Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  ‘How’s your shoulder?’ He asks and starts to rub it with his hand again.

  He wants me to say the sex helped, made me forget the pain, but the truth is it’s fucking agony. Worse than before. I move away from him, try not to make it obvious that I don’t want him to touch me. But now it’s over, I don’t want any contact with him.

  I just want out of here, away from him. I feel sticky and unclean, I need a shower, I need to be on my own.

  I’m a total bitch, turned into such a cliché. The dirty old woman who seduces a schoolboy. What’s wrong with me?

  I’m relieved when it’s time to close up.

  ‘Do you fancy doing something?’ Calum asks as we cash up the till.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t tonight,’ I reply, avoiding eye contact.

  (it’s a school night, it’s a school night, it’s a school night)

  ‘No worries, maybe another night?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply.

  I’m such a chicken, I should be straight with him. That’s not going to happen again, it shouldn’t have happened today, but I’ll say anything to get out of here without a confrontation. I’m so grateful for my bike, it gives me an excuse not to have to walk beside him. I cycle as fast as I can away from the shop. The cold air feels good against my hot and crawling skin.

  Dad and Shirley. Dad and Shirley. Dad and Shirley.

  Like father, like daughter. Like father, like daughter. Like father, like daughter.

  Fuck, I can’t bear it. It all feels so wrong, so smutty and sordid. I’m angry at myself for letting it happen but I’m angry at myself too for being so disgusted.

  (I’m allowed to get my kicks)

  My shoulder’s so sore by the time I get home that I can barely get off my bike. I dump it in the garage and head into the house. I’m crying now, I can’t help it. Crying with shame and pain.

  The light’s on in the living room. Great, the one night I could do with him being out.

  ‘Hi sweetheart,’ I hear Dad shout as I reach my bedroom.

  I ignore him, I can’t speak. The lump in my throat is so big that I can hardly breathe. I fall on my bed and sob into my pillow. How did I end up like this?

  I hear Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I should make a run for the bathroom, hide from him, but I don’t move.

  ‘Hannah? Hannah, you okay?’

  I look up. He’s standing in the doorway, blurry through the tears. My nose is running and I wipe it on my sleeve.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My shoulder,’ I manage to say between gulping sobs.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart.’

  He sits on the edge of my bed, pulls me into a bear hug, crushing me. It doesn’t help my shoulder but I don’t care.

  I let him crush everything away.

  When it first started, Dad would help me with all the exercises the physio gave me to do, doing his best to get me better. He’d laugh as I grimaced, tell me it was all for the best, that it would be worth it in the end. Neither of us realising how serious it was. Both of us sure that the exercises were working, that my shoulder was improving. That this was only a blip.

  The Olympics just around the corner.

  I get so down thinking of us then. How hopeful we were, how optimistic. It was just a sore shoulder that needed stretched.

  I can’t bear to fast forward us.

  To the present, to this room, to me crying and him crushing me.

  14

  THEY’D TOLD HER to try and sleep on the voyage over. As if she could sleep here, on the felucca. The chug of the engine, the constant soaking from the waves, the punch of the sail. The

  up and up and up and up and

  down down down down

  Captain Kalinowski and his crew had left her alone so far. One of them, Piotr, had handed her a wool blanket and a tarpaulin when she’d boarded the Seafox in Gibraltar. He smiled at her, said something in Polish she didn’t understand. He was so young, not old enough to grow the stubble that the other crew members kept their faces warm with.

  She wished she had a beard herself. The spray stung against her face, made her eyes water and her skin tight.

  The men dressed in cord trousers and woollen jumpers, fingerless gloves, hats pulled down over their eyes. How many times had they made this crossing? She could tell by their weather-beaten faces, calloused fingers, that this was a regular trip for them. When had they last been home? Could they go home?

