Harriet
CHAPTER
8
‘Have a shot!’ Allan shouts.
My indoor football team plays a game every Wednesday evening at the Avalon community centre. When I kick and the ball flies over the goal, hits the back wall and crashes back to the floor, Allan throws his arms in the air.
‘Sorry!’ I say.
He laughs. ‘No worries.’
I’m playing above my skill level, but women are difficult to find for the mixed teams. One of the physical education teachers from school roped me into the team last year. I go home stiff and bruised every Wednesday evening.
‘Keep your head up, Harry!’
Someone in the small crowd standing on the sidelines yells the words. Most of the people watching the game are the partners of the players, or they’re players themselves, waiting for the next game to start. Suddenly I’m uneasy. I know that voice, and when I scan the crowd I see him, tall and attractive, standing at the back of the hall. Grant Reid.
His uncle runs the local veterinary practice and his parents live in Avalon, so it’s not the first time I’ve seen him around the village, but he usually avoids me. At most we nod to each other. We haven’t spoken for years.
The final whistle blows. We’ve lost—again. But the whole team high-fives each other anyway. Then we shake hands with the opposing team. Allan gives us a pep talk, reassuring us that we’ll thrash them next time we play. But I’m conscious of Grant being close, so I’m barely listening. He looks much the same as he used to. More mature maybe—broader shoulders and thicker bristle. He’s wearing a football kit and warming up, but he keeps looking my way; it’s obvious he’s waiting for me to come off the court. Allan is having a chat with the referee so I join them, pretending I’m interested in their discussion on throw-in technique.
I was eighteen when Grant and I were together. He was twenty-one, and studying veterinary science. I’d been living at Newport for the past few years with Dad, so Grant and I had seen each other around, but Dad’s funeral was the first time we’d actually spoken. The funeral was a turning point in all sorts of ways.
Mum and Dad were celebrities, and I was born into that life. But we were on The Watch most of the time, or living overseas, and I never went to school. People recognised me whenever we came home, but that was no big deal. And after the accident Dad was so unwell that the public and media left us in peace.
After Dad’s death, the image of me, six years old and frowning into the camera, popped up again in the media. In another more recent shot, taken at Dad’s funeral, I was frowning as well. Only then I was eighteen. I had the same blue eyes and blonde hair, but I also had breasts—and long legs. The media’s perception of me changed overnight. Suddenly I was public property, the daughter of renowned adventurers, who grew up in front of the cameras.
It was unfamiliar, and unsettling. I couldn’t talk to Drew about it because, since the week before Dad’s death, he and The Watch had been stuck in sheet ice off the Finnish coast. So I turned to Grant. He was smart, handsome and fun to be with. I thought I was in love with him, and I didn’t mind the odd photograph of us in the papers. But then Grant spoke to a journalist. She twisted his words and misrepresented things he’d said, but that didn’t make her report any easier to read. Grant had told her that he’d taken my virginity in the back seat of his car, and he thought I was immature and insecure, but he was happy to put up with me anyway.
I cried for a couple of days. And then I conceded that Grant might have had a point. Until the accident I’d spent most of my life surrounded by adults who watched out for me—Mum and Dad, the scores of friends and colleagues they had around the world, the crewmembers and documentary makers on The Watch. It was time I grew up and took control of my life.
In retrospect, I didn’t do too well at first. Within a week of breaking up with Grant I started hooking up with men I was vaguely attracted to. When I took them to the Newport apartment I thought I was doing what eighteen-year-olds did. The sex was no worse than it’d been with Grant. It sometimes hurt because I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. At best it was uncomfortable. And as soon as it was over I sent the men away. I didn’t want to wake up with them.
I’m not sure how things would have turned out if not for Drew. He knew about Grant, and I suspect someone had told him about the other men as well, because within a day of The Watch coming home he was banging on my door, and waggling a boarding pass under my nose.
