She looked at him–her eyes meeting his and latching on to whatever might be in them. He tried to make them kind, but he was frightened his calculations might be apparent.
‘We’ve still loved each other–even if it’s been so–badly shown–’
‘Do you really love me, Paul?’
Once again everything in her appealed, and he wanted to shout back at her, No, I don’t, you silly bitch. I can’t even tell you if I really ever did. But I did love something that you produced, and if I ever loved you at all it would be for him. And now he’s dead I hate the bloody guts of you–and nothing I can do will ever make me love you now. Instead he said:
‘Yes, Meg, I love you–more than you will ever realise.’
And he took her hands across the table and kissed the tips of her fingers. A stylish performance, he thought, as he leant back and watched her happiness.
Alexander was playing table tennis with Adrian in the workshop which was part of the stables that adjoined the main building. The room was long, low and badly lit. Along the wall was a work-bench with an array of expensive tools that Storm had bought in the hopes that he could establish a new enthusiasm for craftsmanship. So far there had been no interest from the boys, but Lancing had produced an irregularly shaped pipe rack and strangely Leo and Martin had made between them a go-kart. Quite what motives they had had were difficult to define, but their enthusiasm had been dampened by Virginia’s insistence on seeing them together astride it, heading for Portmanston, the next town along the coast. Her remark had sparked off a chain of jokes that had wearied the builders and the project was abandoned. The room was painted a dull green and cream and looked like a railway waiting-room. A collection of broken toys, furniture and old bicycles were in a heap at one end of the room, whilst an old German rocking horse sadly brooded at the other. Angus Clarke had painted ‘This was the beginning of Dadaism’ in whitewash over its painted flanks, and the remaining strands of hair and bridle hung limply at the sides of the fading intricacies of its painted head. A light rain was falling outside and the door was open, letting in the damp warmth of the soft June evening. With it came the rank smell of the sea-breeze that occasionally sent the old rocking horse’s head nodding solemnly, like a tired clown.
Eric, sitting in an old-fashioned cane chair, scored inaccurately and Adrian, breathless, played badly. Alexander, stifling a yawn, smashed the ball down the table, missing an easy victory.
‘Shall we stop now?’ he yawned. ‘I’m getting tired.’
Adrian laid down his bat thankfully. They spent a large proportion of time in each other’s company now and a relationship had grown up of mutual distrust and gathering dislike. It was a wonderful sensation to Adrian to have the older boy so much in his power. He would watch him, delighting in the hold he had over him. His plan, muzzy in its intent, was working to perfection. Adrian was quite convinced that very few of the boys believed in Alexander’s oration on the beach, yet he knew that they would join in for the sheer fun of it. He looked forward to the day when the idea would be complete and the ceremony would take place. Naturally, it would be vital to make sure that Paul and Casey were in the vicinity–certainly in hearing distance–when the ceremony took place. He was startled by the keenness of his mind as he ran over the plan, detail by detail. It did not occur to him that it would fail and his commonsense told him that it was feasible. His imagination evoked Casey’s despair at the attack on his myth and he pictured the lances, probably sharp staves, being driven into the water at low tide, digging into the soft sand at the bottom and spearing Casey’s illusion to a bloody death. A sudden reality of real bloodletting pervaded him, and he thought of the lances sinking deep into the wells of the eyes of the Seahorse. He had various ideas as to how the reality could be heightened, and he had invested in a tin of crimson house paint whose gradual spread over the surface of the water would considerably add to a realistic massacre. But there were many things to do first–and priority had to be given to the repair of the hulk on the sands. He had inspected it with Alexander one morning and they had reached the conclusion that repairs would have to be fairly extensive. Most of the boards had rotted and would have to be replaced, whilst the only really salvageable item was the centre board that seemed whole and reliable. The rowlocks were still intact and he knew that there were sets of spare oars at the back of the gymnasium.
