by Suzanne Leal
Relief pumps through his body so fast he finds it hard to keep his hand from shaking as he replaces the globe. ‘So, I’ll teach you then,’ he says.
Joan
Her sleep is fitful and she finds herself awake before first light. As she lies in bed, waiting for a hint of sunlight to push through the curtains, she thinks about him. About Sid. It is not the first time she has found herself thinking about him. To be honest, she has spent a lot of time thinking about him.
She imagines the rock pool and how it will be when she meets him there this morning.
She can’t swim, that is true enough, but she does have a swimming costume. She just hasn’t worn it in years. Not since she and her mother would take the bus to Raleigh Beach and spend the morning there, just the two of them, paddling in the water.
It’s not a fancy swimming costume: it’s just plain black with a built-in bra. At the time, she’d hankered after something bright, striped or even floral, but black was always going to be the sensible choice, especially for a woman of her shape.
Once it is light, she gets out of bed and starts to get ready. She lifts the nightdress over her head, steps out of her underpants and ventures a glimpse in the mirror. Yet again she is dismayed by what she sees: breasts spilling down to a stomach that falls over itself, thick veins running down legs that no longer narrow nicely at the ankles.
She could cancel. She has his telephone number. She could give him a ring to say she doesn’t feel up to it. A raincheck. She could ask him for a raincheck. He wouldn’t mind. Sure, he’d say, take a raincheck, that’s fine.
But her mother won’t let her off the hook so easily. Joanie, she says, you’re going. No ifs, no buts, you’re going.
So instead of cancelling, she steps into her swimming costume. Pulling it up over her stomach, she lifts the straps over her shoulders as she drops her breasts into the bra insert. She flinches as she turns back to the mirror.
But this time what she sees surprises her. It would be too much to say she looks sleek, but it wouldn’t be wrong to say that the swimming costume has given her a different body: in it, her breasts are high and her stomach has flattened. Heartened now, she slips on her favourite sundress.
In the kitchen, she makes herself a cup of tea and puts a piece of bread in the toaster. No time for an egg this morning. Not that she has the appetite for it anyway; she can scarcely even finish her toast.
When she steps outside, the morning is bright. It is still a little early, but quickly she checks next door for Emily, to see if she is where she so often is these days: sitting on the front steps. She isn’t, but her sandshoes have been left out on the lawn. With a soft smile, Joan gathers them up and leaves them beside the door.
It is a decent walk there and by the time she reaches the steps leading down to the pool, she is out of breath. There is a bench and she lowers herself onto it. All at once, anxiety engulfs her. She should have cancelled. He’d have understood. And if she were to turn around now and head back home, surely he’d understand that, too. Once she’s rung to explain. Once she’s apologised. Another time, that’s what she’ll say; that they’ll have to do it another time.
His voice catches her off guard. ‘Well, hello there,’ he says, sitting down beside her. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
His voice is jolly, but when he looks her way, he doesn’t quite meet her eye. ‘You still up for a swim?’ he asks.
His question gives her an out. She could still say no. You go in, she could say. I’ll watch.
‘Looks lovely in,’ he adds.
From where they are sitting, she can see over to the pool. He’s right—it’s a beautiful morning and already the water is sparkling.
‘It does,’ she says.
He takes that as a yes, she’s still up for a swim, because not only does he stand up, he also reaches out to carry her bag.
All the benches surrounding the pool are free. Sid claims one with his towel and gently puts her bag beside it.
Then, almost before she realises what is happening, he has taken off his shorts and his shirt, and is down to his swimming trunks. Embarrassed, she looks away.
When she looks up again, he hasn’t moved. Only then does she realise he is waiting for her. He is waiting for her to get ready, too.
She slips off her sandals first. Slowly, then, she starts to unbutton her dress. After the third button, she is so self-conscious she has to stop. Quickly, she glances over at him. To her relief, he isn’t looking her way at all. Instead, he is looking out at the water. For a moment she, too, follows his gaze and watches the tiny waves that spill over the wall of the pool and into the bay. He is right, she thinks: it is a beautiful place.
