by Kathryn Hind
‘You’re all right, Luce,’ she called, still catching her breath. Lucy stopped barking but paced the width of the pier, her face popping over each side.
When Amelia dipped below the surface again, there was a new sound; it was Sid, calling out beneath water, the sound long and mournful like the howl of a caged animal. She blew out bubbles, emptying her lungs so that she sank, then screamed with all the yearning and muscle she had. Beside her, Sid slithered to the surface, and she stayed below, screaming, opening her eyes in the swirling darkness. It felt good, that time, to be completely out of breath, and she wanted to stay down there, underwater. Her legs had their own will, though, and kicked towards air. Breaking through the surface, she was greeted by the sound of a drag race roaring down the nearby road. Her hair dripped into the water. Sid was right there, spluttering as he caught his breath, eyes wide and bright. They bobbed there for a few moments, staring at each other. She submerged again, and was glad when Sid didn’t follow to hear her next howl. She yelled so hard that white light flashed across her closed eyes, stayed down there till the very end of her breath. When she reached the surface, Amelia spat, wiped her nose with her hand. Water licked at her neck and face as she kicked to stay afloat, catching her breath.
She forced herself to lie back, as Sid was doing, and drift. There was a ticking underneath the water’s surface, a mechanical noise that had her surrounded. Her body drifted into Sid’s, and it was easier to be still and calm with him next to her. Their bodies separated then lapped against each other again, at the mercy of the current. With her eyes closed, she could have slept, the rocking of the waves taking her softly out of that world. She wondered if sleeping bodies could still float, and whether she was tired enough that she might sink too deep before waking and be unable to resurface in time. Except Sid wouldn’t let that happen, and anyway, she didn’t want him to have the job of diving down to retrieve her, of dragging her limp body back to the beach.
Sid splashed beside her. She straightened up and he was saying something, but she couldn’t clear her ears of water fast enough.
‘What are you doing?’ she called. ‘Oi!’ He was already a few metres ahead and swimming further away, his freestyle smacking the water. ‘Oi!’ she called, louder this time.
‘Beat ya to the buoy!’
‘Yeah, you will.’ She splashed in his direction, the splatter making fleeting white dimples on the water’s surface.
In the bay ahead, she could just make out a buoy shifting in the waves. She flipped over into backstroke but quickly grew tired. Breaststroke was easier, but her limbs were jelly, barely driving her through the water.
The buoy wasn’t getting any closer and she had little left to give. Sid swam ahead. He was doing breaststroke too; she could hear the rhythmic spray of his exhales, and could just make out the back of his head. Lucy had blurred into darkness though she barked every now and then, agitated. Amelia wanted to turn back, but not with Sid out there alone.
The wind picked up as she moved further from the shore and the waves became more aggressive. Some of them had little white heads that curled and barrelled into her, others swelled, full, lifting her up and propelling her away from her goal. There was turmoil beneath the water, though she may have imagined the kick of it. Her arms numbed, her shoulders exhausted.
‘Almost there!’ Sid called from somewhere out in the deepening blackness. She could no longer hear Lucy, nor make out her shape on the pier. She imagined a huge shark jaw coming towards her when she put her head beneath the water. The waves around her transformed into fins and she was encircled. There was definitely something moving towards her, and the glint of white flesh. It drew closer and there was a flash of orange too, then the intake of breath. A swimmer moved past her a few metres away, goggles covering her eyes. Amelia waited, unnoticed. It seemed important to hide, to not draw attention to herself nor disturb this ritual of the early hours. As the swimmer disappeared, Amelia continued her strokes, digging deep, seeking a second wind. But the current grew stronger and each wave swept her along like driftwood.
There was a hoot from the pier, she was sure, the human sound carrying over the water. Silence for a few seconds, then a splash. Her heart set off and it would have skidded across the bay to the ocean if it could have escaped her chest.
‘Hey,’ Zach called. ‘Wait up.’
She didn’t. She swam, moving her limbs faster than before. Her chest was tight, but breathing was no longer important; distance was all that mattered. She kicked hard, as if in defence, and she dared not turn around to see where Zach was, or even take a minute to ensure she was on target to hit the buoy. Despite pushing with everything she had against the current, she was suspended in the action of swimming, getting nowhere. It was loud out there at the collision of wind and water, and her panic fed off the noise.
He caught her, pulled at her ankles, spun her to face him. As she gasped for air his face furrowed in worry.
‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘Hey.’ He lifted her hands onto his shoulders. It was a relief, at first, to relinquish the battle against sinking. His skin was soft; her thumbs dipped into the ridges of his collarbone. He caught his breath too, both of them panting. He reached out to her, wiped hair out of her eyes, neatened it behind her ears. He held her head, pushed her cheeks in with his palms. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ Spray flicked towards her as he exhaled and she could smell the breath of each word.
