Paul hardly heard. So far he had read through one complete story, upside down, and had graduated to the next, this time in smaller type. He was halfway through–if only Storm would go he could finish it.
Storm continued in an excitable, slightly tremulous voice:
‘There’s no need to go until you’ve found another position obviously–a month or six weeks–I don’t know–however long it takes you to find a decent job–’
Storm put a hand on his knee and gripped it firmly. ‘Look, Paul–it costs me a lot–oh–it’s–dreadful having to say this to you. You do see–I don’t want you to go.’ The whole conversation was being punctuated by Storm with lengthy pauses. ‘People here think because I’m so very busy all the time that I’m blind to what goes on. Well, I’m not and I do know what goes on. There’s a general feeling of unrest here–I can sense it all the way through the school. The boys are difficult and restless, the staff are quarrelling and the whole system’s foundering. This kind of atmosphere shouldn’t be created in an ordinary school let alone Exeter Court. We have a duty to these boys, Paul, and I don’t intend to see it disregarded.’ Storm’s voice gathered conviction and he continued more confidently. ‘These boys need our attention, individually, each one of them. We can’t afford to put our own feelings first–this is the whole point of our being here–at this school. We give the solid background–the stability. They depend on us for it. You’ve no idea how bad staff relations–a filthy atmosphere in the staff-room with everyone bickering–gets picked up in the school. It’s a sounding board to atmosphere, and if we’re all going to behave like this then the whole place will be polluted with unrest and indiscipline. I’m not going to have what I’ve built up here wrecked–’ He sounded like a child about to be deprived of a toy and his voice rose in anger–‘and I’m taking every precaution to see that it isn’t.’
‘And number one precaution is get rid of me–right?’
‘To put it crudely–yes. Look, Paul, you’ve misbehaved, you must admit.’
‘Misbehaved?’
‘You’ve been a disturbing influence. You’ve made both the staff and the boys jealous over the way you have been treating–one child. I’m very sorry, Paul, but it’s been obvious to me that this sudden unrest is partially caused by your–relationship–with Casey.’ Storm had hesitated almost deprecatingly over the last few words and relit his pipe with self-conscious solidarity. There was a pause which was abruptly broken.
‘Storm, you can’t talk like this.’ Paul’s voice grew desperate as panic filled him. Perhaps Storm really meant all this. He swept rapidly on, his voice rising to something that was between a whine and sudden hysteria. ‘Do you remember that afternoon on the cliffs only six weeks ago? The three of us–we went in the brake, remember? It was the most glorious day and we all mucked about on the clifftop like children. Then that marvellous drive back–And what about the holidays when we’ve had Casey with us? He’s been like a son to both of us. Don’t you remember that day his father came and just literally dumped him on us? You can’t be talking like this to me, Storm, not after all that–not after all that, Storm?’
Paul poured whisky out of a decanter into two glasses and gave one to Storm, who muttered something. They were silent for a moment, then Paul spoke again.
‘Look, you may think I’m a jolly odd character. You may even think I’m a homosexual–’ He paused, awaiting the reaction.
‘Now look, Paul,’ Storm was acutely embarrassed, ‘I never mentioned, nor thought anything of the kind.’
‘Are you quite sure about that, Storm? Are you quite sure that the fact that I apparently have such an interest in small boys never crossed your mind as rather peculiar?’
Storm’s face worked in embarrassment. He said nothing, gesturing vainly with his hands. He looked down at the floor, his face brick red. A big shambling man, embarrassed and not knowing where to look.
‘Look here, Paul–I–I’ve known you for ten years–extremely intimately–and I would know if you were–if you ever–the–the thing that upsets me so much is that you think I suspect you of–’ He looked desperately up at him and bent forward, laying both his hands on Paul’s. His pipe fell to the floor, and he gripped Paul’s wrists so that it hurt.
‘I promise you, Paul–I never thought of you–in–in this light at all. I have every respect for–your kindness and generosity to–Casey who I can tell–’ he faltered and then continued–‘I can tell you I happen to love very much too. I don’t know why I do–I can’t explain it–but I know one thing, Paul–you’ve looked on me as you looked on Meg when Stephen was alive–as a potential rival–And there is a bit of a difference between us, Paul, in regard to Casey–I can keep my feelings in check–and you can’t.’
