Night Swimming

by Doreen Finn

  Cradling her cheek, she got to her feet. Her sandals had been tossed aside and she didn’t bother putting them on. Without a word, Beth left the room, barefoot. From the kitchen, I heard Gemma ask her something, but only silence lingered in the wake of her departure.

  

  The next morning, Daniel and I made an extension to the hideout. We dragged a huge discarded cardboard box over the wall from the lane, and somehow managed to add it on to the corrugated roof. It wasn’t perfect and we knew it wouldn’t last past the first rain, but it worked for now and it made the den bigger. I had lost interest in the hideout, to be honest, but it suited me to be there because I didn’t want to see Beth. Besides, I liked being with Daniel. There was no pressure to be anything other than myself, and he didn’t think about such things as my mother and Chris, or even notice that maybe something was up.

  Daniel had his jars of insects placed beside him while he read. Mrs Sullivan had brought him to the library earlier that day. Daniel had got a book out for me, a mystery story, and this now occupied me. I tried my best to keep Beth’s words out of my head, but every so often they slithered back in, unbidden.

  So much was happening, and my mother was not herself. Possibly it was the weather, which was affecting everyone in different ways. Mrs Doherty next door must have read most of the bookshops and libraries in Dublin dry by now. The milkman had taken to wearing nothing but shorts and a T-shirt under his white milkman’s coat, something Mrs Sullivan said was a disgrace. She said to Sarah that she had a good mind to report him to the dairy, but Sarah said to leave him alone, he wasn’t doing any harm. The owner of the pigs had started watering the pigs, even though it was illegal to use water like that, but he said, when we asked, that if he didn’t then they’d overheat, burn their skin and die. And no one wanted that to happen. ‘There’d be no sausages or bacon if the pigs died, would there?’ The man laughed at his own words, but Daniel went pale. He hated eating meat because it was cruel to the animals. Daniel was determined to be a proper vegetarian when he grew up, as well as an entomologist and a pilot. He’d have been one already, only his mother said it was nonsense and that he’d starve if he didn’t eat any meat. Daniel didn’t really think he’d starve, but Mrs Sullivan always took it personally whenever he said he didn’t want to eat meat any more. Her face took on a look, all tightened lips and furrowed brow, her arms folded in disapproval. She and Daniel reluctantly came to an arrangement: no pork, no beef, just chicken and fish. Daniel told me that he’d work on getting out of eating both of those eventually. The big problem was what else could he have instead? Beth offered Judith as a guide. Judith knew everything there was to know about food, and eliminating meat from the diet was a minor problem as far as she was concerned. Judith had even started to provide Mrs Sullivan with recipes that cut out meat, while remaining delicious. Mrs Sullivan had been hesitant at first, circumspect about this new departure in family meals. She gave in eventually, though, because Daniel was her favourite. Her good boy. He made sure to give his mother extra hugs for the effort she was making.

  It wasn’t just the food served in the Sullivan household that was changing. Gemma was different now, and I wanted to believe it was the heat, but it was more than that. I could see things for myself. Chris Jackson, with his blond hair to his shoulders, his sandals and jeans, his records and his Southern drawl had somehow bewitched my mother.

  I’d always hoped that I was enough for Gemma. Even though I was young, I wasn’t stupid, and I knew she was lonely. She shouldn’t have been; Gemma was beautiful, young, talented. But she was a mother without a husband, and for some reason that made a big difference back then. She told me once that a girl she’d been in school with, who had grown up down the road, had stopped being friends with her after I was born. The girl’s mother had said Gemma was a bad influence and didn’t want her around. That made me sad. Anyone could see how nice my mother was, how good and kind she was. Sarah said we mustn’t judge others, that we should always look inside ourselves first and see what we lack that makes us fear other people. It was good advice, but not always easy to follow. Chris saw Gemma for who she was, and that made it difficult for me to be annoyed with him and impossible for me to dislike him. He saw her beauty, yes, but he also saw her intelligence, her talent, her fierceness. But love, the love that Beth had mentioned, was another thing entirely, and it worried me. If Chris was in love with Gemma, it changed everything. I tried to blot it out. Maybe if I didn’t think about things, they would go back to the way they were. If I could forget about the silver bracelets, the fish charm, the tiny stud earrings, they would cease to exist. Perhaps.

