The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  Casey was an enigma to him–surrounded by a cocoon of fantasy that he had evoked from his own mind–a solid block of unconscious resistance that countered everything. The incredible figment of his imagination that was the Seahorse seemed to represent an impossible barrier that was too powerful to be penetrated. That a child of eleven should believe so strongly in the product of his own overwrought imagination continued to disturb Paul a little more than he considered it should. He was sorry, too, about the diabetes but it certainly seemed more acceptable than the Seahorse–at least it was something that could be artificially controlled–and by Casey himself. After all, surely the Seahorse was merely a dream–a private world right out in the open where it shouldn’t be and claiming an importance that it shouldn’t have. An absurd fairytale character whose only relevancy was repetition–whose only claim to influence was obsession. How to get rid of it? How to destroy it? Perhaps to replace its empty symbolism with a concrete affirmation of–what? His love? His interest? His dependability? Once he could clear the clutter–remove this dream–he could penetrate. But he would have to replace–and he didn’t know how to begin. All very well to be up against something definitive like a disease, but to be in competition with such an incredible fantasy was ridiculous.

  Paul opened the staff-room door unwillingly and to his relief found that he was the first arrival. The room looked even shabbier with the sun that was now streaming through the window and there were still dirty coffee cups there from the night before. He sat down and lit a cigarette, waiting gloomily for the others to appear. Lancing was the first to arrive–he looked vaguely distraught and his bow tie was askew. There was an egg stain on his waistcoat which was very out of character. He nodded irritably to Paul, accepted the proferred cigarette and went to the window, puffing furiously, hand in pocket, and even his fat behind looked rather dismal as it bulged from under his green check sports coat. Paul noticed two boils, discoloured and angry, on the back of Lancing’s neck, making a strange contrast to the folds of pink, scrubbed flesh around them. After staring out of the window for a few minutes he drew out a crumpled copy of the Telegraph and sat heavily in a springless armchair, his worried pug features hidden behind the grey pages. Every now and then he gave a little grunt, as if each news item filled him either with disgust or dismay. Five minutes passed during which Paul smoked and Lancing grunted. Then abruptly Laura and Virginia came in with Angus Clarke in the rear. Laura seemed to have forgotten her outburst of the previous night and was talking happily and animatedly to a somewhat impassive Virginia. Angus Clarke had a copy of the Guardian tucked under his arm which he opened, as he threw himself into an armchair opposite Lancing. He was immediately immersed and read the columns with a slight frown. With his polo neck sweater, hairy sports coat and creaseless grey flannel trousers, he was the portrait, Paul reflected irritably, of the intense young intellectual. Serious weeklies and Sunday reviews bulged from the capacious pockets of his jacket, his polo neck sweaters were, rather like Lancing’s waistcoats, a marked splash of tempered individuality, and his conversation, laced with left-wing politics, French films, and quotations from the New Statesman, alternately bored and irritated Paul, who had so little in common with him that any form of conversation, barring trivia, was impossible.

  Lancing normally hummed ‘New Every Morning is the Love’ in the staff-room every day at this particular time–a practice that had worn on Paul’s nerves ever since he had joined the staff. The sinking feeling that the humming had been going on for the last twenty years and would continue indefinitely was normally a depressing thought. But this morning, gloriously, he had not yet begun the dirge. To his surprise, Paul realised that the others were becoming restless because of its absence and he soon found himself masochistically awaiting its return as if it would immediately restore the secure, familiar, stale contentment of the staff-room. Even Angus Clarke’s Guardian rustled uncomfortably, as if he too was slightly ill at ease. His eyes darted over the print but he seemed quite unable to immerse himself in the leader.

  Paul was aware of the increasing, inexplicable uneasiness which was gathering a presence of its own around them and he immediately felt an urge to voice his disquiet–but Laura beat him to it as she poured out tepid coffee from a shiny urn that Storm had bought very much second-hand.

