Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  A girl sat at a reception desk inside. Marièle looked around. She wasn’t expecting this. What was this place? A block of flats? An office? A hotel?

  ‘Can I help?’ The girl at the desk looked up.

  ‘Yes,’ Marièle held up the letter, ‘I have an appointment with Mr Thompson.’

  ‘May I see the letter?’

  Marièle handed it over. The girl read it, looked up at Marièle, looked at the letter again.

  Marièle flushed, could feel the heat running through her. The girl was at least two or three years younger than her, but she looked so secure, so in charge. What would she make of the letter? When she’d spoken aloud there it sounded like a sleazy rendezvous. God, what if it was?

  An interview.

  But.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Miss Downie, merci d’être venue.’

  He shook her hand as she stood up and they walked to the door.

  ‘When do I…’

  ‘Ne vous inquiétez pas, we’ll be in touch with you.’

  That ‘we’ again. She left with more questions than she’d come in with. It felt like a dream. Yes, that’s what it was. A surreal, dream-like experience. Had it gone well? He seemed happy enough, but again, was that a smile or an itch? He’d asked her to stay around, that had to count for something.

  She felt sweat prickle up her back and she exhaled deeply as he shut the door behind her. Phew, she hadn’t realised how nervous she’d been, how much she’d been holding her breath in there.

  The girl on reception probably knew the score. Maybe she sat there while an endless supply of girls arrived for an ‘interview’ with Mr Thompson.

  Mr Thompson.

  That probably wasn’t even his real name. God, why hadn’t she thought of that before? It was so generic, it had to be fake.

  For what?

  She could still leave. Turn around and walk out the door.

  No. She had to see this through.

  Interview.

  ‘Mr Thompson is in room 26 on the second floor. Stairs are through there,’ the girl pointed, ‘then turn right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Marièle nodded.

  Had the girl smirked there? Marièle couldn’t tell if it was a friendly smile or not. Oh hang it, if Mr Thompson or whoever he was tried anything fresh, she’d sock him.

  ‘Between the legs,’ George had told her when she’d started to get attention from members of the opposite sex. ‘If anyone tries something you’re not happy with, hit him between the legs.’

  Mr Thompson better watch out. Marièle made her hand into a fist, punched the air a few times. Between the legs.

  Out of sight of the receptionist, she checked herself in her compact again, put her hand under her hair, tried to bounce some life into the waves. The long journey had taken the curl out of them.

  She turned right, followed the corridor. It was like a rabbit warren, door after door, while the corridor twisted and turned. She wasn’t sure where she was anymore, disorientated – was she still facing the street?

  She found herself counting door numbers again.

  22, 23.

  She stopped outside room 24. Darn it. That girl still had her letter.

  Should she go back and get it?

  No, keep going. She could get it on the way out. Not that she needed it. She had memorised the little information it contained.

  25, 26.

  This was it. Door 26.

  Behind this door she would finally get some answers. She knocked twice, hard. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t want to give herself time to chicken out. She knocked once more, harder, scraped the skin on her knuckles. A final practise in case she had to put George’s advice into action.

  She heard footsteps on the other side of the door, then the lock turned. A man in a suit and tie stood facing her.

  Mr Thompson.

  An interview for what?

  July 2005

  Going in the Wright Direction

  GB call up for Scottish swimmer

  Hannah Wright (16) has been named in the Great Britain team for the World Swimming Championships in Montreal. Hannah is one of the youngest competitors to be selected and is relishing the opportunity to make her mark on the world stage.

  ‘I’m so excited to be included in the squad,’ said Hannah. ‘My swimming’s been going really well and this is the reward for all the hard work I’ve been putting in.’

  Hannah knows that she’ll be less experienced than others in the team, however she insists she’s not just going to make up the numbers.

  ‘My aim is to get a new PB for the 100m Butterfly and if I do that then I’ve got a good chance of making the final.’

  7

  I COUNT AS I swim, add the metres in my head.

