The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  ‘No wife,’ he says, ‘just me.’

  My companion is smiling, and I suspect he knows that I’m rattled. Knowing that he knows only brings out the selfconsciousness twit in me. Shifting my basket of toiletries from one arm to the other, its bulging contents seem indulgent and frivolous. Silently I vow to bring less stuff to the pool in the future. ‘Being on your own does make things harder,’ I manage, and start searching for the car keys in the bottom of my bag. ‘It requires more organisation.’

  My fingers close over the keys, and I give them a bit of a jangle. ‘Guess we’d both better get going then. See you.’

  I glance in the mirror as I reverse out of the parking spot. Just as I feared, my entire face is beetroot red. That, combined with my wild, swimmer’s hair makes me look positively deranged – Well done, Charlie. Great first impression.

  ‘Leave her at the pool alone for five minutes and she’s latched onto a man.’

  Laura, who’s been dragging a comb futilely through her thick hair, is suddenly stock-still. ‘A man? What man?’

  ‘It was no one,’ I say. ‘Nothing. They’re just teasing.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After you left yesterday,’ says Karen. ‘We caught Charlie chatting to a bloke in the car park.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Laura …’ I wail, but I know she won’t rest until she’s squeezed every detail out of me.

  ‘Come on. Description please.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Laura, I just exchanged a few words with a swimmer.’

  ‘A fellow swimmer,’ she corrects. ‘Remember you are a swimmer too now.’

  ‘Okay, a fellow swimmer. Could have been anyone. It could have been the snorkelling lady. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘But it wasn’t the snorkelling lady.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re looking sheepish. What aren’t you telling us?’

  I’m silent, fiddling with my bra straps.

  ‘Come on, Charlotte.’

  I know Laura means business when she uses my full name.

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Charlotte.’

  ‘He’s single.’

  Laura gives a shout of laughter. ‘You didn’t waste much time, did you? How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I asked him if he was married.’

  Her laughter spreads throughout the changing room.

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘So you did not in fact ask him if he was married?’

  ‘Kind of. But it was more a why do you have to hurry home if your wife is getting the kids organised for school sort of a question. And he said there was no wife. Just him.’

  ‘Okay. So you asked him why he had to hurry off. Sounds like you were trying to keep him in the car park.’

  I chuck my hat and goggles at her. But I understand why Laura is so excited. She’s been trying to push men into my life for the last year or so.

  ‘Well, what did he look like?’

  ‘Pretty useful,’ says Wendy. ‘Wouldn’t say no myself.’

  We all stare at her, a wee bit shocked. Not shocked by the words, but that they emerged from the mouth of Wendy, who looks such a virgin. Suddenly we’re all laughing again.

  ‘More detail,’ Laura demands. ‘God,’ she stamps her foot, ‘I can’t believe I’m the only one who missed out on this. Come on. Out with it.’

  ‘Very tall. Long muscly limbs. Male version of Cate.’

  Cate, who has just strolled in, says, ‘Who? Who’s a male version of me?’

  ‘Mystery man,’ Karen tells her.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘Just a man in the car park.’

  But Laura hasn’t finished with me yet. ‘Nice face?’ she asks. ‘Smile? Eyes?’

  I sigh with resignation. ‘All of the above. Dark skin, sort of swarthy looking.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Oh come on, Laura!’

  ‘Age.’

  ‘Mid-thirties. Thirty-seven at the most. Much too young.’

  ‘You’re only thirty-eight.’

  ‘And perfectly happy single.’

  ‘You were happy when you weren’t single too.’

  ‘I prefer older men.’

  ‘Ah-ha. Now we have it.’

  Cate, apparently as fascinated as the others, says, ‘Was he wearing a bright orange T-shirt?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Flamboyant choice, I thought.’

  ‘That’s Doug Bernhoff. You could do much worse.’

  Suddenly all eyes are on Cate.

  ‘Tell us more,’ says Karen.

  Cate starts to strip off her clothes, preparing for her own swim. ‘He’s kind of exotic looking. Olive skin, blackish hair. He’s been coming to the pool for a while. Really good swimmer. Competes in the Mid-Coast Triathlon every year, plus a few others on the circuit. I don’t know anything about his wife, or lack of wife, but he brings his kid for swimming lessons on Saturday mornings.’

