by Gillian Best
In the years since that swim, I had imagined what it would have been like to return for a visit as I had thought I might, in case the opening was still there. It was too late now and M Sylvain was no longer running the gite.
I turned the mirror and held my breath. I don’t know what I was hoping for but as I had expected the scrap of paper, yellowed over the years, fluttered to the ground. He had never found it.
I planned my swim as much as possible, setting out the procedure for feedings, for communicating, for dealing with the unforeseen. And I had imagined how it would go. I had imagined pausing to enjoy the sun rising when I hit mid-way, not realising or refusing to remember that the pain of it pushed even just carrying on to the edge of possibility. Hour after hour, I repeated the same basic motions: arms windmilling, legs kicking, head turning to breathe. The swimming is the only bit you can’t reliably plan.
My mind went blank quickly, going into some kind of hibernation that was similar to sleep: I was aware of everything but as an observer. I remembered noticing when the sores from my straps opened up to the acid burn of the salt, and I remembered answering questions correctly, proving that hypothermia had not set in. But these were markers, exceptions and not the norm, which was an immersion into trust: the trust I had in Charlie and John to keep me safe, the trust I had in myself to make it to the other side.
When I finally made it onto the shore in England, John hugged me proudly and drove me home. As we pulled up to the house, the children were waiting outside holding a hand-painted sign that read “congratulations”. They were cheering and shouting for me, and I couldn’t help but take part in the excitement of it all. It was my first successful swim and I was exhausted, covered in sores, swollen and fit only for several days of bed rest. But I had done it.
As I returned from France this time, with internal sores, and more than a few days of bed rest in my future, I remembered that hard won sense of exhaustion and the pride I felt upon returning home. In returning then I had felt a sense of things having just begun, but as Henry and I drove back that night, and I remembered what our house had looked like I knew that that day couldn’t be topped. I pictured Iain and Harriet jumping for joy as though it were yesterday and thought of how happy we had all been then. The air was full of hawthorn that evening as Henry drove through the darkened streets, as I missed my family and wished for more time.
Henry offered to come in and sit with me for a while but I didn’t accept. Instead, I went into my dark house alone and sat in the kitchen and cried. I cried for lost chances and for all the people who were no longer in my life.
John Dear
It was a Sunday afternoon when I returned from a weekend away golfing. Webb limped up to greet me, his excitement in no way diminished by his uneven gait. I put my clubs down next to the front door, along with my carryall and went through to the kitchen.
‘Who’s coming to dinner?’ I asked, as I kissed my wife.
‘No one,’ Martha replied, her attention focused on peeling potatoes.
‘A roast just for us?’
She nodded.
‘Bit much, don’t you think?’
‘It’s a special occasion.’
‘Really?’
The knife hit the wooden cutting board with more force than necessary. ‘Really.’
‘Have I forgot something?’
She shook her head.
We were no longer young, my wife and I, but we were not the old I had pictured as a child, of elderly people with stooped backs and walking sticks and feebleness of mind and body. We were in the process of becoming old but we had not yet fully settled into old age, or so I thought. There were signs of impending changes, some of which we saw and acknowledged for what they were. Others we swept quickly under the rug in the hopes that they were unfortunate and unusual.
‘Dinner won’t be long,’ she said.
I went upstairs to unpack. Our bed was unmade which was unusual but I didn’t think anything of it. I straightened the white duvet and put my things away. On the dresser I laid out my comb and aftershave, put my dirty clothes in the hamper and then my bag at the bottom of our wardrobe next to my dress shoes that hadn’t been worn in so long that they had accumulated a thin film of dust, which I brushed off absently.
My bag wouldn’t fit in the space so I had to drag a few things out in order to squeeze it in and as I did that, I found the old case I used to bring in the boat when I accompanied Martha on her cross-Channel swims.
I smiled as I ran my hands over its worn leather and rusting clasps. It was a well-travelled bag. Opening it, my fingers searched until they felt the smooth glass of the jar I was looking for.
I tilted the jar back and forth to see if the pebbles would make the same sound as they did on the beach when the sea receded, but they did not. On the beach it sounded as though they were singing in a way, a light tinkling noise that was linked in my mind to Martha. Most people would have thought the sea sounded like waves cresting onto the beach, but for me it sounded like a child’s toy piano.
I was just about to open it up to see if the stones still held the smell of the water when Martha called me to the table.
She was sitting at the table when I went downstairs, the roast dinner laid out in front of her. I took my seat and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.
‘How was the weekend?’
‘Fine. Glad I went.’
‘You didn’t…’
I shook my head. ‘I drew no more attention to myself than Leith did after five pints.’
She passed me the gravy boat.
‘How was your weekend?’ I asked.
‘Quiet, mostly.’
