‘This is hell,’ he said to Meg. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, stumbling over an outcrop of chalk. He caught her arm and she fell against him. For a moment she stayed there, content to be supported. Then she shrugged herself away and he slowly dropped his arm.
‘Are you warm enough, darling?’
She snapped something at him and went on ahead. He caught her up to find tears streaming down her face. He tried to slip his hand over her wrist but once again she twisted it away from him. Behind them Storm was bellowing Casey’s name and to the right Angus was doing the same. The others were searching the beach and Paul could see a torch moving down below. He fell behind and waited for Storm.
‘How long have we been looking?’ he asked.
Storm shone the light on his watch, raising his arm stiffly. ‘About five hours, I think,’ he said dully.
‘Are you sure he’s not in the school somewhere?’
‘We looked everywhere–you know we did.’
They walked on, following Meg’s wavering beam.
‘Got any spare batteries–my flash is going out.’
They stopped and shouted ahead to Meg. She paused but didn’t come back to join them. Storm fumbled in an inner pocket and produced a battery and Paul began to wrestle with the screw cap of the torch.
‘Damn it–the bloody thing won’t come off.’
Storm tried but it wouldn’t budge. They gave it up and continued, using Storm’s beam alone. Storm said something which Paul couldn’t catch and he asked him to repeat it.
‘What is happening?’
‘I’ve just asked Meg that–I don’t know–’
‘We seem to have lost everything so quickly–in a matter of hours everything’s collapsed about us–I want to know how it happened–I want to get to grips with it and do something about it.’ He sounded pathetic and his voice trembled like a child’s.
‘There’s nothing you can do about it, Storm.’
‘You wouldn’t be able to, Paul, but I could–if only I knew where to start.’ He almost whined the vicious rebuke.
‘Did you phone–them up?’
‘I phoned them–they’re coming tonight–They’re there now I expect, and I’m out here looking for Casey.’
‘They’ll be told what you’re doing.’
‘I should be there with them–there’s something I could say to them, surely–’
They lapsed into silence again and walked on through the gusty mantle of the grey night. The sea seemed almost to have a phosphorous glow and it shimmered restlessly below them.
Casey was very sleepy and it was warm at the back of the cave. Disconnected images floated through his mind. He felt safe here and although it was strange and dark and there was a funny smell he felt disinclined to move. Besides, the tide was in now–he could hear its surge at the mouth of the cave–a grinding of loose shale and the steady throb of the waves pounding the rocks that sheltered it. The rhythm was very soothing, but although his eyes kept on closing it was difficult to sleep at once. He kept imagining the pier, and his drowsy mind no longer feared the retribution that he thought was justly his. Transient images suffused his mind, leaving traces of incoherent impressions: the beach on a sunny day and the sun flashing lime green on the pool underneath the pier; Paul in the boat watching him all the time as if he wanted him to do something or say something that he never did–and the disappointed look at the end of the outing as if he hadn’t done or said the right things; Lettie, running with him, clumsy and awkward, looking at him as if she was afraid he was going to be angry with her. She was a funny sort of grown-up. She kept on and on asking him questions about the Seahorse and he went on making up stories about him. Alexander and Adrian sailed across the bay with sharpened staves, uttering wild war cries and the sun burnt very brightly above them–it was so hot and they shouted so loudly. Storm was standing with him, watching it all, his knobbly pipe puffing away as he watched them. There was something on the prow of the boat–oh yes, it was the cat’s head smiling rather cheekily and wearing one of Storm’s crinkly hats. The sea was a very bright blue and Lettie reappeared rather suddenly, riding on an albatross.
They were on top of the downs now and Meg was waiting for them. They called his name again and hundreds of yards away they could see Angus’s torch. The night was very warm and quite still but a slight breeze relieved the stickiness and cooled them a little. The sea was a shadow glowing beneath them, immobile and dotted here and there with dark patches that occasionally broke the surface. They shouted in unison and then separately. Paul’s voice was hoarse and his mouth was stale. Meg had opened a crumpled packet of cigarettes and was passing them round. Paul took one and the arid taste was so unpleasant that he threw it away.
‘How did they take it?’ he asked, his voice clumsy and harsh.
Storm shrugged. ‘They didn’t say very much–any of them. They asked where–we’d put them–I had to say where.’ He slouched on.
‘Couldn’t we have kept them at the school?’ asked Meg flatly.
‘I asked, but the police said we couldn’t.’
‘It’s not a mortuary, is it?’
‘Yes–it’s a formality–but I arranged for a chapel–an undertaker’s one–It’s the best I could do–perhaps I shouldn’t have let them be taken away.’
They turned and shouted Casey’s name, but there was only the mutter of the sea below in answer.
