Gradually the murmur softened into a welter of throat clearing–and Storm came in. It was not an effective entrance and it was only when he was on the platform that there was comparative silence. He went to the lectern (presented by Mrs. Gladys Hooper-Smith) followed by the governors, who trooped unhappily behind him. No one knew whether to stand up or sit down and there was an embarrassed bobbing, shuffling movement from the floor which died away as the dignitaries climbed slowly on to the platform. The staff immediately rose, the audience rose too quickly in response, and several chairs crashed over amidst stifled laughter. Paul noted that this slapstick procedure took place every year and even the old hands seemed quite incapable of retaining from one year to the next the order of events. He knew that it particularly annoyed Storm, who hated the mute pomposity of the occasion, and was always trying different methods of entry to effect a relaxed atmosphere.
Now he waved an irritated hand at his staff, whom he was positive he had told to remain seated–and he extended his gesture, in a more kindly way, to the perplexed faces below him. With a tired smile he half turned to the governors, including them in his opening remarks. They gazed back at him a little mournfully; three anonymous elderly men in tweeds.
They were normally held in a self-conscious respect, for Storm was directly answerable to them and they kept a tight rein on the finances of the school. The benefactor of Exeter Court, an elderly clergyman, now long since dead, had charged a selection board to choose successive headmasters. The governors had no part in this yet remained as permanent watch-dogs, mainly on the way money was spent. Storm was the second principal since the inception of the school twenty years before. He was in a state of cheerful enmity with the governors who had as many objections as he had schemes. They were quick to jump on his failures and slow to commend his successes. They regarded him suspiciously as a successful crank and made every effort to dispel achievement and cast gloom on Storm’s most ambitious plans. Yet they were too slow for him and he managed somehow to cajole them into agreeing to the majority of his ideas. This was a miracle–much admired by everyone.
As Storm began the governors settled in their seats and sat hunched forward like battered dolls. One wore a deaf aid which he spent considerable time trying to tune, whilst all the time it gave out a resonant, disturbing hum which caused more amusement from the scattered clusters of boys. They were kicking each other under the chairs and one of them had a small blowpipe out of which he ejected lethal-looking darts at his companions. Collectively these were neither a good example nor a commendable result of Storm’s branch of education. Lancing was trying to gesticulate discreetly at the disturbance, but those involved ignored him. He was becoming an object of curiosity as he continued his antics and Laura discreetly nudged him. He started and looked at her puzzled whilst Storm continued:
‘So–all in all we’ve had a particularly happy and encouraging year. I wouldn’t like to quote at you the old cliché of working hard and playing hard but, in a sense, this is just what we’ve done. Except that, of course, the majority of our spare time is devoted to unsupervised activities–and by that I mean we’ve been out over the rocks, bathing and enjoying ourselves in the open air when the weather’s permitted and when it hasn’t we’ve still been outside, particularly up on the downs, leading as healthy a life as possible. I say we, because I–and indeed my whole staff–share this life with your children, and thoroughly enjoy it. It’s not all fun and games even outside, and we’ve been map-reading, doing geography and geology, and as many things as we can cram into any free time we have. Perhaps you all think I sound a bit like a bad youth leader–or even a sporty vicar. Maybe the thought crossed your mind that I’m a bit of a crank for the open air–or even a bit of a crank over many things.’
There was a depreciative murmur from the floor. They all looked at the ground, with the notable exception of Eric’s father and his willowy wife, who loudly denied it. Mrs. Rice, not to be outdone, treated him to a ferocious smile.
Storm laughed suddenly and looked at them wryly.
‘You know–when I first took over here a lot of people took their children away from Exeter Court. Their reasons were various but they all seemed to have one basic complaint–that their children came home in the holidays with glowing reports of how they ran wild down here all the term, with no discipline or any encouragement to work. So I decided that it was time I started educating the parents into our system. In fact, I asked groups of them to spend the weekend here–go back to school for two days and–’
There was an expectant titter and Paul yawned. This was one of Storm’s favourite anecdotes and also the most widely told. Storm’s enthusiasm for the past dimmed his recollection too–for Lancing had reminded him that there had been, in fact, two or three sets of parents who had stayed at the school, using it inauspiciously as a base for a country weekend, taking little interest in the ‘system’. But Storm, his rosy memories colouring in face of a receptive audience, continued enthusiastically.
