Swimming Home

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  ‘He’s my friend,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Yes, but he’s not mine,’ Lillian replied.

  Andrew did try to help. He told the reporters they weren’t allowed to speak to Catherine because they didn’t have an exclusive contract. But the photographers were the ones who took everything from you, and Andrew couldn’t stop them. At any rate, Andrew himself was sending stories back to America all the while. He was in charge of writing a column in Catherine’s name. Initially, she’d told him what things she wanted to write about, but he soon started coming up with his own ideas. Catherine wanted to write about swimming and how it felt, but he said no one would care about that. ‘They’ll want to know what you’re going to wear in the water,’ he said. ‘The men go naked, you know.’ He smiled slyly. Catherine disliked him for it.

  The columns were running in the English papers too, and the French. Everyone knew now that Catherine Quick was up against Lillian Cannon and Gertrude Ederle to conquer the Channel. Clarabelle Barrett continued to prepare for her swim but the newspapermen didn’t have any interest in her. To Catherine, it was suffocating. It seemed like every day there were more of them ensconced in the other hotel down on the beach, or in the nearby village. What she would remember from those weeks was not the smell of kelp that drifted up from the sea, the smell of salt water on her skin, the smell of the sea air, all of which she loved. What she would remember was their magnesium f lashes, which smelled of a match lighting.

  The first two weeks of July passed. Louisa still hadn’t come over. Catherine was longing to have people she knew other than Andrew around her. Most of all, she wanted to see Mr Black, to show him she was ready for the swim. He’d be so proud. In the hotel she could curl up in a chair and read a book without anyone bothering her. The food was wonderful—chicken in rich sauces, beef steaks with creamy potato, roast lamb—but she wasn’t hungry, she found, although she was supposed to be putting on weight for the swim. The problem for the reporters was that there was so little to report, Andrew said. They couldn’t leave, in case Burgess suddenly decided it was time to swim, but there was nothing for them to do in the meantime. She knew exactly how they felt, Catherine thought but didn’t say.

  When the Ederles arrived, Trudy, Meg and their father, things changed. Meg greeted Catherine warmly but Trudy was her usual self, quiet and withdrawn. Her father was furious, Andrew told Catherine, because Mr Burgess was training other swimmers. ‘What’s the problem with that?’ Catherine said, not understanding.

  ‘He’s supposed to be Trudy’s coach exclusively. Old Papa Ederle is talking to anyone who’ll listen. What a bag of wind.’ Trudy wanted Mr Burgess to herself, Andrew said.

  ‘But aren’t we both swimming with the WSA? I mean, Lillian’s swimming with her dogs, and Clarabelle’s on her own, but aren’t Trudy and I with the WSA, more or less?’ The WSA wasn’t providing the funding for anyone’s swim, as it happened. Mr Black was funding Catherine, and Trudy was funded by the New York Daily News syndicate. Mr Burgess had asked Catherine on the first day if he might add Lillian Cannon to his group and she’d said of course. It had been a bright spot since arriving in France, spending time with Lillian and the dogs. Now Trudy wanted Lillian thrown off the team.

  Andrew laughed. ‘Well, yes, officially you’re both representing the WSA. But, you see, Burgess told Trudy he’d coach her and only her. And after last year, Trudy’s not willing to share a coach and risk failure again.’

  ‘But swimming together makes it easier, not harder,’ Catherine said. ‘It’s better to have a few of us together.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Andrew said. ‘But it’s not what she wants. I think there’s going to be trouble. At least we’ll have something to file. SWIMMER SIMMERS!’

  Catherine turned sixteen, although no one with her knew it and she didn’t tell them—not even Andrew. It was odd to be so alone in the world that she had no one left who remembered the day she was born.

  It was nearly a year now since she’d been expelled from Henley. She’d had a letter from Aileen, who was getting more excited about starting college. Catherine wondered what on earth she was doing in this little French village not swimming, and Mr Black wasn’t even here.

  Late in the morning on the day after her birthday, Catherine was down on the beach watching the water. Every day had been the same, relatively calm on the French side, but the tides were wrong or the sea beyond was wild. It was frustrating.

