You still there?
I know you’re still there, I can see those little dots appearing and disappearing. What’s the matter?
I take a deep breath.
It’s taking longer than I thought it would.
Oh.
There’s so much to do and everyone keeps losing the pieces of paper they’re supposed to have and no one but me cares about getting it done. It’s a nightmare, it’s absolutely doing my head in. I’m so tired each night I can’t tell you. xxxxx
Do my words sound authentic? They ought to; I’ve borrowed the script from my mother. I feel guilty, but not guilty enough to stop lying.
I know. I’m sorry.
I need you back. I can’t work without you, the house is a mess, I need you here to support me.
How much longer are we talking anyway?
Till the end of this week I think
The end of the week? Jesus what are you doing? Can’t you bring some of it home with you?
I know, I know
And what about work? Are they going to let you have this long?
I have no idea. I honestly have no idea. I only know I can’t come home yet.
It’ll be okay. They’ll understand
Unlike your grumpy miserable husband you mean
I didn’t mean that and you know I didn’t. Look I know how hard it is for you. I’d rather be anywhere than here.
Is that true?
??? Of course it’s true
I feel like you’re drifting away from me. The only times we ever argued were when you went to see her. She never liked me and now you’re back in her house surrounded by her stuff and I hate it.
Daniel please, I love you. I swear I don’t want to stay here a minute longer, I’m doing literally nothing but bloody forms and emails. I’ll come home the second I’m done xxx
And then we’ll be rich, remember?
Okay, now you’re the one with the little dots.
It’s nothing
Come on. Tell me
Well, you know the other night when you dream-stalked me and I had a red guitar?
Yeeessss…
Well, I’ve kind of still got it.
I knew it. I bloody knew it.
It has the most amazing tone. I could play it for hours. Actually I did play it for hours
He said he’d hold it for me for a couple of days. It’s a bargain, he could get five grand for it easily on eBay but he offered it to me for three and a half
I couldn’t say no, Jen. It’s the most beautiful thing you ever saw
So I bought it
I PayPalled him the money last night
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God oh God, fucking fucking fuck. This and the payment to the T-shirt guy and the first part of the undertaker’s bill; we’ll go over our card limit now for sure. I’ll have to try and increase it. Can I do that online?
Never mind. We’ve managed before. We’ll manage this time too. And when Lily’s flat is sold…
You know, it’s a bloody good thing I love you
So you’re not mad?
This is my penance for taking our daughter out to dance in the storm and nearly losing her, and for pretending I’ve been working hard when in fact I’ve been bone idle.
No I’m not mad.
You really mean it?
I really mean it
Oh my God you’re amazing. THANK YOU
AS LONG AS I don’t have to fall over the damn thing all the time because you leave it lying around
Don’t worry, this baby won’t be lying around anywhere, I swear
And as long as you don’t get mad with me for needing longer here
It’s a deal. Only till the end of the week, right?
About that yes. Maybe a day or two longer. But that’s all. And then we’ll be home
I love you xxxxxxx
I know xx
The secret negotiations of a long marriage.
“Are we taking lunch to the beach?” Marianne’s like a mouse getting ready for winter, all bulky burdens and anxious scurrying. It wouldn’t surprise me to find she’s stashed something inside her cheeks. “What shoes should I wear?”
“Whatever shoes you want. And we can take lunch or get something there, whatever you want. There’s a café, or there used to be.”
“What sort of food will they have?” Marianne is sensitive about food, a deep anxiety that goes far beyond picky, combining childish dislikes with odd taboos picked up at random from government leaflets, Food Science lessons and conversations with Daniel. At present she’s not eating potatoes in any form, but has a passion for porridge with jam stirred through it, and the kind of part-baked bread that comes entombed in thick plastic, and which you sprinkle with water and finish off in the oven.
“I don’t know, the usual stuff.”
“What’s the usual stuff?” She looks genuinely baffled. “And what should I wear?”