  (the only way I know how to count)

  25m

  50m

  100m

  I swear I would have done better in Higher Maths if they’d asked me questions about swimming.

  Pete’s coach tells him to do 1,000m warm-up then 8 x 200 IM followed by 200m swim down. How many lengths will Pete swim?

  Susan swims 100m freestyle in 1.02.33. What time should she be doing for 400m freestyle?

  I’m tired, can’t get a speed up. My arms are heavy and my legs slip through the water instead of propelling me forward.

  150m

  200m

  Yesterday’s taken it right out of me. What a strange fucking day.

  I keep going for 800m then stop, lean against the tiled wall, out of breath. I give my steamed up goggles a wipe and rest them on my forehead. The days are gone when I could swim 70, 80,000 metres a week. Sprint 100m in less than a minute. How far have I swum in my lifetime? I’ve gone round the world a few times.

  Where does your fitness go when it leaves you?

  I glance at the clock. I should really be getting out if I want to make work on time. I can’t face it though. Can’t face work, can’t face going back there after what happened yesterday. I pull my goggles down over my eyes, push off from the wall. Just a few more lengths, then I’ll get out.

  I cycle round the block twice before I finally stop outside the shop. I didn’t realise it would be so hard coming back here.

  ‘Hey, Hannah,’ Calum nods at me from behind the counter.

  He’s reading a magazine, moves it to one side as I join him.

  The crack’s still there.

  ‘Mum says it’ll take a couple of days before someone can come to replace it,’ Calum says, tracking my gaze. ‘She’s raging about how much it’s going to cost.’

  The glass is the only giveaway that something’s happened here.

  Something bad.

  Everything else is back to normal.

  It’s kind of scary how back to normal the shop is.

  Life carries on.

  That old woman could be dead or alive for all I know, but the universe doesn’t care, sweeps up the false teeth and keeps going.

  ‘Where’s Shirley anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s nice – aren’t you pleased to see me?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I’m only joking. She wasn’t feeling great this morning, didn’t get in till late. She was pretty upset about what happened. Don’t think it really hit her till after, eh?’

  I’m about to say that Dad saw her in the pub last night but I stop myself.

  I’m not sure how Calum feels about Dad. I’m not sure Dad treated Shirley all that well in their on/off/on/off/on/off.

  It’s weird to think Calum and I could have been brother and sister.

  ‘Your mum was amazing yesterday,’ I say.

  ‘She’s always been pretty good in a crisis – been on her own so long.’

  Opposite of Dad. Getting up, going to work. Every night in the pub, living off beans and toast.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask.

  ‘I was thinking as little as possible. Then enjoy the rest of the weekend in freedom.’

  ‘After yesterday,
a quiet day sounds perfect.’

  Calum turns the radio on behind the counter.

  ‘Fuck sake, you two listen to some pish.’

  ‘That’s your mum’s choice, not mine.’

  Forth One blares out some chart nonsense. Calum messes about with it, flicks through stations until he finally finds something that seems to please him.

  ‘How can you listen to that every day?’ he asks.

  Every day. Every day. Every day. Every day.

  ‘I just tune it out, Shirley never has it on too loud.’

  (white noise of the pool)

  50m. 100m. 200m. 400m. 800m. 1000m.

  Stocking shelves. Serving customers. Stocking shelves. Serving customers.

  Every day. Every day. Every day. Every day.

  It’s still a routine, just not the one I wanted for myself.

  ‘Frightened Rabbit are great, eh? They’re at T in the Park this year,’ he nods at the radio, drums his fingers on the counter. ‘You going?’

  I watch the glass either side of the crack bounce up and down, up and down, up and down.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Aww, you should, it’ll be awesome.’

  ‘Yeah, T’s always kind of passed me by, what with training and that.’

  ‘You’re not training now though.’

  (never again)

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  It’s funny. Now that I have the opportunity to do all the stuff I missed when I was swimming, I don’t care all that much.