  ‘Well, everyone’s very quiet this morning–’ She tailed off as she bent over the coffee pot. A blush spread across her face and gradually died, leaving high spots of colour in her cheeks. There was no response and there was an embarrassing pause during which Virginia drummed her fingers on the centre table–they were long and too thin with clumsy knuckles and the tips were discoloured by nicotine. Paul wished that he too had a protective newspaper held firmly before his eyes. As it was he felt compelled to answer and said the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘I’ve had a bloody terrible morning–I nearly wrung Eric Temple’s neck in second period.’

  ‘Really?’ said Virginia. ‘He’s such a little mouse–I never have any trouble from him. I almost wish in a way I did. You see, if only–’

  ‘He’s stubborn,’ pronounced Paul, neatly forestalling a long dissertation, ‘damn stubborn. And what’s more–and what’s worse is that he’s stupid with it.’

  ‘I think that’s a bit hard. After all, the child has–’

  ‘Yes, maybe it is a bit–maybe it’s the way I feel today, anyway.’

  ‘What was he up to?’

  ‘Nothing very terrible. Just passing some damn note round–I haven’t read it yet.’

  There was a rapid interruption from Lancing. His voice had an irritable edge and he snapped at the words.

  ‘Note?’

  ‘Mmn–’

  ‘Note?’

  ‘Yes–a note–a slip of paper with some kind of message–’ Paul’s voice was taking on a slightly nettled tone.

  Angus Clarke lowered his Guardian and said forcibly:

  ‘It’s a ruddy plague then–I’ve spent half the morning tearing the bloody things up.’

  ‘Notes!’ said Lancing to Paul. ‘If you’ve just had one, consider yourself lucky. 3B were out of control–out of control completely with them. Everyone seemed to have one, or be passing one on.’ With difficulty Paul kept a straight face at Lancing’s onslaught, desperately trying not to catch Virginia’s eye.

  ‘What’s it all about then?’ he asked innocuously.

  In answer Angus Clarke scrabbled in his pocket and produced, amongst a strange assortment of bits and pieces, some screwed up paper. He gave a scrap of it to Paul, who slowly unscrewed it. It read:

  THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT

  Arnold Slater

  IS A FULLY ACCREDITED MEMBER

  OF THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF

  ‘THE EXETER COURT HERALD’

  Staff Rules

  No Member of the Staff will divulge

  (a) Where our offices are

  (b) When our meetings are

  (c) Where they are held

  Signed: Alexander Stratton (Chief Editor)

  Adrian Fellowes (Asst. Editor)

  P.S. If they do they will be bashed up.

  ‘Seems pretty harmless to me–let’s see if Eric’s note ties up–’ He fished it out–good–exactly the same. There was a pause. ‘It’s rather like a secret society, isn’t it? Sounds most sinister. Maybe–what is it–the Exeter Court Herald’s afraid of repercussions.’

  ‘Children adore clannishness. Sects of any kind are followed slavishly–they love it.’ Virginia was looking at Laura, almost challenging her to disagree, but she said nothing.

  ‘Do we show them to Storm or not?’ Lancing seemed to be asking a rhetorical question, but Virginia answered him abruptly, her rough voice booming out at him sharply.

  ‘For God’s sake! If we go to him with everything that we don’t know how to handle he’ll be doing all our jobs for us. There’s nothing we should do about it anyway. If they want to have their club, let them have it. Why should we interfere?’ />
  ‘Free expression, eh? Oh boy, think of all the character moulding that’ll go on–’ Angus Clarke’s none-too-gentle cynicism suddenly irritated Paul.

  ‘That’s the point–that’s the whole point–except that you don’t mean it. The school’s designed on this level. Surely this is just what we should be believing in? If they have got any imagination, let them use it. Let them help us. Why not? It makes our job easier. They’re all here for one reason–they just don’t happen to fit in anywhere else. Good God, at least one in three have been to umpteen different schools before they came here. They’ve had no time to make friends, to settle down, to do anything constructive at all. It’s our job to do this for them. It’s what we’ve all been trying to do for God knows how long. They get enough freedom to do things just like this–’

  He knew he had their attention, but he had also surprised them. They were looking at him, listening but puzzled. Was he really such a permanent negative–was he really so unenthusiastic? Now he was battering them with a sudden declamatory enthusiasm that almost shocked them.

