‘Fuck you!’ He suddenly grabbed the guitar, making her jump, lifted it and bashed it against the side of the table; it croaked and groaned like the old oak tree must have done when the lightning struck it. He bashed it again. And again and again, almost dementedly.
‘Leave it alone,’ Marly ordered, furiously upset to see him continuing where she left off. It was all very well for her to hurt the guitar, but for him to come drunken drawling brawling crawling his way up the stairs and start bashing the guitar to bits, disturbing the street and Jason asleep in his fleece, enraged her almost beyond belief. You didn’t shout and carry on like that where she came from. You didn’t wash your dirty linen in the middle of the night for all to see; you brushed it under the carpet for the rats, shoved it deep deep down inside, put on the mask with little eyelets for the eyes (which was why she knew that the stone cold faces are the ones that are feeling).
‘Leave it alone,’ she hissed again, enraged at this violence out of her control. She made a grab for the guitar and the knife slipped from her fingers, clattering over the table and onto the floor with a dull soft thud… … David stared at it in astonishment then picked it up… and the look in his fruit and nut chocolate eyes was unrecognisable.
Marly backed towards the door, like a little old vengeful ghost, barefoot in a white Victorian nightdress. ‘Use your mouth not your fists,’ she taunted him. Even when he had the upper hand she still taunted him sometimes because her tongue was the only weapon she had left. ‘Coward, bully… I know you’re incapable of it but try and use your mouth not your fists.’
She was gliding on ice again when he pushed her against the wall and stabbed around her head, digging up the grubby little flowers in the wallpaper. (Lightning-quick yet oh so slow.) It was a bit like one of those circus tricks where they throw knives around a woman, leaving her outline there for all to see or cut her in half into separate boxes then put her back together again. Everybody claps and cheers. It’s a nice day out for the kids apparently. Doves come out of hats. Cards disappear down somebody’s ear. Everybody fooled by the illusion, the magic; the conjured epiphany. How easy it was to be fooled by the illusion, thought Marly, the illusion of peace, of love, of contentment... those moments, those moments that had stuck like stars in her memory, those beautiful, soft, shining moments, they were the illusion. This was reality. This, this, this was the reality: this pain, this hatred, this fury. This was the forever-now eternity.
‘You’re fucked,’ he shouted then in her ear right next to the flowers. (Picking flowers she’d been taken. He’d swooped right out of the blue.) ‘You’re fucked and you want to fuck everyone else up as well. It’s always about you... what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, never mind anyone else. Oh but then, I forgot, it’s always more of a struggle for you isn’t it… it’s always that bit more of a struggle for you.’
She stood, dumbfounded, at these words pouring out of him, these words pouring out of him in the light of early morning, in the dim religious light of an early December morning (she was quite safe here in that dim religious light. Wasn’t she, wasn’t she? Fuck the gods, fuck the gods... just two simple humans battling it out in spit and blood, much larger than gods, much louder than gods.)
‘You treat me like shit and then you want me to talk! Jesus H Christ, you expect me to talk after that... talk talk talk,’ he almost screamed it. His voice was almost a scream. (Sometimes music sounds like screaming. Have you ever heard Bluebeard’s Judith screaming? Have you ever heard a man or a leveret screaming?) ‘You’re poison, d’you know that. You turn everything to poison.’
Oh yes, she knew that. She knew about the poison. It dripped out of her like rain drips from a dirty gutter. She could fill a vast array of colourful, haunting, glass-blown bottles with her little drops of poison. Poison to eat me with, drink me with, sleep me with, fuck me with... she sank down, out of his grasp, onto the carpet, muttering a little acidly, for she hadn’t quite given in yet, ‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic. For goodness sake, David, don’t be so melodramatic!’
It was like a red rag to a bull and she watched with an almost bitter satisfaction as he charged off round the room, slashing anything in sight: his shirt, the curtains, a cushion, the armchair. Half of her watched with bitter satisfaction as he blundered drunkenly round the room while the other half sat (in a separate box) still, tiny and quiet as a mouse whispering ‘What have I done to him? What have I done to him?’
