‘If you don’t remember then I’ll tell you all about it.’
She was looking at him eagerly, willing him to respond. But he knew that he was not going to give her that pleasure. She continued, her face intense and her lips slowly forming the words.
‘Do you remember that strip of Welsh coastline–the gloomy little village and the railway that ran by the shore? Do you remember–what was it?–the Heron Guest House and old Mrs Maitland? You tried to stop me coming, didn’t you? You said to me, before we went, that I ought to get away from you both because I was tired and stale. You told me to go to Rome with Mother–because if I didn’t Mother would be lonely. But I let her be lonely–which she wasn’t–and came to Tor with you and Stephen. And then Stephen was afraid of the water–that was a terrible blow to you, wasn’t it? And that morning when you were getting so angry with him–and he began to cry and you despised him. Then after you’d forced him into the water again he began to yell for me, didn’t he, Paul? He began to cry for me. Do you remember him running up the beach to where I was sitting, yelling his head off and shouting out, ‘I hate Daddy! I hate Daddy!’ But he was really frightened of you, Paul, and all the rest of that holiday he clung to me when you went anywhere near the sea. So don’t think your love was exclusive, Paul. He was my child too–just as much as yours. You never had quite what you think you had with him, Paul–no liaison that excluded me–no little world of secrets of your own. You were just a very ordinary father making mistakes over your very ordinary son.’
She finished, breathing quickly, her eyes lowered now, and continued in a softer tone:
‘But you did try to exclude me from everything to do with my son–I wasn’t wanted. It was meant to be just you and him, wasn’t it, darling? A little love nest of your own. But it wasn’t, was it? It didn’t work, did it, Paul? It was because Stephen didn’t want it. Stephen didn’t want anything to do with it. He loved me, too, you see, and you didn’t want that, did you? My God, you didn’t want that. And now you’re trying to do the same thing with Casey–and I don’t suppose he wants it either.’
‘Shut up!’ Paul rose, shouting hysterically. ‘Shut up–please–please–shut up!’
But she went on, a little more slowly than before. ‘And what have you done to me amidst your stupid obsessions? What have I felt, completely alone, these last five years? I’ve been lonely.’ She began to shout. ‘I’ve been bloody lonely over that miserable little sod–and then you’ve got the–the terrible cheek to ask me to be his mother. You’re a sod, Paul, a selfish, bloody–selfish–sod.’
But he was by her side in a minute and she rose out of her chair to face him. He was trembling with uncontrollable temper as he took both her shoulders and began to shake her. All the time this happened she was looking straight into his eyes, her lips open a little, and there were two red patches of anger high up on her cheeks. As Paul shook her he shouted:
‘You’re a fucking liar–you know you are–you know it’s not true–Stephen loved me–I was everything he could want.’
‘You weren’t!’ she screamed back. ‘Don’t fool yourself, Paul. Sometimes you frightened him and he hated you–then he came to me–you understand–to me–to me–’
‘He never came anywhere near you, you lying cow. It was him and me–always him and me–’
‘You idiot–you’ll never know it. What you don’t want to know you pretend doesn’t exist, don’t you? Well, I’m sorry, Paul, but you had a very ordinary relationship with your son–and I expect that it’s the same with Casey. The only extraordinary thing is you–and it’s what you think that’s so wrong. I mean it’s only too obvious to see that the love you seem to be looking for exists in your imagination only. It’s you, Paul, no one else, who thinks these things.’
He was still gripping her by the shoulders–hard–and she winced as his fingers dug into her. His face was expressionless, and for a moment she looked into it–perhaps to see if she was really hurting him.
‘But whatever happens between you and Casey–you’ve left me entirely alone. You’ve followed that child around trying every method you could think of to be with him. Storm’s told you about it. It’s embarrassing because it’s obvious–obvious to everyone. They all talk about it behind your back, you idiot. Half of them think you’re queer and the other half are falling over themselves with curiosity. And while you’ve chased him, Paul, you’ve humiliated me completely–but what is worst of all you so obviously care nothing for me at all.’
