Swimming Home

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  36

  ‘WELL, THAT’S GOOD YOU TOLD HER THE TRUTH, LOUISA. I don’t know what possessed you to lie.’

  ‘I thought it was best for her,’ Louisa said. She’d told Nellie everything—well, almost everything.

  ‘But it wasn’t best for her,’ Nellie said.

  ‘Yes, I know that now, but I didn’t know it then.’ She looked at Nellie’s dear face. Catherine had disqualified herself from the race. Mr Burgess was devastated. He thought she was fine but she must have had a madness come upon her, he said. ‘A madness,’ Louisa had said. ‘A bit of sense, more like.’

  Andrew had returned to America with his bride, after covering Trudy Ederle’s successful swim of the Channel. The girl he’d married was from a nice London family. They might even make a go of it, Louisa thought, although Andrew had liked Catherine more, she was sure. Catherine, for her part, had had enough of reporters to last a lifetime, although she and Andrew had parted friends.

  Catherine was packing to go home to the island. Sister Mary Ursula was moving to another school in two years, and a government school would take over. Catherine would do her training in Brisbane, staying with Sister Mary Ursula’s family, so she could be the teacher at the school. Louisa would go with her. Nellie was going to Louisa’s old school in Glasgow.

  Sam the pilot was already home in Canada. He’d sent them a telegram promising to visit the island, so long as Catherine came to visit his mountains.

  Louisa kept the truth about her own past to herself for now. She knew she’d have to tell Catherine—she was entirely cured of managing other people’s lives for them—but not yet. For now, the girl had enough to contend with. For Louisa, Catherine was the good that had grown from something awful. Here was the child born from that violence. Here was the fact that made it bearable. Here was Catherine. Louisa would leave the clinic, of course she would. She would take up the still-vacant post as the doctor on Thursday Island, and remain with Catherine, her daughter.

  Florence had been waiting with Nellie on the beach. She looked at Louisa, and Louisa saw only kindness in those eyes. ‘I know,’ Louisa said quietly. ‘Catherine’s birthday.’

  Florence nodded. ‘I’m sorry. There’s a letter. Mr Witherspoon found a letter in his files. I’m glad you know. I wondered whether to tell you.’

  Louisa took the letter from Florence and put it in her bag, watched her brave niece on the shore hugging Michael while the onlookers stared. They thought she must be mad, like Burgess did, devastated to have failed. But Catherine hadn’t failed. She had swum the Channel. She just wouldn’t have to deal with being a Channel swimmer.

  How had Louisa ever assumed Michael and Catherine had been lovers? The girl was perfectly innocent, Louisa should have realised. He was a brother to her. It was Louisa’s own experience, she realised. She’d seen everything through a particular lens, of her own experience. Michael was not like Jonathan. Hardly any men were like Jonathan.

  ‘And it’s not the only lie I told,’ Louisa said to Nellie now.

  ‘There are more?’ Nellie said.

  ‘Yes, Nellie. I lied to you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Do you remember when you first came to the clinic, and you were very sick, and your period had stopped?’

  Nellie nodded. ‘And you told me some story about a little procedure, when in fact I was pregnant.’

  Louisa stared at her. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I guessed, but also, Dr Luxton talked to me. She said I had choices. I wanted to stop the pregnancy. I didn’t have any way of caring for a child when I was so sick, and I knew that.’

  ‘So why did you never tell me?’

  ‘Dr Luxton said you’d tell me I was sick and needed a little procedure and that it would help her immensely if I didn’t tell you about our little chat. So I didn’t. But I knew.’

  Thank goodness for Ruth Luxton, who had been so happy to learn Louisa’s news. Ruth was recruiting new doctors for the clinic. ‘I’d pack your bags for you if I could, Louisa. You must go with her now.’

  ‘So would you rather have known, or not known?’ Louisa asked Nellie.

  ‘I’d rather not have had to make that decision. But if the decision had to be made I knew it was me who had to make it.’