After a long, long time of waiting and of silence, interrupted only by his spasms of dry sobbing, she looked up. Dawn must have been breaking for little flecks of light poked horribly through the curtains, illuminating the bare, torn remnants of the room. Her eye travelled slowly over the slashed and broken objects and every time she saw something special that was ruined she felt a sudden burst of anger bubble up then subside. She was still a strange mix of fury and sadness, each emotion chasing the other like dogs their tails, but she was at least free from physical pain. The knife hadn’t touched her: it had caught her hair, pulled at her clothes but she had come out of it all unscathed, like one of those magic tricks, like the women who left behind their outline in knives. At last, with great difficulty, she brought her eyes up to David.
He sat, his shirt in tatters, at the end of the sofa, still shaking and clinging to a cushion. His stomach was streaked in blood where the knife had cut into him and a new patch of psoriasis had spread from his upper chest. (It hadn’t been like that a few weeks ago. Surely it hadn’t been like that a few weeks ago?) His fingers twisted an end of the cushion into a sharp point which every now and again he scraped against his left palm; his hair stood up away from his head in receding wintry curls. (It hadn’t been like that a few months ago. Surely it hadn’t been like that a few months ago?) Marly felt a faint fluttering of terror in her heart and she rubbed her bare feet in alarm as if to inject some energy into them, then jumped up suddenly and started pacing up and down in front of him, clapping her hands together for warmth.
‘Brr, it’s nippy,’ she remarked jovially in an effort to bring some sort of normality back to the room or at the very least break the terrifying silence. ‘My goodness it’s cold!’
She was full of pity and compassion now for the man who sat in front of her, shaking and clutching a cushion. It came to her suddenly that it was her friend who sat with his stomach daubed in blood and psoriasis. Her friend! Her friend who loved her, protected her; did almost everything for her except go along with her dreams. Her beautiful, beautiful, brave best friend.(To my brave best friend, someone had written on a bouquet for her mother, though she never found out who.) What on earth had she done to her friend?
‘Cor blimey, it’s nipsome!’ she grinned, wriggled, pulled faces for him. ‘It’s enough to nip your toes off, aint it?’
He managed to muster a flickering smile in response, a ghost of a smile, a faint hieroglyph of a smile; and her heart was suddenly her own again. She raced over to him, wrapped her arms about him, buried her face in the winter grey curls. ‘I love you... I’m so sorry... I love you, you know.’
After a few moments’ hesitation – which she noted and deep down was troubled by – he hugged her back. ‘I’m sorry too. I love you too.’
‘It doesn’t matter about going away... we can stay here, we’ll be alright here.’ She was all concessions now. Now that she had broken him, brought him to his knees, her love for him was overwhelming. She rained little kisses down on his head, hard and fast as pebbles. ‘We’ll be alright, won’t we...?’
He pressed her close, rocked her back and forth as they crouched awkwardly together on the end of the sofa. Deep shudders still racked his body and she shushed him gently as if he were a child, patting down the stand-up curls for they frightened her a little. ‘There now, there now, it’s alright now….’
‘I’m not helping you, am I?’ he suddenly burst out, clasping her tighter than ever. ‘I’m just hurting you. I’m not helping you am I.’
‘Course you are!’ S
he pushed at him roughly to show him how wrong he was. ‘You’re brilliant, you’re fabulous, you’re the best!’ She rained a few more kisses down on his head for emphasis, though it flitted through her mind that every time she broke him down he took a little longer to rebuild.
‘I’ll end up killing you,’ he muttered darkly, holding her quite still, ‘or going doolally.’
She laughed outright then. It was ridiculous to think of him doing either of those things, killing her or going doolally, as he put it. He wasn’t the type. He was her cross-legged beaming buddha, all crinkly eyes, cheesy grins and pork pie chins. ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she squealed, planting a stern kiss on his forehead. ‘Of course you won’t!’
He sighed and turned away; and she, half amused at his melodramatics, half worried about him, slid gently down onto the floor until she knelt in front of him, her hands on his shoulders.
