The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  In the carport there’s the usual squabble about who gets the front seat, until I dredge from my memory who sat there last time, then we’re off, heading for Wendy’s. Having a captive audience for the short drive into town, I decide it’s a good opportunity for a quick lecture.

  ‘What’s best?’ I ask. ‘Going to the movies or a party with your mates?’

  ‘Depends on the movie,’ says Dan, winner of the recent squabble, sitting at my side in the front.

  ‘Depends on the party,’ says Mikey, the loser, from the back.

  ‘Okay, fair enough. What would be your favourite activity then?’

  ‘Skirmish,’ they say in unison.

  I’d forgotten about Skirmish. Chosen to forget. Skirmish is a sport designed for the joy of bloodthirsty, sadistic boys, and for the shattering of the nerves of gentle, peace-loving mothers. Skirmish involves being locked in a large enclosure dotted with trees, shrubs and the odd strategically placed wreck of a car, being armed with a pellet gun and protected by goggles and a bullet-proof vest that is pathetically thin. Then running around, weaving and dodging, ducking for cover, while everyone else tries to shoot you with pellets that hurt on impact, hitting hard enough to leave you covered in bruises. The last time I played, I ended up crawling inside one of the car wrecks and refusing to come out.

  I press on. ‘Okay. If you had two puppies that you loved more than anything in the world, but every time you wanted to play Skirmish you had to find some kind, considerate person, who you trusted, to look after your puppies – seeing as Skirmish wouldn’t be much fun for puppies – what would you do? Would you never play Skirmish again, or would you let your trusted friend guard your puppies for you occasionally?’

  There’s a short silence as the twins catch on.

  ‘But I don’t think doing triathlons can be half as much fun as Skirmish,’ says Mikey.

  ‘No way,’ adds Dan.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I admit. ‘But important nevertheless. To me.’

  ‘It’ll be okay at Ben’s,’ says Dan and gives me a smile that melts my bones.

  ‘As long as you promise to take us to Skirmish soon,’ adds Mikey from the back.

  ‘It might take more than one act of cooperation from you to get me to play Skirmish again, seeing as it involves high levels of physical pain. But I do promise, when you’ve fully earned it, I’ll take you. Perhaps before Christmas.’

  It’s my first visit to Wendy’s house, which might seem strange when we’ve been such a part of each other’s lives for the last year. But our time is all spent at the pool or the dam, there’s no time left over for domestic visits. I find the driveway and crunch onto the gravel. The curved, tree-lined entrance cleverly hides the house from the road. Thick clumps of mature azaleas growing beneath the trees complete the density of the screen, and there are drifts of spring bulbs surrounding the azaleas. Everything is orderly and bursting with good health: I’m in the land of a keen gardener.

  Ben, Luke and Sophie are sitting on the front steps waiting. ‘Look how excited they are to see you,’ I say to the boys.

  We all clamber out, and Wendy appears.

  ‘This is brilliant of you,’ I tell her. ‘I only hope Graham knows what he’s in for.’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ she assures me. ‘He’s out playing tennis now, enjoying an afternoon of freedom.’

  ‘A reward for being so good about tomorrow?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She turns to Mikey and Dan. ‘Goodness you are alike, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at the school, but not up so close.’

  ‘The moustache,’ I point out. ‘Easiest way to tell. Dan is the hairy one.’

  ‘Mum …’ Dan and Mikey say together.

  ‘Mothers are always embarrassing. You should know by now that there’s no escape,’ I say, turning my attention to Wendy’s young trio. ‘You must be Ben and you Luke. And Sophie, obviously. You’re easy to identify being the only girl.’ She’s an ethereal wisp of a thing, fair and slender like her mother.

  ‘They look the same,’ Sophie says, pointing at the twins.

  ‘Double trouble,’ I tell her, and she giggles.

  Wendy invites me in for a cup of tea and we disappear into the kitchen, leaving the children to it.