  Daniel looked up from his own book, a mystery that was similar to mine. ‘Do you like the book?’

  The pages were cool beneath my fingertips. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘We can swap when we’re finished.’

  ‘Okay.’

  It was so easy being his friend. I never felt I had to watch out for what he was going to say, didn’t worry about his misinterpreting or misreading signals.

  The water I had brought in a milk bottle had warmed slightly. Through a gap in the cardboard, the sky was visible, a clear pure blue, the blue of paintings and photographs. In those moments the hideout felt like exactly that: a sanctuary, an escape.

  Then Beth had to ruin it all by finding us.

  

  ‘This is cool!’ She didn’t ask if she could come in, just pulled aside the makeshift door and flopped down beside me. ‘Your mom’s wondering where you are.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t know where you were.’

  Beth didn’t say a word about what I’d done. It was shaded in the hideout and her face was shadowed, but I could still make out the dark bloom of a bruise on her skin, right above her cheekbone. I fancied I could see the marks of my fingers, my imprint, but maybe I was just imagining it.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  Her laugh was short. ‘Where else would you be? If you’re not at home, you’re with Dan.’

  ‘It’s Daniel.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘It’s not. No one calls him Dan. You’re not allowed to.’

  Daniel was never called anything but his full name, which means God is my judge. In the Bible, Daniel is famous for his wisdom and his righteousness. He was well named, Gemma remarked to Sarah when I delivered the history behind my best friend’s name. Not sure about the father, though, referring to Daniel senior. Sarah replied that it was just as well they shortened it in his case, because Daniel’s father had been short on wisdom and righteousness, and then they both laughed. Possibly, that was why he forgot to come home. If he had been wiser, he wouldn’t have got lost.

  Daniel’s mother called him and he scrambled to get to her, almost bringing the cardboard extension down in the process.

  In the quiet that followed his departure, I resumed reading. If Beth wanted to apologise, she could do so; there was no way that I was going to say sorry.

  She reached over and touched Daniel’s insect jar. It rolled on its side, rocking the ladybirds on their leaves. ‘What does he see in all these bugs?’

  I kept on reading.

  ‘Megan.’

  I ignored her.

  ‘Megan.’

  The page flicked between my fingers.

  Beth put her hand on my book and pushed it to the ground. ‘Stop ignoring me.’

  ‘I’m not ignoring you. I just don’t want to talk to you ever again.’

  ‘I’m sorry. For what I said about your mom. About Gemma.’ She sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t even mean it. I was just angry.’ She touched her fingers to her face. ‘And you won anyway. Look at this.’

  ‘I don’t care. You deserved it.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘I was just angry with your mom.’

  ‘Why? She hasn’t done anything to you.’

  Beth lo
oked surprised. ‘But she has.’

  Anger suffused me, but I held onto it, didn’t allow it to surface. Kept my hands to myself. I was surprised at myself, at the way rage broke through me so easily. It was new to me, that feeling of being angry enough to smack someone. I felt responsible for my mother, had a primitive need to defend her. If I couldn’t take her side, who could? Sarah was away. Besides, Gemma was my mother. It was because of me that people felt they had a right to make careless, throwaway comments about her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Megan, I really am.’

  I remained quiet. From somewhere nearby I heard the hiss of a hose, furtive and muffled.

  She jostled my arm. ‘Megan. I’m talking to you.’

  I wondered what it would be like if we were in a real hideout, somewhere in a jungle, hidden by a double canopy of leaves. It wouldn’t be any hotter than it was here.

  Beth blew air from between pursed lips. ‘Boy, you don’t make it easy, do you? It was wrong to say that about your mom and I’m sorry.’

  I regarded her squarely. Her eyes were darkened in the dim light. ‘Why did you say it?’

  ‘Because I’m pissed off right now. With her, with my dad, with my mother. If we hadn’t come here, none of this would be happening. Your mom has done something to my father and it’s not fair.’

  ‘Gemma hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘Maybe she hasn’t done any actual thing, but my dad is obsessed with her.’