Casey watched a small crab scamper out of a crevice–it was just light enough to see him. He had slept for some time–it was impossible to gauge how long. He lay awake, staring into the half light–the heaviness encompassed him completely, the lethargy was in every limb. Gradually he dozed again and the waking dream began again. This time he was running along the beach with Lettie; she was holding his hand and her huge Wellington boots were slowing them both up. They were being chased by three large musical comedy policemen with red faces and side whiskers. As they pursued them they blew consistently on their whistles–in perfect harmony the blast rang out along the beach behind him. He tried to urge Lettie forward but her boots kept flopping off and the policemen were gaining on them every second. He could hear the thud of their boots on the wet sand and he strained at Lettie’s hand, trying to disengage himself from it. But the more he struggled the firmer became her grip–she refused to let go. He pleaded with her but she kept shaking her head, bending down to haul at her boots. After a while they seemed to be almost running on the spot whilst the dull thuds of the gaining policemen pounded in his ears. In front of him the pier seemed to shoot forward and there was Paul standing there with his arms folded, looking towards the winking green pool. He tried to look at Casey and smiled, then he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bright red ball. He threw it towards the pier and there was a tremendous noise–the pier shuddered and for a split second stayed as it was. Then it began to quiver and all at once started to cave in–a welter of falling girders and struts–right into the green pool beneath it. Then he woke up again, cold and shivering, to see that a grey light was creeping over the uneven floor of the cave. The heaviness persisted and the arm he had been lying on began to throb.
It was six. Alexander’s father was standing at the window of Storm’s flat, looking out across the bay that was tinged with the slow flush of the dawn. His wife, a tired brown mouse, was asleep in an armchair, her face relaxed and peaceful. As the light filtered into the room she woke up, gazing around at the unfamiliar surroundings with apprehension. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes as he watched her gradual comprehension–at least she had slept for a few hours and had had the facts temporarily obliterated from her mind. Adrian’s parents were in the next room, whilst Eric’s mother was still asleep on the bed. He had been to see Alexander but his wife had not come with him. He had not been appalled at what he saw–he had simply registered a slow numb surprise that death, in his son’s case, could appear so classically reposed.
Shirley was still in Switzerland a
nd as yet they had done nothing about cabling her. With a sudden horror he realised that there was a possibility she would see an English paper. If she saw it like that it would be so much worse. Somehow he would have to get in touch with her. He looked at his watch again–it would be nine in Zermatt. He reached for the telephone. Yes–do it now and get it over with. He dialled–explained–gave details–and they said they would call back when a clear line was available.
He went to the window again and saw two figures which he recognised as Latimer and his wife walking up the drive–they looked awful in the hard light. My God, he thought, if there’s been another–They looked as if the search had been fruitless. The telephone rang at the same moment as Storm opened the door–his face pallid and blotchy. Alexander’s father turned abruptly to him.
‘I’m just going to ring my daughter–I hope you don’t mind me using your telephone. She’s in Switzerland and she doesn’t–I’ve got to tell her in case she sees an English paper today.’ He was surprised by the ridiculous note of matter of factness in his tone.
Storm nodded and went out again, closing the door softly behind him.
Poor sod, thought Alexander’s father automatically and forgot him. He picked up the telephone–Helen watched him and he reached out to hold her hand. The exchange buzzed him and then, grotesquely, a voice with a Kensington accent crackled over the line:
‘Hello–St. Saviour’s School.’
He tightened his grip on her hand. ‘May I speak to Miss Shirley–’
Casey was feeling very peculiar–the dull pain nagged at him and he realised that by now he should have had an injection. He remembered a time when he had wanted insulin desperately before–and how he had felt. There was little or no pain–just the unyielding heaviness that prevented him hearing the things people said. He had simply forgotten to inject himself that time and he remembered how Angus had stormed and raved at him whilst he sat at his desk, almost insensible, creeping into a fog of incomprehension. Angus had been very nice to him afterwards–directly, in fact, he had discovered exactly what was wrong. He shivered and dozed again. Outside, pale patches of blue showed through the grey tissue clouds. After a while he fell into a heavy sleep–his face was waxen and he breathed throatily. Casey lay quite still in the cave whilst the wan drawn light crept over the sandy floor.
Storm walked down the drive, over the road and on to the beach. The day promised to be hot–and already he felt a transient warmth from the pale sun above him. The tiredness seemed to disappear, leaving him with a lightheaded illusion of agility that buoyed him up as he walked over the pebbles. He was surprised that she was on the beach so early and he strode purposefully in the opposite direction, hoping she wouldn’t see him. But she turned and began to race towards him–her Wellingtons flopping over the wet sand. The tide was miles out and there was a slight wind by the edge of the distant sea. She reached him, panting, ungainly in her strange attire of gum boots and tweeds. She smiled an anxious-to-please smile–hopefully looking up at him–taking care not to say or do anything that would make him send her away. Storm looked back at her–God, he was so tired. Lettie cut an extraordinary figure; an elderly woman in sensible tweeds, her hair unpinned and her boots caked with sand.
