by Gillian Best
‘I am. I’m training.’
‘But you can’t afford to make the swim.’
I looked at him sternly. ‘Thank you for reminding me. I don’t remember the church’s remit extending to parishioners’ finances before.’
‘I’ve seen the way you look at the water, Martha.’
‘And how is that?’
‘Like a woman possessed.’
‘Are you going to stage some kind of exorcism?’
He laughed. ‘No, no. Of course not. We’re not Catholic. Perhaps a better word is devotion.’
‘Yes, perhaps it is.’
‘I’d like to see you swim the Channel, Martha.’
‘As would I.’
‘I’m offering a way for you to be able to do that.’
I tried very hard to retain my composure but my face, I’m certain, was a dead giveaway because Edward smiled and I believe he knew he had me at that point.
‘It would be good for the community. Give everyone something to get behind.’
‘Quite,’ I said.
‘Would you be ready to go at the end of the summer? Physically, I mean.’
‘Yes.’
‘The role I’m offering would allow you to meet that goal.’
‘How do you know how much it will cost?’
‘Beg pardon?’
I looked him straight in the eye. He pushed his glasses up nervously. ‘You’ve spoken to John, haven’t you?’
‘He is part of my congregation.’
‘Yes, he is. And I don’t expect he was particularly keen on you indicating you had a rather intimate understanding of how unable we are to pay for the swim ourselves.’
‘Martha,’ he said, his frustration growing. ‘I am trying to help.’
I crossed my arms over my chest.
‘It would be clerical work, as I said, the accounts, ordering in whatever the church needs, managing basic repairs and the like.’
‘And I would be able to swim in September?’
‘You would be able to afford to, yes. As to your ability, I leave that for you to judge.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
He smiled. ‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Shall we say ten o’clock?’
I stood up to leave. ‘Half past eleven. I train in the mornings.’
I never thought I would wish for those days to come back, but as I sat on the pew next to my husband, I wondered if he longed for the days when there were solutions to our problems. We were halfway through the service and John’s fidgetiness was getting the better of him. I knew he was getting away from himself. His hands couldn’t stay still and they were moving beyond the buttons: he was pointing at something only he could see, somewhere up in the rafters, and his mouth was moving as though searching for the right words. This was punctuated with bouts of him looking around as though he was unfamiliar with the church and that was making him increasingly uncomfortable.
He turned to his right and whispered something to Harold, who ran a B&B up near the castle, and who we had known for over twenty years. Though I didn’t hear what he said the look on Harold’s face told me it wasn’t good.
He whipped his head round to me and said, ‘Get that one’s phone number.’ His voice was several notches above a whisper.
I put my hand on his knee and tried to calm him.
‘Molly, isn’t she in your year at school? You must know her.’
I was shocked to hear him mention his sister’s name. A name he’d not spoken in years. ‘I’m not Molly,’ I said, putting my hand on his arm. ‘Calm down.’
‘She’s a real looker. That one, in the blue dress.’
Harold’s wife was wearing a blue dress and bright red cheeks.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said, wondering how we were going to get out of there without any further embarrassment.
There was something in his expression that frightened me. It wasn’t aggressive and he didn’t appear confused, but what was happening for him and what was happening for us were plainly different things. And that he’d mistaken me for his sister Molly spoke of darker things.
I picked up my purse from the pew but before we could leave the priest asked everyone to stand and sing and I took it as a gift. We could excuse ourselves without any undue commotion, but then John did something I had never known him to do, even when we were so much younger. He reached around behind Harold, shoving him out of the way, and tried to pinch his wife’s bottom. I managed to grab his hand and wrench it away before he touched her but the damage was done. Everyone had seen it.
The voices picked up and the familiar lyrics filled the room as I dragged John down the aisle toward our car.
I, the Lord of sea and sky,
I have heard My people cry.
Getting him into the car had been tricky, but somehow we had managed and, when we got home, I shut the door on the rest of the world, hoping that whatever had set him off was out there and that we could go back to what passed for normal, for at least a few hours. But he sat down at the table, still insisting I was Molly.
‘I don’t see why you wouldn’t even introduce us,’ he said. ‘I think she fancied me, she couldn’t stop looking at me.’
I clenched my jaw and wondered where to even start.
‘We could double date, Molly. Think of it. Pictures next weekend maybe. See if she’ll come along.’
‘John,’ I said, trying and probably failing at keeping my voice calm and measured. ‘I am your wife. We have been married for over fifty years.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Stop fooling around.’
‘I’m not Molly. I’m Martha. Your wife.’
A cloud came over his face as though something in the recesses of his brain was willing to go looking for the memory that would solve this riddle.
‘No, you’re my sister, otherwise why would you be living here?’
‘We live here because this is our house.’
‘Yes, our parents’ house.’
‘No, ours. We bought it. Or, rather, you did.’
‘I don’t know what you’re playing at.’
I bit my lip, determined to not let him see me cry. ‘Molly passed away when you were young. Before we met.’