  Slamming the covers of my book shut, I leaned towards Beth. ‘Don’t be so stupid.’

  ‘But he is! The first thing he does when he comes home from his classes is go out into the garden. And I know it’s because he wants to see if she’s there. My dad is forty-five. Forty-five! He’s practically old. It’s so embarrassing.’

  Forty-five was old, I agreed with Beth on that. But it wasn’t Gemma’s fault if Chris liked her.

  ‘Do you think they’re doing it?’

  She confused me. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘ It. You know, having sex. Doing it.’

  The thought repelled me. Gemma wasn’t doing anything with Chris. No way.

  ‘She isn’t. They’re not. Not a chance.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re wrong.’

  ‘Want a bet?’

  ‘Sure. Fifty pence says I’m right.’

  We shook on it. I had no idea where I’d get fifty pence if I was proved wrong, but there was simply no way Beth could be right. It was impossible.

  ‘Want to come out tonight? We need to use the pool.’

  It was true. We’d gone to all that trouble, three hours to fill it, and so far we hadn’t used it. We had checked on it the day after filling it, and after we’d scooped out the remaining leaves and twigs from the surface, it looked like any other swimming pool. Cool, blue, inviting.

  Daniel parted the cardboard flaps and crawled back inside. He had a bottle of lemonade. There was a hiss as he twisted the cap. Suddenly, I was very thirsty. He held the bottle out to Beth and me. ‘Want some?’

  Beth took a swig. ‘We’re going to swim tonight. Proper night swimming.’

  Daniel looked at both of us. ‘Okay. I don’t mind. What happened your face, Beth?’

  ‘Megan hit me.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘No, she didn’t! She never hits anyone.’

  Beth fingered the swelling on her face. ‘Well, she hit me.’

  Daniel turned to me, still laughing. ‘Did you really?’

  I shrugged.

  Beth nudged me. ‘But we’re friends again.’

  I shook her off. I wasn’t ready yet to be fully friendly towards her, not after what she’d said about my mother.

  ‘Are you coming, Megan?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Oh come on . I’ll throw stones at your window.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll see.’ I took the lemonade bottle from her and drank too much. The liquid fizzed in my nostrils and my throat, and I coughed. ‘Gemma and I are on our own, and I don’t want to leave her.’

  Beth laughed. ‘Why? She’s a grown-up. And she won’t even notice if you’re gone.’

  ‘But what if she did notice?’

  ‘How could she?’

  ‘All she has to do is look in on me.’

  Beth shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’m going anyway, so if you want to come, I’ll be out. I’m going to ask Stevie too. It’s not like we’ll be far away. If your mother calls you, at least you’ll hear her. And what’s the point in having a pool if we don’t use it?’

  I nudged Daniel with my foot. ‘Will you definitely go?’

  Daniel held up his insect jar, tapped very gently on the glass with his index finger. ‘Maybe. I don’t want to worry Mummy. It’s my dad’s birthday today and she’s feeling a bit sad.’

  I wanted to say something to him, but the words would not allow themselves to roll off my tongue. Daniel didn’t talk about his father, for the same reason. Things that are too huge for words can be like that: easy to think about, but impossible to put into a conversation with others. Often it can be easier to say nothing.

  My reticence seeped into the stifling heat of the hideout. Despite the cardboard’s shade, it was too hot, and the three of us had almost no room to move. I stretched out my legs, knocking the bottle over, spilling the contents. Beth jumped up, her head hitting the cardboard roof, sending its tentative structure into disarray. The rush of fresher air when the taped joints split apart was welcome, though, and the three of us laughed.

  ‘Come out tonight, Megan,’ Beth said, shaking my arm. ‘We can have fun. Come on. Don’t be a baby.’

  That irked me. ‘I’m not a baby.’

  ‘Then come out with us. I’ll throw a stone at your window when I get up.’

  The prospect of the cooler night air and the freedom of being out and about was tempting. The lure of the pool, so welcoming, so cold, so near, was more than I could withstand. And Beth was right: what was the point in all that work filling it, if we weren’t going to use it?

  33

  At first, it was the sound of splashing water. Then a whisper, followed by another. Next came laughter, muffled.

