The J M Barrie Ladies' Swimming Society

by Barbara Zitwer

  “On dinner,” Joey replied.

  “Your dinner? Are you – on your own tonight?”

  Joey nodded.

  Aggie hesitated, then finally spoke. “We’re having a little supper party, at the pond. You’re more than welcome to come along.”

  “Thank you, Aggie,” Joey smiled gratefully. “But no, I’m not crashing your party.”

  “You wouldn’t be crashing it. I’m inviting you.”

  “That’s really kind…”

  Joey was torn. She would rather spend the evening with the ladies than be alone, but – and she felt horrible admitting this, even to herself – if she had the choice, she would rather be with Ian than with the ladies.

  “You know what they always say about special dinners,” Aggie continued.

  “No, what?”

  “That there should always be at least one person everybody doesn’t know very well – one wild card. It shakes up the dynamics and puts people on their best behaviour.”

  “I can’t imagine any of you misbehaving!”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Aggie said wryly.

  “I’d love to if I can,” Joey said evasively. “But there’s a lot going on at the house right now. The contractor started work yesterday, and, well, I’m on the clock.”

  “Suit yourself, dear,” Aggie said. “We’ll see you if we see you.” She hugged Joey and headed off to finish her errands.

  From that moment until the moment when Joey headed out the door to walk back to the village, she debated whether to go. She positively ached to see Ian again but felt that the next move had to come from him. And when she didn’t hear anything from him or see him again all day, she began to worry – did he regret what had happened between them?

  He might be exhausted. She musn’t blow things out of proportion. He and Massimo had had a very full day, much of it out in the wind and cold. Given how little he had slept last night, he might be longing for a quiet evening and an early bedtime.

  He might want to be with Lily. They hadn’t been alone since yesterday, when, after all, she had reached a pretty big milestone in her life. Maybe one huge event happening in their tight little family of two was all that he could deal with right now.

  He might be freaking out. It was one thing to succumb to the pleasures of their night together – and there had been many; quite another to contemplate this in the cold, hard light of day. Maybe he was racked with remorse, feeling he had betrayed his wife. He might be feeling he had made a mistake. There were presumably lots of reasons why he hadn’t been with a woman since Cait died, reasons Joey might not ever know. Maybe his silence meant that he was slamming on the brakes, right now, before this could go any further.

  Maybe he didn’t like the way she kissed, or the way she –

  No. No way. Joey wasn’t going there. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Ian had enjoyed every second of their time together. He might not want to take this any further, for any number of reasons, but that wasn’t one of them.

  At seven thirty, Joey locked the door to Stanway House and tiptoed across the drive, trying to make as little noise as possible. She had debated taking Tink – Tink would have loved the pond and the walk into the village in the darkness – but she decided against it. It was an honour to be invited to spend time with the ladies, and Tink had not been invited. One couldn’t just assume that everybody loved dogs as much as she did.

  The gatehouse was all lit up, but the curtains had been drawn against the evening’s chill air and Joey couldn’t hear any sound from inside. Using a torch as her guide, she walked into the village and made her way along the narrow path that led to the pond. The water was cloaked in blackness. The moon did little to illuminate the scene, but the hut was glowing with light and warmth.

  Joey paused outside the door, listening to the women’s voices within and the sound of – that had to be Edith Piaf singing in a rough, scratchy recording. Joey knocked on the door and it was thrown open by Viv.

  “Joey! We heard you might stop by. Come in. We’re just about to eat.”

  Joey handed Viv the baguette from the bakery and two bottles of Graves. She stepped into the hut. The ladies of the swimming society were gathered around an old wooden table adorned with a rustic linen cloth. The woodstove crackled merrily in the corner, and tiny white Christmas lights had been hung from all the rafters. The women wore shiny paper crowns. Joey suddenly had the feeling that this was more than a casual supper.

  “It’s so beautiful in here,” Joey said, glancing all around as she sat down on the sturdy wooden bench. “Do you do this often?”

