The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy

by Robert Power

  Lottie and Trixie leave the stage, arm in arm, smiles joyful. They know that whatever the result may be today, they have a future. Caitlin is looking up at the fresco on the wall as if she is in a cathedral. She seems to be at peace. The years have lifted from her face; the harrowed exhaustion fallen to the floor like a discarded garment. She is mouthing words to herself: a mantra, a prayer. Then she glances at me and smiles and holds my hand tight, letting me know that, after all, everything is going to be just fine.

  Caitlin turned to me after Lottie and Trixie’s performance and said would I mind if she went home. She was happy, but overwhelmed. I insisted on coming so she wouldn’t be alone. Now she is looking at a picture on the wall in my sitting room. It is a Chagall print and it is the moon in the top left-hand corner that fascinates her so. When I come back into the room with a tray of jasmine tea and shortcake biscuits she tells me the crescent moon reminds her of the room where she was held. Then she sits on the sofa and recounts the story of her lost months. Of the crack in the wall she carved with her fingertip, of the positions in which she would hold her body for hours on end, of the click of the boiler and the inferno of her skin. And then, through her tears and sobs, as we sit together on the battered old sofa I’d bought from Eddie, the rag-and-bone man from the Ponds on the Heath, she talks of Sammy and of the love that will never grow old.

  ‘My head is in a bit of a mess,’ she says, twining her limp hair between her fingers. ‘Sometimes I float back to that room. I may be standing in the kitchen, or sitting in the bath, and I find myself floating back there. Then I hear the click of the boiler. Taste the plaster in my mouth. And things get mixed up. Like in the concert. When the young man sang about the sea and I thought of the seafront at Brighton, and Gerard, and it came rushing at me like a tidal wave and I wanted to run out into the street. Just to be there, outside, where it was dry. And then Sammy. I keep thinking about Sammy. Sometimes I get so scared. It’s all been such a mess, Anthony. Everything. Every single thing. From the beginning, from when we were kids.’

  She is crying. My poor, poor wounded sister. I open my arms to her and she comes to me. We sit together on the sofa, holding each other close, like children.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, cupping her tears in my hand. ‘We can turn it all around. We can start over. From today. From now. It doesn’t have to be like this anymore. Not for you. Not for me. We deserve our own lives and we can have them.’

  There’s a knock on the door. We both sit up, startled.

  I get up slowly and walk to the door. When I open it, Lottie bursts in with Trixie close behind.

  ‘We won!’ shouts Lottie, throwing her arms around my neck. ‘We won, we won, Aunty Caitlin, we won!’

  Flowers fall from her arms. Tulips, freesias, lilies, poppies, sweetwilliams and pansies. Caitlin watches the petals floating to the ground, covering the carpet like a colourful flurry of snow. Then she smiles. As bright and curved as a crescent moon.

  ‘Then we shall celebrate,’ she says.

  ‘We’ve all won,’ I say. ‘Where’s your mother and Christine?’

  ‘Outside. In the car. Waiting,’ Lottie answers quietly, watching me.

  ‘Well,’ I shout. ‘Go get them. Bring them up. We’ve all won. We’re all in this together.’

  An hour later we sit on the roof terrace of Café Bloom, overlooking the park and the avenue of huge plane trees. Opposite me, seated next to Trixie, Caitlin looks relaxed and happy. At the end of the table sit Matilda and Christine, warm in a love that has extinguished any sadness. Caitlin stands up. Happy for her niece, maybe even happy for herself. She raises a glass of champagne.

  ‘A toast to the wonderful, talented winners,’ says Caitlin.

  Lottie, next to me, puts her hand in mine and squeezes it tight. Three glasses of champagne and one of mineral water (with a twist of lime) clink. A gust of wind blows up and the heavy leaves of the age-old plane trees rustle and quiver in applause.

  19

  The swan sings

  It is one of those rare December mornings in London when the sun shines and the air is crisp and clear. The slightest of breezes clips the surface of the pond, whisking up the water, sending ripples and creases from one side to the other. Up and down the land families prepare the special meal on this Christmas Day. But at Hampstead Ponds, a motley crew gather in the men’s changing compound. There are balloons on the railings and bunting hanging from the trees. In the corner by the nude-bathing area a trestle table has been set up. Mince pies are laid out on fine china side plates and a pan of mulled wine simmers on a makeshift gas stove. If you look inside the wide rimmed pan you will see lemon slices, fresh cloves and shavings of ginger. These are just the visible ingredients of Mrs Lorna Summerhill’s famed and ferociously guarded recipe. Her husband, Reggie Summerhill, the honorary secretary of the Pond Swimming Association, is stripped to the buff and is pulling on his blue swimming trunks. He sweeps back the long strands of hair that make a desperate attempt to hide his baldness as he prepares for his twentieth consecutive Christmas Day dip in the pond. The lifeguards, glad there is no ice to break and no potential coronaries to attend to, have roped off a circular section of the pond especially for the occasion. This year there are eight hardy souls and a sprinkling of friends and family who have come along to witness the insanity and eccentricity of their loved ones.

