The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  He’s busy manipulating one recalcitrant strap, but looks up from his task. ‘I think they’ve had it. I’ve snapped the rubber. Might have to call it a day. What are you doing floating around up here?’

  ‘Having a rest.’

  ‘Very sneaky of you.’

  ‘Not a complete rest. Unlike you, I am treading water.’

  He grins. ‘Legs not long enough?’

  It’s a strange thing, but if Doug had teased me about being too short to stand in the deep end of the Macclesfield pool (which isn’t that deep), I might have bristled. Coming from Lee, with the smiling eyes, the words make me want to laugh. ‘Sadly lacking in that department, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’d better watch out for Sean. If he spots you he’ll start yelling his head off.’

  ‘Yes, Quit the aqua-aerobics and get on with the laps. What are you, a blimp or a swimmer?’

  ‘Expect he’ll come marching up here any minute.’

  ‘Either that or get the megaphone out. Mind you, he’s much nicer to us than he used to be. He used to call us a pack of whales.’

  This draws a shout of laughter from Lee. ‘Obviously doesn’t live with a woman, or he’d know better.’

  ‘He’ll learn.’ I lower my goggles and adjust them over my eyes.

  Lee pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the pool. He makes it look easy, like Cate does: a single fluid movement and he’s clear of the water.

  ‘See you later,’ he says with a wave, and I push off for the shallow end.

  Pizzas for dinner again. It’s not quite the weekly event Mikey and Dan had hoped for, but it has become close to a monthly one. I compensate for the unwholesomeness of the toppings by piling our plates high with rocket, spinach, and watercress. Surprisingly, the boys devour the lot without comment.

  We’ve finished eating and the boys and I are clearing up, stuffing greasy cardboard boxes in the wheelie bin, when the phone rings. ‘I’ll get it,’ says Dan and sprints to the office door.

  But the last user didn’t return the phone to its cradle – one of my pet hates – and it’s been left among a pile of papers on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve got it,’ I call out, then lift the phone and press it to my ear. ‘Yes?’

  It’s Alec.

  I grip the receiver in one clammy hand, entirely unable to speak. He’s probably hearing heavy breathing at his end of the phone and wonders if he’s got the wrong number.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Or some nutter. I walk over to the French doors, out onto the verandah and push the doors to, close myself off from the boys, unutterably grateful that it wasn’t Dan who picked up the phone.

  ‘Charlie?’ he repeats. ‘Is that you?’

  I contemplate hanging up.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Hello Alec,’ I say.

  ‘I knew you’d kept the number. Thought I must have misdialled. Seemed strange when it’s one I know so well.’

  ‘Easy to forget things,’ I say. ‘If you don’t use them.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Charlie, I know it’s been a long time, that I’m guilty of neglect.’

  ‘Neglect?’ I glance at the twins through the glass panes of the doors. They’re talking, laughing, oblivious to my conversation.

  ‘You abandon your children at the age of nine, walk out without a word, and in the intervening years – all three and a half of them – not a visit, not a birthday card, not a Christmas present, not even a phone call, and you speak of neglect?’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t get angry.’

  He’s right. There’s no point. Besides, I should have passed beyond anger long ago, years ago. I should be relieved that he’s gone, that I didn’t get stuck with such a selfish sack of predatory cowardice for the rest of my life. So why am I in a simmering, sweating, heart-thudding state of fury? I take a couple of deep breaths. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see my sons.’

  I take a few more deep, even breaths. ‘What makes you think you have that right?’

  ‘They are my children as much as yours.’

  ‘Wrong,’ I say. ‘I might have had the poor taste to let you mingle your genes with mine, but that is the extent of your input. A most forgettable part of the input.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Charlie –’

  ‘For years two little boys asked when their father was coming home, wept when you forgot their birthdays, school sports days, Christmas, holidays. And now, when it suits, here’s Alec, miffed because he can’t come straight over. Just why you think you can waltz into their lives after all this time is completely beyond me. But then you always were a selfish prick.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ he says, and I hear the strain in his voice, of keeping himself under control. I know he wants to shout, to order and demand like he used to, but he knows that the best chance of getting what he wants is to keep things decent.

