by Ann Turner
‘Priscilla says you’ve shown a great deal of courage and integrity and that your colleagues think highly of your leadership. She’s suggested that you’d make an excellent Dean.’ So, Priscilla was trying to buy forgiveness.
‘I agree with her,’ Patrick continued. ‘Just not yet. But I do hope you’ll stay on as Head and work with the new appointment. I’ve reviewed the Faculty and identified it as an area for expansion. Your School will be in surplus once we’ve recovered the money from Melinda’s real-estate ventures.’ I imagined laughing with Stephen about the absurd irony and my throat caught.
As I walked back across campus, watching the sea dance in a shimmer of tiny diamonds, it struck me that everything was transitional, cyclical. Change comes in like the tide, sweeping everything in its path.
• • •
The evening was unseasonably warm. Late in the afternoon as the last, long rays of sun dipped beneath the hill, I drove down to the beach with Big Boy and pulled on an old wetsuit of Erin’s, leaving Maria and Burton to argue about dinner in the mellow, reassuring glow of the kitchen.
Big Boy rushed headlong into the waves, chasing seagulls.
Mustering all my courage, I ran after him, wading out through the swell and then surging forward in clean strokes. I was amazed I remembered how to swim; a thrill ran through me as my body floated over the crest of a wave, its spearmint clarity cool and refreshing. I dived as the ocean crashed about me. Coming up for air, I screamed at the top of my lungs and the surf embraced me with a thunderous roar of its own.
A strong rip sucked me out towards the horizon as memories of Stephen and my father brought hot, salty tears to mingle with the salty water. For a moment I saw Stephen’s vibrant brown eyes wrinkled with laughter, his white teeth catching the sun as he ducked and rose in the translucent green, his strong, tanned shoulders ready for anything. I yelled at him like a madwoman, bellowing into the heaving air.
‘How could you have risked everything?’
‘How could you abandon us?’
I saw my father dive to touch the sand and bring up seaweed, dark and thick, which he threw high into the deepening sky.
‘Why did you go out that day? You’re a fisherman – you know the sea,’ I screamed over the thumping breakers.
I cursed them both, shouting foul words of fury, howling until my voice was hoarse.
I turned and swam and kicked and breathed until I’d caught a crystal wave and its force carried me with a fierce energy towards the shoreline.
As it broke I tumbled through the frothy, swirling white and emerged, eyes stinging, lungs burning, and saw Big Boy lunging at the water’s edge, barking furiously, tail wagging like a demented feather duster.
I headed out again into deep water, swimming once my feet could no longer touch the sand that heaved and shifted below. I caught another wave, and then another. The misty sun dropped into the sea, blazing pink, setting the clouds alight. The surf pounded, echoing against the vivid ochre cliffs.
I swam until my skin was wrinkled, pale, and stars began to prick the soft velvet sky.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My heartfelt thanks go to the brilliantly gifted Roberta Ivers, Managing Editor at Simon and Schuster Australia, who has guided the way with her astute suggestions and insight. Without her I would not be here. Her notes shaped and improved the manuscript at every turn, and she has taught me so much as a writer. She has made the process of bringing The Lost Swimmer to fruition a joy. I also owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my wonderful publisher Larissa Edwards, for her encouragement and belief in picking up this book as my debut novel.
Thanks, too, to editor Claire de Medici, who cleverly tightened the manuscript and focused the themes, and made it so much better. And thanks to Carol Warwick, Senior Marketing and Publicity Manager, for her amazing efforts and advice, and to all the team at Simon and Schuster for their hard work behind the scenes that has been so crucial to the book’s release.
I would also like to thank my patient readers of drafts: Jenny Sweeney and Katie Edwards, childhood friends who have helped me on the journey through all these years and have given such skillful comments and enormous support; and Julie Wells, Carmel Reilly, Rivka Hartman, Rajyashree Pandey, Myles and Kathy Vinecombe and Mary Damousi for their feedback and encouragement. For her enthusiasm, comments, and always dropping in at exactly the right moment to really help, I thank Kerry Landman.