Meg’s voice rose again and she began to shout. ‘And then you fool me–worst of all you really fool me–and I’m stupid enough to be taken in. You spend two hours telling me how much you want me–and then ask me to do something that shows how you worked it all out beforehand. I really am a fool–to believe anything you said. But I wanted to so much. And you did it for that little sod Casey–you did it for him. You had to convince me how much I was loved so that I could fit in very easily with the requirements of an adoption board. Because I was vital to your plan for Casey, wasn’t I? You’re an incredible bastard, Paul–but so stupid that I almost feel sorry for you. What a mess you’ve made of it all. And you planned it out so perfectly. I’m so terribly disappointed for you, Paul, darling–whatever are you going to do now? You see, without me–you can’t adopt him, can you? They’d never let you without a mother kicking about somewhere. And Paul–I’m not going to help you. I’m going to wreck it for you, darling. I’m going to destroy everything for you–I’m really going to spoil things–’
Paul took one hand off her shoulder, brought it back, and slapped her round the face. Then he did it again, and again. He left the other hand on her shoulder and steadied her as she winced back. Meg made no attempt to wrench herself free but stood there, looking at him, as he hit her. He must have slapped her five or six times before she began to struggle, and as she broke free and turned away he knocked her on to the floor with a blow on the side of the head. She said nothing, but lay on the Axminster, her brown skirt and jumper dull amidst the mellow colours of the carpet. She was face down and didn’t turn to look at him.
Paul felt nothing at all as he stepped over her and walked out of the room.
The tide was miles out and they could hear the lapping of the waves some half a mile away, slapping ineffectually at the hard wet sand. Their shoes crunched startingly loudly over the pebbles and they were relieved when they padded on to the powdery sand. The pier, gaunt and angular, stood out sharply in the night, its trellised girders and appendages brought into sharp relief. They reached the hulk–a low, broken shape settled alarmingly deep in the sand. A pile of boards lay on the sand by its side and these were to be used in the hard job of levering the boat out of its resting place.
Alexander took charge now and gathered the others around him.
‘Look–the first job is to dig her out.’ His voice, in face of uncomplicated practicality, held a new enthusiasm. Once again, he was a man of action; once again, authority was his and he found himself gradually beginning to enjoy it all.
‘You four–take one side–you others, take this where she’s really stuck in. Try and get the boards under her when you’re deep enough and then we can have a go with the rope. Adrian, you go this side. I’ll go the other.’
For a moment Adrian resented this sudden authority and stood uncertainly where he was. Alexander also paused, wondering if he had gone too far. It was a curious scene, broken by Adrian, who immediately went to his deputised side and started to dig. The others began immediately and for the next half hour they dug strenuously to very little avail.
Roger, the stockiest and one of the strongest diggers, paused and wiped the sweat away from his forehead.
‘It’s no good–wherever we dig it keeps filling with water.’
‘It’s bound to,’ Alexander reassured him. ‘Just try and get your spades under the keel and we can shove the boards in.’
They dug on, hot and bad-tempered. Gradually they stripped off their sweaters and ves
ts. As they worked the main irritation was the fact that their feet sank in the soft yielding surface, making their efforts abortive and ridiculous. A bird, perhaps a gull, flapped across their heads, wheeling in curiosity above them, puzzled at their incongruity. Somewhere by the sea line there was a splash that cut through the night and their exertion like a knife. They paused–then carried on furiously. Gradually they managed to slip the planks under the keel until the hulk was resting on a partially firm surface. Then they stood back, their frustration vanishing as they proudly surveyed the results of their efforts.
‘Well, stage one of phase one complete, sir.’ Alexander’s voice was friendly and he grinned across at Adrian in the darkness.
‘Good–well done, everyone.’ Adrian’s voice was equally amicable and he sounded pleased and happy.
‘Al–can you help me get the rope round the front?’ Together they struggled with the heavy, wet rope and as they stood together, their friendliness increased. They looked as if they had been close friends for years.
