The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  ‘Yep. Thought it was time to put myself to the test.’

  ‘Well done, Charlie. And?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Lips of clay.’

  ‘Yours or his?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Maybe you need more practice,’ says Karen.

  ‘Good point,’ agrees Laura. ‘You’d need to warm up a bit before you can expect a toe-curling, loin-stirring sort of a reaction. It has been a while, after all.’

  Cate sticks her head around the changing room door. ‘Volume,’ she says, tapping a finger to her lips. ‘I’d keep it down if I were you.’

  I sit on the bench to dry my toes. ‘God,’ I say, all hushed and low, ‘why do we keep doing that? Someone change the subject please.’

  ‘Well … we have shopping to discuss,’ says Wendy.

  ‘Shopping?’ A surreal jump: kissing to shopping. But welcome.

  ‘Been talking to Cate. She wants us to spend some money before the Mid-Coast.’

  ‘What on?’

  ‘Padded socks for the run. Our virgin feet are likely to get beyond sore after ten kilometres. There are, apparently, miracle socks on the market with special padded soles.’

  ‘Okay. What else?’

  ‘Vaseline,’ says Laura. ‘Lots of it. I don’t know about you, but when we did that five kilometres the other day my thighs were so chaffed they were nearly bleeding. Not a problem skinny little runners have, it’s us with the ample thighs.’

  ‘But biggest of all,’ says Wendy, ‘an issue we’ve all been avoiding – we need proper bikes.’

  It’s not that I don’t want the right gear, but with Antonia’s journey dragging on for two years now, I’m cautious about flinging my dollars around carelessly. ‘That sounds expensive.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Yesterday I went down to a bike shop on the coast that sells both new and second-hand. We could get good second-hand ones that will see to our needs for about a third of the price of new ones.’

  ‘Seems sensible,’ I say. Mm. Real bikes, Professional gear. ‘Anything would be an improvement on what I’m riding now. Let’s go down together on Saturday. Are we all free?’

  There’s general assent, except from Laura, who’s promised Sam they’ll have a weekend in the garden together. ‘I guess I could crop that down to Sunday,’ she suggests.

  ‘I think Sam needs your steady presence more than we do at the moment,’ I tell her. ‘I could pick one for you. We’re the same height. Similar weight. What fits me will fit you, and I can bring it out to you on Sunday.’

  ‘If only choosing men were that easy,’ says Karen with a wicked grin. ‘Now tell us more about that kiss …’

  Before going to deliver Laura’s new bike, I sit the boys down for an overdue chat. They are subdued, and I know that they know our talk is not going to be about what I’m planning to cook for dinner. I get straight to the point. ‘How would you feel about having another talk about your father?’

  There’s a short silence and I’m thinking, Here we go again, until Mikey says, ‘We thought you were going to tell us you had a boyfriend.’

  I can’t help smiling. ‘No, not that.’

  ‘We wouldn’t mind if you did have one.’

  Nothing could have been better designed to rob me of words. Having spent the last four years letting myself believe they’d hate the idea, I’m more than surprised by this, I’m touched that they considered me youthful enough to attract a partner and lonely enough to want one. I find my tongue and say, ‘You’ve discussed this, have you?’

  They look at each other, then back at me, and I know it’s all I’m going to get out of them.

  ‘Okay. We’ll save that for another day. What about my question?’

  More silence. Once more the boys look at each other. Then Dan says, ‘Has he rung again?’

  ‘No. But that’s not because he won’t have wanted to. I forbade him to call, told him we would ring when and if we were ready. I think,’ I add, ‘that his desire to see you is genuine, that he regrets having distanced himself the way he did.’

  ‘He could have thought about that a bit sooner,’ says Dan.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Was she really seventeen?’ Mikey’s question rocks me. I’ve never told them this, and can only assume they’ve picked it up from school.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ says Dan, pulling a face at his twin, and I realise that they’re not so much disgusted by Emma’s youth, but that a girl of her age could bear to be with a man old enough to be her father.

