Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  ‘Thank you for your concern,’ Marièle stepped in front of Mama, shut the door on Mrs Walker.

  George handed her his coat, and Marièle wrapped it around her shoulders. She dug her hands into its deep pockets, felt the scrunch of brown paper.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a birthday present from Cath. She gave me it just now.’

  Cath hadn’t told her she’d got George a present, kept that a secret.

  Marièle squeezed the parcel, soft and spongy. She could see Cath now, sitting in her front room, ball of wool on her lap. She wasn’t a great knitter, must have been at it for the last few months. Marièle let the surge of affection sweep aside the jealousy.

  George lifted the rope, stepped inside it again and began to pull the sledge forward.

  Marièle wrapped his big coat around her, pulled the collar up over her chin and breathed in the scent of lavender and lippy.

  ‘Marièle?’

  Marièle had just left work, turned at the sound of her name being called. A man in uniform hurried towards her. The sun shone behind him, in her eyes, obscured the man’s features.

  Was it?

  Was it him?

  George?

  He came closer, stepped out of the sun’s glare. She tried not to let the disappointment show on her face as she recognised him.

  Arthur, Arthur Evans. One of the boys who worked in the shop with her and Cath.

  Used to work there, until he was called up.

  A lot of boys used to work in the shop.

  ‘Artie, it’s so good to see you,’ she said, ‘when did you get back?’

  ‘About two hours ago.’

  ‘Two hours and you come here, what will your mother say?’

  ‘Ach, she’ll not mind. I wanted to see you actually.’

  Marièle stepped back. What did he want?

  They’d been at the dancing a few times, but always in a group, and she’d let him hold her hand that time at the pictures.

  He didn’t think that meant anything, did he? Some of the boys got a bit carried away, especially when they were away from home for so long. Arthur was nice, but she wasn’t interested in him romantically. She wasn’t really interested in anyone romantically.

  Her lips were wet from the snow, and Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’ He asked.

  ‘Okay,’ she nodded.

  God, he looked different. Thinner, older. He’d grown up. She couldn’t imagine him playing jokes on old Mr Jackson in the shop the way he had before.

  ‘You were there? At Dunkirk, I mean?’ She asked, trying to break the awkward silence between them.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Was it very awful?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re just home and here I am jumping in and asking questions.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I saw. I’ll never forget them, as long as I live.’

  He started to laugh.

  God, he’d gone mad.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you must think I’m such a fool. I was just thinking… me and a group of lads found a row boat. We didn’t even question why it was lying there, why nobody else had used it. We all just piled in, started paddling with our hands. At first we went round in circles but then we got the hang of it. Got about, from here to that fence, then we noticed the water coming in, there was a big hole in the bottom of it.’

  ‘Oh no! What happened?’

  ‘What else? It sank! We had to swim back to shore, it was freezing.’

  Marièle laughed with him. It wasn’t even all that funny. It was more the absurdity of it. Amidst all that death and destruction, a slapstick comedy routine being played out.

  ‘How did you make it home?’

  ‘A fishing boat picked us up. Worst trip I’ve ever been on in my life. I was seasick all the way home. I think swimming back might have been better.’

  She thought of George. Couldn’t help it. Deep down, if she had the choice, she’d rather have George home than Arthur and that was an awful thing to think when he stood there beside her. After all he’d gone through. God, she wished she’d never thought that. Take it back, take it back.

  ‘I saw George over there.’

  ‘We got a telegram.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I stopped to help him, but he was too… he was badly hurt. I sat with him until…’

  She felt her legs wobble, stumbled. Arthur caught her.

  ‘Marièle, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have told you.’ He held her upright, fumbled in his pockets and handed her a handkerchief.

  ‘No. I’m glad, when the telegram said missing in action…’ she took the handkerchief from him. She hadn’t realised she was crying.

  ‘Christ, excuse my language, but I thought you knew, I wouldn’t have been so blunt otherwise.’

  ‘No, don’t feel bad,’ she squeezed his arm, ‘I’m glad you told me. I already knew, deep down.’

  ‘I’m not very good at this. I’m ruining it. I kept thinking over how I’d tell you, and it wasn’t like this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she wiped her eyes and nose.

  ‘He gave me something for you.’

  Arthur rummaged in the inside pocket of his tunic, pulled out a silver cross on a chain.

  ‘He said a French lady had given it to him – he’d sheltered in her barn.’

  Arthur stood behind Marièle, fastened it round her neck. She was glad he couldn’t see her face. She slipped the cross under her blouse, felt it nestle between her breasts.

  Was it meant for her? She couldn’t help thinking George had said her name when he meant to say Cath’s.

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, I was in France there. Thank you. For bringing it back, for staying with him.’

  ‘Well, here we are,’ George stopped outside their garden gate.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ Marièle held out a hand and George pulled her up from the sledge.

  ‘Did you notice we were being spied on?’ She asked.

  ‘No, who?’

  ‘Mrs Walker, who else?’

  ‘Old busybody, I’ll give her something to spy on,’ George said and, without warning, grabbed Marièle and slung her over his shoulder.