‘Come on, you lot,’ Adrian said briskly, his fat hands gripping the slippery rope. Alexander towered above him, lithe and athletic. ‘Give us a hand.’ Slowly the rope was dragged over the prow. Conveniently, there remained part of a rusty hook and they were overjoyed to find that the rope slipped neatly through it. Then, strung out in a line in front of it, they began to pull.
‘Right–now take the strain and pull when I say “Heave”.’ They clung to the rope, tensed and waiting. It was rough and salty and the palms of their hands quickly became sore.
‘Now–one–two–three–HEAVE!’ The united effort produced no movement from the boat at all. An inspection showed that the planks were holding in position and they tried again.
‘One–two–three–HEAVE!’ Still no movement, but there was an encouraging sucking sound.
‘She’s coming,’ shouted Alexander hoarsely. ‘Now, really pull this time.’
‘One–two–three–HEAVE!’ And she came with a rush and the rear of the team almost caught the prow on the backs of their legs. They turned to see the boat half in and half out of the hollow, her back quickly filling with water.
‘Right–get those planks in position,’ hissed Alexander, ‘and don’t make so much noise.’
They were all elated now at this success and they raced to the boat, pulling at the planks until they were once again in position.
‘Now.’ They heaved once more and she really came this time, flapping on to the level sand with a dull thud, leaving a gaping hole behind her that quickly filled with water.
A ragged cheer went up that was quickly hushed by Adrian.
‘We’ve still got a long way to go–let’s have a quick rest and then drag her over to the cave.’
They sat down on the sand, breathing heavily, tired and suddenly cold. The smell of the sea was mingled with the heavy scent of a pile of rotting seaweed on the edge of the pebbles. It filled Adrian with a slight nausea and he got up quickly.
‘Come on–let’s get on, shall we?’
They rose unwillingly–some went to the rear of the boat and pushed whilst the others pulled on the slippery rope. Gradually they pulled it towards the cliffs, a slow, jerky process, exhausting and frustrating. Slowly they reached the dark shadows of the shallow caves that ran into the crumbling chalk. As they worked the tide began to creep over the sand, with a gentle, yet relentless force. When they reached the mouth of the cave they turned to watch the moonlight pick out the silver sheen of the encroaching sea, as it surreptitiously flooded the sand and obscured the rocky pools with a wraith of dark iridescence.
Laura Strang strode into the gymnasium locker room at ten the next morning wearing a pair of very brief shorts and the top half of a track suit. Her legs were thick and muscular and her flesh had a chilly, blue look. Awaiting her were the thirty-odd boys who comprised the entire complement of pupils at Exeter Court. It was a grey morning and there was a sea mist that had blown up overnight. The atmosphere was clammy and slightly oppressive. Laura, however, was on top of the world and was looking forward to an athletic half hour.
Laura’s continual disadvantage was that she had no sense of humour. Literally–she had no capacity to laugh at situations or herself. She had a certain appreciation of this drawback but could do little to remedy it. Meanwhile, her virulent enthusiasm and naive appreciation of life succeeded in making up for this defect to herself–and irritating others. Her boundless energy, her innate clumsiness, and her habit of overheartily dropping colossal bricks ran her into continual trouble. Yet she survived these rigours, believing that her own healthy body was a great compensation for the absence of satisfactory personal relationships.
They were not pleased to see her. Gym was a compulsory every-day torture. Storm’s do as you please systems did not make up for this morning misery at the hands of Laura Strang. Her inability to take reasonable precautions had already resulted in two broken arms over the last year and Storm had been seriously thinking of replacing her. Yet her enthusiasm warmed her to him, at least, whatever the rest of the staff thought of her.
Casey, in particular, hated this period. He was not in the least athletic and was frightened of the bars and the horse. He clung to the parallel bars and there had been a time when he had managed to reach the top and had been too frightened to come down. He had clung there until he had been guided down by a furious Laura, who told him he should have had more courage. Ten of the boys in the locker room looked tired and strained and Adrian yawned widely as she entered. Laura frowned and briskly admonished him.