  But they are a hundred times calmer than the first time we talked about this, and I feel rather pleased with myself for waiting. Then remember that I didn’t so much wait as put it off.

  ‘I’ve no intention of pressuring you either way,’ I explain. ‘My role is just to tell you that he hopes to see you, then stand by any decision the two of you make.’

  ‘If he comes to see us, will he disappear straight after again?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. I think he probably wants to get to know you again, to spend some regular time with you.’

  Mikey looks at Dan. ‘Like Dean.’

  ‘Who’s Dean?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s in our class. He lives with his mum but goes to his dad at weekends.’

  ‘I don’t want to spend my weekends away from here,’ says Dan. It’s the first ripple in the calm. I move to sit beside him.

  ‘I would hate you both to be gone every weekend, and I’d never, ever allow it. What I would suggest, but only if you want to, is to meet him somewhere for an hour or so. Perhaps you could go for a walk or a swim or something. Then you can think about whether you’d like to see him again.’

  ‘Would you come with us?’

  God give me strength. ‘If you want me to, of course I will.’

  ‘Maybe he could just come here.’

  My stomach lurches. I’m desperate to make this as easy as I can on the boys, but the thought of letting Alec into my home, my sanctuary, fills me with dread and revulsion.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think it would be better if it was elsewhere. Better for everyone.’

  They don’t press it, and I want to hug them for that.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ I remind them, ‘we’re the ones calling the shots here. We can pick if and when and where and how often. But there’s one more thing I have to tell you, and I’ll admit it came as a bit of a shock to me.’ Two pairs of eyes are glued to my face, and I’m just so damned furious with Alec for causing this painful upheaval. ‘No sense in beating about the bush. Your father’s girlfriend has had a baby. I’m not shocked about the baby,’ I hasten to add, ‘just that he didn’t tell us.’

  As are they. Once more, they look at each other. Identical eyes passing messages that no one else on earth will ever understand.

  ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ asks Mikey.

  ‘A girl. I don’t know her name, but she’d be two years old by now. You have a half-sister,’ I add stupidly, as though they are too young to work it out for themselves.

  ‘Maybe that’s why he wants to visit,’ says Dan. ‘So that the little girl gets to know her half-brothers.’

  To my surprise, I sense a lifting of the mood. I had imagined jealousy, or at the very least resentment. But perhaps Alec has been gone so long, they’re no longer worried about being displaced in his affections.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Dan.

  ‘But not yet,’ adds Mikey. ‘Alec can wait a bit longer.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Alec?’

  They both nod, then Mikey explains, ‘He’s lost the privilege of being called Dad. He’s going to be Alec from now on.’

  They come with me to deliver Laura’s new bike. It’s the last week of October when the jacaranda trees are at their peak, and Sam and Laura’s driveway is enjoying its annual glory as a fabulous lavender-blue tunnel. The blossoms drop
like confetti as we’re driving through, and the bonnet and windscreen of the car end up looking like a feature at a Hindu wedding by the time we emerge into the open garden.

  We spot Sam and Laura attacking the rampant honeysuckle that’s been invading the windows of the house. Laura is pruning, Sam is gathering mountains of fallen tendrils and piling them onto the back of his ute. In earlier days, Mikey and Dan would have been leaping out of the car and sprinting up to say hello. These days, selfconsciousness having taken them in its grip, they saunter in their own cool time.

  Sam, downing his tools, strides over to meet us. ‘My God, is it really Mikey and Dan? I’d have been hard-pressed to recognise you!’

  The boys are well satisfied with this greeting. Sam’s reaction makes them feel all the maturity they aspire to.

  ‘Hi Charlie, hi boys,’ says Laura, tossing her clippers and gloves aside. ‘Good timing. I’m ready for a break. You can show me the bike later. Let’s go to Little Italy.’

  Little Italy is a trellised area built by Sam in earlier days, and thickly grown over with grapevines that provide shade all day. The ground is paved with big square flagstones and edged with cumquat trees planted in massive terracotta pots. It is the site of many a shared bottle of wine and impromptu meal over the years. Today we drink tea and eat chocolate-coated shortbread.