  ‘It must be hard trying to arrange things without the backup of a partner,’ she says, reaching for the kettle.

  ‘Yes. I still feel guilty about coming to the pool in the mornings, leaving them to catch the school bus alone.’

  ‘They haven’t missed it yet?’

  ‘No. Every day I half expect to get home and find them sitting in front of the TV. Perhaps in another year,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll feel I can let them stay alone for a day.’

  Wendy puts a mug of aromatic tea in front of me. ‘Mm, smells good. Is this the magic brew?’

  ‘The very one.’

  I smile as I take a sip. ‘You have a wonderful garden here by the way. Who’s the keen one, you or Graham?’

  ‘Both really, but I put in more hours. Which I can do, of course, being a lady of leisure.’

  Her words are not uttered with the satisfaction of one who appreciates such a privilege. I sip my tea, wondering if she’s going to elaborate.

  ‘Did that sound ungrateful?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It did. I know it did.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I am detecting a slight note of frustration.’

  Wendy shoots a look at the door, but the children are miles away. ‘Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me,’ she whispers. ‘Graham and the kids are great. Perfect. I love my home. I’m healthy, loved, have terrific friends. But I feel this sense of … waiting for something to happen. It’s like I’m sitting in a room waiting for my turn, and I don’t know if it will ever come. I don’t even know what it is I’m waiting for, but I can’t bear that it might never happen. And why should it happen? Look what I’ve got. Why can’t I be content?’

  For the first time I realise that this issue, which Wendy has hinted at before, is real and serious. She looks miserable, disappointed with herself. ‘Some people probably would be content,’ I tell her. ‘But you’ve obviously got a hunger for something more.’

  ‘Does that make me greedy?’

  ‘Not at all. Sure, you’ve got your warmth, food and shelter, but if that was enough for everyone, nobody would ever do amazing things like climb mountains, or find a cure for AIDS or discover new worlds. You should be grateful you have the hunger.’

  Wendy smiles and reaches for the teapot and strainer to top up our mugs. ‘I’m hardly going to be doing any of those things.’

  ‘Never say never. In a year you’ve gone from the plodding lane at the pool to dam-conqueror to triathlete. Imagine where you could be in another year, another five years.’

  ‘If Graham knew how restless I feel he’d take it as a failing on his part,’ she says, casting another nervous glance towards the door. ‘He’d be frightened.’

  ‘That you’d run off?’

  ‘Yes. But I never would.’

  ‘Have you thought about looking for a job – something that might lead somewhere?’

  ‘Of course. But I have no qualifications.’

  Sitting opposite each other at the little square table in Wendy’s immaculate kitchen, mugs of tea gripped in our hands, it strikes me anew how slender Wendy is. Her wrists are narrower than any adult wrist I’ve ever set eyes on, her hands long-fingered and tapered. If I didn’t know her I might have seen her as a delicate flower of a creature, but all I can see is the steely strength in her. ‘Then get qualified,’ I say.

  She meets my eyes and I can see the uncertainty in hers. ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’ I can’t help smiling. ‘Not you.’

  She nods. ‘True. I am. Which makes it all so much worse. I’m a malcontent waiting for something – God knows what – but I’m too afraid to go and look for it.’

  ‘Afraid of failure?’

  ‘Something like that.
Look, I’ve never told you this, Charlie, but as a child I was in a similar situation to your boys. My father slunk away one night and left my mother to raise me on her own. What you once said – about Mikey and Dan feeling guilty – I understand all too well. It’s irrational, no one blamed me, but I convinced myself not only that it was my fault he’d gone, but that if I wasn’t good, really good, my mother would leave me too.’

  ‘Which is why you’re such a perfectionist.’

  ‘Exactly. A good girl. Neat, tidy, hard-working, dutiful.’

  Her words make me want to weep. Not only for my own boys and for Wendy, but for all the anxious children of the world. Confused and afraid children, wounded by the carelessness of adults. No wonder she’s looked so disturbed whenever I’ve talked about Alec. Swallowing my emotion, I say, ‘All your life trying to please everyone else – that’s got to have stifled something in you. Stifling doesn’t work forever, it’ll always explode eventually.’