With a deep breath, she undoes the fourth button on her dress, then the fifth and the sixth until, finally, the dress parts to reveal her swimming costume. Shyly, she slips off her dress and lays it over the bench. From her bag, she takes out her mother’s old swimming cap and puts it over her head, tucking her hair in at the front, at the back, at the sides.
Only then does he turn to look at her. ‘Ready?’
She finds she can’t answer him. She can’t look at him either, paralysed as she is by the question that vibrates through her head: Am I good enough?
Lightly, his fingertips touch the back of her hand. ‘Once you’re in, you’ll love it,’ he promises.
And so, tentatively, very tentatively, she follows him over to the ladder at the shallow end of the pool. She should use it to get in, he tells her. So, holding on tight to the handrails, she uses the ladder to lower herself into the water. And although it is so cold it makes her gasp, still she keeps going until it is up to her thighs. With the next step down, she feels not another metal rung but only water. Stifling her fear, she keeps hold of the rail with one hand and reaches out to the water with the other. Then she lets go. The water is deeper than she has expected, coming over her stomach. But at least she can still stand in it, so she won’t drown. Slowly, her fear gives way to a creeping sense of pride.
Sid is sitting beside the pool ladder, his feet dangling in the water. He catches her eye. ‘How about that? You’re in.’
She gives him a shy smile. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I am.’
Slipping into the water himself now, he swims the length of the pool, arms pushing in front of him, head out of the water. Fascinated, she watches and watches, until warily, self-consciously, she begins to copy him. Still standing, she brings her arms out in front of her, then pulls them back again. Again and again she does it, walking in circles through the water, over and over, so focused she doesn’t notice him swim up behind her.
‘Hi there!’ he calls out. Surprised, she turns around to him. With his hair wet and slicked back, he looks different. Boyish. His arms, she sees, are strong, although the skin around them is loose. She sees, too, that he is practically hairless; that the only hair he has is clustered around his nipples. Embarrassed, she looks away again.
‘Not too cold for you?’ he asks.
She blinks. ‘Sorry?’
‘The water. Is it a bit cold for you?’
She isn’t sure: she’s stopped noticing whether she’s cold or whether she isn’t.
‘Some people,’ he tells her, ‘they get nervous in the rock pool. ’Cause it’s hard to see the bottom. You one of those people?’
His voice, so unhurried, relaxes her. ‘Probably,’ she says.
‘That’s okay. But you might find it a bit easier if you hang on to me.’
She nods, but when he clasps her hand in his, she feels herself start to shake.
‘Let’s get you swimming,’ he says.
She can’t talk, so she just nods. His hand is big and makes hers seem very small. At first, she lets her hand lies loosely in his; but his hold is strong and eventually she, too, tightens her clasp. She cannot remember when she has last felt so happy.
He turns to her with a smile. ‘You right to give it a shot?’
‘Yes,’ she whispers, though she still isn�
�t sure.
‘Can you float?’
‘I think so,’ she says.
He tells her to lie on her back. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I’ll help you. I’ll put my hand on your back to keep you straight.’
She swallows. ‘All right,’ she says, her voice scarcely audible.
‘I’ll hold you,’ he reassures her. ‘I won’t let you fall.’
As she leans back, she feels his hand on the small of her back, pushing up until she finds herself horizontal, feet and legs on the surface, floating.
‘That’s good,’ he says as, slowly, he takes his hand away. ‘That’s really good.’
Afterwards, when she is upright again, he is triumphant. ‘See?’ he tells her. ‘You were floating by yourself; you didn’t even need me.’ His tone is so excited, he is almost cheering her. ‘Come down every morning, and you’ll be swimming by Christmas. Mark my words, Jean, you’ll be a swimmer by Christmas.’
And when he says that, something like a bubble forms inside her and travels upwards, from her stomach to her chest then right up to her throat, filling her with a momentum that makes the words rush out of her: ‘My name is Joan.’
