by Mary Hayward
“That’s what the old sailors used to call them.”
“Why? They’re not horses.”
“Well, sailors thought that sea horses were an animal, half fish and half horse, ridden by Neptune and other sea gods. So when they saw the white curved tops of the waves, they thought they looked like horses’ necks, and gave them this name.”
“Oh, so they’re not real horses then?”
“No, my lovely, it’s just what sailors call ’em.”
“That’s all right then, because they’re not real, are they?”
“No, they’re not real. Shall we join the others, eh?” She took my hand in hers. It was a gentle hand, not harsh, and it didn’t lurch with impatience: it had no anger.
She walked with me, letting me totter over the stones at my own pace, and together we slowly joined the others, who were gathered in a little collection of towels that patched the shingle. Miss Maria launched me gently amongst the other children with such confidence that I felt safe with them for the first time. The children were all gathered around, all messing about fussing with their bags and stuff. Jill, the bully in my room who first stole my swimming costume, got all the others into a group, and they started to kick a large red, white and blue beach ball to each other. When they tired of that they started throwing it around in a game of catch, until one boy threw it into the water.
I watched from the sidelines; standing there on the stones, admiring the sea, all my unhappiness put behind me. I decided I would enjoy the time I had left at the Home
We all sniggered as Mr Gordon, a tall man, who was one of the carer’s at the Home, had to roll up his trouser legs and then wade into the water to retrieve the beach ball. He jumped up and down because the water was so cold. We all laughed behind his back. He struggled to get hold of the ball as it drifted beyond his grasp, and then as he reached out to it once more a large bubble of surf soaked his trousers, like he had wet himself. Jill turned round to me, her shoulder-length hair swirling around her face like a scarf. She pulled me over to her in her excitement, pointing at Mr Gordon.
“Look, look,” she said, “he’s wet himself!”
I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t funny to me. I had seen my father drunk too many times and it threatened to snatch me back into sadness. But I promised myself I wasn’t going to be sad anymore. I needed a distraction.
I saw Michael, the little boy I played with, standing about five yards from the water’s edge. He somehow reminded me of my brother Les with his dark hair and cheeky smile. I probably warmed to him because he stood up for me with Matron; he took the blame. I didn’t ask him to do it, but he did it for me; no one had done that before.
I watched as Mr Gordon lobbed the ball high into the air, toward the beach, for little Michael to catch. But he didn’t catch it; instead there was a sudden scramble, everyone diving on top of each other laughing and jostling for the ball. A gust of wind swept across the beach, picking up the ball that bounced away from their grasp.
The children got up and raced to the sea as if to chase it, but to my surprise they ran to the water. The game had changed and without warning they started jumping up and down, splashing each other amongst the waves. They were all screaming as the cold water tumbled around them. So much fun must have been infectious.
I moved forward in a surge of enthusiasm, taking my shoes off and rushing along the beach toward the salty spray. I stopped, shuddered and then hobbled as the stones dug into my tender feet. Picking my way painfully over the stones I finally stopped at the water’s edge. I stood there looking at the endless movement of the sea for ages, before I found the courage. I chanced a single foot. It was numbingly cold. I looked over at the others and saw them all larking around in the sea, and for a moment, I felt stupid inside. I jumped in with a splash, and held fast for a moment letting the sea lap my feet.
I tried to look brave and stand there like the others, but the sea sucked the warmth out of my blood like a vampire, until my toes were as white as the surf in which they bathed. I hopped back onto the warm stones and stood there for a few minutes. I wanted to enjoy the tingling feeling as the colour returned to my feet, blushed pink like petals on a flowering rose.
I ventured slowly into the surf and stayed a little longer in the fine shingle at the water’s edge, but the dragging surf snatched my feet, and I toppled over onto my hands. I got up quickly and shook the grit from my fingers and glanced over my shoulder to see who was laughing. I was lucky. No one had seen me.