  ‘Time to enrol Mikey and Dan, eh?’

  I glare at Laura. ‘Not on your life. Can you imagine …’ I start to laugh again. ‘Not that I’m going to, but if I was going to look for a man, I would not do it here at the pool where strutting about in swimsuits in broad daylight occurs.’

  ‘He’s here today,’ says Cate, pulling her togs out of her bag. ‘Probably already seen plenty of strutting.’

  I’m dragging on my knickers and pause halfway. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No, not kidding. He’d be into his third kilometre by now.’

  ‘Do you think he saw us learning to dive?’ Disturbing images of gravity playing havoc with my upside-down flesh flash before my appalled eyes.

  ‘No chance,’ says Laura kindly, ‘not the way goggles get all steamed up.’

  ‘No diving tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Better be on the safe side. He probably already thinks I’m angling, asking if he had a wife, I don’t want to risk giving him the impression I’m frolicking on the diving blocks for his benefit.’

  Suddenly I’m stuffing things in my bag, keen to get home. Running into Doug the Swimmer again today would smack of contrivance. I’d be sure to act like a twit again. I want the safety of my car and I want it now.

  CHAPTER 7

  IN THE MOONLIGHT ANTONIA’S skin gleamed pale as alabaster. ‘Must you go?’ she whispered, one hand against his dusky cheek.

  ‘Aye, ’twas a promise, a solemn vow. His heart lies within the casket, and I’ll not return until the deed is done.’

  ‘It was too much to ask. Such a journey, and for what? He is dead already. Dead! What can it matter?’

  ‘The heart of Bruce will take its rightful place in the Holy Land. None will say the Douglas did not heed his king’s request.’

  ‘Then let me come!’

  ‘No, my sweet, ’tis no quest for a maid.’

  ‘But I am no ordinary maid!’

  ‘Hush, my love. Remember, I do not travel alone. There will be many a sword at my side, many a strong Scots’ arm.’

  Antonia fell silent. How could she let her James face such peril without her? The Moors and Saracens were known to be the fiercest of warriors, merciless towards those unfortunate enough to be taken captive. James had always been there when she’d needed him. Most recently masterminding her escape from York Castle and the hands of the English. Her bonny James, with his swarthy good looks, his long-limbed stature, and his hair as dark as the wing of a raven. But it was not just for her own sake Antonia was concerned. All Scotland reeled from the recent loss of their king, surely it would be a double blow to lose one such as the Black Douglas too: Sir James Douglas, most esteemed comrade and companion-in-arms of Robert the Bruce. The spirit of the nation hung in the balance.

  Half-formed plans fermented in her head. She would follow, dress as a page, guard her lover’s back with her life. If needs be, she would swim the strait to Tangier …

  I throw down my pen in disgust. Swim the strait to Tangier indeed. What ki
nd of woman would have learned to swim in the freezing waters of Scotland in 1330? Good day, m’laird, fancy a dip in the loch this morning? ’Twas but a light frost, aye, and the waters do beckon most temptingly …

  Whereas generally I can compartmentalise different aspects of my life, opening and shutting those compartments at will – work, friends, children – these days those welldefined edges seem to be blurring. Outside influences are intruding on my work more and more. Life has become distracting, and Fiona, my editor, is getting a little testy about the length of time I’m taking on this book. I haven’t confessed to her about my swimming yet. That, coupled with regular chatting sessions with the girls, is eating great chunks out of my writing time.

  Historically, the morning has been the most productive part of my day. Get up, do a few chores while the twins stumble about getting fed, dressed and organised for school. Make their lunches, sool them onto the bus. Sit down, pick up my pen in utter peace, all chores done. Write.

  These days, it’s often nine o’clock before I’m home, exhausted from swim training, no chores done yet, ready to fall on the sofa for a lengthy nap. And worse, I still haven’t conquered the problem of wanting to empower my heroines to the point of emasculating my heroes. How can I permit James, the great Black Douglas, to be rescued by a slip of a girl, even if she is the possessor of an awesome kick in the water?