Sid puts his head to one side. ‘What was that?’
She isn’t sure whether she can say it again. But he’s waiting, so she shuts her eyes tight, takes a breath and forces it out. ‘My name isn’t Jean, it’s Joan.’
He laughs then, shakes his head and laughs. ‘Why do they call you Jean, then?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says, ‘it just happened.’ She doesn’t know how else to explain it.
Again he laughs. ‘Which do you like best, Jean or Joan?’
She hesitates.
‘Yes?’ he prompts.
‘I like Joan,’ she says, ‘because that’s my name.’
Rebecca
Soon it will be two months since the interview and still they have not heard anything. Sometimes she succeeds in convincing herself that this is a positive sign; that the time is being used to attend to those administrative tasks required to issue a visa. These things take time, she understands that. She understands, too, that she should be patient. And she will be patient, truly she will be. If only someone would reassure her that all will be well.
At home, she and Emmanuel have stopped discussing it. For what is there to say? The same thing they have been saying to each other for weeks now: that surely the application will be successful. Surely, they will be accepted. There is nothing else to be said; nothing else they can dare contemplate. Indeed, there are times when she even laughs about it. Not a belly-aching sort of laugh, more a laugh of incredulity. For who could have dreamt it: that she, of all people, should find herself in such a dilemma? How has it come to this: that she should find herself on the other side of the world, unable to return to the place that is hers? It is all so ridiculous. So absolutely ridiculous.
And now they are making her wait. There are times when the stress of it threatens to tear her apart; when the stress of it so fills her body that she feels she will burst.
Tell me, she wants to scream at Mr Robert Parker—that small serious man in that empty room—just tell me what is happening.
But she cannot scream at him. Both because that would be unwise and because the correspondence they have received warns them not to contact the Department of Immigration for an update. The processing of an application takes time, they have been advised, and such queries will only further delay the decision-making process itself. So they have not called. Instead, they have waited.
To better manage the frustration of this, Rebecca has taken to humming. Whenever she thinks about the decision and when it will come, she starts a low hum. There is something comforting about this: it slows the anxiety, slows the panic that might otherwise completely overwhelm her.
So this is what she does now as she walks Sebastian to school: she hums.
From the corner of her eye, she notices a car beside them, a car driving more slowly than they are walking. She feels her stomach lurch. Why is that? she asks herself. Why should a car be driving so slowly beside them?
Alarm rises in her when she realises what is happening: they are being followed. Oh God, she thinks, oh God. Fortunately, the school is ahead: the school with its gate and its safety. But they are not yet there and it is still not close enough. Panic engulfs her, a blinding panic that makes her reach out for Sebastian and pull him towards her, so suddenly and with such force that he shouts out in protest, ‘What? What are you doing?’
She doesn’t let go. Instead, she clutches him, hissing at him to keep walking, to look ahead and keep walking. Her insistence silences him into obedience. Only then does she dare to glance at the car that is still moving slowly behind them.
As she does, the front window slides down, and Rebecca sees Ethan Thompson sitting in the front seat. Mel’s voice rings out from the driver’s side. ‘Rebecca, hi.’
Confusion blocks her thoughts. ‘It’s Ethan’s mother,’ Sebastian whispers to her. ‘It’s just Ethan’s mother.’
She should be able to laugh at herself for being so stupid, for letting herself be scared witless by something so ridiculous. But the fright of it has made her nauseous, so nauseous she can’t trust herself to speak. Breathe, she tells herself, just breathe.
‘Hey, Rebecca,’ Mel calls. ‘It’s me.’
With another breath, Rebecca turns her lips up into a smile. ‘So it is,’ she says.
Mel pulls into the kerb to park. As soon as the car is stationary, Ethan jumps out and, running past Sebastian, heads for the school gate. When Mel gets out, she makes a face at Sebastian. ‘Sorry my son’s such a dickhead, mate.’ She holds up a cigarette. ‘You want a smoke?’ she asks Rebecca.
