by John Burke
Mrs. Westwood watched them getting ready. Her lips were tight. She was in the plan and she had wanted it this way, but already some strand in her mind had twisted and she was filled with mistrust. Paula had made no contact with Mrs. Westwood: the woman was alternately fussy and artificially poised, and neither mood was true. It was impossible to penetrate to the real person — or was it, Paula wondered, just that she had been too keenly concentrating on Sam Westwood to be able to see what his wife was like?
‘Going out on the water on a day like this?’ she rasped. ‘You’ll catch your deaths.’
‘It’s a glorious day,’ said Sam. He looked like an irrepressible boy defying his haggard mother — yet there was nothing jovial or exuberant in his manner. He merely did what he wanted to do, and let arguments or protests fall away around him. ‘It’ll be beautifully calm along the creek.’
He was right. Coarse reeds stood up from the water without a tremor. The grasses along the edge, faded to a winter pallor, were still. As the canoe nosed away from the decrepit landing-stage, the plop of paddles was the only sound until the first faint wave reached the bank and started the reeds whispering.
The canoe was a two-seater, painted blue. Paula found it alarming to be so close to the water: it seemed that the slightest rocking motion would dip one side or another below the surface. But Sam, behind her, said: ‘We’ve been out to sea in this. Rides like a seagull.’ He matched his paddle as closely as possible to her uneven, clumsy rhythm. ‘All right?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
She soon fell into the swing of the movement. Gently she swayed, plunging the double-ended paddle in to the right, to the left, watching the bow ripple and feeling the light body of the canoe quiver around her as she and Sam dipped vigorously together — dipped and thrust, urging the blue shell down the creek towards the sea.
He was humming gently to himself. Every now and then he rested, and she rested with him, hypnotized by the broadening spread of smooth water into which they were gliding. The greyness of the world was soothing. It was a cold day, but not too cold: in slacks and a pullover she felt warm and indifferent, skimming without problems, without a past or future, across this clouded mirror.
Sam said: ‘Reminds you of the old days?’
‘The old days,’ she said doubtfully. She was reluctant to be dragged back to awareness of her position, to the need for concentration and calculation. ‘Well . . .’
‘The boat,’ he reminded her, ‘at Bray.’
‘Yes, of course.’ It was surely safe to add: ‘This is a size or two smaller, though.’
Sam’s stroke slowed. His paddle rose from the water and lay across the canoe. Water pattered from the blades.
‘Do you mind it being so much smaller?’
‘No,’ said Paula; ‘I like it.’
‘A lot of things must seem . . . contracted.’
Not being able to see his face, she could not tell whether there was any special meaning in the words. His voice conveyed nothing: it was the usual level whisper, echoing the reeds along the creek.
She said: ‘It doesn’t do any harm to live like this — for a while.’
She had not meant to add the last three words, but they were suddenly forced out of her. It was as though Roger had stood behind her and twisted her arm, insisting that she acted instead of simply drifting.
As soon as she had spoken, she drove her paddle down. On the second stroke Sam was with her. Ahead of them the green banks splayed out and the creek was swallowed up into the sea.
‘You think it’s time we had a change?’ Sam asked.
‘Mother won’t be happy until —’
‘Your mother,’ he said, ‘won’t be happy whatever happens.’ It sounded curt and callous; but he went on unexpectedly: ‘That’s my fault. A lot of things are my fault.’
‘But —’
‘Never mind.’ He was increasing the tempo. Their paddles clattered together, and the canoe rocked until they were in unison again. ‘Forget it. Don’t spoil the morning.’
She was glad to be a coward. She was glad to preserve the cool contentment of the morning and to drive the canoe forward, feeling the play of her muscles and the leaping vitality of the light craft. It was fantastic that she should feel so safe and secure with him in spite of the falsity of the situation. Questions thrust aside, she could be at ease with him again immediately.
