The Lost Swimmer

by Ann Turner

  Carl flushed with pleasure and hurried out. He’d deserved better.

  • • •

  Big Boy padded onto the deck. Where was Stephen? This was so unlike him. Leaving early. Not mentioning that he’d be late. And tonight, when I really needed him, he wasn’t answering my calls. The dog started whimpering, gazing with come-hither eyes. I ignored him and took a large gulp of wine. It was my favourite time of evening, when the patch of sky through eucalypts morphed into a deep blue that washed to violet then rich purple as yellow-crested cockatoos screeched across high above like soft-winged puppets.

  But Big Boy was a master at expressions that went straight to the heart. I grabbed his leash and we struck out for the beach.

  The sea shimmered silver in the dusk, a smudge of pink glowing in the fragile clouds on the horizon. There were a few surfers on the breakers, as sleek as seals in their wetsuits. Big Boy galloped happily beside me. I wondered if my job could be at risk after two solid decades at Coastal, rising up the ranks from tutor to lecturer to senior lecturer, associate professor and finally professor, each promotion hard won through sacrifice, travelling constantly between semesters to digs in Greece, writing in every snatched moment, losing time with my children I could never retrieve. I had tenure, and post-grads came because of my reputation. I was supervising fourteen PhDs. My publication and grant records were impeccable. I’d written five books in the area of cultural archaeology, edited several collections and had articles in all the major international journals. I was a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Surely Priscilla couldn’t ignore that I was an asset?

  And yet her attack was so strident, so confident.

  Rounding the bluff I pounded along the wild ocean beach. Pale aquamarine waves crashed to shore, sending up a haze of ghostly droplets, frothing white as they heaved back into the rocks – outcrops that lurked beneath the surface, stretching for miles, in days gone by tricking vessels that had sailed unwittingly into trouble, foundered and broken up. Loved ones who had never come home, taken by the sea. I knew the dull ache, the gap that could never be filled. The cruel consequences.

  Not for me to be another lost soul. I would fight Priscilla and win.

  3

  ‘What’s this for?’ Stephen said as I hugged into his tall, strong body, warm and reassuring. His dark eyes looked down at me from beneath a flop of black hair, tanned skin and soft, neatly trimmed mustache and beard that showed no hint of grey; he glowed with health. His aftershave was newly applied and I breathed in the usual soapiness. It was his habit to swim after work; when the kids were teenagers they’d all go together, racing home afterwards for hot showers. These days if Stephen was busy he’d skip the swim but he still liked to throw himself into the shower and freshen up for dinner, a trait I found endearing.

  ‘Why were you late?’ I asked as Big Boy barked happily about us. ‘Didn’t you get my messages?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He brushed strands of hair from my brow. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Over wine. What’s for dinner?’

  Stephen looked helplessly at the empty stove. ‘I’m sorry, I completely forgot it was my turn.’ Flashing an apologetic smile he made a quick retreat. ‘Let’s go out?’ he called, climbing the stairs two at a time. ‘We can grab a meal at the golf club.’

  ‘I haven’t got time, I need to work tonight,’ I called back, annoyed.

  ‘I’ll cook something simple, then. How about a casserole? Would you mind getting it started? I just have to make one phone call.’

  I slopped meat into Big Boy’s bowl and thumped it down. He looked up, alarmed. I tiredly chopped onions and within minutes they were sautéing in a deep pan, their scent pungent and so homely I could almost hear the orchestral riff of the six o’clock news that was forever entwined with my mother’s cooking.

  After I put the casserole in the oven, I went out to the deck and poured another glass of wine, reminding myself to sip slowly or there’d be no work done after all.

  A shadow crossed the light and the door slid open. ‘So, what happened today?’ Stephen’s voice cut softly into the silky air.

  ‘That sociopath Priscilla is on the warpath.’

  Stephen flinched.

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that, for goodness sake,’ I retorted. ‘Just hear me out.’

  ‘I’ve been listening to angry people all day.’