  “Only on birthdays. Five times a year!”

  “Whose birthday is it?” Joey asked, wishing Aggie had let her know the reason for the celebration, so she could have bought a gift.

  “Meg’s!” they all cried.

  “Can’t you tell by her crown?” Viv asked.

  She saw now that Meg’s paper crown was gold, and taller and more elaborate than the others.

  “We used to celebrate birthdays at our houses,” Lilia began.

  “But our husbands were always ghosting around, acting all put out! They weren’t invited? God forbid! So we decided to sneak away and have our little parties here.”

  “But now they’re all –” Meg stopped abruptly in the middle of her sentence, a little afraid to finish it.

  “Dead,” Viv whispered. Then she giggled.

  “Not that we don’t miss them,” Aggie said. “We do! Terribly!”

  “We could go back to having the parties at home,” Lilia said. “Perhaps we should.”

  “No!” Meg wailed. “This is much more fun!”

  Gala set a heavy steaming pot in the centre of the table as Aggie handed around mismatched bowls. A bottle of Scotch, a brand Joey had never heard of, sat on the table, as did the baguettes that Aggie had bought. Viv added Joey’s baguette to the pile as Lilia set down a saucer holding a big, square slab of butter. Meg reached for a corkscrew, hung on string on a nail in the wall, and proceeded to open one of the bottles of wine.

  “Dinner is served,” Gala said proudly.

  “Chicken in a pot. My favourite!” Meg announced, smiling.

  One by one, they all held out their bowls, waiting patiently for Gala to serve them.

  “Where’d you learn to make this?” Joey asked.

  “From my mother,” Gala said quietly, “who learned it from her mother.”

  “Where did they live?” said Joey.

  “Poland. A little town known as Bolimów. Known for its ceramics: beautiful, beautiful pottery. Not like this!”

  She gestured with scorn to the ceramic pot in which she had cooked the dish. “This has no grace. The handles are too thin and the cover is too thick.” She shook her head. But the memory of her mother – and perhaps other memories of what had eventually happened to her mother – caused Gala’s expression to cloud over.

  “Zum Wohl,” she said quietly, when the last bowl was filled.

  “If you could bottle this, you’d be a millionaire,” Lilia whispered, closing her eyes to savour the complicated mixture of essences in the broth.

  Joey sipped the creamy soup, thick with potatoes and carrots and laced with threads of chicken that just melted in her mouth. They all ate, quietly, almost reverently.

  Later, they chatted happily through seconds, sipping Scotch and wine as they listened to the plaintive songs playing on the CD player. At a certain moment, Aggie and Viv exchanged a significant glance, got up and retreated to a dark corner of the room. Seconds later, Viv was carrying to the table a cake so adorned with candles that it appeared to be almost ablaze.

  Viv’s warbling soprano led them into song.

  Happy birthday to you!

  Happy birthday to you!

  Happy birthday, dear Meg!

  Happy birthday to you!

  “If you live much longer, Megsie,” Aggie teased, “we’re going to have to use two cakes.” Meg grinned as Viv swept the cake away to cut
it.

  “Or fewer candles,” Gala said. “How about one for each decade?”

  Aggie handed Meg a large white box tied with a beautiful blue bow.

  “Didn’t we decide on no birthday presents, ever?” Meg asked, taking the gift from Aggie all the same.

  “When was that?” Gala called out.

  “I believe it was 1967.” Meg held the package up, admiring the beautiful bow.

  “But it’s your eightieth, Meg. I think we can make an exception!”

  “Open it up.” Aggie said excitedly. “You only go around once!”

  “Speak for yourself!” said Viv. “I happen to believe in reincarnation.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lilia put in sharply. “When you’re dead, you’re dead. Game over.”

  “Ladies, ladies! It’s Meg’s night! Please!” Aggie chastised.

  “I don’t recall getting any eightieth birthday presents,” sighed Gala.