  ‘Actually, you have no say,’ I tell him. ‘The boys are at an age – nearly thirteen, in case you’ve forgotten – where they’re old enough to decide for themselves whether they wish to see you or not.’

  ‘And I suppose you will poison their minds against the idea.’

  ‘Your instincts are not mine, Alec.’

  ‘So you will ask them?’

  ‘I will ask them.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not tonight. I need time to consider how to approach this.’

  There’s a pause. I think he’s a bit shocked by my handling of the situation. I’m a bit shocked myself. I think he expected to be able to manipulate me as he used to; the Charlie he married would cave in over any issue so as to avoid a confrontation. I feel empowered. And I’m not quite finished with him yet.

  ‘I suppose,’ I say, ‘that having another child has reminded you that you were once a father elsewhere.’

  ‘You know about the baby?’

  ‘I do. And I know that you made no effort to let my boys know that they have a half-sister. I wonder if they’ll forgive you for that when they’re grown up.’

  ‘Bitterness doesn’t become you, Charlie.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But then being seen in a becoming light by you is of no interest to me whatsoever. Goodbye Alec.’

  ‘Wait –’

  I pause, receiver still at my ear.

  ‘You’ll need my phone number. To get in touch about the boys.’

  ‘You’re confident.’

  ‘Charlie, please –’

  ‘What is it?’

  My eyes are on the boys as I write it down. There’s no way I’m raising this tonight. Perhaps after the weekend when I’ve had longer to think.

  I hang up the phone. The idea of re-entering such a desperate period of life fills me with dread: questions from the boys, broken sleep, tears, reluctance to go to school, the awesome responsibility of handling it all on my own. But it also fills me with anger that one man can, for fickle reasons of his own, upset the hard-won equilibrium of three other lives just by picking up the phone.

  I’m tempted to rip up his number and try to forget all about the call. But when I look through the panes of the French doors and see Mikey and Dan bantering and laughing inside, I know that I can’t.

  I chuck my bag on the slatted bench in the changing room and sit down. It’s early, I’m first to arrive and can’t wait to get into the water to swim the tension out of my limbs. All weekend I searched for but failed to find the courage to introduce the topic of Alec’s phone call to the boys. Every hour that passed had me growing more afraid that he’d ring again and I wouldn’t be able to get to the phone first.

  Wendy wanders in as I’m pulling my pink cap over my ears. ‘You’re very prompt this morning.’

  ‘One of those days when I need a swim.’

  She frowns and I get a penetrating look. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Distracted,’ I say. ‘Tell you all about it afterwards.’

  The swim soothes as it always
does: the repetition that’s almost meditative, the weightlessness, the smooth stroking that calms my boiling blood into a steady rhythmic pulse. By the time I leave the pool I feel calm enough to talk about it.

  ‘Alec rang?’ Laura has heard enough over the years to be as astounded as I am.

  ‘He wants to see the boys.’

  ‘And he thinks he can just waltz in when he feels like it after more than three years?’

  ‘My sentiments exactly. But there is another side to this. The boys have a right to an opinion.’

  ‘Do they?’ demands Laura, flinging her wet togs onto the bench. ‘I thought the age when kids were legally given those sorts of choices was fourteen.’

  ‘That may well be,’ says Wendy. ‘But Charlie’s got a point. Imagine how the boys might feel down the track if they discover she kept them from seeing their father.’

  ‘But it was Alec’s decision to leave them in the first place,’ says Karen. ‘Why should he be the one allowed to come and go when he feels like it?’

  ‘Upsetting everyone,’ adds Cate.

  ‘Fuck him, I say.’ It’s impossible not to smile at Laura’s predictable forthright, uncompromising attitude. She’s like a lioness defending her cub.