  ‘I don’t reckon we’ll be doing our job properly if we interfere in the slightest way over this. They were all on the beach this morning, probably forming this club or whatever it is. Now the organisation continues.’ He started to stutter slightly and hastily began to speak more slowly. ‘Alexander seems to have a lot to do with it, and he’s the most reliable clear-headed boy we’ve got here. Leave it to them–if we leave them alone the results could be very interesting. If we interfere we’ll ruin any incentive to individuality that there may be. Let them lead or follow or make decisions about this on their own. We don’t know anything about it–let’s leave it this way. Let’s stay in the dark and leave them alone.’

  Directly he had finished Paul felt almost embarrassed and wished that he could find an excuse to go away.

  ‘Oh, bully for you–old man.’ Angus was furious. ‘Who the hell are you to tell me my bloody job–?’

  ‘Angus, please.’ Laura intervened gracefully, her voice prim and sanctimonious. ‘Personally, I think Paul’s right.’

  ‘I’m not disputing whether Paul’s right or wrong–it’s his attitude that I object to. I don’t like being credited with no imagination at all, and I’m fed up with the way everything’s being run here. There’s a bloody dictatorial set up here, and I’m sick of being told what to do. It’s bloody cock-eyed–we treat these kids like so many little precious so-and-so’s, wet nursing as we go along. Too much bloody arse-wiping round here–’

  Virginia interposed with majestic outrage. ‘As I said last night, I am getting rather tired of one attitude here anyway–and that’s the apparent complete failure to treat any woman here with respect. I’m rather concerned about the filthy language in this room that perpetually comes out every damn day.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody pompous,’ Angus shrieked.

  ‘Oh–it’s not worth trying to be reasonable–’ She swept out of the staff-room crashing the door behind her, with the beginning of Angus’s next remark ringing caustically in her ears.

  ‘Blimey–temperamental women we’ve got here!’

  ‘Oh, I do think you’re a pig–’ Laura sounded tearful.

  ‘Oh, I’m a pig now, am I?’

  ‘Don’t be childish!’ snapped Paul.

  ‘Why don’t you shut up?’ Angus had really lost his temper now. ‘Why are you so suddenly involved? You sit on your fanny doing damn all, then turn round and accuse everyone else of being bloody small-minded. We work our guts out in this dump–and whatever results we do get–and bloody hell they’re pretty small–come out of damn hard work. I believe in results. Let’s face it–half these kids are bloody lazy. All this crap about them not fitting in and finding a place here is a load of bullshit.’

  ‘Angus–please–remember Laura’s with us–your language!’ Lancing was almost hopping about on one foot in his attempt to keep the peace. His face was flushed and his bow tie was at an even more extraordinary angle. ‘Now, come on–we can’t have all these perpetual rows–they’re no good for us or the school. I’m sure Storm wouldn’t–’

  ‘Wouldn’t know anything about it, mate. He thinks we’re all buddies.’

  ‘I think I’m going to go mad in a moment,’ said Laura.

  ‘Oh, spare us that, dear–we can’t cope with everything at once. Keep it back for a bit till we’ve had this one out.’

  ‘Look,’ said Paul, mildly, ‘I had absolutely no intention of accusing anyone of anything. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Angus–it’s quite unintentional.’

  ‘I’m not offended–I’m bloody insulted–’

  Laura gave a wild giggle.

  ‘Oh, for–’

  ‘I don’t like being told what to do by someone who doesn’t pull his weight anyway.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you don’t pull your weight. You sit around criticising everyone else.’

  ‘It’s not criticism!’

  ‘Well, what the hell is it, then?’

  ‘I was just trying to be constructive.’

  ‘Look, leave it to me to be constructive. I know what I’ve got to do and if you don’t like it you can bloody well lump it.’

