But as he passed the front door in the fading afternoon he dropped his books on the ground and, making sure that no one was watching him, he stood on tiptoe and peered through the panes of glass into the hall. The grown-ups were standing about, looking rather puzzled–Storm, Mr. Clarke, Mr. Lancing and Matron–and they were staring at something on the floor. Then they bent down and began to pull something up towards the stairs. First he looked through the blue pane, then the red, and then the yellow and green. They all looked so funny, like a cartoon film, in such jolly colours that he almost began to laugh. He noticed that it was Paul that they were pulling on to the stairs. But he wasn’t very interested in that. He was more interested in the effect of the technicolour panes on their earnest gesticulations. There was Matron, for example, in a very bright orange colour, shrugging her shoulders and bending over her husband. Storm was looking rather sad, and so Casey gazed at him through the blue pane which made him look even sadder. Paul looked a bit ill, so Casey peered in the green pane and sure enough it suited him very well–he looked very funny in a green suit with a very green face–like the gnome who was feeling a bit off colour in a book he ought to have grown out of. After a while, he grew tired of looking at them all, picked up his books and went away.
IMPETUS
June 1964
It was very quiet in the cave. Alexander was alone, working at the boat. None of them had known how to begin, and the boarding was so damp and rotten that it should really be stripped completely away. However, they were not boat-builders and the safest course, they decided, was to patch up where they could. The floor of the cave was covered with a mixture of fine sand and shells and the sides were very smooth chalk. It was shallow but hidden behind a ragged outcrop that sheltered it from both the wind and the general public. Alexander was slowly beginning to enjoy himself. Much as he hated Adrian and the hold he had over him, the spirit of adventure was filling him. But particularly he liked the cave–it really was a find. Adrian seemed to have some pre-knowledge of its whereabouts but he had never managed to discover it before. Now that it was found he felt that it was almost his cave. It had a warm, friendly atmosphere and he wondered if it would be possible to collect some rough furniture and turn it into some kind of camp. He would not broach this idea to Adrian for he guessed that he had only one intention–to prove this mysterious idea of his and then to abandon all interest in the cave completely. Alexander could not guess Adrian’s motives but he knew that they were, in some way, pretty bad. Why he should want to form this obscure gang or society and why he should want to perform this mysterious rite at sea he could not fathom–yet he knew that there must be some very valid reason for it for Adrian only did things that were distinctly worthwhile to him. Meanwhile, the cave afforded a great deal of fun, and although they had been working in it for only a week he had grown to love it for the expectation of privacy it offered. Just a few orange boxes, perhaps, and the ship that he had made last year would look pleasant standing on the rough ledge at the back. There was a pile of tiny shells in one corner of his cave, mainly a pinky-white colour, and these would look fine as decorations–Better still they would have made a necklace for Shirley–she adored the seaside, particularly collecting shells and weed from the rock pools. He wished that she was here to share the cave with him, but she was in Switzerland now, where they had sent her, and he had not seen her since Easter. They had not been allowed to go out together, nor had he even been permitted to be in the same room with her without his parents or another grown-up hovering in the background. With this third party it had been quite impossible to talk about anything they wanted to mention–the vows for instance and the secret part of the garden that, like the cave, had been his. It had been impossible to go to the secret place because they had been found out there–and his parents had taken away the screen of rhododendron and lavender and the hollow was a secret place no longer. So when they had met they talked about school and hockey and football. But he managed to fool them in the end because he had passed her the secret sign–the lashed twigs–underneath the table one lunch hour. She had returned it broken which meant to say that she understood and still believed.
He looked around the cave and felt warm and happy. Somehow–some way she must see this. A noise at the entrance made him start, and quickly, in case it was Adrian, he began to hammer and plane away. But it was Eric, and he stopped.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ said Eric and picked up the other hammer. ‘Where can I hammer?’
‘Oh–well the other side. One of the boards needs taking off and replacing–can you see which one? There’s one cut to shape to put back in its place.’
They worked in silence for a few minutes, then Eric said: ‘I like hammering, don’t you?’
‘Not much,’ said Alexander, looking at him and noticing a bruise on one of his cheeks. ‘How did you get that big bruise?’ he asked, pointing at it.
Eric looked away. ‘Adrian got cross with me.’
‘I’ll get cross with him if he bashes you again.’ Alexander smiled paternally at the younger boy.
‘Oh no, you’d better not–he’d bash me up even more if he knew I’d told on him. Anyway, you mustn’t, because if you do he’ll tell on you.’ Eric went back to his hammering, his head well beneath the level of the boat.
Alexander frowned. ‘How–how did he know what I’d got in my locker? Why did he look there?’
Eric peered up from the rowlocks, his freckled face looking puzzled.
‘Adrian knows lots of things about people,’ he said proudly. ‘They don’t know he knows, but he does. He listens and listens and then he knows.’