  ‘A scary thought.’ She sets down her mug. ‘But I’m afraid that I’ll only have one shot at this and if I take the wrong path I won’t get another opportunity. Maybe I’m looking for a sign.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we are the sign – we girls. Look at us with all our issues: Karen losing Adam, me still wallowing on about what happened to me three years ago, Laura trying to sort out Sam, Cate up against a wall of a family. Whether you like it or not, you’ve been forced into some sort of caring role. Maybe you should expand on that. Train as a nurse. Train as a doctor. It’s never too late.’

  ‘I had been thinking along those sorts of lines,’ she says. ‘But first I must concentrate on the task at hand.’

  ‘Which is?’

  She flashes me a grin. ‘Tomorrow. Had you forgotten?’

  ‘For a minute. Mercifully! Thanks a lot for reminding me!’

  Back home that evening I force myself to eat a couple of cold sausages left over from breakfast, washed down with a single glass of wine. Then I curl up on the sofa with my manuscript and make a lame attempt at editing the opening chapter. But try as I will, Antonia, disguised as a boy, does not seem to be enjoying her mission to trace the direction of the English army’s retreat. It’s dark and late and she knows she’ll have to be on the move again before dawn. There will be hills to climb, rivers to ford, and it’s all just so damned far and wet and cold and dangerous. Alone and afraid, she is sorely tempted to flee to the safety of her mother’s arms.

  I lay down my pen and stare at the clock, wondering if a quarter to eight is a wee bit too early to go to bed even for triathletes. Trying to write in this mood is only going to ruin the scene for Antonia. She’s likely to sneak down to somebody’s kitchen looking for a stash of chocolate for company. No, not chocolate – that didn’t reach the shores of Great Britain for another three hundred years – perhaps a jar of honey, a flagon of mead. Mm … that might satisfy her sweet tooth. I’m glancing toward the kitchen door when the phone rings. I snatch it up as I always do when the boys are out. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charlie, hi.’

  I’d recognise that hi anywhere. It’s Doug Bernhoff. My hand grows clammy on the receiver.

  ‘Hope I’m not ringing too late.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So what are you doing with yourself tonight?’

  I look down at my pyjamas, my scattered manuscript. ‘Nothing much. That is, I’ve got a bit of work to do,’ I add, suddenly afraid. What are you doing tonight? sounds like, Are you free? Surely he’s not contemplating asking to call in? Or go out?

  ‘I always ring my mother in England on a Saturday night,’ I tell him. Sunday night actually, but he doesn’t need to know that. ‘She sits at home, waiting for my call. Mustn’t miss it.’

  ‘In that case I won’t keep you,’ he says. ‘Just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow.’

  I melt with relief, and am also bowled over by the realisation that Doug can be sweet. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. My first truly heartfelt words to him. ‘I must confess to being a little nervous.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. It’ll be fun, the start of something you won’t want to stop.’

  ‘Thanks Doug. I appreciate you ringing.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I put the phone down. Then pick it up instantly to ring Laura.

  ‘Doug Bernhoff just rang.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope. He rang to wish me good luck for tomorrow.’

  ‘How sweet.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘There you go. Not such a self-centred brute after all. Has it ever occurred to you that all that male strutting might be concealing an insecurity as great as your own?’

  ‘Not for a minute!’

  ‘Okay. I’ll try another tack. Would you admire a man who was so hopelessly insecure? Or would you prefer a bit of confidence?’

  ‘Hypothetically?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Okay. Hypothetically. Well, no … to be honest, insecurity is not the sort attribute that would have me magnetised, though a little humility wouldn’t go astray.’

  She laughs. ‘Perhaps he needs instruction.’

  ‘Laura, this is the eve of one of the scariest days of my life. Could you please talk about something less troubling.’

  ‘That awful, is it?’

