by Gillian Best
He pointed to the sea and shook his head. ‘Non,’ he said.
I smiled, finally able to understand something.
‘Oui,’ I replied. And off I went.
I stomped down the dunes, hating all of France for having worse weather than England.
I watched the wind whip up breakers on the water’s surface and wondered how far away these waves had started. Was the wind bringing them down from the North Sea or further afield? Were they coming from the North Atlantic, having somehow made their way around Ireland and the UK? I imagined some hateful giant dropping stones in the sea on the edge of the Arctic, chuckling at my misfortune.
The miserable weather increased my desire to swim and it also made my fear of a reprise of my earlier, unsuccessful attempt swell. I remembered almost everything from that day. I lost the feeling in my fingers and toes quite early on but promised myself I would not tell anyone in the boat, and the searing pain of the sores on my skin made by a combination of salt water and chafing from my costume was burned into my memory. The entire time I was in the water all I thought about was getting out, but I was stubborn. When my lips and tongue were swollen from salt I considered admitting defeat. What kept me going was my singular desire to have an accomplishment that I could claim as my own. Eventually though, sense won out and I climbed – delirious – back into the boat.
I was humiliated. My pride, and the sense I had of myself, had been rubbed off by the salt and water, left behind with a layer of my skin.
When I returned to the gite, cold and wet, M Sylvain was waiting nervously by the door. He chattered excitedly as he ushered me into the lounge where the fire was going strong. He brought me a bowl of bouillabaisse and I ate while drying off.
Later that evening, I sat in the reception hall and phoned home.
Harriet answered the phone exactly the way we had taught her and momentarily my mood lifted.
‘Hello, Roberts residence. Harriet speaking,’ she said.
‘Hi Harry, it’s Mum,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
‘Yeah, good.’
‘Everything okay over there?’
‘Iain’s being a twat.’
‘Language!’
‘Sorry, but he is. He spilled brown sauce on my school uniform and wouldn’t clean it up, and then Dad got really cross with him until he started crying, which made Dad even crosser.’
‘How did he spill something on your uniform?’
‘He was waving the bottle around his head like an aeroplane.’
‘What did I tell you about being on your best behaviour?’
‘I am, Mum, it’s Iain’s fault,’ she whined.
I sighed. ‘Is your father home?’
‘Yeah,’ she said and I heard the phone banging against the table and her voice shouting through the house.
‘Martha,’ John said. ‘Is it as bad over there as it is over here?’
‘I should think so.’
‘Shame. You’ve worked hard for this.’
‘There’s still time. The window is seven days.’
‘Well, you know what the weather’s like.’
‘I do.’
‘Shipping forecast isn’t optimistic.’
‘I am.’
It was one thing for me to be pessimistic, but from him it was too much. It was my swim.
‘How is everything over there? Food not too bad? You’re keeping your strength up?’
‘Yes, it’s all fine.’
‘I spoke to Charlie earlier. He said it’s low pressure off the Atlantic, wind coming down from the North Sea. Something about isobars.’
‘You called him?’
‘He rang the house.’
‘It’s a conspiracy.’
‘The whole congregation is praying for you.’
‘Tell them to pray for weather. I’ll be fine on my own.’
John chuckled. ‘I know.’
‘Not tomorrow, then?’ I prayed the rosary with the phone cord.
‘No.’
‘Well…’
‘I’ll see you soon enough,’ he said.
‘You coping alright with the children? Harriet said something about brown sauce.’
‘Minor fracas. I’ve sorted it.’
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Sleep well, love. Charlie and I will see you soon.’
The rest of the evening I spent in front of the fire listening to M Sylvain natter on in French. Though we had no common language, we had adherence to rituals, which provided us with a way to pass the time. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but his company made it cosy and I started replying to him in English. There we sat, side by side in our leather armchairs, feet warmed by the embers, going through the motions of an average evening, deafened by an unfamiliar vocabulary.
I knew next to nothing about him beyond that he lived here by himself, which meant he was either unmarried or that Mme Sylvain had met with an untimely end, and that he enjoyed listening to the sort of music my father had listened to on the radio when I was a girl. Old music that featured violins and clarinets and, in this case, accordions, limped out of an old record player kept in the corner of the room. Sometimes a particular movement would grab his attention and he would stop speaking, holding his index finger aloft as though the music was making his point for him.
But he didn’t seem to mind my presence, and what was more unusual was that he didn’t appear bothered when I stared. It was not my habit to be so rude, but as I couldn’t decipher his words, I looked to his face for some clue. It was hard to guess how old he was and I would not have been surprised to learn that he was thirty or fifty or anywhere in between. He was not unattractive with olive skin, brown eyes and a greying but well-manicured beard. His deep voice was accompanied by hands that were constantly in motion, and that occasionally landed on my wrist or hand. My initial reaction was to withdraw my arm, but over the course of a few days I got used to it and thought of it less as an inappropriate gesture and more a part of the story he was telling.
The wonderful thing about M Sylvain’s lack of skills was that I could speak with freedom, saying whatever I wanted regardless of who might be hurt. It was almost as good as being in the water.