  I miss my routine

  (800m, 1000m, 2000m)

  Calum sings along with the radio. Looks a lot older than his age, but gives himself away with the goofy grin, the air guitar. The seventeen-year-old boy peeking out from that stubbled chin, pierced eyebrow, scruffy hairdo.

  I run my finger along the crack on the counter.

  Fuck, it’s sharp.

  I flinch, pull my finger away as the glass nicks me. I suck at the blood, the tang of it on my tongue.

  ‘You alright?’ Calum asks.

  ‘Yeah, it’s my own fault. That was a stupid thing to do.’

  The blood keeps coming, the end of my finger throbs.

  ‘Hang on,’ Calum disappears into the back room, comes back with a plaster.

  She gasps for breath, fumbles with the buttons on the collar of her blouse, blood pours down onto her hands but I don’t think she’s noticed she’s bleeding.

  The blood smears across my painted fingernail.

  Blue. Bloodless. Dead.

  I feel a bit queasy so I sit on the floor behind the counter.

  ‘Sure you’re alright?’ Calum asks, kneeling in front of me. I can smell his body spray, strong and musky.

  ‘Yeah, the sight of blood, you know?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he says as I reach for the plaster. I hold my finger out for him. He undoes the plaster, slips it round the cut and sticks it down for me.

  Calloused fingers.

  Gentle.

  A chill runs up the back of my neck, tingles the roots of my hair.

  ‘Not too tight, is it?’ He asks.

  ‘Nah, that’s great. Like mother, like son. Good in a crisis.’

  ‘Anyone here?’

  We both jump as a guy appears on the other side of the counter. Nervous laughter catches in my throat and I blush. I thought we were alone. It feels like we’ve been caught doing something wrong.

  ‘Yeah, can I help?’ Calum asks, standing.

  I look up at Calum’s back. His t-shirt has risen, I can see the top of his checked boxers, a line of downy hair at the base of his spine. It looks soft, I have to stop myself from reaching out and stroking it.

  ‘These are out of date, by the way,’ the guy says, putting a packet of Hob Nobs on the counter as he pays for his paper and a can of Irn-Bru.

  ‘Are they? Shit, I mean sorry, sorry for swearing too.’

  ‘No bother,’ the man laughs, ‘I’ll take these instead.’ He picks up a Mars Bar and a packet of Quavers.

  Calum taps his foot as he serves the guy. He steps back to let the till drawer open and his t-shirt falls back into place. I want to lift it up again, place my hand against the fuzzy warmth there.

  What’s wrong with me? I stand, brush myself down. I’m light-headed, must be the blood loss.

  Calum’s a schoolboy. Thinking about him like that is just wrong. I’m no Mrs Robinson.

  The guy leaves the shop and Calum holds up the Hob Nobs.

  I take the packet, read the date.

  (like me, best-before)

  ‘It’s only by a couple of weeks.’

  Calum opens them, takes a bite of one.

  ‘Taste alright,’ he says, his mouth full.

  There you go, nothing like a view of chewed-up biscuit to dampen your desires.

  ‘You okay? You still look a bit pale,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, give me a biscuit, that’ll help.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he holds out the packet.

  ‘A bit soft, but they’re fine aren’t they?’ The syrupy oats break apart, stick to my gums and the roof of my mouth.

  ‘I’ll check the others,’ Calum says.

  He hoists his jeans up as he walks to the opposite side of the shop.

  Another reality check. How could I fancy someone with such stupid trousers?

  Something catches my eye out on the street. Three girls looking in. They push open the door, banging into each other and laughing as they enter the shop.

  They hide behind the greetings cards, pretend to be interested in them, but they’re fooling nobody. They’re here to perve on Calum.

  ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ picks up a card and points at it, ‘Hot-Pants-and-Tights’ grabs it off her and puts it back while ‘Pierced-Nose’ laughs.

  I lean forward on my elbows. The glass pops as I put weight on it. The girls turn at the noise, look away, still laughing.

  What’s so funny?