‘Look,’ she began quite seriously, staring him straight in the eye, ‘you’ve helped me more than anyone else ever could or would. Most people would have run away years ago. You look after me, you support me... you give me money, pay for me to see Terry. Without you... without you…’ she stopped, faltering, then carried on. ‘You’re brilliant at helping me.’
He stared at her, sad-eyed. ‘It doesn’t feel like it sometimes.’
‘Well – you – are,’ she rejoined quite firmly as if she were telling him off; then dug him playfully in the ribs. ‘Think of all that lovely stuff you get me... all them lovely pressies. I bet you’ll be getting me loads of pressies for Christmas up Bluewater,’ she winked.
‘Nice try,’ he half smiled.
‘And think of all them lovely meals you get me… all them lovely pasta meals!’
‘You hates my pasta meals!’
‘Well, you know, they’re alright... they aint so bad... anyways, what about them stories you tell me in the middle of the night to get me off to sleep about the fairies and little shops on the sea…?’
‘You’ve got your own little shop,’ he began in his Jackanory voice, his eyes lighting up, ‘on the sea front. Marly’s Marvels, it’s called...’
‘Oh no no no!’ She threw her arms up in the air. ‘Not the kraken again, is it? Not the kraken?’
‘But you likes the kraken...’
‘Well, you know, I mean I do and I don’t...’
‘So you’ve got your own little shop,’ he carried on quickly, ‘and you’ve also got…’ his eyes were suddenly sparkling.
‘What?’ She pushed at his knees impatiently, sensing something was up.
‘…two tickets to see the Lipizzaner horses perform!’ he ended with a triumphant note in his voice.
‘You what?’ She stared at him, bemused.
‘I’ve got two tickets to see the Lipizzaner horses perform next week in London.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, I’m not.’ he fumbled about in his pocket. ‘They’re in here somewhere. It was meant to be a surprise. I was going to tell you earlier.’
She felt the tears start to sting at the back of her eyes and she pressed her face to his knees for a moment before jumping up and pulling him to his feet. ‘Give us a piggy-back!’ she giggled, leaping onto his back, and almost ripping her white cotton nightdress as she did so; and they giddy-upped round the room, Marly swishing an imaginary crop and David lumbering about stolidly, knocking knees and elbows into doors and broken furniture; their shadows mingling and entangling quite faintly on the wallpaper like some monstrous mythical two-headed beast blundering about in the flowers. In the end they collapsed in a laughing heap and he rolled her onto her back and kissed her on the mouth and his eyes were chocolate and melting again.
‘You, Miss Marly stole some barley Smart...’
‘What what?’
‘Are going to see…’
‘What what what?’
‘The Wizard of Oz and the wonderful Lippi whatsits leaping and conniving about!!!’
Marly threw her arms up in the air in delight, embracing the giraffes and little weasels on the ceiling, maybe one or two new blooming sunflowers. ‘The silver dancing horses,’ she breathed, her eyes shining up into his. ‘The silver dancing horses….’
Part four: Arwen and Elessar
Fourteen
The silver dancing horses stood waiting in the wings: ears pricked, muscles tense, skin super sensitive to the black leather boots pressing into their sides, the soft-gloved hands resting lightly on their withers. Soon. The much-loved voices whisper to them. Soon. The crowd is hushed, waiting, expectant, craning and tenterhooked; and the music has begun: a tremulous fluting, a cajoling violin. A small draught blows through from the cold dark arena, lifting their manes and silk-fine tails; bringing the scent of dampened sawdust where they will imprint their loops and curves, serpentines and figures of eight. Soon. The much-loved voices whisper to them. Soon. There is a deep inhalation, a moment of suspension; then the soft-gloved hands press tightly on the reins, the wind goes singing through their manes and silk-fine tails and the violin cajoles, cajoles….
‘All the way from the Hapsburg P… Palace in Vienna,’ the compère announced, stuttering slightly, ‘these horses have travelled to perform for you tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, an equine ballet to rival Swan Lake! Prepare to be amazed at the intricate steps and manoeuvres of haute école; the acrobatic leaps and jumps of the Airs above the Ground. Prepare to be entranced by the rhythm of their dancing…. Get ready for the equestrian treat of the century, the magic of the snow-white stallions… Horse of Royalty! Horse of the Gods! Horse of living legend! Give it up then, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for the LIPIZZANER HORSES!’