Just when I think I’ve finally managed to herd her to the door, she vanishes again. I run her to earth in the bathroom, scrabbling through her small assortment of make-up.
“What are you doing? You don’t want mascara, it’ll run in the water.”
“I want to look nice.”
“Why do you… You do look nice, you look lovely.”
“But it’s a special occasion,” says Marianne.
How many times in my childhood did I run up and down the streets that lead to the beach? Hundreds. And now my daughter stands in front of Lily’s bathroom mirror, making herself beautiful for a special occasion. I take the mascara from her and reach instead for the scarlet lipstick that she loves.
“Put this on,” I tell her. “And get a move on or I’m going without you.”
At the top of the steep hill that flows down to the seafront, we stop to catch our breath and to gaze at the sea, bright and choppy and glinting. When I feel Marianne beside me draw the air deep into her lungs and see her shoulders relax and her face break into a huge goofy smile, I feel again the stab of guilt that I kept this treasure from her for so long.
“It looks so different,” she says. “Are you sure it’s the same beach?” I laugh and she looks at me shyly. “Did Lily bring you? Even though she was an old lady?”
“All the time. Twice a day, sometimes. We’d go home for lunch and come back again. And sometimes in the evening, to watch the seagulls going to bed.”
“I didn’t know old people did stuff like that.”
I think about my mother, alone and grumbling in her frowsty existence; of Daniel’s father, who has opinions about whisky and thinks of himself as a dog-lover even though he’s never owned one; of Daniel’s mother, who is ruthlessly organised with a terrifying garden. What a contrast with Lily, mysterious and magical, capable of conjuring wonders. “Some of them do and some of them don’t. I think you got the sort of grandparents who don’t. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t be me without them, would I? They’re sort of like the foundations. And you and Dad are the house. And I’m standing on the roof like a seagull.”
I’m used to thinking of Marianne as the bottom of an inverted pyramid, in danger of being crushed by the weight of the generations above.
“It would have been nice to meet her though,” says Marianne, almost to herself, and it’s only because her hands are moving along with her lips that I know she’s talking to me at all.
We spread out our towels and settle ourselves under the sea wall. Marianne looks longingly towards the water.
“It’ll be cold,” I tell her.
“I don’t mind.”
“Go on then.” She’ll never get past her knees, but if it makes her happy to try I don’t mind.
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“Maybe in a bit.” It’s been years since I’ve been in the ocean and I’m not sure I still have the mental toughness to go through with it.
“But am I allowed by myself?”
“Course you are. Off you go.”
“I want y
ou to come swimming with me. Please, Mum.”
I’m startled. It’s very unlike Marianne to ask directly for anything.
“Please,” she repeats. “I want you to come swimming with me.”
“How about you swim and I’ll paddle?”
“Okay. But you’ve got to watch me, you can’t go back.”
“It’s a deal.”
Do I take off my jeans or roll them up? Roll them up, I think, even though I’ll end up wading too deep and getting them soaked. Marianne sheds her clothes and abandons them in an uncharacteristic heap, hopping over the pebbles in her sensible black racer-back one-piece, chosen for school swimming lessons because it was exactly the same as those worn by the identikit smooth-haired orange-tinged girls who Marianne isn’t quite friends with, but who aren’t enemies either. The water’s so cold my feet hurt, and Marianne contracts into herself with the shock, but then to my astonishment she pushes on anyway, with a determination I can’t begin to muster.
Watch them going in, Lily tells me. Look how they all do it. You can learn a lot about a person from how they go into the sea.
Three young men race down the sand, splashing and flapping, sending up heavy globs of water. They’re acting as if they’ll swim to America, but I already know they won’t make it in past their waists. The older woman with the tousled salt-and-pepper hair and the deceptively youthful figure is an experienced swimmer; I can tell by the way she wades through the water, unhurried but unhesitating, and launches straight into a smooth clean breaststroke. A little boy beside me is lost in his own world, racing to meet each wave and then running back up the beach as it reaches his toes, halting at the tideline and stretching out one arm as if he’s casting a spell. I wonder what magic he’s conjuring and whether his ritual will work. Marianne is up to her waist now, her arms wrapped tight around her ribcage.