  ‘Yep. Couldn’t eat a proper dinner. How are you doing?’

  ‘Not too bad. Sam cooked me some power food. Underdone steak, piles of iron-rich greens. My haemoglobin will be popping.’

  ‘It’s good of Sam to worry about you.’

  ‘There are some advantages to sharing a house with an ex-husband.’

  ‘Definitely – in your case. Good thing you weren’t in a hurry to make a move. Think I’ll go to bed now.’

  ‘Mm. Try and get a good sleep.’

  ‘I might do just that.’

  ‘Don’t forget to set your alarm.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  But who needs an alarm when sleep doesn’t happen? I lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting tongue and groove boards in the moonlight. Try as I might, it’s impossible to shut out the image of a plump, pale girl in a too-tight swimsuit engulfed by an aggressive throng of bronzed giants. She’s being shoved this way and that, elbowed, kicked, knocked over, trodden on. Ground into the sand. Pulverised. I toss and turn, spin in the sheets, fluff up my pillow, aware of the danger of lying awake all night. Until a rare flicker of genius penetrates my unhappy thoughts. Valium. Prescribed by Laura when Alec first left. I scramble out of bed. Clever, clever girl. Why didn’t I think of it earlier?

  On my knees in the bathroom, I fossick through the jumble of old lotions and potions at the back of the cupboard until my hand closes over a long-unused but familiar packet. I wash down two tablets with a cup of water and crawl back into bed.

  CHAPTER 13

  AT HALF PAST FIVE I am woken by the brain-drilling siren of my alarm clock.

  For a minute I don’t know where I am, what my name is, let alone what day it is, until my bleary eyes focus on the neatly laid out kit on the chair beside my bed. Togs, cap, goggles, running shoes. I leap up.

  Half an hour later, there is a toot and I’m outside. I have no food in my belly and a sedative coursing through my veins. My tongue feels thick and dry, my limbs dead, and my thoughts are so fogged I struggle to reply to the girls’ eager greetings. Other than that, I’m primed for competition.

  Laura is designated driver because her station wagon is big enough to cram three bikes in the back, with room for two more on the roof-racks. I manoeuvre my bike into the boot with the others then climb into the car. We’re squashed up like sardines. To begin with our conversation is jerky, the atmosphere crackling with nervous tension. The girls are shocked when they discover I’ve been swallowing Valium.

  ‘Oh my God!’ squeals Cate. ‘I can’t believe you took a sedative before a race.’ She’s clearly
scandalised that someone could be so careless about their performance, and I feel a twinge of guilt. After all, Cate’s worked hard to get us where we are.

  ‘But they were a good two years past the use-by date,’ I tell her. ‘Probably had no potency left.’

  ‘I hope they don’t test your urine,’ says Laura. ‘You’ll be done for doping.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Valium is the drug of choice in the Tour de France,’ adds Wendy. She and Karen are giggling like loons, almost hysterical.

  When everyone settles down, Laura catches my eye in the rear-vision mirror. ‘I’m going to get those off you and flush them down the toilet.’

  I hold up both hands in defeat. ‘Okay. Okay. I promise never to do it again.’

  ‘Changing the subject,’ says Wendy, ‘guess who had the morning off?’

  No need to ask her what she’s talking about. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘First time since I had the flu three years ago.’

  ‘So how will he cope?’ asks Cate. ‘I mean, won’t he be left in a state of total desperation all day?’

  ‘Unable to concentrate?’

  ‘There’s always the shower.’

  Wendy laughs. ‘More likely he’ll burn up his energy running after five children.’

  With five talkative females in the car, the fifty-minute journey zips by. But as we draw closer to our destination, I realise that Karen has been quiet since she recovered from her giggling fit. I lean towards her. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Not great,’ she admits. ‘I’m nervous. But it’s more than that.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Adam.’

  She nods. ‘He’d be so surprised by what I’m doing. And so proud,’ she adds, pressing her fingers to her eyes.