He bought me new hiking boots because I’d grown out of my old ones, and he filled my backpack with clothes and camping gear. Then he rustled up an old camera and reels of film. There were only the two of us. For six weeks straight we hiked in Tasmania—the South Coast Track, the Overland Track, and the Three Capes Track along the sea cliffs of the Tasman Peninsula. Drew never mentioned Grant and neither did I. But every once in a while he patted my shoulder. And he relit the fire and made me hot chocolate when I had nightmares about Dad’s death.
Towards the end of our trek we came across a school group. There were two teachers and ten adolescent boys. One of the teachers recognised me, and asked whether I’d talk to the boys about the Tasmanian wilderness. My education was unconventional, but I knew a lot about the environment. So I told them about temperate rain forests, and how habitat destruction had led to the extinction of the Tasmanian Tiger.
The next day at dawn I took the boys on a hike. We got back to camp—exhausted, bruised and exhilarated—at the end of the day. I woke with a start a few hours after I’d crawled into my sleeping bag. I’d always imagined sailing the world like Mum and Dad. But now they were gone, and the foundation owned The Watch. I was as passionate as I’d ever been about what the foundation stood for, but I had to control my own future. Meaning I needed a career of my own. I did a bridging course to get into university, and then I enrolled in a teaching degree. And as soon as I got a permanent job I sold the Newport apartment, took out a mortgage and bought my house on the beach. My fear of the water was the same as it’d been for years, but I still loved the ocean. I wanted it close.
Allan puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘Come off the court, Harry lass. Ref’s blown his whistle. It’s time to start the men’s game.’
Grant smiles as he walks past, but I act like I haven’t seen him. I was vulnerable and alone when I was eighteen, and looking for something he wasn’t capable of giving. He should never have pretended to love me.
Dr Makepeace’s letter is waiting for me when I get home from football. When I spoke to him over the phone he said that even though I hadn’t seen him in years, he’d be happy to look at my file again and give me his considered opinion.
Dear Harriet,
It was marvellous to speak to you this morning. My wife, children and grandchildren follow your career with a great deal of interest. We were saddened The Watch was lost in your recent adventure, but relieved that you and your crew arrived home safely.
Now to the matter at hand. There is no physical reason that stops you from swimming but, as a result of your childhood trauma, you have a phobia. Hence the panic attacks and the debilitating physical responses they trigger, such as the migraines.
You are welcome to lie on my couch again (not that you ever stayed still the first time around!) but you don’t have a mental illness, or a personality disorder, and you’re not suicidal, so I don’t know that I’ll be much use. Your hypnotherapist may be worth seeing (incidentally, he’s still wearing hemp shirts and trousers, and is currently sporting dreadlocks). A psychologist who practises behavioural therapy is also an option. Or a sensible swimming instructor.
In conclusion, Harriet, by all means go back in the water. But not without assistance, and never alone.
Kind regards,
Gordon Makepeace
It takes me a while to find the folder I labelled ‘Crazy Harry’ when I was sixteen. There are notes on breathing exercises, and advice from the numerous psychologists Drew dragged me to. At the second mediatio
n Per said, ‘I’m giving you a choice.’ He’s bound to ask about my decision when we meet Professor Tan tomorrow afternoon. I lie on my bed and visualise putting my head under the water. Then I take a deep breath and do my best to suppress the nausea that starts in my pit of my stomach and travels to the back of my throat.
CHAPTER
9
At least Per has dangled a carrot at the end of his stick—if I can swim, he won’t oppose Tan’s plans to involve me in a voyage later in the year. Tan has a point too: a long time has passed since the accident.
I sit in the waiting room outside Professor Tan’s office for half an hour before he opens the door and waves me in. A minute later, Per appears.
All his clothes are black—T-shirt, trousers, boots. His hair is roughed up and streaked with salt. He’s damp. The smell of the ocean clings to him. Tan jumps to his feet and holds out his hand. They shake, and Tan grips Per’s upper arm with his other hand and squeezes it, the way politicians do. At the mediation Per told me that he refused to be a cardboard cut-out, but Tan is looking at him as if he’s measuring him up for size. Perhaps he’s picturing Per on a giant billboard? How would he dress him? Special Ops headgear and fatigues, or an officer’s uniform?