‘–see exactly what their sons did get up to down here. They found a new kind of school–the kind of school that was based on the–’
Paul remembered a newspaper headline ‘The People that cared–a story to touch your heart’ and felt nauseated by Storm’s genuine, naive enthusiasm.
‘–trust and love that was either needed–or had previously been built up in the home. They saw, I hope, enough of myself and my staff in operation to appreciate that, however many mistakes we made, however many failures we had, our hearts and souls were in the whole project. My aim, basically, has been to provide a sound education–that’s why your children are here, first and foremost. But I had no intention of forcing it down their throats. I wanted to bring each subject they tackled, whatever it was, alive to them. I won’t tolerate laziness in any form–this is not a nice little haven for slackers–but I’m quite convinced that any child, once we can get him interested, will stay interested enough to work. So there you are–that’s two sides of our picture–work and play. We don’t make games compulsory but I do insist on half an hour of gym daily.’
Lettie was drifting–she was tired and she could not keep her eyes from closing. Mother had said to her, ‘You little dreamer–what are you doing now?’ and she had answered, ‘I’m counting the threads in the antimacassar’ or ‘I’m just waiting till the sun moves round the potting shed’ or ‘I mustn’t move until I’ve counted 395 or the bogey will get me.’ Rites–frequent rites governed her childhood; never to sleep face to the wall because that’s where the bears were–to stand in her Mother’s cool dim room that smelt of lavender and flowers and count 100–because that’s where the bears lived too. And then to run stumbling down the stairs after the final count to the warm friendly kitchen where everything was gloriously sane.
‘I owe a great deal to my staff, who have been as loyal and diligent this year as they were last. I feel that everyone of them stands so firm behind me in our great experiment here–for experiment it is.’
Now look at Storm, her mother would say, and she would look aghast at his healthy normality, his bounding energy, his head full of concrete ideas. Just look at him, he’s full of commonsense and he’s not given to phobias. ‘Honestly,’ she would say to her remote cleric of a husband, ‘honestly, the girl’s phobia ridden.’ Mother’s favour-word–phobia–oft repeated, inevitably applying to her daughter’s danger-strewn world of fantasy and retribution. Skip six times on the cracked paving stone overgrown with moss in the orchard; knock twelve and a half times on the door of the derelict conservatory and then run in case the banshee, who lived inside, covered in cobwebs, came hobbling sack-like to the door. Never be upstairs when no one was in–never be downstairs when they were asleep upstairs. Never let the moonlight shine on her bed; look under the bed and make sure the snarly picture-book wolf wasn’t there; watch the shadows in the mirror turn and curl like an elm grove and run screaming from the darkened room into her mother, who looked for a dreadful instant like a cat asleep
in her bed, whisker white and feline in the silky light of the moon-drenched room.
‘Today is a sad occasion and I know the news I have will upset you all. One of the hardest working, most valued members of my staff and his very capable wife who has been doing a stalwart job here as matron are–’
Tumbled vibrant images of fearsome clarity covered her childhood. Symbols of witchery and child-love crushed the consistency of everyday life. Lettie was transfixed by her lucid imagination–which she could recall now as vividly as when she had been a child. At fifty the recollection was extraordinary clear, yet she was no longer sensitive to the rampant fears that had possessed her. The memories of the hell-fire magic of the all-embracing rites crowded her mind–slipping her back as a spectator to the dervish pandemonium of the bewitched day and the haunted night. Trapped in a mêlée of unspoken commands Lettie had hopped, skipped, knocked and counted to a mad routine of puckish disorder. She would read the Brothers Grimm locked in a fearsome delight that would break her sleep and even make daylight a deception. But she had to do it–an inner voice, quiet and insistent, gave its orders and Lettie rushed to comply, assaulting her imagination with vicious images that crowded out the material and heightened suspicion. She progressed from the most lucid of harpy-ridden fairy stories to an enormous diet of the most hypnotic horror stories she could find. At fifteen her appetite for sheer ghoul was insatiable–soon she had read Blackwood, Stoker, Jacobs and dozens more. She was a doyen of the macabre. Then she outgrew the phase quite suddenly and began to read romance–historical romance–modern romance–she smiled sleepily as she remembered her teens with affection. Would she have ever guessed she would end up such a cranky old maid?
