Seahorses Are Real

by Zillah Bethell

  I bet it hasn’t, Marly thought, galvanising herself in defiance. Nobody in their right mind would work for a psychiatric institution where old women flitted about like peculiarly faded ghosts in search of the parade and the man in furry slippers. ‘Okay,’ she responded nevertheless (knowing better than to say no) taking the form and cramming it soullessly into her pocket.

  ‘We have another opportunity here,’ the woman with the mushroom hair added brightly, obviously changing to her softly softly catchee monkey routine. ‘Softly softly catchee Marly,’ David had whispered to her once, pushing a tendril behind her ear, ‘cos she’s a little monkey!’ ‘Cleaner required, part-time permanent. £4.20p/h. Previous experience of buffing machine an advantage.’

  Buffing machine! Marly smiled weakly. It seemed the most likely thing in the world, the way the woman said it, to have experience of a buffing machine. ‘Okay,’ she said again, nodding her head and watching the fingers race like stars over the keyboard, conjuring constellations of Orion, the plough and…

  ‘Ambient replenishment? Local supermarket. Must be a team player.’

  …little bear scything round your Venus Colossus. Stacking shelves – she’d done it before in a downtown upmarket supermarket, ghosting out with a moonlit trolley piled high with Fairy liquid, loo roll, shampoos and dog biscuits, freezing her hands off in the freezer section and gunning prices onto tins of Pedigree Chum and pineapple chunks – before it was all computerised. It had been quite a satisfying job (though she hated shopping) like stocking up the larder, just her and her trolley up and down the rows and aisles and solemn little piles of groceries awaiting their fate....

  ‘That’s all for now.’ The woman’s eyes were on the next ‘next please’ and her mushroom bun bobbed a dismissal. Marly almost felt tempted to bow and salute the way Pegleg Pete did to the cars, waving his handkerchief like a magic trick; but she turned with her rucksack and marched to the door, past Bernie Mungo grinding his teeth beneath the bus video; and she imagined he probably thought that the buses would take him right the way over the warm and oily azure seas to the land of mangoes and coconut trees....

  1It was still raining outside and a howling gale was getting up (dishevelled, in his pyjamas, finding only burnt toast for breakfast), swirling grit into people’s eyes and litter about the streets. Marly noticed the woman in the pinstripe suit crouching down beside the wall and talking into a mobile phone; she desperately tried to eavesdrop but all she could catch above the rain and howling wind was ‘New York’ and ‘shopping trip’. ‘Bah!’ she thought, pulling her hood close and taking refuge in some kind of crazy moral superiority, ‘What an egregious thing to do. Why doncha just shop right here in the precinct dear, save the trip!’ She cut across by the Daisy launderette (Fresh as a daisy, that’s our motto. We get things squeaky clean... blood, chocolate, stains, vomit. Have you heard our Daisy…) wondering why she felt so excluded. It wasn’t that she wanted to be like the woman with her wretched suit and mobile phone… and then came the gaps and the buts... it was more the fact that the woman belonged to something or seemed to belong in any case whereas Marly belonged to nothing, not even herself. You had to belong to something. Everybody had to belong to something. Even the gentlemen and old ladies congregating in the shrubbery per diem for a whiskey mac and packet of nasturtium seeds belonged to the park, that bench, the rocks and the trees. She stared with vague unease at the people milling about her, splashing through puddles, putting up umbrellas; some stared back surprised or annoyed, some laughed at the scarf wrapped right around her neck. ‘It’s not that cold,’ a man shouted with a titter in his voice and she smiled back, glaring inside. ‘You judge on first appearance at your peril, my lad,’ she muttered in her thoughts and in her father’s voice, purple fingers winding up the grandfather clock in the attic. ‘You judge on first appearance at your peril, my lad!’ You could stare and stare but it didn’t get you anywhere; you couldn’t see, really see, beneath the bright cagoules and pastel umbrellas, the layers of skin and layers of deception. The human being, in a single psyche, could contain the seeds of a beautiful flowering plant as well as the seeds of a killer. There were acres of room inside to pretend, to be, to live or to die, to count yourself a king or queen of infinite space, to be afraid, to be loyal, to be brave. An old man with a stick could be a war veteran, a tax dodger, cab driver or a burglar and you couldn’t tell from the outside. The bodily form took on all manner of disguise; sometimes the body reflected the mind and sometimes it expressed what the mind denied – like the man who’d opened his mouth to scream at Gallipoli and couldn’t shut it months later. Stuff lurking in the mind came out in the body, according to Terry. It was easy to scoff at Pegleg Pete saluting the cars or Waltzing Matilda feeding the ducks but how did you know what was going on on the inside? Inside he might be saluting his lost comrades, she feeding the five thousand. Pain made manifest, spilling out in little wiggles, odd behaviour, strange compulsions and disease. Marly had struggled to understand the half-choking language of her own body over the years, her body that had stopped at the doll’s house; and no doubt her body had struggled to understand the half-choking language of her mind – but she didn’t know which came first or what came where. All she knew was that she didn’t belong to her mind or her body, that she was pared right the way down to the bone and somebody in her place was walking through the park, sitting down on the bench by the memorial for the dead, conducting this endless monologue in her head and wrapping the scarf right the way around her neck though it wasn’t all that cold – the man was right – in an objective sense.

