The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  ‘I know,’ says Laura. ‘But he has this issue about me overshadowing him.’

  ‘Life shouldn’t be a race between you two,’ says Karen.

  I can see in her eyes that she’s thinking about Adam, and I remember her telling me how supportive he was of any decisions she made, how he was as good a listener as the best of girlfriends. Sometimes I wish Karen and Adam’s marriage hadn’t been quite so perfect – he’s going to be an awfully hard act to follow. ‘You’re a team,’ she adds, ‘not in competition.’

  Laura sighs and starts plucking at the grass at her side. ‘He finds that hard. Why is it that women don’t seem to feel belittled by a partner’s higher professional status or income, yet so many men struggle with it?’

  ‘Centuries of being told they’re superior,’ I suggest.

  ‘Set in the genes,’ says Wendy.

  ‘Set like bloody concrete,’ says Laura, thumping the ground in exasperation.

  ‘The irony is that Sam is so gifted,’ I explain to the others. ‘He can turn his hand to anything when it comes to art and design. He does the most exquisite watercolours. Teaches as well. I used to go to his classes, hoping a bit of it would rub off on me – fat chance – but you get my point. A lot of people would give their eye teeth to have been born with half Sam’s talent.’

  ‘Stupid prick,’ says Laura, and casts herself back to the ground. ‘I feel like his vanity has thrown both our lives upside down.’

  And there’s nothing much more that can be said to that.

  I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library, leafing through an account of the Battle of Bannockburn. I’m just getting to the bit where Robert the Bruce, self-proclaimed King of Scotland, knights the Black Douglas on the battlefield, when a voice behind me says, ‘That’s weighty reading.’

  I look up to discover Doug Bernhoff squatting down beside me. I haven’t seen him since he turned up in the naturopath’s car park.

  I shut the book with a snap. ‘Just a bit of Scottish history.’

  He peers at the title. ‘Robert the Bruce. He interests you?’

  ‘Well yes.’

  ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Not always.’

  He looks at his watch. ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘It’s past midday, let’s have a sandwich at Marc’s.’

  It’s years since I’ve sat and eaten a sandwich with a man, and I’m not particularly eager to change that state of affairs now. And certainly not with the Black Douglas, who is crouching like a keen male animal at my side.

  But I’ve already said I’m not in a hurry. I could pretend I’ve already eaten – no, he’d never believe that, not when it’s only a quarter past twelve and I’ve got a look about me of having been long settled on the library floor. I gaze hopefully at my books, then back up at Doug.

  ‘Got to stop sometime,’ he says. ‘Unless you’re on some kind of a diet.’

  ‘A diet? Heavens no! A sandwich would be great. Great idea.’

  I order a focaccia, plump with turkey, camembert, cranberries and salad. It’s a mistake. Impossible to eat such a bulky, bursting item with delicacy. I feel all thumbs, sure I’ve got parsley between my teeth, cranberry sauce on my chin.

  Oh for the serenity of lolling by the dam with the girls, careless of this need to keep food off my face, or to empty my mouth before I speak. I search for and fail to find my newly discovered, dam-conquering, hurdle-jumping confidence, and resign myself to the inevitability of the self-conscious twit in me being here to stay.

  ‘So,’ says Doug, between neat bites of his sandwich, ‘you live out on the Witney Road with your two sons?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ve been on your own a while?’

  ‘Mm,’ I say, and wonder if he’s been in town long enough to have heard the paedophile story.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Were you married for long?’ I ask.

  ‘Actually I’ve been divorced twice.’

  ‘Twice!’

  ‘Sounds careless of me, doesn’t it? Okay to make one mistake, two smacks of being slow to learn a lesson.’

  ‘I’m sure there were reasons,’ I say, hastily adding, ‘not that I’m asking what they were, of course. I mean I wouldn’t.’

  How the hell have we got onto talking about our marriages and divorces so quickly? Of all the topics in the world. ‘What brought you to Macclesfield?’ I ask, and take another messy bite of focaccia.

