The Last Wave

by Gillian Best

  ‘Be careful when you pin it on her dress. My boyfriend’s pricked me before.’

  I stared at my shoes and prayed that she would stop talking so I could leave.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’

  I put my wallet on the counter and she handed me the red rose surrounded by a tasteful amount of white baby’s breath quickly. My first instinct was to smell it and it was then that I realised this would be the first memory I would have of Martha when she smelled like something other than the sea.

  The walk to Martha’s parents’ house would not need as much time as I had even if I dragged it out by walking the long way and moving as slowly as possible, but the walls of my flat had felt as if they were closing in on me. I couldn’t go back there, so I went along to Martha’s, trying my best to remain unconcerned with how it might make me appear too eager or too keen.

  I walked up the road to her parents’ house and looked at things with more interest because if things went as planned then this walk would no longer be part of my life. I forced myself to notice things I thought Martha might: the washing hung out to dry on the Thomas’ house which must mean that Mrs Thomas was over her illness and that they would not be requiring so much help. The newspapers had piled up at the foot of Mr Anderson’s front door, which could mean that he was away for a filthy weekend up in Blackpool again. What gossip did she and I have in our future? What would our new neighbourhood bring for us once we were married and settled into our own home?

  The very idea of it was thrilling. To know that as I walked home from my administrative job down at the port, I would be walking towards something instead of away; that waiting for me at home would be the woman I was in love with.

  When her mother opened the door she looked surprised. ‘John,’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting you just yet.’

  It was unusual that she didn’t invite me in immediately, but I tried not to take that as a bad omen. ‘It’s such a beautiful evening, Mrs Munro. I thought maybe we might take a walk first.’

  Martha’s mother bit her lip and looked nervously over her shoulder.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ I asked.

  ‘Mmm, yes,’ she said, fiddling with her bracelet. ‘Everything is fine. Unfortunately, Martha isn’t back yet.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Mrs Munro forced a pleasant smile. ‘She’s just popped out.’

  ‘Popped out?’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t be much longer. Come inside.’ She opened the door and waited for me to walk into the lounge where I knew Martha’s father would be on the couch, staring at something just out of reach.

  I followed her into the room with its closed curtains and stale air, and sat on the end of the brown corduroy sofa.

  ‘Richard,’ her mother said. ‘John is here.’

  She had different tones for me and her husband: I knew when she was speaking to me because she had a sing-song voice that always made me feel like a child, but when she spoke to her husband her inflection changed and all I heard were years of admonishment and frustration.

  Richard looked at me and nodded his head with an economy of movement that belied a man unwilling to expend any more energy than absolutely necessary. Martha had told me that he spent a great deal of time sitting in the lounge, looking out at the garden through a small crack in the curtains, which he had recently changed from heavy wool – which had kept out the winter droughts – to lace, which let a specific and dreamy kind of light into the room.

  Their lounge was more constricting than my flat and as I sat on the sofa my chest tightened until I felt as though my lungs were a vacuum, hoovering up all the air and selfishly keeping it to themselves, while my heart pumped aggressively in my chest, desperate for oxygen.

  It was her father’s domain. Her mother had taken charge of everything else but she did not dare to come in here and disturb her husband’s thoughts. When I came to pick Martha up the first time she had introduced me to her parents on neutral territory in the front corridor and over time I had learned that, in the silent domestic wars, Richard had ceded all ground with the exception of the lounge which was now no longer subject to Mrs Munro’s relentless improvements. The refinements, as she preferred them to be called, included walls that had been painted a blistering high-gloss white and required constant monitoring to ensure maximum brightness at all times, along with the banishment of anything that might be referred to as dark, sombre, dour or joyless. This gave the effect of the house – barring Mr Munro’s personal refuge – as being in a state of perpetual readiness for a party that, as far as I knew, had never and would never happen.

  ‘Early?’ Richard said. ‘For what?’

  ‘Martha,’ I replied. I took the dark green velvet box out of my breast pocket and placed it on the cushion between us.

  He turned his head slightly and rested his fingertips on the box. ‘Martha,’ he said.

  ‘It was such a lovely day, it seemed a shame to waste it.’

  ‘I expect that’s what she thought.’

  ‘Is she?’

  He nodded. ‘Where else?’ The way he said it needed no visual clues. He was proud.

  Forgetting myself, I sighed loudly. She was always in the water. And if she wasn’t then she had just come from the sea, water dripping slowly out of her ears making it difficult for her to hear me, or else she was about to go to the sea because the winds were perfect, or the tide was in, or some other reason. Other men I knew worried about their girlfriends meeting someone more attractive, or with more money.

  ‘Good,’ I said, trying to salvage things.

  ‘Is it?’ He cocked his eyebrow.

  ‘Of course. She needs to get it out of her system. Soon enough, there won’t be much time for it.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I’d like to start a family and I’m sure that Martha—’

  ‘Did she ever tell you about her first time?’