  The grass had a flattened silvery quality and the leaves were brown where the river had left its mark. The flower garden looked quite wrecked – just one or two bright stems braving the rain and howling wind – she imagined the gardener’s woebegone expression, standing in the falling rain, her arms full of dying flowers – and a couple of magpies croaking over a crisp packet, no doubt trying to spy the free gift inside: toy soldier, plastic ring, luxury break in the Bahamas for two, if only they could cram all their objets d’art in a single suitcase. Pigeons fluffed and coo’d underneath the library’s eaves, deafening the silent readers trying to read in the silent reading room; the seagulls were nowhere in sight, having been seen off by the purple-necked Coo Crazy Clan, or pulled back to the angry waves by something stronger than tides or moon. Marly huddled inside her long dark coat on the soaking bench, feeling the rain drumming over her head. There was something reassuring about the rain; it gave you an excuse to go home and sip cocoa in front of your favourite television show, put your feet up, paint your nails, stoke the fire with chestnuts, glowing coals and melting marshmallows; it gave you an excuse to be a small insignificant self, to be pared right the way down to the bone because compared to the wind and the rain you were pretty small and insignificant.... Marly blinked and blew away the droplet of rain that always collected at the end of her nose, noticing out of the corner of her eye an old man and Labrador dog hobbling in her direction; she turned with sudden interest to the memorial for the dead, gazing at it with a feigned and abstract attention: somebody had hung a plimsole around the soldier’s arm – it dangled like a peculiarly elegant handbag – and a fat black moustache had been scrawled above his lip. She wondered if it was the work of 9T9 Flake but she couldn’t spot any trademark umbrellas depicted on the statue’s torso; just knee-length leafen boots the river had left in its wake, giving him the air of some elfin warrior king – Elrond or Celeborn – about to descend on Lothlorien….

  ‘Pity we can’t export it!’

  ‘Yes,’ she said automatically, turning in surprise. He’d crept up on her stealthy as a cat – hobble or not – or Gandalf carried on an invisible Shadowfax. The Labrador dog almost collapsed at his feet, panting like a grampus the way very old dogs do, even when they’re sitting quite still.

  ‘Some countries haven’t had rain for years,’ the man went on sombrely, peering at her with an aggrieved eye from under his cap. �
��They can’t get their agricultures started at all.’

  ‘It’s a terrible shame,’ Marly agreed, taken aback and wondering why the dog was dribbling onto her boot. She felt a little sorry for it and bent over to pat it on the head.

  ‘Make a mint, we would, if only we could export it!’

  ‘I’m sure we would.’ Marly nodded vigorously, trying not to smile at the ridiculousness of the situation. The man’s cap was quite drenched and he fingered the brim with a blackened nail. ‘You’ll catch a chill like that,’ he added. ‘Come on, old girl.’ She thought for a moment he was talking to her but the Labrador dog started heaving itself, leg by shaky leg, to its feet and they lumbered off up the path. ‘I expect I will,’ she called after them, a little annoyed and getting up because it seemed a bit odd to stay sitting after that. She wanted to bring the old man back, invite him home for a cup of tea so they could talk all day to their hearts’ delight about rain and agriculture; but every second’s delay sent him closer to the bustling town and she remained quite rooted to the spot, staring at the plimsole and fat black moustache, wondering what to do and where to go.