  Marièle looked out of the train window. This would be the first time she’d been home in over ten months. A few days leave before being sent to France. She laughed to herself as she thought of the telephone call she’d made to Cath earlier in the week.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you dear, it’s been so long. Mrs Walker keeps asking where you are. She said to me the other day, that Miss Downie’s been away for about nine months now hasn’t she? I tapped my nose and said, “careless talk, Mrs Walker.” Let’s push a pram past her house when you get back for a giggle!’

  Mrs Walker could think what she liked. Those French girls, ooh la la.

  Froggy Marie. Froggy Marie.

  ..-. .-. --- --. --. -.-- / -- .- .-. .. .

  The scenery was familiar now, getting closer to home. It was time to become Marièle again, put Sabine aside for a few days. It wasn’t just Mrs Walker who could make up stories. Marièle had to remember that, for the duration of her leave, she was Ensign F43A, driver and orderly in the FANY.

  She’d been on board almost three days now. At least she thought it was three days. She’d dozed for some of the time, was sure she’d counted three sunsets.

  The seasickness was starting to pass. Her stomach more accustomed to the rocking motion of the felucca, the lurching from side to side.

  up and up and up and up and

  down down down down

  They were so low in the water, she felt every wave, every fish pass underneath.

  She hadn’t eaten properly since that first night, when she’d thrown up over the side after a slice of ham and a boiled egg.

  The picnic she had was sheltered underneath the tarpaulin, a Thermos and some sandwiches. She peeled open two slices of bread, wished she hadn’t. The grey blobs of meat paste made her gag.

  Captain Kalinowski sat on the opposite side from her, folding flags. She forced herself to take a bite of the sandwich, tried not to think of the filling as she chewed then swallowed. She had to prove that she was more than just a seasick female. She was sure the Captain and his crew talked about her behind her back: young girl, useless, why risk their lives for someone like her? Couldn’t even stomach the boat trip to France, there was no way she’d last five minutes in the réseau.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ She offered the sandwiches to Kalinowski.

  He shook his head, continued folding flags.

  ‘Can I help with that?’ She asked.

  ‘Nie, nie, we choose a flag depending on who we run into.’

  He held up a union jack and then a swastika, spat over the side of the boat.

  She was nervous as the train whistled, slowed down and pulled into the station. Silly of her, this was home.

  No matter how long she’d been away.

  No matter what she’d done since leaving.

  She wore her FANY uniform, brass buttons and epaulettes on her khaki jacket, belted around the waist, blouse and tie, skirt rubbing against her calves.

  What would people think when they saw her in it? It made her self-conscious, going home dressed like this.

  The train stopped and she put her beret on, might as well complete the look.

  She stepped down from the train, looked along the smoky platform for Mama.

  She was at the ticket office, under a poster.

  IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?

  Marièle’s journey definitely was. It was the last time she would see her family, see Cath, before being sent to France.

  Sabine unscrewed the lid of her Thermos. Maybe tea would help? Mama didn’t under
stand the British and their tea.

  They use it for everything. Too hot? Have some tea. Too cold? Try some tea. Feeling sick? Tea. Well? Tea. C’est un remède miracle, n’est-ce-pas?

  Sabine needed a remède miracle. She clamped the plastic cup between her knees, tried to hold it steady as she poured from the flask.

  up and up and up and up and

  down down down down

  She couldn’t put the cup down on the deck; even if the felucca stayed still long enough for her to pour her tea, the deck was covered in about an inch of water so her cup would just float away. The Seafox in miniature. Maybe she should get a knife, scrape ‘Seabrew’ onto the side of the plastic cup.

  I hereby name this vessel the Seabrew.

  She spilt as she poured, but it wasn’t hot enough to burn her legs.

  Piotr and the navigator Aleksy stood nearby.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ She asked.

  Piotr smiled, took a step towards her but Aleksy shook his head.

  ‘Nie, we have our own supplies.’

  She lifted the cup, it wobbled in her hand as the felucca lurched and tea dribbled down her chin, salty and lukewarm.

  ‘Mama, Mama, I’m here,’ Marièle waved. Mama turned at the sound of her voice. Confusion flickered across her face before recognition turned it into a smile and she ran towards Marièle.

