The Swimming Pool

by Louise Candlish

  ‘I wish I’d known.’

  ‘Would you have come?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  And as I leave, I think how there are times when life unfolds tidily in precisely the sequence of events you’d like and expect, the right words said to the right person at the right moment.

  And then there are times when it unravels in a way you know is wrong and was never meant to be. A way that has the power to destroy everything.

  20

  Monday, 10 August – three weeks earlier

  Given Molly’s recent advances, the arrival of our holiday appeared to represent unfortunate timing. It was also the first and, it would transpire, only week of the summer in which it rained: daily, hourly, by the second, a relentless pulse that maddened the blood. Ironic, then, that Ed and I had, as we always did, selected a location a safe distance from water: from our small stone cottage in a hamlet accessed by a muddy lane, there could be no accidental stumbling upon coast, lake or waterpark.

  Instead we caught up on reading and TV and plundered the chest of board games provided by the owners. Somehow Molly’s childhood had passed without a game of Cluedo and it was this that proved her favourite.

  ‘I’m not sure about this new board,’ said Ed, of the latest-edition visuals.

  ‘What’s new about it?’ Molly asked.

  ‘The original one had a billiard room, not a spa, and you went to the cellar to make your accusation, not to a swimming pool. Why would you make an accusation in a swimming pool?’

  ‘Why would you make one in a cellar?’ I said.

  ‘It’s a question of self-preservation,’ Ed said. ‘If you’re in a pool, you’re barely clothed, a hopeless condition for fleeing in the event of conflict.’

  ‘Well, in a cellar, you could be trapped. That’s no good for fleeing either.’

  ‘You’re not arguing, are you?’ Molly said, and Ed and I looked at each other with consternation.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Just having fun.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can track down the original board and you’ll see what we mean,’ Ed told her.

  ‘Mum and Gran might have one in Stoneborough,’ I said. ‘They’re not known for updating their entertainment offering.’

  ‘I’m not even kidding,’ Molly said.

  Her question notwithstanding, the mood was far easier that week than I’d expected, or deserved, frankly, given the tensions that had preceded the trip. I was ashamed of taunting Ed with the Channings’ alleged open marriage – what had I been thinking? It had served no purpose whatsoever – and grateful that he had been able to set it aside, if not forgive me wholesale. Neither of us wanted to ruin this holiday for Molly.

  Though she had been the keenest of all of us to bring Inky, predictably she now refused to come on the rain-splashed dog walks. Last summer we would have overruled her and insisted she join in, but now we said fine, we respected her wishes.

  ‘It seems like she’s being lazy,’ Ed said, as we trudged through cool, wet woods, the morning sky as dim as twilight. The ground was so sodden it tried to glue us to it, our wellingtons making obscene sucking sounds each time our feet pulled them up. ‘But actually it’s a really big thing to be left alone in an unfamiliar place at this age. It’s good for her psychologically.’

  ‘If she was our third or fourth child we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,’ I agreed, suspecting that we were having it anyway because, historically, discussion of Molly had united us like nothing else. Of course I was mindful of the ongoing need to stop obsessing (I couldn’t shake that stage-mother comment of Lara’s), but building bridges with Ed superseded that. ‘She’s craving independence,’ I added. ‘Look at the lido situation – amazing! When we get back to London, should we organize swimming lessons, d’you think?’

  ‘No,’ Ed said. ‘She’d say if she wanted that. Also, don’t you think the fact that we haven’t tried to organize anything has been a part of what’s worked? Like that business of the tour.’

  On the drive down, news of a further leap had been announced. Full of bright ideas, as those with a guilty conscience often are, I had proposed once more a behind-the-scenes tour of the lido with Liam, only for Molly to respond that she had already arranged it for her return and that Georgia would be accompanying her. This she reported with an offhandedness that indicated pride, and I guessed it had been Georgia’s enthusiasm for the scheme that had prompted the approach – not to Liam, but to Matt – in the first place.

