The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  Adrian was just about to reply when Victor, a pedantic, studious little boy of about eleven came over, his words hurtling over each other in excitement.

  ‘I say, you two–what do you think about Storm packing up the Prizegiving and all?’ This seemed to register the most important factor to him, rather than anything else.

  ‘Well, it’s not surprising, you idiot,’ snapped Alexander. ‘I’d like to know which silly kid put that moth-eaten old head in the box. Anyway, whoever it is will be expelled, I bet you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a moth-eaten old head–it was all bloody and horrible.’ Victor didn’t want the experience dampened. ‘Anyway, what do you think’ll happen? Everyone went away so quick after. What do you think happened to Mr. Latimer’s nice present–do you think they’ll get him a new one? Do you think they’ll have Parents’ Day all over again? Bet my parents won’t come again after all this. My dad hates it anyway. Did you see Jim’s mum–crying and crying, wasn’t she? And Miss screaming funny like that–Do you think they’ll give any prizes this term? I’ve got a maths prize. Do you think I’ll get it? I don’t really want it–it’s only a mouldy old book.’

  They stared at him, astounded by his verbiage. Then Adrian said:

  ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll do you,’ and Victor hurriedly returned to more attentive ears.

  Alexander and Adrian stood apart from the chatter by the casement window. They both looked towards the sea, and in the darkness they could see stabs of white where the rollers broke some way out. There was a slow and steady crunch of water on shingle and dimly they could see the shadowy bulk and lights of a motor boat, wallowing snub-nosed in the wave hollows. The sky was pale, tenuous with furled clouds, and the stars were indistinct blobs. The granite night nursed the livid sea and in the distance they met in a dull platinum glare, harsh and unyielding as if suddenly the sea had become molten lead and the sky swollen silver–a metallic unity that swung beyond the horizon and tore at slate black cliffs somewhere–or perhaps it rolled on, striking no land for thousands of miles until it solidified and became a huge plain.

  It’s going to be jolly rough, you know,’ said Alexander. ‘Let’s hope she’s seaworthy.’

  ‘She will be,’ said Adrian. ‘I bet she’ll ride out anything. Anyway, it’s not rough–it’s only a swell and you’re scared–yes you are, you’re scared.’

  ‘I’m not,’ asserted Alexander briskly.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  The argument was abruptly terminated by Meg, who came in, looking tired but with eyes that were alive and happy. She seemed to be in a great hurry.

  ‘Come on, hop into bed.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were leaving, matron,’ said Albert stolidly, but was interrupted by Victor, who shrieked at her, ‘Wasn’t it funny, matron, about the cat?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it was very funny, Victor. I thought it was rather a stupid trick to play. Now go on–in you all hop–I don’t want to hear another word. Alexander, you nip back to your own dormitory. You know you shouldn’t be here.’

  She bustled around, tucking in and turning out lights whilst insistent voices hurled questions at her. She ignored them and firmly turned out the main light.

  ‘Now go to sleep, and if I hear a sound out of anyone there’ll be trouble. Everyone’s feeling rather upset and the best thing that you can do is to be really good boys and go to sleep.’

  ‘But, matron–’

  ‘Now–what did I say?’

  ‘Yes, matron.’

  She closed the door abruptly. For a few minutes there was complete silence until it was broken by Adrian who padded down to Eric’s bed and sat on it. He reduced his voice to a sibilant whisper and breathed his remarks into Eric’s ear, smothering him with his stale breath. Eric cringed back, unaffected this time by physical force, but simply by the unpleasant proximity of Adrian.

  ‘Don’t forget–you must be at the cave by nine tomorrow evening.’

  ‘After lights out?’ Eric, ever wary of authority, looked worried. ‘Can’t we do it before?’

  ‘And have everyone see us–you silly shit,’ hissed Adrian vehemently. ‘Why are you so thick? And don’t go blabbing it round or you’ve really had it.’

