The SECRET TO NOT DROWNING

by Colette Snowden

  And for a minute I do feel as though I’m in a trance. I can’t think what I came into the kitchen for and I’m just standing there with a pair of damp pyjamas and a towel in my hand trying to think what to do next. But in the quiet I can hear the steady beep beep beep of the answering machine and that brings me right back into the room.

  It’s my mum, calling to tell me what time she expects to arrive. She hates talking to the machine. She rambles on in the stroppy answering machine voice she uses to indicate how pissed off she is that you’ve dared to be out when she’s called. But actually she hardly ever rings and generally times her calls for when I’m likely to be out and then I have to remember to ring her back, because the only voice more stroppy than her answering machine voice is the voice she uses when I’ve taken more than 24 hours to call her back. She’s coming by train, she says, and will get to the station at about six o’clock this evening and will someone ring her to tell her that they’ll be here to pick her up.

  I need to ring her. And I need to ring Him to let Him know what time we’re expecting her. And I need to put these sodding pyjamas in the washing machine. And I don’t know what to do first. Decide what to do and just do it, that’s what I need to do. So I put the pyjamas and the towel in the washing machine, make another cup of tea, drink it and then ring her.

  7

  There are other women. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. Why else would He keep his phone switched off when He’s out? Why else would He change his underpants when He gets home? Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I’m pretty sure I know.

  There’s an older one. She’s quite a lot older than Him, ten years older at least. But she doesn’t look it. She has wrinkles on her face. More wrinkles than me, but they’re the right kind of wrinkles. They’re the sort of wrinkles that come with great nights out and laughing with friends. They are the marks of experience. Her wrinkles tell you something about how she’s lived and what she knows. She knows plenty.

  She’s strong but she’s not invincible. She thinks she’s so capable and that’s what makes her vulnerable. Little Miss Independent who can turn her hand to anything, she thinks. Nothing bad ever happens to her, does it? She’s good at life and woe betide the person who tries to prove otherwise. But then one day someone does. She’s mugged. Someone snatches her bag when she’s out shopping. And for once in her life she’s one-nil down to the low-life scum she crosses the street to avoid. She’s a loser. Her handbag is gone and her dignity with it. From here on in she can be as clever and middle class as she likes but she’ll always know that some thug spotted her and saw her as an old lady. The knowledge shakes her up much more than being jostled and robbed by some chancer on the street. Even before she takes stock of what she’s lost in that bag, it dawns on her that she’ll never be able to even the score. A line has been crossed and she can’t step back over it.

  And while everyone else just walks past and leaves her to it, He stops to offer help and see if she’s OK. It’s not like Him. He’s not one of your natural have-a-go-heroes. Don’t get involved, He always says to me. But that day He’s a real knight in shining armour. Her very own Sir Galahad. And – let’s give Him the benefit of the doubt – I think He genuinely offers her help out of some sense of civic responsibility. From across the street He sees what the mugger saw, a vulnerable old lady, a victim. But close up He sees that she’s not that old after all. He sees that she’s beautiful. He reads her wrinkles and sees that she likes to have fun. Within seconds He’s already planning the fun they could have together.

  And she would never normally let herself be picked up by some bloke she’s just met in the street like that. But she’s vulnerable now. The mugger has made her feel old and weak. She needs someone to make her feel confident again. She needs an ego boost and the flattery of this younger man who has raced to her rescue is just what the doctor ordered.

  And He does flatter her. He flatters her right there in the street and insists that she lets Him take her home. He rings the office with some lame excuse about how the central heating system is leaking at home and He’s got to try and sort an emergency plumber. He winks at her while He’s lying to his colleague on the phone. He makes her part of the charade. He makes it clear to her that He’s bunking off for her benefit. She knows what He’s up to and He gives her a chance to speak up and let Him know that she’s not interested. But she is interested. She wants to be a naughty teenager right along with Him. She says nothing when He tells her He’ll ring the office to arrange the afternoon off. She doesn’t stop Him when He hesitates on the phone and she laughs with Him when He hangs up.

  He walks her to her car and insists on driving her home. “I’ll pick my car up later,” He says. He tells her she has a nice home and suggests she has a drink for the shock. So she tells Him where the whisky is and He pours two large glasses. And when she’s drunk hers He comes over to her and says something like “Let’s have a look at you. Someone should check you over to make sure you’ve not been hurt...” and that’s where it all begins. He pretends He’s looking at her and touching her just to make sure she’s OK. And she lets Him.

  And long after the crime number and credit card cancellations, she lets Him keep the role of rescuer, counsellor, flatterer. She lives alone in a nicely turned out semi in a good area. Divorced, but amicably so, with a few bob tucked away and an ex-husband who makes sure she doesn’t go without. So when He starts to pop round for coffee she’s happy to invite Him in for a chat. And before too long He’s sending her considerate text messages to check she’s OK and starting to drop in with a nice bottle of wine on his way home from work. And, sometimes, when she asks Him if He’d like a bite to eat, He stays for dinner. They are friends, she tells herself. But she doesn’t believe it any more than He does. He is just biding his time and she knows it. And she’s grateful for the attention and the compliments.