‘The other thing,’ I said as M Sylvain refilled my glass with Pastis. ‘Is that he clips his toenails whilst sat on the edge of our bed. Whenever I hear the sound of the clippers, I make a note to Hoover the next day.’
He nodded gravely as though he was following and then it was his turn to speak. I pretended that he was in complete agreement with me.
‘It’s utterly ridiculous. I have mentioned it to him, but he insists that a house is a man’s castle and that he’ll do as he pleases. When I get in a proper strop – which is infrequent, mind – he rolls his eyes and acts as though I’m overreacting.’ I paused. ‘It’s unhygienic. And I don’t care to feel the crunch of someone’s toenails underfoot.’
I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the warmth and he spoke at length as I nodded along.
‘I don’t know what made me decide to do it. Quite impulsive really. I suppose it’s vanity. I could’ve paid more attention to the garden, or joined the Women’s Institute, done charitable work, but I wanted to do something different.
‘When I was a young woman, a reporter approached me on the beach and asked me if I was going to swim the Channel. It was all the rage for a while, the Americans came over, the Egyptians sent men every summer. Oh, they were wonderful to watch.
‘Anyhow, this reporter asked me if I was going to swim it and of course I said no, I mean, it’s completely ridiculous to think that I could do such a thing. A few other women had done it. Trudie Ederle was the one all the Americans raved about. But he got me thinking.
‘Nothing I could have done about it then. John and I were getting married and I had responsibilities. There were expectations to meet. My mother insisted that no wedding dress had ever looked so awful as mine did, all because it had to cover my tan lines and my muscular arms.’ I traced
the lines on my shoulder, and puffed myself up as a wrestler might – to much unintended comedic effect, as M Sylvain did his best to stifle a laugh. But it was a warm laugh, followed by a warm smile. ‘John, well he didn’t come right out and say it, but I could tell he wasn’t keen. Bad enough a young woman prancing around half-naked for all the world to see, but a married woman. It was a different time.’
When I paused, he said something that felt sympathetic. It was in the slight tilt of his head, the softness in his voice, the way I felt when he looked at me as he got up to put another log on the fire. He offered me more to drink but I brushed him away, doing a breaststroke mime through the air.
‘Now,’ I said, pointing my fingers down, hoping to describe the present. ‘Things are a bit different. I’m not a foolish young woman anymore.’ I made a silly face, hoping that might convey youthful silliness and then immediately afterwards shook my head “no”.
In the morning he accompanied me on my daily walk up and down the beach. I was in better spirits the moment my feet hit the sand because the rain had finally stopped and the wind had shrunk from a howl to a gentle yelp. We walked side by side and as he pointed, I learned about the nature of the sea on our doorstep. Not the sort of precise information that I would have been able to relay to Charlie, more a sense of things. He moved his hands in one way that I understood to be currents, another for rocks and another – slightly hysterical looking gesture – for danger.
On the fourth day, I was not desperate to swim home. It occurred to me as we sat – as was our custom now – in front of the fire, that maybe the storm had been meant to steer me off course, and in so doing put me onto the right course.
I allowed myself to imagine another life. What if I were to never leave France? No rule said I had to. There were responsibilities and it would not be easy, but it was within the realm of the possible. These few days spent weathering a storm could be taken as a glimpse into an alternate version of my life, one in which I could be Marthe instead of Martha. Better judgement was quick to return: What difference would it make swapping a small town for a smaller village? An Englishman for a Frenchman? Days still needed to be filled, houses cleaned, meals prepared and eaten. The difference was that it was different.
M Sylvain retired at the same time as I did that evening which was unusual, he seemed to be a night owl and normally put another log on the fire when I excused myself for the night. He talked and walked with me to my room and I paused at the door, waiting for him to finish his thought. When he was done he said a few more things, short phrases that I took to be goodnights and sleep wells, and then he did something unexpected: he kissed both my cheeks. I did my best to avoid appearing shocked. He was French and we were in France, waiting out the weather.
I told myself to think nothing of it, but throughout the night my thoughts returned to that moment. It was an echo of how I’d felt when John and I had first met, but stronger, intensified perhaps because it was impossible to know the meaning of words I didn’t understand. Enjoyable because I was in control of the fantasy.
The dawn of my fifth morning turned my thoughts back to the sea: the storm had subsided and the wind had died down, though in its place was a heavy fog. The conditions weren’t right for a cross-Channel swim but I was at least able to get in the water and swim parallel to the shoreline.
M Sylvain continued our habit of walking and accompanied me on my swim. When I turned to my left to breathe I saw his figure on the beach, his heavy navy cardigan standing out against the dunes.
My body came back to me as I got used to a different part of the sea and learned its subtle differences. My shoulders, weakened slightly from a few days marooned on dry land, sprang back into shape and it felt good to remind myself that I was strong. The problem was my mind. I was unable to keep my focus on the water as my thoughts returned, without consent, to my French host.
I knew nothing about him beyond the cursory facts, but that did not stop me as I imagined him to be adept at all kinds of things, from playing an instrument through to tennis, with a long-standing interest in cinema and opera. I gave him a small apartment in Paris filled with books and a conservatory filled with plants.
