Seahorses Are Real

by Zillah Bethell

  He eyed her warily as she foisted the letter upon him, almost poking him in the ear with it. She was prancing up and down in front of him, obviously pleased as punch with herself.

  ‘I’ll probably get an interview,’ she jabbered, ‘not that I want one of course. I did it to get them off my back really. They said I must leave no stone unturned in my search for employment.’

  ‘Too right!’ he agreed drolly.

  ‘Manager of Shrubs at Crayford Nurseries said he never got an application from me.’ She made a face. ‘D’you think I’ll get an interview?’

  ‘Probably,’ he smiled. Not that it mattered much if she did. She often had interviews but she never actually got to any of them. The colour of the building or some small incident on the way sent her on a wicked impulse home again. Once she’d travelled halfway across the country for an interview and come straight back, later on ringing the people and telling them she’d been involved in an RTA. Her acting abilities were unsurpassed. She was born to deception, he reckoned. She’d got the phrase RTA off a TV programme about doctors apparently.

  ‘Terry’s off on holiday, you know, to Ireland.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’ He poured himself some orange juice, topping it up with cold tap water.

  ‘Looking for leprechauns!’

  He chuckled. ‘I bet he does, really. Hunts ’em down and puts ’em in his remedies!’

  ‘Silly,’ she giggled, her violet eyes bright with excitement. A little too bright, he decided, though he was pleased to see her in a good mood for once. He watched her dishing the pasta out onto a couple of plates, faffing about awkwardly with oven gloves and a great wooden spoon, her cheeks flushing up with the heat; and it tore at his heart to see her trying to perform this unfamiliar housewifely little task. In the end he took over from her, fearful lest she burn herself and end up blaming him for the evening; and she accepted quite gratefully, standing studiously at his shoulder for a moment before prancing off round the room again, making small flourishing motions with her arm at the sideboard, the cooker, the kitchen sink as if to say ‘Da daaah! What d’you think about that?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he kept saying, nodding and turning his head in amusement. ‘You have done a lot of cleaning.’

  They carried their platefuls through to the sitting room and sat down on the settee. Marly carefully placed the TV magazine on her knees to protect her legs from the heat before balancing her plate on top of it. It was a habit, David now realised, that had always annoyed him because more often than not she ended up spilling her food all over the magazine and the pages stuck together with dried-up gunk and sauce. It wasn’t that he cared much about hygiene himself, to be truthful, but something about those stuck-together pages depressed him a little. There wasn’t any need of a rat trap, he thought, watching her, with that TV magazine!

  ‘What have you been up to then?’ she enquired suddenly, her voice quite upbeat and dynamic sounding.

  ‘Oh, you know... work.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ Marly replied a little irritated, wondering why men were so useless at detail. Ask a man the colour of his mother’s eyes and he’d probably look at you askance, stumped. ‘But what did you do at work?’

  ‘Well, from 9 to 11.15,’ he began painstakingly, ‘I had my A level class, then I had a fifteen-minute break where I did a bit of marking, had a quick pee, then I had to take a GCSE group from 11.30 to…’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ she interrupted hastily, realising she wasn’t actually interested in the detail. ‘Terry showed me a poem this morning, it was really nice... “Let the winds of the heavens dance between you…’’’

  ‘What’s that mean then?!’

  ‘Look, I know you’re a mathematician and all that but honestly, listen: “Let the winds of the heavens dance between you.” What d’you think it means?’

  ‘I dunno. One of ’em’s suffering from flatulence?!’

  ‘Oh yes, very good.’ She blew out air to stop herself grinning. ‘I’ll give you the winds of heaven in a minute.’

  ‘Winds of hell more like!’

  ‘Ha Ha.’ She blew out air again and little bits of pasta shot out all over the floor and TV magazine.

  David stared at her, pretending to be horrified. ‘Dear oh dear, I can’t take you anywhere.’