  ‘Lee, who you met at the pool, moved to the coast. He and I are business partners, did you know?’

  I shake my head, mouth overflowing.

  ‘We’re architects, had a business together in the city but after Lee moved up to open a second office, we seemed to get more and more projects on the coast, so we decided to transfer pretty much everything up this way. Lee and his wife, Anya, chose to live by the beach, but I decided I’d rather live in these green hills than by the sea. Then recently, as you know, Lee and Anya followed me up here.’

  Okay, this is more like it. Business partners. Work matters. I swallow my mouthful, dab my sticky lips with my napkin. ‘What sort of buildings do you work on,’ I ask. ‘Private homes or commercial?’

  ‘A bit of everything, I guess. But mostly larger projects. High-rises along the coastal strip. Development down there has been phenomenal.’

  I settle back and relax, complacent in the knowledge that I’m on safe territory now. Ask a man about his work and he’ll go on for ages. My concentration is drifting badly by the time he asks me if I’ve been doing any swimming through winter.

  ‘A bit. We tried going down to the coast, but got sick of the driving. We’ve been swimming in the dam a couple of times a week.’

  ‘The Lochiel Dam?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I can see he’s surprised and impressed, and I’m rather pleased with the turn of the conversation. Everyone in town who knows that we’ve been swimming in the winter waters of the dam has been suitably awestruck. It’s a hitherto unheard-of activity in Macclesfield. We are trail-blazers, pioneers, wild courageous women who boldly go where no man has gone before.

  ‘It’s pretty cold,’ I say, ‘but we’re willing to put up with it to maintain our fitness levels.’ I try not to sound smug, but I can’t help myself.

  ‘Of course women don’t tend to feel the cold water as much as men,’ he says. ‘More body fat.’

  Nice compliment. Whales. Elephant seals. Lots of blubber.

  ‘Unless they’re very thin types. Like Wendy. She probably feels it more.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re making excuses,’ I say, though some inner voice is screaming, Get off the subject, Charlie!

  Doug flashes his dazzling grin. ‘Not at all. The statistics speak for themselves. An average adult male carries eighteen per cent body fat, an average woman twenty-five per cent.’

  When I think of the sculptured, muscled body I’ve glimpsed – okay, stared at – when Doug’s climbing in and out of the pool, it’s hard to imagine where his eighteen per cent is. But then Doug has a body that doesn’t belong to the average man. I know my face is growing warm and am appalled that he might mistake my embarrassment for something else.

  ‘Distance swimmers carry even more fat,’ he continues, ‘especially those who swim in cold water – the English Channel, for instance – they have to keep their body fat at a much higher level.’

  ‘Well then,’ I say, gathering up the remains of my focaccia, ‘if I’m to keep doing those distances in the dam, guess I’d better eat up all of my lunch.’

  ‘Doug Bernhoff thinks we’re fat,’ I say. ‘Except for you, Wendy.’

  We’re snug in fleecy tracksuits on the grassy bank of the dam, sipping tea and eating pain au chocolat. We’ve got the breakfast provisioning under control at last. Instead of everyone bringing something and ending up with five times as much as we need, we take
it in turns to be the supplier. Today is my turn. ‘He says that’s how we manage to withstand the cold of the dam.’

  ‘What a cheek,’ says Karen, reaching for a second pastry.

  ‘Probably making excuses for being too wussy to brave the cold water himself,’ laughs Wendy.

  ‘If you want to get technical,’ says Laura, ‘fat does keep you warm in the water. Think whales and seals.’

  ‘I did,’ I say. ‘When he told me, I thought blubber pretty much straightaway.’

  ‘Just when,’ asks Laura pointedly, ‘did you have this conversation with Doug?’

  ‘Oh, about a week ago. I bumped into him in the library and we ended up having lunch together at Marc’s.’

  ‘What!’ Laura practically screams. ‘You had a lunch date with the Black Douglas and didn’t tell us?’

  ‘It wasn’t a date, just a running into each other at lunchtime sort of a thing.’