  Laura has bits of leaf and twig stuck in her wild hair, and she’s worked up a sweat worthy of one of our runs. She looks as relaxed and happy as I’ve seen her. And I wish, as I’ve wished so many times since I’ve known her, that she would let go of the restlessness and do this more often. I know she could afford to work fewer hours, and it’s obvious she enjoys being at home. It’s like there’s a dervish in her, driving her on all the time. Sometimes it almost seems as though it drives her to punish herself.

  ‘So what do you think of your mum turning out to be such an athlete?’ Sam asks the boys.

  ‘Hardly that,’ I say, interrupting.

  ‘It’s pretty good,’ says Mikey, reaching for another biscuit – his fifth, if I’ve counted correctly.

  ‘She takes us to Skirmish more often,’ adds Dan.

  Laura gives a shout of laughter. ‘What, feeling the pumped-up action woman these days, Charlie? Or is it compensation for not being home to make their breakfast every morning?’

  ‘Bit of both, I expect. No, more the latter. No amount of exercise prepares you for the physical pain of a direct hit.’

  ‘Mum … it doesn’t hurt. You’re such a wimp.’

  ‘It hurts. Maybe you two are anaesthetised by excitement.’

  ‘I’ll take them if you like,’ says Sam.

  Two pairs of identical eyes light up.

  ‘Why don’t I have them over when you’re at the Mid-Coast Triathlon? We could fit in a round or two then’

  ‘Unless you’d rather come and watch the triathlon?’ I suggest to the boys. ‘You might get inspired to become triathletes yourselves.’

  I’m teasing them and they know it. ‘I think we should come here,’ says Mikey.

  ‘Otherwise Sam’s going to be all on his own,’ adds Dan. ‘He might get bored.’

  It’s obvious the twins are not the only excited ones, and not for the first time I feel sad that Sam’s never had the chance to have his own children. ‘Sounds like we accept,’ I say to Sam with gratitude. ‘Thanks.’

  When I get back from the pool the next day, I call Alec. I hate the way my fingers are unsteady as I punch in his number. He answers the phone after a couple of rings.

  More deep breaths. ‘Hello Alec.’

  ‘Charlie!’

  He sounds surprised, excited. How I would love to tell him that the boys wouldn’t hear of it, have refused once and for all to see him ever again. ‘They’ve agreed to see you,’ I say.

  ‘That’s great.’ I can hear the relief in his voice.

  ‘Yes, it is. Extraordinarily great of them after all this time.’

  ‘I’m free this Saturday. I could be up there by about ten.’

  ‘Actually, they’d prefer to wait. Another month or two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Are you playing with me, Charlie?’

  ‘Why would I bother to do that?’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Not my instinct, Alec.’

  ‘Then tell me, after all this time, why would they want to wait?’

  ‘Perhaps revenge is a male thing,’ I say.

  There’s a short silence, my words sinking in.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, they’ve decided to call you Alec from now on. Apparently you’ve lost the privilege of being their father. Minds of their own, like I said.’

  For a minute I think he must have hung up, then I hear him say, ‘When? Can we make a date?’

  ‘Later. I’ll call you closer to the time. Goodbye Alec.’ I hang up the phone with a pleasingly steady hand. And the suspicion that I’m looking as smug as I feel.

  CHAPTER 19

  NO VALIUM IN MY system today. We’ve carbo-loaded all week, tapered our training. Not that there’s much to taper when it comes to the little preparation we’ve done for the run. But all things considered, we are as honed and as ready as we’re ever going to be.

  The Mid-Coast is huge. More than three thousand competitors divided into different categories. We are all in Category ‘N’, which is for forty to forty-four year old women, except for Cate, who’s a ‘J’, the thirty to thirty-four year olds. There are also team categories, with three competitors each doing a single leg of the event: women’s teams, men’s teams and mixed teams. Rumours are flying that some of these teams have ring-ins. Corporate teams who entice big names to compete for them. We hear that Kieren Perkins is doing the swim leg for one, that Steve Moneghetti is doing the run for another. We are star-struck by the calibre of some of our fellow competitors.

