The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  I’m still waiting for the return of my bag of herbs. But Doug’s a million miles away, gazing at some point far above my head. ‘Guess I’ll have to drive to the coast to swim,’ he says. ‘Or up my hours on the bike.’

  Suddenly he looks down at me and I get the smile. ‘Can’t imagine how else I’ll keep active all winter. Oh here,’ he says and hands me the bag. ‘Sorry, you’ve been waiting for this.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The car is boiling. I try not to scream when my bottom touches the seat. I turn the air-con high and wind down the windows until I’ve expelled the worst of the heat. The steering wheel is too hot to touch. Why steering wheels always seem to be black is beyond me. Why not some pale, heat-resistant colour? I negotiate my way out of my parking spot, wheel gripped by the tips of my fingernails. My control is poor and I do a lousy job, aware of Doug watching my exit.

  ‘Good luck with the herbs!’ he calls out.

  I wish he would just leave me alone.

  CHAPTER 9

  IN APRIL OUR INDIAN SUMMER ends with an abrupt weather system that howls up from the Antarctic, sucking any lingering pockets of warmth from our hills. The water temperature plummets, and our morning swims chill me to the marrow of my bones. It’s almost a relief to discover the gates locked and bolted one morning, and to read the sign POOL CLOSED FOR WINTER.

  We start travelling to the heated aquatic centre on the coast for some winter training. Cate’s keen to get to work on us, and it’s only a forty-minute drive each way. But that becomes three hours by the time you add in a swim and changing-room chat. It’s hardest on Laura, especially as she’s increased her hours at the surgery since her estrangement from Sam, apparently hellbent on keeping herself too busy to think. Some days she’s only in the water for twenty minutes before she has to fly off, hair dripping wet, clothes askew.

  We are lapsing seriously, our fitness slipping. After so much hard work it’s more than a little depressing. We’ve been at it for less than a month when Cate, car-pooling home with us, says, ‘There’s always the Lochiel Dam.’

  ‘What? Swim in the dam?’ I say, horrified.

  ‘Well I don’t mean just look at it.’

  I decide Cate’s mad. No one in their right senses would contemplate swimming in such an unalluring mass of water. The Lochiel Dam fills the deep valley between the hills of Macclesfield and adjacent Witney. It was dammed by the government not long after Alec and I moved to town, to the howling protests of protectors of the green tree frog. For a long, long time it wasn’t politically correct on the streets of Macclesfield to voice admiration for this body of water, but years have softened memories, diluted the anger of hardliners. Some newer residents don’t remember the pre-dam days at all. Some probably believe the Lochiel is a natural lake. It’s beautiful enough. But swim in it? I wouldn’t want to put so much as a big toe in it.

  ‘It won’t be as cold as the pool,’ says Cate. ‘Not in the early part of winter. A body of water that size takes a long time to cool down.’

  I’m experiencing a powerful inner resistance to Cate’s plan. ‘Maybe it’s too big and deep to have heated up over summer.’

  ‘And it’s full of blue-green algae,’ Wendy reminds us. I throw her a grateful smile.

  ‘Which means you’re not supposed to drink it,’ counters Cate. ‘It’s perfectly safe to swim in.’

  I, for one, am aware that I take in large quantities of water when I swim. Way more than the recommended eight glasses a day. I mention this.

  ‘Then learn to close your mouth,’ says Cate.

  I try another tack. ‘It’s very deep in the centre. At least one hundred metres deep. And we all know how murky and black the water is.’

  ‘Just think, no chlorine, no salt, no sharks, no jellyfish.’

  ‘There are eels,’ says Laura.

  ‘I’m not sure if I can,’ says Karen, ‘not if the visibility is going to be that poor,’ and I experience a fleeting ray of hope, at the same time aware that it’s unspeakably mean of me to wish for Karen to be troubled by such horrible memories.

  Then she looks from one to the other of us, tilts her chin high and says, ‘But I’d like to have a go,’ and all hope of avoiding the dam is obliterated.

  There’s a brief silence. Cate smiles. She knows we’re defeated. If Karen wants to work on conquering her demons, it is our duty to be right alongside her.

  ‘You might find it easier to do breaststroke,’ Laura suggests. ‘Head up, clear of the water.’

  ‘Or backstroke,’ says Cate, ‘face to the clouds.’