Paul hit back savagely, to hurt as much as he dared. ‘You’ve absolutely no right–nor any foundation for bringing Stephen or Meg into this. How the hell do you know? Unless Meg cries on your shoulder–Meg–come in here, you disloyal cow! Excuse me while I call my wife–Meg!’ Paul yelled for her at the top of his voice and she came in with a dish towel over her arm and wearing an apron. Paul poured out more Scotch, ignoring Storm’s glass, and bawled:
‘Take off your fucking apron and put down your bloody dish mop and tell me exactly what you’ve been saying to my old friend here–or shall I say our mutual old friend?’
Storm stood up. ‘I’m so sorry, Meg. I don’t think there’s much point in my staying here any longer.’ He began to move towards the door, but Paul shouted:
‘Sit down–I want an explanation.’
‘Look here, Paul,’ Storm gave a desperate glance at Meg. ‘I was told nothing about Stephen by anyone–I’m sorry but I have got an imagination of a kind and I used it.’ He turned to Meg. ‘Meg, I haven’t told you this but I came to a decision before lunch–and I’ve asked Paul–to resign and what have you–and leave at the end of term.’
‘I’m a bit of a fly in the ointment, you see,’ said Paul thickly, pouring himself out a liberal quantity of Scotch.
Meg sat down on the arm of a chair and Storm thought how pathetically defenceless she looked in her apron with her tired eyes. For a moment she was silent, then she said:
‘I’d better talk to you about this later, Storm.’
‘Oh ho,’ cried Paul, ‘and what have I uncovered here? Another little intrigue? I shall have to suspend you, Headmaster, for untoward attention to a member of the staff–Private interviews not granted–all will be heard in public. We are unashamed–Meg, tell all to your hubby who has a sympathetic ear. Meanwhile, Headmaster, I must ask you for your instant resignation–on grounds of extreme impropriety with one of your staff–a relationship that will badly influence, nay pervert, the young innocents we serve.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t drink so much,’ said Meg calmly, fiddling with an antimacassar.
‘Oh, come on, don’t be a spoilsport, darling, remember our own private little booze-ups–a fading memory now, of course.’ He poured himself out more Scotch and belched contentedly.
‘I should go if I were you,’ said Meg.
‘Move an inch and I’ll nail you to the floor,’ said Paul aggressively.
‘You’ve got rather drunk on surprisingly little.’
‘Any percentage of alcohol in my blood at this particular time would make me very drunk–but lucid too, of course, and prepared to listen sympathetically to whatever you have to say to Storm.’
Meg turned to Storm whilst Paul shouted, ‘We’re off!’
‘Look, Storm–now is hardly the right place to say this, but if you do ask Paul to leave I won’t answer for the consequences.’
‘And if I don’t–I won’t answer for them for the school.’
‘You’re as selfish as Paul, aren’t you?’ she said savagely and watched the slow hurt creep across Storm’s features. ‘Your bloody school–nothing matters beside it, does it?’
‘Now look, Meg–I’ve got only one course open to me–I’m sorry I’ve got to do it–
you know bloody well I am. But there’s no alternative at all, and selfish or not, or whatever you care to call me, I’m not going to wreck the chances of this school for either of your sakes, however fond I am of you. It’s been doing and will continue to do a good job.’
‘A bloody fine job, eh?’ commented Paul facetiously, steadily getting drunker.
The atmosphere was becoming charged with a mounting oppression as they argued.
‘Don’t hurt him, Paul,’ said Meg and bit back at this sudden stupidity. Storm looked away from her, his face crimson with embarrassment.
‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘that really would be the end, wouldn’t it?’ and he burst into loud uncontrollable sobs which stirred Storm and provoked Meg to shout:
‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake, you hysterical idiot.’
But he continued to sob and then to shout. Pathetically, unintelligibly he mouthed obscenities at them until Storm got to his feet.
‘Be quiet,’ he thundered and Paul subsided for a moment. Then he went up to Paul and slapped him sharply round the face twice and walked away. He opened the door and left the room, but Paul followed him with Meg running behind them both.
‘Look, Storm, I’m sorry–I’m sorry for Christ’s sake, I’m sorry.’