  But there are plenty of others like us, and there are plenty who are much, much older. The Veterans category is for over eighty year olds. I’ll be sure to look out for my ninety year old and if I see her, boy, will I mow her down.

  After depositing a pumped-up Mikey and Dan with Sam, Laura and I collect the girls in Laura’s station wagon, then set off for the coast. Lee and Doug are also competing, but we are so many people and so much kit that we travel separately. Doug drives down with his son, Caleb, and Lee brings Anya and their little girl, Mabel. Thus we have a cheer squad of three.

  I’m a bit surprised that Anya wants to stand for several sweaty hours watching a sporting competition with two kids in tow, and suspect her of nursing a hidden agenda: that being to keep Doug’s eyes off me. Which is fine, of course, given my lack of desire to feel Doug’s eyes – or anyone else’s for that matter – anywhere near me while I’m frolicking about in my racing togs.

  My nerves are not as acute as they were at our first triathlon, which is a surprise, given the elevated league we’ve entered. But having done it once, albeit on a smaller scale, the business is not such a mystery. We know what to expect. And today there is no embarrassment about our kit. We have new bikes. Proper helmets. Our skills have improved. We hope to blend neatly in with the other competitors.

  We find the transition area and go to deposit our bikes. When I don my helmet and stand with my new bike waiting to be checked through, I feel almost like an old hand, until a grim-faced official taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘You might want to wear your helmet the other way around.’

  Back to front helmets? Suddenly I’m an amateur again. I feel a giggle rising and daren’t look at the others. Mustn’t end up hysterical in the face of so much unsmiling authority.

  After we’re waved through and go to stash the bikes and gear in our allotted spots, I notice that Laura seems particularly quiet and pale. ‘Are you okay?’ I whisper.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’ve felt better. Expect you have too.’ She gives me a reassuring smile, but I’m not convinced. I’m thinking of her nerve
attack last time, the oedema, and make a mental note to keep a special eye on her. I worry about her all the way to the registration and numbering tent.

  Lee and Doug are ahead of us. ‘Good luck,’ they say, emerging numbered and ready. The girls are right. I’m a loony not fancying Doug. He’s a wall of sculpted masculinity, standing in his minute speedos that conceal very little of him, well, quite a lot actually – not that I’m looking or anything – and I reckon the fickle gods must have a sense of humour, planting so much perfection under my nose but withholding from it the sort of warm, funny, intriguing soul that might magnetise my own.

  He’s smiling down at me with a hint of intimacy in his eyes that shows he’s thinking about The Kiss. And the weird thing, the really weird thing is that I’m not embarrassed. You’d think I’d be scarlet by now, but it’s like having had my say, telling him to his face that I’m not interested, has freed me of that particular burden. I smile back. ‘Best of luck to you, too.’ I turn to smile at Lee, and he says, ‘Remember, there’ll be plenty of others walking part or all of the run.’

  We wave them off and enter the tent. As well as having our limbs numbered with a broad, black marker pen, we’re each given a velcro strap to wear around our ankle. This will beep and register the time when we enter or leave the transition area: a vital tool to record our times.

  Anya and the two children wait with us in the registration tent, seeing as Lee and Doug are heading off to the beach which is restricted to competitors only. I’m doing my best to behave as though we didn’t have that little chat out on her deck. For Lee’s sake, really. I’d hate him to pick up on any tension between his wife and the rest of us. Besides, today I have other things to worry about: the enormity of the race, the desire not to come last, the knowledge that my racing togs are tight and unflattering – they dig into my flesh the way normal-sized togs don’t and my thighs are bulging all over the place. Dressed this way, it’s hard to stand beside a creature like Anya, who is one of those mysterious women that always look perfect. Why doesn’t the breeze stir her hair? Why doesn’t her neck turn red when she’s flustered? Why do her hands look like the hands of a thirty year old when I know for a fact she’s eight years my senior?