The Seahorse

by Anthony Masters

  And now as he walked over the powdery cut-glass sand with Lettie so happy by his side, he regretted the callousness–the sheer mediocrity of that conversation. He hated Schulmann for his professional exasperation and himself for the annoyance that he had registered because he had risked too much. Schulmann in his irritating way had been right all the way through and if he had had any degree of commonsense he would have acted on his instructions from the very beginning. He should have had her committed. He had convinced himself that she would be all right, given his protection, and that with a constant scrutiny she would be able to live a happily normal life. She would be content in the little niche of utility that he had created for her. So–the school had come first with its insurmountable problems and difficulties and he had overlooked the worsening of her condition. Cuttingly he said to her as they walked on:

  ‘Are you sure that you ought to be cavorting around the beach like this–you look very odd, you know.’

  Immediately he regretted his compulsive cruelty, and at the same time remembered how much he would have to learn about her in the future. She looked up at him, her eyes full of the sudden hurt and her lips drooping pathetically. She shambled on beside him, her eyes scouring the surface of the beach in abject, hangdog servility. If only he could sit down for a moment and sleep. As a compromise he made a stab at pale normality.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with mock heartiness, ‘I know where Casey is–at least I think I do. I suddenly had a brainwave as we came off the downs.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said with immediate animation. ‘He’ll be in the cave of course.’

  The gulls cried hoarsely over the cliffs and the sea cringed a dull echo. He watched them wheel over the cliff-top and settle in crannies in the chalk or hover over the sheer drop, darting every now and then at the pitted surface. He supposed that there were nests somewhere and as their cries increased he saw more of them fly towards the cliffs until there was the most tremendous flurry of wing and white down just above the entrance to the cave. He remembered how he had once walked the clifftop with Schulmann, whose town-bred personality had been captivated by just such a similar sight.

  ‘Good God!’ he had said. ‘Look at those gulls. Are they nesting or something? What a fantastic commotion!’

  They were nesting then–but now there seemed an even greater sense of urgency in their movements, coupled with a curiosity that puzzled him. Schulmann had looked disturbed at the domestic confusion as if he had not expected the peace of the seascape to be so rudely shattered by mere birds. And now the raucous clamour surrounded Storm again, but this time there seemed a new note in their cries. They were louder than he had ever heard them before, and there was a greater sense of urgency in the air. They made a terrific din, darting at the cliffs in seemingly wild disorder. As they neared the cave they saw the root of the trouble–one of their number had fallen into a particularly narrow cleft and for some reason seemed unable to extricate itself. They stood still for a few moments and then Storm took a few steps back and climbed an outcrop of rock to see more clearly the cause of their concern. Lettie stayed behind and sat on the first rise of the limb, idly tracing at the sand with the heel of her boot. He looked back at her and saw the contentment return like a slow flush to her dry face. Surmounting the topmost plane of the crag Storm was on eye level with the tumult and his eyes rested for a fraction of a second on the busy chaos there. Then he turned away quickly, sickened by the hoplessness of the predicament. There was a narrow crevice into which a female gull had flown to nest and to rear. As she had become pregnant she had grown too large to extricate herself, and her bloated corpse had become wedged in the chalk. She had not been able to give birth as there was literally no room for it. She had probably been dead some time, and her coarsened feathers stirred in the wind. Above her another bird rested, a male, who had flown down to investigate the position and had become similarly ensnared. Perhaps it was the dead female’s mate–perhaps a gull who was really too inquisitive and was now paying for his curiosity. Whoever or whatever he was he was now well and truly trapped–the force of his flight downwards had wedged him between the two tongues of flaky chalk, and as he struggled the loose surface showered over him, covering him with a dusty white powder. His twig claws pounded desperately at the mound of feather beneath him and as he flurried ineffectually he seemed to become further and further wedged into the chalk. Meanwhile, the sound of the beating wings and cries above him intensified and the gulls swooped low over the unfortunate victim, their clamour growing until it became a plaintive sound carelessly distorted in the irreverent wind. Sickened by the futile beating of the weakening feathers, Storm climbed down and, surprised at his distraction, walked swiftly inside the cave whilst Lettie sat outside listening to the clamour of wings above her and watching the trickle of loose chalk that ran down the cliff face.