  I shook my head no. For Martha swimming was something that happened in the continuous present, it was an on-going process with no beginning point, and I had never thought about a moment in her life when she hadn’t been a swimmer. I had also believed that her swimming was a way of temporarily filling the void that our marriage and subsequent young family would soon replace.

  ‘I heard a shriek followed by a slap as she hit the water. I didn’t see her fall, but a friend of mine did. He said she hit the surface flat.’ He held his hand out to demonstrate, palm down. ‘It was a miracle she didn’t break any bones.’

  The room was stifling in the warm afternoon and the air didn’t move. I couldn’t sit on the sofa next to her father waiting for her to come home any longer. I stood up and held my hand out.

  ‘I think I’ll go and see if I can drag her onto dry land,’ I said.

  He shook my hand and gave me a funny smile. ‘Best of luck, son.’

  As I walked down to the shore, I wondered if she was putting me through a test to see if I was worthy and after I had decided that I would pass such a test easily, I began to wonder if it wasn’t actually a test, that maybe she wasn’t swimming back and forth, maybe she was swimming away from me.

  It was a beautiful evening, the sun was shining and there was hardly any breeze to speak of and I went to her usual spot, which was marked by a myrtle bush. I found her bag, clothes and towel neatly folded on top of one another and sat down to wait. All around me were the happy sounds of summer: children laughing and running, barbecues and radios. It was so clear that in the distance you could almost see France. I felt completely out of place in my navy suit, necktie and polished black shoes – clothes I wore only for the most important situations. The last time I had worn them was when my manager announced that I had been given a promotion. They were serious clothes for serious things and I could not have been more serious about wanting to marry her.

  I must have looked ridiculous sweating through the early evening in my suit because I caught people near to me staring. The seaside was open to everyone, but that’s not where I w
as then, I was at Martha’s beach, looking at her sea and her water.

  It was her special spot and as I sat there I was able to see it through her eyes.

  On our first date she had described it to me despite my protestations.

  ‘I grew up here, I know what the shore looks like,’ I had said.

  She had laughed. ‘Okay, tell me what you see then.’

  ‘The white cliffs, the port, the ships. The sea.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s all you see?’

  ‘What else is there? It’s scenery, it’s what you tell people who visit from out of town.’

  She had shaken her head as though pitying me. ‘Maybe you should have your eyes checked.’

  ‘My eyes are just fine thank you.’

  When I saw the expression she made then everything in me wanted to freeze her face in that exact way forever.

  ‘The pebbles sing when the water washes over them. And the way the currents swirl at the end of the pier where the water has to move differently, where it gets thrown off course. There’s the seabed, which holds all of history right there in the sediment. Everything that ever was and ever will be – part of it ends up there, on the ocean floor. The waves that lap at your toes when you stand on the water’s edge have come a very long way and they’ve seen more than you and I ever will.’

  I squinted at the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in her yellow bonnet but the shallows were crowded and I couldn’t see past the children splashing so I took my socks and shoes off, rolled up my trousers and walked closer. I steered clear of the children because I wanted to keep my suit in good condition but part of me wondered if I might increase the chances of her saying yes if, when I asked, there was sand under my nails as I slipped the ring on her finger.

  Scanning the horizon for the little yellow dot revealed only the sea stretching out into the haze, which made it seem as if the world ended just there, just out of reach. The ferry in the distance looked like it was about to fall off the edge of the known world and I felt my chest tighten. If the ferry could fall off then so could Martha, a ridiculous thought but one that persisted.

  I had gone to see her father when all the signs indicated that my siren would be bathing. I had presented myself at their front door and had sweat through my dress shirt before we had even got down to business.

  Richard must have sensed what I wanted to discuss and instead of inviting me in, he grabbed his coat and ushered me down the road, toward his local. It was early evening, an hour or so before dinner, and the pub wasn’t crowded. It wasn’t my type of pub: all red leather banquettes and a garish pattern on the carpeted floor, but I was grateful that we weren’t out of place.

  We had sat at the bar, elbow to elbow, staring straight ahead at the faded mirror behind the rows of spirit bottles. I saw my forehead and part of my chin between the whisky bottles and the corner of Richard’s eye above the gin. We spoke to the broken parts of ourselves, knowing that Martha would put us back together again.

  ‘How long has it been now?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight months,’ I said.

  ‘She’s finished school.’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘You have a decent job, room to grow.’

  ‘I do.’

  There were the freckles that peppered her nose and the way her hair is blonde at the ends from spending so much time in the sea. There was the way she blinked when I accidentally stepped on her toes when we were dancing and most importantly she was the first and last person I thought about every single day. And I gave thanks for the good luck and nerve that had led me to call out to her as she passed by one afternoon on her bicycle. There were other things too: the way she squeezed my hand, the way she pressed herself against me when we kissed, and the night under the pier which hopefully would not have the kind of consequences that would mean moving the wedding date up a few months.

  Richard drank his ale. ‘You know it’s not me you have to ask.’