  ‘So you, personally, are not open to any criticism at all?’

  ‘Not from you.’

  ‘I see. May I remind you that if Storm’s not around you take orders from me?’

  ‘No I fucking don’t.’

  ‘Angus, please,’ Lancing pleaded.

  ‘Look Angus, I’ve had enough from you for one morning. I think you’re abusive and–’ Laura was positively flouncing as she blazed at him.

  ‘Oh, dear–I do hope I haven’t wounded your feelings.’

  ‘You bloody pig.’

  ‘You bloody pig.’ Angus unmercifully imitated Laura’s tones. Then he turned again to Paul. ‘I said that half the kids here are lazy and I mean it. They know when they’re on to a good thing–All this bloody child psychology being thrown about–How we must give them plenty of free periods so they can have lots of jolly free expression. And we mustn’t shout at them–and definitely not beat them because if we do they’ll all have lots of repressions–at least if they’ve got room for any more. So we must try and discreetly din what we can into their thick little heads, so they can all bugger off and join their secret societies where they can have lots more free expression and free this and free that. Now the other half we’ve got are what we might call reasonably intelligent. They at least have a chance of getting the Common Entrance, which is, after all, what we’re all trying to achieve. Unfortunately, they’re treated with the same kind of sacred respect for their wounded little feelings.’

  ‘You’re talking a lot of twaddle, you know, Angus.’ Paul, too, was on the verge of loss of temper. But he didn’t want to do this–when he lost control his voice was apt to become very high and he would stutter and stammer just at the time when he particularly wanted to score. It was much better to remain cool.

  Angus ignored the remark and bulldozed on, his face puce and his hands clenched at his sides.

  ‘These are the kids that do have a chance–and by God I’m going to give them that chance–and they’ll have to work bloody hard to get it.’

  ‘No one suggested that they shouldn’t work hard, but we’re trying to give them even more than that. Whatever you say, each boy here is at this school for a reason. With some there’s a big reason–you know damn well there is–that’s why they’re here. Something happened–or something was in their own selves to prevent them being happy in an ordinary set up. We’ve got three perpetual bed wetters–we’ve got a few boys whose feelings ran away with them–’

  ‘Queers, you mean.’

  ‘Queers if you like, you–you insensitive bastard–Anyway, whatever happened, happened so repeatedly that they could not stay at any damn school they went to. We’ve got three diabetics–they couldn’t fit in, if you like, either. There are kids who were bulli
ed, kids who were terrified of this or that in normal school life, kids who couldn’t make the grade for dozens of reasons–they’re here in this school and it’s up to us to help them. You know bloody well you’re talking a lot of cock.’

  ‘Yes, and there are still kids who know damn well when they’re sitting pretty.’

  ‘Then it’s pointless having this conversation.’

  ‘Oh yes, we have very different points of view, I’m afraid, old man–but, as I say, I object to you, you of all people, preaching to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re no shining example of general benevolence, are you?’

  ‘Look Angus, old chap–let’s bash this out another time when we’ve all cooled off, eh?’ Lancing was hearty but desperate. ‘The bell will be going in a sec.’

  Angus ignored him and Paul looked at him curiously, holding his angry eyes for a moment. Vaguely, he felt once again a premonition of worse to come.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Angus?’ Paul asked meekly.

  ‘I mean that I object to being told what to do by someone who doesn’t do enough himself.’

  ‘You’re an impertinent sod, aren’t you?’

  ‘Look, chum, whilst you’re larking about with that kid Casey–there are others who you could be paying a little more attention to, don’t you think? If you’re so impassioned, why not spread it a little? Why reserve it for one?’

  There was an electric silence. No one said anything for some minutes. The sun was full on the room and Paul noticed the threadbare carpet spotlighted by the sunbeams. He wondered what on earth he should do next. Lancing stood quivering, the little rolls of fat on his face and neck moving as he shook his podgy head to and fro. Laura was standing quite still, looking out of the window towards the sea.