Martha cut her lamb with surgical precision. Her plate achieved a level of organisation that the Armed Forces could have aspired to: nothing touched anything else. I knew that this was a tell. The meat was relegated to one side with the possibility of it touching anything else on the plate completely inconceivable. She was in charge of that plate and the food would follow her instructions.
‘Martha?’
She speared a carrot and chewed deliberately.
‘Yes, John?’
I put my cutlery down and waited. She continued to eat but would not look at me.
‘Is there something? Did something happen at the weekend?’
I thought of the unmade bed which led me to notice, in hindsight, the newspapers piled on the side, and the fact that Henry had not immediately appeared when my taxi pulled up to the house earlier.
She paused as her fork was about to go into her mouth. She returned it to the side of the plate, lamb sticking to the tines.
‘Yes, actually.’
I waited. She took a deep breath.
‘I need to go in for some medical treatments.’
‘Medical treatments?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what?’
‘For something I have.’
‘Which is?’
She looked up from her plate and met my gaze. ‘Cancer,’ she said, and picked up the fork, eating the lamb.
‘Cancer?’ I whispered. I could barely bring myself to say the word.
She nodded.
‘How serious is it?’
‘It’s cancer, John. When is it not serious?’
That she answered in her usual clipped tone – the one she saved for things that beggared belief – meant she was the woman I had waved goodbye to on Thursday, and that though this was awful news, her character remained intact.
‘Eat your dinner before it goes cold,’ she said.
I stayed at the table after we were finished to keep her company as she did the washing up. It was the same kitchen table we had had since we were first married, the marks and gouges in the wood were mementoes of our family’s life together.
When you’re first married and just starting out you don’t think of things like this. When you buy things like sofas and beds, sheets and crockery, tables and chairs, you don’t think about things beyond what’s immedia
tely practical. Your mind is focused on the present and maybe the near future – and price – but nothing more. I never thought, when we were picking this table out, is this table strong enough to hold me up when my wife tells me she has cancer? I didn’t think to wonder if this table would be able to see us through the awkward Christmases, the silent dinners and the teary breakfasts.
I had no idea what this table would have to see us through over the years.
The last time this table withstood anything on a similar level was the last Christmas that Harriet came home.
It was Boxing Day and we were all in our traditional spots: Martha and I at the heads, with Iain to my left and Harriet to my right. It was the sort of dinner we had had every night when they were growing up, a simple family dinner. It was my favourite part of the day. I looked around at them and was astonished at the people our children had become: competent, successful adults. They had done so many things that their mother and I never dreamed of. Both had gone to university and both had moved to London to fight it out amongst the great and the good. Promising careers looked set to see them through their adult lives.
‘How long are you two with us?’ I asked.
‘I’ve taken until New Year’s off,’ Iain said. ‘But I’m thinking I’ll head back to London tomorrow or possibly the day after. Depends if Eric can get away tomorrow evening.’
‘I haven’t heard that name in a while,’ Martha said.
‘He’s been busy. They have two girls now.’
‘Two children already?’
Iain nodded. ‘The youngest, Abbey’s come down with the flu. If she’s better and his Missus doesn’t mind, we’re hoping to catch up over a few drinks tomorrow.’
‘And you Harry? Seeing any old chums while you’re up here?’ I asked.
‘No, not really,’ she said. ‘Haven’t kept in touch.’
‘I saw Amy’s Mum last week in the Post Office. She was expecting her back here for the holidays. I’m sure she’d love a phone from you,’ Martha said.
‘I bet she would,’ Harriet said under her breath.
‘Sorry?’ Martha said, cupping her hand to her ear.
‘Nothing,’ Harriet said, before she drained her glass. ‘Is there anymore wine?’
‘John, see if there’s anything in the kitchen, would you?’
I brought another bottle back to the table. ‘Good job I stocked up,’ I said, jokingly.
Glasses were topped up all around.
‘I have some news,’ Harriet said.
‘Go on then,’ I said.
‘Harry,’ Iain cautioned.
They exchanged looks and I wondered what they were up to.
‘I have good news,’ she said, unable to contain her smile. ‘I’m seeing someone.’ She was worrying the edge of the tablecloth and I was expecting her to announce her engagement next.
‘That’s wonderful news,’ I said.
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘What’s the lucky man’s name then?’ I said.
‘Iris.’
‘That’s a very unusual name for a man. Is he foreign?’
‘No, from Devon. But he’s a she.’
My daughter stared at her brother and a grim silence fell over us.
‘Sorry?’ I said.
I looked at Martha’s face for clarity but her expression was as blank as my own must have been.
‘Iris is a woman. She’s a school teacher.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ I said.
‘John,’ my wife tempered, as though I were being wilfully ignorant.
‘I don’t understand why this man is a woman.’
I thought I saw Harriet roll her eyes at her brother.
‘Because I’m a lesbian, Dad.’
She said it in a clear, authoritative voice as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Everyone at the table looked at me and what I remember most is the smell of the brussel sprouts, wilted and sour, that we hadn’t finished.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Harriet. You’re not a lesbian,’ I said.