  Nellie was right. One day, Louisa would tell Catherine the truth, she thought. One day she would let her know who she was and where she’d come from. For now, though, what was important was that Catherine knew she was going home.

  Dearest Louie,

  If you are reading this letter, then I am gone and Catherine is your ward.

  Firstly, I want you to know that I am sorry to be the bearer of this news. You have been a good sister, and I have wished many times I’d told you the truth when you came to Australia. My reasons for not telling you have been entirely selfish. At first I didn’t want to make you angry with our mother, who did her best. But then I didn’t want to lose what I had.

  I had hoped you would never need to know, to be honest, for I was so sure that knowing would be more difficult than not.

  Louisa, I did not set out to deceive you, and you must believe me that Mama did only what she thought was best.

  When Julia and I came through England, Julia was expecting a child, the child you have always believed was Catherine. But Julia lost the baby on the ship. I wrote and told Mama that Julia was expecting. She told you, I think. I also wrote when we lost the baby and my letter must have arrived when you were at Aldeburgh awaiting the birth of your own child. Mama chose not to tell you. Perhaps in her mind she already had plans. Whatever her reasons, it made the next steps easier.

  Your blood pressure was high in the labour and you fell into unconsciousness soon after the birth. All of this you know. But Mama made a decision about the child. She decided that if you knew the child lived, you would spend your days worrying about what you’d done. You might even decide to keep the child, which Mama thought would be wrong for both of you. She told you it was a boy. But the child was Catherine.

  The midwife, Mary Breen, had a baby herself, you might recall, a boy of nearly two. She breastfed your baby on the ship to Australia. Mama was particular about that. No cow’s milk after Margaret. Mama paid Mary’s fare to Australia and back, since Julia couldn’t feed a baby. In Cairns we found Florence, who’d lost her own child and could feed ours.

  When Julia died, I wondered if I should tell you the truth. I hope I did the right thing. You were so busy with your work, and I thought to know you had a child would be the last thing you’d want. And in truth, I loved Catherine so dearly I couldn’t stand the idea that she might be taken from me.

  So Catherine is your child, Louisa. I hope you will love her as much as I do.

  Your loving brother,

  Harry

  Harry. All those years, he had kept the truth from Louisa. Florence too. How could they? How could they not tell her? She supposed he thought Louisa might make some claim on the child, might want to take her. He was right. Louisa would surely have taken Catherine back to England at three, once she knew. She wouldn’t have left the child motherless on the island. How could Harry have been so selfish?

  ‘We all do our best,’ Ruth Luxton said. ‘You did your best, Louisa. He did his best. And look what you got. You got a daughter.’ The word still didn’t make sense to Louisa, who felt anything but a mother.

  Black had come to see Louisa in London before he left for America and she’d told him everything; she saw no reason not to.

  ‘What a fool I must look,’ he said.

  ‘Both of us,’ she said. ‘I’d started to think you might be right about Catherine, to be honest, that she was your child. Julia must have known, of course. She must have loved you very much.’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ he said. He paused, regarded Louisa carefully. ‘We won’t see each other again then?’ he said.

  ‘Probably not,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be sad about that.’

  ‘I will too,’ she said. She to
ok the hands he offered her and held them. His were warm and soft. She could see the loss in his eyes. He’d lost so much. What would happen to him now? she wondered.

  ‘Will you go to the island?’ he said.

  ‘I will. That’s where Catherine wants to be for now. And they haven’t replaced Harry.’

  ‘So you’ll be the doctor.’

  ‘I’m guessing I will.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, you know me, Louisa. Don’t be surprised if I fly over your way to visit some time soon.’ He became serious then. ‘Did you expect it to end like this?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure this is the end,’ she said. ‘It feels much more like the beginning.’

  And it was.