  “But you did!” Lilia protested. “That red hat! With the black velvet band!”

  “Oh yes,” Gala conceded.

  Joey thought back to a celebration she had attended in New York, for the eightieth birthday of Alex’s mentor, Richard Andrews. It had been a huge event with a twelve-piece brass swing ensemble, attended by over three hundred guests. Four thousand long-stemmed tulips had been flown in from Holland to adorn every horizontal surface of the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom. Richard’s fourth wife, a former Victoria’s Secret model, seemed ill at ease at the event, though Joey supposed that was to be expected, given the vintage of Richard’s contemporaries. Like mentor, like protégée, she thought.

  If she ever lived to be eighty, Joey mused, she’d rather have a party like this.

  Meg gasped when the content of the package was revealed: a fragile copy of the London Times from 1958. She unfolded the paper and held it up for them all to see. On the front page was a photograph of three young women, apparently protesting at some kind of rally.

  “Oh my God!” Meg said. “Look at this! It’s us…”

  “Wow!” exclaimed Joey, astonished to recognise the ladies’ younger faces.

  “The Aldermaston Marches,” Lilia said. “It’s how we all met. Viv and I were at that rally, too. We just didn’t elbow ourselves into the picture!”

  Meg carefully set down the yellowed newspaper. “Where did you get this?” she asked in amazement.

  “I bought it online,” Aggie announced proudly. “It’s amazing what one can find with a computer.”

  “What were the Alderman Marches?” Joey asked, a little sheepish about not knowing.

  “Aldermaston,” Gala corrected. “The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.”

  “It took us four days,” Aggie explained. “We walked all the way from Trafalgar Square to the Atomic Weapons Establishment.”

  “The next year, they reversed the direction, so the protesters would end up in London,” Meg pointed out.

  “I marched every single year,” Gala said proudly. “Sixe times in all.”

  “I marched twice,” Lilia put in.

  “Look at us!” Meg said warmly, scrutinising their younger faces in the photo. “I still feel exactly like that. I look in the mirror and I’m always surprised, because inside, I still feel like that girl.”

  When she looked up and around, there were tears in her eyes.

  “Now, now,” said Viv, “let’s not get all weepy and morose! Ageing is a privilege! Not everybody’s lucky enough to get to do it. Besides, we don’t want to bore our young friend here. There’s nothing worse than old people moaning and whining!”

  “You’d never bore me,” Joey said. “Sometimes I feel old, too. Old-er, anyway! Yesterday, I had to explain to Lily who Jackie Kennedy and Grace Kelly were!”

  Lilia turned swiftly. “How did that come up?” she asked sharply.

  “I took her to London, and –”

  “My granddaughter?”

  “Yes. I had meeting, so –”

  “You took Lily to London? On a school day?” Lilia’s eyes were flashing.

  “She really wanted to go, and she begged Ian to let her take the day off.”

  Lilia said nothing, but from the look on her face, Joey could tell that the woman was enraged.

  “I see,” she said coldly.

  She stood up abruptly and carried her uneaten cake to the side table. Perhaps in an effort to cut the tension that had suddenly filled the air, Viv hopped up, went over to the CD player and restarted the Edith Piaf disc.

  “Wait! Wait!” she called. “We have to sing our song! It’s not a proper birthday party if we don’t sing our song! Lilia! Come on.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lilia said. “I have to go.” And with that, she crossed the room, kissed Meg and abruptly departed, slamming the door behind her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Joey whispered.

  “It’s not your fault,” Meg said. “And it’s not about you. Or London.”

  “It’s Cait’s birthday this week,” Aggie explained. “She would have been forty this coming Friday.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joey said. “I’ve ruined things.”

  “Not at all, dear one,” Aggie said softly. “Sometimes Lilia just needs her – space.”

  Edith Piaf’s signature song had just begun. Her raw, powerful voice soared out of the scratchy, crackling recording.

  “Je ne regrette rien,” Aggie sang.