I ventured out again and for some reason my feet didn’t feel as cold this time. I moved forward and before long I found myself amongst the other children. We were all jumping up and down over the waves, all lined up, like we did in the playground skipping within a big rope.
Mr Gordon, who had now changed into his swimming trunks, started walking out into the waves. He was already up to his waist when I decided to follow him out. As I went further the water got deeper and deeper. I didn’t understand why it was getting deeper for me, but not for Mr Gordon. He didn’t look as if he was getting deeper. I looked up. He was waving to me.
I went out a little further until the water reached my tiny waist. A wave splattered my face. I shuddered and shook like a dog. I heard him shout something at me, but the words were swept away. I waved at him and he waved back.
Waves were to the left of me, to the right of me and in front of me. They were breaking over my chest and pushing me back. They lifted me as I struggled to keep my footing, but each time they carried me out a little further into the swell. I found myself leaning into the waves as they crashed around me, and somehow I found it thrilling, like being on a fair ground, picked up and rocked around. It was such fun and suddenly the whole world had been forgotten. I was just a little girl lost in the moment of play for the first time in my life: jumping the surf in the ocean.
I couldn’t feel my feet on the bottom anymore. The waves were lifting me up all the time and despite my best efforts I couldn’t get back. I thought that if I were able to reach Mr Gordon he would be able to help me. Overwhelmed by the force of the waves and the depth of the water, warm salt spray trickled down my face, and my eyes filled with tears.
I struggled to keep my head above the waves and I wondered how long it would take for someone to notice? I tried to shout out: “HE…” Water slapped into my mouth like Mother. I pierced the surface with my hands, reaching up as high as I could, but then, failing, I fell back into the foaming sea, spluttering and paddling furiously to stay upright.
Panic started to set in as I found myself lifted up, then down, and for the briefest moment my feet touched the ground once more; I was dragged out again, until one big wave crashed over me so fiercely that I was suddenly thrown backwards, my feet swept from under me, and I disappeared beneath foam, tumbling over, up and down, then sideways and finally bouncing and banging my head on the bottom. I put my hand to my head, as if to feel for a hole, although I felt no pain.
I reached up and gulped for air, and then slapped my hands on the water as I struggled to regain a footing. It was no use: the next wave picked me up, feet first, threw me backwards, and finally dashed me onto the stones, to strip the flesh from my body once more.
Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of the sky. Amongst tumbles, I would gulp desperately for air, but more often than not I swallowed water and soon it all became too much for me. Exhausted, I quickly tired, but I was determined I wasn’t going to give up – I wasn’t a quitter—I had come too far. Once more I found a surge of energy from within.
Struggling to get to the surface, half choking and coughing, I gulped like a dying fish. Again, thrusting my hands in the air as far as I could, I searched desperately for help, but each time I was slapped down. Which way was up? I didn’t know anymore. I caught a precious sweet breath of salt spray, before being struck down again, sucked into the foaming mass of water.
Giving up, I let go my little body. I let it drift in endless twists, tumbles and throws, and although it m
ight be fancy, I remember in the end a sense of calmness that descended over me; and then, as if woken from a dream and finding myself frightened of the dark, I fought with everything I had, kicking hard each time until I found myself above it all.
I could see the sky clearly now and the waves nearby, but it wasn’t enough. I was sinking down into it all, and suddenly I couldn’t stop myself. I took a breath. It was water that filled my lungs so deep that I swear I felt my chest burst open. I could still hear the noise of the stones dragging over each other, the burble of the water and suddenly nothing mattered anymore...
It was all over and the fight for survival was at an end. The torment of my life could stop, and finally I could let it all go. The lights went out, the darkness descended upon me and I drifted into a dreamlike embrace. I saw a bright light flicker in front of me and then a black, nothing…
Noises on the beach. Chattering children. Waves crashing. Screaming shingle outsung the seagulls overhead. A boy’s voice: “Is she dead Miss?”