Annette Blonski needs a big thank you for suggesting I follow my love of literature and write novels. So too does my late father Dick Turner for making the same observation, and my late mother Margaret Turner who supported my writing efforts from my earliest years, including furnishing me with a set of The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, and having the foresight to give me a teenage Christmas present of typing lessons, both of which proved to be inestimably useful.
For their professional help along the way I would like to thank Nicola O’Shea, whose feedback was truly valuable, Iain McCalman for his advice and generosity, Chips Sowerwine and Susan Foley for their help regarding archives in Paris (all mistakes are my own), Warwick Anderson for his medical guidance regarding broken ribs (again, all mistakes are definitely mine), Andrea Rizzi for his assistance regarding Italian police, Mary Tomsic for her cheerful administrative help, and Phillipa McGuinness for her positively fateful suggestion of editors.
A huge thanks to Mary Beard for permission to use quotes from her inspiring book Pompeii, The Life of a Roman Town (Profile Books Ltd, London, 2008) – ‘If you bugger the accensus, you burn your prick,’ and ‘I wish I could be a ring on your finger for an hour, no more . . ..’
I also acknowledge the many bookshops that I have frequented. Many of my favourite authors I discovered while browsing, or came recommended to me by the knowledgeable owners and staff of the beautiful book-lined stores.
And finally, my love and thanks go to my fellow traveller, history professor extraordinaire Joy Damousi, for her inestimable inspiration, invaluable advice and boundless support and optimism through the writing of this book.
Ann Turner 2015
BOOK CLUB NOTES
1 Rebecca Wilding recalls the words of a fifth-century BC Greek philosopher – ‘that you could travel a thousand miles and never notice anything’. She refutes this by noting that ‘surely powers of observation would eventually take hold?’ How does this connect with events throughout the book and is observation purely subjective depending on situation and mindset?
2 What is the significance of the title The Lost Swimmer? Does it have more than one interpretation?
3 What is the significance of the landscape, both urban and natural, in The Lost Swimmer? The book traverses the Australian coastline, heads to Greece and Crete, the Amalfi Coast, Venice and Paris – is it a reflection of the different characters and does each place reveal a new secret about the characters as they travel? These places also have romantic connotations. Could these places be replaced with any other parts of the world or is the setting crucial to how the story unfolds?
4 The sea is an important element of The Lost Swimmer and it could almost be considered a character. What is its nature and does it affect the characters? If it does, how do the different characters interact with it?
5 Professor Rebecca Wilding is an archaeologist. She sifts through the physical evidence of history to piece together the past. Is she able to use her professional skills objectively to reveal what is happening with her marriage and her husband?
6 What is the significance of the comet? How does this scene set up a sense of foreboding and deepen the feeling that something is not quite right in Rebecca’s usually stable world? What other events in the novel add to this sense of foreboding or suggestion that something bad is going to happen? How does this add to the atmosphere or mood of the novel?
7 The story is told from Rebecca’s perspective so it is always her point of view. Can her point of view be trusted, and as a reader do you ever doubt her or feel less than sympathetic to
her situation – both at the university and while she is travelling?
8 Loss of trust is one of the themes explored in The Lost Swimmer, but this is also juxtaposed with the theme of forgiveness. How do these two ideas play out? Does it lead the characters to some kind of redemption or self-realisation at the end of the novel?
9 What is the significance of the scene when Rebecca’s dog, Big Boy, attacks Bonnie’s joey and then turns on his owner? Does this scene signify a shift in the direction of The Lost Swimmer? Bonnie and her joey appear again towards the end of the novel – is this a symbol of another shift in the story?
10 Betrayal is another theme woven through The Lost Swimmer. How does this add to the thriller element of the novel? Does it feel as if all the characters have a secret to hide or are covering up their own agenda or motives as to why they are behaving the way they do? In what ways does this theme of betrayal play out within the novel?