Iain looked away.
‘That’s preposterous. You were raised in a good home. Properly. There’s no reason you would have become a deviant.’
‘I’m not a deviant.’
‘Of course you’re not. You’ll find the right man soon enough.’
‘No I won’t. I’ve found the right woman.’
‘Harriet, stop this immediately.’ I heard my own voice grow louder.
‘John,’ Martha said.
‘What?’ I replied.
‘Let’s not do this,’ she said.
‘Do what? I’m simply pointing out that she cannot possibly be with a woman.’
‘I am. I’m very much with her. In fact, we’re moving in together as soon as we can find a place we can afford.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’
‘What? Are you going to stop me? Come down to London and forbid it?’
‘If I have to, yes.’
‘Dad, can’t you just be happy for her?’ Iain said.
‘There’s nothing to be happy about. It’s against everything that’s right and good in the world. It’s against God and it’s against nature and I won’t hear anymore about it.’
‘Against nature? You do know that homosexuality can be found in animals, birds… Even the Ancient Greeks, they were queer.’
‘Do not use that kind of language in my house,’ I growled.
‘What kind of language?’ She locked eyes with me. ‘Oh, did you mean saying the word sex? Because that’s what couples generally do, Dad. You’ve even done it, at least twice.’
‘Harriet Elizabeth Roberts!’ I stood up and knocked my chair backwards. ‘That is enough! If you cannot behave in a decent, reasonable manner then you will have to leave.’
‘You’re kicking me out? On Christmas?’
‘It’s Boxing Day. And I will not have someone under my roof—’
‘It’s Mum’s house too,’ she said smugly. ‘And mine, and Iain’s.’
‘It is most certainly not your house!’
She looked to her mother for help or comfort, I didn’t know, but whatever it was she was hoping to find, it wasn’t there. My wife stared at her plate.
‘And you are not my daughter. As long as you continue to behave in this manner—’
‘What? Falling in love? You’d rather I was with a man I didn’t love? You’d rather I lived a quiet life of desperation, like you? Whiling away the days, in a passionless life, content to appear happy rather than actually be happy?’
‘Harriet,’ Martha said. ‘Calm down.’ She reached out for our daughter’s hand.
‘And you’ll be happy? This life will make you happy? You’ll never have children. You’ll never get married. You won’t be able to lead a normal life!’
I thought of how much I had loved watching her grow as a little girl, how much enjoyment she had given me as I taught her to ride a bicycle, helped her to zip up her jacket, and I thought of the thin wisps of hair that used to tickle my face when she sat on my knee as I read the paper to her.
Her expression changed instantly. The stubborn fight that she wore in her flushed cheeks and her fiery eyes – that headstrong look that she and I shared – vanished. In its place was a Harriet I didn’t recognise. Her eyes welled up with tears and she ran upstairs to her room, as though she were a little girl and I had just scolded her for leaving the heating on, or hitting her brother.
‘Get out!’ I couldn’t believe what I was saying but I was saying it. ‘Get out of this house this instant and don’t you come back until you see sense. I will not have you staying here one minute longer!’
Harriet returned to London that evening, to where she felt loved and accepted and happy. Her home, our home, shrunk again.
Weeks later, in the doldrums of February when the wind and rain were competing and the sky was showing off all the variations of grey it knows, I came home from work to find a copy of the Guardian on the kitchen table
at my spot.
Martha was in the kitchen, busy with something on the stove, her swimming costume drying near the radiator and steaming up the windows. Webb was asleep under the table. The evening’s routine was unbroken except for the new addition of the paper.
I kissed Martha on the cheek and she nodded toward the paper.
‘Life and style section, page two,’ she said.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Life and style section, page two,’ she repeated.
‘Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?’
She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look that I knew well enough. It was a look that meant I was to do as I was told.
I opened the paper and didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘Toward the bottom, right hand side.’
‘Martha, I’m tired. Just tell me what you want me to see.’
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and came over beside me.
‘There,’ she said, pointing as though it were obvious.
And there was Harriet’s name in the by-line. Harriet Roberts, in black and white. I felt Martha’s hand on my shoulder.
‘The Guardian,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘What do you mean, of course?’
She pressed her hand into my shoulder in a way that was not entirely loving.
‘Well,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Someone like her wouldn’t be writing for the Daily Mail.’
She took her hand off my shoulder and swatted the back of my head.
‘John,’ she said.
‘It’s true.’
‘Someone like her,’ she mimicked. ‘She’s your daughter.’
My instinct was to correct her, but that would have been foolish. And would have only served to reinforce something I wished I could take back.
‘Is she?’ I said. ‘Is she still my daughter?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘It’s an honest question.’
‘Is it?’ she said, going back to the pot on the stove that was bubbling vigorously.
‘What do you mean by that?’