  ‘I suppose it could be fun to bring a picnic,’ says Wendy. ‘We could take our time on Thursdays when Laura doesn’t have to dash off.’

  How can I argue? Only an act of God is going to save me now. Or … Gavin Peters. Maybe I should go back for those tests. Maybe he’ll discover I’m seriously allergic to blue-green algae. A bit of anaphylaxis wouldn’t go astray. Or perhaps I could squeeze the hinted diagnosis of cancer out of him.

  ‘So are you in, Charlie?’

  Laura’s voice drags me out of my dark scheming. ‘Yes,’ I say resignedly, ‘of course I’m in.’

  We arrive at the dam our first morning: timid creatures, shivering in the autumn breeze. The water is a blot of steel against the lush hills that surround it: a cold, dead thing set in a nest of rustling, chirping, living greenery. So it might be free of sharks and jellyfish, but it is deep in the centre, very deep and very black.

  I don’t know about the others, but blue-green algae is the last thing I’m worried about right now. I am besieged by dread at the thought of entering such a cold, black mass. I feel like Persephone at the gates of Hades for the very first time.

  Cate, whose idea this was in the first place, leads the way to the edge of the dam, the rest of us following like lemmings behind her. Nobody says a word. The others are looking as terrified as I feel; even Cate has grown quiet. I sneak a look at Karen, not wanting her to think I’m expecting her to freak out or anything, and am reassured to see Wendy give her hand a quick squeeze.

  The deceptive water gently laps at our feet as though in welcome, disguising the fact that it’s a great black void about to swallow us whole. We inch further in. The shallows are thick with snaking weed; the mud oozes between my bare toes like an ocean of mucus welling up to consume me. Wading through the clinging weed, sinking in the slime, sends the yuk factor escalating. I’m really, really unsure that I’m going to be able to do this.

  Then Cate dives in. Wendy and Karen follow, then Laura. Panicked by the thought of being left behind, I plunge in right after them. The cold is a shock, the thick weed a nightmare spurring me on to sprint for deeper water. About twenty metres out, we stop. I lift up my goggles, teeth chattering, treading water. Karen gives us all the thumbs-up.

  Cate says, ‘We’ll just round that buoy today. Everyone okay?’

  We nod. But I hope it’s not much deeper as far out as the buoy. Local ufologists swear that fathoms down, on the bed of this lake, is home to extra-terrestrials and their craft, and that those who see can witness UFOs rising up out of the black water at night. I’m not bothered by this particular bit of nonsense, but it is a little disturbing to think of what was once down there in the days before the dam, spooky to imagine the drowned houses and trees, submerged dead branches reaching up like tentacles to brush unwary feet.

  At the buoy we stop again. I’ve warmed up, and am, to my surprise, adjusting to the weirdness of swimming in such deep, open water. My toes still feel vulnerable, the water is still a black and awesome mystery, but there’s no denying that it’s a joy to be here: to tread water and feel the sun on my shoulders, and to take in the amazing surroundings. Four keen faces are all I can see above the glassy surface, there’s not another human in sight, not a sign of human existence. It’s easy to believe we’re the only people on the planet.

  It’s exhilarating, empowering, and I’m suddenly grateful to Cate for making us do this, for resisting our doubts an
d fears. And I know that even if I never do this again, I’ll never forget it.

  The shores of the dam are deserted this early in the morning, so it’s no trouble at all to strip off our sopping swimsuits, flick any clinging remains of weed from our purple, goose-bumped flesh, and slip into fleecy tracksuits.

  ‘You did brilliantly,’ I say to Karen as I chuck my wet things onto the back seat of my car.

  Wendy, folding her damp towel and togs rather more neatly, says, ‘I’d never have believed it possible a few months ago.’

  ‘Me neither,’ admits Karen. She’s stark naked, a compact, fit little person, nutty brown where the sun touches her, snowy white where it does not: patchy like a Palomino pony. ‘I think,’ she says, ‘that my being able to do this has been a combination of things. Increased strength and confidence in the water, not having to swim alone, knowing that when we’re ready for a triathlon we’re going to be competing in open water, and that we have to practise sometime. But, more than all that, my fear of being left behind by you all was greater than my fear of swimming here.’

  ‘We’d never have left you behind,’ Cate is quick to assure her. ‘We’d have found an alternative.’