  ‘Marie, my Marie, chérie, it’s so good to see you.’ She hugged Marièle and then held her out at arm’s length. ‘My, my, I didn’t recognise you in that uniform – you look so official. And your hair? Your father won’t approve of that, non, he will not.’

  Marièle let Mama kiss her again and again. She’d forgotten they’d dyed her hair. Had gotten used to the dull brown shade, although it had taken her a few days and, she was ashamed to admit, a few tears. Still, to play the part of Sabine, she must have the right shade and hairstyle.

  Au revoir to lovely blonde hair and salut to this hideous brown creation.

  She felt horribly unclean. Funny, surrounded by all this water, but she hadn’t had a proper wash since leaving the submarine.

  Her hair stuck to her head and she could feel the stickiness under her armpits. Not even Chanel No5 could penetrate the stench. She longed for a bath. The men splashed their hairy armpits with seawater, didn’t seem to mind the grime. Would she ever be able to get rid of the fishy smell that clung to her? Like the old harbour wives who brought the fish into the shop, you smelt them coming before you saw them.

  She could taste salt, felt it coarse against her skin.

  up and up and up and up and

  down down down down

  She’d taken to mopping the deck. Sometimes she would use an old tin can and bail some of the excess water overboard first. She couldn’t sit still any longer, sheltered under the tarpaulin like an old woman. She wanted to help. Besides, the longer she sat, the more her joints seized up, the salt water rusting her stiff.

  Kalinowski had argued with her.

  ‘Nie, sit down, be careful, you’ll go overboard.’

  ‘Honestly, Captain, I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to fall in there anymore than you want me too. I can’t swim for one thing.’

  Kalinowski laughed, said something in Polish to Aleksy.

  ‘What’s so damn funny?’

  ‘Nothing, nic. I’m sorry for laughing. It is not good that you cannot swim. If you like, I can teach you?’

  Sabine felt his laughter take hold, it pulled at her insides, made her stomach muscles ache. God, the absurdity of it. What on earth was she doing?

  ‘It’s a deal,’ she replied. ‘And I will teach you to parachute.’

  He nodded, spat in his hand and held it out. She hesitated, then did the same, the saliva slippery between their palms as they shook hands.

  Mama held her hand as they walked from the station towards home.

  ‘And see, they got this too,’ Mama said as they passed the debris of yet another German bombing raid.

  ‘This was very close,’ Mama shook her head. ‘Madame King had her windows blown in from the blast.’

  Marièle squeezed Mama’s hand, grateful that the bomb had not been closer to home. She’d been so worried about Mama receiving a telegram, but what if it happened the other way around?

  ‘The boys are always playing there, collecting shrapnel,’ Mama said, ‘I wish George had been a few years younger. He might have enjoyed the war.’

  ‘What are you playing?’ Sabine asked as Kalinowski dealt the cards to Piotr and Aleksy.

  ‘Rummy. You play?’ He replied.

  ‘Yes, of course, deal me in.’

  Piotr moved and Sabine joined them around the upturned crate. Kalinowski continued to deal, added her to the game. Aleksy moved as if to play.

  ‘Now hang on a second,’ Sabine stopped him. ‘I believe I go first, left of the dealer, or do you have different rules in Poland?’

  Aleksy laughed, held out a hand to indicate she should play, ‘Captain has his own rules.’

  They played a few hands before she realised Aleksy was right. She was sure Kalinowski was cheating. They played for cigarettes though, so she didn’t mind if she lost.

  Despite what you may think, very few village girls in France smoke, or can afford to smoke. Smoking in a public place will arouse suspicion and bring the Boche down on you quicker than you can exhale.

  They’d given her French cigarettes for the men in the circuit and to use to barter with, but she’d already decided to leave them on board for Kalinowski and his crew.

  ‘Come on, your turn,’ Kalinowski nodded to Aleksy. Aleksy looked at his hand, then the cards discarded on the crate. She could see him working something out in his head. Piotr rolled his eyes at Sabine.