  They walked back across the beach from the cave, Storm carrying Casey in his arms. The boy’s face was pallid and he seemed almost unconscious. Lettie, puzzled, followed behind them. She was trying to avoid any strips of seaweed that happened to be in her path. She was committed to walking on the flat smooth stones, leaping the sprawling patches of weed that surrounded them. It would be very unfortunate if she stepped on any of it. Storm looked up towards the smooth chalk–the cries of the gulls seemed to be slightly muted and although they still circled over their trapped compatriot they were now doing so more silently. Perhaps he had quietened, was more settled and had grown to accept his fate–or perhaps he was too exhausted to struggle any more and was dying on the rotting mass beneath him whilst the others wheeled ineffectually overhead. It would have been possible for Storm to climb up and release him–or mount the adjoining crag and put him out of his misery by breaking his neck with a flint. But it didn’t occur to him.

  Casey stirred and opened his eyes, blinking in the hard bright light, looking up at Storm in surprise.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ asked Lettie excitedly, still intent on avoiding the seaweed.

  ‘Home,’ said Storm in a matter of fact voice.

  Paul was standing by the pier waiting for them as they walked up and when he saw Casey he smiled.

  ‘I don’t love you,’ said Casey as they walked by. ‘I hate you,’ and he threw down the little seahorse in the sand at Paul’s feet. Then he looked up at Storm, his eyes full of mischief.

  Lettie laughed gaily as she succeeded in missing the last patch of weed.

  Paul looked away towards the sea and he noticed that there was a ripple on the surface of the green pool under the pier.

  October 12, 1965

  The Eastbourne bus dropped him off amidst the shuttered stalls and denuded esplanade. The season was over completely now. The bathing cabins had been taken down and were laid in sections on the pebbles, the sandy, damp wood looking battered and forlorn. The pedloes were pulled up beside them, the paint on their swans’ heads faded and peeling, and the Seahaven Urban District Council’s flag had been hauled down as if to mark the passing of livelihood–the temporary death of the rabid commercialism of the past season. The strung fairy lights had disappeared from the garishly painted lamp-posts and the rails that skirted the promenade were rusty and the bright blue paint had worn away. Deck chairs lay in heaps, their canvas stained with patches of salt, and a dustcart drove slowly down the maroon macadam of the esplanade at about five miles an hour, whilst its driver sat sedate and erect behind the wheel as if he was driving a hearse. It had a contraption affixed to its side that watered and swept the gutters whilst on a platform at the back stood two overalled men, stolid and dignified, who stared respectfully ahead as if they were witnessing some kind of wake. An ice-cream carton bounced away from the over-full compartments and skidded into the gutter and one of the men turned to watch its progress as it slid along in the miniature torrent of water. Two children, following the solemn cortège, set it on a straight course so that it bobbed along the stream, its gaily painted packaging gradually collapsing as the water se
eped in. The procession moved on, the children lost interest as their improvised vessel foundered by a drain and they ran along the promenade, catching up with the dustcart as it continued its stately progress. Its compartments were too full and various other objects erupted from the crush and scattered behind it as its funereal pace quickened. The men watched them fall in the road with dignity, eyeing each carton, paper bag and newspaper with a calm disapproval and then as the discharge slowed up they turned round again and gazed ahead. The trail of refuse behind them was caught by the wind and was scattered to each side of the road. The children kicked at it and raced ahead keeping pace with the solemn progress of the vehicle.