Perhaps — the thought came to her out of the blue — this security was what Roger Westwood was really searching for. Perhaps he had never had it. Barbara had always been the one: it was Barbara who had drained her father of his love and vitality, leaving none for the others.
She could easily hate Barbara.
‘Hadn’t we better turn back?’ she was asking suddenly. The sea was reaching in with long fingers, lifting the surface of the water in a gentle swell.
‘Let’s go on out.’
‘Today? But we’ll get turned over.’
‘Not in this,’ said Sam. ‘You can’t capsize these things.’
‘With waves like those out there —’
‘All right,’ he said cheerfully; ‘let’s turn back.’
At once she changed her mind. If he wanted to go out, they would go out. She could not bear to shatter the spell.
She said: ‘No. Press on, Sammy.’
He did not try to persuade her, but accepted the decision gratefully. She felt the force of his strokes as the canoe drove on, rising and falling now in a new rhythm. Invisible behind her, he might have been a strong, athletic young man. She could not visualize him as the frail person she had known these last few days.
‘Enjoying it?’ he said.
‘You bet.’
She wanted to tell him more — wanted to explain the full richness of her enjoyment, and confide in him everything about her childhood and marriage and life in London, seeking understanding and wisdom from him . . .
The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. For he would not be able to grasp what she was talking about. He would be baffled by Paula Hastings. The girl in the boat, who was so close to telling him these things, was his daughter Barbara.
I wish, she thought; I wish . . .
The bow of the canoe rose, tottered, and fell in a sickening swoop over a wave. Water sprayed around her head as they dived into the trough.
Sam laughed.
‘Better swing round. Run along level with the shore, against that current.’
The sleeves of her thick pullover were wet. The cold on her wrists was raw. As the canoe rocked, she missed one stroke of the paddle completely, and fell forward. Her mouth was abruptly full of salt water. She coughed wildly.
Sam said: ‘Getting a bit rough. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so choppy. We’ll go back.’
They were plucked up by a wave, suspended above the waters for a fraction of a second, then thrown dizzily forward. The canoe swung and rolled, shipping water.
‘No,’ Sam was shouting hoarsely. ‘We won’t get round. Keep her straight. Head for that wave.’
She drove them towards the oncoming wave. They breasted it and went smoothly down the other side. It was so effortless that she laughed and wanted to sit back. She had time to look round, and see that they were level with the shore. It looked so close — a twist of the paddle, and they ought to be there. But the sea was too powerful and ruthless.
A man was walking along the sea wall, his face turned towards the sea. He stopped; went on; stopped again.
Paula said: ‘Isn’t that your friend from the inn?’
‘Where?’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, young Collier? I think it is.’
There was no time for further comment. They were tossed high and dropped again. Sam was making swift stabbing movements with his paddle, seizing whatever opportunity offered to keep the canoe turned into the waves.
‘Can’t get back to the creek,’ he panted. ‘Head for river mouth below Easterdyke. Get round the groyne there.’
It was terrifying, yet at the same time exciting. The waves
were not really very high; the shore was not far away; it was only the frailty of the canoe that made everything so huge and overwhelming. But they could die. It would take so little to kill them now.
The woodwork groaned, and the canvas made a strange singing sound. Water flooded across Paula’s lap. She was drenched. It meant nothing. She drove her paddle down, and still they were moving forward.
The long wooden groyne that marked the entrance to the river seemed to be no more than a hundred yards away. If they could turn the canoe round and inside it without capsizing, all would be well. The heavy surge of the sea spent itself there, and smooth water lay inside the slight curve of the harbour. It was just a matter of making the turn.
From the corner of her eye, as they breasted a wave, she caught a glimpse of Adam Collier. He appeared to be waving and shouting. She could not believe that he was in the same world as she and Sam Westwood: he was a distant puppet, dancing up and down.
They were level with the end of the groyne. Spray licked up the slime-green tower with its lamp column. It was strange to be caught in this turbulence of water when there was so little wind.