  Panic rose slowly in my chest. It was not the right moment for riddles. I set my glass down. ‘Richard, I would like to ask Martha to marry me, and I would very much like to have your blessing.’

  ‘I’m happy if she is, but it’s not me you have to ask. It won’t be me giving her away.’

  I stared blankly at him until the beginning of a smile crept over his face. It was obvious he was proud of his daughter’s unusual abilities. ‘The sea, of course.’

  The first time I had seen her in her element was on our third date. We were a group of three couples – her best friend Doreen along with her boyfriend and my mate from work Thom and his sister – and we had taken a picnic to the beach. It was a beautiful day and we walked a ways up the headland searching for somewhere secluded. The girls walked ahead us and Martha walked slightly ahead of them.

  ‘Martha, you had my custard, what do you think?’ Doreen said.

  I waited for her to look over her shoulder and reply.

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Doreen said.

  When Martha still didn’t turn around Doreen reached out and touched her arm.

  Martha jumped. ‘What?’

  Doreen laughed. ‘Where do you go? And where are you rushing off to?’

  ‘The tide’s going out. If we hurry we can still go for a swim before it’s too rocky.’

  ‘You’re not going to climb down the side of the cliffs just to go swimming, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. There are stairs carved into the rock. Up ahead. So we need to keep moving.’

  Doreen shook her head and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s not that kind of outing.’

  She was different than the other girls who had had their hair done for the afternoon and were wearing nice sundresses, while Martha wore shorts and her hair – which was cut in a short crop – looked like it was in need of a thorough brushing. The two other girls giggled and gossiped and Martha was completely oblivious. When she turned to me a moment later I felt myself stand slightly taller, smile a bit broader.

  ‘You’ll go swimming with me, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. What else could I have said?

  ‘Since when did you swim?’ Thom said.

  I glared at him. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ Martha said.

  Thom tried to gauge her knowledge from her expression. ‘John can’t swim.’

  I blushed as she looked at me with disbelief and prayed that my lack of aquatic abilities would not put a premature end to our afternoon.

  ‘Martha,’ Doreen said. ‘No one else wants to go swimming. Let’s just have a nice lunch.’ She held up the basket trying to tempt her and Martha looked straight at me.

  ‘Let’s go swimming,’ I said.

  She beamed and jogged up ahead and I ran to catch her up. We walked further on and then Martha turned off into the scrub grass on the edge of the cliff. I followed her because she moved with the confidence of a mountain goat or someone who had developed an intimate connection with the place and a few moments later we were walking down a set of stairs carved into the cliff face. It was extraordinary and I couldn’t believe I had never noticed the steps before. The nearer to the sea we got the more slippery the rock became, the algae and seawater making the surface slick.

  ‘Be careful,’ Martha said.

  At the bottom there were several large, flat rocks and Martha stood atop the largest one to the right of the steps. She pulled her jumper off over her head and it was the first time I saw how bronzed her back was which was only possible because the straps on her costume were not lining up as they would usually do, letting me see the tan lines that criss-crossed her back.

  She was not afraid or ashamed or thinking of anything other than a swim. She stared out at the sea with devotion and desire, and I knew then that I would only be happy if she looked at me with the same expression. I needed her.

  ‘Do you swim often?’ I asked.

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘It’s a lovely way to spe
nd summers.’

  ‘I swim in winter too.’

  ‘Here? Isn’t it too cold?’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t always stay in very long, but the thing to do is avoid drying up.’

  The sea lapped gently at the edge of the rock and she slipped into the water, which was only waist high. She held her hand out to me. I rolled up my trousers and edged my way to the brink of the rock. I looked at the water and couldn’t see the bottom. Martha stood there swaying softly in the current with her arm outstretched, waiting for me. My eagerness was stronger than fear. I took her hand and stepped in, fumbling and slipping forward, until finally steadying myself on her broad shoulders.

  ‘You really can’t swim?’ she asked as she held me up in the water.

  I shook my head no and committed to memory the spot where each fingertip touched my skin as she held onto my arm.

  ‘I’ll teach you,’ she said before she dove headfirst into an oncoming wave, which crested into me, knocking me backwards. Coughing, I steadied myself and watched her swim away. All I could do was wait and hope she would come back to me.

  When I finally saw the yellow blip of her bathing cap out there in the shark-grey water I shouted instinctively but there was no way she would have been able to hear me. I went closer to her, wading in up to my knees, as far as I dared to go without her nearby, in case something happened or in case I needed help. I waved my arms over my head drawing the attention of everyone else in the sea but Martha.

  The water put itself between us. It was a protective barrier that encircled her, guarding her and keeping me at bay.

  When she was in the water she couldn’t see me or hear me, when she was in the water what remained on the land didn’t exist. I went back to her towel and sat down to wait.

  She must have known today was the day: her mother was terrible at keeping secrets and some had been rather vocal about the fact that I was taking too much time in asking. We had been dancing around the idea for the better part of a month. If it was time for the big questions then why was she hiding in the sea?