  ‘So what are these secret plans for my birthday you told Sarah about?’ I asked Ed now.

  ‘Be patient,’ he said, and it was a relief to hear the old twinkle of affection in his tone.

  Encouraged, I said, ‘It’s just that I like the sound of this pool party.’

  ‘What pool party?’

  ‘You know, the one at the lido, the night of my birthday. Lara’s involved – it’s a nineteen-sixties Riviera theme.’

  Ed pulled a face, as if he knew what bacchanalian depravities that would involve.

  ‘Only if you fancy it,’ I said hastily. ‘But she wants to give us tickets as a gift. Molly too. It’s very generous of her.’

  He conceded this. ‘Would Molls want to go to something like that?’

  ‘It’s not a swimming party. The pool itself will be closed. I think it could be fun.’

  ‘We’ll decide nearer the time,’ Ed said, which was code for no. ‘I thought maybe we could do something active, like walk the South Downs Way.’

  Given his earlier secrecy, this was certainly a red herring, but the truth would not be so different, not so different from this, a fern-scented waterlogged English forest that was not without its charms. I was aware of the conflict more than once that week: the cosy appeal of the familiar versus the hunger I’d felt for change – revolution, even – when talking days ago to Angie.

  Ed brought us to a halt on the edge of a mud bath where several paths crossed. Rocks and vegetation were disappearing under rainfall. ‘Where on earth are we?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘On the sea bed?’ Waiting at his side as he pulled a map from his anorak pocket, I was speared without warning by nostalgia for a different wood, a drier day, the dusty tangle of branches and the smell of pond water drying on burned skin. We’d be going to Stoneborough at the end of the week, my first visit of the year and one of sufficiently few for me to be able to recall each individually. Was that why I’d been so besieged by thoughts of the place recently? Or was it the swimming? That and the sweet exhilaration of making new friends had combined this summer to stir sensory memories of that one and it seemed I could regulate neither their frequency nor their effect.

  Behind the drone of the downpour, I suddenly fancied I could hear those jazz piano chords Lara liked so much, those plaintive strings. Then, from across the years, another kind of music, sung by young voices in a twang not quite comic enough to stop it sounding sinister.

  ‘Are we lost?’ I asked Ed and my tone was almost hopeful.

  ‘I think we might be.’ He looked through the trees at the swollen clouds, just in time for a large drip to break like an egg on his upturned face.

  As if to illustrate my point about Georgia Channing being special, Ed revealed that she was the only student with whom he had agreed to stay in contact during his week away. A brief session on FaceTime had been arranged in lieu of their regular Wednesday slot.

  As they were finishing, Lara appeared on screen beside her daughter. She was in a primrose-coloured sweater, that imperfect smile brightening the visuals like a change in settings.

  ‘Hi, guys! Don’t you dare tell me about your amazing weather because it’s abysmal in London.’

  ‘Same here,’ I said, over Molly’s shoulder. Clearly she’d forgotten we were less than a hundred miles away, still in England.

  ‘I’ve just been swimming and I was literally the only one in the pool.’

  ‘You still went in, even in the rain?’

  ‘Yes, but it was
in my top ten worst swims, really grisly. The sky was so low, I was practically breathing in cloud. I’m surprised I didn’t choke to death.’

  I imagined the sensation of swimming through the rain, the thousands of drops drumming the surface of the water like hammerheads on soft metal, and for a moment I wished I’d been there to brave the assault with her. ‘It’ll clear soon, Lara. The forecast is better for next week.’

  ‘I bloody hope so or I’m going to have to raid the Pharm good and proper.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, don’t be so outrageous,’ Georgia said good-naturedly.

  ‘You know I need the sun, darling.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a very reptilian trait.’

  Lara feigned giving her a shove. ‘I prefer to think of myself as a tropical plant.’

  ‘Deadly nightshade?’ Georgia said and, after a blurred bobbing of heads, the screen cleared and I saw mother and daughter were hugging and laughing together. I laid a hand on Molly’s shoulder and felt a stiffening of muscle under the soft fabric of her fleece. As soon as the call ended, she disappeared to her room.

