The Last Wave

by Gillian Best

  ‘Goddamnit!’

  John’s voice came from the foyer, followed shortly after by a crash. We rushed to see what had happened and found him covered in coats, clutching the case.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Martha hissed.

  ‘I couldn’t find it.’

  ‘Find what?’ I asked.

  Martha pointed. ‘The damned case.’

  ‘I don’t see why your nose is out of joint,’ he snarled. ‘This case doesn’t do me any good, I’ve only brought it for you.’

  ‘Then why are you so desperate to find it?’

  ‘I’m looking for something.’

  She crouched down next to him. ‘What?’

  He looked at her like a puppy that had just been kicked.

  ‘The pebbles.’

  Martha put her hand on his arm and they stayed like that for a moment.

  Standing behind Martha, I waited for what he had said to become clear. He felt through the mess until his hand found an old jam jar with a faded label that I would later learn had once held Britain’s best strawberry jam. He struggled with the lid and Martha didn’t stoop to help him. When he got it open he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Martha turned around and I saw she was near tears. I reached out for her but she was beyond my reach, kneeling down beside him. She moved her hand to his shoulder and he passed her the jar, and she too smelled its contents.

  ‘Pass me the lid, please,’ she said tenderly. ‘We don’t want to wear them out.’

  He did as she asked and she replaced the lid before helping him to his feet.

  ‘John dear, I think maybe you might be tired,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Tired.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time for a lie down?’

  She helped him upstairs, as you might do a small child, leaving me standing in the mess unsure of what to do but certain that they were both losing something important.

  She came back to the table where I had gone to collect my thoughts and smiled weakly.

  ‘It sounds foolish, but they have a certain smell. Now and then, on a bad day, it lifts the spirits.’ She placed the jar on the table as if it held the most delicate eggs. ‘At the start of each swim he picked one off the beach. A souvenir I suppose. But really more for good luck.’ Her eyes were filling with tears.

  ‘Martha,’ I said, reaching out for her.

  ‘No, don’t.’ She stood up and looked around. ‘I haven’t got anything in. Would you like to go out for an early lunch?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘He’ll be alright for a while. I’ll just pop in to tell Henry.’

  I waited at my car while she went to the neighbour’s and spoke to an older man who waved to me. After a short discussion she got in the car and suggested we go to the pier.

  ‘There’s a lovely tearoom overlooking the water,’ she said.

  It was a nice day, hazy but not raining, and full of the weather’s last gasp of summer so we sat outside with sandwiches and builder’s tea, looking at the sea.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘He comes and goes,’ she said.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What can I do? The doctor suggested a care home, but…’ She picked at the crust of her sandwich. ‘He doesn’t want it. Not that I can really discuss it with him.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘That’s the strange thing. Not being able to talk about it with him. Or get him to see the doctor. He wants to carry on as though nothing has changed.’

  ‘But it has.’

  ‘Of course it has.’

  ‘You should tell Harriet and Iain. You could talk about it with them. They could help. Martha, we could help.’

  ‘We don’t want to be a burden.’ She stared out at the water. ‘I should have brought my swimming costume.’

  ‘We could do some research, help find a place for him to go.’

  ‘I can’t imagine living in that house without him.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I said.

  She looked surprised. ‘Where would I go?’

  ‘You could sell the house, move into a smaller flat. You could move nearer the sea. That would be nice, don’t you think?’

  ‘What would I do with our things? All that furniture. There’s no way it would fit into a pokey little flat.’

  ‘You could sell it.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She pulled the tomato slices out of the sandwich and placed them on the bench. ‘Never cared for tomato. Terrible texture.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this by yourself.’

  ‘It’s my life,’ Martha said. ‘Who else is going to do it?’

  Outside the hospital, Harriet kissed me and I wiped the tears off her cheeks, and then the mascara that had run making her look like she’d been out for a very rainy Halloween. She took my hand and we went back inside.

  The doctor was in John’s room when we arrived, talking to Martha near the door in hushed tones. John was looking at the pictures Myrtle had taken in the pub the night before. Harriet went up to the doctor and asked how her father was.

  ‘The break was a clean one,’ she said. ‘He was very lucky.’ She looked down at his chart and then at Harriet. ‘But that’s not what I’m worried about.’

  We all knew what was coming next.

  ‘His cognition is declining. This is going to happen with greater frequency. It’s in his best interests to be moved to a facility where they can provide him with the care he needs, around the clock. There’s a very good—’

  Martha cut her off. ‘Thank you, but we won’t be needing any of that.’

  ‘Mum, what are you talking about? He needs help.’

  ‘Your daughter is right. Treatments are advancing every day. A good care home can make sure his needs are met.’

  I stared at the doctor as she spoke and wondered how old she was and if she had ever had any personal experience with dementia. She didn’t look old enough to drive a car.

  ‘I’m his wife. I’ve been taking care of him for nearly fifty years.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the doctor said.

  I was certain she had heard all of this before, pleas from patients and their families for her to join in the group delusion that everything would soon be back to normal, that there was nothing wrong, and that any minor change to routine could be managed at home without outside interference.