Per looks at me critically as he shakes my hand. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’ he says.
‘No reason.’ I turn to the professor and smooth my jumper over my hips and bottom. ‘Can we get started? I have something on at eight.’
Tan gestures that we sit in the chairs facing his desk, and takes a seat opposite. Then he asks us to look through folders marked ‘OVP Proposal’. I’ve only got halfway through my folder before I realise why he’s looking so pleased with himself. He’s found a ship that has the potential to replace The Watch. It’s an Offshore Patrol Vessel, not an icebreaker like The Watch, but with a strengthened hull and cold climate capabilities. It’s only fifteen years old, and is owned by the New Zealand government. It even has helicopter landing capacity. And best of all, it’s available on lease short term, with an option to purchase by early next year. It’s expensive, but perfect.
Suddenly I’m not fed up because I’ve been writing school reports all day. And I don’t mind being the prize in a charity auction this evening. I’m not even angry with Per for being a prick, arriving late, and smelling so nice. I jump to my feet, run around the desk and wrap my arms around Professor Tan’s neck. He laughs, and then disentangles himself.
‘Calm down, Harry,’ he says. He’s still smiling though, and I can see he’s excited too. ‘Commander, your thoughts?’
Per has an elbow on the desk and his chin in his hand. He’s still reading, and is about two-thirds of the way through the folder. His eyes don’t leave the page when he answers Tan’s question.
‘I’m in the process of assembling them,’ he says.
I perch on Tan’s desk with my legs stretched out in front of me and my toes on the carpet.
Tan raises his brows so they appear above his glasses. ‘Yes, Harry?’ he says.
‘Let’s start lobbying! I’ll be seeing the Environment Minister tonight, so I’ll let him know you’ll be in touch. The universities will be keen to send postgraduate students to sea with us like they always have, so we’ll get additional funding through them, and plenty of volunteers. And I’ll put together a proposal I think will work with breakfast cereal companies, so they can tie in educational information about what the ship will be used for, and how this relates to the pioneering work Scott and Amundsen did. Which reminds me, I’d better do another post, to keep Scott and Amundsen in people’s minds. We should start planning for the October voyage straight away. I think it should be Palau, because that’d be a great follow on from a trip I did with Mum and Dad. We’ll get backing for the documentaries from pay TV or free-to-air channels, and the tourism industry. The UN environmental organisations will be interested as well, and then—’
Tan clears his throat. ‘Harry,’ he says. ‘I think the commander would like a turn.’
Per watches silently as I get off the desk and sit next to him again. ‘Sorry.’ I grin. ‘You should’ve butted in.’
He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he goes back to his folder and spends fifteen minutes cataloguing the specifications of the class of ship Tan has in mind—the positives and negatives. He compares it to the smaller and larger ships he’s sailed in for the past number of years and concludes that the OPV ship would, in his view, be eminently suitable for the type of voyages the foundation is contemplating.
‘The core crew would be large, around fifty, with half of them in essential roles. That’s excluding the Seasprite helicopter personnel, who I’m assuming you won’t need. It’s a fine ship, better than The Watch in most respects.’
Tan beams. ‘I’m delighted it has your support.’
Per nods. Then he turns to me. ‘Which brings us to Harriet. What have you decided about learning to swim?’
I feel sick. I even glance at Tan’s wastepaper basket and work out how many steps it’ll take for me to get there. Then I remind myself there are a million good reasons why I should get back in the water. One of them is that if I don’t do it, Tan will be forced to choose Per over me because there’ll be no ship without him. It might take years before Tan would allow me on it.
‘I’ll do it.’
Tan leans over the desk and shakes my hand. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’
Per’s eyes haven’t left my face. He speaks quietly. ‘Your pupils have dilated. You’re pale. Your heart rate is up; it shortens your breaths. The prospect of swimming terrifies you.’
Sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste. Per must have a sixth sense as well. He’s already made my hang-up a part of his deal with Tan. But that’s not enough for him. He has to let Tan know, as if he didn’t know it already, that the thought of swimming terrifies me. Per has more or less agreed to work with the foundation. I can be as nasty as I like.
‘Professor,’ I say. ‘Now the commander has agreed to join us, hadn’t we better check him out properly?’
There’s a note of warning in Tan’s voice. ‘Harry … I’m sure the commander didn’t intend to—’
‘What? Humiliate me?’
‘I made a factual statement,’ Per says.
I take a deep breath. Then I address Tan again. ‘The commander’s past is relevant. He may have a history of bullying, for example. Or misogyny. What about academic misconduct? Then there’s his sexual history. You’d like to have him as a poster boy, wouldn’t you? Are you sure he’s clean enough for that?’
‘That’s quite enough,’ Tan says.
‘Why? He likes to think he knows all about me. How terrified I am.’
‘I made a comment based on personal observation,’ Per says.
‘Well, how about I make a personal observation about you?’ I say. ‘Your scar, for example.’
He stiffens.
‘In an interview, you said you got it before you joined the navy, but you refused to go into detail. Did a drug deal in an Oslo back alley go wrong? How did you get it?’
Per jumps to his feet and walks to the bookcase on the far side of the room. He scowls at the spines of the books for a while, then he turns and addresses Tan. He speaks through his teeth. ‘Deal with her.’
He didn’t react when I suggested he might be a bully or cheat or misogynist. He did when I mentioned his scar. Now his mouth is so tight that he’s white around the lips. He’s not merely angry. It’s worse than that. His eyes are particularly dark. They’re troubled.
I sit down again and link my fingers together. ‘I’m sorry.’
Per nods formally. He returns to his chair. He speaks as if nothing has happened. ‘Professor,’ he says, ‘I presume you did check me out?’
‘We had to, of course,’ Tan says. ‘You have an extraordinary military record, exceptional academic credentials. And,’ Tan glares at me, ‘an unblemished personal reputation.’
There’s no point hanging around. Even s
ticking up for myself makes things worse. So I stand again and fumble in my bag. Finally I locate the present for Kat. It’s wrapped in brown paper. Inside is a piece of stone, carved into the shape of a penguin. An indigenous villager from Chile gave it to me as a farewell present. It must have been captured in one of the documentaries because one night on the Torrens, Kat told me how disappointed she’d been when she’d asked her parents for something similar for Christmas, and they gave her a stuffed toy penguin from a Disney movie.
‘Catch,’ I say.
The parcel is an awkward shape, small but heavy, and it spins drunkenly in the air when I toss it to Per. He raises a hand and catches it, just before it hits him.
Sandstone buildings surround the central lawn of the university quadrangle. They cast thick dark shadows across the dimly lit path. When I hear someone behind me, I stop jogging and look over my shoulder. It’s Per. We’re the only two people in sight. White clouds of condensation escape from my mouth when I speak.
‘What do you want?’
He holds up Kat’s gift. ‘What is this?’
‘A thankyou present. Kat was kind to me.’
For a fleeting moment the expression in his eyes changes, but it’s only a flash, and gone before I can identify it.
‘And I wasn’t?’ he says.
‘You may have saved my life but no, you weren’t kind.’
His gaze shifts to the package. He throws it high in the air and catches it one-handed. Then his eyes meet mine again, and he reaches for my chin with his other hand. It happens so quickly I’m hardly aware of how his hand got there. I gasp when the pad of his thumb touches my mouth.
‘Be kind to yourself, Harriet Hillary Amelia Scott,’ he says. His thumb moves gently along my bottom lip and sets off a tingling sensation. Last time it felt like that I was naked and lying in a hospital bed on the Torrens. ‘Stay on dry land.’
In At the Deep End Page 6