  The role of cub is not one I’m much used to and I hold up my hands to settle them all down. ‘Look, I have to talk to Mikey and Dan. If they were babies, or if he’d beaten them – or me – it would be different. But he didn’t, and my conscience won’t let me deny them access to their dad, if that’s what they want. They’re almost young men, for God’s sake.’

  ‘It’s the expectation I don’t like,’ says Karen. ‘I mean, if he’d rung with grovelling apologies, pleading for you to consider making an appeal to the boys –’

  ‘Which I’m very sure he didn’t,’ interrupts Laura, hawkeyes on my face.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ I admit.

  ‘Annoyed, was he, that you didn’t do an instant cave-in?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The man needs slapping,’ she mutters, and turns away, reaching for her clothes.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ asks Wendy.

  ‘Talk to them. Soon.’

  Though I watch Wendy’s reaction closely, given what she told me, I stop short of asking if her own father ever came back into her life. She’s folding her towel, arranging her things, being neat, being Wendy. ‘Charlie’s right,’ she says when, finally, she looks up from her task. ‘Mikey and Dan might be hugely reassured that their father’s tried to get back in touch. I know it’s been years, but kids are unpredictable with their thinking.’

  ‘If you’re clever,’ suggests artful Laura, stepping into her knickers, ‘you could colour your words in such a way that puts them right off.’

  ‘That’s what Alec predicted I’d do.’

  ‘And your thoughts?’

  ‘I have to be fair. God, I hate this, hate him for doing this. We’ve been coping so well. There’s only one thing I’m happy about now, and that’s how the call went. The upper hand was definitely mine, is mine, and he knows it.’

  In the end it’s another two weeks before I speak to the boys. It’s a school day, and I sit them down after the three-thirty feeding frenzy in the way I’ve so often done to discuss their school work, their achievements, their social life. I try to smile, to relax, but the boys grow subdued and I know I must be sending out serious vibes. Better get on with it. I take a deep breath.

  ‘There’s something I have to ask you to think about,’ I say. ‘If you were younger this would not be your decision. But you’re nearly thirteen now, and I think you have the right to an opinion on the matter. If the opportunity arose,’ I go on, picking my way carefully, ‘how would you feel about a visit from your father?’

  My words are greeted by silence.

  I try again. ‘Do you remember when we were putting pizza boxes in the wheelie bin the other night and the phone rang?’

  They look blankly at each other, then at me.

  ‘Well it did. And it was your father. It’s the first time I’ve heard from him since he left, but he told me he wanted to see you.’

  To my surprise Dan – usually the quieter of the two – is the one to speak. ‘Why does he want to see us?’ he asks, and I feel like weeping. But it’s so important that I don’t get emotional, that I am the cool, calm pillar of stability in this situation.

  I take another deep breath. ‘I know he’s stayed away a long time, and I have to tell you he will never be coming back to live with us. But you need to believe he hasn’t stayed away because he didn’t want to see you. It’s more likely that he was ashamed of the way he’d behaved and found it hard to face us.’

  ‘He could have written us a letter,’ says Dan.

  ‘I know he could have. But he didn’t. Only he knows why he didn’t.’

  To my dismay, Mikey is suddenly on his feet, striding off. His bedroom door slams. Dan is faster than me, but both of us are hot on his heels.

  We find Mikey sitting on the bed, looking flushed, like he’s fighting tears. I move to sit beside him. I want to pull him onto my lap, to kiss and stroke his hair. But those days are long gone, the boys are as tall as I am. ‘Mikey,’ I say, ‘Mikey,’ and put an arm round his waist. ‘I’m not suggesting that you have to see him if you don’t want to. I just didn’t feel it was right to keep it a secret from you that he rang and asked.’

  ‘Well I don’t want to see him. Not now. Not ever. He’s a complete bastard and I’m glad he’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t want to either,’ says Dan.

  It’s hard to banish the glee, the leaping, selfish pleasure these words arouse. ‘I understand. It’s all been very sudden,’ I say. ‘But there’s no hurry. We can digest this, think about it. What you decide tonight might not apply next month, next year. Now let’s distract ourselves with an outing. Fancy a drive to the coast and a walk on the beach?’