  ‘You done this before, Tony?’ asks Eddie, tugging on his new goatee beard and running his hand over his recently shaven head.

  Eddie is the real walrus, with his barrel chest, bald head, wiry grey body hair, big moustache.

  ‘No, I’m a virgin, Eddie. This is something I’ve been meaning to do for a long while, but never got around to it. One of those things I was always going to do one day.’

  ‘Well, here you are,’ says Eddie, slapping me on the back. ‘So long as you don’t die of a heart attack, you’ll be a member of a very exclusive club.’

  I pull up my trunks and tie the string. Next to my neat pile of clothes is a flask of hot tea and a cheese and pickle sandwich the size of a doorstep.

  ‘You know there’s research to show that cold water swimming is a cure for depression,’ says Eddie. ‘It’s just like electric shock therapy, but wetter.’

  ‘You learn something new every day,’ I grin.

  ‘Never too old to be taught, eh,’ says Eddie, about to stand on his head. ‘Never become unteachable,’ he adds, his thick moustache defying gravity.

  Outside the changing compound, on the jetty leading to the icy waters of the pond, friends and family huddle together in their thick coats, woollen hats and scarves. Lined up ahead of them the eight swimmers prepare for the ritual, gladiators one and all. The wintry sun hides behind a cloud, not believing what it is about to witness as we shuffle along the jetty to the water’s edge, like a troop of penguins on an ice floe.

  The trees are bare and I can see the line of the Heath stretching up towards Parliament Hill. Between the clouds the sky is a blue you can only get in winter. The sun peeps out again, low in the sky. As I turn to face it I feel the slightest of glows. A sudden gust of wind huffs and puffs from the northeast, doing its best to extinguish any trace of warmth.

  In turn, each man plunges into the freezing water. Some from the jetty, others from the diving board at its end. Along the wooden fence to my right a young couple stop and watch, incredulous. In the opposite corner, over by the opening in the trees to Kite Hill, is the remnant of the swan’s nest.

  When it is my turn I stand on the edge of the board and feel the blast of cold air, sun and wind around me. I look down at my bare feet and the grey freezing water below. The elements course over my exposed skin and I feel exquisitely alive. The waters beneath my feet invite me to a peculiar and exhilarating baptism. I raise my arms above my head, stretch my fingertips to the cloudy sky, lift myself up onto my tiptoes, and, with the slightest of springs, propel my body in an arc through the air.

  The very instant my fingertips touch the water
a shock reverberates through me. As I disappear beneath the icy waters my body screeches at me to get out. But I stay. Underneath the water I scream, ‘I am alive!’ and bubbles rush to the surface. I relax, allowing the cold and deep to embrace me, to hold me in the moment. Then I turn upwards, kick my legs and rise to break the surface of the pond. I take a huge gulp of air and suck in the freshness around me. I steady myself in the water and then follow my companions swimming in a regal circuit of the pond. All the nesting sites of the swans and moorhens are deserted and the banks are sparsely covered. Yet all is familiar. The shapes of the trees, the line of the horizon, the sights and senses all around. We swim in obeisance to the Pond and the Heath and all it has to offer.

  One by one we haul ourselves up the slippery steps, gripping the handrail with frozen fingers. On the jetty we are greeted by the claps, amused laughter and smiles of the onlookers. Back in the compound we quickly change, wrapping ourselves in extra sweaters, gloves and scarves. There is much excitement as the eagerly awaited mulled wine and mince pies are passed around. I gratefully accept a mince pie, but decline the wine, happy with the tea still steaming in the thermos. The tips of my fingers are numb and my teeth are chattering.

  ‘Now I know you’re mad. Totally and utterly, certifiably, mad,’ says Lottie who has appeared in front of me, glass of wine cupped in her hands.

  Trixie is standing next to her. They make a great couple. Soul mates in their heavy black coats and youthful optimism. First prize at the Wigmore Hall and a flood of genuine interest from serious people have brought them even closer together.

  ‘Trixie says she’ll write a poem about Christmas and the swimmers,’ enthuses Lottie.

  Trixie blushes and nudges her to say no more.

  ‘You have a fantastic talent, Trixie,’ I reply, sipping on my tea. ‘Everyone at the concert was completely hypnotised by your beautiful poetry.’

  Trixie blushes again, only just visible through the mask of white powder. But she smiles as well.

  ‘What did it feel like?’ asks Trixie, and I think it’s the first time she’s spoken directly to me.

  ‘Cold. Very cold. But good, very good. Makes you realize you’re alive.’

  She looks thoughtful, as if the poem is already forming in her mind.

  ‘Photo,’ shouts Reggie Summerhill. ‘For the record.’

  We all parade on to the jetty, swimmers and friends, with the smiling waters of the Pond as a backdrop.

