Swim Until You Can't See Land (35 page)

The streets are deserted. Nobody about except me and the fish. We could be the only two left. The survivors of some zombie apocalypse.

‘That’s what you and me are, fish. We’re survivors.’

The lights are on when I get home. Dad must be up. He’ll be wondering where I am.

I balance the fish bowl against my hip, cradle it with an arm, while I search in my pocket for my house key.

Dad’s sitting on the stairs when I open the door, Shirley’s behind him, one step up, her hand on his shoulder.

‘Whereve you been? I’ve been tryingphone you. I senyou messages,’ he says as he stands.

‘What messages?’

‘Yourmobile,’ he replies.

‘Sorry, my phone’s been switched off.’

He stumbles down the stairs, knocks over an ashtray. Fag ends and ash tip out onto the carpet. I can smell the whiskey coming off him as he grabs me.

‘Careful, Dad,’ I step back as water splashes from the bowl.

‘Whathe hellave you gothere?’

‘It’s a goldfish.’

‘I cansee isssa bloody goldfish.’

‘Everything okay?’ Shirley asks from where she’s sitting on the stairs.

She doesn’t look very happy with me.

Does she know I shagged her son? Did she tell Dad?

Shit.

I nod, put the fish bowl down on the carpet, out of the way of Dad who sways in front of me, whiskey breath on my face.

Shirley stands, grabs her jacket which is slung over the banister.

‘I’ll push off then.’

‘Ohokay, thankshiry.’ He looks like he’s forgotten she was even there.

‘No bother,’ she squeezes past us both, gives me a look as she lets herself out the front door.

Dad stumbles to one side, clatters into the glass medal cabinet. The medals and cups rattle about inside, one hits the sliding door, cracks the glass panel. Dad sinks back onto the stairs, holds his head in his hands.

‘Dad, I’m sorry.’

He looks up at me. He’s crying. Shit, my dad’s crying. I kneel in front of him.

‘Dad, are you okay?’

‘I wassso worried, Hannah, thoughyoudone something daft.’

‘What? I wouldn’t do that. Of course I wouldn’t.’

‘Butyou’ve been solow, sossad, I know you missswimming.’

Tears run down his cheeks, glisten on his beard. He wipes his eyes, takes my hand, his fingers are damp.’

‘Sno fair, Hannah, it’s jussno fair.’

He lets go of me, takes a hankie from his pocket and blows his nose.

‘I’m jussssilly old duffer,’ he rubs his eyes and cheeks with his hanky. His skin wrinkles, doesn’t spring back, folds up under his eyes. He picks up the fag ends, puts them back in the ashtray, wipes the ash into the carpet with his hand.

He’s getting old.

I haven’t really thought about it until now. Now that I’m at face level with him. I see the grey hair, the lines on his forehead, around his mouth. He’s always just been Dad to me, but now I look at him, realise that one day he won’t be here anymore.

Like Mum. Like Gran. Like Marièle.

My swimming.

Pressure builds in my chest, in the back of my throat.

My mouth hurts, my tongue hurts, my teeth hurt. I can’t swallow it down. It rises and rises and rises and rises and…

I lean my head on his legs. He strokes my hair as I cry all over his jeans.

‘We’recouplea idiots arenwe.’

I nod. I can’t speak. I can’t speak. I can’t speak.

‘Where were you tonight?’

I swallow, the lump’s too big though, sticks in my chest. I swallow again, try to compose myself.

‘Iwentforacyclethatoldwomandied,’ I say it quickly so I can get the words out.

‘Whaollwoman?’ Dad stops hugging me and I lean back, gulp air into my lungs.

‘Collapsedatwork.’

Short, fast sentences, that’s all I can manage.

‘Jesus, I forgoabou her. Howdyou finout?’

‘Phonedthehospital.’

‘Poor olllssoul, Jesus, whaawaytogo. Collapsingin bloody Shirley’sshitey wee shop. That’sa bit of a tongue twister. Shirley’sshiteyweeshop, Shirley’s chiteyweeshop, Shirley’sshiteywechop. Give it a go.’

‘Shirley’s shitey wee shop. Shirley’s shitey wee shop.’

‘No, no, you have to say it faster than that. ‘Shirley’sshiteyweeshopShirley’schiteyweechop.’

‘Shirley’sshiteyweeshop, Shirley’sshiteyweechop, Shirley’schiteyweechop, Shirleyshitey.’

‘I don’t know whatwas thinking, letting you work in Shirley’schiteywee shop. I’ve told her, yourno going back. You’reso like your mum, no wonder she left.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Ach, it’s true.’

He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. His lips leave a sticky whiskey mark on my head, but I resist the urge to wipe it away.

‘Asmuchas I’ll miss you, you need to get out of here, away from Shirley’sshitey wee shop. Don’t get stuck here.’

‘Okay,’ I nod.

‘No, donjust say okay, I really mean it, promiseme. There’still so much you can do. Swimming’s not the beall and enall.’

He squeezes me, tight, painful, his fingertips bruising my upper arms.

‘I promise, Dad, I promise.’

He just stares at me, like he’s working out if I’m telling him the truth or not then he stands, groans as his knees creak.

‘Look, look,’ he gestures at the cracked medal cabinet, stumbles off-balance, ‘so you had to stop, but look what you did before that. Thasmore than a lot of people ever do.’

I nod.

‘Righ, olduffer needsis bed. Where did that come from?’ He asks, noticing the fish again. He doesn’t wait for an answer though, sways past me up the stairs.

I put my hand out, the carpet’s warm from where he’s been sitting. I curl up on the stairs, rest my face against the warmth of him, watch the fish as he swims from side to side.

