Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

Gently at first then more and more and more until finally it clicks in the lock.

  I push down on the handle and the door swings open.

  Her house.

  Her kitchen.

  What am I doing?

  Failed Swimmer Breaks Into Old Woman’s House While She Lies Dying In Hospital

  I could be arrested for this. Even though she’s left a key out, practically inviting me in, it’s still breaking and entering.

  Well, entering anyway. I haven’t broken anything.

  Okay, I have cracked the flowerpot, but it’s not broken and I’m not doing any of this with criminal intent.

  I’ll be quick.

  The front door has to be directly opposite me at the other end of the house. I’ll go straight there, check the numbers, then leave. Nobody ever has to know I’ve been here.

  Her kitchen smells of mince and tatties. It makes me feel sick and hungry all at the same time. The lights are off and everything’s dull, in shadow. I don’t want to turn anything on though, draw attention to myself. Someone might notice.

  I open the kitchen door onto a hallway. I’m right. The front door’s at the opposite end, light shines in through frosted panes of glass. There are closed doors on either side of the hallway, must be her living room, her bedroom, her bathroom.

  It smells of mince and tatties out here too.

  What do people smell when they come to our house?

  (who ever visits us?)

  Stale beer, unwashed clothes, chlorine, slept on sofa?

  I step into the hallway and the kitchen door swings shut behind me. I’m in darkness now, the only light faint in front of me. I’m unable to move. My knees shake.

  I was wrong to laugh at myself earlier. It’s still possible to freak yourself out during the day.

  Anyone could be on the opposite side of one of these doors.

  I hold my breath. My heart’s thumping so hard, it’s all I can hear, all I can feel.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

  I inhale, exhale through my nose, try to slow my breathing down.

  (pre-race routine)

  Use the nerves to my own advantage.

  (channel them into strength, speed)

  A clock ticks somewhere. I tune into it, time my breathing with it.

  Tick Tock In In

  Tick Tock Out Out

  Tick Tock In In

  Tick Tock Out Out

  Calm down, Hannah, calm down.

  This is an empty house, an empty house, an empty house.

  There’s nobody here.

  My eyes grow accustomed to the dark. I can make out a table at the other end of the hall, her purse on the floor.

  All I have to do is walk forward.

  Twenty-five baby steps.

  Eight giant steps.

  Mother may I?

  (that’s a joke, asking my mother for permission)

  I don’t move, can’t move.

  Not ready yet.

  To dive in.

  I reach behind me, touch the kitchen door.

  I’m safe where I am. As soon as I step into the hall, that’s it. I’ll have to let go.

  Dive in.

  Jelly legs.

  Tick Tock In In Tick Tock Out Out

  Tick Tock In In Tick Tock Out Out

  Jelly legs. Jelly legs.

  I used to get jelly legs before I raced, but I used them. Like I used the butterflies in the stomach, the palpitations. Turned them into speed, strength.

  Have I lost the ability to do that? I’m out of practise, but please don’t tell me I’ve lost that. It’s one of the few skills I have.

  (sets apart the great swimmers from the good swimmers)

  Jelly legs

  Jelly legs

  Tick Tock In In Tick Tock Out Out

  Maybe I never had it to begin with? I just imagined it. Created a false memory for myself. Made myself believe I was a great swimmer when I was just good.

  Only good.

  Not great.

  (the real reason I failed)

  I move one leg forward.

  Left leg

  Jellylegsjellylegsjellylegsjellylegs Right Leg

  jellylegsjellylegs

  Tick Tock In In Tick Tock Out Out

  My arm’s at full stretch now, I need to let go of the kitchen door.

  Tick Tock In In Tick Tock Out Out

  I can feel it. A little bit of the old me returning. I felt it in the shop yesterday too. The competitive streak. The determination. The bloody-mindedness.

  I’ve missed her.

  (where have you been? where have you been hiding? don’t you know I need you?)

  I let go of the door.

  Left leg

  Right Leg

  Left leg

  Right

  Left

  Right Left Right Left Right Left

  I walk forward, towards the light of the front door.