  ‘We still can,’ says Laura.

  ‘No.’ Karen’s voice is firm, rock-solid. She looks out over the water, then back at us. ‘Look at it. Look what we’ve done. We’ve connected with something elemental here today. Being in a pool is nothing to this. It’s like comparing a walk through virgin rainforest with doing time on a treadmill at the gym. Swimming here is almost spiritual. Can’t you feel it?’

  There’s an awed hush. We’re all having a bit of a religious moment.

  ‘Did you know that water is a symbol of fertility?’ she adds, breaking the silence. ‘In some cultures, they pour it over the linked hands of the bride and groom to ensure plentiful offspring.’

  ‘Better keep our legs shut then,’ says Laura, and yanks her tracksuit top over her head.

  We settle on the soft grass by the shoreline. Breakfast is a treat. Wendy has made a banana cake. Karen has brought home-made muesli, complete with yoghurt, honey and raspberries. Laura’s brought scones, which I imagine Sam must have made; Cate has the jam and cream, and I, lazily, stopped at the bakery and bought a sack of pain au chocolat. I tell the girls my chocolate-gluing-up-the-guts story. ‘And I hope you’ve all had plenty of colds lately,’ I add.

  ‘He’s so full of crap,’ says Laura between bites of scone. ‘Not,’ she adds tantalisingly, ‘that it’s the oddest advice I’ve ever heard.’

  My curiosity is instantly aroused. As intended. ‘No?’

  ‘You’d be amazed.’ There’s a suspicion of a smile in Laura’s eyes, enough to tug at the corners of her curving mouth.

  Laura’s work brings her into contact with the whole spectrum of our colourful community. More than once I’ve heard her say that nothing about the human race can surprise her any more.

  ‘Go on,’ I urge into the silence. ‘Amaze us.’

  Laura, master of suspense, takes her time. ‘Let me see,’ she says. ‘There’s everything from eating placentas to daubing urine on festering wounds, but I mustn’t be specific.’

  ‘Of course not,’ says Wendy.

  ‘We’re waiting,’ urges Karen.

  ‘I can tell you about things I’ve heard, or read, but not about patients I’ve seen.’

  ‘Go on! Go on!’ We’re all nearly screaming.

  ‘Very well. One incident that springs to mind was recently described to me by a colleague. It involved an act of faecal transfusion.’

  ‘Faecal?’

  ‘Of faeces.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know, but faecal transfusion?’

  ‘Patience children,’ she says, ‘and I will explain.’

  There’s immediate, fascinated silence.

  ‘As you know, antibiotics are used to kill bacteria.’

  We all nod.

  ‘But sometimes, when a person is a little free and easy with prescribed antibiotics, they end up destroying not only the bad bacteria, but the good, healthy bacteria that live in our guts. This can lead to a nasty infection in the lining of the bowel. Faecal transfusion is a procedure undertaken by … let’s say unusual members of society, to reintroduce healthy bacteria into a bowel that’s been stripped clear. A donor – in the case described to me, the spouse – collects some of their own faeces, squishes it into a sloppy, liquefied form, puts it into an enema pump and voila! Nice healthy bacteria reintroduced to poor, denuded bowel.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nuh. What people do for true lurv.’

  ‘Like donating a kidney.’

  ‘More like restocking a septic tank.’

  ‘The irony,’ says Laura, reaching for another scone, ‘is that it probably worked.’

  ‘What else?’ says Cate.

  ‘Yes, come on,’ I urge, morbid curiosity getting the better of my nausea. ‘We want to hear another one.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Laura mumbles, her mouth full of scone. Though how she can eat, given the story she’s just related, is a mystery to me.

  ‘Okay. A patient of a former colleague of mine presented one day with a stiff neck. But she wasn’t seeking treatment for her neck problem, it was all about travel insurance. She wanted to fly to York in England where, according to her past-life therapist, she’d been hanged six hundred years ago. Her squeezed, bruised, throttled and, eventually, broken neck had never recovered. Hence her discomfort this time around. The past-life therapist told her that a visit to the place of execution would exorcise the problem and hey presto! she’d have a cured neck. Round the world ticket. Expensive advice.’

  ‘Did it work?’ asks Karen.

  Laura raises one eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Power of suggestion?