  ‘Priscilla’s trying to sack us all!’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. What on earth’s happened?’ Stephen leaned back in his chair. He was wearing a pair of loose shorts, and his soft blue cotton shirt was half unbuttoned. His dark eyes focused on me with concern, their astute intelligence radiating.

  ‘She’s gone to the Vice-Chancellor about me,’ I said.

  Stephen grew still. ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s claiming I’m incompetent. And she’s making me have mediation with her like the rest of them.’

  Stephen took the bottle and poured a large glass.

  ‘You’ve forgotten to fill mine.’ I tapped his arm and wine slopped everywhere. Stephen cursed.

  ‘Has she spelled out on what grounds she’s basing this?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really – except to say that I gossip. And that I’m too soft. And some nonsense about being over-budget, which still doesn’t make sense.’

  Stephen wiped up the spilled wine in one deft movement. ‘She has no right,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to the Vice-Chancellor. This must be nipped in the bud.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Thanks for putting the dinner on. Promise I’ll cook tomorrow.’ He kissed the top of my head and went inside.

  I watched him fondly as he moved about the kitchen, tossing together a salad. Then suddenly he returned and, bending down, lifted me in his arms. His fingers brushed against my skin as he lifted my dress and manoeuvred me into the house, smothering my lips with his own, which were wet and hot and tasted of wine. ‘Not now,’ I said softly, ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘You looked so beautiful sitting there. I just don’t want you to be worried.’ His hands and lips worked their way over my tense body, smoothing knots of muscle, calming my jaded nerves. Slowly I started to let go.

  ‘We’ll sort it out,’ he said and a familiar surge of attraction jolted through me. ‘You’ll be okay.’

  My mind went blank as he flipped me around and kissed down my spine, each burning impact fervent and rough. His breath was hot on my neck and his aftershave smelled of orange blossom in spring. I found my body falling back into his, responding ever more forcefully to his touch. Soon I was caught in a fever, with a thirst that couldn’t be quenched but was continually satisfied.

  • • •

  The next morning he’d left early again. Another note peered up from the table. Enjoyed last night. Enormously! xxx

  Last night had been unusual: not the same old marital routine. It was as if Stephen had been exploring my body for the first time. Although it had been a welcome distraction from my troubles, something wasn’t right.

  I itemised my contact with him: nothing out of the ordinary until these past days – the leaving early, coming home late. A dead weight ran through my veins.

  Surely I wasn’t imagining it? The raw intimacy of last night had been genuinely different.

  • • •

  The campus was humming with students, cooler weather having flushed them out. Melinda looked up expectantly as I entered.

  ‘Something you need from me, Mel?’

  ‘Just a nice cup of tea. And a holiday.’ The last said with unusual emphasis.

  ‘You’d really like to go on holiday? But you never go on holiday.’

  ‘I was thinking of New York. People say it’s vibrant and I love the architecture,’ she smiled shyly, her lips sensuous beneath immaculately applied lipstick. ‘You know how I always read travel books? I think it’s time to get back out there.’

  ‘Well, just let me know when you’ve firmed up your dates and I’ll arrange it.’

  ‘I was hoping it co
uld be in the next fortnight?’

  ‘So soon?’ My heart sank. ‘It’ll be tricky putting things in place that quickly.’

  ‘I just feel . . .’ Melinda’s eyes teared up in a very un-Melinda-like way. ‘Frankly I feel the Faculty’s falling to pieces and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  I reached out a hand but Melinda sat down heavily and started shuffling papers. ‘I was around in the fifties when people were witch-hunted for all sorts of things. In the sixties I partied so hard I didn’t notice anyone but myself. In the seventies I never really became a feminist but I always admired those women.’

  I had no idea where she was heading. I perched on a corner of her desk, interested.

  ‘You know that my husband and I split up ten years ago?’

  ‘I remember it was just after I met you.’

  ‘And I really felt then I was too old to do much, now I was on my own again. But I . . . I see so much going on here . . .’ Melinda delicately brushed away a tear and, reaching out with trembling hands, picked up a letter. ‘You don’t deserve this, Bec.’

