy, but those he loved were invariably out of reach or unwilling to reciprocate. Like a schoolgirl, he developed crushes–insatiable desires to be close to someone who had no intention of being close to him. He had been expelled from two preparatory schools on the simple ground of being an undesirable force. In the first case, he had persecuted another child so intensely that the entire school had risen against his sadism. He had instigated this persecution because the boy refused to be his friend. In the second case, Adrian had wrung the neck of a guinea pig belonging to another boy. He had wanted very much to possess it. The owner had refused to hand it over and the animal, usually tame and loving, had seemed terrified of him. It was too much for Adrian, and the result had been his expulsion.

  His parents, kind, ordinary, rather bewildered people, had approached Storm, putting the whole case to him. Storm had accepted Adrian into the fold, keeping a careful eye on his activities. The entire staff had been told to report back to Storm should they sense any vestige of unrest in the school that might, in any way, relate to Adrian. Paul had already described the meeting on the beach to Storm, who had mentioned it to Alexander after prayers that morning.

  ‘Mr. Latimer tells me that there was some kind of rally on the beach this morning. Know anything about it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Alexander blushed and the colour swamped his face, covering the light freckles that sanded his complexion.

  ‘What are you all doing–forming a trade union? Some kind of protest–or are you planning to sack the school and murder the staff in their beds?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Gradually the colour decreased and relief flooded him. He had various methods to counter the acute embarrassment of his irritating inability to stop blushing. He hated it and it inevitably happened at quite the wrong moment. ‘Al’s going red,’ had been the continual chant of bolder spirits before he attained his present exalted position. Now, although there were no longer any comments, he was only too conscious of his flaming features. One of his preventive methods was to begin to count slowly until the colour faded. This time he had only reached thirty before it began to recede. He was lucky–sometimes he had counted to a hundred before it finally vanished.

  ‘Mr. Latimer says he saw you and Adrian addressing a sizeable crowd–is this so?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And what was the point of it all, eh?’

  Alexander hesitated. What on earth was he going to say in face of Storm’s directness?

  ‘We’re going to start a school newspaper, sir.’

  Alexander was stunned by his sudden inventiveness–it was suddenly very easy to continue.

  ‘That’s very interesting–but shouldn’t you have asked my permission first, Al
exander–or at least my advice?’

  Storm patronised him benevolently–he sounded well pleased.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Look,’ Storm’s voice was enthusiastic and his eyes sparkled, ‘I’ve got a duplicator upstairs. It’s not a very good one but I do all the staff notes on it. You’ve got free use of that if you want it–and I’ll supply the paper–how about that?’ He ended triumphantly and there was a very slight pause before Alexander said:

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Er–what were you doing this morning then–choosing your editorial staff?’ Storm leaned back contentedly–how absolutely right it was to give them free time to formulate their own ideas.

  ‘Yes, sir. We were deciding who was going to write in it and what about.’ Alexander’s voice increased in enthusiasm as his inventiveness gained. This was marvellously simple.

  ‘And what is your job?’ Storm smiled encouragingly–how well theory was becoming practice. He looked forward to his next talk with Angus.

  ‘Editor, sir.’ Alexander’s mind leapt ahead and he felt a steady confidence fuse as he lied.

  ‘And Adrian’s?’

  ‘Assistant Editor, sir.’ Perhaps he was being a little too fluent–and Storm was already looking rather incredulous.

  ‘I never knew Adrian had a literary flair.’

  ‘A friend of his father’s knows all about them, sir.’

  Once again Alexander surprised himself–it was all coming so easily to him.

  ‘All about what?’

  ‘Newspapers, sir–and Adrian looked round one with him.’ But suddenly the full blast of his immorality shook him.

  Storm had asked Alexander a few more questions and dismissed him, apparently well pleased with the idea. The conversation was relayed back to Adrian before class and he was well pleased by Alexander’s inventiveness. But Alexander was having a severe attack of conscience.

  ‘Eric!’ Paul felt a strong desire to hurl the blackboard duster down the room so that it would cover, or perhaps screen, Eric’s face for even a few moments. Why, or quite how, the boy seared his nerves so badly was impossible to say. He winced when the chalk squeaked unpleasantly as he scrawled on the board. He was convinced that this particular blackboard would defeat any attempt to erase the last half-dozen inscriptions–the more he scrubbed at it the more cloudy it seemed to become. Each successive exercise he wrote on its muzzy surface seemed to merge into a chalky mist that threatened all his written instructions with partial obscurity. It was very irritating. Possibly it was because there was no particular issue at stake with Eric that he felt so uncharitable towards him. Paul knew the particular elements of either rebellion or acquiescence in each boy he dealt with. His technique could then be adapted to suit individual cases. But in Eric’s very vulnerability there was a blockage–a negativeness that aroused no sympathy or affection. Paul suspected that Eric was afraid–was working in the dark–was a child to be pitied because he was bullied. There was an obvious force working on him that alternately terrified and hypnotised him. Yet–he remembered how once, when Eric had first come to the school, he had been disturbed by one particular incident. Beyond the school, set back in a fold of the chalk-streaked down, was a chapel. It was small and disused and had once, in fact, belonged to Exeter Court in its more aristocratic days. It had been sold years ago and was used alternately as a rendezvous for the locals and as some kind of store for the golf club. Its broken stone floor was littered with partially dismembered golf trolleys, broken clubs and several wheel-barrows. Nearer the ground, used contraceptives were strewn amongst grooves that once held the base of the pews. Fifty yards from this desecration was thick scrub, small stunted windblown bushes that leant inland, away from the full blast of the offshore gales. A small copse of equally devastated trees huddled over a dry carpet of twigs and leaf mould. Everything within the protective foliage was covered with a thin layer of dust.