Alexander went on with his work, wondering how he had given himself away. He banged in the last nail on one particular board and began to rip off another. It was hard work and he was worried about the boat’s seaworthiness. Still, perhaps if it had lots of coatings of tar it would be all right. His curiosity over Adrian’s knowledge was still aroused however.
‘Eric–’
‘Yes.’ Eric’s voice sounded willing to please. He admired Alexander almost as much as he feared Adrian.
‘Why does Adrian want to do this? I mean why–what does he want to happen?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do, Eric,’ said Alexander as he walked round to the other side of the boat. Eric cringed back but Alexander said, ‘All right, I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t you trust me? I won’t tell Adrian you told me, I promise, on the Bible–how’s that?’
Eric still seemed unsatisfied.
‘Look, if you tell me–I’ll make sure Adrian doesn’t hurt you–I really will.’
But with terrific speed Eric dodged round him and ran out of the cave. Alexander watched him run across the beach and over to the school. He hoped he wasn’t going to tell Adrian that he had just been pumped. Maybe he wouldn’t–Anyway, there was no point in worrying about it. He looked at his watch–almost time for maths. The free period was over. He would have to come back after lunch and finish the particular section he was working on. He would also make sure that Adrian and a few of the others came too–he wasn’t going to do all the work by himself.
Alexander left the cave regretfully and walked across the beach. The tide was out and around the cliffs there were dozens of rock pools, surrounded by silky layers of wet seaweed. The livid green of the weed made a fresh contrast with the milky-white chalk that was too slippery to stand on. Sea anemones and minute crabs seemed to be the inhabitants of the shallower pools, but a sinister movement within a half-submerged petrol drum in a deeper pool indicated larger presences. Alexander walked quickly away–he had had a horror of crabs ever since he had watched under a pier at low tide one of the hideous species turn one of its fellows on its back and feed greedily on its body, using the upturned shell as a plate. Alexander had watched the carnage for a few seconds and then gone away, his skin crawling and his stomach turning over.
He walked on cautiously and then, reaching the
wet sand, began to run, suddenly and ecstatically happy. He felt free and full of the pleasure of his cave, the beach and the sea. As he crossed the road and ran through the gates and up the drive, he slowed down. Passing the dusty laurel hedge he remembered for the first time since the evening, two weeks ago, when they salvaged the boat, the curious pail of scrabbling insect life. He felt puzzled as he neared the school–there seemed to be so many things he didn’t understand.
‘There he was, lying on the stairs, drunk as a lord,’ Angus Clarke slapped his Guardian hard down on the common-room table to emphasise the point.
‘I think it’s disgusting behaviour–especially in the afternoon,’ Laura added the last sentence as an afterthought.
‘Well, after he’d passed out and finally started vomiting all over the carpet I thought–well, it turned me up to be quite honest.’ Angus was obviously revelling in it–he had the confiding air of a professional gossip.
Lancing intervened hesitantly. ‘Er–well, perhaps he was really ill–I think it’s rather unfair to jump to this rather unfortunate conclusion. Plenty of people pass out when they’re feeling ill–I remember one Sunday afternoon in Padstow I came over a little–’
But no one was interested and Angus butted in rudely. ‘Look, old bean–all you had to do was to smell the bloke’s breath–blimey, he reeked of whisky. Anyway, he was shouting his head off at Storm about something or other. Fine how d’ye do with Parents’ Day coming up–sudden thought–perhaps Storm will cancel it. It’s one day of the year I bloody hate.’
There was a murmur of assent. The staff were there in force, having milky coffee and digestive biscuits. Everyone seemed in a friendly mood, and, with Lancing as an exception, were united in their condemnation of both Paul’s behaviour and Parents’ Day.
‘There’s no chance of a cancellation,’ said Leo gloomily. ‘Lettie’s sent the invitations out–I posted them for her.’ His spinsterish little head nodded sadly at the recollection.
‘You ought to have bloody lost them, mate,’ said Angus, turning as Lettie and Virginia came into the room. They were both wearing tweed suits; Lettie her usual roughish brown and Virginia a kind of rust colour. They both looked rather similar, with their iron-grey hair and sensible shoes. Vicars’ wives or probation officers.
‘Well, I suppose you’ve drunk the last of the coffee,’ boomed Virginia.
‘No, no.’ Lancing hastily fiddled with the pot. ‘I’m sure there’s a drop left.’ He shook it abstractedly–he always seemed to end up in a position of some responsibility regarding empty tea and coffee pots.
‘No chance of Parents’ Day being canned, is there, Let?’
‘No,’ said Lettie, surprised, blinking at him a little. ‘Why on earth should it be?’
‘Well–in view of certain events–you know.’
