Night Swimming

by Steph Bowe

  Mr Pool is on the footpath, a shopfront on wheels next to him, complete with doors and windows. I walk around: the other side of it has shelves, and is painted to look like the inside of a shop. He pats his forehead with a hanky. It’s a cold day in June but he has clearly overexerted himself pushing this up the hill.

  ‘Thought you kids would like it for your play. Put it together when you were taking a break, Kirby.’ Mr Pool nods at Iris. ‘She painted it, suggested making it a surprise.’

  ‘I did originally volunteer to paint sets,’ Iris says. ‘I have some flowers up at the restaurant to put on the shelves. We just have to be careful when we spin it around. You would’ve had it sooner but it took a really long time to paint.’

  Clancy hugs Mr Pool. Mr Pool is visibly uncomfortable. Clancy steps back, thank God. ‘This is perfect, Mr Pool. Thank you. Thanks, Iris.’

  Mr Pool nods. ‘Didn’t take that long. Is that your costume?’ Clancy is wearing his wig and dress. It’s a dashing combination. Clancy beams.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ I say, before Clancy has a chance to go off on a tangent. ‘This is amazing. How much did it all cost? We have to pay you back. At least for materials.’

  Mr Pool shakes his head. ‘It’s a gift. Hold on to it for your next thing. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t stick around for the play. I’m not one for singing.’

  ‘No worries,’ I say.

  Mrs Hunter puts her hand over her face as we manoeuvre the shopfront through the pub, knocking over chairs on our way. Once it is in place at the end of the room, Clancy steps back and admires it. ‘This is magnificent. Help me update the script so everyone knows when to move the set. I’m keeping this at my house when we’re done.’

  Iris and I don’t have a moment alone. We don’t have a moment when Clancy isn’t directing us to adjust costumes, or make Stanley settle down (it’s possible he has stage fright). But there’s a connection between us. That sounds stupid, but I can feel it.

  Judy swans in with such an attitude I almost forget she’s the woman who works in the bakery; she seems like a genuine artiste. Mrs Kingston arrives with a selection of wigs, some back-up costumes and her knitting bag, just in case. Mr Jameson, it turns out, has been sitting at the bar all afternoon. His performance will be interesting. Clancy gets more and more agitated the closer we get to 7 p.m., until he’s freaking out and I have to talk him down.

  When we hit seven, Clancy goes calm, like a switch has been flipped. It’s sort of creepy. He puts his wig on and tells Nick, who is hovering at the back by the light switch, to instruct the audience to turn off their phones. Mrs Kingston changes her wig. Mr Jameson finishes the last of his beer. Judy is talking to Irini at one of the tables. Clancy gestures for her to come backstage. He speaks in a serious tone to each member of the cast. He gives us the thumbs up, and then everyone except Mr Jameson and me heads onstage (that bit at the end of the pub, to the left of the pool table).

  I look out from the wings (through the plastic strips in the archway to the beer garden) and see Mum and Grandad at the nearest table. Mum is leaning back, arms crossed, looking worried. Grandad seems to be enjoying himself. Nathan and Claire are at the next table, Nathan sculling a beer. Claire is nodding and smiling. Both Iris’s and Clancy’s parents are supposed to be busy in their respective restaurants, but I can see Clancy’s dad standing way up the back, and I think his foot is tapping. Most of his patrons are probably in the pub tonight, anyway.

  Clancy is a born performer, and he knows it. He’s relentlessly confident, even in the poorly lit pub with a mostly unimpressed audience. He even manages to draw a few laughs. Iris is a great singer, but she isn’t an actor. She did tell us that. Judy overacts terribly. Mrs Kingston appears consistently confused. Mr Jameson is perfect despite (or perhaps because of) the drunkenness. When his scenes conclude, Mrs Jameson’s whistles from the audience are deafening.

  Then I’m on. My scenes pass in a blur, and end with Iris accidentally killing me and feeding me to the plant. I stumble over my lines and I sing out of tune, but Iris carries us. Me being eaten by the person-eating plant is really me wrestling Stanley back into his pot. Grandad claps, possibly because he’s confused. I am too. Offstage, I can hardly contain my laughter, and neither can Iris. It’s just the two of us. Clancy is singing onstage, Mrs Kingston and Judy as his back-up singers, and Mr Jameson is hiding over by the pool table, so he can enter the next scene from stage right. I’m filled with adrenalin and, even though I was terrible, I’m sad it’s over.