  Walking alone Paul penetrated the arid woodland and stopped some ten yards away for some reason that he could not define. Once again, he had the same strange preconception that preceded some crisis or experience–a sensation of some disquiet–a feeling of almost physical discomfort as if he suddenly, very urgently, wanted to pee; a tightening of the stomach–a tensing of the muscles in his thighs. Then he saw, obscured within the foliage, Eric and another boy–a stocky, fair-haired child called Tim, who was about Eric’s age. They were fighting furiously, rolling amongst the dead bracken and decaying leaves, biting, punching and kicking at each other. Tim was obviously getting the upper hand and finally he sat astride Eric, twisting his arm in a half nelson. Eric, face down in the dirt, struggled ineffectually, and as his arm was being twisted even harder Paul had decided it was time to intervene. He had burst through the dusty bushes, scratching himself in the process, and as he arrived at the side of the combatants he had felt his temper rise. He looked down at a ragged scratch on his hand and controlled himself with difficulty. At his tumultous approach Tim looked up in alarm and jumped to his feet, leaving Eric still spread-eagled on the ground. Paul reprimanded them, told them to go back to the school and change and they ran past him like startled rabbits.

  He walked on and was surprised to register a continued feeling of disquiet. For a while he could not analyse this, and it was only when he had reached the smooth sward of downland that he stopped, filled with a throbbing sense of shock and disbelief. The mental picture was complete and, now in the classroom, he could still remember it vividly. For a brief second Eric had looked up whilst his arm was being twisted so forcefully. Paul had been screened from them but he had been able to see Eric’s expression without being seen himself. The sheer shock of it still remained with Paul–for Eric’s face had been full of an indescribable happiness–and when Paul had separated them, his expression was simply one of disappointment. So obvious were both emotions that Paul’s concern grew every time he thought about it–yet he could not trust himself to tell Storm just in case he was wrong. Superficial events certainly belied his suspicions–or, as Paul sometimes wondered, perhaps they were a confirmation, for Eric, like a little grey mouse, could be persuaded into almost anything. It was quite clear to Paul that Eric went in constant respect of Adrian’s wishes–yet there was no proof, nor any response from Eric himself. Taking it as it seemed–as a clear case of bullying–Paul had approached Eric–had asked him to let him know how he could help him. But there was no response and Paul did not have Storm’s tenacity. After a while he gave up the unprofitable task, and tried instead to be particularly fair to the child. But so far he had only succeeded in being irritated by Eric’s mute suffering, which seemed to sometimes border on the stubborn. On this occasion Paul wearily raised his voice a little and said:

  ‘Well–what have you got then?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘I disagree. You were writing and passing round a note.’

  Silence from Eric, who was looking down at his desk.

  ‘Let’s see it–come on, let’s see it.’ Paul tried to remove the hard edge of irritation in his voice. ‘Eric–will you kindly come up here with the note in your hand.’

  Eric looked beseechingly at Paul, his curly locks and china-blue eyes his only defence weapons. Paul hardened his heart against the considerable force of the appeal.

  ‘Come on, Eric–it’ll be much worse if I come down to you.’

  Still Eric didn’t move. The rest of the class was electrified with interest. Their gazes shifted from Paul to Eric alternately, as if they were watching tennis. The only two who seemed to have little interest were Casey and Adrian. They were both intent on their own thoughts, staring abstractedly at the desk in front of them. Adrian’s mouth was pursed into a soundless whistle and his foot tapped out a rhythm on the floor. Specks of dust floated in a sun shaft in the middle of the room, turning over and over in a whirling descent. The low mutter of the continual presence of the sea drifted in and somewhere on the road a man was shouting. Paul
gazed coolly at Eric and the boy stared helplessly back. It was not until afterwards that he realised whose position he had temporarily adopted and how, even now, he held Eric trapped in a void of sheer terror and anticipation. Adrian meanwhile casually began to tip the contents of one inkwell into the other.

  Suddenly Paul’s coolness evaporated and he lost his temper. In a moment he was beside Eric, shaking him and shouting. As he grasped his shoulder he felt his whole body relax, released from its rigid torpor of speechless inactivity.

  ‘Now what the hell have you got?’

  A piece of paper dropped to the floor and Paul immediately pounced on it. There was a little pulse beating in his forehead and the lines on his features were intensified as he bent down, under Eric’s desk, to retrieve it. As he picked it up, he felt the atmosphere tighten and Eric, in contrast, relax.

  Paul realised he was going to arrive early in the staff-room for the eleven o’clock break. He felt particularly fragile this morning–the events of the previous night coupled with his early rise, and then the scene with Eric, suddenly seemed to drain him of energy. He didn’t relish conversation over tepid coffee nor did he want to face further bickering between Laura, Virginia and any other contenders. However, he knew that Storm liked him to put in an appearance and somehow, despite his antipathy towards them, he would rather share their irritability than be by himself.

  Bugger them all, Paul thought, as he morosely walked up the long, dingy passage. But primarily he was worried about Casey. Paul was surprised to find himself so paternally disposed to an eleven-year-old boy who was introverted to the extreme, unable to communicate anything, unable to reciprocate his feelings–a negative quantity that Paul didn’t understand–a kid that he had loved gradually–and then obsessively.

  Amidst the shattering logic that Paul was bringing to bear he discounted the fact that he had become a homosexual. Apart from superficial gestures of affection, he had no inclination to have any physical contact with Casey at all. Certainly he longed to take him in his arms, to cuddle him, to comfort him–in fact to do all the things that he had done with Stephen. Maybe now he had stopped grieving for Stephen, but he could never erase what he had done, nor prevent his wayward conscience from continually making his life unbearable. As to Meg–throughout this concise analysis she was discounted as she had been from the five years following the accident when he had fallen, very quickly, entirely out of love with her.