  In the end she turned and made her way upstream along the same old route beside the Darenth, her coat billowing out behind her, her hair flying about all over her face. She just wanted to escape, to be left alone, to be able to live her life. He just couldn’t accept her sitting in the rain like that. Oh no, he had to poke his nose in with his Catch a Chill Love and dog that looked like it had run a marathon. Exporting rain, my foot! He’d probably had the joke lined up for months, waiting to spring it upon the first person he could. Ha ha, funny man. Weren’t they all such funny men? Couldn’t they see she was close to the edge? Couldn’t they see she was close to the precipice? ‘I am a wondrous thing,’ she cried silently at the dark birds huddled in the boughs of trees that swayed and squeaked like cats on the prowl, ‘so full of goodness I could burst like the Thames.’ It was best to say the good things. Replace negative images by positive ones, Terry had said, though inside she still did a sort of macabre dance when she proclaimed to the universe that she was good to the brim. She felt ashamed that she couldn’t apply herself, couldn’t get herself a job, couldn’t even get up in the mornings when there were countries that couldn’t get their agricultures going. She felt ashamed that there were refugees when she was clothed and fed by a man that loved her, though he used his fists.... Bad, rotten, riddled with guilt. A little old rotten thing packed away for lunch in cling film a long time ago... not worth living for, not worth fighting for... she stared from under her hood at the stream swollen up with old fish bones, sodden secrets, dead leaves and shiny bottles all heading for the locker of the oyster-lipped Davy Jones. There were many streams and many secrets, they really should have said, the fizzy sweets and the fortune fish and all of them led to the human heart, all of them led to Davy Jones’ locker.... If she put him through hell and he came through it meant that she was worth living for. If she put him through hell and he came through it meant that she was worth fighting for. She’d put him through hell over the years and he’d come through with flying colours until now, until now. She was justified now in provoking him. She was justified now in provoking him by the way he reacted. Wasn’t she? Wasn’t she?

  The rain stung her cheeks as she stepped gingerly around the old oak tree that had fallen in the bad November storm. It lay there horizontal to the ground, balancing on its crippled branches; its raw, jagged stem seemed to stare at the sky in mute supplication. The grand old matriarch had toppled at last one night when the lightning illuminated the heavens. (How are the mighty fallen, her grandmother was wont to gum-ble, poring over old photographs and tarnished silver spoons.) Little grubs, bugs and fungi teemed over her torso, despite the rain, getting their hands on what was left of her. The tree cutter would come soon, chop her into pieces and take her home for firewood or maybe a bedside cabinet or two. What a fate for a tree that had withstood aeons and aeons or what a relief, depending on your point of view – gone in a puff of smoke, just ashes on the breeze, or to be transformed into something that stood on a Persian carpet or parquet floor behind twitching lace curtains, never moving a muscle. The leaves on the grass looked like pieces from a jigsaw puzzle: Autumnal Scene on Sunset Boulevard or Fiasco in a Windswept Park. It seemed terribly sad to Marly that the old oak tree had fallen – it seemed like a portent, a symbol, a sign that something bad was going to happen, a break in the continuity of things, a rupture with history – and how could you ever break from your own history? She hated change, not because she liked it where she was but because she had a horrible feeling that change could be for the worse; she could never quite believe that change could be for the better. As a child she’d jumped off buildings onto breakneck cardboard boxes with her daredevil, tomboy friends but as an adult she quailed at the thought that a tree had fallen in a bad November storm.