  I read the details of my first mediation session with Priscilla, set for next week.

  ‘It’s demeaning and that letter is just full of lies,’ said Melinda.

  There was nothing much new from yesterday’s meeting except a warning that formal action might be taken if I failed to attend and that the focus would be on my communication and leadership skills.

  ‘It’s okay, Mel. Who knows, maybe I’ll come out a new and improved person?’

  ‘You don’t need improving and you haven’t got time.’

  ‘It’s a gross waste of money and Priscilla’s a hypocrite, I agree. Cutting staff, cutting budgets and yet she pushes all this rubbish.’

  Melinda was looking at me with pity.

  ‘Well, I’m made of sterner stuff than that,’ I continued firmly, ‘I’ll just do what she says. Better that she picks on me than someone weaker.’ I stuffed the letter into my pocket. ‘What’s annoying is that I’d planned to stay home and write that day.’

  I was working on a book about Santorini in the seventeenth century BC and was in the middle of a chapter on the volcanic eruption where people had fled from their settlement in Akrotiri. Many items had been found at the settlement, either forgotten or left in haste; my favourite was a gold ibex figurine hidden inside a larnax, a clay chest. The little ibex, which looked like a child’s impression of a goat mixed with a baby horse, stood in relaxed repose. The gold was pure with a sublime lustre. It was likely his owners had run high into the hills and only then realised that their most precious possession had been forgotten. After the eruption Akrotiri was buried in lava, houses entombed, the ibex waiting patiently for millennia until it was again cherished. But its precise use was lost in the mists of time. What was its significance?

  ‘You’re not going to think badly of me are you, like a rat abandoning ship?’ Melinda’s voice cut through my thoughts.

  ‘Never. Email me the details and I’ll sign off and send it to HR. Won’t New York be cold at this time of year?’

  ‘Freezing. I want a change of everything, including the weather. I’m hoping it’ll be cloaked in snow.’

  ‘And how long are you going for?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mel?’

  She suddenly looked old. ‘I was thinking until the end of next semester.’

  ‘But that’s a lifetime!’

  ‘I have enough leave owing. I want to travel around, catch up with friends in Seattle and San Francisco. I thought you could get Justine in here? She’ll watch your back. I’ve run it past her and she said she’d wrangle a temporary transfer from Politics.’

  ‘Really? Well, I guess . . .’ Melinda looked desperate. ‘I’ll call her. I’m sure we’ll be able to make this work for you.’

  ‘You’re a brick.’

  I smiled, doing my best to hide my concern. What would I do without her?

  • • •

  Their bellies stretched in front of them like two boulders. Pam Edwards, rushing straight from an Ancient History lecture, wore a body-hugging T-shirt and tapered trousers to accentuate her impossibly long legs; she matched these with killer stilettos that gave her the height of a giraffe and was accessorised to the hilt with chunky jewellery. Josie Sweeney was decked out in the traditional hide-all smock over bare legs; her feet reclined in Birkenstocks. Their faces were alike – both tragic.

  ‘She’s sent us another letter.’ Pam passed it across.

  Josie’s voice was a whisper. ‘It’s so awful, being made to feel worthless. My husband and doctor think I should take the package.’

  ‘You might feel that now, but when you’re home alone with your child you may want this place, at least part-time in the first few years, which we can manage,’ I replied. ‘You’re anything but worthless. You know how highly the students rate you. And the way through our trouble is to get more enrolments, not keep shrinking the department out of existence.’

  Josie nodded, sniffing back tears. ‘I’ve always loved coming to work.’

  ‘My family want me to leave too,’ said Pam as she rubbed her belly. ‘I’ve become unbearable around the house. I’m screaming at everyone. I’m really worried what I’m doing to our baby. Ooh!’ A smile split her face. ‘He just kicked!’

  Josie thrust out a hand. ‘I can feel him, there’s another one!’

  ‘Little bugger,’ chuckled Pam, her hand on her belly noticeably lifting as he kicked again. ‘I reckon he’s going to be a footballer like his granddad. Or a horse. I do really want to stay,’ she added, looking at me with pleading eyes. ‘I’m thinking of going to the union.’