  Stop trying to spook yourself, Hannah. It’s just an empty house. There’s nobody here. No old woman. No relatives. No ghosts.

  Just me.

  I reach the front door, pick up the purse, along with some mail, the free newspaper.

  I did it. I made it.

  There’s a phone on the table. I put the mail down next to it, carry the purse back along the hall to the kitchen. I’m out of breath. Tired.

  (post-race cool down)

  ‘There’s someone here after all,’ I say, spotting a fish bowl on the kitchen counter.

  ‘What’s your name? Are you hungry?’ I say to the goldfish. My voice sounds hollow, hangs in the strangeness of the empty house. I open the tub of fish food, sprinkle a few flakes onto the surface of the yellow water. A scum line has formed around the top of the bowl. He could do with a clean.

  The fish darts away from the shadow of my hand, but swims to the surface as I move away. The flakes float for a moment, before sinking to the bottom of the bowl.

  ‘Your owner’s not well. She might be dead actually. Sorry to break it to you like that. I don’t want to upset you little fish.’

  The fish sucks at the surface of the water, inhales soggy flakes of food. I run my finger along the side of the glass bowl.

  ‘Poor fish.’

  Does he care that his owner went out and never came back? Did he even notice? Maybe he’ll only start to worry when his water gets too brown to see through or when he misses his food?

  I sit at the kitchen table. I could do with a cup of tea, something to eat, but that would be a step too far. It’s one thing breaking in but another helping myself to breakfast.

  I play with the clasp of her purse.

  Click it open, shut, open, shut, open, shut, open, shut.

  Win or lose?

  Win or lose?

  Win or lose?

  ‘What would you do?’ The fish nibbles at the layer of coloured chips lining the bottom of the bowl.

  ‘As many flakes as you can eat? A castle?’ He swims in a circle, long tail rippling behind him.

  I open the purse, slide out the lottery ticket.

  5 16 21 26 32 44

  I was right, five numbers and the bonus ball.

  £100,000. £100,000.

  I hold up the ticket for the fish. Read the small print on the back.

  Is there any way I can do this without phoning, without turning up in person?

  (without giving myself away)

  HOW TO CLAIM

  PRIZES CAN BE CLAIMED BY POST OR IN PERSON.

  PRIZES OF UP TO £75 CAN BE CLAIMED FROM YOUR LOCAL RETAILER.

  PRIZES OVER £50,000 MUST BE CLAIMED IN PERSON.

  PROOF OF IDENTITY WILL BE REQUIRED.

  I should probably check she’s still with us, before I go spending her money.

  I head back into the hallway. I feel better somehow, knowing the fish is here, switch the light on now.

  The phone book lies on a shelf underneath the phone.

  I flick through it, find the number for the PRI. It rings a few times befor
e a woman answers.

  ‘Good morning, Perth Royal Infirmary.’

  ‘Hi… I’m phoning to find out about a patient. She was brought in on Friday.’

  ‘What’s the name?’ Fuck sake, what’s her name again? My mind’s gone totally blank. I lift a piece of mail.

  TO THE HOUSEHOLDER

  Shit, another one.

  MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE

  ‘It’s Downie, Marièle Downie.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  I hear the clacking of computer keys as she types.

  ‘Can you spell that for me?’ She asks.

  ‘Yeah, it’s M.A.R.I.E.L.E. D.O.W.N.I.E.’

  ‘I’ll need to transfer you to Intensive Care.’

  The phone beeps as I’m put on hold, then it rings again.

  Intensive Care.

  That sounds bad, but at least she’s still alive.

  ‘Hello, can I help?’

  ‘Hi, yeah, it’s about Marièle Downie.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s my aunt… my great aunt.’ The lie slips out before I stop to think about what I’m doing.

  ‘She’s very poorly but she’s hanging in there. She’s still unconscious, but we’re hoping she’ll wake up soon. Are you able to come in and see her?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. When’s visiting?’

  What am I doing?

  ‘We make exceptions for Intensive Care. We can usually let you in at any time provided that the Doctor’s not on rounds. Only for a short while though – fifteen, twenty minutes at most.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply.