  He watched it put on speed as it reached the end of the promenade and saw that the children were running now to keep up with it. Two little dogs followed, one brown and the other black. They suddenly appeared as if from nowhere at all, and as they ran they barked excitedly. Prudently they kept to the pavements, never venturing on to the road, and after a while they lost interest and ran down on to the beach, flashes of colour against the sand. The men on the back stood as straight as footmen and the sound of the dustcart’s resonant engine hung in the air as it was lost to sight. There was no one on the beach except the boatman who was coating the upturned boards of a dinghy with tar–and pausing every now and then to draw at his wet stub of a cigarette. Seaview, Seaholme, Seacrest–hotels badly in need of a coat of paint with large ‘Closed for Season’ notices prominently displayed–Mon Repos, Ocean Bay, Belle Vue, Seaview–with A.A. and R.A.C. signs swinging in the wind. They were all closed and shuttered–empty except for the skeleton staff battened down somewhere below–waiting for the long winter to pass and the first visitors of the spring. Haven–Grosvenor–Grand–finished now–waiting for repairs–about to be battered by the sea that would rise over the top of the railings, bending them and shooting pebbles on to the road and sometimes even through the windows of the Esplanade, the largest and most vulgar of them all. Waxworks, Amusements, Fortes, the brassy ballroom, tawdry now with its posters gone and its neon dark. Gusts of wind–leaves and paper rattling over the tiled walk–a man shoring up the windows of the beach café, its tables stacked one upon the other, its air a rancid concoction of beach trays, sour milk, ice-cream, chocolate, candy floss and Jeyes Fluid. Dodgem cars, battered, silent and tarpaulined, stood in a grotesque pavilion that had a broken stave fence around it; a boating pool, drained and empty, with its cracked, blistered concrete and a lorry parked in the middle of it–everything closed and finished–the only vivacity the sea which broke on the first line of pebbles in a silent and monotonous stealth.

  He pulled up the collar of his mack and walked along the full length of the promenade. They were putting the finishing touches to some kind of reinforcement or barricade where the concrete ceased and the beach began. Idly he kicked at the loose pebbles that had already been spewed up by the highest of the autumn tides. An old man trudged past him, his face mottled and resolute as he thought of the bracing winds of winter–joys to come which he probably had to suffer because they were good for his constitution.

  The bulldozers and tractors were drawn up in the churned mud by the raw sea wall–perhaps it was the man’s tea break or perhaps they had finished it now. A few ramshackle huts surrounded the massed reinforcements and there were gulls perched on the highest point of the sand, mud and concrete that was heaped up against the force of the sea. A cormorant sat on the wheel of an excavator regarding him quizzically, then flew high over his head to perch on the topmost pinnacle of the turretted façade of the Grand. The gulls made a high plaintive sound as they wheeled inland and he turned to watch them wing obliquely over the stucco farrago of cracked splendour that waited, meekly, for the full blast of the seaside winter. Gradually he drew away from the clamour of the shuttered insubstance of Seahaven proper, past the boarding houses–Clarendon, Abercrombie, Chatsworth, and Seychelles (Full board–no sand in bedrooms–lock up at ten thirty)–past the Methodist Guest House, and on towards the pier. He paused as it came into view–something was wrong and for a moment he could not assess it. Then he saw–half of it had disappeared and a crane was lifting rusting, weed-covered girders into a lorry. They were pulling it down–at last their white elephant was being dismantled. Even from where he was standing he could hear the shrill blast of the demolition equipment, and he could seen a rain of sparks fall into the shallows as the iron was viciously cut into. Obviously they could only work on the far end of the pier at low tide and at the moment they were dismantling the part nearest the beach. Already the pavilion had gone–a rusting patch of broken struts was all that remained to denote its original position and all around it, piled on the pebbles, were girders, crossbeams, joists, spars and struts, gleaming a dull red in the October sun. That part of the beach had been fenced off and warning notices surrounded it. Nevertheless a crowd of children played over them, dodging and hiding amidst the conglomeration of rusty, salt-streaked iron.

  As he watched a huge girder was prised free and a man, standing on the rubble-strewn decking, threw down the rotted, saturated boarding into a lorry. The ornamental gating at the entrance still remained and the tea-rooms, stripped of doors and glass, stood blind and derelict amidst the absurdity of the long, partially-dismembered elegance. Walking on, he came to the gravelled drive, paused, then walked away. It had been a mistake, as he knew it would be, to come back. Pointless, ridiculous, certainly morbid sentiment bred out of the depravity of his own loneliness. The last year–without any of them–had been dreadful. Supply teaching–an undirected, motiveless chore–mediocre schools–lousy digs–an aimless lethargy that seemed to be quite endless. The lengthening mediocrity–the consistent sense of loss–the irretrievable, catastrophic past merged into a tepid dissolution of mind that induced a numb disbelief–he simply could not bear to be alone any more.