‘All right,’ said Sam comfortingly. ‘Take it steady. Catch that next wave and then pull her round, and aim at the old coastguards’ hut along there. Right? . . . Hit it!’
Ten strokes, perhaps, and they would be in shelter.
She drove down. They swayed sideways but remained incredibly afloat. Again, again . . . Madly she wanted to laugh.
Then water hammered down on her head. She felt the side of the canoe forcing her hip over, rolling her into the water, down and under, twisting her round. Her hands gripped the paddle, then let go. She pushed herself backwards, scrabbling to get her legs out from the bows.
There was a splash of daylight, and she sobbed for breath. Then she rolled under again.
She did not know what was happening — whether the canoe was being rolled over and over, whether it had cracked open, whether they were simply being buffeted from side to side . . . all that mattered was to free her legs and escape from the trap.
Suddenly she had kicked herself away. She surfaced, and gulped for air. A wave lifted her with a smoothness that was ironically consoling. Then the heaviness of her sodden clothes began to draw her down again.
A few feet away floated the twisted blue hull, wrenched into a queer new shape like some animal with its back broken.
Paula struck out towards it, and grasped a torn shred of canvas. Her fingers closed on a wooden strut. She pulled herself up and over the floating body, thrusting it down with her weight but still keeping close to the surface.
Where was Sam Westwood?
Air rasped in her lungs. She was sobbing convulsively to herself. She looked round, seeing the groyne a short distance away, but not seeing a head above water.
Someone was clambering along the groyne from the shore.
Then she saw Sam. His face floated, a shred of white wrack on the dark surface of the water, and one arm groped vainly upwards.
She struggled out of her woollen pullover and the clinging wet slacks. The wind, light as it was, bit into her flesh. She waited until she saw Sam again, drifting away from the canoe in a direction that would carry him beyond the groyne and out to sea; and then she pushed herself off.
She reached him in half a dozen strokes, and got her right arm round him, pulling him over on his back. He gaped and gasped, and struggled feebly against her.
They had not been her favourite lessons, those one-hour sessions at Sollenbury Public Baths each week: she had dodged many of them, particularly when rehearsals were on for the school play; but she had learnt enough. She was able to draw him with her as she kicked backwards, bobbing spasmodically towards the drifting, half-submerged canoe.
The canoe grazed her left shoulder. She reached up, missed, got a temporary hold and almost wrenched her shoulder out of joint. Then, somehow, she was holding on as they were nudged and prodded by the confused currents towards the wooden beams of the groyne.
There was a shuddering impact as the canoe jarred into a green, barnacle-encrusted timber. Above it, leaning down, Adam Collier was shouting something unintelligible.
Paula shifted her grip. One leg was ground painfully against the jagged beams. She felt her hold on Sam Westwood slackening. Then she was wedged against an upright, and her toes had found a foothold. Water lapped and spluttered around her, rising in a steady green surge and then hissing away, sighing, down through the crisscross pattern of woodwork.
She pushed herself up. Adam Collier had his arms under Sam’s shoulders and was lifting him free. She tried to help by pushing upwards, but there was no strength left in her.
‘All right,’ Adam was panting. ‘Now you.’
Without him she could not have managed that last scramble. Now that she was safe, she was finished: she could not have climbed the five or six feet to the top of the groyne.
When she got there, she swayed against Adam. It was incredible that anyone could be so warm and, despite his labours, so dry. She leaned on him, the tweed of his heavy jacket harsh against her breasts. Her underclothes were transparent, plastered to her skin.
Adam said: ‘We’ve got to get along this thing to the land. Think you can make it?’
They bent over Sam. He was leaning perilously forward, moaning. He coughed, and spat water. Adam put one hand on his shoulder to keep him steady.
‘Think you can manage?’ he asked insistently.
Sam shook his head. Gradually he appeared to realize where he was. With a painful effort he got to his feet. Adam held on to him.
