Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  I can’t sleep now, lie awake in the darkness. I slide my fingers underneath my jeans, inside my pants, rub myself. Impatient, aggressive. I rub harder and faster, harder and faster, harder and faster, until it hurts.

  Keep going, keep going, keep going,keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeep fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfaster

  I come, out of breath, let the sleep take me.

  6

  ‘MISS DOWNIE?’ A man in a suit and tie answered the door.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in, come in.’ He held the door open and she stepped inside the room.

  ‘Sit down.’ He gestured to a chair. The room was almost bare of furniture. Two chairs faced each other with a small table in between. A pile of scattered paperwork lay on the table alongside a jug of water and two glasses.

  She sat down facing the man. He didn’t say anything, but filled the two glasses with water and handed her one.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a sip. Her lips were dry and she swirled the water around in her mouth before swallowing.

  ‘Je suis Monsieur Thompson. Parlez-vous Français?’

  ‘Oui. Ma mère m’a appris.’

  Do You Speak French?

  Have you ever been on holiday to France?

  Do you have photographs of France?

  You can help!

  Blackout 10.59pm to 4:59am

  Moon Set 5:36pm Rises 4:23am

  du Maurier Cigarettes –

  The filter tip will keep you fit!

  It is now more important than ever that you empty your packet at time of purchase and leave it with your tobacconist.

  ‘Look at this in the newspaper, Mama, we have photographs we can send,’ Marièle said.

  ‘Ne sois pas bête. Why would they want our old holiday snaps?’

  ‘They wouldn’t ask unless they needed them.’

  Marièle looked out the shoe box of photographs that Mama kept under the bed. She pulled out a handful of them.

  Her and George as children.

  Mama and Father.

  Mama with Mémé and Grand-père. They called him Grand-purr because of his two cats.

  George had his arm around Marièle in one of the photos, was dressed in shorts and t-shirt, socks and sandals on his feet. One of his socks had fallen down, hung around his ankle. He wasn’t looking at the camera, had been distracted by something off to the side. What was it?

  She ached looking at these photos of him. That wee boy who lived to be barely a man. It wasn’t fair. The missing him sucked all the air out of her.

  Miss Marièle Downie

  24 Blackness Road

  Aberdeen

  TO WHOMEVER IT MAY CONCERN

  As per your recent newspaper advertisement, please find enclosed a selection of photographs taken while on holiday in France.

  My mother is French and therefore we have spent a great deal of time in France over the years.

  I hope they will be of some use to you. Please return them to us when you are finished with them, as they hold a great deal of sentimental value.

  Yours faithfully,

  Miss Marièle Downie

  War Office

  London SW1

  Dear Miss Downie,

  Thank you for your recent letter and photographs which were gratefully received. We request that you attend for interview on Friday 23 at 3pm to the enclosed address.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Mr Thompson

  ‘An interview for what?’ Mama asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marièle replied.

  ‘Je n’aime pas ça. You can’t go off to London alone. She can’t go off to London on her own.’

  ‘She’s a big girl, Claudine,’ said Father. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘But we don’t even know what it’s for.’

  ‘It’s from the War Office, Claudine, they don’t have to explain. You know how dangerous gossip can be.’

  Marièle re-read the letter. Was it real? What if she got there and discovered it was a hoax?

  It didn’t matter really. Whatever happened, she planned to join up as soon as she returned home. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of the war counting ration coupons, totting up accounts, writing up receipts. Hang Mr Jackson and his excuses.

  But I need you.

  You are helping the war effort.

  People need food, don’t they?

  I’ve pulled a lot of strings to keep you here.

  It may not be glamorous but it’s still an important job.

  Someday they would ask her what she’d done during the war and she didn’t want to be ashamed to answer.

  She’d only ever had one job, one interview. And Mr Jackson’s questioning had hardly been conventional.

  MR JACKSON: So, Susan, you’re here about the job?

  MARIÈLE: My name’s not Susan, it’s Marièle.

  MR JACKSON: What sort of a name is that? I’m going to call you Susan. Congratulations, Susan, you’ve got the job. Let’s get you started.

  MARIÈLE: Now? But, I’m supposed to go to school. Mama will wonder where I am.

  MR JACKSON: No more school for you, Susan. You’re a working woman now.

  He led her to the shop counter, gave her an apron and left her to it. The apron was too long, trailed under her feet. She felt like such a fool, the new girl in the oversized apron. If it hadn’t been for Arthur, she probably would have left then and there. But he stood her on a stool, pinned up her apron, told her if anyone gave her any trouble she was to let him know.

  She’d only been fifteen. How the time had flown.

  ‘D’accord, Miss Downie, I expect you’re wondering why we asked you here.’

  ‘Oui,’ she nodded and took another drink of water. It was warm, must have been sitting out for a while. Had he been here all day? Seeing other girls before her?

  ‘Merci pour les photos. They were very useful. You will of course get these back once we’re finished with them.’

  He picked up a few sheets of paper from the table. She tried to see what was written on them but the typeface was too small.