  ‘You never do, mate, you never do!’

  They munched on in happy silence for a while, their reflections mingling and glimmering in the newly polished TV screen. He sensed a suppressed excitement about her – it was in the active stillness of her body, the too-bright violet eyes. She was hatching a plan, an idea, a surprise, he was certain of that. He had a surprise for her too – he smiled in secret anticipation of her reaction – but he would wait his turn. Wait for her, as he always did, to pour her strange little heart out to him, dark and fast as Ribena.

  He didn’t have to wait long. After a few more mouthfuls she turned her vivid, almost glowing face towards him.

  ‘We’ll have to start packing soon. I should think we could be in our cottage by springtime. Terry says I’m much better now…’

  ‘Good, I’m glad.’

  ‘…but I’ll be brilliant when we live by the sea. We’ve got to get cracking, there’s so much to do: cleaning up the flat, packing up; putting our notice in to Mrs M.’

  ‘We… ell…’

  ‘What d’you mean “well”?’ She stared at him defiantly, wishing she could ask outright for things – not this stupid fait accompli phrasing, this badgering, this bullying – but she was scared that if she asked outright for things they would simply be refused. ‘Well?’ she repeated.

  David laughed, a nervous laugh it seemed to Marly, a laugh that meant nothing, meant that he was simply humouring her. ‘We can’t just take off like that,’ he mumbled at last.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We just can’t.’

  ‘Why not, give us a reason. Go on, give us a reason.’

  ‘Well, there’s my job for a start.’

  ‘We could get jobs.’

  ‘You haven’t worked in years!’

  Marly bit her lip, her cheeks reddening. ‘I could work if I was well and I would be well by the sea. Anyway, you could get a job.’

  ‘I’ve got a job.’

  ‘I know, but it’s here.’ Marly made another flourish with her arm and this time, David thought, it didn’t mean Da daah. He felt the night closing in about them and a shiver went down his spine as if somebody had waltzed their way over his grave. The friendly banter had gone; the secret anticipation inside had gone; and he struggled to regain his happy momentum. ‘It’d take some time,’ he said at last, desperate to appease her.

  ‘Why does everything have to take so much time? Why can’t we just do something, why can’t we just go for it, act on impulse for a change? You never act on impulse.’ It was all very well, she thought, toying with her food, him spinning his little stories at night just to get her off to sleep, his fairies, feathers and Quality Street refrain, but when it came down to it he hid away in his safety nets, all talk no action, typical ha ha fucking funny man.

  ‘We can’t just up sticks like that, it’s expensive. We haven’t got the money.’

  She stared at him in surprise, her eyes narrowing, and she noticed his face was pale and clenched, the warmth of summer having left it long ago. She felt a stab of guilt followed quickly by anger. ‘Why ever not?’

  He read the look as an accusatory look, a look that said he wasn’t good enough, didn’t earn enough, didn’t compare to her brother the businessman, the square-jawed action man comic book hero who earned a six-figure income, sent postcards from Italy and presented her with slippers from the Arctic (Exciting Alaska Snow Powder Land) and he blurted out unthinkingly – oh David you fool you fool – far too unthinkingly: ‘Because I’m supporting you. Because I’m subsidising you all the time.’

  ‘Oh well,’ she exploded, jumping up and pacing the room, her food forgotten. ‘I’m so sorry I’m not working. I’m so sorry I’ve bee
n ill, I’m so sorry my mother died…’

  Danger zone, he thought flippantly, though he didn’t feel flippant at all. He felt like a paper bag was coming down over his head and he wanted to hit out at some­thing. He wondered how much longer he could endure these stupid cycles – it felt, at this moment, he had endured them for a lifetime.

  ‘If I’m such a terrible burden,’ she was shouting, cramming his guitar books into his rucksack, ‘I don’t know why you don’t leave... go on, leave, I’ll pack your suitcase for you.’

