The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  At another table, Storm and Virginia smoked, drank deeply and consumed sponge fingers whilst they listened with outward respect to Mrs. Rice and many like her. She had recovered from her appalling experience of a few minutes earlier and Angus had sneaked in and sat at a table far down the room to avoid her. Her volubility and admiration amused Virginia and embarrassed Storm. He was cowed, hoping against hope that tea would end soon and he could thankfully retire for half an hour before he would be required to speak again. But Mrs. Rice obviously intended to pursue him until the bitter end, and there was no stopping the spate of words that flowed over and around him.

  This was the highest room in the building and the architect had attempted a pitiful imitation of pseudo Gothic grandeur. It was grotesque to the extreme; everything was huge, Victorian and clumsy. One end of the room was adorned by a very bogus minstrels’ gallery to which there was no access, nor indeed would it have supported any weight at all. The other wall had been covered by a mouldering tapestry of no value or antiquity, and Storm had taken it down. Although its pretensions were great the room was quite small, and it had been amazing to find such an extraordinary taste for the absurd surrounded by the solid sensibility of the rest of the building. Perhaps, thought Storm, this had been the one eccentricity that either the sober architect or owner had allowed himself.

  The tea-time atmosphere contrasted strangely with the miniature exhibitionism of the contrived woodwork; the sound of cups and saucers rattling only intensified the idiocy of the minstrels’ gallery in which no minstrels had played; the buzz of parochial conversation made the attempted atmosphere of merry peasant roistering a farce. Yet despite the fact that the room was a travesty, Storm loved it for its improprietous vulgarity–a gem of Victoriana which he wanted preserved. Over the fireplace, which had too narrow a chimney for the roaring log fire that was suggested by the enormous hearth, was a faded coat of arms surmounted by indistinguishable Latin insignia.

  Mrs. Rice, her sallow moustachioed face electric with elation, drew her chair closer to him and breathed:

  ‘Of course, Mr. Langham-Green, I think of you as this century’s really great educationalist.’

  Virginia snorted with laughter, unsuccessfully turning the sound into a cough. Mrs. Rice sat back and beamed warily and Storm rose, too abruptly, and said:

  ‘That’s particularly flattering, Mrs. Rice, although I’m convinced that I don’t deserve it,’ and started to withdraw, muttering something about glancing through the notes for his forthcoming speech. It was at this moment that Lettie arrived, smiling vaguely, and crossed the room in an impressive silence to Storm, who stared at her, hypnotised by her appearance.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, my dear, but I had a little breath of fresh air before tea.’ She caught Virginia’s eye and looked away. She was an extraordinary sight, mud-spattered and windswept, as she serenely faced Storm. Her hair was now completely undone and her face was dirty. There were large wet patches on her dress and her shoes seemed to have become a different colour.

  Mrs. Rice stared at her bemused, for once unable to speak, and Virginia gazed at Storm, wondering what he was going to say. But he said nothing and simply walked away whilst Lettie asked them at large:

  ‘I say, is there any tea left? I’m jolly hungry–went for a spiffing tramp.’

  Graham Bolton and Adrian were in the locker room. Adrian had twisted Graham’s arm high behind his back, whilst Eric waited at the door to make sure the coast was clear. Graham winced as his arm was screwed even tighter and quite soon he began to cry softly–because he knew that if he made a noise, the duration of time between the advent of authority and the completion of Adrian’s bullying would be unpleasant.

  ‘Anyone coming?’ Adrian whispered to Eric.

  ‘No,’ returned the faithful scout, turning to watch the chastisement with interest.

  ‘Good,’ Adrian breathed throatily, wheezing a little as he controlled his wriggling captive. This was not difficult as Adrian was a good two years older and had the advantage of vastly superior strength.

  ‘This is what you get if you make cheeky remarks,’ he stated grimly, forcing Graham, whose whimpering was now reduced to a low moaning, to his knees. Suddenly he let him go and the boy fell on to the floor, rubbing his arm, with tears streaming down his face. Eric felt a wave of disappointment–surely this wasn’t going to be the end. But it was merely a beginning for Adrian told him to stand up. Graham complied and was promptly kneed in the balls, after which he subsided on to a form.

  The room smelt of stale perspiration and old clothes, and there were football boots, shin pads and football shorts strewn around. It was not open to the public, for Storm had concentrated only on the viewable parts of the school, making sure that they were clean and tidy and temporarily disregarding the black spots, of which this was one.

  ‘Pssst–someone’s coming,’ hissed Eric.

  ‘Who?’ demanded Adrian, watching Graham with menace.

  ‘Dunno, can’t see–Oh, it’s only Alexander.’

  Alexander walked along the small, sunken path with its lavender bushes on one side and anonymous shrubs on the other. He liked the smell of lavender and lingered to breathe in the musty fragrance of the grey dusty bushes. At last he arrived and paused when he saw the room was occupied. He often came down here, for during the day it afforded the only guaranteed privacy in the school and he had had a letter from Shirley which he wanted to read strictly alone. He was irritated to find the room occupied. Eric poked his head out of the door.