That evening I looked forward to dinner, though I wished I had packed with more foresight. I was not a woman who would ever be described as chic but I would have liked to have worn something different that night.
M Sylvain – I didn’t even know his first name – sat across the table from me and we chatted intensely and light-heartedly, laughing in between bites and leaning closer to make a point. I spoke freely, even more so than on previous evenings, and it was invigorating.
He escorted me to my room again and grasped my arms and kissed my cheeks, which I was prepared for. What I was not ready for was my reaction. My hand was on the door and I opened it halfway. Then I paused, only briefly, but noticeably. In that moment I looked at him, at his lovely brown eyes the colour of dark oak and I was shocked to feel interest in the smallest of possibilities.
I smiled warmly and squeezed his hand. He looked down and then kissed me once more, his mouth grazing mine as he aimed for my cheek.
As I lay in bed I felt I had missed a chance, that I had not been strong when strength was required.
After a terrible, sleepless night, I awoke early and went for a swim by myself. When I returned M Sylvain was gesticulating at the phone and shouting in French.
‘Charlie!’
‘Pardon?’ I said, dripping water on the floor.
‘Téléphone!’
He pointed to the hallway with one hand and with the other mimed speaking on the phone. I changed quickly and rang back.
‘It’s going to be tight,’ Charlie told me. ‘But it’s our best chance.’
‘How tight is tight?’
‘You’ll have to start early in the morning. John and I will be at the beach at two.’
‘Should we wait?’
‘There’s a storm in the North Sea. It’ll come down this way.’
‘So we’re going tonight?’
He paused. ‘You don’t have to. If you’ve changed your mind.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Then we’re going tonight,’ he said.
A week ago I would not have suggested waiting even one more minute, I would have run to the water’s edge and thrown myself in the sea, but I was there then and not here.
I set the phone down and saw M Sylvain waiting anxiously.
‘Nager?’ he said, miming breaststroke.
I smiled. ‘Oui.’
We shared one more meal together, M Sylvain and I, under a subdued mood. I went to bed well before the sun went down and I had expected to feel excited, anxious, even nervous before the swim, but all I felt was sadness tinged with regret.
My alarm woke me at midnight. The bill had been paid and I had tried to explain to M Sylvain that I would be leaving in the early hours, in case he thought I had slipped away without saying goodbye intentionally. I put my costume on and carried my case downstairs as quietly as possible and when I passed through the lounge I was surprised to see him stretched out, dozing with a small lamp casting him in a warm glow.
I opened the door quietly praying it would not creak and wake him. I turned back for one last look before I shut the door for good and struck out for the beach. I left behind the possibility of another life and set out in the pitch black night to look for the blinking lights on an old fishing boat, ferrying my pilot and husband to me.
There was a light breeze coming off the water and it was colder than I had expected but altogether the conditions seemed as good as I could have hoped for. The sky was as dark as the deep abysses of the ocean, tempered with pinpricks of stars and the moon cast a white glow over the calm water.
I jumped up and down, swinging my arms back and forth to limber up, and after ten minutes I thought I heard the sound of the motor.
‘Marthe!’
His voice scared me and I looked back toward the gite.
; ‘Marthe!’ he called again.
‘Here!’ I shouted. ‘I’m here!’
He jogged up to me and I felt the spark of his hand on my bare back. A small searchlight scanned the shore and I knew that meant Charlie and John were near.
I cupped his face in my hands and he wrapped his arms around me. I let him warm me. Though I should have been, I was not in a rush to let go. He leaned back, not releasing me from his embrace, brushed the fringe off my face and looked at me in a way no one had ever done before. Then he kissed me. Not on either cheek, but on the mouth as the light from the boat looked for me.
My heart was pounding and I drew him closer, desperate to remember everything about him, every sensation, every thrilling tingle. And then we let each other go.
He stepped back and said, ‘Bonne chance, chérie.’
I waved to him and then, hearing my husband’s familiar voice coming from the water, I turned away from him, from France, and gave the task at hand my full attention.
The moment my toes touched the water something in my brain switched on – or possibly off – and I was focused. I walked into the surprisingly calm sea and felt my muscles stiffen at the cold. When the water was over my knees, my hands went over my head and I dove straight in, feet flutter kicking the instant they left the ground, arms stretching as far as possible out in front of me, pulling my body stroke by stroke back to England. A swimmer’s motor is her legs, the kick is where the energy lies. Charlie had cautioned me against going flat out from the get go, warning that it was essential to keep something back for when the tide changed, for when the chop picked up, for when things got hard, but the pent up energy I’d accumulated in France was difficult to contain. And I didn’t want to hold onto it anymore. In the dark, unable to see much more than the lights on Charlie’s boat, I swum hard and fast.
That afternoon with Henry, I went upstairs to the room I had stayed in and looked for something I had left behind.
Behind the mirror that hung over the dresser, I had tucked a small note. My command of the French language was basic at best, but I did know one or two words well enough to write them out. I knew that upon parting one said au revoir which literally meant until I see you again. I had scribbled it on a slip of paper and hidden it away, telling myself that it would be enough.