  ‘Faith cure?’

  ‘Nuh. Came back in a brace. Ended up having part of a prolapsed disc surgically chiselled from a vertebra.’

  As we drink from our thermos of hot tea, I tell them the running-into-Doug-in-the-car-park story, and how I felt absurdly self-conscious being caught with herbs for stamina. ‘I have no idea why,’ I add. ‘I mean it’s not as though I was there for your reasons, Wendy.’

  ‘Strange that you should have been self-conscious,’ says Cate with studied innocence. ‘It’s not as though Doug Bernhoff’s thoughts have ever mattered a jot to you.’

  There’s no way I’m rising to that sort of bait. ‘That’s right. His thoughts are nothing to me.’

  ‘Which is why you go bright red whenever he’s in the vicinity.’

  ‘I do not, Laura! God!’

  ‘Well maybe not bright red,’ she laughs. ‘An appealing tinge of pink perhaps.’

  The girls do not need to tell me that I look uncomfortable whenever Doug Bernhoff appears. I’m painfully aware of it myself. The question is why? I’m thirty-eight years old, an ex-wife and a mother. Not exactly a shrinking virgin-type. I’ve been around a bit. I’m educated, self-sufficient and stable. Well, most of the time. So why does an attractive male make me stammer like a gormless teenager? And would I react the same way to any man who showed the slightest flicker of interest in exchanging a few words with me? Have I grown afraid of men? Or am I just out of practice?

  Certainly the idea of stripping off and putting my dormant sexuality to the test horrifies me. The last time a man saw me naked for the first time I was twenty-three years old. Firm, smooth and bouncy. No problem if you meet one another young, then age together, but I wonder what the etiquette is for new partners in middle-age? Subdued lighting? Undressing under the quilt? Just a minute dear, as you struggle to breathe and wriggle out of sensible underwear at the same time?

  I reach for another scone and turn my thoughts away from something that’s hardly going to happen this century and back to the present which is, after all, a far more palatable prospect. Lolling under the sun in snug tracksuits, with an excess of food and a large thermos of h
ot tea, we look over the water we’ve just conquered. I can hear the chatter of a thousand lorikeets somewhere nearby; a squawking, raucous sound, but such an expression of excitement that, to me, it sounds as sweet as the song of a nightingale.

  My flesh is alive and tingling from my exertions, my belly is full and content. I am awash with a sense of satisfaction, of victory, of having faced and demystified the great unknown. If I was a lorikeet living in these hills, I’d be squawking for joy too. I’d squawk all day. ‘This,’ I sigh, ‘is quality of life.’

  ‘Beats rebirthing any day,’ says Wendy. ‘Maybe we should tell Elsa and her rebirthers that swimming is the best cure-all of the lot.’

  ‘Mm, it is, isn’t it.’ Laura is lying back with her eyes closed, a dusting of icing sugar from a pain au chocolat on her lips. ‘When you experience this, everything else slips into perspective. We’ve not only filled our bellies with tasty treats, we’ve nourished our souls. If we do this sort of thing regularly we’ll live to be a hundred.’

  I’m not sure whether to admire Laura’s optimism given what’s happening in her life, or to be worried about it. Having nursed and propped and mothered me through those early devastating months after Alec left, you’d think she’d do anything to avoid going through the same. Even if Sam has been difficult to live with at times, he was still her routine, her anticipated future, someone she once – maybe still does – love. I can’t believe she’s not shaken to the core of her being.

  ‘How’s Sam doing?’ I ask. There’s a short silence. In which I can hear everyone thinking what a killjoy I am to be raising this at such a peaceful moment.

  Laura brushes the sugar from her lips and sits up. ‘I don’t think he has addressed the cause yet.’

  ‘But no lapses?’ persists Wendy, earning my undying gratitude.

  ‘No. He’s been really good. Better than I could have expected. He’s making a real effort.’

  Is that a note of admiration in her voice? Do I detect a ray of hope that they are actually going to solve this mess and stick together? I’ve always found Sam an interesting guy. Fun to be around. He’s creative and articulate, he can paint, throw pots, design landscapes, and talk art till the wee hours. But he is never going to match Laura in drive and ambition. ‘Sam needs to learn to appreciate the value of his particular abilities,’ I say. ‘He’s a lucky man to be so talented.’