  Andrew came down the sand to join her, stopping first to take off his shoes and roll up his long trousers. ‘How goes the swimmer?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Catherine said. ‘Wishing she could swim.’

  ‘Do we know when yet?’

  ‘Mr Burgess says there are three days coming up he likes. It might even be the day after tomorrow, but I think Trudy gets first pick of the day to try.’

  ‘Well, that would at least take her out of contention.’

  ‘You don’t think she’ll succeed?’

  ‘I think you’re the only one who has a chance, Catherine.’

  ‘You know a lot about swimming?’

  He smiled. ‘You’re quite right. I don’t. But I know Mr Black. He is rarely wrong and you’re his swimmer.’

  Catherine nodded but didn’t respond.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She looked out towards the water. None of it had been what she’d expected. ‘Oh, Andrew, I think of myself here, swimming the Channel, and I don’t know if it’s what I want.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ he said. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’ He’d never understand, she thought. No one would.

  33

  LOUISA HADN’T SEEN CATHERINE WHEN SHE’D GOT IN late the night before but she left a message suggesting they meet that morning for breakfast. She’d waited in London to make sure everything would go as planned. She hadn’t spoken again to Black since they’d met at the Carlisle. She’d agreed reluctantly not to tell Catherine what had happened—and what she, Louisa, had done—but only because it was his money that would get Michael out of trouble. Black wanted Catherine to do the swim. But when the swim was over, however it went, Louisa would have to tell Catherine. It wasn’t even a choice now after what Louisa had done. She’d wired Mr Witherspoon. The money was coming, she told him. Do what you can. And then she’d wired Florence.

  Catherine came in to the dining room. Oh, the change those few weeks had wrought. Louisa was shocked by the sight of her. Catherine had lost weight when she was supposed to be putting it on. Mr Burgess had told them she’d need to put by some fat for energy and as insulation against the cold. Louisa remembered what Nellie had said when Catherine had returned from New York. Now she could see it herself. The girl was positively haggard, with dark circles under her eyes. It was almost as if Catherine knew without knowing what was happening in Australia. Louisa imagined having to explain to Catherine what she’d done. She should stick to her guns, Black told her. She’d done right, he said. It wasn’t wrong to keep the letters from the girl, and it wasn’t Louisa’s fault if the boy did something stupid. She never had to tell Catherine.

  She looked at Catherine walking towards her now. Even her gait was less certain. When Louisa thought back to the girl who’d come out of the Thames, the girl who’d left Australia, even the girl who’d been the first to the beach at Sandy Hook, she could see how this girl was different.

  They hugged, Catherine holding on longer than usual, then they both sat. Louisa didn’t say anything but the look of concern on her face must have told a story.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Catherine said. She smiled, but even her smile was less than it had been.

  ‘Have you been swimming this morning already?’ Louisa was upset to see Catherine like this but she was trying not to show it.

  ‘No, just walking with Lillian Cannon. I’ll introduce you after.’

  ‘I saw Mr Black in London. He’s very pleased that you’re here.’

&
nbsp; Catherine nodded. ‘Mr Black,’ she said, her face brightening a little. ‘Did you tell him I’m training?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s very proud,’ Louisa said, seeing how pleased it made Catherine. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, dear?’

  ‘I just … I don’t even have a minute when they’re not there.’

  She was close to tears, Louisa saw.

  ‘The newspaper men?’

  ‘They follow my every move. I hate it. Mr Burgess said yesterday that they come in the boat, that they take the whole trip with us. How am I supposed to swim with all that?’

  ‘Poor girl, you never have a minute’s peace, do you? They think it’s the news.’

  ‘Why aren’t they interested in swimming then? Why don’t they talk about swimming? They talk about who my boyfriend is, and what I’ll wear. But they never talk about kicking or which crawl I’ll do.’

  ‘Oh, dear girl. I never would have wished this on you … I …’

  ‘I suppose you’ll say you told me so.’ She looked at Louisa.