  Just outside the battered gates of Exeter Court, attached to the crumbling wall at the spot where Storm so consistently had scraped the side of the brake, a large signboard had been positioned. It read:

  A. B. PRODUCTS (SALES) LTD.

  PERSONNEL TRAINING COLLEGE

  Private Property–Strictly No Admittance

  He turned away quickly, crossed the road and walked over the familiar pebble sward. He was worried about the boat. He hadn’t had the heart to reclaim it but Storm had written, saying that the Council had repeatedly asked for its removal from the pier–or action would be taken. This was the reason for his return to Seahaven. He had been forced to claim it although he didn’t want it. God knows what he was going to do with it. But before he went to the Town Hall he wanted to see what had happened to the boat and to everything else.

  He saw it at once–it had been hauled up on the beach out of the way of the demolition. He crunched over the pebbles and made a thorough inspection of its present state. It seemed in good repair, but it needed repainting and the months of neglect had resulted in the rusting up of most of the mechanical parts. It was pleasant to see it, yet basically he couldn’t care less. He shivered in the wind and watched one of the huge girders crash into the sea. It was a shame to witness the destruction of the pier–he hadn’t realised that they would have started so soon.

  On an impulse, hardly realising what he was doing, he began to push the boat towards the sea. It slid easily down over the pebbles and almost bounced into the water. One or two of the men, perched on the skeleton of the pier, watched him curiously. As he pushed it out he soaked his shoes, socks and the bottoms of his trousers; he was wearing a heavy tweed suit and he cursed as he stumbled in the shallows. Then he heaved himself in, took hold of the oars and began to row quickly. It was very calm but he panted as he rowed furiously, not stopping until he was a good fifty yards from the shore. Then he paused and the boat drifted listlessly on.

  The tide was gradually withdrawing as he surveyed the bay, leaving the rippled sand behind it. The downs were russet brown, except for the fading verdancy of the golf course, broken here and there by a
shimmer of leaves and the bare patches of smooth chalk that shone through the autumn debris. He could see the top floor and chimneys of Exeter Court and behind it, a little to the right, the ugly core of the chapel absurdly surmounted by its parody of a belfry. A consistent rap of driven metal came from the pier, and he could faintly hear the workmen shouting to one another, as yet another girder crashed into the shallow water.

  He began to row again until he was about a hundred yards out. It suddenly seemed quite clear to him what he was going to do. He looked over the side of the boat into the water, which looked rather cold–it would probably be easy enough in the end. Strange to think that it could be so deceptively easy–a pleasanter way than the others and surely much more relaxing. He must remember not to panic when he went in–just to take it all very gently. The strange thing was that it had never really occurred to him to round it off as neatly–and as quickly–as this. He had had no conscious intention of it on the way down. Certainly he had been gloomy but he hadn’t contemplated this at all–odd that it should happen so conveniently.

  He wondered what they would all think when they heard about it. He imagined them smitten with remorse; retrospectively full of self-accusation. Idly he debated whether or not he should remove his coat and shoes–but this seemed pointless and besides he was wasting time. He searched in the bottom of the boat. Where the hell was the bung or whatever they called it? How ridiculous not to be able to find it after all this deliberation. But he did find it–and felt a pang of regret which he firmly dismissed. Perhaps a cigarette before–Yes–that wouldn’t be a bad idea–a last few moments. He found his cigarettes but to his horror he had no matches. He must have got them somewhere. He thumped his pockets, desperately remembering how he had used the last one on the bus. A reeling agony of butterflies in the stomach–But there was no excuse to waste any further time. He trembled as he wondered if he was ready. What else should he do? Was he equipped–but with what? He looked towards the shore. The boat had drifted past the pier and he was opposite a part of the beach that sloped down from some waste land, a short distance from the road. For some reason there was a large deposit of sand there forming mounds, almost dunes, that were covered in short spiky grass.