They bobbed in the water, and there was the force of his kicks below, keeping them both afloat, and the rise and fall of his shoulders. In the moonlight, she examined the details of him: the eyebrows that had grown thick in the middle, the nose that had been broken and decentred on his face, the ears with their small lobes, the boy inside this man. His hand moved down her face, his thumb running over her mouth, pressing in gently on her bottom lip, then moving down her neck.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, lifting her hands from his shoulders, her legs working again beneath her. His hands were still there on her skin, and she gave him a moment more to let go, but he didn’t. She said it again, each word slow and standing alone: ‘Don’t touch me.’
He released her then, held his palms open as if she needed proof they were off her. He paused, watching her, and she held his eye till he turned. His legs brushed against hers as he swam away; she endured the contact because he would never touch her again.
The thump in her chest slowed. She swam to match it, a soft kick of the legs, stroke of the arms, dip of the head, through the waves, concentrating on each of the movements, synchronising them so she could feel the glide of progress.
‘Meels?’
She could hear Sid but not see him. ‘Yeah?’
‘Over here.’ She turned a full circle before seeing the flashes of his arms, signalling her. He was laughing, now only ten metres away. She swam over, keeping the same rhythm: legs, arms, head, repeat.
‘You made it,’ he said. He had the buoy wrapped in his arms. Its base was gooey and slippery as she wrapped her own arms around it, too.
‘Made it,’ she said.
‘I’m a better swimmer than you,’ he said.
‘I know.’
The buoy squeaked as Sid adjusted his grip; reverberations reached her through the hard rubber.
‘Zach was there, in the water,’ she said.
‘What happened?’ Sid said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good.’ She waited, catching her breath, counting each one, then she said it: ‘What he did to me … I was too young. It wasn’t right.’
The waves slapped against the buoy and she leaned in closer to Sid, needing to hear his response.
‘Oh, Meels. I … I didn’t know it was like that.’
She pressed her head against the rubber, allowed water to play around her lips. ‘It doesn’t matter that I cared about him … I didn’t understand.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, and there was the push of water before his hand reached her, rested for a while on he
r back.
It didn’t seem possible that she could be there, then, with those words outside of her; beyond the land, with the smell of mould rising from the underbelly of the buoy, far away from people but not too far, and with Sid, close. She looked out further across the bay, only able to separate the horizon, black on black, by the light of boats in the distance, knowing that Tasmania was far beyond them, the Overland Track holding the imprint of her and her mother’s footsteps, and after Tasmania, more water, water, water. Her mother was there in the waves; they were the suck and release of her breath in the night, the gurgle of her stomach before breakfast, her first evening sip of red wine, held in her mouth for a few long moments before being swallowed.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Sid said.
‘Just this,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Missed you too.’
They stayed for a long time, many slow breaths of time. Her mind took her far, across her travels, back to the desert, and further, to her and her mother snuggled up in a beanbag beside the heater, too much cream squirted on hot chocolates, to her and Sid, sneaking into his neighbour’s house to swim late at night, the smell of chlorine from the swimmers hidden beneath her pyjamas. Her mind went forward too, and some of the blank spaces had movement and colour, and she had a feeling, only fleeting, that she’d like to be there.
‘Let’s head back,’ Amelia said. Half-submerged, her shoulders and chest to the air, she was cold. He shivered too, teeth clacking.
‘Righto.’
She took one last, long breath then kicked off towards the shore.
They cycled together back to Sid’s place. Mansions adorned with Christmas lights glowed and blinked as they made their way through the streets of Kew. She told him she wanted to stay with him for the night, but that she wouldn’t stay with Zach too. She told him she was leaving in the morning. She told him he should come and see her, spend some time, and she told him she would be all right. He said okay, okay, okay, and as they walked down the garden path her footsteps were light, somehow, beneath the weight of his arm.
The night sky had lifted to reveal a band of dark blue, and the first morning birds were singing. Zach was nowhere to be found. Amelia flopped down onto the mattress and pulled the sheet up to her chin. She rolled over onto her stomach. The mattress shifted as Sid lay down on the opposite side; Lucy pawed herself a nest at the base of the bed.
She woke fresh and sharp, despite the wine. Sid was already awake. He wore last night’s clothes, legs tucked up to his chest, a paperback bent over itself in his hands.
After a cup of tea and some cereal with out-of-date milk, she stood at the door of Sid’s old Corolla, Lucy already loaded into the front seat. Sid stood watching her. They’d already said their goodbyes; it was just up to her now, to open the door and get in. The tank was three-quarters full, he’d said, which would get her off to a good start, and he’d lent her some cash to see her through the next few weeks.
‘See you soon,’ she said.
‘See you soon.’ He raised his arm in a wave, and she could tell he was trying hard to give a smile she’d believe.
She opened the door, lifting it on the hinges a little because she knew it wouldn’t budge if she didn’t. The smell of it was just right. No one could stop her as she hit one hundred kilometres an hour, the car rattling with the struggle.