  I lean against the wall and catch my breath. Iris leans beside me.

  ‘Stanley’s pretty talented,’ says Iris.

  ‘I taught him everything he knows.’

  She grins at me. She is stunning, even in her ridiculous nerd-boy costume.

  And then we’re kissing. I don’t know who starts it. I feel like it was Iris but it might have been me. And I am grinning, grinning, grinning, too, which sort of gets in the way, but I can’t stop myself.

  Me, in costume as a biker dentist. Iris, in glasses and suspenders and a bowtie. We must look absurd, and it’s this thought that makes me come back into myself, thinking what if someone sees? Clancy would find out. He already has his plan: Iris and him. Iris and me just would not compute in that worldview. His feelings would be seriously hurt and our friendship would be threatened. Iris is the loveliest and it’s not fair, none of it, but I’m not going to do anything to betray Clancy. You have to make sacrifices for your friends, especially your best friend from forever.

  All of these thoughts are going through my head very, very quickly. I am making arguments and counter-arguments and counter-arguments to my counter-arguments. I should not date Iris, because Clancy’s feelings would be hurt, because he told me he liked her. But Iris did pick me. The fact that Iris picked me means she didn’t pick Clancy, so Clancy wouldn’t be with her anyway. And it’s likely she’s gay. But I haven’t asked her if she is gay. And she could go out with boys, too. And if I did not go out with her, Clancy might be her second option, and then she and Clancy could get married, ride off into the sunset, et cetera, and I would not hurt anyone’s feelings. No. I would still hurt Iris’s feelings. But the feelings of my lifelong best friend should come first, shouldn’t they? Loyalty and all that? I don’t ever want to lose Clancy as a friend, which I might do if he finds out about Iris and me, and I can’t date Iris secretly because I’ve read enough Shakespeare to know that never works out well.

  I admit it’s convoluted.

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ I mumble. ‘I can’t. I, I, I feel awful. I’m sorry. I don’t think we should go out. Anymore. If we were. Or at all, if we weren’t.’

  Iris just stares at me. I can tell she is trying not to appear upset. She drops her hands back to her sides, steps back and says, ‘I understand,’ in a way that makes me feel even more horrendous.

  She goes back onstage, and I am standing in the beer garden, alone.

  Iris is gone before I can apologise properly. Clancy is still engaged in serious conversations with drunk patrons about his directorial debut when I leave with Mum and Grandad, and I can hardly talk to him about Iris, anyway. Even with the lacklustre response, he’s on a high. Mrs Jameson is eliciting praise from the audience for Mr Jameson’s performance. Judy is indicating that she really deserved a starring role. Mrs Kingston has gone home so she can catch Midsomer Murders and have a cup of tea.

  ‘Well,’ says Mum, once we’re in the car. ‘Well. A lot of enthusiasm. A lot of…pizzazz.’

  Grandad is staring out the window. Sometimes he just disengages. On this occasion, I understand why.

  In my room, I open the letter. I’m feeling so awful that I’m prepared for further awfulness; I am ready to wallow in self-pity. A mean letter from my mean, absent dad will help me with this. What I have, instead, is a letter devoid of emotion. Handwritten, but nothing personal about it.

  Dear Kirby, he begins. This is a good start. This is better than Dear Miss Arrow.

  Thank y
ou for your letter. What does this even mean?

  I would be happy to meet you for a coffee next time you find yourself in Sydney. The fact that he is willing to meet with me is a good thing, but I almost never go to Sydney. I certainly never just find myself there. That sounds like something an amnesiac would do. Maybe he’s counting on this. I don’t even drink coffee.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jack

  That’s it, except for a phone number and a work address. It reads like a form letter. And it certainly doesn’t help me to wallow. My stomach churns, but it’s more anxiety than misery.

  I head downstairs for a cup of tea, and discover someone has left a lamington on the bench. I eat it in three bites. It’s jam-less, so it’s not as nice as it could be. Clancy’s ridiculous metaphor comes to mind. Maude hovers, waiting for a shred of desiccated coconut to fall in her direction.

