Learning to Swim

by Clare Chambers

  ‘Remind me to give you some honey to take home with you,’ my hostess said as we returned to the fray. ‘Do you like honey? Of course you do.’ On our way we passed Rad and Anne’s brother, Neil, heading in the opposite direction. I caught Rad’s eye and he winked at me – an utterly uncharacteristic gesture which made me blush to my shoulders. Mrs Trevillion deposited me at the marquee before making her excuses and hailing a new arrival. ‘You’ve just rescued me from a peculiar friend of Anne’s,’ I heard her whisper. I plucked a glass of champagne from one of the circling waitresses and drained it, feeling the bubbles bursting in my nose. I couldn’t see any of the others so I picked up a plate and joined the queue for the buffet, putting on the nonchalant expression of someone who has been only momentarily separated from her partner. I drank another glass of champagne while I was waiting, and then another. There was an intimidating amount of food on offer. The servers seemed to be competing with one another to clear their dishes: my plate was full before I was even half-way round. There would be no room in the Trevillion fridge for nail varnish.

  I couldn’t see a spare seat under cover, so I made my way back outside and found a niche on a wall between two pots of white geraniums. I looked at my watch. It was only a quarter to ten. I was just wondering how I was going to fill the rest of the evening when Frances arrived with a brimming plate and squeezed in beside me.

  ‘Twiglets,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘Where’s Nicky?’

  ‘Probably getting drunk somewhere. He’s found his own stash of champagne. Where’s Rad?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Oh ho.’ Frances gave me a significant look. ‘I bet I know who he’s with.’ Her confidence was dented a moment later as the subject of her suspicions emerged, Radless, from the house and made her way towards us. The hem of her dress was down at the front and every few seconds she would catch her foot in it and stumble. Stiff strands of hair were beginning to escape from her french pleat.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, slipping a chilly arm through mine and pulling me off the wall, ‘but I want you to meet someone. One of Neil’s rowing friends keeps asking me who the girl with long hair is, so I promised I’d introduce you. He’s a really nice person,’ she added, which didn’t give me great hopes as to his appearance.

  ‘Is he very tall?’ I asked.

  ‘No, about average,’ she replied puzzled.

  ‘Oh, good, then I can take these off,’ I said, removing my shoes and allowing my poor, crushed toes to uncurl in the cool grass. I left the shoes on the wall beside Frances, who was busy clearing my plate.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you and Rad a couple?’ said Anne, as we passed the marquee. ‘I did ask Frances, but she just sort of laughed hysterically.’

  For a moment I contemplated a blatant lie: if she knew Rad was available she’d be after him like a greyhound with an electric rabbit. But then again any prior claim of mine might not be a great deterrent. She owed me no loyalty, and had the air of someone used to getting her own way. Still, there was no point in making it easy for her.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I said, with a meaningful look and she gave me a sympathetic, knowing, woman-to-woman smile.

  ‘What’s complicated?’ said a voice directly behind me, and I almost fainted with embarrassment as Rad poked his head around the tent flap, an amused expression on his face.

  ‘Nothing. Everything. I can’t stop,’ I stuttered, pointing after Anne who was striding on ahead. That would teach me to be devious. ‘I’m going to meet an oarsman.’

  ‘A Norseman?’ said Rad as I fled.

  ‘I hope he didn’t hear all that,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. That would really complicate the complications,’ said Anne innocently. I had a feeling she’d rumbled me. ‘That’s Frank,’ she added, pointing to one of the dinner-jacketed types I’d seen earlier having trouble with the waltz. ‘He’s at Cambridge.’ She’d just caught his attention and was waving him over when she stopped suddenly, her grip on my arm tightening. ‘Oh shit. What’s he doing here?’ I followed her gaze and saw the boy in jeans who’d been sitting in the apple tree. He was loitering at the edge of a group, half-smiling and bobbing up and down as though he was part of the conversation, which he patently wasn’t. He didn’t look altogether sane.

  ‘I saw him earlier by the hives,’ I said.