  ‘But,’ she continued. ‘There are going to be things you won’t be able to do for him. He’ll need help eating, washing, and going to the toilet.’

  She managed to rhyme off the list without flinching.

  ‘I understand that,’ Martha said. ‘And he’ll be coming with us today unless there’s anything more that can be done for his ankle.’

  The room was quiet except for the dull hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, casting everyone in the harsh white light. The doctor looked at Harriet who seemed ready to throttle Martha, who looked to me for something – help, sympathy, kind words – and I looked at our daughter, who was getting to know her grandfather.

  ‘Is there a nurse who could come?’ I said. ‘To help out. Just for a few hours, here and there.’

  The doctor pursed her lips. ‘Yes, but round the clock care—’

  ‘Send a nurse,’ Martha said. ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘Mum!’ Harriet said, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘How can you not see this is for the best? He can’t even get up the stairs with that ankle.’

  ‘I’ll figure something out,’ Martha said. ‘The important thing is for us to go home now. All of us.’

  ‘Mum,’ Harriet pleaded.

  ‘Do you remember when I swam from France?’

  ‘Everything is not about swimming!’ Harriet screamed.

  Martha ignored her. ‘I got in the sea that day knowing that I was swimming home. Do you know what I thought about? For twenty-one hours and seventeen minutes I thought about my family, about you, your brother
, your father, and our house. And I swam for that.’

  ‘Dad has Alzheimer’s! This has nothing to do with fucking swimming!’

  I put my hand on Harriet’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

  Martha looked Harriet dead in the eye and with calmness and strength she said, ‘It has everything to do with swimming. It’s about commitment and keeping your promises. In sickness and in health, Harriet. You’ve promised the same, and I expect Iris will hold you to it.’

  ‘His life is at stake!’

  ‘So is mine.’ She turned to John and smiled. ‘We always made it home, didn’t we?’

  John looked confused.

  ‘In the boat,’ she said. ‘I always swum home to you, didn’t I?’

  A cloud of recognition passed over his face. ‘The boat,’ he said. ‘Ten pebbles for ten swims.’

  Repeater

  It was April and time for my twice-yearly doctor’s appointment. Henry knocked on the door and Webb barked a welcome.

  ‘Come on, John, time to go,’ I said.

  It was morning and my husband was nearing the end of his day, which now encompassed most of the night. Dinner had become breakfast, and in some ways I didn’t mind. At least eggs were easier to cook.

  John shuffled to the door, eyes heavy with sleep.

  Yawning, he said, ‘I don’t know why you can’t schedule these appointments at a more reasonable hour.’

  ‘I thought we might go for a bite after,’ Henry said.

  I looked at John. ‘Depends on how long the doctor takes.’

  ‘Just a check up?’

  I nodded. ‘Shouldn’t take long. He’ll need to eat anyway, before bed.’

  Henry drove us to the clinic and through the rooftops and trees I caught a glimpse of the sea, shimmering blue and calling my name. We motored past the White Horse Inn and I turned to John in the back seat, pointing to the pub.

  ‘We used to go in there,’ I said.

  He followed the direction of my finger and I watched as he stumbled through his memories, hunting for the right one. His mouth moved soundlessly and I wondered if it was somehow an integral part of his thought process, helping him to get to where he wanted to go, steering him like the keel on a ship.

  ‘One night, after a swim. There was a band, fiddles maybe. They played our request,’ he said, when the White Horse was well behind us.

  I whistled the tune a bit and sang a few lines.

  There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,

  there’ll be love and laughter and peace ever after,

  tomorrow,

  just you wait and see

  His face lit up. ‘We danced.’

  ‘We did.’

  He reached out to me, as though touching might turn up the volume of his memories. ‘I sang it to you, on the boat, coming back once?’

  ‘Did you?’

  He nodded, unsure of himself.

  Henry pulled into the car park and we all got out. It was strange to think that where we were once two, now we were three, with Henry our helper, lifeline and chauffeur.

  The medical centre was a dull little building, aluminium siding and modern, giving off an air of efficiency that was impersonal. We marched in, single file, like school children on a day out.

  In the waiting area there were chairs that looked deceptively comfortable but due to their arrangement in single rows there was a clash: the chairs wanted to affect an air of cosiness but the rows insisted on a clinical atmosphere, which was further enforced by the smell of industrial cleaning solution and the briskness of the staff.

  We didn’t have to wait long before my name was called and as was their habit, drilled into them from a young age, when a woman stood, they did too.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, relieving them of their obligation. ‘Won’t be long at all. Wait here.’

  In the examination room I put on the horrible paper gown. I felt like a paper doll playing dress up, the tabs folded over my shoulders holding the gown in place while the doctor moved me around at will. I crinkled as I sat down in the chair, trying to extract at least a shred of dignity.

  Dr Davies knocked before she entered and when she came into the room she was swift and professional, walking and reading my chart simultaneously.