  The old Canterbury road was busy as always and she had to wait a while before darting across in a gap and sliding down the bank, her boots skidding over the wet mud. It was calmer by the lake and she pulled her hood down the better to look about her. One or two fishermen were hiding under their black umbrellas or inside their green tents doing God knows what; and the rain pitter-pattered softly over the trees, the leaves and the wooden slats of the tiny jetty before sliding silently into those strange concentric circles on the lake. (What a lot of bangles the river gods must have.) She made her way along the gravelly path, hopping over little puddles, dog shit and bulbous roots as she went. It was always the same... every day, every day... circling round the same old lake as she circled round the same old thoughts in her head. Just a variation on an old refrain. Violin strings. Theme by Paganini. Yes she loved him. But not enough to take the risk. Yes he loved her, more than anyone else ever did but did it make up for the fact that he used his fists? Past Harlequin and Albatross trussed up in tarpaulin by the rotten old boatshed. She’d never actually seen them out on the water, they just lay there trussed in tarpaulin, propping up the rotten old boatshed and what a foolish name for a boat Albatross was in any case. Come to think of it, she’d never seen any boat out on the lake, just endless rows of fishermen round the edge, holding their sullen rods over the moody water. The silver birch trees shimmered as always in the rain, their wet bark like canvas or naked skin, their branches entwining like a pair of Siamese twins sharing the same fetal heartbeat.... She’d learned to lie still and quiet as a mouse. She’d learned that he was bigger and stronger than she. She’d gone to him for comfort after he’d hurt her, though it was he that had hurt her. When the person that loved you hurt you as well you had to pretend it was somebody else. You, me and number three. Same old refrain in a different key on a theme by Paganini, Elgar, Saint-Saëns and Edvard Grieg... she felt the rain wash over her face and watched the strange concentric circles ripple and disappear. It was a bit like the butterfly effect. A butterfly fluttering its wings in Tobago could affect the state of Afghanistan, Vietnam, the Arctic, even the gods might feel a fluttering near to their hearts if only they could feel hard enough. Lungs, gills, butterfly wings, all rippling to the rhythm of the one gigantic heartbeat. That fisherman over there touched water that had brushed past dolphins, clouds, maybe great freighters, deep sea divers. It was all connected. She felt a vague sense of peace at the thought that it might all be connected, the joy and sadness collected together and that it would all pass and it didn’t matter; and the trivial point of her life would end and something else would take its place. Every argument they had was The End though they always began again – and it didn’t matter and it would all end and then begin, variation on a same old theme.

  So why did the anger cut through her like a dagger? And why did it matter right here right now? You couldn’t just sink away into death, the mind revolted at such a step. You clung on to life for better or worse, whatever the cost you kept on existing in the hope against hope (for hope was hard to kill) that something better lay round the corner. Killing yourself was a
complicated affair – you couldn’t just hack away at your wrists or pop a cyanide tablet down your neck like they did in the war movies, you had to get things in order, set things straight, get on a clean pair of pants at the very least for when they found you. (They used a mop to get that woman out of the lake at Crayford. The note just said: Can’t stand it any more. Thanks. Cheerio. Don’t forget to feed the cat.) She’d discussed the options with David: the Roman way, overdosing on pills, jumping off the Dartford bridge and helium balloons. They’d seen on TV how to die by helium balloon and David had laughed and said you better not change your mind halfway through and try calling for help cos your voice would come out all squeaky! She smiled at the thought of his jokes and his laughter, his warm strong body and the solidity of his spirit that kept her centred, kept her rooted. Her rock, her velveteen rabbit… he was like a Christmas bauble, a beautiful, golden Christmas bauble at the top of the tree and something quite perverse in her head, something quite unbelievable made her want to smash it to pieces, smash it into smithereens. She didn’t know why. It was some kind of reflex action. She hurt him so he hurt her back and then she had to hurt him again. Just variations, escalations, endless rings and butterfly…

  ‘You’re pushing him to the edge of his limits,’ his mother had said in her pretty lilting Welsh voice and she had replied, ‘Oh dear, am I really?’ though inside she had thought well goody goody gumdrops, maybe now he’ll know what it feels like to be rock bottom, at the edge of his limits and he might have some sympathy for me for a change. She didn’t actually believe he could ever get as low as she – he didn’t have the constitution for it. Eat, drink and be merry was his motto; and she saw him in her mind’s eye as one of those cross-legged, beaming buddhas, all stomach, crinkly eyes, double chins and cheesy grins. ‘You’re just a little Bacchus!’ she’d said to him once, putting him down as always and a little pretentiously, though she didn’t even know who Bacchus really was. ‘What what? You’re kidding. I most certainly am not,’ he had cried, eyes wide in mock reproach. ‘Bacchus was a fatty with no knickers, wasn’t he!?’ And she had replied, ‘Exactly, that’s my point!’ and they had laughed and laughed till the tears streamed down their cheeks.