Between them, he and Alexander, watched by Eric, had drawn up a battle plan. The first on the list was the removal of the boat to a shallow cave, just above water level. It would be comparatively easy as there were no rocks in the way and the stretch of beach between the entrance and the boat was on one level, with a steep rise at the mouth of the cave. This was the basic plan concerning the transportation of the hulk, but it was obvious that it was vital to effect the journey at night. If they were seen, the repercussions would ruin the entire project, for Storm would never condone the launching of the boat under any conditions. The move was to take place tonight and Alexander had already recruited a gang of the strongest eight boys available. First of all the boat would be dug out of its resting place and then hauled up to the cave. It was a good plan and Adrian was proud of Phase One. He put away his table tennis bat and kicked out at Eric. He fell to the ground with a loud squawk and picked himself up quickly, ruefully rubbing the arm he had fallen on.
‘Leave him alone,’ said Alexander.
Adrian smiled and gave Eric a parting kick to the behind as he left the room. Life was good.
They had been silent for five minutes, Meg staring happily at him, her face suffused with a consistent radiancy that alternately pleased and horrified him. Breaking the uncomfortable reverie, Paul rose and opened the cupboard. He produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them triumphantly in the centre of the table.
‘Celebration?’ Her eyes sparkled–happy, contented eyes that throttled him.
‘Yes–to being together again.’ He poured out a little whisky for her and added water. His own glass he filled generously and raised it.
‘Here’s to us then.’
‘Here’s to us,’ she repeated and fumbled in her handbag for cigarettes. ‘Let’s have a good booze-up.’ She giggled and shakily offered him her cigarette case.
‘God–I’m happy.’
‘So am I.’ Paul drank his Scotch neat, his mouth stale and dry.
‘Then what about it?’
‘Mmmm?’ She was looking into the bottom of her glass, and her feet locked around his underneath the table. ‘I love you so much.’
‘I love you–so much more than I can say.’
There was silence again and Paul wondered how long it would be before he began to scream–to defend himself against the inert claustrophobia of her love as it hammered relentlessly away at him. He ground out the cigarette and smiled reassuringly.
‘Sorry–I can’t stand filter–’
Immediately she was apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry, darling. I ought to have remembered. Why didn’t you smoke one of your own.’
Suddenly he could stand it no longer.
‘Meg, we must talk about this adoption business.’
‘Must we? Can’t we talk about it later? Let’s just be together.’
‘We are–and we can be closer tonight. Will you let me make love to you?’
‘If you want to.’
‘Yes–I want you so much–you’ve got a good body–I want to run my hands all over it and remember how I’ve missed it. I want to feel you again–I really have missed you.’
‘Maybe you won’t believe me, but I’ve needed you desperately.’
For Christ’s sake, get to the point, he was thinking. If I’ve got to make love to you then at least let’s make it worthwhile.
‘Look, Meg–’ he answered placatingly. A sudden sense of shock assailed him–he was bewildered by his own calculated brutality. A kind of numbing pity for her gripped him as she conceded eagerly.
‘I’m sorry, darling. Of course we’ll talk about it–I�
�d love to have a baby again. How difficult is it to adopt? Aren’t there loads of formalities?’
‘I was thinking of something a little different.’ Oh Lord, how clumsy that sounded–bugger her for assuming the obvious. His anger returned and he began to despise her again. She was just in the way–that was all. She was just in the way of something he wanted–yet at the same time he was still appalled, in a detached sense, at his callousness.
‘What do you mean?’ She was wide-eyed with puzzled surprise.
‘I was thinking of adopting an older child–’
‘Good God–’
‘Why do you say that?’ His voice sounded almost panicky.
‘Well–adopting a baby’s one thing–but it would be terribly difficult with–I mean–there’d be no background to it–’
‘There’s enough background.’ He was shivering all over. I must say it, he thought, I must get it out. He lit a cigarette–his hand shook as Meg’s had earlier. Oh Christ, how shall I get this out? Methods raced through his head as she said:
‘But we couldn’t supply–any form of–’
‘Yes we could, because it’s there already.’