  “Not the good things,” Gala added. “And not the bad things!”

  One by one, Meg, Viv and Gala joined in, clasping hands with Joey on the table as their beautiful ancient faces glowed in the firelight.

  Non, rien de rien

  Non, je ne regrette rien

  Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait

  Ni le mal, tout ça m’est bien égal

  Non, rien de rien

  Non, je ne regrette rien

  C’est payé, balayé, oublié

  Je me fous du passé.

  Chapter 17

  When Joey took Tink outside first thing in the morning, she discovered that a warm front had moved in during the night. The air smelled positively spring-like, and she wondered whether here, as in the American north-east, there was a regular “January thaw”. There hadn’t been snow since she arrived in England, though the air had been damp and often bone-chilling. But today, she could smell the loam and the grasses, and not just wood smoke from all the chimneys. Where had this warm air come from? she wondered. The Mediterranean? The Irish Sea? She even thought she could detect a hint of salt in the air, though that hardly seemed possible, given how far inland they were.

  Tink reacted to the thaw as she always did when spring came to New York; her urge to sniff went into overdrive. She strained at her leash, doing everything she could do to drag her mistress into the carnival of scents that beckoned from the woods. Joey steered her instead toward the body of water called the Gravity Pool, which lay at the top of the cascading water terraces that fed Stanway’s famous fountain. A one-room stone structure had been built on top of the pond’s outlet. Capped by a steeple that gave the building its name – The Pyramid – it afforded exquisite views of the surrounding countryside and the intriguing sensation of being in an open room at the top of a castle’s turret.

  “Hey, there.”

  Joey wheeled around. Ian was on the far side of the pond. Dressed in waders, he was straddling the stream that fed the pond, digging into the water with a long pole.

  Joey smiled and started toward him. “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “Trying to clear this waterway. It’s blocked with sticks and leaves.”

  The ground grew mushier as she approached him; she was glad she had worn her waterproof boots. She stopped a few feet away. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Ian’s arms, but she resisted the impulse.

  “How’d you know it was clogged?” she asked.

  “I noticed it yesterday, when we were up here.”

  Joey nodded. “How’d that go?”

  “Yesterday? Oh, f
ine.”

  “I was going to come by a little later, to talk to you before I call Massimo.”

  Ian smiled. “Do.”

  “What time?”

  “You tell me. I work for you.”

  “No, you don’t!” she protested. “We both work for – them!”

  Ian smiled warmly. “Okay, if it makes you feel better to think of it that way.”

  “It’s true!”

  They were smiling now. They each took a moment to scan the other’s eyes, “How are you?” Joey finally whispered.

  Ian nodded, his expression open and trusting. “You?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” she replied.

  “Good.”

  “I’ll drop Tink off and come over.”

  “Do that,” Ian said.

  Joey all but floated back to the apartment, and when she got there, there was a message on her BlackBerry. It turned out to be from Sarah, but Joey didn’t want to call her back now. She fed Tink, ran a brush through her hair, dabbed on some lipstick and made her way over to the gatehouse. She tapped the door lightly then opened it.

  “Hello? Ian?”

  “In here!” came the response from the kitchen. Joey smelled toast, coffee and oranges. She crossed the space and stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, suddenly nervous. It had felt natural to meet Ian outdoors on the grounds, especially when he was preoccupied with a caretaking task, but this was different. They were together in his house, alone for the first time since their glorious night in front of the fire. She felt inexplicably shy, which was crazy. Or perhaps it was simple nervousness: if Ian was harbouring second thoughts about becoming romantically involved, she would know this very soon.

  He had been sitting at the kitchen table, but now he hopped up, poured Joey coffee and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.”

  “Want some toast?”

  “Sure.”

  He turned and cut two thick slices from a loaf on the cutting board. He put them in the toaster, then cut three oranges in half, squeezed them into juice with an elegant little press on the counter and handed Joey the glass.

  “Hey! Fresh squeezed.”

  He nodded and sat back down.