Keep watching, Lily says. She’ll get there. Just like you.
Marianne’s shivering and I wonder if she’ll give up after all, but she takes a deep breath and stands up straight. Then in one quick movement she brings her hands into a point and dives into an oncoming wave, neat and precise, emerging on the other side all slick and wet and gasping with shock.
“Good work!” I call out and wave. I see several people glance at me, then away again. Despite my best efforts, I’m self-conscious about my speaking voice and dislike being stared at, but suddenly I don’t care. Marianne’s looking at me, so I repeat it: Good work. So what if people stare? This is me.
Marianne waves back, then begins to swim the width of the beach. I’m astonished at how competent she is. As a toddler in the swimming pool she was timid and unwilling, clinging tenaciously to my hip when small, becoming whiny and reluctant as she grew. I remember Daniel peeling her arms from around my neck, ignoring her panicky protests and carrying her into the deep end of the pool, forcing her away from his chest so the water could lift and support her little body. I know what I’m doing, he always said when I tried to intervene, and I always gave in because after all, he spent the most time with her. But once she grew old enough for swimming lessons at school, I took care to find other things we could do at the weekend.
Now I watch Marianne plunge and laugh in the salty water, and I’m ashamed at how simple the answer is. This is what we should have done. We should have brought her to the ocean.
There’s someone else walking into the water now; a tall man with white hair, well-built despite his age. His stride is long and determined, his back strong, and he enters the sea with a no-frills, no-nonsense approach that Lily would have approved of.
If he and I were fifty years younger. Lily chuckles. But we’re not. Ah well.
And then, of course, I realise that the man – who else could it possibly be? – is James Moon.
Maybe he feels me looking at him, because he turns round and scowls, then swims off towards the horizon in a steady crawl. His progress is slow but relentless, taking him on a beeline towards the spot where Marianne, floating blissfully on her back with her hair spread out like seaweed, is propelling herself with enthusiastic strokes of her hands and feet. Does he have to swim exactly in the spot my daughter’s already in? I brace myself for conflict, ready to leap to Marianne’s defence if he dares say anything to her, but he stops before they collide. When he swims on, Marianne’s following behind him, further out to sea. What’s he doing? What’s he saying to her? They stop and tread water, and Marianne’s face creases with laughter and James Moon gives her an approving nod then swims off again, still heading away from the beach, his arms cycling round and round.
The sun’s warm on my back, but my feet ache with cold. As soon as I can catch Marianne’s eye, I beckon her in. She pretends not to understand, but I beckon again and she reluctantly swims into shore. She’s glowing and golden in the sunshine and her eyes are bright. Before getting out she ducks her whole head under and emerges as slick as a seal.
“You’ll freeze,” I tell her, and wrap a towel around her shoulders. “Come and get dressed.”
“Can’t I stay in my costume?”
“No, you can’t, you’ll freeze.”
“But I’ll dry in the sun. Won’t I? I want to go in again later.”
I’m suddenly paralysed by the memory of Lily, shaking her head indulgently as I plead to be allowed to dry off in the sunshine. Do you promise not to get pneumonia? she asked, and I, not really clear what pneumonia even was but secure in my invincibility, replied, Of course I won’t get pneumonia! It’s warm, look, the sun’s shining! and Lily’s reply, Well, then we’d better buy you an ice cream and make sure your insides are cold too.
“I saw Mr Moon in the water,” says Marianne, cunningly changing the subject.
“I know, I saw him too.”
“He told me about the warm current. Did you know about the warm current? You swim out a bit further and it’s there. Nobody knows why, though.”
“Why do you keep talking to him?”
“He’s nice.”
“No, he isn’t. He shouts at us every time he sees us.”
“He doesn’t mean it, though. He’s a bit grumpy but he’s all right really.”
“How can you like someone who broke into our home?”