  ‘Not so fucked-up after all, eh?’ I said to Ed, but not provocatively because it was nice to be friends again.

  He shrugged. ‘What’s the farm? Some posh spa, I suppose?’

  I told him I didn’t know, even though I did and it was perfectly harmless – the Pharm was Lara’s nickname for her medicine cabinet. But given Ed’s earlier suspicions of cocaine abuse it seemed inadvisable to fan the flames.

  When Molly reappeared, her hair was in a high ponytail, long strands at the front falling into her face. It didn’t take Cluedo wizardry for me to figure out when and where I’d seen the style: Georgia, the FaceTime call from La Madrague, maths textbooks on her knees.

  Later in the week, in an immaculately chosen private moment that doubtless rankled with her as much as any ill-chosen public one, I sought Molly out in her bedroom. She was in front of the mirror, her expression both self-critical and reflective, her lips slicked with a luscious pink no one but her parents would see. I paused in the doorway, not wanting to break her spell. No sense in pointing out that she – and all girls her age – looked a hundred times better bare-faced, that they didn’t know how beautiful they were.

  ‘Bored?’ I asked, and when her eyes flicked towards me, that candid, receptive gaze so characteristic of her was replaced almost at once with an opaqueness that excluded me. For all I could tell, she was thinking profound and conflicting thoughts or she was thinking nothing at all.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ she said, shrugging.

  It was as if every day she came up with a new way to avoid giving information (in fact, answering a question by asking one of your own was pure Ed). I responded conversationally, invoking the only piece of advice all parents and teachers seemed to agree on: keep the lines of communication open. ‘Not so much bored as soggy. I didn’t think we’d need our wellies and raincoats inside.’ This was a reference to the many leaks that had made themselves known in the upstairs rooms.

  Still the rain lashed, the windows squares of smudged grey beyond which the world had been liquidized.

  ‘Molls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m so pleased things are starting to happen – you know, with the hypnotherapy and the trips with Georgia to the lido.’

  No reply.

  ‘We understand you want to do it alone, or not with Dad and me involved, but I just wanted to say that you can always talk to me, you know that, right? Not just the pool stuff, anything. Even if it’s embarrassing or awkward or something you think might make me angry, I’ll always listen. I’ll always be on your side.’

  ‘I know.’ Another quick glance, another good intention annihilated by teenage distaste.

  ‘Okay.’ I wasn’t sure whether she was only saying what I wanted to hear. While it helped to draw on my own feelings and behaviour at the same age, there was no family precedent for how I should respond; I had never been given such overt reassurance by my own mother. If I had, might I have behaved less deplorably? Was I even now, in some dysfunctional way, blaming her?

  ‘Mum, can I have the laptop next week, when I stay at Grandma’s?’

  ‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘Let me just check I have everything I might need before you take it.’ Not that I intended doing anything work-related; there’d been moments these last few weeks, whole days, when I’d forgotten teaching altogether.

  Downstairs, transferring a couple of documents from hard drive to memory stick, I had a quick glance at Molly’s desktop. Though I told myself it was a routine parental check, I knew full well that my eyes were alert for anything phobia-related – all right, not ‘anything’: one thing in particular.

  A journal. Bryony had told me about it when I’d phoned for advice the previous week: in their very first session, she’d recommended Molly keep one to record her feelings about the new pool, in particular about the occasion she’d gone there with me. Of course there’d since been expeditions involving Georgia too – in fact, so much had happened since Molly had last seen Bryony that I wondered how they would fit the hypnotherapy itself into their next half-hour appointment.

  At first I’d assumed the journal would, if it existed at all, be the traditional kind, handwritten entries in a notebook, but Ed had reminded me that this age group wouldn’t dust down an ink pen if their lives depended on it. ‘Not that it matters either way,’ he’d added. ‘A diary is private, end of story. None of our business.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And now here it was, a Word file sitting just above the Trash icon, as if it might at any time find itself nudged into oblivion: ‘MS Journal’.