  ‘Did I tell you so? I don’t think I quite thought it through as well as all that. But I do understand. When my mother was doing medicine, all the newspapers wanted to know was whether she blushed when she saw a man naked. She’d done anatomy in her nursing training, so she was well past the blushing stage when they were asking. But they persisted. She was like you in that way, Catherine. She didn’t like the limelight. She didn’t want to be any different from the others.’

  ‘What did she do about it?’ Catherine said.

  ‘Oh, she put up with it until they stopped. Eventually they did. But she never had to endure anything like what you’re facing. It wasn’t her body they focused on. Do you still want to do this?’

  ‘The swim isn’t what’s bothering me. Ever since New York, they’ve been following everything I do. I can’t even eat breakfast without someone writing about it. I have to do the swim. For Mr Black.’

  ‘No, you don’t, Catherine,’ Louisa said. ‘If you don’t want to swim, you shouldn’t swim.’

  Catherine didn’t respond.

  In the afternoon, Louisa watched the training session with Burgess. The newspapermen were down on the beach. They were taking pictures and calling out their questions. Burgess did nothing to stop them and Louisa approached him afterwards and told him that it was bothering Catherine. Now that Trudy Ederle had arrived, the newspapers were making much of the tensions among the swimmers, Louisa noticed. Burgess nodded, said he’d see what he could do.

  Louisa had met all the other swimmers during the day. She liked Lillian Cannon, a little blonde girl who meant well. But Trudy Ederle was the one who had what it took, Louisa thought. Like Catherine, she was a good swimmer who loved the water. But unlike Catherine, she saw this as a race, and she wanted more than anything to win.

  The next day, Mr Black arrived. He came along the promontory where Louisa and Catherine had been walking. He kissed Louisa on the lips, Catherine noticed, and Louisa didn’t turn and give him her cheek like Catherine might have expected. He embraced Catherine briefly, kissing her on each cheek. She found herself so happy to see him. It had been the same when Louisa arrived. She’d been missing them, she realised, wanting familiar faces.

  ‘Let’s go back to the hotel,’ Mr Black said. ‘What a wild place we’ve brought you to, Catherine.’

  ‘Catherine’s still worried about the reporters,’ Louisa said when they were back at the hotel lounge. ‘They follow everything she does.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Mr Black and I spoke of this in London. He can help.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘The thing is, it will only get worse once you swim the Channel.’ He was looking at Catherine and his eyes were kind. ‘But to be the first woman to do that, Catherine—what an achievement.’

  ‘I know, Mr Black,’ Catherine said, ‘but at the moment I don’t even want to go swimming because the reporters are watching and taking their pictures.’

  ‘Just ignore them,’ Black said.

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘By taking no notice. That’s what I do. In England, they call me the mad American. That’s what you first heard about me, am I right? In Baltimore, I own the newspaper, so they tend to write what I want. But in New York, I’m a big bully with shady leanings, according to the Post. I’m a friend of Franklin and Eleanor, which makes me corrupt. That’s just how they work, Catherine. They need sensation. Truth is, swimming isn’t interesting. But swimmers are. That’s why they want you. I’ll see what I can do.’

  It’s different for you, Catherine wanted to say. They don’t take a picture of you with hardly any clothes on and have the world look at it. She would never have understood how this might feel until it happened to her.

  Catherine had a flash of memory then. She was on the island, running down to the sea with Michael. They would have been nine and eleven, she guessed. They got to the beach, hot from the run, and decided on the spur of the moment to swim. They stripped off and ran into the sea.

  It was Florence who took Catherine aside afterwards. ‘Where were your bathers?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I left them at the house,’ Catherine said. ‘We weren’t planning to swim.’

  She still remembered the feel of the water on her body, the freedom it gave her. But she also knew, from Florence’s face, that something was wrong.

  ‘You mustn’t do that, Catherine,’ Florence said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You just mustn’t. There are bad men … You must wear your bathers.’