  Laura rings that night, late, when she knows the boys will be in bed. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Bad. Mikey was really angry. I had no idea he harboured so much ill feeling towards Alec.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he? The bastard let him and his brother down big time.’

  ‘I know. But it was more than resentment, it was like real hatred.’ I’m shuffling round the kitchen, putting things away, phone cradled against my shoulder. ‘The boys have seemed so well lately. As though they’d come to terms with everything. Not like the early days when they missed him so badly and thought it was all their fault.’ I’ll never forget the lowest moment of the lot. A sobbing admission from Dan that he’d wake every morning expecting to find me gone too. My assurances didn’t penetrate because I was one, and there were two of them feeling exactly the same way, reinforcing in each other, with words and looks, the certainty that they were responsible. That if they’d driven one parent away, what right had they to expect the other to hang around?

  ‘So how have you left it?’

  ‘They refuse to see him.’

  ‘Good for them.’

  ‘Laura, I don’t think it’s very healthy that they can’t bear to clap eyes on their own father.’

  ‘Okay, I know I’m biased and full of vengeance. But you can’t deny it’ll serve Alec a lesson that they don’t play straight into his hands. Have you told him yet?’

  ‘No. I feel a bit phobic about speaking to him actually.’

  ‘Ring him tonight. Now. You’ll sleep better without it hanging over you.’

  Laura’s right, of course. I stare at the phone after she’s hung up. One thing to be caught unawares by his ringing me, quite another to make a premeditated phone call to him. To punch in the numbers from the piece of paper in my hand, knowing I’m going to hear Alec’s voice on the other end of the line. Or hers. The sudden thought chills me. Could I bring myself to speak to Emma? Open my mouth and articulate normal sounds? She’s just a child, I remind myself. Barely seven years older than Mikey and Dan. Do it. Do it now. Suddenly I’m hitting the
numbers. It rings, once, twice, then a click and a voice. ‘Hello?’

  It’s Alec.

  I take a deep breath, searching for the strength I had last time we spoke. ‘Hello Alec.’

  ‘Charlie!’

  No use beating about the bush. ‘They don’t want to see you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘I heard you. And I’d like to know what the hell you’ve been saying to them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t adopt that tone if I were you. It’s not going to get you anywhere.’

  It’s Alec’s turn to take a deep breath, and I know he’s fighting to control his ready temper. ‘I suppose you’ve been filling their ears with lies about me for three and a half years.’

  ‘You can suppose what you like.’

  ‘You’ve changed, Charlie. You were gentle once. Kind.’

  ‘Kindness needs to be earned.’ I pull myself up. This nonsense is getting us nowhere. ‘Look Alec, the boys have been hurt very badly by you. What did you expect, that they’d fall into the palm of your hand the minute you beckoned? Mikey and Dan are intelligent, perceptive adolescents. They have opinions of their own and don’t need you or I to help them make up their minds. Hearing from you was a shock. In time that shock might subside. If it does, I’ll ring you again.’

  ‘How do I know you’ll do that?’ He sounds bitter, sceptical.

  ‘Because, unlike you, I don’t practise deceit.’

  He ignores my gibe. ‘Ring me again in a couple of weeks. Tell me how they are.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing! Why should I be obliged to give you fortnightly progress reports after all this time?’

  ‘Then I’ll ring. I can’t let this go.’

  ‘You will not ring!’ I hear my voice raising, feel my anger building. ‘I’ve no idea where this latent sense of conscience has sprung from, or why, but you are disrupting our lives, do you hear me, and I won’t have it! I’ll change the phone number, take out a DVO.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Domestic violence order.’

  ‘You call this violence?’

  ‘Emotional violence. A speciality of yours. Goodbye Alec.’

  My hands are shaking so much I have trouble getting the phone back in its cradle, then I creep out to the verandah, shut the door behind me and give in to the overwhelming need to cry.