  Eric nodded sadly and obediently. Quickly Adrian took his wrist and began to twist it until Eric grunted with pain. Then he released it.

  ‘Remember–just do what I say tomorrow. O.K.?’

  ‘Yes, Adrian.’

  And his tormentor slipped away, his fat, lumpy figure disappearing into the muffled shadows. There was a creaking and a protesting sound from the springs as Adrian climbed into bed. Eric nursed his wrist–a great feeling of joy filled him–Gradually silence resumed and the only sound was the throaty discord of the geyser and the wash basin. They slept.

  The overcast sky was beginning to clear, gradually the clouds dropped away and the moon emerged blandly, a pale orb in the grey-black canvas streaked with white ochre. It was wonderful on top of the downs and Meg’s hurried twenty-minute walk had delighted her. The path, chalky and full of miniature pot-holes, led up the side of the down but the view was screened by thickets of brambles that were banked close to the side, and in some places overhung it. Protruding stems scratched her lightly but she managed to duck under the more treacherous thorns. A warm smell of indistinguishable origin hovered over the path–a scent she had only registered dimly during her day-time excursions. There was movement from within the heart of the brambles; small animals or insects scurried about their business or paused listening and waiting as she passed. She tried to decipher the lingering scent that existed only within the brambled boundaries of the path–a vague combination of leaf mould that had been fermenting under the spiky trunks for years, some unidentifiable musk, and perhaps the sweet headiness of honeysuckle.

  Then quite suddenly she was out on the hard shoulder of the down. The path circled upwards and she was short of breath as she reached the verdancy of the golf course. A slight breeze broke over the rising ground and below her she could see the school, a dark sprawling mass, each pocket of light an interruption to the untidy shape. She walked on, her footsteps muffled now by the thin turf until she could see the chapel on the outer rim of the course. It was squat, round and rather ugly with an imitation belfry, set grotesquely in the centre, an unnecessary and undignified adornment.

  The heavy door was half open and she could see him slumped, hands in pockets, in one of the few remaining pews. She sat down beside him–he was not startled and they remained for a while side by side without even looking at each other. The interior was considerably more decorative than the outside–the original intention behind this was obscure but it had been owned since its inception by Exeter Court. It had been neglected for years and Storm had left it derelict–there was no point in restoring the hideously ornamented interior and there seemed little purpose it could serve in connection with the school. Obviously a family chapel, its capacity was very limited. There was only one stained-glass window, crudely executed, which showed Christ crucified, in severe nobility, the blood like diamonds at his hands and feet. He was surrounded by bowed, indistinguishable figures but the most striking thing was that instead of a background of Calvary and storm clouds, the artist had sketched in the local Seahaven downland with the sea, a driven blue, sparkling in the distance. It was a particularly grotesque window and Storm had done endless research to try and find out a little more about it. He gained scanty information from the local authorities and the window remained a mystery–unmentioned in guide books–unworthy of tourism–a crude evangelism that went unnoticed.

  There was no need to say anything and except for the tightening of her grasp on his hand nothing was exchanged. She was content to sit with him in the musty atmosphere; there was an unpleasant smell to the place–acidic and closed in like an air-raid shelter. But its immense privacy was the most important thing to her. The altar had been removed but above it there was a frieze, crudely executed o
nce again, of Christ with a thorn crown, carrying the cross. Once again the setting was the downs and she wondered if they had gathered the thorns from near the bramble-hung path she knew so well. The colours were garish and Christ wore the same expression of ennobled suffering; each feature a stab on the waxen face of a doll. To surmount all this the stations of the cross had been represented by similar scenes drawn directly on the wall. The expressions of the disciples were similarly ennobled–except Judas, who wore an expression of alarming slyness and ferocity. The Roman soldiers’ features were as if cast from exactly the same mould and the Magdalen bore no trace of suffering but a steady composure with downcast eyes. The plaster was peeling and patches of the murals had flaked away; others were stained by vast patches of damp that seemed to intensify the absurd vulgarity of the colouring. The chapel had been stylised into a parody of Victorian fanaticism, and seemed to bear a near-pagan flavour. The effigies in the paintings exuded a staid hell-fire and the irreverence of the initials carved in the plaster of the walls relegated visiting civilisation to a churlish blasphemy.