  ‘Like a bloody seagull, you are,’ says Mum, walking into the kitchen as I finish the last mouthful, her glasses pushed back on her head. I don’t know whether she’s talking to me or Maude.

  I swallow as I put the kettle on. ‘Can I ask you some hypothetical questions that are clearly thinly veiled references to events in my own life?’ I ask.

  ‘You can,’ she says, taking up her usual position at the table. ‘Can’t guarantee I’ll be helpful.’

  ‘Yeah, I figured.’ I want to tell her about the letter but I can’t quite get the words from my brain to my vocal cords.

  ‘You’re seeing that girl,’ she says, not looking up.

  I get a spike of panic. ‘How did you know? Could you tell? In the play?’

  Her glasses are back on her nose. She tilts her head towards me, and fixes me with a look. ‘Do you reckon I don’t notice when someone climbs a ladder up the side of the house? This is not a well-built house, Kirby. Walls are pretty bloody thin.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I have not got in trouble since I was a child; I have no idea what she’s going to say next. Will I be grounded, like in an American film? Seems unlikely. ‘I suppose this is a good opportunity to let you know I’m not keen on boys.’

  ‘Christ, with the selection of men in this town I’m amazed anyone female is not a lesbian.’

  ‘Mum.’ She is not treating this with the necessary gravitas at all.

  ‘I’m joking. I know that’s not how it works. You have to admit your announcement is not exactly a bombshell.’

  ‘It’s not?’ This is not in the slightest how I expected this conversation to go. I don’t really know how I was expecting it to go. Such sudden openness of communication, I realise, is an excellent opportunity for me to ask about her relationship with Nick. I am in such a state of disbelief, however, that I cannot properly form the words.

  Mum shakes her head, gives a half-smile. ‘I’m glad for you, about Iris,’ she says. ‘If it’s a serious thing I hope the girl has plans to go places, do something with her life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘So you can go with her. I don’t want you marrying someone whose life plan involves staying in the same place all her life.’

  This is the first time my mother has made reference to me seeing anyone, and certainly to marrying anyone. This is extreme. Fortunately, she’s back to her spreadsheets, otherwise she’d be able to see my absolute shock.

  ‘I’m not seeing her,’ I say. Anymore. Nor was I really seeing her to begin with. I can’t bring myself to tell Mum what an absolute disaster I’ve made of everything.

  Mum just nods. ‘Go ask Nathan your hypothetical questions, would you? I’ve got a bit to get through here.’

  And just like that, she returns to normal.

  It’s the night of Nathan and Claire’s engagement party, the middle of July. Clancy comes over to get ready with me. I think he’s trying to angle his way into the bridal party in the hope there’ll be some wacky shenanigans he can participate in. It’s been a few weeks since our play and, despite being busy with schoolwork and the restaurant, he’s desperate for a bit of excitement. Weddings are always a highlight in Alberton.

  Every time he mentions Iris I am conscious of the need to appear normal, to not give away the fact that I have kissed Iris on two separate occasions and would very much like to again. This doesn’t matter, of course, because I have vowed not to. In the name of loyalty. Now I’m committed. For the past few weeks, I have pretended to be exceptionally busy with my work at Mr Pool’s in order to avoid seeing Iris; as a result, she and Clancy have spent a great deal of time together, alone. This, combined with hiding behind cars when I see her in Main Street, means that I have not spoken to her since the night of the play. Clancy reports he has yet to make a move, despite the fact that my bizarre behaviour has given him ample opportunity. Somehow he hasn’t noticed that I hide behind a menu every time I visit Purple Emperor, afraid Iris will see me from across the street.

  It is now accepted fact in town that Clancy was responsible for the crop circles, given the suspicious correlation between the crop circles stopping and the play being put on, as well as Mrs Worthington’s testimony that she saw him on the property and fired a ‘warning shot’. Clancy has vehemently denied involvement to anyone who will listen. His resentment of being the subject of town gossip is at odds with his desire to be the centre of attention. I think he’s enjoying his infamy, at least a little, despite being unfairly accused.