The events of the past few days crowded in on him, stark in the glistening light of the early morning. The numbing despair that had given him no time for emotion and had almost served as a distraction had passed, leaving a crippling realism that began at once to tear at his resolution. A subsidiary feeling of a new stability was there too. He was sick of them all–there seemed so little point in continuing with anything. And now, the unendurable responsibility of Lettie suddenly became of first importance. There was no doubt in his mind as to what he should do; there was so little question of him leaving her that the thoughts he had had before seemed ridiculous. He had tried and almost succeeded in evading the ultimate responsibility, but now it faced him and as he met the tired eyes he knew that he would now be in full control. There was no room for indecision, but he would have to find a sense of renewed purpose from somewhere. He could no longer allow her to disintegrate without being cared for; he had allowed this to go on too long whilst he affected to ignore her growing instability. The final demolition of everything around him brought him back to face the problem with at least the advantage of an uncluttered mind. Regretfully he took her hand as her face broke into a smile of acceptance and she regarded him like a trusting animal. He would not allow her to drift on any more, and although she was perhaps past appreciating it Lettie would receive the attention she had demanded so futilely. There was nothing else to do and a host of formalities awaited him until it was finally all cleared away.
Strangely he felt no sense of failure, though she had managed to bring him down too. Lettie had contrived the destruction of Exeter Court with her capricious determination, and, undeniably, she had succeeded. Her visionary antics had blended with the articulate fantasies that seemed to surround them all, and if she had succeeded in withdrawing at last into the security of naivety, then she would take him along with her as advocate.
Inevitably when she had really begun to go downhill so rapidly Storm had at last made a decision and phoned for immediate help. He remembered now, as they walked hand in hand down the beach, the conversation that he had had with Schulmann. He was a good doctor and Storm had grown to regard him almost as a friend. They had met in the gloomy lounge of the Bell for the discussion. The place was virtually deserted and he had sat hunched over the spluttering fire, incongruously immersed in a huge horsehair sofa. Despite their privacy Storm had been terrified of intrusion–and he had sat there, his huge body tensed in anticipation of sudden invasion. Every time the door opened he looked round quickly–until it began to get on Schulmann’s nerves.
‘For Christ’s sake, man, try and relax or we’ll get nowhere.’
But he couldn’t, and by the end of the conversation Schulmann’s patience had been sorely tried. He had produced a welter of criticism that Storm hardly seemed to pay any attention to. Finally Schulmann wound up his quiet tirade and lit a cigarette.
‘You’re a bloody fool, Storm. I told you that you wouldn’t get away with it. Why the hell didn’t you do what I suggested when this all started?’
Storm stared at him in mild surprise. Schulmann did not look like a doctor; in fact, he looked more like a bookie. His loud check suit and slate-grey suede shoes contrasted oddly with his round pale face and thinning hair. His lips were very full and the cigarette dribbled from them as he smoked.
‘You don’t seem to understand, Michael. There was no question of taking that action–there was no question even of a choice–she had to stay.’
‘You seem as unrealistic now as you were then,’ snapped Schulmann, picking at a hole in the soiled leather. He bent towards the fire–it gave a wan heat but it was impossibly cold in the tired room.
Storm sighed–he meant Schulmann to hear it so at least there might be some slight instigation of sympathy, or even conspiracy, between them. But this was not to be and Schulmann appeared even bored, picking at the increasing hole in the grubby material. Then he began to speak again.
‘Well,’ he said, as the waiter brought in more drinks, ‘I assume that there is a good reason for you to call me down here–a further decline perhaps?’
Storm said nothing for a while–he didn’t quite know how to begin. He watched the waiter return, bent double as if under a heavy load. With an effort he began to speak, his voice breaking the cloaked silence of the over-furnished room.
‘You were quite right, of course, Michael. There has been a considerable decline over the last few weeks.’
‘Well, tell me about it and together we’ll see just how much is salvageable.’ And Schulmann watched him, his pale oval face holding only a bland expression of inscrutability, whilst Storm told him quietly and without emotion of the climax of his sister’s insanity. Flatly, amidst the dim surroundings of dull horse brasses and the dwindling warm
th, Storm enumerated the grotesque inanities of her bemused contrivance: the dismembering of the unfortunate cat, the letter that had been scrawled in her childish capitals, the incongruity of the battered head at the Prize-giving, the way she had followed him to the chapel and what she had done there.
‘She–said some things–through the door at us–all those wild obscenities that only just fell short of being laughable,’ said Storm, pulling the cork from the tip of his still-smouldering cigarette. His voice was almost puerile in its attempt at regularity. ‘So you were right, Michael–I ought to have done something about her much earlier on–I made a mistake.’
Schulmann sighed wearily and fidgeted in his chair. ‘My dear fellow, you were far too preoccupied to make any attempt. I warned you not to leave her to her own devices for so long. I told you repeatedly what the outcome would be. I’m sorry if I’m not being sympathetic, but I’m a practical analyst and now it’s come as I knew it would–as it was bound to–You seem so surprised–you knew it would happen sooner or later.’ His voice ended on a gravelly note and he cleared his throat abruptly.
Storm was hating his smug, self-satisfied tone, but he said nothing, lighting another cigarette and staring at the solid Victoriana of a clumsy writing desk in the corner of the room. Schulmann looked away from him and the waiter shambled over to see to the fire. Storm was not going to tell him of the time when she had once tried to creep into his bed at night, and how she had been naked, looking at him with loving eyes. He had felt her withered breasts as she crept close to him, her body cold and slight like a pale shadow. Immediately he had got out of bed and had gone into the other room, leaving her alone in his bed.
The Seahorse Page 28