  The place reminded Meg of a tiny church she had visited with Paul in a remote village near the Loire. They had had a particularly happy time on that holiday and it was a memory that she painfully treasured. They had wandered into it early one evening and it was delightfully cool inside. There were two goats tethered there and the stone floor was covered with straw. The last erratic beams of the setting sun had cast a damask fire over the whitewashed walls and also over the Christ figure whose wooden effigy had immediately drawn her attention. It was roughly carved and had been coarsely painted, the colours hard, flat and bright. Yet, far removed from this chapel and its unhealthy fetish, the facial expression of the alien Christ was one of the utmost gravity and its simplicity had moved them both.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Storm, his voice harsh in the echoing stillness.

  ‘I was thinking about the pictures here and remembering a little church I went to in France.’

  ‘With Paul?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you happy?’

  ‘Yes–we were very happy. I remember it terribly clearly. And this church had pictures in it–not like this but a different sort of hell-fire. They were awful paintings, terribly melodramatic–they showed the most awful Crucifixion scene–a sort of hell-fire suffering for everyone–and yet I could really–sort of–well, I had a better appreciation of Christ being nailed up and it hurting terribly. I don’t know why I should think of it now–but I was just looking at these dreadful murals–they’re so stylised and hopeless–they convey nothing.’

  ‘Hell-fire conveys nothing though, surely? I know the kind of paintings you mean–swollen clouds and the heavens opening and all that. Fire and brimstone and everlasting damnation.’

  ‘Yes, but it was an impression–I know it wasn’t like that at all. It was probably all very obscure and quick–no one really noticed what was going on–an unimportant business–quickly forgotten–just another execution–but he still suffered, there’s no doubt about that–it was long and drawn-out–and somehow those frightening, primitive little paintings made me feel something about it simply because the person who drew them believed that–well, he could imagine what it would be like to be nailed up there like that. It was the way he drew the shattered feet and hands–and the wounds were horrible. It was grotesque and frightening and Christ didn’t have that noble, forgiving look I’ve always seen in other Crucifixion scenes. I mean–it was as if he was really suffering. He was frightened and looked as if he was screaming out with pain. His face was dark and his lips were screwed up against it all–His head was hanging down–not raised up, and instead of those little drops of perspiration I’ve always seen–his whole face and body was glistening with sweat. If he could forgive them for all that–and I’ve always believed that he did–then he must have been the son of God. I mean if–if you can actively forgive such–such betrayal and abuse–if you can forgive people for doing that to you–if you can love them for it–it’s just fantastic. I don’t think anyone could do it–and that’s why I suppose I mostly doubt it all–I don’t know why I believe it occasionally. I think it’s seeing the true hell of it all–the true suffering–like I saw in that French church–just a true representation of someone, anyone, being crucified, and what they really looked like. Do you see what I mean? If I can believe through the very extremes then I reckon I can get something out of it. These pictures here are too stylised, too ennobled, too virtuous and unrealistic.’

  ‘But the others are as bad–they’re so melodramatic in contrast to the frigidity of these.’

  ‘Yes–but these, don’t you see?–don’t show one single believable emotion–but in the Loire they showed real bodily suffering–Nothing else–I’m not sticking up for them–they were very bad–but to me–if all that really happened–I could see and believe in the suffering–and then a miracle–I mean the forgiveness–that I don’t–hardly even understand. I can’t forgive, Storm–it’s too difficult to forgive–’ She shivered.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m not–I just feel lonely and miserable.’

  ‘We’ve got each other.’

  ‘No we haven’t–you know we haven’t. We don’t want each other.’

  ‘We can grow to love each other, can’t we? It always takes time.’