They step into the arena like stars out of darkness, to the strains of the Moonlight Sonata and the roar of the crowd. This is what it’s all been for: the days, months, years of training; patient handling, soothing voices, much-loved hands; the rigorous and repetitive movements in the rust-coloured sand of the Hofreitschule; gruelling exercises on the lunge to promote suppleness, flexibility, speed and endurance… the good fine oats, molten shoes, dress rehearsals and stable routines; the radios and record players used to accustom their ears to fugues, rhapsodies, arias and minuets; the polished saddles, gleaming bridles, shampooed coats and varnished hooves. All for this! This moment when they step like stars out of darkness to the strains of the Moonlight Sonata and the roar of the crowd.
‘Their history has been a t... turbulent one. Exiled and evacuated many times from their homes in Lipizza and the Federal stud at Piber, due to war and military aggression, they have nevertheless continued to flourish and remain to this day the most noble and majestic of breeds. And the Spanish Riding School of Vienna – a masterpiece of baroque architecture designed by Josef Emmanuel Fischer von Erlach in 1735 – is still intact (despite air raids and Adolf Hitler), the only institution of its kind in the world; its purpose unchanged through the centuries – to perpetuate the art of classical horsemanship in its purest form.’
Bred for this: this fiery brilliance, this obedience, this display. Not for nothing are they known as the Horses of Kings, Horses of the Gods, for once upon a time their ancestors bore emperors and heroes into battle, conquered old worlds without swords, discovered new ones without wings. Stamped in their blood and bone is the landscape of their birthplace: the steep-faced granite tors, limestone plateaux, snow-stencilled trees and cut-glass tinkling streams. Before they ever danced beneath chandeliers, they danced beneath the stars on frozen lakes and lagoons, the snow packed hard in their hooves. Before they ever drew strength from the roar of the crowd, they drew strength from the air and sunshine, the fearsome Karst Bora winds. Before their eyes became a part of the spotlight and camera flash, they were part of the deep transparent shining pools, the bright water in the secret ravines. Long ago their hearts pulsed to the rhythm of the seasons, the soft singing breezes. Now they pulse to Aïda, the cajoling violin.
The young stallions are the first to show what they’re mad
e of – eager to please, a little green, their coats just turning grey. It’s a while before any of them will lead the School Quadrille, for they are apt to be a trifle skittish when the crowd gets overly vociferous or a camera flash is too loud; and it is then the soft-gloved hands must steady them a little, remind them they are perfectly used to brass bands, tambourines, Pavarotti going at it hammer and tongs. They glide into formation in the centre of the ring while the others drift away like smoke, pale ethereal wraiths in the moonlight sonata. Their riders salute, doff their bicorned hats; silver bits clink in velvety mouths and then they’re off: flying hooves in unison over the dampened sawdust, beats in one two time like a soft flapping of wings as diagonal pairs of legs rise and fall simultaneously in a high-stepping, syncopated trot. There is a moment of suspension, a space between two hoof beats where nothing touches the ground and they are truly floating, truly floating over the sawdust ring.
‘The ‘passage’ is at the heart of haute école. Based on the natural movements of a foal at play, it nevertheless requires great strength and skill. All haute école training is based on principles laid down hundreds of years ago by the great master of classical horsemanship, Xenophon, and is almost unchanged to this day. Even now training is transmitted by word of mouth from generation to generation – no written texts or instructions, just word of mouth from rider to rider, groom to groom.’
All of a sudden they lose their momentum, the music changes to a honky-tonk piano and the silver dancing horses are trotting on the spot, hopping about on their toes like cats on a hot tin roof. The riders are sitting quite still but the horses are dancing about on their toes as if the sawdust itself were burning, turning their coats from fetlock to forelock a melting molten gold. Either that or invisible strings are dangling from the ceiling and the silver dancing horses are only giant toy puppets. The crowd gasps in astonishment; a child leans over in excitement, drops her ice-cream cone into the ring; it hits Majesto Deus on the nose…
Seahorses Are Real Page 17
