The Lost Swimmer (2 page)

I attempted to calm myself with deep breathing as I crossed the campus but it only made me dizzy. Flags proclaiming the merits of Coastal University hung in a line of honour. Their soft tick-ticking against poles sounded like yacht sails. Yachts that could be shipwrecked.

The day was becoming a scorcher and students had melted away. My steps echoed as I strode into the startling new building that rose like a silver tsunami where the Dean awaited in her million-dollar digs.

Amber, a Machiavellian sandwich of a person, smiled sweetly and ushered me straight through to where Priscilla sat typing intently on her computer. I took a seat opposite.

‘On the comfy chairs,' Priscilla didn't raise her eyes. I repositioned myself in a leather chair, sea-blue to match the watery expanse below that stretched to the horizon.

‘I'll just be a minute.' Fifteen passed, and the tapping of fingers on keys became a volley of bullets. Finally I gave in.

‘I do have other meetings, Priscilla.'

She looked up, feigning surprise, and joined me in the plush chairs.

‘Yes, I did send those letters this morning and I did mean the implication that your School is without a Head,' she said without prompting.

‘But you can't just stand me down like that.'

‘Then you'll need to prove you're worthy of the position. It's come to my attention that you've been undermining me left, right and centre to anybody who'll listen. I'm not going to lie: your gossip hurts, Rebecca. Personally and professionally. Did you really think it wouldn't get back to me? Whatever actions I've needed to take – and they haven't been easy, but in the current economic climate we've no choice – there you've been, thwarting me, taking up the fight to our colleagues. I'm not alone, many people are sick of you.'

No wonder she'd been nice this morning. Like a cat with a mouse. ‘I'm here to talk about Josie and Pam,' I replied, keeping my voice steady.

‘I've reviewed the paperwork. Neither has fulfilled the most basic requirements,' said Priscilla. ‘Not even one refereed journal article in three years.'

‘But they're each lecturing in four subjects – more than they should, because we're so short staffed. And they're both flat out writing books and have family responsibilities.'

‘Books that don't have Research Council money.'

‘They have publishers, which is no small feat in this climate.'

‘They need research grants. You know how important that is to our quality review; if we're not placed highly our rankings will go down. That affects us all.'

‘When they publish, that'll count in the quality review.'

‘Promises aren't enough. They've had their chance. In any event, you're drastically over-budget and prancing around as though that's meaningless. Because you won't take the necessary steps, I'm going to have to. And if you're not careful, that will include replacing you with a Head who'll do the job. Take this as an informal warning.'

My stomach lurched. I took a conciliatory tone. ‘Priscilla, Josie and Pam are hard-working members of staff. They're fantastic teachers and their courses attract significant numbers of students, which actually helps our financial position.'

‘You know I can't force anything. They're voluntary redundancies.'

‘So, they can say no?'

‘Absolutely not. It's your job to persuade them to go.'

‘But it will just make our budget situation worse if we can't offer some of our most popular subjects.'

Priscilla checked her watch. ‘I have another meeting.' She walked to her desk. ‘Oh, one more thing.' A flicker of a smile touched her rouged lips. ‘You and I will be undergoing mediation. The Vice-Chancellor has suggested it to see if we can resolve our differences.'

Defeat. Utter defeat. I'd been the last one standing; now all five Heads of School in the Faculty of Arts would be in mediation with Priscilla. The room was stuffy and as my blood drained, Priscilla stood waiting for my response. I didn't lift my head, staring instead at her designer sandals, in blue and white leather of the finest quality. I could feel Priscilla's hands making pincer movements.

‘What's wrong?' she said, looking down at her sandals.

‘They're an unusual colour. I've never seen a blue quite like it,' I commented and walked out, leaving Priscilla studying her footwear.

By the time I slumped back to my office, one of my brightest PhD students, Carl, had arrived for his monthly meeting. I fought to banish the awful prospect of mediation with Priscilla as he spoke passionately about a dig on Lefnakos, an idyllic Greek island he was due to visit this European summer. I had been, and I shuddered at the memory. Several years ago, the day after I'd flown out, the place had caved in, killing five tourists and two archaeologists; I felt incalculably sad for them. I'd been working in the very spot of the collapse, sitting just a day before in my tiny air-conditioned tent, with all my high-tech equipment for analysing the constitution of the glass fragments that were painstakingly dug from the soil and handed over like fragile babies to have their secrets slowly revealed. One of my closest friends, Burton, had been badly hurt. He now got around in a wheelchair, his once-powerful legs crushed and useless, and had moved to Crete. I hadn't been back and was uneasy about Carl going, even though the area had been reopened and declared safe. It was a freak accident, unlucky, one that could happen anywhere at any time. Yet I still didn't want him there.