  They don’t even register my existence.

  (don’t you recognise me?)

  Too old, uninteresting. The way the school kids treat Shirley when they come in at break times.

  Am I just some old wifie to them?

  I’m not that much older.

  I look down at myself. Ripped jeans, charity shop top, scabby Converse. The girls are glammed to the max, sparkling, even their hair glimmers. My hair hangs like straw, too much chlorine in it to ever shine like that. They wear lip gloss and creamy eye shadow. I wear waterproof mascara and smear Vaseline on my lips when they get too dry.

  Way to make you feel like a zero.

  They strut around the shop, pick things up, pretend to look at them, laugh, put things down again, giggle, giggle, giggle.

  I get a weird satisfaction from Calum’s lack of interest. Oblivious as they try to get his attention.

  Engrossed in his out of date biscuits.

  They’re persistent, I have to give them that much. From their little play I work out that ‘Hot-Pants-and-Tights’ has the hots for Calum while ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ and ‘Pierced-Nose’ seem to be here for moral support and guidance.

  Although I’m sure neither would say no given the chance.

  (would I?)

  The three of them edge closer, closer. Lionesses closing in on an un-suspecting wildebeest.

  I get that rush of competitiveness, that bloody-minded streak that used to work so well in the pool.

  ‘Can I help?’ I ask.

  They turn as one.

  ‘No, just looking,’ ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ replies.

  My trick backfires. Calum turns, spots the girls, nods hello. They wave and smile. When he turns back to his biscuits, ‘Hot-Pants-and-Tights’ grabs ‘Pierced-Nose’ and ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ and they all hug each other.

  Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing.

  Jesus, am I so removed from my teenage years? There’s not a hint of recognition, of empathy.

  ‘Hot-Pants and-Tights’ looks a bit sick now as the other two push her towards Calum. S
he pretends to struggle but lets them propel her forward.

  Why don’t I feel sorry for her?

  Poor girl, trying to build up the courage to speak to the cute boy she likes. Why are they igniting my inner bitch?

  You’re fiery, Hannah – it’s that red hair. Use it in the pool, no friends once you dive in.

  I move out from behind the counter, feel them watching me as I walk towards Calum.

  (beat you, I win)

  ‘Hey,’ I tap him on the shoulder, ‘can I give you a hand?’

  ‘Yeah, knock yourself out,’ Calum points to a pile of out of date biscuits.

  ‘Building yourself a wee tower there?’

  ‘Thought we could play biscuit Jenga once we’re finished.’

  I laugh and hit him on the shoulder. Shit, I’m even ashamed of myself. What’s wrong with me? Fucking over a schoolgirl to make myself feel better. Flirting with a kid to bump up my self-esteem.

  I glance over to where the girls are standing. ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ flashes me the evils.

  ‘Here, take these.’ Calum loads me up with a pile of biscuits.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ and ‘Pierced-Nose’ are standing at the counter. ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ waves a bag of crisps at me.

  ‘A little service, please.’

  Now this is funny. I almost burst out laughing. These girls can give as good as they get. Maybe I’m out of my depth, taking on a group of hormonal teenage girls. What was I like at that age?

  (wet and stinking of chlorine)

  I dump the biscuits behind the counter, run the crisps through the till. Sure enough, as I look up to take the money, ‘Hot-Pants-and-Tights’ swoops in.

  I hand ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ her change and she smiles, gives me an ‘as if’ look. She’s right.

  Calum’s laughing, rubs his neck as he speaks to ‘Hot-Pants-and-Tights.’ All I’ve done is make an arse of myself and spur her on to a brave act of seduction.

  It’s quite touching really, this display of sisterhood. I don’t remember ever having friends like that. I missed too much school, was always training, competing instead of partying. I had friends at swimming, but there was a hidden rivalry. A subtle gamesmanship that bubbled under the surface.

  All my fault, too. I’ve always been so competitive, uptight. I’m hard to get close to.

  I watch them flirt with each other. It deflates me.