  Writer’s note

  I WAS INSPIRED BY THE LIVES OF DR LOUISA GARRETT Anderson and Van Lear Black, who never met in real life, as far as I know, and who have only scant biographical details in common with the fictional Dr Louisa Quick and Manfred Lear Black. In his early twenties, my great uncle Rene MacColl was Van Lear Black’s confidential secretary, but that, and a subsequent distinguished career in journalism, are all he had in common with the fictional Andrew Mackintosh. René MacColl’s memoir A Flying Start was also an inspiration. He writes with style and wit.

  Gertrude Ederle was the first woman to swim the English Channel. Other swimmers who existed outside these pages include Mercedes Gleitze, who made the crossing on her eighth attempt in 1927 and went on to a career as a distance swimmer. Lillian Cannon and Clarabelle Barrett never attempted the Channel again after 1926. The fictional Aileen Ryan shares an outstanding diving career and small stature with Aileen Riggin. Many great women swimmers have been lost in the wash of history.

  I’m indebted to John Zarrillo, archivist at the Brooklyn Historical Society, who found the Hotel Touraine for me, and to the Women’s Swimming Association, New York, without which this book would never have had a reason to be.

  Writing a novel is a swim of sorts. Thanks to those beside me, or in the pilot boat, readers, writers and dear friends, and some who are all three, in Brisbane and Banff. Thanks Brisbane neighbourhoods, Bar Merlo Paddington, Canberra. Thanks the Banff Centre and Wild Flour, East Hotel and Silo. Thanks Gurrumul. Thanks QWEEKEND.

  Thanks all those inspiring readers I met through In Falling Snow and especially the book clubs that are keeping reading alive. Thanks Lisa Mayocchi who gave me notebooks. I’ve been sustained by the Ryans, the Pooles, the Cravens, the WilkinsRuckels, and Bardon 7/6.

  Cathy Sinclair tells me the truth when no one else will. Lenore Cooper, Suzi Jefferies, Louise Ryan and Theanne Walters are on the swimming advisory committee in my mind. As for companions in the water, Kim Wilkins and Kris Olsson are right beside me, and Louise Limerick and Kate Morton know that swimming has been everything.

  I set out with my agent Fiona Inglis in the pilot boat. There’s an outstanding team at Allen & Unwin, Christa Munns who corrects the course repeatedly, Ali Lavau who sang me out of a murky draft, and Sarina Rowell who saved me from prohibition. Nada Backovic surrounded our swim in something beautiful.

  Occasionally, you are carried by strong tides to the right place. My publisher Annette Barlow had to carry me an unreasonably long way this time.

  David has always been on my team, and Otis gives me a reason to swim at all.

  Mary-Rose MacColl

  Brisbane, July 2015

  ALSO FROM ALLEN & UNWIN

  In Falling Snow

  MARY-ROSE MACCOLL

  ‘In the beginning, it was the summers I remembered—long warm days under the palest blue skies, the cornflowers and forget-me-nots lining the road through the Lys forest, the buzz of insects going about their work, Violet telling me lies.’

  Iris is getting old. A widow, her days are spent living quietly and worrying about her granddaughter, Grace, a headstrong young doctor. It’s a small sort of life. But one day an invitation comes for Iris through the post to a reunion in France, where she served in a hospital during World War I.

  Determined to go, Iris is overcome by the memories of the past, when as a shy, naive young woman she followed her fifteen-year-old brother, Tom, to France in 1914 intending to bring him home.

  On her way to find Tom, Iris comes across the charismatic Miss Ivens, who is setting up a field hospital in the old abbey of Royaumont, north of Paris. Putting her fears aside, Iris decides to stay at Royaumont, and it is there that she truly comes of age, finding her capability and her strength, discovering her passion for medicine, making friends with the vivacious Violet and falling in love.

  But war is a brutal thing, and when the ultimate tragedy happens, there is a terrible price that Iris has to pay, a price that will echo down the generations.

  A moving and uplifting novel about the small, unsung acts of heroism of which love makes us capable.

  ISBN 978 1 74331 744 0

  eISBN 978 1 74269 878 6