“Hush now, children.”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
I found myself lying on my tummy with hands pushing on my back. My throat stung with the hacking and spluttering of salty water. Shivering with the cold, just trying to breathe normally without coughing, I lay there motionless. For a moment I couldn’t take it all in and I wondered if I was in heaven. Was this what it was like to be in heaven, with people cuddling and caring?
Someone started rubbing my back and I became aware of a huddle of people around me. Miss Maria was talking to me. The water in my ears drowned her words. Someone got me a towel, sat me up and wrapped it around me. For the first time I opened my eyes. My teeth chattered and somebody found a Mars Bar.
“You are a lucky girl,” Mr Gordon said. “I kept waving for you to go back—didn’t you see me, silly girl?”
He looked at Miss Maria, then back at me, shaking his head.
“You gave us quite a scare there for a moment,” Matron said. “You have Mr Gordon to thank for saving you, you know.”
“Sorry.” I looked at her blankly for I could only think about the Mars Bar.
“Do you want me to unwrap that for you?”
Taking the chocolate from me, Miss Maria unwrapped it and placed it back into my hand. As she patted me on my head, she sat down next to me and held me close.
By this time Mr Gordon and the Matron had got up to supervise the rest of the group, getting them organised ready for the return to the Home.
“Come on you lot, show’s over, get packed up and changed into your clothes.”
“Do we have to?” they moaned, skulking and looking for their things that they had scattered on the beach.
A fight broke out at one time when one of the girls picked up the wrong towel. The Matron and Mr Gordon busily sorted out the girls, barking orders at them, whilst I sat with Miss Maria as she helped me to get ready, holding the towel up and drying me down. She didn’t say much; she just took care of me, dressing me and rubbing my hands briskly, blowing her warm breath onto my little fingers.
I didn’t know why I went out so far—perhaps I thought Mr Gordon was calling me to come out, I just didn’t know, but I often wonder if that is why I have a fear of drowning. It did occur to me that perhaps it was a way of ending my misery, but I didn’t think that was my real intention.
I learned a lot from my stay at the Home. The children, I found, were no different to the adults I had come in contact with; sometimes spiteful and hard, and at other times I found the same mixture of sulking and brooding, some soft, some capable, and some downright nasty. On the other hand the adults had learned to switch off the outside signals—perhaps hiding their true motives, to mislead and confuse without raising concerns.
Children didn’t bury what they wanted to say to me amongst long words, as some of the adults did. It taught me that I had to watch their eyes, hands, and small gestures to understand adults properly and perhaps, as a person once told me, listen to the music behind the words. Now I understood what they meant.
On my return home, things started to get better for me, and life returned to what I accepted as normal. It might have been because Dad had a job for a change; I didn’t know, but I found myself happier at school and things were looking up.
7
The Wedding: School Concert
THE BRIDESMAID DRESS was so lovely. Pastel pink satin, little puffed sleeves and the skirt with an overlay of sheer pale pink netting; an overskirt of tulle, Auntie called it. I stood in the shop fitting room as Auntie Hilda fussed around me, gently taking off my old clothes.
“Come on, put your arms up.” She wasn’t like Mum—she didn’t have to ask twice.
I clasped my hands in the air as if in prayer, and then bending my knees slightly I dived upward as Auntie slid the dress over my head. She let it descend like a parachute, guiding it over me as I blindly felt my way through the mass of satin, until my head finally reached the little ruchéd neck.
I tugged at it through the rustle of gathered skirt, but it would only just go part of the way.
“I’ve got my ears stuck—Auntie, I’ve got my ears stuck.”
She heard the little tone of disappointment in my voice.
“Okay darling,” she said, “don’t worry, we’ll get another one.”
Carefully bending down, she gathered up all the skirt and lifted it clear, and then turning to the wall she hung it up by the large wall mirror.
“Stay here my love,” she said, before disappearing outside through the slit in the curtains that separated us from the main part of the shop.