‘I know we’ve had one child–but this would be so remote–a complete stranger–we wouldn’t understand–’
‘It’s not a stranger–he’s not a stranger.’ Paul realised he was shouting and made a futile attempt to relax.
‘What do you mean–not a stranger?’
‘Not–not a stranger–’ Come on, come on, get it out, you idiot–get it out, he reasoned savagely.
‘I just don’t see what you–’ Her bewilderment for a split second remained and then she looked merely incredulous. ‘You surely don’t mean–you can’t want to–’
‘I want to adopt Casey–you see–it’s Casey I want to adopt.’
He had half risen in his agitation but quickly sat down again, pouring out more whisky. He burnt his fingers on the cigarette and it dropped on to the tablecloth, burning a hole in it. Ineffectually he stabbed at it. God, she was not looking but was staring at him, her eyes wide again, helpless amidst the bombshell of growing realisation. Paul salvaged the cigarette and smiled as reassuringly as he could.
‘I thought it would be rather a nice idea,’ he said. Calm now–a placidity suffusing his taut nerves. Relief flooded him. He sat back in his chair, the glass in his hand, and said challengingly:
‘Well?’
Adrian put a podgy hand over Alexander’s mouth and shook him awake. Other boys, who had not slept, formed a silent group at the foot of their leader’s bed. With a stifled groan, Alexander crawled out of the glorious and temporary release of sleep and got out of bed. Underneath their pyjamas they wore jeans and hurriedly they pulled on sweaters and shoes.
‘You must remember, however tired you are, to brush your shoes and jeans afterwards–the sand and mud will give us away if you don’t.’ Adrian hissed into the darkness at them and the shapes nodded assent.
‘Come on, then–and don’t make any noise.’
Slowly they crept on to the landing. Alexander opened the big bay window and they each crept on to the seat below it, easing their way through the window and out on to the broad roof of the ornamented porch. From there they dropped down on to the top of a ramshackle bicycle shed and then to the ground. Anxious as they were to make no sound it was Alexander who put his foot through the rotten timbering of the roof. There was a splintering, rending sound and they stiffened. Adrian closed his eyes, waiting for the sudden opening of a door and a raised voice. Nothing happened, and they relaxed. ‘Sorry,’ whispered the offender and they continued their descent. Finally they were all standing on the drive, their shadows huddled in the lee of the house. The other boys were excited, particularly to be caught up in the beginning of this adventure with Alexander as leader. They badly wanted not to let him down and his clumsiness on the bicycle shed gave them confidence. A tangible thrill caught at them and they shivered as a skittish wind came from the sea. Each was anxious to prove his worth–each was anxious that Alexander should notice his initiative.
The lights at the front of the house were all out except for those of Paul’s flat and as they looked up they saw him silhouetted behind the curtains. The window was half open and they could hear the low murmur of conversation. Suddenly one of the voices rose and said quite distinctly:
‘I’m not going to let you. You’re a bastard–’
Adrian raised his finger to his lips and winked in the darkness at Alexander. However much he would have liked to stay and listen there was too much on hand at the moment to indulge himself.
‘Come on!’ He moved them on and, shoes in hand, they crept down the drive, keeping close to the dusty laurel. They could see spiders’ webs strung precariously amongst the limbs of the hedge, glistening in the white moonlight, and there were mysterious rustles from the hedge as if a whole community of unidentified insects was at war. Suddenly a lanky boy with stick-like limbs, who was at the front of the line, stopped and bent over something. He raised his hand and quickly they gathered around the object of his scrutiny.
‘There’s something inside,’ he said, his voice trembling with excitement. Adrian produced a torch and shading it with one hand switched it on. The pale beam showed a large white pail and when he flashed the light inside he choked back a cry of disgust.