‘Oh,’ said Virginia drily, ‘you’ve all been talking about that, have you? Got a real gossip session going over the coffee cups, have you?’
Everyone shifted uncomfortably–she was so right! They began immediately to talk of other things with unconvincingly intense interest. All except Angus, who grinned cheerfully at Virginia.
‘Well, I suppose poor old Paul’s all washed up. Have you seen him today?’
Virginia glanced brusquely at him before she turned away. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve neither seen him nor do I understand the gist of your conversation.’
‘Good day,’ said Angus in sprightly tones as she turned her back on him. He stirred his tepid coffee thoughtfully–and nearly dropped it when Paul quietly came in.
It was an effective entrance; conversation stopped abruptly for a matter of seconds and was then resumed too quickly to be spontaneous.
‘Any more coffee left?’ he asked.
About three people said no but we can make some more, and the resulting confusion led to Lancing dropping the empty pot on the floor and Laura trying to stifle a mild attack of giggling. It was all very embarrassing.
Virginia turned to Paul and favoured him with a large wink and a hissed, ‘Hello.’ But obviously he was here for a reason and he cleared his throat loudly two or three times preparatory to addressing them. Gradually the conversation died away and they stared curiously at him. He began nervously.
‘I just thought I would just say a few words to everyone while I can–catch you all at once. It’s only just to say that–er–Meg and I will be moving on at the end of this term and–er–I thought I’d just let you all know myself before–well–it’s made official.’
There was a murmur of slightly too obvious distress and then an expectant hush as Paul was obviously going to continue.
‘I’ve had rather a good offer from a school in Birmingham. It’s rather a different kind of teaching post, but it will be very good experience and I shall be nearer my own family again. I can’t really go into great detail on the job because–it’s not–er–specifically finalised yet–but I shall be definitely leaving at the end of this term. An added factor of course is that my health has been none too good here lately, and I’ve been advised to take a slightly lighter job–I needn’t say how much I’ve enjoyed myself here, how interesting the whole project has been–and of course how much I’ve appreciated you all as colleagues.’
‘We’re a grand bunch,’ said Angus in a rather bad Yorkshire accent, but he raised only a vague titter.
Paul smiled blandly at him though, and felt that he had slightly discomfited him. He hoped he had. He was also wondering if they were swallowing all this baloney anyway. He scrutinised their faces, but superficially at least their expressions were the correct mixture of sympathy, concern and comradeship.
‘Well, that’s it really–You won’t be able to get shot of me for at least another six weeks–Now what about that coffee?’ It was handed to him as if on a silver salver and there was none slopped in the saucer. They surrounded him, asking him jolly questions about the new job, Meg, Birmingham, all of which he parried successfully. They didn’t mention his health.
Virginia, Lettie and Angus were in a little group by themselves as he fought his way out of the others’ assumed interest.
‘I must get back–I’ve got 3c and I’m late.’
They said nothing as he went out, and he was quite sure that his little speech had not convinced them. They looked as if they rather disapproved of him. Paul walked quickly away–at least they all knew now. But how would he tell Casey? He felt sick at the thought of both telling and losing him. But need he lose him? Wasn’t there any way? He walked down the corridor, trying to find a solution.
Before Paul arrived at the classroom he was interrupted by Storm, who appeared agitated. He took his arm and led him towards the study. Paul hesitated–there was already a babble coming from 3c, in a few more moments there would be uproar.
‘I’d better not leave them, Storm. Look, I’ve got a free period in half an hour–let’s talk then.’
But Storm was not to be deterred. ‘Come on, it’s important. You’ll just have to leave them for a while.’ And he propelled Paul firmly into the study. The curtains were still drawn and it was smokier and stuffier than ever. Paul went to the window and drew the curtains back, opening the casement wide.
‘Sorry–I must have some fresh air–I feel lousy.’
Storm didn’t seem to hear him and began to rummage through the morning’s post. He produced an envelope and passed it to Paul.
‘I had this in this morning’s post and I’ve been wondering if I ought to show you. I’ve now come to the conclusion that it’s important that I do. Open it and have a look–then we’ll destroy it.’
Once again Paul’s curious premonition came into force. He looked at the envelope–a sort of frilly, rather unpleasant blue with deckle edges. It had been neatly slit open and he pulled at the expected cheap slip of note-paper. There was very little wording on it and what there was was written in red crayon. He felt no sense of shock as he read it but simply a deadening of all emotion. He sat there for a moment, unable
to make sense of the simple statement before him–then he looked across to Storm, who took it from him and slipped the note back into its envelope.
He said, ‘Oh Christ!’ and was unable to catch the other’s eye, for Storm was looking very hard at a reproduction of ‘The Haywain’ on the opposite wall. The statement, direct and crude, had said:
PAUL LATIMER, BESIDES BEING A DRUNK AND A QUEER,
The Seahorse Page 16