For a few minutes I stood in front of the mirror, peeking out from behind the dress as the grown-ups chatted outside.
Oh, I am to be a bridesmaid! The Cinderella I have read about in my storybooks at school, all dressed up and going to the ball, and it was me; it was me! For a brief moment I allowed myself a precious fragile dream, and then hearing the familiar sound of footsteps, I perched myself on the small stool that stood in the corner, and pretended I hadn’t moved.
The curtains parted as Auntie carried in another beautiful dress—this time with a little pink headdress.
Overflowing with emotion, being attended to, asked what I wanted, and not only that, it was as if anything I wanted was given to me. For me it was the first time I had experienced such joy, to be equal to my friends, like a Queen for a day! I tried it on as Auntie stood there.
“That’s just perfect.” She knelt down beside me and together we looked in the mirror.
“What do you think, Mary?” She turned and got the pretty flowered headdress, and fitted it in place.
I didn’t answer. I just stood there and looked in the mirror.
“Don’t you look beautiful?”
I didn’t believe her. I thought she was looking at someone else. I flicked my head, first at her face, and then back at the mirror, and as I did so, I saw her smile so broad and as happy a smile as ever I had seen. She drew me towards her and gave me an affectionate cuddle and a little peck on the cheek. For a second I felt my heart flutter with love, but like a moth to a flame it didn’t last.
“Oh. careful, we mustn’t crush the dress.” Auntie pushed me away and stood up.
The dress was packed away and suddenly the rush to take me home replaced the dreaming. It wasn’t her fault the dream had to end so suddenly because I really liked my Auntie Hilda; but she had so much to do that there wasn’t really time for me. Yet she had an infectious giggle that was always bubbling up to the surface and she took others around her with it.
The wedding day had arrived, and with it the big black car. The driver got out and opened the door as Marion lifted me up and onto the plush leather seat. There were three of us there—the two bridesmaids, myself and a little girl called Carolyn, and the Maid of Honour, Marion.
“Say hello to Carolyn,” Marion said.
“Hello,“ I said.
She turned round and tried to look down at me, but she wasn’t tall eno
ugh. Instead she poked her nose in the air.
“How low,” she replied with a plumb in her mouth, all snooty and toffee nosed.
My Auntie Hilda and Uncle Norman, bride and groom, looked stunning as we entered the little church. Auntie was in her white wedding dress, and as she walked up the aisle I noticed that everyone was looking at us. I followed Marion who was wearing a long dress, and like mine, it went down to the floor. As I walked behind her, she seemed to glide along the floor like a ghost. I didn’t understand why I never saw her feet move.
The organ music droned the wedding song, and the choir sung their hearts out and everyone got up as we all glided down the aisle. When we reached the front I sat in a pew to the left, and Carolyn sat in a pew to the right.
We listened in silence as Uncle and Auntie chatted to the man in the white blanket and red scarf, who Dad called the vicar. Mum didn’t say anything—she just kept her head down.
After their little chat, the bride and groom kissed and everyone cheered and clapped. Then we all turned back out of the church and onto the steps outside. The photographer flashed his camera as the guests showered fistfuls of rice over everyone within reach.
First the picture of the bride and groom, then the in-laws, Uncles and Aunts and finally the ladies. I waited anxiously for my turn to feature in the family album as Carolyn continued to give me funny looks.
“Stand still, smile, look up,” the photographer pointed and gestured with his hand outstretched. “There’s a good girl. Cheese.”
Auntie came up onto the steps and stood with me, Marion and the other snotty little bridesmaid, Carolyn. Then the photographer asked us three to stand in front of the wedding car, as if to pretend we had just arrived. Marion stood in front of the open car door, and Carolyn and I stood in front. I stood on the right of her and Carolyn stood to the left of her, both clutching our posy of flowers, both in the identical dresses, each dressed complete with our little pink gloves.
The photographer snapped, then waved with his left hand, and then he snapped again.