Swim Until You Can't See Land (20 page)

We don’t speak. It’s weird now it’s all over. It felt right when it was happening, but now…

I finish making the tea, take mine out onto the shop floor. I think my hangover’s back; I need some fresh air. I open the front door, stand out on the pavement with my tea.

I can feel him watching me from the counter and it’s worse than standing next to him so I go back in. His hair’s all ruffled, his cheeks flushed.

I feel sick.

I’m not the classy Mrs Robinson, I’m a dirty old woman. It’s so sleazy, doing it at work. And I came so easily, he must realise how hard-up I am.

‘I’ve wanted to do that with you for ages,’ he says.

I take a swig of tea to avoid having to answer. We stand in silence behind the counter.

‘How’s your shoulder?’ He asks and starts to rub it with his hand again.

He wants me to say the sex helped, made me forget the pain, but the truth is it’s fucking agony. Worse than before. I move away from him, try not to make it obvious that I don’t want him to touch me. But now it’s over, I don’t want any contact with him.

I just want out of here, away from him. I feel sticky and unclean, I need a shower, I need to be on my own.

I’m a total bitch, turned into such a cliché. The dirty old woman who seduces a schoolboy. What’s wrong with me?

I’m relieved when it’s time to close up.

‘Do you fancy doing something?’ Calum asks as we cash up the till.

‘Sorry, I can’t tonight,’ I reply, avoiding eye contact.

(it’s a school night, it’s a school night, it’s a school night)

‘No worries, maybe another night?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply.

I’m such a chicken, I should be straight with him. That’s not going to happen again, it shouldn’t have happened today, but I’ll say anything to get out of here without a confrontation. I’m so grateful for my bike, it gives me an excuse not to have to walk beside him. I cycle as fast as I can away from the shop. The cold air feels good against my hot and crawling skin.

Dad and Shirley. Dad and Shirley. Dad and Shirley.

Like father, like daughter. Like father, like daughter. Like father, like daughter.

Fuck, I can’t bear it. It all feels so wrong, so smutty and sordid. I’m angry at myself for letting it happen but I’m angry at myself too for being so disgusted.

(I’m allowed to get my kicks)

My shoulder’s so sore by the time I get home that I can barely get off my bike. I dump it in the garage and head into the house. I’m crying now, I can’t help it. Crying with shame and pain.

The light’s on in the living room. Great, the one night I could do with him being out.

‘Hi sweetheart,’ I hear Dad shout as I reach my bedroom.

I ignore him, I can’t speak. The lump in my throat is so big that I can hardly breathe. I fall on my bed and sob into my pillow. How did I end up like this?

I hear Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I should make a run for the bathroom, hide from him, but I don’t move.

‘Hannah? Hannah, you okay?’

I look up. He’s standing in the doorway, blurry through the tears. My nose is running and I wipe it on my sleeve.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘My shoulder,’ I manage to say between gulping sobs.

‘Oh, sweetheart.’

He sits on the edge of my bed, pulls me into a bear hug, crushing me. It doesn’t help my shoulder but I don’t care.

I let him crush everything away.

When it first started, Dad would help me with all the exercises the physio gave me to do, doing his best to get me better. He’d laugh as I grimaced, tell me it was all for the best, that it would be worth it in the end. Neither of us realising how serious it was. Both of us sure that the exercises were working, that my shoulder was improving. That this was only a blip.

The Olympics just around the corner.

I get so down thinking of us then. How hopeful we were, how optimistic. It was just a sore shoulder that needed stretched.

I can’t bear to fast forward us.

To the present, to this room, to me crying and him crushing me.

14

THEY’D TOLD HER
to try and sleep on the voyage over. As if she could sleep here, on the felucca. The chug of the engine, the constant soaking from the waves, the punch of the sail. The

  up and     up and      up and    up and

     down        down        down         down

Captain Kalinowski and his crew had left her alone so far. One of them, Piotr, had handed her a wool blanket and a tarpaulin when she’d boarded the Seafox in Gibraltar. He smiled at her, said something in Polish she didn’t understand. He was so young, not old enough to grow the stubble that the other crew members kept their faces warm with.

She wished she had a beard herself. The spray stung against her face, made her eyes water and her skin tight.

The men dressed in cord trousers and woollen jumpers, fingerless gloves, hats pulled down over their eyes. How many times had they made this crossing? She could tell by their weather-beaten faces, calloused fingers, that this was a regular trip for them. When had they last been home? Could they go home?

Marièle looked out of the train window. This would be the first time she’d been home in over ten months. A few days leave before being sent to France. She laughed to herself as she thought of the telephone call she’d made to Cath earlier in the week.

‘I can’t wait to see you dear, it’s been so long. Mrs Walker keeps asking where you are. She said to me the other day, that Miss Downie’s been away for about nine months now hasn’t she? I tapped my nose and said, “careless talk, Mrs Walker.” Let’s push a pram past her house when you get back for a giggle!’

Mrs Walker could think what she liked. Those French girls, ooh la la.

Froggy Marie. Froggy Marie.

..-. .-. --- --. --. -.-- / -- .- .-. .. .

The scenery was familiar now, getting closer to home. It was time to become Marièle again, put Sabine aside for a few days. It wasn’t just Mrs Walker who could make up stories. Marièle had to remember that, for the duration of her leave, she was Ensign
F
43
A
, driver and orderly in the
FANY
.