  I wondered if I’d been dreaming. My single sheet was too much for me and I pushed it away. My pyjamas were flimsy cotton, but still I was too hot. The curtains covered the open windows, and I got out of bed and pushed them to the sides. It made little difference to the heat in the room. Back in bed, it was impossible to sleep.

  Then I heard it again. It was only a faint splashing sound, but it was definitely water.

  The creaky step yielded to my weight. My bedroom, eight steps up from the bathroom, was close enough for me to hear the plumbing, which was ancient, emphysematic. The door was open, the mottled glass of the panels shining with tiny imperfect lights. Candles. Gemma had lit candles.

  Again, the sound of water, the barest splash. Gemma was having a bath. Sarah, the gatekeeper of water usage, would be horrified by such extravagance. So as not to give my mother a fright, I hesitated before I called her name. Then a voice that was not my mother’s said something, laughed softly and was shushed. By Gemma.

  I suppose I had been waiting for that moment of clarity. In hindsight, it was obvious. Like a reel of old film, patchy and shaky, the other times ran through my head. Gemma at the canal, her magenta skirt like a bright flag among the weeping willows. Gemma walking along the trail by the river in Wicklow, her camera around her neck. Gemma’s new earrings, tiny shining studs of silver. The new bracelets, the new dresses.

  Maybe I should have been angry with her, annoyed that someone else was getting her attention. Probably it would have been better to be angry, but all I felt was sadness. My mother, my beautiful, young, talented mother was lonely.

  The man who was in the bath with her, however, was the opposite. He had everything: a wife, a daughter, yet still he sought out my mother, my fragile mother. In a way, I hated him for that, for seeing her loneliness and using it for himself. Who knew, possibly Chris Jackson loved my moth
er, but he was still greedy. He had his own family, yet still he was reaching over into ours, dipping his hand in and taking what he wanted.

  The sound of water running, the squeak of the old tap as it was turned off again. The plink of rogue drops. I smelled lavender. Gemma’s bath oils, an expensive gift from her friend Ruth. Gemma eked them out, made them last a long time. I imagined my mother, up to her neck in forbidden bathwater, drifts of lavender bubbles reaching to her chin. I saw her hair, piled on her head, stray strands floating on the surface of the water. I didn’t want to think about Chris, either in or out of the bath. Beth’s words raced into my mind before I could stop them. I think they’re doing it.

  Slowly, the whispers in the bath separated into words. They distilled themselves on the hot night air and travelled to where I was caught, on the third step, frozen. So many words that I had to put my hands to my ears to stop them from making sense. Words that should not have been spoken to my mother, not by a man who could not make good on his promises and for whom his words were just words.

  Words like beautiful girl. Words like sweetest Gemma. Words like you are incredible.

  I needed to move. To go back to my room would be to trap myself. I chose the other option and went downstairs as quietly as I could, my hand slipping easily over the polished banister. From the kitchen, I saw a sheaf of white hair in the garden. A raised hand. Beth. Moving onto the deck, I whispered her name. She lowered her hand.

  ‘I was just about to throw the stone. Are you coming?’

  My swimsuit lay over the back of a chair. Hurriedly, I pulled it on, first throwing my pyjama bottoms on the table.

  The boys waited for us in the lane. The night was black, all light swallowed by the darkness. We slipped out the door in the wall. The stars were scattered like muted glitter and the waning thumbnail moon had disappeared. Out on the main road, a taxi swished by and was gone. I fancied I heard the snuffle of pigs, but they must have been asleep, worn out from the heat and waiting for the abattoir.

  The pool was navy ink and we slid into it with barely a ripple. It held our four bodies and it still had plenty of room for us to move around. The cold made us all gasp at first, but quickly it enveloped us, soothing our overheated bodies, calming us. We made a concerted effort to be quiet, so there was little splashing, no diving, nothing to disturb the hush of the night. We were mermaids, we were sirens. We swam blindly underwater, we grabbed each other by the ankles, we thrashed our legs, and we did it all without making noise. No one knew we were there. The silence, the blackness of night, gave us a freedom we had never managed to procure before, and it intoxicated us and made us drunk.