  ‘I wish they were killer bees.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘My ex-boyfriend, Grant. I told them to put someone on the gate to keep him out. Shit shit shit. Frank, this is Abigail. Can you look after her?’ she said to my appointed guardian, who had advanced, champagne bottle in hand. She turned on her heel. ‘I’ve got to go and find Dad and Neil. Sorry.’ And she picked up the dangerous hem of her dress and walked briskly back the way we had come.

  ‘Hello Abigail,’ said Frank, filling my glass.

  ‘Hello.’ He had a big freckled face and an accent, a friendly one. What was it? Canadian?

  ‘You look a bit cold.’ Irish. It was a warm, reassuring sort of voice and, besides, I didn’t fancy him, so I could relax.

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘Evening wear for men and women seems to have been designed for two different climates. Have you noticed that?’

  ‘You need thermal undies,’ he said. ‘Or terminal undies, as my granny calls them.’ He tested the temperature of my goosepimpled arms with the back of his hand. ‘You can have my jacket,’ he said gallantly. ‘Though it’s a shame to cover up your pretty dress.’ He helped me into it, and I stood there with the tips of my fingers protruding from the cuffs, like a ten-year-old in a school blazer that will have to last the next five summers. With my shoes off and a jacket on it was the first time I’d felt comfortable all evening.

  ‘You’re at Cambridge,’ I said. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Rowing mostly. Drinking. Cricket in the summer.’ He looked me up and down. ‘You should do some coxing, you know. You’ve just the build for it.’

  ‘Thanks. I think.’ I wasn’t used to having my body described in terms of ‘build’. It made me think of a chimney stack, or a silo. ‘I can’t swim anyway.’

  ‘That’s all right. You don’t get thrown in the river every day.’ He refilled my glass which seemed to be empty again. I decided I rather liked him.

  ‘I meant what subject are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, I do a little history between hangovers. They keep threatening to kick me out, but I’ll keep my head down next year and claw my way up to a two-two, you’ll see.’

  ‘Claw your way up to a tutu?’

  He laughed. ‘Now what about you? You don’t row. I don’t suppose you play cricket. What do you find to do all day?’

  ‘I’ve just left school. I’m waiting for my results – I’m going to the Royal College of Music in September.’ It would be a while before I started to define myself as a cellist or a musician.

  ‘I don’t know a bloody thing about music,’ Frank said cheerfully, and then out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Is that your boyfriend over there staring at us?’ I turned round to see Rad leaning against the wall and looking over Frances’ shoulder towards us with a sour expression on his face. He’d walked off before I could wave. ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s my friend’s brother. I think it’s Anne he’s after, actually.’

  ‘Really? He’d be well advised to keep clear. Her last boyfriend ended up as mad as a hatter.’

  The crackle of a loudspeaker and the sudden boom of music from the marquee warned us that the disco had started.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ asked Frank. ‘Or not?’ He inverted the bottle and the last trickle of champagne foamed in the bottom of my glass.

  ‘Why not?’ I said, feeling suddenly happy. I was eighteen, barefoot, slightly drunk and without a worry in the world.

  We followed the general drift towards the tent and peered inside. I was almost as unsteady without my shoes now as I had been earlier wearing them. The chairs and tables had been cleared to the p
erimeter and a few people were already jigging around on the dancefloor. Stacks of flashing lights pulsed in the corners, throwing distorted shadows on to the canvas walls. As my eyes grew accustomed to the flickering I spotted Nicky, his arms and legs moving rhythmically, though not alas to the rhythm suggested by the music.

  ‘I quite like dancing,’ Frank was saying in my ear. ‘But I always have the feeling that if a load of Martians landed and saw this weird and totally pointless activity they’d think we were a pretty primitive species.’

  ‘I feel much the same way about cricket,’ I said.

  He looked genuinely shocked. ‘And I was just thinking what a nice girl you are.’

  Anne’s brother, Neil, came up looking agitated. ‘Where’s Matt?’ he demanded.

  ‘Dunno. Why?’ said Frank.

  ‘I want him to keep a lookout near the back gate. I’ve just chucked Anne’s ex out and if the wanker tries to get in again I’m going to smack him one.’ He marched off, fists clenched. Frank sighed.

  ‘The mad boyfriend I was telling you about. I suppose I’d better try and prevent bloodshed,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice talking to you.’ He gave me a kiss on the cheek and headed after Neil. ‘Don’t go home with my jacket,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It’s hired.’