  ‘The letter you sent us. You spent a lot of your childhood in France?’

  ‘Oui. Ma mère est Française. We visited my grandparents every summer until they passed away.’

  ‘I see. Are you fluent yourself?’

  ‘Oui, my mother brought us up bilingual.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Mon frère et moi.’

  ‘Ah, yes, George.’

  She nodded. It was still hard to speak out loud about him. It felt strange hearing his name, they avoided using it at home. She hadn’t mentioned him in the letter – how did this man know?

  The letter looked official. It was stamped and signed. Besides, Father wouldn’t let her travel all that way on her own if he thought it was anything untoward. He walked her to the station for the overnight train, kissed her on the cheek and wished her good luck. She watched him from the train window as he walked away along the platform, leaning on his stick, limping on his bad leg. The whistle blew and he was obscured in a cloud of smoke as the train pulled out of the station.

  She read the letter again.

  An interview for what?

  You didn’t question things anymore, just went along with them. The war had changed everything.

  She folded the letter up, slipped it in its envelope and put it in her pocket. Ate the sandwich Mama made for her, washed it down with the Thermos of tea.

  Mr Thompson took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘You have fond memories of France?’

  ‘Yes, very much so.’

  ‘And what do you think of the current situation?’

  ‘It makes me very sad. Mama’s glad Mémé and Grand-père didn’t live to see this.’

  ‘So you are sympathetic towards France in their current situation?’

  ‘Oui, bien sûr, isn’t everyone?’

  ‘I should like to think so, but you’d be surprised.’


  She glanced around the room.

  No clock.

  How long had she been here? The blinds were closed, the only light came from a lamp in the corner.

  She looked out the train window, at her reflection in the dark glass. She’d never travelled so far on her own before. It was liberating. She was actually doing something.

  She opened the letter again.

  Friday 23 at 3pm

  But an interview for what?

  She didn’t even know how long the interview would last. An hour? Ten minutes?

  ‘You’ve travelled down from Scotland?’

  ‘Oui, Aberdeen.’

  ‘We appreciate you coming all this way. Votre Français est très bon. No trace of a British accent. That’s what gives people away.’

  ‘Gives people away?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Mr Thompson scribbled on a sheet of paper. Was she saying the right things? She was tired, had barely dozed on the train. This was as strange an interview as the one with Mr Jackson. At least then she had known what the job was.

  ‘Would you describe yourself as patriotic, Miss Downie?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘To France or to Britain?’

  ‘I feel strongly about both countries. They are both home to me.’

  ‘How have you spent the war so far?’

  ‘I’ve just been working in a grocer’s shop.’

  ‘Just?’

  She shrugged. She felt as if she was dodging out of real work, hiding.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Miss Downie – people still need to eat. Grocers are very important, what with rationing and food shortages.’

  Exactly what Mr Jackson would say. She took a drink of water to cool the flush that spread across her cheeks. She could hear her tongue clicking against her palate when she spoke.

  She smoothed out her skirt. Careful not to catch the stockings with her finger nails. She’d borrowed them from Cath, promised not to snag them. Marièle’s only pair had a ladder in the heel.

  Mr Thompson. She was to ask for Mr Thompson. She imagined a middle aged man, but couldn’t conjure up a face, a hairstyle. It was an uninspiring name.

  ‘Enough small talk. The reason you’re here, Miss Downie.’

  She nodded, smoothed out her skirt. Darn it, she’d snagged Cath’s stockings. She hoped they wouldn’t ladder. They were so hard to replace.

  ‘We need people with language skills to help the war effort in France.’

  ‘When you say in France?’

  ‘Oui, to help out our French allies.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘We have various uses for people like yourself, couriers, sabotage, wireless operators, that sort of thing. How do you feel about this, Miss Downie?’

  ‘Je suis désolée. I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Sabotage, secret messages, that sort of thing. Underhand, some people call it – don’t think it’s very British.’

  George had said something to that effect the last time he’d been home on leave. Something about fighting dirty when faced with dirty opposition. He’d argued with Father.

  We shouldn’t stoop to their level, George.

  We need to if we want to win. You don’t know what it’s like.

  Of course I do.

  It’s completely different from the trenches.

  Yes, luckily for you too.

  Father slammed his stick down on the table.

  At the time, Marièle didn’t know who to agree with, whose side to take. She just wanted the war to end.

  For people to stop dreading the telegram boy.

  ‘To be honest, Mr Thompson, I don’t know much about it, but it seems to me that the Germans aren’t exactly playing by the rules themselves, therefore I don’t see why we shouldn’t do the same.’

  He nodded, didn’t say anything.

  ‘It’s our freedom at stake, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘We have to fight for that.’

  ‘Quite.’

  She thought she saw a flicker of a smile, a dimpling in his cheeks, but then he bowed his head, scribbled something down. He scratched his moustache with the end of the pencil before he looked up again, as if the smile was nothing more than an itch in his whiskers.