Paula made herself stand upright. Her teeth were chattering. She took Sam’s other arm, and together she and Adam led him forward. They picked their way over the crosspieces towards the shore. The groyne seemed impossibly narrow from here, running away to a point ahead of them. To fall either way would be to plunge into the water.
The lurching journey was interminable. Paula did not know how they kept Sam on his feet: he was hardly conscious, but there were reserves of dogged determination in him that kept him going. When the collapse at last came, it would be complete.
The wooden arm was, after a nightmarish few minutes, linked with the sea wall. They reeled off the wooden pathway on to solid ground. Sam sank to his knees.
Already there was a car waiting: somebody had seen them and sent for help.
‘Good girl,’ whispered Sam. They were bundling him into the car. He sagged, then made a great effort. His mouth was quivering with the cold, but from a great distance he said: ‘But you can’t swim. You never could.’
It was absurd. ‘At school,’ she groaned, falling into the car beside him and drawing a rug around her.
‘You hated it. You never would learn.’
‘I hated it,’ she said, ‘but they taught me something. It came back when I needed it.’
He coughed agonizingly, then tried to clutch her hand and squeeze it.
‘Barbie,’ he murmured. And then, with an oddly querulous note: ‘Barbara?’
*
Sitting in a dressing-gown in front of the fire, she looked much more at home here than he did himself. Her cheeks glowed in the leaping redness of the flames. There had been a book open on her lap when he came in. Anyone would have said she belonged here.
Roger stood over her. ‘You mean to say he was nearly killed?’
‘We might have been drowned,’ she calmly agreed.
‘But the things he knows about the stuff — the things we want to get out of him —’
‘Lost,’ she nodded. ‘That would have been the end of that.’
The mere thought of it made him feel sick. All his plans had been so nearly ruined. He wanted to lash out at someone; and his throat was thick with fear.
He said: ‘Was it . . . an accident?’
Her chill grey eyes widened. ‘What did you think it was?’
‘There wasn’t anyone around — anyone who could have tampered with the canoe or . . . o
r anything?’
She was staring at him unwaveringly as though he were some idiotic younger brother who had said something particularly foolish. She did not even bother to answer. He wanted to smash something through that arrogant face of hers; wanted to make her realize — just in case she had forgotten — who belonged here and who didn’t.
Something snapped. He began to shout. ‘What the hell did you think you were up to? You’re not here for a holiday, mucking about in boats. And don’t just sit there like that. You were given a job to do. All you’ve done is . . . is —’
His mother came into the room. ‘Be quiet,’ she said. ‘Your father will hear you. You don’t have to yell like that.’
‘Don’t I? I drive down here to see how things are progressing, and I find he’s nearly been killed. And here she is, taking it easy, not a care in the world.’ He leaned threateningly over Paula. ‘Has he said anything yet? Have you got anything out of him?’
He had lowered his voice, but he could still feel the shuddering of rage within himself. And she went on looking up at him as though he had no business to be here.
‘Not a word,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’
His mother said: ‘It was a mistake. The whole thing was a mistake. It sounded all right at the time, but it’s not going to work.’
‘Who says it’s not?’ he demanded.
‘She’s up to something.’ His mother was staring vindictively at Paula.
Roger did not know what she was talking about. Then he seemed to see Paula for the first time since his return. The dressing-gown fell away from her throat and shoulders. The line of her neck was emphasized by the fact that she had drawn her wet hair up into a bun at the back of her head after washing the salt out of it.
His mother’s gaze awoke in him the awareness of the shape of Paula’s body — of its breathing existence here, in this house. He shivered once, instinctively. And then he understood what else she meant.
He said: ‘You don’t mean you think . . . for heaven’s sake, what’s got into you?’
‘There’s something going on,’ she said sullenly.
‘But he thinks this is Barbara. You must be out of your mind.’
Paula lowered her eyes at last. Incredulity flecked her brow with light furrows. As though to herself she said: ‘You’re all of you out of your mind, I think.’