‘Come on–let’s all get in the gym–soon stir up SOMEONE’S liver!’
She turned and strode through the door, whilst Adrian flashed a V sign at her broad, retreating back. She heard stifled giggles behind her and turned sharply.
‘I want you to form two lines. Simon and David–get two medicine balls–now let’s get warmed up.’ She swung herself on to a beam, and Adrian imitated her ape-like movements, scratching at his armpits and assuming a realistically repulsive expression. From her eyrie she surveyed the unwilling gymnasts but failed to notice Adrian hurl a medicine ball hard at Casey, who caught it full on the chest. He whimpered but she was looking at Alexander. Paul, disconsolately passing outside, had a full view of her large behind as it overlapped and fell either side of the cross beam.
As he had done two weeks previously, Paul wandered over to the beach, but this time he walked towards the pier. He was stiff and uncomfortable, having spent the night on the sofa. He had not seen Meg and had wandered out, breakfastless and miserable, to contemplate bleakly the failure of the previous evening. He decided to go on the pier–climbing over the locked turnstile was no difficulty and in a moment he was standing on the damp boards, lighting a cigarette and listening to the full mutter of the water beneath him.
Seahaven pier was a typical example of early, certainly grotesque Victoriana. It had opened for the season six weeks before and already the much needed new paint had been blistered and corroded by the spray and salt. At the furthest end of the pier was a large pavilion whose days of pierrot spangled glory had long since passed. In fact, the days of Seahaven’s wealth and grandeur as a fashionable turn-of-century spa had evaporated and the pier was now a huge white elephant, devoid of its former glamour–a rusting hulk that was no longer useful. There had been a lot of discussion concerning its demolition but so far no action had been taken. So it was left–sad and rusty–to the attention of the sea and wind.
The town itself, some way from the pier, was a haphazard collection of second-rate hotels whose stucco fronts were peeling and whose walls were streaked with the livid rust that ran from the window frames. There was no theatre now and only one cinema left, the other having been converted into a gigantic, garish supermarket.
A chain of light industry, messy and indescribably straggling, had crept out from the cluttered precincts of Portmanston, the neighbouring town, which was entirely dominated by a huge power station set on an ar
tificial island about fifteen yards from the shore. Gradually it seemed that the sprawl of Portmanston was slowly taking over Seahaven and soon the two would be one–an unidentifiable jumble of low, grubby buildings, sheds and railway trucks. The authorities had tried to grab desperately at the fading promise of the season, and rather than preserving the town’s former gentility had vulgarised its appearance to attract a different type of visitor. Winkle stalls appeared on the site of the former floral walk, and the discreetly strung fairy lights became a confusion of richly illuminated advertising slogans interposed with neon signs feverishly declaiming the town’s delights.
But the pier, some way from this pocket of intense funmaking, was overlooked. Few of the trippers came up as far as Exeter Court and when they did it was on board a coach. The beach, the pier and the cliffs went unmolested, although the narrow strip of beach that ran down from the town was jam-packed for three months of the year with screaming children, bad-tempered, handkerchief-capped fathers, nagging, tired mothers and diminutive varicose-veined grandmothers holding their fading summer frocks aloft in the shallows.
Fishermen used the pier, a string quartet played Novello selections in the pavilion, old people slept on the hard seats in the archaic shelters, and the odd child rattled at the broken slot machines. A monument to Victorian and Edwardian frivolity, the pier, laced with the fine tracery of rusting iron scrolls and a patchwork of scaling girders, stood remote and irrelevant to the raucous clamour of the battered town. The pavilion, formerly a sparkling white, was streaked with irregular patches of damp and rust and the tea-room, long disused, echoed past memories of a sustained elegance that was now mirrored only in the dusty, frivolous intricacies of the ornamented legs that sprouted delicately from the marble-topped tables. A notice had been crudely painted across the door ‘CLOSED FOR REDECORATION’. But the wording had been daubed over five years ago now and it was unlikely the repairs would ever be made.
The Seahorse Page 13