  ‘Priscilla says the next round won’t be voluntary,’ said Josie.

  I quickly read the letter, trying to quash my feelings of inadequacy. There it was in black and white: the threat of forced redundancies if not enough people took the voluntary packages. ‘Get the union to speak to me. We’ll coordinate our actions,’ I said.

  Pam nodded but I could see she didn’t mean it; she didn’t believe I’d be an asset.

  ‘We’ll get through this,’ I said.

  • • •

  Troubling irregularity found in accounts. Urgently need to meet.

  I sighed as I re-read the email from Alison Wishart, our School Administrator. Alison had been seconded across from Architecture after I became Head, at Priscilla’s insistence, the Dean claiming I lacked experience with money. To Priscilla’s annoyance, Alison and I had grown close and I relied on her when it came to budgets.

  Come straight over, I shot back, and she arrived minutes later in a luscious yellow dress with black stripes. She looked like a bee – and a rather angry one.

  ‘There’s a very strange account that’s been opened in Athens,’ buzzed Alison as soon as she sat down. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘No. Athens . . . why would we have an account there?’

  ‘Well, that’s what anyone’s going to ask who looks at these books. And, Rebecca – it would appear that you’ve approved this account.’

  ‘What’s it for? Why on earth would I have signed off on an Athens account? I can be a bit preoccupied when it comes to paperwork but surely I wouldn’t be that vague?’

  ‘It’s like it’s written by a drunk. Sorry, not casting aspersions . . . but listen to this: “Account for food and wine and accommodation and wine/travels.” ’

  I quickly scanned the printouts. One was a bank statement in the name of Coastal University School of Classics and History with a very large deposit and multiple small withdrawals.

  ‘Embezzlement is what it looks like.’ Alison peered over the rims of her fashionable glasses with a frosty stare. ‘I’m going to have to report this to Faculty straightaway. You can’t just go opening accounts overseas in the university’s name.’

  ‘Oh God, Alison, can’t we get to the bottom of it here? That’s all Priscilla needs, ammunition against me that makes it look like I’m party to
fraud – and hedonistic fraud at that. There must be an explanation. For a start, if someone was trying to hide that sort of thing they wouldn’t be so explicit, would they?’ I looked up, seeking her approval.

  Alison stiffened. ‘I don’t know, there’ve been a few irregularities I’ve picked up. This one’s just for a great deal more money. And Athens as the location is unacceptable.’

  ‘Who’s accessed it?’

  ‘It would appear to be Josie Sweeney.’

  ‘But Josie has nothing to do with anything Greek.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ said Alison. ‘Whereas . . .’ She paused and her face bloomed. ‘Your work is generally based in Greece, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, maybe I do understand . . .’ I said, as a thought occurred.

  Alison waited in tense silence as I shuffled through more of the paperwork.

  ‘Pam Edwards took a student tour to Greece in January last year in semester break to study pre-historic Hellenic culture. We had a lot of older students sign up and we hoped it would be a money-spinner. In the end we only broke even, but people had a great time – and who knows, we still might get some endowments or donations from the happy alumni.’

  ‘Imbibing a lot of Greek wine, by the looks of it.’ Alison’s voice dripped with disapproval.

  ‘Anyway, Josie went with Pam to help wrangle the students, and she was also interested in the itinerary.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Okay, so they, we – I – made a mistake. This separate account shouldn’t have been opened, should it?’

  ‘Absolutely not! What were you thinking, Rebecca? You know all finances have to go through the central system.’ Alison’s flesh was now as red as a tomato.

  ‘I’m sorry, I do recall now. Pam told me she’d set it up in the way it had been done before and I didn’t check what that meant. I just approved it. Which means there must have been other accounts like it in the past.’

  ‘Not my problem. I’m only going back one financial year, thank the Lord.’ The last muttered under her breath.

  ‘Do we really have to report this? Can’t we just clean it up? It wasn’t fraud, just an innocent mistake. No one was hurt.’