  ‘You ran into each other at the library,’ says Laura, ‘and he asked you to go to Marc’s with him. That’s asking you out.’

  ‘I suppose in a way,’ I concede. ‘But it wasn’t a date.’

  Clearly Laura is not convinced.

  ‘So how did it go?’ asks Karen. ‘I mean, what else did you talk about besides body fat?’

  ‘Not much. Mostly he talked. About his architecture business.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘You’re going to have to hone your dating skills,’ Karen says. ‘Learn to put yourself forward, to throw out lures.’

  ‘Recite a few interesting anecdotes,’ adds Wendy.

  ‘And for God’s sake remember to put on a bit of mascara in the mornings,’ scolds Laura. ‘It transforms you. You know that.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘I’m more interesting in honing my swimming skills than painting myself up for the pleasure of Doug Bernhoff. Or any man for that matter.’

  ‘I’m with you there,’ says Cate. ‘Especially given his comments about our dam swims.’

  ‘Exactly. Where was the admiration? The praise?’

  ‘Are we turning into a tribe of man-hating Amazons?’ says Karen, and we all laugh.

  ‘Even Amazons let men into their lives occasionally,’ Laura points out.

  ‘Mm. Once a year.’ I’m aware I’m being reprimanded. ‘They’d visit a neighbouring tribe – no men were allowed into Amazon country – and have their way with them. After they’d achieved a few pregnancies – just enough to ensure the survival of their line – they’d go home till the next year.’

  ‘Having used those men as the very first sperm donors!’ exclaims Karen.

  ‘Exactly. They didn’t need them for anything else.’

  ‘I like these women!’

  ‘Their kingdom bordered the edge of the Euxine Sea, which we now know as the Black Sea,’ I add, shamelessly encouraging her.

  ‘Wow! How black is our sea? Especially when the sun’s behind the clouds.’

  Obligingly, the sun is behind a cloud as we speak. The waters of the Lochiel Dam have turned very dark indeed.

  ‘Herodotus called them killers of men,’ says Laura, glowering at our enthusiasm. ‘I don’t think this conversation is at all conducive to the Douglas’s chances with Charlie.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agrees Wendy. ‘And with two children already made, Charlie doesn’t even need a sperm donor.’

  But Karen, looking not unlike a mini-Amazon herself, with her sporty physique and Mediterranean complexion, is clearly undistracted. ‘Amazons could swim a long, long way,’ she says, eyes drifting to the distant horizon. ‘I wonder how far it is across to the Witney side.’

  ‘Hard to say,’ says Cate. ‘Maybe two kilometres.’

  I feel a contracting in my abdomen. No need to wait for Karen’s words to know what’s coming next.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great to swim over one day?’

  I can’t help but point out the overflow by the dam wall. ‘What if there’s a current towards it and we get sucked over the edge?’

  ‘I think there’s a net,’ says Laura.

  ‘If the current is strong enough, we might get sucked against the net.’ I’m imagining five women pressed onto a taut net so hard their fat bits bulge through. Stuck till someone discovers us and comes to our rescue.

  But in truth the overflow net is a minor problem compared to the immense issue of swimming from one side of this lake to the other. No one knows its true depth. No one knows its width. I’m in the grip of a primitive, irrational fear of the unknown. Is this one hurdle too many for me? I don’t voice my thoughts. Life is not a dress rehearsal, I remind myself sternly.

  ‘We’ve done two kilometres in the pool regularly,’ Karen says.

  ‘Though it could be more,’ warns Laura. ‘Judging distance across water is hard.’

  ‘We could get someone to come with us in a boat,’ suggests Wendy, ‘in case it’s a lot further than we realise.’ She looks at me. ‘Charlie?’

  I have no idea why I’m saying this: ‘I’m in if you’re in.’

  She smiles. ‘Good for you.’

  Thus, it seems, agreement is reached.

  There’s a moment of silence. Silent assent. Silent excitement. We’re going to do this. We’re going to be dam-busters.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE NIGHT BEFORE OUR dam crossing, I dream of whales. I dream of immense living creatures beneath me as I swim, great black shapes brushing my belly, my thighs. I wake shaken and afraid, wondering why on earth I’ve agreed to do this crazy thing.