‘No, you’re right here.’
I gripped his shoulders. ‘I’m your wife. Martha. We were married in the church where we were this morning. On the 8th of June, 1958.’
The look his eyes was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. It was blank. In that moment he didn’t know who I was, couldn’t remember all of the things that made him him, and me me.
‘Molly’s passed?’
I turned away and wiped my eyes. ‘Polio. She was just a girl.’
His mouth fumbled as his fingers found his buttons and I didn’t know which was worse: constantly telling him that she’d passed or going along with it.
‘Why don’t you lie down, just for a bit?’ I suggested.
He nodded but didn’t move so I took his hand and led him upstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed and when I reached out to help his with his buttons he batted my hand away like an angry cat.
‘I’m not a child,’ he bellowed. ‘I can do it myself.’
I left him to it and pretended to busy myself with straightening the already tidy room. I moved things around on the dresser, I closed the curtains and I re-folded his trousers that hung off the back of the chair in the corner, all the while keeping an eye on his progress. When he was undressed and under the covers I sat on the edge of the bed and I promised myself I would not cry.
I bent forward, brushed a few stray hairs from his forehead and kissed his cheek as I always did.
‘Sleep well,’ I said, hoping he didn’t hear my voice catch on the tears that I knew were coming.
I went downstairs and put the kettle on, trying to steady myself by doing the most routine thing I could think of. I put the teabag in the cup and listened as the water came to a boil, and then I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Without thinking, I grabbed my
swimming bag, and set off for the bay where my swims had technically begun. I didn’t go to the harbour where I usually trained because I wanted to be alone.
Shakespeare’s Bay is where the pilot – and for me it was always Charlie because he knew the Channel better than anyone – dropped me off. He’d pick me up in the harbour, and we’d scoot around to the bay. I’d jump off the boat and swim to shore and then I’d wave and that was the official start. The official in the boat would start his watch and so would Charlie. They were intent on keeping the time but it was never something I paid any attention to.
When I got to the beach, I changed in full view, which was fine because it was empty. And I didn’t care. Even if the beach had been covered in sunbathers I would’ve changed right there, regardless. I got my costume on quickly and didn’t bother stowing my things under the myrtle bush. All I wanted to do was get in the water. I ran into the sea, dove under quickly and swam as though my life depended on it.
My elbows came high out of the water, arms stretched out past my head, then plunging in, accelerating through the water as I pulled myself forward, with a flourish as my hand brushed my hip as it came back out of the water again to repeat the process. My feet – pointed ever so slightly inwards – kicked hard, the force coming from my hips and thighs. The physical exertion did nothing to relieve me as I had hoped. John kept rolling back into my mind like the waves I swam through. That look of utter confusion, as though I had been speaking a language he did not understand. The way his face was able to convey, through a complex mixture of muscle movements, the fact that he knew it was wrong and upsetting that he did not recognise me. It was comforting – at least – that he knew I was someone close to him and that I was someone he loved. But it didn’t change anything. I still needed him to remember all the days we had spent together because if he couldn’t, then what had been the point of it all? I had always imagined us growing old and reminiscing about the old days but that would not be a luxury we were going to have.
The most difficult thing was to understand that he had not forgotten me. Not in the way he might have forgotten an appointment. I had been taken from him, erased for a handful of moments that would continue to grow and expand regardless of anything we did to try and stop it. I knew that as the disease progressed he would forget me for longer periods, that I would not be the woman who had shared a life with him, borne him children, and had been by his side for fifty years.
My chest burned and I stopped swimming. Flipping onto my back quickly, I tried to slow my breathing. The sky was beautiful: hazy with the sun high above that warmed my face.
I wondered how frequently John was going to forget, if this was going to be a series of blips, or a more sustained unwitnessing. Would he recognise me when I got home? Would he be able to hold that thought tight enough to remember me through the afternoon and on into dinner? Or would he dine with a stranger?
I propelled myself under water as deep as I could go and then I screamed. I used up all the air in my lungs and howled at the indescribable unfairness of it. I surfaced reluctantly. Looking around I saw the water that stretched for miles and miles, the beach, the town in the distance, and the train tracks. I turned my back to the town and looked ahead to France.
The most important things in my life had happened here. But the sea had not seen this.
I bobbed in the small waves and let the sea support me as it had always done.
‘Do you remember when he proposed?’ I said aloud. ‘When I brought our children here? When he and I first met?’
I hit the water with my hand, splashing no one but myself.
‘And do you remember how much time I spent here, with you, while he looked on? Do you remember the way the moon hung heavy in the sky when you carried me back from France? What about the way you lapped at my toes, under the pier, before he and I were married?’
I pounded both fists as hard as I could onto the water’s surface and they slipped under as though there was nothing in their way.
My arms railed against the sea and if someone had seen me from shore I imagine they would have thought I was drowning.
‘He is forgetting! He is forgetting me!’