  Marièle had memorised the letter but that didn’t stop her from reading it over and over. It contained just the basic information, all that she needed and nothing more. They hadn’t even given her enough time to reply to it. There was faith being shared on both sides. Faith that she would turn up. Faith that they would be there and be legitimate.

  But an interview for what?

  She fingered the cross around her neck. Faith. Times like this you needed it more than ever.

  She looked up as the compartment door slid over.

  ‘Tickets please,’ said the conductor.

  She handed her ticket over.

  ‘London, eh?’

  ‘Yes, I’m visiting a friend.’

  The lie came naturally, without thinking. Why? She could have said interview, appointment, meeting.

  Interview for what?

  ‘To quote the Prime Minister, our objective is to set Europe ablaze.’

  ‘Before the Nazis burn it first?’

  ‘Indeed. Now, Miss Downie, just because you speak the language doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re suitable. There are various skills we are looking for which we hope you will display during training.’

  ‘What sort of training?’

  ‘Oh, nothing to worry about now. Just basic stuff at first, a bit of PT, map reading, that sort of thing. The Germans have a very backwards attitude towards the fairer sex – don’t think you girls are up to the task.’

  She felt the fire in her belly. How dare they?

  Oh, he was good, he was very good. Manipulating her. Making her angry so she would agree to help him and ignore the fact he was being so evasive. She was still none the wiser as to what the interview was for, but she was determined to sign up anyway.

  London was cold and grey when she stepped off the train. Gosh, and people thought that Aberdeen was bleak. Aberdeen sparkled like glitter.

  The fog was damp and clung to her and she pulled her coat tight. Where was the sky? She couldn’t see it. She’d never been so far South before, the sky had disappeared somewhere on the way down.

  She needed to find somewhere to freshen up, get something to eat before the interview.

  Motorcars, army vehicles, buses and trams drove past, while the pavements were just as busy with people. London looked familiar but strange to her. She’d heard about it on the wireless, seen film of it in newsreels and at the pictures. She recognised bits of it without ever having been there before.

  Sophisticated looking girls hung on the arms of men in uniform. Smart looking girls, also in uniform, hurried past, full of purpose, busy. Doing something. She looked down at herself. Her knee length skirt and silk blouse, the best clothes she owned. She felt so young and pathetic next to these girls. No, not girls: ladies, women. Maybe she’d join them, be one of them soon?

  ‘Les Allemands, we want you to get under their skin, annoy them, hinder them, do you think you can do that?’

  ‘Bien sûr. I want to help, only I’m still unsure what you’re asking me to do. Do you want me to go to France?’

  ‘Miss Downie, you’re getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time, s’il vous plait.’

  God, he infuriated her. She wanted to shake him – stop being so evasive and answer me. It was okay for him to pry personal information out of her, but God forbid she asked him a question. Like a politician, Father would say.

  ‘You want to help liberate France, don’t you? Help end the war, bring our boys home?’

  ‘Oui, bien sûr.’

  ‘Formidable, that’s all we want to know for now.’

  Was that it, interview over? And who was ‘we’? She had agreed to do something but she wasn’t very sure what it was. She had signed on without realising.

  She looked up as she
went, a lot of the street names had been taken down, blanked out in case of invasion. She had the map from Father to help if she got lost.

  Interview.

  She looked for 143, walked on until she spotted a door number.

  71.

  She was on the right side of the road at least. She continued, counting the doors as she went.

  73. 75. 77. 79. 81.

  For what?

  She stopped outside 143. Was this the right place?

  It didn’t look like much. What had she been expecting? Maybe a sign on the door, a plaque, a clue? Something to explain why she’d been asked to travel all the way down here.

  Nothing though. As uninformative as the letter. She took a compact out of her bag and checked herself, ran a comb through her hair and applied a bit of lippy. It was an odd shade, two old stubs of lipstick melted together. Better than nothing though.

  It was real, all of a sudden, and she felt the nerves flutter in her tummy. Back at home, telling her parents and Cath, it had been a game. Marièle playing at being a grown up. Yes, I have an interview. In London. You know? It’s all very hush-hush, important War Office stuff.

  For what?

  She didn’t feel so grown up now. A long way from home and out of her depth.

  She snapped the compact shut.

  Out of your depth you either sunk or swam, and she didn’t plan on sinking.

  ‘We’ll need you to see our psychiatrist before we sign you on officially for the training.’

  ‘Do you think I’m mad, Monsieur?’

  ‘Non, non, please don’t worry, just a formality you know. Now…’ he rifled through his papers, ‘we may be able to fit you in this week. Can you stay in London?’

  ‘Oui, pas de problème.’

  What would Mama and Father say? What would she tell them? She didn’t know herself what was going on.

  Secret work, helping France in some way.

  ‘Bon. If you speak to the young lady at the reception desk, she’ll sort you out with a place to stay and pass on any messages to your family.’

  He put the paperwork down and stood.

  Oh, she hadn’t realised that was it. Interview over.

  She breathed in, pressed one hand flat against her chest where the cross lay underneath her blouse. Pressed until she felt the shape of it on her palm. Then she pushed open the door.