  Before long she’s fishing for the compliments. So when He turns up unannounced and she says “Look at the state of me, I look so flat and haggard this evening,” He tells her He can’t see any wrinkles on her face. And when modesty makes her insist that they’re there and point them out to Him, He tells her that her wrinkles are beautiful. And that’s when He finally kisses her. He kisses her wrinkles. He kisses her crow’s feet gently, smooths the back of his hand across her laughter lines and makes them disappear.

  And she takes Him upstairs where He can see all the pots of creams and potions that she uses to try to keep the wrinkles at bay. None of them have really worked. Only her confidence and easy acceptance of the way she looks has helped to make them fade but, as soon as He sees the pathetic attempts she’s made to keep the years at bay with her fancy jars of oily gloop, they all seem to jump back into place. Suddenly He looks at her and sees a woman that’s far too old for Him. He’s appalled by the sinews in her neck and the little lines pointing the way all around her mouth to her thin, dry lips. He knows straight away that He can’t kiss those lips. He won’t be able to do it whatever she does. No amount of lipstick or dim lighting can bring her back to being the woman He followed up those stairs just a few moments ago.

  But she’s waiting for Him now. She’s waiting to reward his patience and his flattery with whatever He wants. He’s trapped. If He just leaves now, what will she think? She’ll think He’s not up to the job. He can’t have that. But she’s starting to unbutton her long-sleeved blouse. Undoing each button slowly while looking Him straight in the eye like the seductress He thought she was only five minutes ago. He knows He has to do something. He’s scared to catch sight of her body under those clothes. Scared it will be saggy and wrinkled. So He grabs tight hold of her wrists to stop her from undressing any further and leans her over the dressing table with her nose face down against all her face creams. He pulls her skirt up and over her back like a cape, pulls her knickers down and holds on to her tiny waist. Then there’s just his own face in the mirror and the tiny, girlish waist in his hands.

&nb
sp; And afterwards He’s sorry but He has to go. He’ll ring her. He’ll see her soon. He kisses her on the cheek and He’s gone and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know what to think.

  She texts Him that evening but He doesn’t reply, He just deletes it. He doesn’t call her, He doesn’t pop round for coffee. He doesn’t drop in on his way back from work. And after a while she doesn’t even bother texting Him any more.

  8

  I want to lie down and sleep for a hundred years.

  Instead I am standing in the living room ironing pillow cases. In the other room, the washing machine is spinning the duvet covers and the floor is juddering as it whirrs round.

  When I was small I used to watch my mum doing the ironing and I was fascinated. There was something much more exciting about ironing than any other jobs around the house because it involved dangerous equipment that I’d been warned never to touch. The iron was exotic. It let out huge clouds of steam and created a smell of clean that was home on a rainy Sunday with Little House on the Prairie on the TV and a big mug of hot chocolate. Even now the smell of warm fabric conditioner makes me think of those little girls in their petticoats running down a hill.

  My mum ironed everything. Not just my clothes, but towels, bedding, my dad’s handkerchiefs, even his underwear. The handkerchiefs were the most intriguing. In other people’s houses they had tissues, kept in boxes on the sideboard and thrown away after their snotty child had had their nose forcibly wiped. Not in our house. In our house, if my dad wasn’t around you were sent upstairs for a piece of toilet paper to wipe your nose with – guaranteed to fall to pieces on first contact with snot. If my dad was in, he would first tell me off for sniffing and then reach into his pocket for his handkerchief. The hankie he pulled from his pocket looked nothing like the neatly ironed and folded thing I watched mum place carefully in the ironing basket. When it came out of his pocket it would be more grey than white, and totally crumpled. He would look at it carefully, isolate a corner and then hand it to me with his assurances. “This bit is clean,” he would say, followed by stern instructions to ‘blow’ and another rummage to find a second ‘clean’ bit before he proffered it again and demanded that I ‘blow’ a second time.

  I asked my mum once why she spent her time ironing my dad’s handkerchiefs when he was just going to screw them up in his pocket and make a mess of them. She gave me an impatient look, she sighed crossly and she said: “That’s my job.” She folded the ironed hankie in half and pressed the iron down firmly on it again. “He might not notice that I do it for him, but he’d notice soon enough if I stopped.”

  And that’s why I’m standing here ironing these bloody pillow cases. Because even if my mum doesn’t notice that I’ve ironed the sheets she’ll be sleeping in tonight, He’ll notice if I don’t.

  It’s OK anyway, it gives me something to do. Mum won’t be at the station until 6 o’clock, so I have plenty of time to make sure that the house is spotless before she gets here. I’ve already cleaned out the fridge and wiped down the inside of the kitchen cupboards. All the bins are empty, I’ve wiped the skirting boards upstairs and down with a damp cloth and hoovered behind the sofa. And now I’m getting the bedrooms ready. Clean sheets. Not just for her in the spare bedroom but for me and Him too, so that she can’t give me that face when she wanders into our room on some flimsy pretext.