  ‘It doesn’t. You either do or you don’t. You can only make a habit of something you think is love if you wait for it. You get so tired of waiting for it you believe you’ve got it before you have.’

  ‘So why are we here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Meg began to cry softly. ‘I don’t know what happened–why it happened anyway–it was just something physical–we both know it–why don’t you admit it?’

  ‘I am admitting it, Meg–now–I don’t love you–you don’t love me–but for Christ’s sake let’s keep each other company for a bit.’

  She leant against him and they sat huddled together in the dark.

  Paul was on to his second pint. The beer was very good and he was enjoying Virginia’s company. ‘What a bloody farce it was,’ he said, leaning back glowing comfortably in the deep chintz armchair. They looked like a contented married couple as they sat amidst the polished horse brasses in the reticent luxury of the heavily furnished lounge bar. Huge settees dominated the room and there was a buzz of subdued conversation. The essential log fire glowed in the carefully preserved hearth and the brass winked and shone in the glow. He looked at his wrist-watch. Three glorious hours before closing time. He decided to get cosily drunk. He looked around him, noting with satisfaction the gentle enjoyment of the middle classes as they conversed discreetly in the secure warmth of the atmosphere. Large gleaming cars were parked in the floodlit entrance and timbers dark and stained crossed the ceiling. He settled further into the chair and signalled the waiter to refill their glasses.

  ‘You look very much the country gentleman,’ said Virginia, ignoring his last remark and eyeing his polished brogues and grey trousers with amusement. ‘I didn’t know you had any clothes like that.’

  ‘Well, I reserve them for special occasions like this. I like to fit in with all these people–I really do you know–it gives me a great feeling of comfort–I feel quite assured and completely at ease. I feel like discussing–well you know, all the things they have–cars and large houses and up-and-coming sons and daughters–schools–well, I suppose I’m well qualified to talk about those. Oh, and all the other status symbols. Incidentally, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’m surprised you like all this. When you first came I thought you’d be terribly straight-laced, strictly T.T. and thoroughly sterile, fresh from your missionary endeavours, etc. etc.’

  He looked at her curiously. He had never understood her brusque, detached personality. Suddenly she seemed very remote–one of those tall, tweedy women with hard masculine voices and a slightly horsy flavour that are found in country hotels on walking holidays.
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  ‘I know it’s a bloody rude remark but since we’re so comfortable and easy I must just say this’–and he told her of the image he had had of her. They both laughed and the waiter brought the drinks just at the right moment.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Paul, grinning at her.

  ‘Skol!’ The deep voice laughed back at him. ‘I suppose I am rather the lisle stockings and headscarf type to look at–in fact, I rather like to preserve the image. I can act up to it quite well and it keeps people at bay beautifully.’

  They laughed and then there was a silence. She said suddenly, ‘I like you, you know, but I despise you too–I think you know that.’

  Paul gazed at her speechless, his glass half raised to his lips. He stared at her in surprise. He could think of nothing to say in face of her disarming remark. He felt like a child deprived of something.

  ‘It’s no good your staring pop-eyed at me,’ the amused voice continued. ‘It’s quite true–but I still like you–I’m enjoying your company now, for instance.’

  ‘But why, Virginia?’ Paul asked in a small-boy voice.

  ‘Because you’re so thunderingly selfish, I suppose,’ she replied, and stirred her Martini absentmindedly with a cherry.

  They were quite still, sitting on the hard surface of the pew.

  ‘Can I make love to you?’ asked Storm quietly.

  She shook her head. ‘What will you do about this afternoon?’ she asked him dully.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it tomorrow–I’m not interested–’

  ‘You should be.’

  ‘Not now, I shouldn’t.’

  And they were sitting, not even holding hands, side by side. A spider ran across the rooting woodwork, something moved in the far corner–nothing disturbed either of them. They were aware of nothing that happened around them at all. Storm spoke to her from time to time, childishly, petulantly demanding–she simply shook her head and stared ahead.