  ‘George, stop it, put me down.’ Marièle kicked her legs but he held them firm against his chest.

  ‘Can’t have you getting your feet wet at this late stage in the journey,’ he replied and carried Marièle towards the house.

  She hung upside down, hair falling in her face, as she looked back along the garden path towards where the sledge lay discarded on the pavement.

  July 2004

  Life Bright For Wright

  Success for Swimming Star at European Junior Championships

  Hannah Wright’s successful year continues apace. Hannah (15) has won gold in the 100m Butterfly at the European Junior Championships in Lisbon. Hannah, who qualified in second place for the final following the heats, powered to gold, taking half a second off her PB in the process.

  ‘It was a really gutsy performance,’ said coach Greg Candy. ‘She wanted that gold medal and she took the race out from the start. It’s the first time she’s had to deal with heats and semi-finals and she has risen to the occasion brilliantly.’

  5

  I CYCLE FASTER, faster, faster, trying to get the day off me, leave it behind. I feel like some of that old woman got sucked into me when I gave her CPR. Some of the death and decay, stale and drying me up from the inside. I’m sorry for her, Ms Marièle Downie, but I don’t want her on me any longer.

  I’m young, still young.

  (over the hill at twenty-one)

  I stand tall on the pedals, let the cold air blast my face. My eyes water and my nose runs. It helps, reminds me I’m still alive.

  I kick the garden gate open without slowing, don’t hit the brakes until the last possible moment,
until I’m almost in the shed. I shove my bike in, next to the rusty lawn mower, then let myself into the house.

  ‘Dad?’ I dump my bag on top of the glass cabinet in the hall. Swimming medals and engraved cups rattle inside, dusty and in need of a polish.

  No answer.

  A small part of me thought he’d be here. That he’d hear about what happened, come home to see if I was okay.

  I push open the living room door. Dad’s ashtray overflows on the coffee table. It stinks in here. Stale fags and no fresh air. He hasn’t even opened the curtains. I pull them wide, open the window.

  I pick up my bag and head upstairs. I need to change, shower. There’s blood on my jeans and I can feel her clinging to me.

  I peer in Dad’s room as I head past on my way to the bathroom. It stinks worse than downstairs, dirty clothes, slept in sheets, another ashtray, glass of water on the bedside table with a rim of scum around the top of the glass. I open the window in here too. Waft the duvet up and down, make the bed.

  I strip off in the bathroom, turn the shower on, hot, hotter. Let the steam fill the room, scrub myself clean, don’t get out until my skin’s bright pink. Condensation drips down the tiles, off the porcelain of the sink and toilet, down the mirror.

  Back in my bedroom with a towel wrapped round me, I unzip my bag. It stinks of chlorine, I lean my face closer to the smell of it. Clean and comforting.

  Something falls out of my bag as I pull at the towel and costume inside. It’s heavy, thumps to the floor.

  Purse.

  The old woman’s purse.

  Shit, I totally forgot to drop it off like I’d planned.

  I pick it up, can feel it contaminate me as soon as I touch it. This piece of her, bringing back what happened. I have to get rid of it. No reminders.

  Another thought pushes through, irrational, like a superstition.

  (my lucky costume)

  It takes hold of me and I know I have to go back out, put the purse through her letterbox tonight. Her life depends on it. We’re connected now. Me and that old woman.

  She won’t last the night unless I take her purse back.

  I’ll run. By the time I get my bike out again, I could be halfway there. I chuck on some clothes, grab my keys and leave the house. As I run, I pass her purse from hand to hand, feel the weight of it. My wet hair cold against my head.

  I slow to a walk when I get to her street. Out of breath as I scan the house numbers.

  There it is.

  Her house.

  Where she lives.

  (lived?)

  Do her neighbours know what happened? Have they noticed that she went out and never came back? Maybe family members have turned up?

  As I walk up the path, I expect someone to shout on me, ask if I know anything, what I’m doing here.

  I open her purse to double check I’ve got the right address. As I’m sliding out her driving licence, a scrap of paper flutters to the ground.

  It’s her lottery numbers, scribbled in black ink.

  5 16 21 26 32 44

  I slip the piece of paper in my pocket, read the address on the driving licence.

  I’m in the right place.

  I put the driving licence back in her purse, am about to push it through the letterbox when I stop myself.

  Maybe someone’s in there?

  Husband, son, daughter, granddaughter. Does she live alone?

  The house is in darkness.

  I slide the driving licence out again.

  MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE

  16 SEPTEMBER 1922

  MS.

  That doesn’t really give much away.

  1922.

  I count up on my fingers.

  32, 42, 52, 62, 72, 82, 92, 2002, 2010.

  Eighty-seven.

  Shit, no way. She didn’t look eighty-seven.

  Certainly not before she keeled over anyway.

  Eighty-seven.

  To be honest, I don’t know how old she looked. She was just old. She looked like an old woman.

  Enough messing about. Just put the purse through the letter box and leave. Go home. End this fucking horrible day.

  I jump at a noise from inside the house, grip the purse tighter to stop my hand from shaking.

  Maybe someone is in there after all?

  I ring the doorbell, hear it, tinny and echoing from inside.