‘Will you please be quiet,’ Storm hissed as the incongruous group marched down the corridor. Meg tried to grab Paul’s arms but he thrust her away. Down past the muted splashes of impressionist colour scattered amidst the sombre chocolate brown, their steps ringing out loudly, their voices raised. Storm was in panic flight from Paul’s hysterics. To gain the sanctuary of his room was all he wanted–to get away from this ghastly embarrassing scene–this terrible husband and wife battle that seemed suddenly to be directed at him. He positively raced down the stairs–whilst classroom doors opened along the corridors and startled heads appeared.
‘Will you go away,’ Storm hissed ineffectually as he glanced round at his pursuers.
‘Look, Storm,’ Paul was saying, ‘let me stay until the end of term.’ He was very drunk and had to cling on to the banister for support on one hand and to Meg on the other. He looked ridiculous and Storm told him so, but in a stage whisper that they couldn’t hear. Storm was standing in the hall now and Paul and Meg were on the staircase. Lancing had already peered curiously from his classroom and Angus Clarke could be heard whistling as he climbed the basement steps.
‘For God’s sake will you go away?’ Storm was nearly desperate now.
‘Paul–please darling–don’t make a scene.’
Angus Clarke appeared in the hallway now, duffle-coated and obviously just about to go out. Lancing’s head appeared once more from his classroom door and then he emerged completely, standing on the next landing, gazing curiously down.
‘Is anything wrong, Headmaster?’
Storm gestured to him to go back but he affected not to understand. He obviously wasn’t going to miss anything. But the scene was not to be–at least not in its promised explosive detail–for Paul lurched, missed the banister and fell headlong down the stairs. Meg, who had released her hold on him for a moment, tried to catch hold of his arm but he was already tumbling in an undignified heap down the stairs. Everyone rushed forward at once, but as he went down Paul struck his head and was knocked temporarily unconscious. He lay in a heap on the floor and as he came to began to vomit.
Casey plunged the needle into his arm and felt a dull pain whilst the skin flushed around the tiny incision. It was blunt–he should have put a new needle in, now he would have a sore arm all day. He sighed. One thing that he hated above everything else was physical pain–and the prolonging of it seemed so pointless. He remembered how he used to dread the daily injection that his complaint required–and how he cried aloud as the needle slipped with frightening ease into his flesh. He had been injecting himself long before his father went away–yet even now he was still uneasy half an hour before the sharp pain. The familiarity of it however had dulled his sensitivity to a degree of almost not minding and as he withdrew the needle he was irritated more by his own carelessness than the actual pain.
He pushed away his apparatus and put it in his locker. The box in which he placed his kit was covered with ink stains–and Casey remembered how a boy had filled the syringe with ink and how they had all laughed in the dormitory when the time had come for his injection. Since then he did not attend to himself in front of them, but simply awaited a moment when the room was empty and he could take out the syringe in privacy.
Casey hadn’t particularly resented the joke–he accepted their childish cruelty as he accepted their rough candour and surprising compassion. They reacted to him and to each other impulsively. They had been frankly curious about his disease although there were other diabetics at Exeter Court who had received similar scrutiny. But now their interest had waned and curiosity was replaced by acceptance.
Casey looked up at the battered, fly-blown clock, picked up a pile of books and went downstairs. He opened a side door and closed it gently. Then he walked round the vegetable garden towards the front of the house, kicking a rusty tin can in front of him, his feet scoring the gravel and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
He was not a scholar–neither was he a sportsman. So he found little favour with the general run of either masters or boys. There was nothing to which he could apply himself that he could be successful at. He had no hobbies, no ambitions, no burning desire to be or do anything. He looked around him, and whatever he saw he seemed to draw into the mesh of his own highly-coloured imagination. He gave nothing of this outside himself–if he had he might have been able to write or paint or do something creative. His world in miniature was an embryo that became nothing–his introversion killed talent and concentration of any kind. Gradually he was slipping further and further into unreality. The outside world, unless it directly interfered with him, hardly seemed to matter on some days–and indeed, hardly seemed to matter at all. People, especially grownups, were like passing shadows who took material shape only if they questioned or obstructed him. Apart from that he rarely gave them a thought–except Paul who troubled him. Here was a grown-up who was always around–always talking to him–always pressing him to talk about himself. Casey was afraid of Paul in a sense–yet, with the exception of Storm, Paul was the only adult who had taken the time to break down his tremendous resistance. But Casey, despite his reserve, loved uninhibitedly one adult alone–and although Storm never paid him nearly enough attention for his liking, what he received satisfied him because he knew he could trust him. The continual outings with Paul, the sailing, the odd relationship that they had struck up made him feel awkward and uncomfortable. He felt possessed–and although these thoughts were subconscious he began to resent the continual pressure of Paul’s love. When Storm no longer came on their holiday journeys he was bitterly disappointed, but his reserve, a good ally for once, covered up for him and he showed no indication of his feelings to Paul.