  Catherine wanted to ignore Florence. It felt so marvellous to have the water flowing over her skin. She tried several times to get Michael to go along with her after that, but he wouldn’t. The memory came back now. It was innocent, she knew, but Florence had made her feel guilty. It was the same feeling she had when the reporters followed her around, as if she, and not they, were at fault.

  The next day there were squally showers, and it felt as if the weather matched Catherine’s mood, changing constantly, restless. She wanted to be doing more than swimming out to the rocks and back. Mr Burgess sensed her restlessness. Now he was training Catherine separately from Trudy Ederle, so there wouldn’t be further trouble. Sometimes Lillian Cannon still swam with Catherine, which Catherine didn’t mind, but Trudy wanted to work on her own with her coach.

  Catherine was down on the beach waiting for Mr Burgess when she saw up on the sand a tall blond man in swimming trunks with a sweater over them, a towel around his neck. She thought he must be another Channel likely. But then he waved and called out her name. The accent. She looked again.

  ‘Sam?’ she called back. It was Mr Black’s pilot. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ She ran towards him.

  When they met, he embraced her warmly.

  ‘I flew Mr Black over to come see you and Dr Quick. I brought trunks; I thought maybe we could swim together.’

  ‘You swim?’

  ‘I’m the Lake Louise champion.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means this water will be warm as far as I’m concerned.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, goodness but it’s wonderful to see your face.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, grinning. ‘You look like a real swimmer.’

  ‘I’m just waiting for my coach,’ she said. ‘We swim to the point and back a few times. It’s all about acclimatising and the right tides. We’re lucky this morning. No reporters.’ She grinned, so happy to see him.

  ‘I read your column in the paper,’ Sam said.

  ‘I don’t write any of it. Andrew writes it for me.’

  ‘I wondered. It doesn’t really sound like you.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not me. Oh, it’s good to see you. So you’re still working for Mr Black?’

  ‘This is my last run with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Are you Sam, to Canada?’

  He looked at her. ‘I just can’t stay anymore,’ h
e said. ‘I thought I’d go on and be a pilot, you know, like that fellow Lindbergh. Mr Black even offered to fund a f light. But I need to be back in the mountains. I’m just not happy anywhere else.’ He looked sad for a moment, then brightened. ‘But you—it turns out Mr Black was right. You’re a champion.’

  ‘I suppose I am. I think it’s grand you’re going home.’ Catherine felt tears in her eyes. ‘Look, now, here’s the coach. I’ll introduce you and we can swim together.’

  Catherine realised she’d lost touch with everything that mattered to her. Andrew was writing her column. She didn’t even look at the words he wrote now. He was just like the other reporters. All he cared about was getting a story. Seeing Sam made her remember what it had been like, nearly a year ago now, when she’d been happy. And it was very different from how she felt now.

  34

  ‘NOW IT’S MY TURN FOR CONFESSIONS,’ BLACK SAID. HE grimaced. They were at the bar in the hotel down on the beach, the day after he’d flown in. Louisa had told him that she’d wired the money to Witherspoon and all had gone as planned. She nearly told him the rest then—that she’d borrowed from Nellie’s education fund and had sent that money directly to Florence, and wired her to come with Michael once Mr Witherspoon had secured his release; that Nellie was right now taking them to Wellclose Square, that they’d be there when Catherine came home. She knew she’d have to tell Catherine the truth about the letters, even if meant she lost her niece. Nothing that she’d seen so far in France did anything but confirm that this was the right course of action.

  There were other diners, mostly locals, a few reporters. Louisa had seen Andrew and a young woman huddled in a corner but hadn’t spoken to them.

  ‘I think I already know,’ she said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Your mother and sister. Charlotte told me.’ She reached across to take his hand. The night before, he’d kissed her. They were out on the front porch of the hotel. The rich smell of a cigar lingered in the air. Louisa felt the sea air and thought of Aldeburgh and her childhood. She could hear the water against the rocks below them. Was there ever a chance to start again in life? It felt right then as if there was. Just at that moment, Black had leaned in and kissed her on the lips, gently, almost chastely. She closed her eyes. ‘Oh,’ he’d said softly then.