  Nothing. No footsteps. No light turned on.

  What if it’s her? Ms Marièle Downie.

  (back from the dead)

  My finger hovers above the doorbell. I’m too scared to press it again. There’s something about the shrillness of it, disturbing the silence like that, it gives me the shivers.

  I don’t even know what I’m so afraid of. I’m just suddenly aware that I’m on my own.

  Nobody else is about. One of those quiet wee cul-de-sacs. Dead end street, no traffic passing through, everyone else safe inside their homes.

  I’m on my own out here. All on my own.

  (the shadows on the wall as someone comes towards me along the hallway)

  Stop it, stop it, Hannah. Stop freaking yourself out.

  (closer, closer, the slow thud, thud, thud of approaching footsteps)

  You’re doing it on purpose. Why are you trying to spook yourself?

  (a pair of feet on the other side of the door)

  I mean it, Hannah, stop it.

  (eye at the peephole, watching me, hand moving towards the door handle, rattling it up and down up and downupanddownupanddown)

  I shove the purse through the letterbox, expecting a bony hand to shoot out and grab my wrist. The purse gets caught on the black bristles lining the opening.

  No, no, please, go in, go in.

  I push with both hands, force it through.

  It finally gives and I hear the thump as it hits the floor on the other side. Then I’m running again. Running, running, running, running, running. In the opposite direction, home, safety.

  I slam the front door behind me when I get in, lock it. My chest hurts and I’ve got a stitch. I slide down the door, until I’m squatting with my back up against it. Something creaks in the house and I jump.

  I move quickly, turning on lights and checking rooms. Don’t care about the stale smell anymore, I slam windows and pull curtains shut.

  What’s wrong with me? I’m usually in the house on my own at night. I’ve never got myself so spooked before. I double-check all the doors, all the windows, even open cupboards, and look under the beds, behind the couch. I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m not on my own, that someone’s watching me.

  Come on, Hannah. Stop being stupid. Breathe, just breathe. You’re fine. There’s nobody in the house. Relax, relax.

  In my bedroom, I pull the curtains shut. Don’t allow myself to look outside. In case.

  (someone’s out there, looking up at my window)

  I need something to do, something to take my mind off everything that’s happened. My wet swimming stuff’s still lying on the floor. I hang my towel and costume on the radiator. The damp, chlorine smell helps.

  Breathe it in, breathe it in.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

  I sprinkle my swim cap with talc to keep it from sticking, talc dusts my hands, the floor, and I rub the excess into the carpet with my feet.

  Something’s lying on the floor next to my goggles.

  Revels.

  A weight shifts in my stomach.

  The old woman’s Revels.

  Shit.

  I forgot about them. Took the purse back but not the sweets.

  Superstition or not, there’s no fucking way I’m going back there tonight. No chance. I’m not leaving this house, this bedroom. That’s how people in horror movies end up dead. Not me. I’m smart.

  (Higher English C

  Higher Mathematics D

  Higher Biology C

  Higher History C)

  Just the thought of going back there makes me feel
sick. I sit on the edge of my bed, the bag of Revels in my lap.

  Sweat prickles up and down my back, across my forehead. I need another shower.

  There’s dots in front of my eyes. The room starts to blur, go out of focus. I think I’m going to faint.

  I lie back on the bed, close my eyes. Everything’s fuzzy, scribbled crayon flashes on the inside of my eyelids.

  My fingers rest on the bag of Revels, the rippled edge of the bag. I can taste the chocolate in my mouth, on my tongue, anticipate the rush of sugar as it hits my bloodstream.

  I have to eat them.

  It’s her turn to save me.

  My hands are wobbly as I peel open the bag. With my eyes still shut, I reach inside it.

  Orange.

  Coffee.

  Peanut.

  Orange.

  Malteser Coffee Peanut Orange Orange Minstrel Minstrel Malteser PeanutToffeeToffeeToffeeToffee

  I open my eyes, sit up, lick melted chocolate from my fingers. The red nail polish blazes.

  It’s too much, too bright, too red.

  I blot cotton wool with nail polish remover, wipe my fingernails and toenails clean. Replace the red with a pale blue colour.

  (one that doesn’t look like blood)

  Lie back on the bed, wait for it to dry.

  My eyes open, awake, the light in my room seems to go out before I hear the click of the switch.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,’ Dad’s standing in the doorway. ‘All the lights in the house are on though, it’s like bloody Blackpool tower. You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘I ran into Shirley in the Sal.’

  Shirley? Shirley? Still half-asleep, I fumble about for why that’s relevant.

  The old woman’s hands, grasping for the top button of her blouse.

  ‘Was she okay?’

  ‘Aye, aye, nothing a couple of gin and tonics couldn’t fix. It’s you I’m worried about though.’

  ‘I’m alright.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He hovers in the doorway.

  ‘Okay, I’ll let you get back to sleep.’

  ‘Night, Dad.’

  ‘Night.’

  He shuts the door, the light from the hallway fades. I pull the duvet over me, can hear Dad pissing, the flush of the toilet, the creak of the hall floorboards, the TV switching on in his bedroom.