  ‘Show me your cards,’ Aleksy demanded.

  ‘Nie, what’s your problem?’

  ‘Cheat.’

  ‘How dare you accuse me of cheating.’

  Both men got to their feet. Piotr shook his head as Aleksy kicked the crate over, sending cards and cigarettes all over the deck. Sabine began to pick them up as they floated around her feet.

  Aleksy made a hand gesture at the captain, ‘You are a crook.’

  ‘Dupek.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Sabine asked Piotr.

  ‘I cannot say,’ he replied.

  up and up and up and up and

  down down down down

  Just at that moment the felucca hit a wave, knocking them all off their feet. The Seafox rode the wave, rose with the undulation before sinking so low that foamy spray rushed in over the sides. Sabine felt the cold seep through her clothes, her woollen jumper heavy, weighing her to the deck.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Piotr asked as he helped her to her feet.

  ‘Yes, are you?’ Her teeth chattered and she could barely speak.

  ‘Bail,’ said Kalinowski, handing her a tin can.

  The salt water stung at her fingers, her cracked knuckles. As she emptied a can of water over the edge of the felucca, she watched a handful of playing cards and a few cigarettes drifting out to sea.

  The table was set when they arrived home. Bread, jam, tea, scones, all lying on plates underneath a fly sheet.

  ‘Mama, where did you get all this?’

  ‘Oh now, ce n’est rien. If I can’t give my only daughter a decent welcome home, then I am not fit to be a mother. Besides, look at you, you’re not eating properly.’

  ‘But, there’s so much, and jam, how did you get jam?’

  ‘I’ve been saving my coupons and Cath was very helpful when I went in to the shop.’

  ‘Mama, I’m shocked. I go away for a short time and you and Cath are on the black market.’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me any of your nonsense. Assieds-toi and tuck in. Father said he would be home early but we’ll just start. Make sure you leave him a scone though.’

  As Mama poured their tea, Marièle heard the front door open.

  ‘Father.’

  He held out his arms and kisse
d her on the cheek before pulling her into a hug. As he let go, she saw his eyes fill with tears. He turned away, coughed into his handkerchief, then faced her again.

  ‘What the devil have you done to your hair?’

  Sabine sat opposite Kalinowski, an upturned box between them. Piotr lay asleep on the wooden bench, which ran the length of the deck, a tarpaulin draped over him. The wind had died down and it was the calmest sea they’d had since setting off.

  ‘It’s almost pleasant out here now,’ Sabine said.

  ‘The sea is beautiful on days like this, but you can never trust it,’ Kalinowski replied, swigging from a hip flask.

  ‘That’s why we only have half a deck of cards left and we’re stuck making conversation to amuse ourselves.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Sabine sipped the cold dregs from the bottom of her Thermos. The tea was on the turn and she could taste the milky sourness. The remains of the meat paste sandwiches lay on the box between them. They were still edible, although the bread had gone stale; they’d picked off some mould around the edges. Sabine had finally found her sea stomach. She laughed to think how green she’d been just a few days ago.

  ‘We’re not far away now. The next part’s the tricky bit,’ Kalinowski said. ‘We have to be careful as we navigate our way in. The coast is well monitored.’

  As they’d got closer to France, Sabine had repeated her story again and again in her head.

  My name is Sabine Valois.

  J’ai vingt-et-un ans.

  I have been ill. Rheumatic fever.

  The doctor sent me to the country to recuperate.

  I have been staying with my aunt. My parents and younger sister live in Paris.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

  ‘I saw a picture just a few months ago,’ Cath said. ‘It made me think of you. Millions Like Us, it was called, girls driving trucks and ambulances. It looked so glamorous.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so secretive in my letters to you.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ Cath pointed to a poster on the inside of a shop window, ‘careless talk and all that.’

  BE LIKE DAD – KEEP MUM!

  ‘I know, but still,’ she squeezed Cath’s arm.

  ‘You look so tricky in your uniform.’