11 The Lost Swimmer is an emotional thriller throwing up clues, scenarios and behaviours of characters. People and events are not always what they seem. Are some of these clues red herrings or do they all lead to the final conclusion?
12 The visit to the Grotta Verdi introduce Rebecca and Stephen to the crazed boatman, the White Spider. What is the relevance of the reference to Charon and how does this feed into the tension and mystery that unfolds?
13 Stephen’s disappearance heightens the tension that echoes throughout the novel and it throws up many questions for Rebecca and about Rebecca. How do you feel she deals with the secrets that are revealed to her and her reaction to Stephen’s fate?
14 The ending of The Lost Swimmer is surprising in many ways due to the twists and turns of the plot. Does it create more questions to be answered or considered?
If you enjoyed The Lost Swimmer, you’ll love Ann Turner’s new novel Out of the Ice, coming soon to a bookstore near you in 2016. Read on for a sneak peek at the first thrilling chapter.
‘Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.’ Unknown
1
Penguins the size of small children, plump black and white bodies, robust little wings, propelled out of the sea and flew high on to the pack ice, chattering wildly beneath an Antarctic sky so vast and pale and clear it looked like it might shatter at any moment. The air was freezing but there was no wind, so I hauled off my polar-fleece jacket and shivered in my T-shirt, relishing the freedom after being indoors at base. Through the long winter months when the sun was just a lonely glow beneath the horizon I’d taken a stint as Station Leader, making sure the machinery and skeleton staff of plumbers, engineers, carpenters, doctor and cook kept whirring along. It was exhilarating to be back in the field, drinking in the sparkling light.
The Adélie penguins waddled across a bare outcrop and through a gap in a temporary fence housing a small metal weighbridge, where each bird was automatically weighed. They crossed to the rookery on the stony hill behind, calling for their partners in a piercing shrill, creating an impenetrable wall of noise. I watched in awe as mate recognised mate, rubbing soft white chests together, tipping back their smooth black heads and stretching beaks to the sun, crying notes of pure joy. Mutualling – a heartfelt greeting after months at sea. They had reached the end of their long, annual migration. Spring was finally here.
Migratory. We were all migratory. I felt a deep melancholy as I witnessed the mass display of affection. Adélie penguins mate for life, something I’d yet to achieve. I was thirty-nine and single again. I had no one to come home to: unless you counted my mother, which I did not. And unlike me, Adélies are house proud, building nests of stones. There was much pecking as birds tried to steal each other’s pebbles, rushing in and plucking them up, dashing away, getting chased.
Kate McMillan, an ornithologist and close friend, had just arrived for the season. A lanky 185 centimetres tall, thirty-three years old, she was pale skinned and freckled, with a shock of unruly red hair that shimmered in the sun. She was doing a fine imitation of Charlie Chaplin as she fell into rhythm with the waddling penguins, causing no disruption as she placed coloured rocks on to the ground for them. Red, blue, orange, yellow.
I looked down at my tablet and watched the images being streamed by the huge fixed camera that we’d set up yesterday with the help of our base engineers. Built like a tank in hard grey steel, the camera was programmed to swivel randomly to record the breeding cycle. It zoomed in to an enormous close-up of a penguin eye, black with a white rim around it, as the bird snapped up Kate’s red stone. Then it zoomed back out to the chaos of the rookery where fights were erupting over the new pebbles. The penguins were completely trusting of our presence. Their predators were in the sky and sea, so they held no fear of us. Like all wildlife in this pristine wilderness the Adélies hadn’t seen the awful destruction humans were capable of inflicting. It was a land of innocence.
Suddenly there was a huge close-up of my face. Behind sunglasses, my expression was ambiguous, even though I was happy. My dark hair was looped up messily; my olive skin pale from not having seen sun since April. The camera zoomed out – I was tall and technically not overweight but I was reminded how much digital images could fatten one up. I must do more exercise now the warmer weather was here.