She’d been on board almost three days now. At least she thought it was three days. She’d dozed for some of the time, was sure she’d counted three sunsets.

The seasickness was starting to pass. Her stomach more accustomed to the rocking motion of the felucca, the lurching from side to side.

        up and      up and     up and    up and

     down        down        down         down

They were so low in the water, she felt every wave, every fish pass underneath.

She hadn’t eaten properly since that first night, when she’d thrown up over the side after a slice of ham and a boiled egg.

The picnic she had was sheltered underneath the tarpaulin, a Thermos and some sandwiches. She peeled open two slices of bread, wished she hadn’t. The grey blobs of meat paste made her gag.

Captain Kalinowski sat on the opposite side from her, folding flags. She forced herself to take a bite of the sandwich, tried not to think of the filling as she chewed then swallowed. She had to prove that she was more than just a seasick female. She was sure the Captain and his crew talked about her behind her back: young girl, useless, why risk their lives for someone like her? Couldn’t even stomach the boat trip to France, there was no way she’d last five minutes in the
réseau
.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ She offered the sandwiches to Kalinowski.

He shook his head, continued folding flags.

‘Can I help with that?’ She asked.

‘
Nie
,
nie
, we choose a flag depending on who we run into.’

He held up a union jack and then a swastika, spat over the side of the boat.

She was nervous as the train whistled, slowed down and pulled into the station. Silly of her, this was home.

No matter how long she’d been away.

No matter what she’d done since leaving.

She wore her
FANY
uniform, brass buttons and epaulettes on her khaki jacket, belted around the waist, blouse and tie, skirt rubbing against her calves.

What would people think when they saw her in it? It made her self-conscious, going home dressed like this.

The train stopped and she put her beret on, might as well complete the look.

She stepped down from the train, looked along the smoky platform for Mama.

She was at the ticket office, under a poster.

IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?

Marièle’s journey definitely was. It was the last time she would see her family, see Cath, before being sent to France.

Sabine unscrewed the lid of her Thermos. Maybe tea would help? Mama didn’t understand the British and their tea.

They use it for everything. Too hot? Have some tea. Too cold? Try some tea. Feeling sick? Tea. Well? Tea
. C’est un remède miracle, n’est-ce-pas?

Sabine needed a
remède miracle
. She clamped the plastic cup between her knees, tried to hold it steady as she poured from the flask.

        up and     up and     up and    up and

      down      down    down      down

She couldn’t put the cup down on the deck; even if the felucca stayed still long enough for her to pour her tea, the deck was covered in about an inch of water so her cup would just float away. The Seafox in miniature. Maybe she should get a knife, scrape ‘Seabrew’ onto the side of the plastic cup.

I hereby name this vessel the Seabrew
.

She spilt as she poured, but it wasn’t hot enough to burn her legs.

Piotr and the navigator Aleksy stood nearby.

‘Would you like some tea?’ She asked.

Piotr smiled, took a step towards her but Aleksy shook his head.

‘Nie, we have our own supplies.’

She lifted the cup, it wobbled in her hand as the felucca lurched and tea dribbled down her chin, salty and lukewarm.

‘Mama, Mama, I’m here,’ Marièle waved. Mama turned at the sound of her voice. Confusion flickered across her face before recognition turned it into a smile and she ran towards Marièle.

‘Marie, my Marie,
chérie
, it’s so good to see you.’ She hugged Marièle and then held her out at arm’s length. ‘My, my, I didn’t recognise you in that uniform – you look so official. And your hair? Your father won’t approve of that,
non
, he will not.’

Marièle let Mama kiss her again and again. She’d forgotten they’d dyed her hair. Had gotten used to the dull brown shade, although it had taken her a few days and, she was ashamed to admit, a few tears. Still, to play the part of Sabine, she must have the right shade and hairstyle.

Au revoir
to lovely blonde hair and
salut
to this hideous brown creation.

She felt horribly unclean. Funny, surrounded by all this water, but she hadn’t had a proper wash since leaving the submarine.

Her hair stuck to her head and she could feel the stickiness under her armpits. Not even Chanel No
5
could penetrate the stench. She longed for a bath. The men splashed their hairy armpits with seawater, didn’t seem to mind the grime. Would she ever be able to get rid of the fishy smell that clung to her? Like the old harbour wives who brought the fish into the shop, you smelt them coming before you saw them.

She could taste salt, felt it coarse against her skin.

        up and     up and      up and    up and

     down        down        down         down

She’d taken to mopping the deck. Sometimes she would use an old tin can and bail some of the excess water overboard first. She couldn’t sit still any longer, sheltered under the tarpaulin like an old woman. She wanted to help. Besides, the longer she sat, the more her joints seized up, the salt water rusting her stiff.

Kalinowski had argued with her.

‘
Nie
, sit down, be careful, you’ll go overboard.’

‘Honestly, Captain, I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to fall in there anymore than you want me too. I can’t swim for one thing.’

Kalinowski laughed, said something in Polish to Aleksy.

‘What’s so damn funny?’

‘Nothing,
nic
. I’m sorry for laughing. It is not good that you cannot swim. If you like, I can teach you?’

Sabine felt his laughter take hold, it pulled at her insides, made her stomach muscles ache. God, the absurdity of it. What on earth was she doing?

‘It’s a deal,’ she replied. ‘And I will teach you to parachute.’