The bottom of the pail was a seething mass of insect life, clambering over one another in a vain attempt to scale the smooth, slippery sides of their prison. There were literally dozens of spiders; a mass of legs and hard black bodies that writhed over one another in their frantic attempts to escape. As the larger insects tried to clamber up the impossibly steep walls, they fell back, a frenzy of flailing limbs, into the scurrying nest of activity beneath. It was revolting to see their futile attempts and his skin crawled with the sheer proximity of this matted confusion. For a moment they stood staring into it.
‘Who on earth collected all these?’ asked Eric inanely.
Adrian snapped into action. ‘It doesn’t matter who. Whoever it is they’re around somewhere–let’s get on quick or we’ll be caught.’
Rapidly he walked to the front of the line and with a last backward glance at the frenzy behind them they moved quickly on. As the last boy passed the bucket he caught his foot on a projection at its base and tumbled it over with the most appalling crash that sent both boys and spiders scurrying into the cloistered night.
After a while she said: ‘You really must be quite mad.’
The anger spilled over and he was sitting forward again, tensed and ready to fight. She was looking at him quite steadily, no longer puzzled or horrified, but merely seeming to state a known fact–a satisfactory answer to what was obviously a brainstorm on his part.
‘I mean it–I want to adopt him–I really want it–’
She said nothing–still staring at him incredulously.
‘I love him enough to want to do it. We love each other–we know what it means to love. Can we not extend it to him as well? Isn’t there room for him?’
There was still no response from her.
‘What’s the matter, darling? Is there something wrong? You know I love you–that’s what matters to you, surely?’
Then she spoke, so harshly that the tone of her voice shocked him.
‘What a bloody idiot I am.’
Now it was his turn to be surprised–or at least to affect it.
‘Darling, I’m sorry if this has been too sudden–perhaps we shouldn’t have talked about it tonight. Let’s go to bed–I want you–I want to make love to you. Don’t let’s sit here any more.’
‘Don’t bother to go through with it, because you haven’t got what you wanted–and don’t for God’s sake ask me what I mean.’
‘You’ve got a filthy tongue, haven’t you?’ Paul said dramatically.
‘Perhaps I have–but you’re not going to have him, Paul–I’m not going to let you. You’re a bastard–you’re a bastard–’
�
�Shut your fucking mouth, you cow.’
‘You said that–you–you–’
‘I said I loved you–I needed you–what more can I say?’
‘Nothing, because you’ve lied to me about–loving me.’ Meg could hardly get the words out and her lips tore at the shape of the abuse she hurled at him, unable to speak coherently. ‘Every damn word you’ve said–it was just to lead up to adopting–him.’
‘But what’s wrong with it–why can’t we do it–?’
Suddenly she was rational and the words tumbled out coolly and quickly.
‘Look, Paul–you must think me a terrible fool. No, perhaps you don’t, because I don’t think you realise quite how you behave. Ever since that boy came to this school you’ve been–obsessed with him. It’s been frightening–and very lonely. For two years you’ve taken away everything from me and given it to him. Why–God knows–why you did it–it was obvious and humiliating. You followed him around like a–dog. You must be absolutely crazy to think that after all you’ve taken from me and given to him, you could then ask me to feel anything for him at all. You’ve made a fool of yourself, Paul–but it’s this evening I mind most of all. You tried to–to convince me of all these precious things. I believed you–for half an hour I really believed you love me. You tried to take Stephen away too, Paul, didn’t you? But Stephen didn’t love you as much as he loved me, did he, Paul? Isn’t this the root of it all, Paul? See how you’ve really fooled yourself–see what a great big delusion the whole thing is. Stephen didn’t respond enough, did he? He wanted me too, didn’t he? And sometimes he wanted me a bit more than you.’
Her voice was taunting now and Paul sat numbed by the force of her anger.
‘You really fooled yourself, didn’t you, darling? It was a little paradise–just you and him, and me in the background somewhere. But that was your fabrication, darling, perhaps just as much as it is now. Do you remember Tor Beach?’
Paul said nothing and her voice remained pitched to a taunting key that she could hardly believe was her own.
The Seahorse Page 12