  We repeated the questions and answers as we always did.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Have you noticed any changes to either breast?’

  ‘No, but then you did remove one of them.’

  She never acknowledged the fact that I had undergone a mastectomy at her request and I wondered why: Was it because she simply forgot, or was it because the NHS required her to ask the same questions of every patient? Either way, the question grated.

  ‘Have you noticed any lumps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you had your blood checked?’

  ‘Yes, they told me they would send the results through, as usual.’

  She looked at me over the rim of her glasses, as though to make sure I was telling the truth.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She flipped through the chart and then went to her computer and clicked away for a few moments. ‘They’ve not arrived.’

  She picked up the phone and spoke with the receptionist, her expression changing from bored disinterest to concern.

  ‘Have them phone back right away,’ she said.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  She looked up and it was the first time during the appointment that she actually made eye contact with me. We moved to the examination table and she began the sequence I had learned from previous trips: she probed my breast, armpits, and groin, which was new.

  ‘Do you feel any tenderness?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing new.’

  ‘But there has been tenderness?’

  ‘After a swim, yes, of course. The shoulders. Under the arms.’

  She frowned. ‘You haven’t mentioned this in the past.’

  ‘It’s not new.’

  ‘When did you last swim?’

  ‘Autumn, the end of October.’

  ‘And the tenderness? When did you last experience that?’

  ‘I’m not a young woman, Doctor Davies. I’ve worn all my joints out. I’m tender and stiff most days.’

  She went to answer the ringing phone. I watched her nod and scowl as I changed into my clothes again.

  ‘Martha, the lab is double-checking your bloods. I’d like you to come back this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I lied. It was warm and the sea was flat. I was no longer able to resist.

  ‘It’s important. I can see you at half past four.’

  I had learned, through the course of my chemotherapy treatment, that it was best to humour doctors and so I agreed to return later in the afternoon.

  Doctor Davies paused as she was walking through the door and said, ‘Bring someone with you Martha.’

  And that told me everything I needed to know.

  I went to collect my men and Henry suggested lunch.

  ‘Change of plans,’ I said. ‘We’re going for a swim.’

  ‘We’re?’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, all of us. Right now.’

  ‘Martha,’ Henry said.

  ‘To the sea,’ I said.

  ‘How was the doctor?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Everything’s alright?’

  ‘Not the harbour,’ I said, pointing in the direction I wanted to go. ‘We’re going to the bay today.’

  Bless him, he didn’t argue with me. John was dozing in the back seat, it was a lovely day and I wanted to do something fun because the moment that Doctor Davies told me to bring someone with me when I returned it dawned on me that fun had been in very short supply and if time was escaping me then I wanted to spend some of it with those I loved the most.

  When we got to the shore, John looked around and started fiddling with his buttons.


  ‘Why am I here?’ John asked, a nervy edge to his voice. He looked around, his hair, thinning now but generally holding its own against his increasing age, flew helter skelter in the breeze.

  A gull passed overhead and cried, a sound so familiar I sometimes felt as though I understood what it was meant to communicate. I wanted to answer it back in the same sharp tone but like so many other things, it wasn’t to be.

  ‘To see,’ I said to John.

  I looked over my shoulder and Henry was leaning against the bonnet of the car.

  ‘Come down,’ I called to him, but he shook his head.

  ‘Leave you to it,’ he said.

  John stumbled over to the myrtle bush where I had been leaving my clothes for so long it wouldn’t have surprised me to find a stray sock left behind years ago having sprouted roots. The pebbles shifting underneath his already unsteady legs made him appear as though he were drunk, which gave his confusion a comedic shadow. He plopped himself down and the stones cascaded away from him, giving off the distinctive sound that anyone who had ever swum the Channel knew better than their own voice. It sounded like breaking glass.

  He looked around and then settled his gaze on me.

  ‘To see?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘The sea,’ he said, repeating the only answer I was ever able to give him as to what I was doing out here.

  I went over to him, crouched down, and kissed his cheek. Then I pulled my top off, followed by my trousers, and walked into the sea clad only in my bra and knickers. It was cold and it had been too long.

  I was without my usual armour of goggles, bonnet, earplugs and costume and it felt so natural, a better, clearer connection with the water. Without those things, it was difficult to have a proper swim, which was just as well. I didn’t want to swim.

  After breaststroking out a ways, I turned around and looked at the scene on the shore: my husband coming undone while picking at the delicate pink blossoms on the myrtle in the sunshine.

  I flipped over onto my back and floated, letting the sea support me. As the water trickled into my ears it was as though all the memories the water and I shared rushed back to me in an instant.

  The moment John had forced me out on the first try, and the second swim where I saw heads of lettuce, lost from a passing container ship, bobbing in the Channel on my way back to England. The nausea that had plagued the third swim through the chop and waves, slowing me down so I spent more time than ever being scrubbed raw by the salt and sand. The moon reflected on the inky black expanse of water on the fourth or fifth. The swim when my timing was perfect and I had captured the speed and motion of the changing tides to complete the distance in – for me – a record time.