“But it’s not our home, is it?” Marianne looks at me in honest astonishment. “Are we keeping it, then?”
“Let’s go and buy an ice cream.”
“But are we?”
“No!”
“We could though, couldn’t we?” Marianne takes my hand.
“Chilly little paws, missus. Put a fleece round your shoulders at least.”
“But we could keep it?”
“Of course we can’t keep it, you know that. We’re going to sell it and build a house for all of us back home. Come on. Ice cream.”
As we sit in the shelter of the wall and lick the last drips of ice cream off our hands, James Moon comes to claim the neat pile of belongings that have been left a few feet from ours, because of course, out of all the people at the beach this afternoon, they had to belong to him. All I wanted was a single, simple day at the beach with my daughter. Whatever I do, wherever I go, this man will haunt me, just as I’m haunting him. Someone has bound us together with a strand of red silk and now we’ll never get away from each other. Lily, I think, did you do this? Why?
James’s expression suggests he’s as sick of our endless meetings as I am. He reaches into his bag for a sort of all-in-one towelling tent. After a minute of frenzied movement, his head emerges from the top.
“After all, it’s a free country,” he says crossly in my general direction, as if I’ve told him to go away. “Beach belongs to everyone. Used this spot for years.”
I smile sweetly and put on my sunglasses.
“You came back in before you froze, then,” he says to Marianne. The towel-tent quivers as he peels off his trunks beneath it.
“It wasn’t too bad in the warm current,” Marianne says.
“Not all it’s cracked up to be.” Jame
s reaches into his bag. I catch an unwelcome glimpse of a pair of giant white old-man briefs. “Don’t go thinking it’s actually warm. It’s only the contrast.” Another brief swish of clothing vanishing beneath the tent. “Shouldn’t be going in on your own really. Don’t know what your mother was thinking.”
“Her mother’s thinking it’s nothing to do with you,” I say loudly. “Do you know how incredibly rude it is to assume I can’t understand you just because you’re not talking to me?”
“Can’t I say anything to you without taking offence?”
“It doesn’t look good, does it? Are you going to be here all day?”
“None of your business.” He emerges from the towel-tent, dressed in neat chinos and a short-sleeved cheesecloth shirt; an old man’s notion of casual wear.
“Suppose she won’t let me buy you an ice cream either,” says James to Marianne, looking gloomy.
“That’s right.” I settle my sunglasses more comfortably on my nose.
“I’ve already had one,” Marianne says regretfully. “But thank you.”
“How about your mother? She eat ice cream? Or is it too much like fun for her to bother herself with?”
“Jesus Christ.” I sit up and take off my sunglasses. “Buy us both a bloody ice cream if it’ll shut you up. And if it makes Marianne sick I’m cleaning her up with your towel. What?”
“Nothing. You look like your grandmother.”
“I bloody don’t. I’m nothing like her.”
“Not trying to insult you, you know. You always this prickly? Might as well give the cat a compliment.”
“Can I help you carry the ice creams?” Marianne bounds to her feet.
“So one of you has manners. Suppose it skipped a generation.” He holds out a hand to Marianne, and to my astonishment, she takes it. “Come on, then.”
With my sunglasses on I can look wherever I want and no one can know. I stare at James and Marianne, hand in hand on their way to the ice-cream booth. To everyone else on the beach they must look like a loving grandfather and his cherished grandchild. He stops and picks up a shell for her, bending and straightening with difficulty.
It’s disturbingly easy to eat two ice creams in quick succession. Rivulets of white trickle down the cone and into the creases of my hands. When I lick them off, I taste the salt crusting my skin. The silence should be awkward, but somewhat annoyingly, James Moon is rather restful to be with. Marianne sits between us, glancing from one to the other as she eats her ice cream with quick dainty licks. Her attitude suggests she’s trying to persuade two angry, hissing cats to become friends, and has just begun to make progress. She finishes her cone and sits quietly between us, playing with a little shell she’s found by her feet.
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