  ‘Charlie! Hi!’ You start early.’

  A couple of men are at the pool kiosk, chatting to Cate. One is Doug Bernhoff.

  It’s two weeks since my few minutes in the car park with him, enough time to grow complacent about the risk of running into him again. I’m wondering how he knows my name. Cate, I think darkly. But if she told him, he must have asked her, and asking implies an interest that I’m very sure I don’t want to know about.

  ‘Sean likes to get us beginners up and running before the serious trainers start,’ I say.

  I’m bizarrely uneasy before the good-natured, whitetoothed smile of this man. Perhaps it’s the teasing and egging on of the girls. I know they’re all going to arrive in a minute and show an embarrassing level of interest. I’d like to disappear into the changing room, but there’s no way I’m emerging in my swimsuit and waddling to the pool while the Black Douglas is standing there.

  ‘This is Lee Ross, a mate of mine,’ he says. ‘Lee, this is Charlie. You know Cate.’

  Lee is a few years older than Doug. Perhaps in the latter half of his forties. A swimmer too, by the look of the shoulders, but not as hard to miss as the Black Douglas. Not quite as tall, not quite as dark. There are speckles of grey in his close-cropped hair and his smile, though warm, doesn’t project the same radiance as his friend’s.

  I say hi to Lee and ask him if he’s a regular too.

  ‘Only since the last few days. My wife and I moved to Macclesfield a couple of weeks ago. Should be at home helping sort the house out. Must get in and do my laps. Nice to meet you, Charlie. See you Cate.’

  ‘He’s right,’ says Doug. ‘Better get on with the day. Catch you girls later.’

  But Laura, Karen and Wendy arrive before either of them can walk away, and I’m forced to make introductions. Cate winks at me.

  ‘Good to see the pool being well used,’ remarks Doug, twirling his goggles around long, brown fingers.

  ‘A lot of motivated people for such a small town,’ adds Lee.

  ‘I guess everyone knows how lucky we are to have a pool here at all,’ Laura tells them. ‘There was a time when you had to drive down to the coast for a swim. You both look like you do a lot of training,’ she adds, and I feel like kicking her. She may as well have said, My, what impressive physiques, and haven’t we all noticed.

  Doug flashes the dazzling grin. ‘I guess we do. Always have. Healthy body, healthy mind. Enjoy your swim, girls.’

  ‘Girls,’ I whisper to Laura as we vanish into the safety of the changing room. ‘The Black Douglas kept calling us girls. What a joke.’

  ‘Why do you call him the Black Douglas?’ asks Karen.

  ‘Oh … silly really,’ I say as I sling my bag on the bench. ‘It’s a book I’m working on at the moment. It features a fourteenth century Scot, James Douglas, aka the Black Douglas. He was the right-hand man of Robert the Bruce.’

  ‘Why was he “Black”? Was he dark-skinned, or blackhearted?’

  ‘Neither really. Expect he was a bit swarthy, like our Doug: dark-haired and olive-skinned. What sets him apart from all the other warriors of that era is that, as Robert the Bruce lay dying, he made Douglas swear to cut out his heart and carry it to the Holy Land, to be laid in the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.’

  ‘Bit grisly,’ says Wendy.

  ‘Yes, I don’t suppose they minded a spot of blood in those days.’

  ‘So did he do it?’

  ‘He made a valiant attempt. Douglas put Bruce’s heart in a silver casket and hung it round his neck, then set sail from Scotland with an escort of knights. They fought a battle against the Moors near Teba, but got surrounded and overwhelmed. When Douglas realised he and his men were done for, he tore the casket from his neck and hurled it among the enemy, yelling: “Now pass thou onward before us, as thou wert wont, and I will follow thee or die!” He died.’

  ‘What a hero,’ says Karen. ‘Laying down his life so that his king’s heart made it to the Holy Land.’

  ‘Only it didn’t. It only got as far as Spain. But at least he tried.’

  Already I’m regretting having said so much. There’s a disturbingly strategic look settling over Laura’s face. ‘So you think our Doug’s a bit of a hero do you, Charlie?’ she says.