I dove down underwater and let myself cry. Salt water into salt water. I came up for air, sobbing, gasping, and went down again. The waves gently ferried me back to shore, and left me to go and see my John, who was unravelling beyond all repair.
On the Monday I had started work at the church, I had dropped the children off at school and had gone to the sea for my swim. Early spring meant that the water had still been very cold, but I’d managed a few minutes, enough to begin preparing myself for the twenty-one mile swim.
It was a strange feeling to have to fit my swim into my life. My training sessions that early in the season had a minimum time set – 30 minutes – but I had never had to make sure I was out of the water by a certain time. It was the thing I looked forward to most and the thing I did without restriction. I swam until I couldn’t swim any longer and then, to bolster my endurance, I forced myself to swim fifty more strokes. Motivation was easy: I pictured being pulled out again, being sick on the boat ride back and I reminded myself that this was my last chance. After this, I would either be a Channel swimmer or a failure.
When I arrived at the church, I don’t think Edward knew quite what to make of me as I stood, hair dripping, wet towel and costume in my bag, water seeping through that to create a puddle at my feet. He let me hang my things over the radiator that hardly worked and by the time I finished in the afternoons my costume was cold and clammy, but not completely wet. It didn’t matter though, I put it on again. The children were old enough to see themselves home from school.
Edward shook his head in mock disbelief as I arranged my wet clothes around the room, then we sat down and he showed me what he needed help with, which was far more than I had imagined. He didn’t have a head for figures and the accounts were a shambles: envelopes full of receipts, no weekly totals for the collection, no idea of how much money was in any given place at any one time.
‘How have you managed?’
‘It’s an act of God,’ he said.
I shook my head in exasperation.
Little by little, week by week, I worked through the mess until a month later when I had everything up-to-date and I sat down with him to go over it.
‘Edward,’ I said. ‘It’s not good news.’
‘I should think having everything in order is very good news.’
‘You have been counting on a fairly steady collection each week.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid that’s not what has happened.’ I pointed to the column in the ledger. ‘It’s been going down steadily over the years. People are leaving the congregation, and those who have stayed don’t have as much money as they once did.’
‘I see,’ he said. His tone indicated otherwise.
‘What I’m trying to tell you is that you have a lot less money than you thought you did.’
‘We’re a church, Martha. We’re not in the business of making money.’
‘No, but you do need to cover your costs.’
‘And we will.’
‘I’m afraid you might not. The cost of heating has gone up dramatically, the boiler is on its last legs. You’re in arrears with the heating bills.’
‘No, I paid that. I’m sure I did.’
‘The heating company disagrees.’
He nodded glumly and I continued, going over every item, rhyming off numbers and bills. When I was finished I turned to him and said, ‘And to be quite honest with you, you haven’t got the money to keep me on either.’
Edward had looked at me with an air of quiet desperation utterly devoid of hope. His job was to minister to his flock and provide spiritual guidance. Accounting was not in the job description.
‘We could start an appeal,’ I said, trying to cushion the blow. ‘Get volunteers, for time and assistance. Not money.’
He nodded.
‘And you’ll stop paying me.’
‘No. I hired you to do a job.’
‘You can’t afford to pay me.’
He straightened his posture. ‘I’ll find a way even if I have to pay you myself.’
‘The strongest leaders are the ones who lead by example,’ I said.
The following Sunday I stood in front of the congregation and explained the situation. We appealed to the community’s generous nature. I asked for nothing, I simply told them that the church needed their support and that I was doing my bit, and asked for them to join me. After the service I stood at the door with Edward and a sign-up sheet. People put their names down, adding whatever skills they had and whatever might be of use.
John had stood next to me. I overheard him talking to the butcher.
The butcher said, ‘Quite the woman you have there, John. A force to be reckoned with. Galvanised the whole community. You’re a lucky man.’
I glanced over and saw him beaming.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Quite lucky indeed.’
That moment felt so close I almost forgot to worry about what was going to be waiting for me inside the house after I’d returned from my swim. I had no idea if John would even still be there. It had been irresponsible of me to go out and leave him on his own because, really, anything could have happened.
I thought about running away as I stood on my front doorstep. I thought about leaving Dover and going to another town, or another country, and starting over by myself. I opened the door though, because he was my husband and I had promised in sickness and in health, though when I had agreed to that, the sickness I had imagined amounted to nothing more than a bad flu. I had never dared picture anything like this.
I stood in the foyer and listened for sounds that would give me an indication of what to expect, the further into the house I went.
The house was silent. In the kitchen was the unmade cup of tea and no sign that John had woken.
I crept upstairs worried that I wouldn’t find him in bed, but he was there fast asleep on his side, with his back to me. I watched his chest as it rose and fell. I went round to my side of the bed and saw his hand stretched out, curling around my pillow. We had slept like this since the beginning. He liked to trace the tan lines across my back, the outline of my swimming costume. My other skin, he called it.