  She picked up his guitar and tried stuffing it into the rucksack on top of the books but it didn’t fit and she swore under her breath. At any other time he might have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, but it didn’t seem funny to him now; he was full of dismay and amazed at how she turned on a sixpence from love to hate, how they had got back to this place again, this place of pain and hatred. He sat there, his plate on his knees, staring into space, hearing her yet not hearing her. No doubt she was attacking him, as she always did, attacking him for not doing this or forgetting to do that – some trivial insignificant little thing for years and years and years; for not loving her enough or being good enough or earning enough for them to go away and live by the sea; for not understanding her or treating her right or having a clue about her strange little whims and obsessions; not living up to her great expectations or being a patch on that square-jawed, comic book action man; not lining his boots up at the end of the bed no doubt or wiping his fucking arse the right way probably or worshipping long and hard enough at that godforsaken temple of little Miss Marly Smart; not even being a real man but a typical ha ha fucking funny man; not loving her the way she wanted to be loved. How the fuck, he wondered, did she want to be loved? These words churning up in him; but he couldn’t get them out and the more she attacked him the more they choked him up inside… so that in the end he got up, took his coat and walked away. Walked away before that vicious little stabbing thing stabbed him half to death. Walked away because he knew he might just turn on that stabbing thing and stab it back to kingdom come.

  Marly stood transfixed, hand on guitar, as he pelted down the stairs. She couldn’t get over the fact that he was going – it all seemed to be happening in slow motion like the time she’d crashed the car and had glided along the ice for an eternity. She shouted after him: ‘Go on then, you always do – use your fists or run away. You can’t face any sort of confrontation can you.’ Then she pulled on her boots, grabbed the transistor radio that sat on the table and raced after him into the darkness, dimly aware on her way out of Jason knocking pictures up on his walls, making a little home for himself. Fly away, said a voice as she sped through the gate, from this little grey wounded street. She ran on tiptoe, silently, silently, because her boots had a small heel and would make a sound and she wanted to catch up on him silently silently – softly softly catchee David – that little gnome wandering off down the street, blissfully unaware of her coming. Ha ha. The cars shone crazily under the street lamps and her fingers tightened round about the radio in her palm. How she hated him for running off, abandoning her like that after all they had said, for throwing in the towel and jetting off on a night’s carousing – thinking he could leave her there right as rain, nice as pie. How did he ever think she would be right as rain, nice as pie – she was evil, poison, twisted up inside and she always saw an argument through to the bitter end, he should know that by now. She ran softly past the launderette and the flower shop on Watling Street where the old woman laughed a crazy laugh and popped out at you like a pale rhododendron. She was in throwing distance now. She slowed down, came to a halt, took aim and hurled the radio with all her might at the hunched-up figure in front of her – it crashed around his feet and he jumped in shock, turned and, seeing her there in the darkness, ran up and grabbed her by the throat. One or two cars tooted, somebody shouted something and a couple passed by on the other side. His eyes were full of disgust and he stared at her unblinkingly as they stood right next to the Emmanuel Pentecostal where they might have got married in another world to this – Michael effing Angelo ridiculous in a top hat, Anne with her painted toenails and her father, well her father wouldn’t come but – it was a crazy enough place, that church; its worshippers parked quite hazardously round the launderette, singing and hallelujahing their way through a Sunday afternoon (what a lot of Ariel they must…). She stared right back at him, daring him to lay a finger on her in full view of the street, daring him to show his true colours in public. After a little while he loosened his grip, let her go, turned and carried on down the street. The wind was suddenly cold. She had no coat on. She did not follow him.