‘–leaving us at the end of the term. I needn’t tell you all how much we shall miss them both. I don’t know what we’re going to do without them.’
Paul stared straight ahead–he was watching, with lethargic interest, an exchange between Alexander and Adrian, who were whispering together intensely. He was puzzled at their relationship–it was strange that they had become so friendly.
‘Paul, as you know, immediately became my right-hand man and Meg–well, my right-hand woman.’
There was a general titter which subsided respectfully. Meg was watching with detachment the boil on the back of Lancing’s neck. She longed either to do something about it or tell him to cover it up. The sight of the eruption was gradually making her feel sick.
‘I don’t want to embarrass them both so I won’t continue with a long list of praise, but I must say thank you to them both very sincerely on behalf of not only myself but the rest of the staff, the school governors and, I know, all of you.’
Storm turned to each of the mentioned in turn and then said, amidst scattered applause:
‘I’m afraid I have to embarrass you both a bit more by giving you something to remember us all by–’
Storm was looking at them now, nervous and hesitant. Paul hoped he wasn’t going to be emotional and stared back at him, meeting his eyes and inwardly willing him to get it all over. Meg was not looking at him but at Paul instead, with a half-satisfied, half-curious expression. Meanwhile, haltingly, Storm stumbled on amidst a complete silence. He turned awkwardly to the three governors who seemed to come to life suddenly like clockwork figures, bobbing and smiling ceremoniously.
‘What do you think they’ll give him?’ hissed Eric to the stolid Albert, who was biting a difficult corner of one of his fingernails.
Storm was fingering a large brown cardboard box that had been passed up from someone at the back. He drew himself up, pulled at his beard and hitched up his trousers.
‘On behalf of us all here, Paul and Meg, we’d like you to accept a–something we’d like to–to help to remember–to remind you of us all at Exeter Court. Thank you for the way you–helped rebuild up the–most exciting-project that has been–so worthwhile–I think it’s easy enough to open.’
Paul realised to his irritation that Storm fully intended that he should have to open it in front of them all. He rose unwillingly, walked to the table amidst applause and throat clearing and began to tug at the string. It was knotted obtusely and he fumbled awkwardly at it, watched by everyone. Meg had quietly joined him and was standing beside him.
‘Here,’ he said brusquely amidst nervous laughter, ‘you’ve got some fingernails–you do it.’
Neatly and to his further childish irritation she untied it.
‘Lift–the top lifts off.’ said Storm excitedly. Gently she lifted the top off–there was complete silence. Meg stood quite still whilst Paul stared incredulously at the contents. The staff, who couldn’t see properly, were pushing forward with muttered exclamations, puzzled at the lack of response. But those on the floor had the very best view–of a large head of a cat stuck crudely on to a stand that might have held a clock or some other electrical apparatus. The neck had been neatly severed and there was clotted blood and indistinguishable remains at the base. The eyes were glazed and the mouth was screwed up into a strange shape. A single fly buzzed round its matted fur. The sight of it was appalling, and the electric silence was broken by Lettie who had pushed her way past the others right up to the table. The sound that emerged from her began as a whimper and ended in a hoarse cry. Then someone put the lid back.