  I’ve never been keen on deep water. Long before I met Alec, back in the fearless days of childhood holidays when I used to waterski off the beaches of the Mediterranean, I didn’t mind coming off my skis close to the beach where the clear, pale water was the colour of opal. But far from shore, beyond the place where the ocean shelf turned the sea into the deepest, darkest indigo, was another matter altogether.

  There would be sharks down there, of course, and my legs wriggling bait to these and other unknown predators of the deep. But sharks were not what I was most afraid of. Oh no. Far worse was the infinite nothingness below, imagining my tiny, submerged limbs dwarfed by those unimaginable fathoms, like an ant adrift in a distant universe.

  Somehow the deepest waters of the Lochiel Dam seem even more repellent than the ocean which, for all its forbidding size, is both alive with living creatures and constantly on the move from the pull of the tides. The Lochiel Dam is utterly still. Its surface might grow flecked on a windy day, but the tideless depths are never disturbed. I imagine the water thick as mercury, cold as a grave.

  Lingering in bed that morning, I’m pretty sure I can’t face entering such an abyss. But the girls are expecting me. We are a team, like the King’s Musketeers: All for one and one for all. Letting them down is unthinkable. Besides, there is Karen, who surely, for all her brave enthusiasm, is in a greater sense of dread than I am this morning. She might have been swimming in the dam for a while now, but this is different, this is major. No more hugging the shore, keeping to the shallows. This is venturing out into the black centre. It is less than a year since Adam was swept from her in the turbid waves, less than a year since she decided she could brave the swimming pool because, with its crystal clarity, there were no associations. Her determination to stare her demons in the face shames me. I push back the quilt and get up.

  The morning has dawned breezy. I know the surface of the dam will be choppy. I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t have a cup of tea. However, unlike my usual swimming mornings, I creep into the boys’ bedrooms before I go. Their alarms won’t go off for another hour, but I find myself unable to leave the house without taking a lingering look at them.

  Am I a bad mother to take risks when I have sole responsibility for two beautiful children? My saner self tells me that I am not taking a risk. We will have Wendy’s friend on the kayak shadowing us all the way. Anyone suffering cramps, panic attacks, exhaustion or eel bites, or getting sucked
towards the overflow by a rogue current, will be scooped aboard the kayak. I brush a kiss onto each precious forehead, then gather my things and go to the car: wondering if I’m a dead woman walking.

  We meet at the dam: a subdued group, each weighed down by our own preoccupations. The plan is to leave our cars here, then all squeeze into Cate’s car and drive the thirty minutes around to the other side of the dam. Wendy has arranged for the friend with a kayak to meet us there.

  Conversation in the car is spasmodic. Long silences are broken by sudden, nerve-driven exclamations, jerky Tourettes-like outbursts punctuated by lengthening silences. Only the knowledge that we are in this together, that if one backs out so will the others, keeps us going. All for one and one for all.

  We each have demons of our own to conquer and I know that, somehow, conquering the dam has become symbolic of our ability to rule every other troubled aspect of our lives. It feels like the ultimate hurdle. If we can leap it, we vanquish our fears forever.

  As Cate pulls up in the car park the silence deepens. We climb out, stretching limbs stiffened by the cramped journey. Trails of mist cling to the hills around the dam, and the water is charcoal grey, dotted with a white, wind-whipped froth. I suspect that none of us feels like Amazons on the shores of the Euxine Sea.

  ‘Well,’ says Cate. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Laura. ‘Here we are.’

  My eyes are on the dam wall, site of the dreaded overflow. It’s about two hundred metres from the point where we will enter the water. There is no apparent current running in that direction, but with the wind snatching at and disrupting the surface of the water, perhaps such a current could be concealed.

  My attention drifts to the distant, blurred horizon that is the Macclesfield side of the dam. ‘Do you really think it’s only two kilometres?’ I ask.