  Thirteen

  She was waiting for him though when he came through the door in the light of early morning. Nobody in their right mind could possibly be up still except the night owls, the barn owls, insomniacs and Felix the next-door and very conceited cat who prinked for pilchards in the dew. Even Jason had gone to bed, wrapped up in his golden fleece no doubt and dreaming of landscapes and picture hooks. It was foolish, she knew, to stand barefoot on top of the stairs like a little old vengeful Victorian ghost in a white cotton nightdress when he was suited and thick booted, drunken, drawling, brawling and crawling his way back home... but she had risen – oh yes, she’d risen alright – like a christ from the tomb, like the vapours from a malodorous old sacrificial swamp where they might once have thrown victims, horse-shoes, pork pies and gimleted goblets to appease the heathen gods. What gods? What gods? They’d let her down once too often those gods. Let ’em play their little games of trivial pursuit with suns and moons, earths and archangels, heavens and hells. She had her own little weapon right here behind her back, not to use but to threaten, to protect herself for when he saw his guitar. His guitar! She felt a faint stab of fear when she thought of what he would do when he saw his guitar. She should never have broken it, though he deserved it – music was real: it screamed, laughed, made love, went on picnics.... (As a child she’d thought she was trapped behind the bars of a musical score like some sort of Alcatraz; and one fine day they might bend like elastic and she would escape.) She should never have broken his guitar. She felt as though she were gliding on ice again as he came relentlessly up the stairs, :|| :|| a faraway look in his hazelnut eyes.

  ‘I got your guitar to fit in the end,’ she remarked almost rationally as he pushed his way past her, stinking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. ‘It fits perfectly now, you’ll see, so you can go now, can’t you.’ She followed him into the kitchen, hands clutching the knife behind her back, and watched him blundering about the place, pouring himself a glass of water, peeling a banana. There was a look of sullen resentment in his eyes and she felt a dim fury rising up in her. Who the hell did he think he was, coming back here right as rain, nice as pie, without so much as a hint of an apology, stuffing down his glass of water, guzzling his banana in such a nonchalant manner. My god, he deserved worse than a broken guitar.

  ‘So you can go now, can’t you,’ she carried on in a whine, knowing she was talking gibberish, ‘now that I’ve got your guitar to fit.’

  The word ‘holocaust’ spun through her head (in an effort to defuse the intensity of their small pathetic domestic crisis) but she dismissed it with a shudder. It had no business here. It didn’t belong. Nothing belonged here. Everything in the flat proclaimed that nothing belonged... which was why the mould drew manholes and hollyhocks, sunflowers, giraffes, penises, little weasels on the ceiling, like some young scamp of a poltergeist practising his artwork... which was why the rats ran riot in the kitchen, under the skirting board, abseiled down from the cornices no doubt in an effort to get at the cookie jar (He’s a bachelor rat at the moment, David had laughed in the beginning, but soon he’ll find Mrs Right Rat and then we’ll be in trouble!)... which was why the blue magnetic butterfly sat upside down on the heater, its wings heading for earth. She stared at his raisin and hazelnut eyes, half closed as he gulped his banana and a little voice inside whispere
d: please just hold me, hold me and say it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, the broken guitar, the sadness, evil and rottenness.... Say we can get our plane ticket out of here bareback into the waves, run away from this little grey wounded street. Please take my hand and say we can fly away if we dare to, fly away if we dare….

  ‘You bitch!’ He’d seen it. He’d seen it across the hall­way, sticking out of the rucksack like the jagged stem of the old oak tree that had fallen in a bad November storm. He put down his glass and raced through to the sitting room, she following at his heels like a little old familiar, muttering inanely as she went. ‘That’s what’ll happen if you keep running away from things.’

  His eyes were full of agony, of anguish and he crouched down, almost cradling the guitar in his arms, his finger tips touching the flayed strings, bashed-up wood, fingers that had teased her hair, cupped her face. ‘Fuck it all,’ he mumbled under his breath, rocking back and forth a little unsteadily. ‘Fuck it all, fuck it all...’

  She towered above him, half guilty, half gloating to see him hurting, hurting as bad as she had done. ‘It was rubbish anyway,’ she muttered defiantly, leaning over him, hands behind her back.