  ‘It’s only us,’ he said furtively.

  ‘Who’s us?’ asked Alexander irritably.

  ‘Us two–me and Adrian.’

  ‘Well, clear out both of you. You ought to be cutting along to the Prizegiving–it starts soon.’

  ‘Aren’t you going?’

  ‘Yes, but I want some peace and quiet first and I can’t have it with you two around, can I?’ To his annoyance he found he was whispering too, and he raised his voice, which brought a furious Adrian to the door.

  ‘Will you belt up?’

  ‘Belt up yourself, you ass–clear off.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that.’

  Alexander changed his tactics, trying to be reasonable.

  ‘Look, I want to be alone for a bit–be a sport and clear off for a while.

  ‘He wants to look at some pictures,’ confided Adrian to Eric. ‘He wants to look at all those big tits again. Let’s have a look, Al–got any new ones?’

  ‘Will you shut up, you bugger,’ returned Alexander shakily. There was a whimper from inside and Adrian turned round furiously.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Alexander miserably.

  ‘You’d better come in–come on–Eric move away.’

  Alexander entered the narrow doorway and saw a doleful figure crouched in the shadows.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked again desperately. The stale smell of the room had the addition of Adrian’s sour perspiration. Why couldn’t the little sod ever wash?

  ‘That’s only Graham.’

  ‘What’s he here for?’

  ‘Oh–’

  ‘Adrian’s bashing him up,’ piped up Eric eagerly.

  ‘Shut up, Eric.’ Adrian’s voice was quiet and Eric subsided with, ‘He jolly well deserves it anyway.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Alexander demurely.

  ‘He cheeked Adrian, that’s why.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Alexander’s voice was innocent. ‘Poor Adrian.’

  ‘Eric, if you say anything else, I’ll get you too.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Alexander, ‘clear out all of you.’

  ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Adrian pulled the unfortunate Graham to his feet again and began to twist his arm once more, his eyes on Alexander. Graham began to whimper, ending in a squeal of pain.

  ‘You’ll break my arm,’ he bawled.

  ‘I will if you don’t shut up.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Alexander, his irritati
on rising.

  ‘You can stay if you like and watch what happens to cheeky kids.’

  ‘I said leave him–’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Stop you–and you won’t like it.’

  ‘You won’t stop me–you know what’ll happen if you do.’

  ‘Leave him alone, Adrian.’

  ‘When I’ve finished–’

  Eric was hopping about on one foot, watching the torture with fiendish interest.

  ‘Adrian, please leave him alone.’

  ‘Oh, shut up–go away if you don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll get you.’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘Al, stop him, stop him, he’s breaking my arm.’

  ‘Leave him–please leave him.’

  ‘When I’ve finished. Look–look at him, Gray–He’s not going to help you–He’s too scared to help you.’

  ‘Al, you must stop him–I’ll tell–I’ll tell on you all–I’ll tell Sir you didn’t stop him, Al.’

  Alexander took a few steps forward.

  ‘Adrian, unless you leave him alone I’ll really belt you.’ He could feel the fat envelope that contained Shirley’s letter in his back pocket. If only they’d all go away then he could read it in peace. She hadn’t written for ages, and he was anxious not only for news but just to see her handwriting and feel her presence through the lines. If only he could see her, touch her, make sure she was real.

  ‘Al–’ Graham’s voice rose to a shriek–’he’s going to knee me in a moment. Please, please.’

  Once again, Adrian released the boy’s arm, turned him round to face him and kneed him savagely. Then he pounced and sat astride Graham who squirmed in pain beneath him. Adrian began to ram mud into his face from the heel of a football boot, to the accompaniment of furious encouragement from Eric. After a while, he stood up, leaving Graham still writhing on the floor.

  ‘There you are,’ said Adrian, looking at Alexander. ‘That’s what happens to kids who cheek me.’

  In a remarkably short time, Graham sat up, also looking full at Alexander.

  ‘You’re scared of him,’ he said, the tears mingling with the dried mud on his face. ‘You’re scared, you’re scared. You–you utter swine–why didn’t you stop him–why didn’t you stop him?’ His voice rose to a howl until a look from Adrian silenced him.

  Alexander stared at them all–he didn’t feel that this was quite real.

  Then Eric said quite suddenly: ‘Yes, he’s jolly scared,’ and Alexander turned round and punched him as hard as he could in the stomach. Then he turned away from them, leaving Eric gasping as Graham had gasped a few minutes earlier, and ran out of the door, up the lavender-scented path and into the school. He felt no emotion whatsoever until he was inside the hall, which smelt of polish and ink. It was only then that the disgust surged up inside him and he felt like vomiting. He felt for Shirley’s letter and headed for the lavatory.