  And I know my ironing won’t be good enough for her, despite the hours I spent absorbing her little tricks and habits from the sofa. I haven’t time today to be a perfectionist and, anyway, there are some skills that you could study all your life and still never master. Ironing is like that for me. But at least I’m making the effort, there’s got to be some Brownie points in that. So I’ll iron the bedding and iron the clothes I’ll wear for when she arrives and put some make-up on and brush my hair. She’ll see that I’m bearing up.

  And at some point before then I need to find time to make a cake and get something sorted for dinner. I love to bake. The smell of it in the oven makes me think ‘this is how life should be.’ The magic of putting a tin full of sloppy mess into the oven and bringing out a cake all soft and risen is still a little miracle to me. And I’m good at it. I’m Little Miss Domestic Goddess and no-one can tell me any different. Not my mother. Not even Him. Of course, whatever I bake, she won’t eat it. I’ll bake it because she’ll want to see that I’ve made the effort. If someone’s coming to stay, even if it’s your mum, there’s got to be a homemade dessert. But she won’t eat it because she never does. She’ll be watching the calories – at least in front of me – then she’ll maybe agree to accept a small slice of cake from Him after I’ve gone to bed. And they’ll enjoy it in secret while they talk about me. And she’ll love every mouthful and wish she could have more but she won’t mention it to me.

  I’ll need to cook something that can be left in the oven while we go and pick her up from the station, so that it will be ready pretty much straight away when we get back. Otherwise she’ll just start dropping hints as soon as we get through the door and He’ll start getting under my feet making her a piece of toast because she ‘must be starving’. So I chop and assemble and wrap things in foil so that I can produce it all Blue Peter-style later – ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier’ – and even if they say nothing at all I’ll know when I carry their cleaned plates into the kitchen that they’ve enjoyed every last mouthful.

  ***

  I want to lie down and sleep for a thousand years.

  Instead I’m getting changed into a skirt and top and putting on make-up ready to go to the station. I’m wiping mascara off my cheek ready to start again when I hear his key in the door. He’s come home early to make sure the house is just so for my mother’s arrival. I should have got changed earlier. I should have known he’d get home early to make sure everything’s shipshape.

  He calls to me up the stairs. “Thought I’d get back a bit early in case you needed a hand with anything.”

  I flush the toilet to give me an extra minute or two’s excuse for not coming down the stairs straight away and run the tap while I finish with my makeup.

  I apologise for taking so long to come downstairs. He’s already in the kitchen with the kettle in his hand and He offers me a cup of tea. I know He’ll switch the kettle on and leave me to make the tea, but still, it’s nice to be asked. And He smiles at me and asks if I’m OK and I let myself think that perhaps I might be…or I might be soon.

  “You look nice,” He says, as I stir the milk into the tea. “Is that new?”

  I tell Him how I picked it up in the sale and it wasn’t expensive but He’s not listening, He’s looking in the fridge for a quick snack before dinner.

  “What’s for dinner?” He asks.

  “Stuffed chicken breasts,” I answer. “They’re in the fridge.” And He rummages around in the fridge to see them.

  “And what’s for afters?”

  “Chocolate cake.” I open the tin to let Him have a look at the cake I made earlier. “I just need to put the fudge topping on it.”

  “Are you OK?” He asks me again and I want to say “No I’m not OK, of course I’m not OK, what do you think?”

  “We’ll have to go in about half an hour,” I say instead, and He checks his watch as though my ability to tell the time cannot be trusted.

  “So we will,” He says, “I’ll just grab a quick shower.” And He downs the remains of his tea in one gulp and takes the stairs two at a time.

  I’m not sure what to do now. I could finish the cake but it might take longer than I’ve got and then I’ll be in trouble for not being ready to go when He’s ready to leave. So instead I wander aimlessly round the house looking for things I can tidy away, or dust I can clean, or pictures I can straighten. I should sit down and relax. Plenty of rest, that’s what they said at the hospital. But I can’t just sit down. I have to keep busy.

  I’m emptying a few tissues out
of the waste paper basket when He calls me upstairs and I know there must be something that I’ve missed.

  “I thought we’d just have a quick scoot around just to make sure everything’s ready for your mum,” He says. And his tone is still friendly and there’s still a good chance that it might all be OK.

  “You know what she’s like,” He says. And He’s still on my side, still coming to my rescue so that I can put things right before I have to suffer the embarrassment of my mum noticing something I missed.

  So we walk slowly round each room together, inspecting the place like old-school hospital matrons looking for dusty corners and hastily turned down beds. We both know there’ll be something she spots that I haven’t noticed. There always is. And however hard I look I won’t see it before she does. I won’t see it and neither will He. But we look all the same. We look so that I won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of my mum looking at me with that disdainful expression. We look so that He won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of my awkwardness when my housekeeping skills just don’t measure up.

  He’s happy with the bathroom and with our room, but when we get to the bedroom where mum will sleep He’s not impressed. He looks at the duvet and lifts it to see the sheets and the pillow cases. He stands on a chair and runs his finger along the picture rail then looks at it in disgust. He tells me I’m a disgrace. He tells me I should be ashamed to offer my mother a crumpled bed in a filthy room.

  And I stand in the bedroom where my mum will sleep, wishing she was here already. I’m wishing for my mum and watching the carpet while he tells me what a disgrace I am.