24

SHE HAD JUST
put a pot of soup on to heat up when the phone rang.

Ring  Ring

Ring  Ring

‘
Zut
! Who’s that?’

She took a wooden spoon from the cutlery drawer, stirred her soup, decided to ignore the phone for the moment.

Ring  Ring

Ring  Ring 

‘Someone’s persistent,’ she said to the fish.

Marièle lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling. She couldn’t face leaving her bedroom, going out there into the rest of the house.

The atmosphere was thick, oppressive. She could feel it, even in here. They were stuck in it, it was all around them, squeezing them tight, tight, tight, tight. Like those jam traps Father left outside for wasps. The stickiness caught them, sucked them under into the water, drowning, downing, drowning them.

‘Marie,’ there was a knock on her bedroom door.

She hesitated before replying. Maybe she should pretend to be asleep? Mama seemed happy to sink into the jam.

What was it she said at dinnertimes?

You can have bread and butter or bread and jam, but you can’t have bread and butter and jam.

‘
Marie,
chérie.’

You can have bread and butter or bread and jam, but you can’t have bread and butter and jam.

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘I think you should see this.’

‘What is it?’

Marièle tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. What did she want? Marièle just wanted to lie there, lie there still, not sink any deeper into the jam.

‘Please,
chérie
, come here.’

Marièle sat up, swung her legs off the bed, could feel the stickiness cling at her as she opened the door onto the hallway.

‘Where are you, Mama?’

‘In here,’ her voice came from George’s room.

Oh God.

The jam was stickiest in there. Marièle didn’t want to see his bed, his clothes, his books.

‘Mama, what is it?’

‘
Mon Dieu
, stop being silly, just come and see this.’

Marièle felt the jam clamp around her middle the moment she stepped into George’s room, it sucked the air out of her.

She could smell him, smell him in here. The blankets on the bed, the jumper slung over the armchair, the dressing gown hanging up on the back of the door. The scent of Aqua Velva, the pomade he sometimes used on his hair, tobacco, boot polish, those cinnamon boiled sweets he liked to suck on after smoking.

It was a safe smell, comforting, but, God, it made her ache.

She had to get out of here.

Marièle had sat on the bed, watched George polishing his boots before he left for the last time.

Were his boots still shining? Still sparkling somewhere, while the rest of him…

God, she couldn’t bring herself to think about the rest of him.

Mama stood at the window.

‘What is it, Mama?’

‘Is that Cath out there?’

‘Cath?’ Marièle took a step forward, ‘why would she be out there?’

She stood behind Mama, followed her gaze.

‘Yes, that’s Cath? What’s she doing?’

‘She must be freezing, go and get her. Bring her in, I’ll make tea.’

Marièle felt the jam begin to release her. She followed Mama downstairs, put on her coat hanging at the back door, slipped on her shoes.

God, it was bitter out
.

Your carriage, m’ladies.

Marièle pulled her coat tight, stuffed her hands in the pockets, walked towards Cath, who sat on a wall at the back of the house.

‘Cath, dear, what are you doing? You’ll catch your death.’

The word death hung in the air between them.

‘Oh, Marièle, I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to see… what I mean is, I didn’t want to…’ Cath looked down, her face flushed pink while her dimples shone out white against her cheeks.

‘Cath, your hands are like ice, you can’t stay out here. Come inside, Mama’s making tea.’

‘Oh no, I don’t want to intrude.’

‘You’re a daftie,’ Marièle rubbed Cath’s hands.

‘I miss him dreadfully,’ Cath said, still looking down. Tears dripped off the end of her nose.

‘Me too.’

‘I just wanted to be close to him.’

On bad days you needed somewhere to go, a grave to visit. But there was nowhere like that for George. At least not in this country. Had they even found all of him to…

No, she stopped herself. Wouldn’t let the jam thicken. They didn’t have a grave they could visit, but they had a wall. A wall outside his bedroom, where they could sit for a while and feel close to him
.

Ring  Ring

Ring  Ring

‘I’d better answer it, I suppose.’

Ring  Ring

Ring  Ring

She turned off the heat, moved the pot to one side, before she made her way along the hall towards the telephone.

Ring  Ring

Ring  Ring

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, is that Marièle?’

‘Who wants to know?’

There was a knock at the door. Marièle pulled the tartan rug around her, she didn’t want to see anyone. Why did people keep turning up? Did they just want to look at her? See if the rumours were really true.

The Downie girl’s come home. Prisoner of war. What she was doing out there in the first place I don’t know. Imagine doing that to her parents after all they’ve been through. Yes, she’s brave, but it’s not the same for women as it is for men.

She tucked the rug into the neck of her pullover, hid her hands underneath. If she could she would hide her face too. If they couldn’t see her then she wasn’t really there.

She heard Mama open the front door, whisper to someone out in the hallway. Maybe it was another doctor? The psychiatrist back to check up on her?

The door to the sitting room opened. Mama stood in the doorway, someone hovered behind her.

‘Cath’s come to see you,
ma chérie
, isn’t that nice?’

Marièle nodded. Mama had taken to speaking to her like that since she’d come home. Like she was a child. Needed everything explained slowly and loudly.

She was physically damaged, but she’d kept her mental abilities. She’d held on to them, by God, fought hard to keep them.

.-

-...

-.-.

-..

Cath stepped out from behind Mama. She looked terrified. Marièle had to stop herself from laughing. Was she that monstrous now?

Cath’s cheeks were white, no smile to show off those dimples.

‘I heard you were home and I wanted to come sooner, but your father said you were sick. But then, today of all days, I thought…’