After a few hours signs sprang up directing her back home. She didn’t follow them, and when the final option to turn off had passed, she was relieved. She would return, eventually. She’d strip the beds, cut back the garden, sort out the finances and her mother’s things; it all had to be done sometime, but not then.
She kept her window down the whole way, and she was sure she could feel the air grow stickier as she moved from inland to the coast. She drove past the cafe where she once treated herself to breakfast, past the ice creamery, the post office, the supermarket, then up the steep hill where shops began to peter out into houses.
The art shop was open. She stepped inside, where stock was piled high and deep. The same woman was there and Amelia either had never known her name or had forgotten it. She wore a purple scarf around her head with a strawberry print spread across it, the same eyeliner as always arcing out from her eyelid. She was stitching something and it was close work, a patch of material held up to her face.
‘Hi,’ Amelia said, and the woman’s face transformed from crinkled concentration into recognition.
‘Well, hello there,’ she said, resting the material on the counter. ‘You’re back.’
Amelia returned the woman’s smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘Had a feeling I might be seeing you again.’
‘The room, is it …?’
‘There’s no one in it, hun. Rent’s the same. It’s yours again if you want it.’
‘Yeah, I want it, please. I really, really want it.’
The woman pulled open a drawer beneath the counter and fished around, holding the sewing needle between her lips. She found the keys and handed them over, then removed the needle from her mouth. ‘Happy to let yourself in?’
It seemed like the room hadn’t been touched since Amelia was last in it. There was a haze of dust turned golden by the sun. The bed was crumpled with the same grey sheets she’d used and there was the damp smell, but she could fix that. She’d air the place out, perhaps get up and clear the gutters. Lucy remembered the place, barely needing to investigate before opting to curl up in her favourite spot by the window. Most importantly, the walls were the same: stark white, bracing themselves for the light show of sunset about to begin. Amelia threw the keys on the bed. She pulled open the sheer curtain, unlocked the window then popped the screen out of its frame. Laying it carefully against the wall inside, she climbed out and hung her legs down the building, felt the familiar bite of the windowsill against the backs of her thighs.
The ocean was showing off as the sun lowered. It crashed over and over on the shore, an insistent child tugging on its mother’s skirts.
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to:
Varuna, the Writers’ House, and Limnisa community of writers, for the hours, the food, for the rooms with views. And to the writers I met at these places, for the conversations into the night.
To Ellie, Seren, Richard (and Lincoln!), for the time taken to read drafts, for your honesty and for your wisdom. To Lesley and Suzie, for the writing group meetings, talking words and beyond.
To Anne Meadows, for your warm and astute comments, which I returned to over and over.
To Philip Hensher and Tessa Hadley, for your guidance, encouragement and the generous sharing of your experience. To all at Bath Spa University who engaged with my work and allowed me to engage with theirs.
To my agent, Emma Paterson, for being there since the beginning.
To all at Penguin Random House Australia, particularly Meredith Curnow and Kathryn Knight, for responding to this book with such heart, attention and grace.
To Charlotte and Pam, for your generosity in early reading and in each sharing your skills in healing; for the pep talks and for your belief.
To Jill and Sue, for your interest in my work, your acceptance of me, and your openness. For sharing your home as a place for rest and discussion, and as a place for me to read, look out windows, and write.
To my friends all over the world, too many wonderful ones to name, for the joy you add to my life, for asking about this book for longer than you thought you’d have to.
To my best friend, Jacci; thank you for finding me and thank you for sticking with me. You’ll always be the one I call.
To my late father, who was proud of this book; thank you for fostering my inquisitiveness, for letting me write during our road trip, for helping me to swim out beyond the breakers, for reading to me.
To Nan, for always asking about this book, for assuming it would be one. For the Froot Loops, the hidden bags of lollies, the school holidays.
To Natalie, for being a big
sister worth following, a person worth aspiring to. To Tim, for your loyalty and understanding. To Erik and Eleanor, for being the wildest, most welcome distractions.
To my mother, Annemaree; because of you, I have always known what it feels like for someone to have my back. Thank you for loving this book before reading it (and afterwards, too). Thank you, for everything.
To Bridget; your patience, kindness and gentleness have eased me through the making of this book, and through so much else … thank you. We laugh … and may we keep doing so.
About the author
Kathryn Hind was born in Canberra and has now returned there after living for five years in the United Kingdom. She’s published essays and short stories in various Australian journals and collections, and has had a poem published on one of Canberra’s Action buses. Kathryn began her first novel, Hitch, while studying in the UK, and in 2018 she was awarded the inaugural Penguin Literary Prize for the manuscript.
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First published by Hamish Hamilton, an imprint of Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2019
Copyright © Kathryn Hind 2019
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, published, performed in public or communicated to the public in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd or its authorised licensees.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.