  I can handle fifteen minutes.

  ‘I’m really pleased to hear from you. We’ve been having a real job trying to trace next of kin. Was it the police who contacted you?’

  ‘Right, yeah.’

  The police. I’m lying about the police.

  ‘Okay, my name’s Jackie. I’ll be here till about six if you want to ask for me.’

  ‘Right, will do, thanks Jackie, bye.’

  I hang up.

  Shit, Hannah, what are you doing?

  You can’t go and visit her, pretend to be some long-lost niece. Especially now she’s won the lottery. It’s totally dodgy.

  ‘She’s alive,’ I say to the fish, back in the kitchen.

  Alive but unconscious.

  Alive but alone.

  Alive but with no traceable relatives.

  No traceable relatives.

  I can’t leave her on her own.

  That poor old woman. Marièle. Marièle Downie.

  She has a name. She’s a person with a name and she has nobody to visit her.

  (no traceable relatives, no traceable relatives, no traceable relatives)

  The lottery ticket.

  It could be you.

  It could be you.

  It could be you.

  Stop.

  Stop it.

  I feel sorry for her. That’s all. Nothing more. She’s dying and nobody cares enough to visit her.

  Nobody cares enough to even notice she’s missing.

  (except me)

  I’ll go and visit. Return her purse. She’ll need it if she wakes up. Maybe get some Lucozade, grapes, a card. Let her know someone cares.

  ‘I owe her some Revels anyway,’ I tell the fish.

  I’m about to slip the lottery ticket back inside her purse when I stop myself.

  ‘I’ll just leave this here for now,’ I say, ‘in a safe place.’

  I put the ticket in behind the bowl, hide it under the tub of fish food.

  ‘Guard this with your fishy life, okay? This is our wee secret.’

  The fish swims round in circles, mouth opening and closing, gills vibrating.

  I let myself out of the house, lock the back door and pocket the key.

  10

  I understand the clauses of the Official Secrets Act and am fully aware of the serious consequences which may follow any breach or misdemeanour. I will not divulge any information secured as a result of my employment, entrusted to me in confidence by persons under His Majesty. This applies not only during my employment, but after my employment has terminated.

  I have read and understood and hereby sign:

  Signature………………… Marièle Downie

  May 1943

  My dearest Cath,

  Well, I expect you’re wondering what’s become of me since I left for the big smoke. It’s all been a bit of a blur, I can tell you. I have joined up with the FANY and am now doing a spot of training for my duties. I’m afraid I can’t give away much of the nitty gritty, it’s all very hush hush. What’s new though? A few of us girls are billeted together in a hostel in London. They seem a nice bunch, although we’ve only known each other a short while so are still on our best behaviour. I’m afraid I’m not allowed to send you the address, they’re very stuffy about security. I’m sorry for the hurried goodbye, everything happened so quickly after I got the letter asking me to interview. You understand why I had to get away, don’t you? You more than anyone.

  Lights out soon and I must write a quick note to Mama and Father before I’m plunged into the black. I’m sure they will question you, but I’m telling all of you as much as I’m allowed to.

  Much love,

  M

  INITIAL REPORT

  31st May 1943

  NAME OF RECRUIT: Miss Marièle Downie

  INITIAL INTERVIEW – PASS

  Miss Downie speaks fluent French.

  PSYCHIATRIC INTERVIEW – pass

  NOTES – Brother K.I.A. (Dunkirk).

  Concerns voiced regarding her age. Death of brother had significant impact and should be taken into account. She has good language skills however, and meets the required profile.

  ACTION – Report for training, Scotland, assess again following this.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first stage of your training. Some of you may well have guessed from your interviews why you are here. For the rest of you, I’m sure it will soon become clear. This isn’t a holiday camp. You are all being thrown in at the deep end and it’s up to you whether you sink or swim. You’ve all been chosen as we think you should be able to swim, but we’ve been wrong before.