  Nicky caught my eye and danced over. ‘Come on Eileen,’ thumped the music. ‘Come on Abigail,’ said Nicky, grabbing my hand and pulling me on to the floor.

  ‘Where’s Frances?’ I bellowed in his ear. He gave a careless shrug, palms up. Oh ho, I thought. A row. My bare toes felt rather vulnerable in such close proximity to the dancers’ clodhopping feet, but I couldn’t now remember what I’d done with my shoes. Nicky’s erratic movements were in any case proving effective at clearing a space: anyone who strayed too near was likely to be accidentally clouted.

  Dexy’s Midnight Runners had given way to Madonna. ‘Like a vir-ir-gin,’ Nicky sang at me with an infuriating smirk. I turned my back on him and he gave my head a condescending pat. ‘Only joking,’ he wheedled, and then dug me in the ribs and pointed through the throng towards one of the tables, at which Rad was sitting alone, arms folded, a bored expression on his face. ‘Look at the miserable old git,’ he laughed, wiping a sweaty fringe from his eyes. The heat was starting to build up. ‘Come on,’ he yelled, when after some arm-waving he had finally secured Rad’s attention. ‘Come and dance.’

  Rad curled his lip in disdain. Mr Darcy, I thought. Wasn’t he brought to his knees for just such a slight? Emboldened by this precedent I approached the table. The sneer modulated into Rad’s usual look of disapproval. There was a momentary lull between records as the DJ fumbled the changeover.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ he said, sarcastically.

  ‘Nice haircut.’

  We glared at each other. ‘You didn’t waste much time,’ he said, nodding at Frank’s jacket.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The music erupted again, drowning his reply.

  After a few bellowed exchanges of ‘What?’ ‘Speak up’, Rad stood up. ‘Let’s go,’ I lipread, and he propelled me back out into the garden where it was now cold and dark. Little galaxies of fairy lights glittered in the branches and a yellowish glow spilled from the house as far as the croquet lawn. A strong breeze was tugging at the women’s dresses and snapping the loose flaps of the marquee.

  ‘What were you saying in there?’

  ‘I was saying it didn’t take you and that Irishman long to get into each other’s clothes.’

  ‘That Irishman!’

  ‘Whatever his name is.’ There was a pause. ‘Frank,’ he capitulated.

  ‘We didn’t exactly get into each other’s clothes. He only lent me his jacket because I was cold. You wouldn’t have offered.’

  ‘I’m not wearing a jacket,’ he protested. ‘You want me to take off my shirt?’

  ‘It’s Nicky’s shirt anyway.’

  ‘Oh-oh,’ said Rad, seizing my elbow. On the steps below the french windows Anne was standing peering into the gloom, evidently trying to locate someone. ‘Have you seen Rad?’ we heard her ask Neil, who was trying to light a cigarette into the wind.

  ‘Quick,’ said Rad, pulling me into the summer-house and closing the door. It was warm and dry inside, with a musty smell of sunbaked wood. I brushed one of the bench seats that ran around the walls and great flakes of white paint chipped off in my hand.

  ‘Here.’ Rad passed me a faded cushion and we sat down, a few inches apart, listening to the muffled sounds of the party.

  ‘Don’t you like her?’ I asked. ‘Frances thinks you do.’

  ‘Frances doesn’t know anything. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘She’s a bit too blatant,’ he said. ‘She keeps sending her friends over to interrogate me. They seem to think I’m going out with you.’

  ‘I don’t know where they got that idea from.’

  ‘No. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ We laughed and shook our heads over this example of human folly, and then silence descended like a thick fog.

  ‘It’s quarter to eleven,’ I said, finally, looking at my watch. ‘It feels as though it ought to be later. Or earlier.’ Moron, I thought. Fortunately I appeared to have got away with it.

  ‘I’m probably going to regret this,’ said Rad.

  ‘Well, don’t do it then.’

  ‘But I might regret it if I don’t. Do you mind?’ And before I had a chance to reply he leaned forward and kissed me.

  This is Rad, was my only thought.