  ‘No! God, it’s just a coincidence that I’m writing about someone with the same name. My heroine, Antonia, has a passion for him.’ I can see that this line of conversation is only going to get me in more trouble, so I change direction fast. ‘Which reminds me, Laura …’ I harden reproachful eyes on her. ‘That was a bit brazen. You both look like you do a lot of training.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she says and stoops to gather up her towel. ‘As a doctor, I’m bound to notice healthy bodies when I see them.’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘You fibber! What an excuse! You might think you’ve got a licence to admire any well-sculpted piece of anthropology, but did you have to sound so admiring? I don’t know about Lee, he looked nice enough, but a bloke like Doug Bernhoff is probably arrogant to the core of his shallow heart and you just went and fed his vanity.’

  Karen’s at the door, pulling on her cap. ‘Poor maligned Doug. He’s probably a lovely fellow. He can’t help looking like what’s-his-name from Days of our Lives.’

  I’ve no idea who what’s-his-name is, but laugh anyway.

  Laura, rummaging for her goggles, says, ‘I don’t know about Days of our Lives, but I do know our Doug rather likes you, Charlie.’

  The grin freezes off my face. ‘I don’t want that. It’ll put me off coming to the pool. I want to focus on swimming, not start worrying about who’s looking at whom, and about what sort of togs I’m wearing.’

  Laura’s found her goggles and is heading for the door. ‘Then don’t. Number one. If you’re not interested in him, then who gives a stuff what he thinks. Number two. If you are interested, well at your age you should realise that men like any sort of female shape. They’re not critical like us, they appreciate a curve here, a rounded bit there. And what they like most of all is confidence. They much prefer an imperfect body worn with personality to a perfect body inhabited by a self-conscious twit.’

  Great, that’s me written off for the male population.

  ‘Well said,’ says Karen.

  ‘So don’t let him think you’re bothered.’

  ‘Okay. I’m not bothered.’

  We’re togged up and ready.

  ‘Chin up and stride out,’ says Wendy.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m striding. But I want to walk behind you. A human shield please, girls. But be subtle about it. Make it look like a random grouping.’

/>   The next day we find ourselves lingering in the changing room. It’s a Thursday, Laura’s day off, and although I should be scurrying home to get on with my troublesome book, group therapy in the steamy air of the ladies changing room is fast becoming a Thursday ritual I wouldn’t dream of missing. I tell myself I must be becoming a real swimmer. Not only do I seldom think about mucus any more, but I barely notice the sting of the chlorine, or the smell of disinfectant, or the musty dampness said disinfectant fails to mask in the changing room. It’s in every nook and cranny, every hairline crack in the concrete floor, the old wooden slats of the bench we sit on to dry our feet, the toilet seats, the fibro walls. Becoming a swimmer must be hardening my senses as well as my body.

  Cate, who’s been drifting in to chat more and more when she’s not too busy, is here today. I’ve sort of known Cate for years. That is, I’ve taken the twins for swimming lessons with her, bought cold drinks and ice creams from her when she’s doing her shift at the kiosk, but I’ve never really got to know her well, none of us have. She’s several years younger than the rest of us, at a different stage of life. Why that should matter is ridiculous, as our recent sessions in the ladies changing room have proved. I, for one, am taking to her company like a duck to water. She’s fit, confident, fired up and energetic. There’s no nonsense with Cate, no insecurities, no whingeing. Sometimes I think she’s older and wiser than the rest of us. Inspiring, like the Nike ad: Just do it. I wish a bit of it would rub off on me.

  Today she tells us that recently she married a man eighteen years her senior. I’m a bit surprised. Somehow I’d always imagined her with a surfer, all bronzed and muscly, someone like Sean – except with a higher IQ.

  ‘A psychiatrist,’ she continues, ‘would probably ignore the fact that I fancy Pete like mad, and tell me I’ve latched onto an older man as some kind of father figure, seeing as I was parentless before I turned thirty.’

  I can see the other girls are as surprised as I am. Cate looks young enough to have a host of grannies and great-aunts still about, let alone parents. ‘You lost both your parents?’ says Karen. ‘How old were you?’