  The first photo is of the eight, the Christmas Day swimmers. Later, back in his study at home, Reggie will lovingly lick the sticky-backed photo corners and carefully place this photo in his Pond Swimming Association album. He’ll send a copy to the local paper. Maybe they’ll make reference to his twenty-year-long feat. If so, this will be glued in the ‘Pond Swimming Association: Press Cuttings’ scrapbook. The most recent additions chronicle the battle over early morning swimming and the over-cautious closures due to blue-green algae. The second photo is of us all, swimmers, family, friends and pond. Copies will be made, and for a few pounds (donated to the Pond Swimming Association) we will all get our own memento of the day. I’m third from the left in the front row. My daughter Lottie has her arm around me and Trixie is the Goth, next to Lottie.

  If you look closely you’ll see I have a particular smile on my face. Not just because it is Christmas Day and I have done something I have been promising myself for years. Not only because my daughter has just put her hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear she loves me. Not even because when I come to stick my copy of the photo in my diary its label will read: ‘Christmas Day swim in Hampstead Pond, life turned around!!’ But mainly because I was thinking of something the very moment the photographer released the shutter and the image was captured by the camera. It was something Stuart said that evening as we sat in the tiny chairs in a nursery school in Bogotá. I’d told my story and Wayne had closed the Meeting. Stuart turned to me and smiled a generous smile. Then he said something like, ‘Tony, don’t take it all too seriously. Remember to wear your life like a loose garment, not a cement suit, but most of all, don’t quit before the miracle.’

  The very next day, way across the Atlantic Ocean in Bogotá, Pedro Maldovar, the postcard seller, along with all those from the neighbourhood, attend the funeral of Dr Augusto Marquez-Gomas. The elderly gentleman died peacefully in his sleep, less than six months after receiving the postcard of the matador, Luis Perez Ortega, from Pedro’s shop. The funeral is a glorious affair. A tribute to a life and man much loved. He who held the hands of the dying, the tiny feet of the newborn; who listened to the joys and despair of the barrio, the desires and dreams of its people. All this he did with a warm and gentle smile that touched the hearts and souls of generations of the very poor, to enrich and sustain them through the toughest of journeys.

  As his coffin is lowered into the soft red soil of his beloved homeland, the church bells peal, angels sing and a flutter of doves stretch their wings and soar to the hills above the city.

  The week following the funeral, Christiana, the good doctor’s only daughter, presents Pedro with her father’s full collection of beautiful postcards.

  ‘It is what he wished,’ she says to Pedro. ‘He often spoke of your great kindness. He knew no one would respect and care for his precious cards like you.’

  Pedro smiles and embraces this beautiful young woman.

  ‘The way we do anything is the way we do everything,’ she says, as she hands the box full of cards to Pedro.

  Pedro mounts the collection in glass-fronted frames and hangs them in the window of his shop. For days and years to come young boys will peer longingly at the colourful pictures, their faces pressed up to the glass. They will return to the square with its gurgling fountain, boys twisting and turning, flourishing their coats in imitation of the matador’s cape, as they practise the costadillo pass, suerte de varas in the sunshine that floods St Dominic’s Square in this little-visited corner of Bogotá.

  ‘The way we do anything is the way we do everything.’

  Praise for Robert Power’s In Search of the Blue Tiger

  ‘Between Life of Pi, Under Milkwood and Gus Kuijer’s disturbing children’s novel, The Book of Everything … The writing is subtle, connotative and composed. Its craftsmanship embraces and extends this audacious depiction of an escape from childhood.’ Joy Lawn Bookseller+Publisher

  ‘Robert Power’s striking debut novel works less with the idea of childhood innocence, than with its burdening and fracturing by violence … While Oscar’s experiences circle around violence, his focus is on hope, largely embodied by Mrs April. Psychologically astute, original and whimsical, the novel creates a memorable protagonist and sees him set sail, eventually, powered by dreams and resilience. Fantasy and a quest for alternative worlds are symptomatic of trauma, but also, ultimately, the means of Oscar’s self-made redemption.’ Felicity Plunkett, Canberra Times

  ‘Rich with observation and fine writing.’ Lucy Sussex The Sunday Age

  ‘Power’s skill as a writer is to allow us insight into Oscar’s hopeful magic-realist view of the world, even while we are travelling through this dark terrain of trauma.’ Pip Newling The Big Issue

  ‘This dark and beautiful tale, told with a light touch, stayed in my mind long after I’d finished … The prose is lucid, poetic and is one of the story’s pleasures. The ending is both unpredictable and provocative.’ Claire Kennedy Herald Sun

  Robert Power is the author of the critically acclaimed In Search of the Blue Tiger. He has worked in HIV prevention for many years, travelling to all continents and appearing in all media, both here and abroad. Born in Dublin, Robert now lives in Melbourne, Australia, with his wife and his youngest son. In 2011 he was a winner in The Age Short Story Prize for his story Meatloaf in Manhattan.

 

 

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