  The tea tables had been cleared away and a rostrum had been positioned underneath the gallery. Facing it were rows of cane chairs that had ineffectually been polished. An air of faint expectancy grew as they talked, too full of the stodgy cream cakes and urn-sweet tea that they had consumed to make up for the lack of lunch. Officially the boys were meant to sit with their parents, but it seemed to work out that they sat in groups by themselves, oblivious of anything but their own jocularity, internal jibes and hectic amusement at things that mystified their elders. The tea-blown atmosphere persisted–the smell was still there, dry and cloying, an accumulative condensed milk and sugar thickness that was inducive to a heavy slumber. Angus was yawning widely as he leant back in one of the staff chairs on the platform. Another hour and a half at least of this torture and then down to the local. He looked forward to a couple of pints at least, straight off. But they were a long way away yet, and the speeches and prizegivings were to come. He felt his eyes closing and desperately tried to keep them open. Bugger them all, he thought, and lit a cigarette.

  All the staff were sitting self-consciously on the platform, trying not to meet the eyes of the parents sitting directly below them–and at the same time casting steely glances at the pockets of disturbance that threatened to grow to extravert proportions at any moment. Storm had not come in and Paul knew that his entrance would bring complete silence. He was sitting in his place as Storm’s deputy–uncomfortably close to the front with Lancing and Virginia on either side of him. Virginia was staring ahead of her, seemingly impervious to the glassy stares beneath, her legs crossed awkwardly and her hands, big-knuckled and sore-looking, clasped around her bony knees. She seemed very composed; Paul often wondered if this was too quiet a backwater after her more strenuous missionary activities–or perhaps it was simply a complacent retirement. He could never assess her–her rough cynicism, her sudden vivacities, her immediately attractive humour–they complemented the contradictions in her personality which was imbued with both apathy and devotion.

  Lancing seemed a little more perturbed–he was always nervous on Parents’ Day. He expected the worst and usually got it–he looked for things to go wrong and they did. He was fated to be eternally at the centre of some disturbance. Paul felt sorry for him. Lancing’s concept of himself was of some kind of unwilling administrator and despite the fact that this was obviously not his métier he managed to create disorder around him. Today had not been unendurable–nothing had basically gone wrong and no tempers had so far been lost. It was all almost too good to be true.

  Lettie had changed from her former disarranged state and was now clad in a creation of dull scarlet that, as with everything she wore, clashed horribly with both her features and personality. She looked vague and tired and soon began to nod. Laura, positioned in the second row, looked young and pretty, despite the fact that her nose was very shiny. The indoor light suited her better than the outside for it softened the raw heartiness of her, combining to produce an image of young womanhood in full bloom. She had enjoyed herself, despite the rain, and she sat and glowed comfortably, relaxed and happy in the growing fug.

  Meg, having slipped into an unappointed position next to her, stifled a yawn. With deadened interest she watched the sea of faces apathetically. She wondered if they were as bored as she was–by the look of them they appeared made of plasticine; in the half-light, their features mobile in a shadowed parody of normality. She saw Casey sitting on the left, about three rows from the front. He was by himself looking rather lonely, yet she felt no pity or sympathy for him. Meg was surprised at this; having lost her love for Paul she assumed her jealousy would vanish too. Yet she still felt savagely resentful as if the child continued to intrude and to take something away from her. But there was nothing left to take–he could have it if he wanted it.

  The buzz of conversation, muted and respectful, was broken at times by a stifled hoot of laughter or a snort of restrained hilarity. Paul closed his eyes and the tense murmur surged around him. For a moment he had his back against the breakwater, sitting hunched on the hard strand of the beach, listening to the dull mutter of the sea. Paul remembered the time, a few weeks earlier, when he had sat there, his self-pity erupting and smothering every other emotion. The events of the last few days had numbed him but this comforting blanket was receding, leaving him wide open to self-recrimination. Love–the dreadful omnipotence of the word scourged him like a whiplash of wet seaweed–raw and biting as a February wind. He fell in and out of it too easily. He had loved Meg at some stage, yet the thought of her now was a stale irritation that whimpered at his nerves. To thwart her, shatter her or to abuse her brought a curious sense of relaxation. It was impossible to support the two relationships–one had to go, and therefore, as with any involvement rejected, its remnants had become unbearable. The skein, thin and precarious, that had supported his love, when broken revealed hate. Stephen had basically forged the alienation–and Casey had completed the destruction. Now he hated her plucky martyrdom with an active force that he wanted to vo
ice wherever the opportunity arose–yet the ramifications of the last few weeks had shot the ground from under his feet. His amazement at his own brutality, the failure of his guile, the violence and showiness of his frustration appalled him–his complete and utter disregard, intolerance and pretence were incredible–and, worst of all, his total defect merely became a gentle fatigue that threatened only to ensnare him with apathy. But–he was alive to one element that he knew for sure existed–and as he opened his eyes and watched Casey’s solitary figure he imagined his reciprocated love flowing steadfastly back to him. Paul tried for a moment to think why on earth he was fond of a child whose very manner seemed to inhale his fervour and return nothing but a gentle bewilderment. His wild attempts at adopting him, his clumsy fabrications with Meg, the open contempt he was held in, his recklessness, blindness and his highly-geared fever of indiscreet compassion left him drained of energy. He had nothing left to give, he had taken everything he could and had used it to the best of his ability. The result had been a hysterical mess that left him one thing alone–the compulsive excesses of a single-minded obsession that was ever present. Because of all this he was almost happy.