  ‘There. I’ve been meaning to do that for ages,’ he said, as if kissing me was another tiresome chore, like getting his shoes reheeled, which could be ticked off the list. ‘Now you’re probably going to slap me round the face or say something completely crushing.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ I said, still too stunned to come back with anything clever.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ He kissed me again, more confidently this time, and even as it was happening I was already memorising every detail of the moment so that I would be able to relive it a thousand times in my imagination. As he pressed against me his shirt buttons must have got caught up in the threads on the front of my dress because when we pulled apart there was the popping sound of breaking cotton and hundreds of tiny jet beads clattered to the floor. Rad started trying to retrieve them, and then gave up. Every time I moved more would shake loose. ‘You seem to be disintegrating, Abigail,’ he said, smiling at me from the floor. And then he looked puzzled and said ‘Abigail’ again in an abstracted sort of voice, as if trying to refamiliarise himself with a word which suddenly sounds strange. When he stood up there were two round patches of dirt on his trousers where he had been kneeling. He took a step towards me and then stopped. ‘I can smell burning.’

  At first I thought he was joking, and I was about to come out with some resounding cliché about it being my heart, but he wasn’t listening.

  ‘The shed’s on fire,’ he said, plunging through the door. I followed him, scattering beads. Flames were snaking around the base of the shed, and an orange glow from inside showed that they had already taken hold.

  ‘Hey!’ Rad yelled up the garden, over the pounding music. ‘The shed’s on fire!’ A few people who were just emerging from the orchard saw the flames and came running across the lawn towards us, then thought better of it and went haring back up to the house to raise the alarm. Within seconds there was pandemonium: screaming, running feet, and a crowd of people hovering helplessly. The music had cut out abruptly and everyone came spilling out of the marquee to watch the drama. ‘Haven’t they got a garden hose?’ someone was saying, but any reply was drowned by the explosion as the petrol in the bikes caught, the shed windows imploded, and great sheets of flame unrolled over the roof. The crowd shrank back. In a matter of seconds the shed was engulfed.

  Neil pushed his way to the front. ‘My bikes,’ he shouted, distraught, pitching himself towards the burning building. He was restrained from this suicidal rescue-mis
sion by a couple of his friends who dragged him clear.

  ‘It’s that fucking wanker Grant’s done this,’ he ranted, to anyone who would listen. ‘Grant,’ he yelled into the darkness as though the arsonist might still be hanging around. ‘You’re dead!’

  The wind was blowing the flames dangerously close to the marquee, and sparks were showering down on the canvas. ‘That’ll go up in a minute,’ Rad said. This observation was heard by Mr Trevillion, who was standing near us, comforting a sobbing Anne. He took command.

  ‘Get this thing down,’ he ordered, upon which a dozen or so of us, glad to have something useful to do at last, set about dismantling the marquee with more haste than method. Guy ropes were ripped up and stakes wrenched out, and after a minute or two the whole structure swayed and sank forward like a woman in a crinoline falling down drunk. There had been no time to take up the floor or even remove the tables and chairs. It later emerged that Nicky had been stretched out asleep on a row of chairs at the time. He had woken to find himself almost smothered and in total darkness, and had been forced to crawl around the perimeter underneath the tables, like a rat, in search of the exit. Mr Trevillion, Frank, and some helpers were busy tearing down a panel of fencing at the side of the garden to give the fire engine closer access than was available from the front of the house. The fire brigade arrived with a scream of sirens just as this was completed. Ribbon hoses were unfurled like party banners and within five minutes the shed was reduced to a blackened, steaming skeleton.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Rad. ‘They won’t want people hanging around now.’

  ‘What about Nicky and Frances?’

  ‘I told Nicky ages ago that they’d better be back at the car at midnight if they wanted a lift, but he was probably too pissed to understand. To be honest I couldn’t care less if he has to walk home. He’s such a liability when he’s had a few.’

  I recovered my shoes by the wall. Someone had planted them, toes down, in one of the pots of geraniums. For some reason they didn’t feel nearly so uncomfortable now. Halfway down the drive I remembered I was still wearing Frank’s jacket. There was no sign of him near the house, so I went round the back again and hung it from the branch of a cherry tree.