  ‘So, before you get too comfy, up, up on your feet, that’s right. You too, Miss. Everyone starts with the obstacle course. We time you now, and then again at the end of the training, give you a score, hopefully you’ll have improved. No complaining, I told you this wasn’t a holiday camp. Line up over there, yes, that’s right. Now, I’ll send you off in pairs. Right, you two first, then the rest carry on behind. Okay, you two, on the count of three. Three, two, one, off you go.’

  He blew his whistle.

  Marièle lined up beside her roommate, Eliza. They were next, dressed identically in the khaki blouse and loose-fitting trousers they’d been given to wear. Some of the other girls had fastened their leather belts tight around their waists, attempted to give some definition to the shapeless outfits. Marièle undid her already loose belt, slipped it back a few notches. There was no way she’d make it over that first obstacle if she couldn’t breathe properly. Eliza’s belt accentuated her curves, her bosom. She’d already attracted attention from the male recruits, despite her wedding ring.

  ‘I’ll never make it over,’ Eliza said, her eyes on the girls in front of them. They both struggled to ascend the first obstacle, logs of wood piled high into a wall. Doris had managed to swing one leg over the top, but Celia’s jumps had failed to even take her that far.

  ‘It looks like Miss Lewis needs a leg up,’ said the trainer.

  ‘I’ll go!’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘This is not an opportunity to get fresh with the other recruits, Captain Ramsey, you wait in line please.’

  Marièle watched their trainer march towards the wall. Doris seemed to sense his approach, hauled herself over and disappeared. Celia clung to the top of the wall, tried to scrabble her feet up the wood.

  ‘What do
you call this, Miss Lewis?’ The trainer glanced at his watch. ‘Three minutes in and you’re not even over the first obstacle.’

  ‘It’s too wet, my feet keep slipping,’ Celia replied.

  ‘This is Scotland. What did you expect? Now up you get.’

  He bent down and pushed his shoulders under her bum, hoisting her up. Marièle watched her swing her legs over and she was gone.

  ‘This is silly,’ she whispered to Eliza. ‘Are we not meant to be using our wits too? My wits are telling me to go around.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Marièle jumped as she realised the trainer stood beside them.

  She made a face at Eliza, who winked back.

  ‘Right you two, ready to get going?’

  He blew his whistle and Marièle set off running towards the wall. The trick was to get a bit of speed up. George was the school track and field champion and she remembered him explaining the high jump to Mama.

  Speed, Mama, speed. The faster you go, the higher you jump.

  Gosh, what would George think if he could see her now?

  The wall loomed in front of her, closer and taller, closer and taller. She kicked off from the ground, gripped the top of it, felt a splinter stab into her hand, her plimsolls sliding and slipping as she tried to scramble up the damp wood. Her forearms burned as she heaved and tensed, pulled her body weight up. Eliza struggled next to her, panting and out of breath.

  ‘Holy mother of goodness.’

  Marièle giggled as Eliza swore.

  No, no, no. Laughing made her muscles weak, she slipped back down the wall. Come on, come on, you’re almost there.

  ‘The mother of our lord is not going to help you here,’ the trainer shouted.

  Not him again.

  Marièle couldn’t face another of his wisecracks and heaved herself over the wall, leaving poor Eliza to face him on her own. The ground was soft where she landed, momentum took over and she sprawled forward. She picked herself up, trying to catch a breath as she ran on to the next obstacle. This was certainly being thrown in at the deep end.

  June 1943

  Dearest Cath,

  Another letter from me. I know you’ll be fretting at not being able to write back, but please don’t worry. You’d think I was training to be a spy or something, the secrecy we have to abide by. I suppose it’s just the times we find ourselves in. I do miss our chats and wonder how things are back home. We shall have a lot to catch up on when I next see you, make sure you remember all the shop gossip for me. I’m in a little bubble here. We were fitted for our uniforms this week, you’d laugh if you saw me. Gosh, I look a fright. Stiff and straight-laced, with sensible shoes, just like Miss Beryl at the shop! We even have to polish our buttons, they really do take it all very seriously. I suppose it is serious, it’s a war after all. I don’t see how shiny buttons help to be honest, though. If the Boche ever does invade, maybe the plan is to blind them with our buttons!