Virginia’s battered Popular bumped along the coast road. It was a clear warm night, the rain had gone, and the air had a fresh warmth that was almost heady. Paul wound the window down and breathed in the soft sea smell. The inside of the car had smelt leathery and his mouth was rough and dry. He had smoked too much all day and as always he hated the taste of his stale, furred mouth. Her invitation had been brusque and authoritative and he welcomed the idea of a drink in the country–welcomed in fact the proposal to put any amount of distance between himself and Exeter Court. He could see the sea–a dark tremulous shadow, furled as it licked at the shingle. They had said very little so far and he was reminded of the warm, companionable silence that he had shared with Storm and Casey on the way back from their happiness on the downs so long ago–or so it seemed. He was puzzled at the time element–but what had happened in between then and now had made happiness such an irrelevancy that the past zoomed away from him, elasticised and mortified into a still, transient memory that existed somewhere in a different dimension.
Virginia, hunched over the wheel, looked as if she was driving a jeep deep into the heart of the Amazon. She was wearing a very old tweed coat and a headscarf of some kind. She drove fast and competently, and the car roared on, noisy and slow but giving the impression of great speed. They clattered through the next town still silent, and drove away from the sea underneath the shadow of the cliffs, pallid and ethereal in the night glow. Then inland and over the downs towards Alfriston. Every now and then they were blinded by headlights and Virginia, muttering, turned her own full on at the offender, scraping the battered car against the thorny hedgerows that hugged the sides of the lane. The scent had changed and Paul could smell the dry musk of the dusty hedges, interspersed with the tang of ferns, groundsel and docks. Hawthorn was the most prevalent–sweet and nostalgic–and a stray twig bent inside the open window and brushed against his face. A rending scratching withdrawal from the hedge and they were on the crown of the road, the car groaning in second gear as they began to climb. Soon they were on top of the downs and Paul looked back to see the lights of Seahaven and the thicker cluster that was Portmanston spread out beneath them, a vivacious, spangled canopy of remote civilisation. Up here amongst the outlying farms and cottages his spirits rose and he looked forward to the noisy, burnished gaiety of the pub. The car made the summit in a series of wheezes and gasps whilst Virginia seemed to throw herself forward over the wheel in an attempt to urge it on. Then–suddenly they were bowling down the sheer side, turning left, and taking the narrow, twisting lane to Alfriston. The view was lost and they were driving between high grassy banks–Paul’s hysterical excitement increased as they drove further on, shooting into the fr
iendly, comforting night. A couple more corners, taken too fast, and they were pulling up outside a low, rambling conglomeration of timber and fairy lights.
‘My favourite pub,’ said Virginia, leaning back.
‘Bloody good,’ said Paul. They climbed out into the soft night, standing for a moment and looking over the silent fields.
‘Mmmm–smell,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Don’t know–something in the air here,’ Paul remarked inanely and they turned inside.
Adrian broke into the turbulent dormitory discussion and drew Alexander aside.
‘Don’t forget–tomorrow night–just you, me and Eric.’
‘How can we get the boat down to the sea?’ asked Alexander unenthusiastically.
‘I’ve got some rollers and it’ll be easier getting it down than it was pushing it up.’
‘S’pose the tide’s out?’
‘It won’t be–I’ve checked with the time table thing-it’s right in–right up to the beach–it’ll be dead easy.’
‘Should Eric come–he won’t be much use, will he?’
‘He’s coming–definitely. He can keep a look out and steer.’
‘Steer? But we’ve got no rudder.’
‘Then he can direct us. Why are you being so difficult, Al?’ said Adrian petulantly. ‘Don’t you want to come?’ he added in a different voice.
‘Oh yes–I’m only trying to get things straight.’
‘Have you got the oars? We’ll get them down to the cave first thing tomorrow so we’ll be all ready–but sneak them out and make sure no one sees you–if they do we’ve had it.’
‘Oh–I know,’ said Alexander wearily, looking at Adrian. ‘You know, I’ll be jolly glad when this is all over–it’s been hard work and I’ve done most of it and I don’t even know why you’re doing it all. Why don’t you tell me, Adrian? It’s not fair not to know.’
The Seahorse Page 22