It has been years since Rebecca was a smoker, but now she craves a cigarette.
They need to cross over to the park, Mel tells her. ‘The new one—Ms Mathews—she threatened to arrest me if I lit up within sight of the school gate.’
Concentrating hard, Rebecca tries to slow her breathing. Calm down, she tells herself, calm down, you are fine. You are safe. She manages to turn to Mel with a wry smile. ‘Could she actually arrest you?’
Mel looks solemn. ‘Citizen’s arrest.’
Rebecca’s eyes widen. ‘Really?’
Mel’s face relaxes into a broad grin. ‘Had you, didn’t I? I reckon she would, though, if she saw me.’
Once they’re in the park, Mel passes her a cigarette and leans over to light it for her. ‘So,’ she says, ‘how’s it hanging?’
Rebecca is confused. ‘Sorry?’
Mel blows smoke at the ground. ‘How’s it hanging? You know, how’s it going?’
Rebecca smiles as she inhales. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘How’s it hanging.’
Mel looks bemused. ‘And?’
And? For a moment, Rebecca toys with telling her the truth. All of it. To tell her exactly how it’s hanging.
Then she thinks better of it. They are here for Emmanuel’s work, that’s all anyone knows. As for the rest of it, well, where would she start?
She catches herself in time. How’s it hanging, that’s all Mel wants to know. She doesn’t want a life story, she doesn’t want some epic.
So she takes another puff of the cigarette, exhales, then gives Mel a smile. ‘I’m well,’ she says, ‘really well.’
For the rest of the morning, Rebecca will be rehearsing with the children. She’ll take the cast of The Wolf while Nina will work with those in The Bears. And Mel will spend the time filming so it can all be played back to the children afterwards. It’s the best way to show them what they’re doing wrong and how they can make it better.
An early hitch—not enough parts for everyone—has been dealt with. Instead of having one narrator for The Wolf, there will be three. Three narrators, one Wolf, one Little Red Riding Hood, one Granny and one Woodcutter. That way, all the children get an onstage role.
Today, they’re working on the denouement.
Rebecca nods
at Kurt. ‘Okay, Mr Wolf,’ she says, ‘take it away.’
Because they’re still waiting on a real bed to use, they have to make do with nothing. So Kurt just lies down on the floor. Elsie, who is Granny, also lies on the floor, but just behind Kurt, which would be fine if he didn’t keep flicking her elbow with his finger while they wait for Little Red Riding Hood to arrive. Jade, who has been waiting in the wings, takes her time. As she struts onstage, it is clear—yet again—that she is not the demure Little Red Riding Hood Rebecca has been asking for.
‘Nervous, Jade,’ Rebecca calls out to her, ‘you’re supposed to be nervous. You’ve come to see Granny but there seems to be something wrong. So you’re looking nervous, all right?’
Jade gives her a big, happy smile. ‘Sure thing.’
Rebecca turns her attention to Bridie, who is standing to one side of the stage. She looks so pale Rebecca thinks she might be ill. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks her.
Bridie gives her a tiny smile. ‘I’m okay,’ she murmurs.
‘Good. Now this part of the play is quite dramatic,’ Rebecca tells her. ‘You’re one of the narrators, so you have to show that to the audience. Do you think you can do it?’
The little girl looks unconvinced.
‘Bridie?’
Bridie opens her mouth to answer but says nothing.
Rebecca tries again. ‘Bridie,’ she says, ‘are you ready to try it now?’
This time she gives Rebecca a quick nod. With a breath in, she shuts her eyes, pauses, then pushes out the first of her lines. Her voice, when it comes, is quiet and shaky.
When she saw those big teeth
Staring out from the bed
Little Red Riding Hood
Clutched at her head.
‘A bit louder, sweetheart,’ Rebecca says. ‘Just a bit louder.’
Biting her lip, the girl gives another nod before she tries again. This time she is slightly louder.
Filled with fright,