The camera swivelled back to the penguins. I took notes. Today I was carrying out an Environmental Impact Assessment on how the camera might affect the Adélies. Trained as a marine biologist, I had made my name studying the relationship between penguins and their tiny crustacean food, krill, in the Southern Ocean. Then I’d spent a decade with my true loves, cetaceans – researching families of whales and dolphins – before undertaking a second doctorate in environmental science to ensure I stayed competitive. Antarctica was the one underpinning strength of my life, and I’d do anything to be here.
I was down this time on an eighteen-month contract with the Australian Antarctic Division, the longest I’d had – normally it was a twelve-month gig, but I’d taken the Station Leader position in the middle. It would be my final summer before I had to go back to Victoria. Having been in the ice for a year already, there were a few quirks setting in. Kate said I had the look – like I was gazing through to a far horizon. I knew it in other winterers but I hadn’t realised I had it myself. Even when you’re surrounded by a small group of people in Antarctica, you’re still more on your own than anywhere else. The landscape is broad and wide and your vision runs to it. You live in your head, the present can flow to the past – you spend hours reflecting. The other day I’d gone outside missing my left boot, and it was only when Kate laughed that I was toasty I realised I was standing in my sock. Toast is what the Americans call ice fever – when you start to burn out and the mind plays tricks. Everyone gets a bit toasty over winter, but I was generally fine.
Although I’d almost forgotten what the other world looked like. And best of all, I was on leave from my university in Melbourne where I’d torched a few bridges, which I knew meant I’d be stuck at Associate Professor level for some time. I adored my team of fellow scientists but I’d had a blow-up with a group of the most senior professors in my department. I shuddered at the thought. I was in no hurry to get back, even though I was passionate about my Antarctic Studies program that was growing more popular every year. I loved this generation of students. They looked at people directly, judged you for who you were in that moment, so different to the baby-boomers, who were always nosy. What do you do? Are you married? Do you have children? The students didn’t take jobs as a birthright, unlike the old worn academics, too scared or greedy to leave, huddled over their posts like fat spiders. Of which my mother was one. Cristina Ana Alvarado, Professor of Spanish Linguistics and Culture, stalwart of her School; a proud migrant success story.
We were Spanish, and sacrifices had been made. In Extremadura in Western Spain, cherries grow in abundance in Valle del Jerte. That’s where my Granny Maria was born and raised, and my Papa Luis, a place so beautiful they never wanted to leave. But they were te
n years old at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, and were sent on a boat to England in 1936 in a desperate attempt to keep them safe. Their parents perished in the war, killed by Franco’s brutal Nationalists. Maria and Luis, heart-broken, yearned to go home to the little family that was left, but it was too dangerous. They grew up in London and as young, exiled adults they married, and my mother Cristina came along in 1951. That’s when they vowed that whatever happened in their homeland they would stay in England to make a better life for her, a decision that sat heavily. Cristina felt responsible, and always tried to outperform. But she shattered their dreams when she met my Dad, Mike Green, a young medical intern from Adelaide, who swept her off to Australia.
Dad was from establishment stock, and going through a belated hippy phase. I arrived on 25 January 1977, two weeks after their marriage on a wild stretch of South Australian beach, much to the shame of Granny Maria and Papa Luis.
My childhood in Adelaide was perfect. We lived in a small house on the waterfront at Grange, a windswept seaside suburb. I learned to swim by the old wooden jetty and each summer pods of dolphins would arrive, ducking and weaving through the pale green waves. I’d run with the local kids along the beach, keeping up with the sleek grey fins as they rose and dipped. And sometimes there’d be another fin, one that stayed on the surface, cutting through the waves in a thick black silhouette. A shark; a white pointer. At weekends there’d be a tiny plane that would circle the sharks and crowds of swimmers would flee, screaming, onto the baking sand. And when the tide was low I’d lie in warm pools, telling stories of dolphins and whales in faraway oceans to my friends.
All that changed when Dad, who’d excelled as a researcher in biological medicine at Adelaide University, found a promotion in Melbourne and we had to leave. I was devastated. I was nine years old.