  I help Grandad into the shower, while, on the other side of the bathroom door, Clancy rambles on about aliens and Iris and small-town gossip. Grandad only showers twice a week now. Mum read that elderly people’s skin gets thin and fragile and that showering every day would increase the risk of tears and infections. Last time she took him to the city for tests, she got a whole lot of pamphlets: ‘How to Care for the Elderly’, ‘Life Changes’, and all that. I’ve decided that old age isn’t that different from puberty, really; your body changes so much that it’s almost like you’re someone new, and you can never go back to who you were before.

  Grandad isn’t the sort of person who thanks you. In our family, a lot of things are just assumed, but it doesn’t worry me, because I know that I’m important: if I weren’t here, who would bring Grandad his breakfast and dinner, and wash him and walk with him and keep him company in the evenings? And he’s important, too: what would I be doing if he weren’t around?

  ‘That man did a terrible job with my hair,’ he says, staring in the mirror as I help him towel off. ‘Spent hardly any time at all on it.’

  I’m confused. ‘What man?’

  ‘The barber,’ he says.

  Grandad has not had his hair cut by a barber in years. Mum gives it a trim occasionally, but she hasn’t done that for months. He doesn’t have much hair anymore, apart from the tufts from his ears and nose which I sometimes help him trim with the electric trimmer. He must be dredging up an old memory.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Right.’ I stare at the age spots and tiny scars on Grandad’s back, trying not to think of the many ways in which Grandad is just a shadow of the person he used to be, trying to appreciate, nevertheless, that he’s here and he’s healthy and he’s happy. He still knows us. He can still do the things he loves to do, like watch the news and read the paper and go for walks. He’s only lost his short-term memory, that’s all. Not the core of who he is. I couldn’t bear it if he lost that.

  After Grandad’s shower, I change out of my jeans and T-shirt and into my dress. It’s odd, and a bit sad, putting it on, remembering the day Iris chose it. As it is so out of character for me, I’m also worried I’ll look ridiculously overdressed. In Alberton, wearing jeans to an engagement party would not be out of place, so I consider changing back. But I stick with the dress: I can’t be bothered wriggling out of it again. And, despite everything, I would like Iris to see me in the dress.

  Clancy is shocked. ‘What a metamorphosis,’ he says. ‘Like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. Only your accent’s still terrible.’

  ‘Stop it. More like The Very Hungry Caterpillar. That
book taught me that binge-eating would lead to being a babe.’

  He laughs. ‘And what do you know? It did.’

  He combs his hair and reties his tie, while I try to apply make-up, squinting into a compact. Only when I look at my face really close up do I realise how bizarre faces are. It’s like saying a word so many times it stops meaning anything. I keep staring at my eyelid and wondering why an eyelid ever seemed like a normal thing to me. It’s a piece of skin that you move back and forth over your eye! It’s bizarre! Then I realise I’ve been staring at myself for minutes, not actually putting on make-up.

  ‘You know Rowan Jameson is home for the school holidays? Mrs Jameson told Mum he’s got a cricket scholarship to the Australian Institute of Sport,’ Clancy announces. He keeps rearranging one piece of hair at the front of his head. It makes very little difference to his appearance.

  ‘Yeah, my mum heard, too. Good on him.’

  ‘It’d be nice to escape like that,’ he says, staring over towards the window. The golden hour just before sunset is coming to an end, the light slowly fading in the square of sky.

  I accidentally poke myself in the eye with the eyeliner. My eye begins to water. I blink. ‘I don’t get why you hate it here so much. It’s nice. Safe.’

  ‘Exactly. I want more than a “nice”, “safe” life, Kirb. Some of us would like a bit of excitement. New horizons. Although, I wouldn’t call cricket exciting, but still. When we played at school he chucked the ball at a hundred miles an hour. Almost took your head off. I used to think he was being a shit, but maybe it was pure athletic prowess.’

  ‘Remember when he used to call you Gay Clancy? As if there was another Clancy he had to distinguish you from.’

  ‘Yeah. It was the intention that hurt, not the name—I didn’t care if people thought I was gay. I don’t hold it against him. He had no appreciation for musical theatre, and a tendency to stereotype. He was a shit of a kid, but he got over it. Everybody grows up sometime. Except us. I’m not going out of my way to talk to him if he comes to the party, though. Look, you’re butchering your eye make-up. I’ll do it.’