In everything Casey saw around him he conjured up with the sheer vibrant imagination that only a child can produce and believe in, a land of his own peopled by his own mind, as real to him as the outside and a release that he would slide back into each time the material world ventured too far towards him. Images of his making never bored or hurt him, but consistently amused and stimulated until other people were irrelevant. Paul, in his frustrated attempts at penetration, drove Casey further back into his own privacy, determined that the intrusion should not be complete. Paul battered away but Storm had never tried to invade–he had listened to Casey should he care to tell him of his secret world but had never tried to force him–as Paul had in his anxiety to involve himself so completely. Storm had believed with Casey–and shared–but Casey had called the tune–and would always be assured that he could go back to his world without taking a second party with him. With Paul it was different–he definitely wanted to penetrate into the cocoon of Casey’s privacy–and stay. So Casey had missed Storm bitterly and had resented Paul–a re
sentment that streaked into his mind every now and then until it had a permanent place there.
The pivot of his highly-geared imagination was his Seahorse, in whom he believed implicitly. Nothing could sway him from this belief and it had now been of over a year’s duration. Alternately it haunted and delighted him. Having seen it and dreamt about it and imagined it for so long he had a very clear picture of both its purpose and motives. It was there to guard him, had been appointed to guard him in fact by some highly reliable unearthly force, and as long as it lived at the very end of the pier and continued to be safe and happy, he in turn would be well looked after. Amazing as this fantasy would seem to the average maturing eleven-year-old, dismissed as idiotic as it would have been by any small boy, Casey believed in it completely. Gradually both Paul and Storm were openly confided in and it was soon after this confidence that Paul started to probe until Casey began to resent the intrusion. Only Storm could be entrusted with the precious knowledge–and he seemed so detached recently.
The tenacity of his imagination invented a whole host of impressions that revolved in his mind in an endless confusion that was a well-ordered jumble to him–like a general store. Apart from day-to-day experiences, singular impressions were recorded. On a very happy occasion he had been with Paul and Storm to an art exhibition in London. Many of the paintings were combinations of blue and black squares and rectangles, or incomprehensible studies of abstract forms, but suddenly amidst this bleak confusion he was shown a painting that he never remembered was by Max Ernst. All he could remember was an appalling concept of some primaeval scene on the edge of or underneath a great sea. Two semi-human forms walked amongst a wild garden of sea plants, shells and animals. Some were crabs, others were unidentifiable sea creatures who should inhabit only the very bed of the deepest and most forgotten ocean. Out of every form, be it human or vegetable, heads grew, mocking, derisive faces appeared from the crutch of every limb or aperture. And the whole fearful vivid impression was the rotting of some terrible intimacy, a parody of the sedate, decent life of the adults around him. Figures, arm-in-arm, strode across deserts, forests, oceans of foetid corruption, whilst living forms, sub-human and bestial, leered and jeered at their civilised progress. Casey, unanalytical of these impressions, simply drank in the canvas as a whole and immediately associated with them the very lair itself of his awe-inspiring guardian. The pale leprous movement of the frottage gave the picture a shifting vivacity of its own, and here Casey believed at last was a true representation of the vast pleasure dome of his dreams. The kind of land that had to be mirrored by Ernst, Van Gogh or Bradbury–a living waste of conjured images, distorted as in a dream pool. The closest he came to the land was in smaller ways–looking through coloured glass for instance, and this was plentifully available in the Victorian windows and panelled doors of Exeter Court. He would often go and look through the downstairs windows, all of which had the fascinating panes of fused glass. Through them he would see grown-ups move about their daily routine–frog-green one moment and damson-painted the next. The intensity of the colour seemed to distort them too, elongating or subduing their proportions. Either way it was fun to watch them–violet-tinted or daffodil-yellow, parchment-grey or peacock-blue. Fun to fancy them for a moment in his own world, but greater fun to withdraw, go back by himself and leave them behind in the coloured glass.
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