  Don’t click, I warned myself.

  I clicked. The file was locked. Which both served me right and allowed me to pretend I’d never committed the infraction in the first place.

  I was about to shut down when another Word file caught my eye: ‘NOP’. What did that stand for? Some teenage acronym, like GTG or BFN? (Traditionally, Gayle had translated them for me.)

  I opened this one without trouble and found my answer in the heading: ‘Normal Operating Plan’. It was an excerpt from a lido staff document, perhaps shared by Matt in advance of the girls’ tour:

  Elm Hill Lido Normal Operating Plan

  Awareness of risks

  Youth and inexperience. Pay particular attention to those who appear nervous or afraid. Never forget that the life expectancy of a drowning non-swimmer is measured in seconds, not minutes.

  Alcohol and drugs taken before swimming. Persons who appear intoxicated must be excluded.

  Unclear pool water, preventing casualties from being seen.

  Unauthorized access to pool intended to be out of use. Managers must assess effective measures to prevent access. These may include physical barriers and staff supervision.

  Absence of pool attendants in an emergency.

  I read point (a) a second time, before closing the lid and leaving the laptop on the kitchen table for Molly to reclaim.

  21

  Sunday, 16 August

  We did not pass Mel’s house as we drove into the village, but even so I buried my face in the hydrangea on my lap until Ed had parked the car at my grandmother’s door.

  I’d been back to Stoneborough numerous times, of course, since that summer – flat refusal would only have roused suspicion – for many years careful to keep myself indoors and out of sight. Later, on the rare excursions to the shop or village green with a young Molly, I’d taken refuge in the camouflage of motherhood, though by then the community had developed and those who’d been children in the 1980s and hadn’t fled to the city were unrecognizable from their young selves. As for Mel, a chance remark of my grandmother’s had let me know she’d left the village for Southampton in her early twenties. Her mother, Cheryl, was still there, though unlikely to be able to identify a girl she’d scarcely laid eyes on at the time.

  Why, then, did I still feel the need to hide? Paranoia, I told myself. How could it be any
thing more after thirty years? And yet it was hardly less stressful than having something real to fear.

  ‘What an enormous plant!’ my mother exclaimed at the door. ‘You’re far too generous,’ she added with genuine reproach. I’d heard of mothers who could see no wrong in their grown-up daughters, but mine, alas, had not.

  ‘It’s only a hydrangea,’ I said.

  ‘But in a very nice pot. It looks hand-thrown.’

  ‘Hand-thrown?’ Ed echoed. ‘Wouldn’t that mean it was smashed to pieces?’

  ‘Ha-ha, Edward. Have you two won the pools or something?’

  ‘What’s the pools?’ Molly asked, wearing the same mistrustful look that I could only hope had skipped a generation.

  ‘Football scores,’ Ed told her. ‘It was a gambling game that people used to play before the Lottery.’

  ‘Still do,’ said my mother. ‘The woman in Boots’ brother’s friend just split a million with two others. That’s worth having.’

  ‘Three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three pounds, thirty-three and a third pence,’ Molly said, before Ed could ask.

  ‘I don’t suppose they argued about the penny,’ said my grandmother, from the room beyond.

  ‘Granny, hello!’ I called. ‘Can we come in and sit down?’ We were still in the hallway, but conversation – or confrontation – with my mother tended to begin the moment the door opened. Already there was an odd disconnect between my own grudging conduct and the willing banter of everyone else.

  Once the door was closed behind us, I unclenched a little. We unloaded Molly’s bags and arranged ourselves in the sitting room, where there was, as always, the faint smell of cats, in spite of there being none in residence. Perhaps they wandered in unnoticed by the chattering women and helped themselves to nibbles, like the ones Mum now distributed with drinks.

  ‘Wotsits,’ Ed said, ‘king of the extruded snack,’ and I could tell he was wondering about Molly’s nutrition during the forthcoming week.