Carl had stopped and was watching expectantly.

‘You know my feelings about that dig.'

He said nothing, letting the silence stretch, a code he'd developed with me over the years.

‘Anyway, why don't you leave what you've written and we'll set up another time? I'm a bit distracted today, so please forgive me.'

‘Is there anything I can do to help?'

‘No, just keep writing like you are. That helps.'

Carl flushed with pleasure and hurried out. He'd deserved better.

•  •  •

Big Boy padded onto the deck. Where was Stephen? This was so unlike him. Leaving early. Not mentioning that he'd be late. And tonight, when I really needed him, he wasn't answering my calls. The dog started whimpering, gazing with come-hither eyes. I ignored him and took a large gulp of wine. It was my favourite time of evening, when the patch of sky through eucalypts morphed into a deep blue that washed to violet then rich purple as yellow-crested cockatoos screeched across high above like soft-winged puppets.

But Big Boy was a master at expressions that went straight to the heart. I grabbed his leash and we struck out for the beach.

The sea shimmered silver in the dusk, a smudge of pink glowing in the fragile clouds on the horizon. There were a few surfers on the breakers, as sleek as seals in their wetsuits. Big Boy galloped happily beside me. I wondered if my job could be at risk after two solid decades at Coastal, rising up the ranks from tutor to lecturer to senior lecturer, associate professor and finally professor, each promotion hard won through sacrifice, travelling constantly between semesters to digs in Greece, writing in every snatched moment, losing time with my children I could never retrieve. I had tenure, and post-grads came because of my reputation. I was supervising fourteen PhDs. My publication and grant records were impeccable. I'd written five books in the area of cultural archaeology, edited several collections and had articles in all the major international journals. I was a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Surely Priscilla couldn't ignore that I was an asset?

And yet her attack was so strident, so confident.

Rounding the bluff I pounded along the wild ocean beach. Pale aquamarine waves crashed to shore, sending up a haze of ghostly droplets, frothing white as they heaved back into the rocks – outcrops that lurked beneath the surface, stretching for miles, in days gone by tricking vessels that had sailed unwittingly into trouble, foundered and broken up. Loved ones who had never come home, taken by the sea. I knew the dull ache, the gap that could never be filled. The cruel consequences.

Not for me to be another lost soul. I would fight Priscilla and win.

‘W
hat's this for?' Stephen said as I hugged into his tall, strong body, warm and reassuring. His dark eyes looked down at me from beneath a flop of black hair, tanned skin and soft, neatly trimmed mustache and beard that showed no hint of grey; he glowed with health. His aftershave was newly applied and I breathed in the usual soapiness. It was his habit to swim after work; when the kids were teenagers they'd all go together, racing home afterwards for hot showers. These days if Stephen was busy he'd skip the swim but he still liked to throw himself into the shower and freshen up for dinner, a trait I found endearing.

‘Why were you late?' I asked as Big Boy barked happily about us. ‘Didn't you get my messages?'

‘What's wrong?' He brushed strands of hair from my brow. ‘Tell me about it.'

‘Over wine. What's for dinner?'

Stephen looked helplessly at the empty stove. ‘I'm sorry, I completely forgot it was my turn.' Flashing an apologetic smile he made a quick retreat. ‘Let's go out?' he called, climbing the stairs two at a time. ‘We can grab a meal at the golf club.'

‘I haven't got time, I need to work tonight,' I called back, annoyed.

‘I'll cook something simple, then. How about a casserole? Would you mind getting it started? I just have to make one phone call.'

I slopped meat into Big Boy's bowl and thumped it down. He looked up, alarmed. I tiredly chopped onions and within minutes they were sautéing in a deep pan, their scent pungent and so homely I could almost hear the orchestral riff of the six o'clock news that was forever entwined with my mother's cooking.

After I put the casserole in the oven, I went out to the deck and poured another glass of wine, reminding myself to sip slowly or there'd be no work done after all.

A shadow crossed the light and the door slid open. ‘So, what happened today?' Stephen's voice cut softly into the silky air.

‘That sociopath Priscilla is on the warpath.'

Stephen flinched.

‘Oh, don't be like that, for goodness sake,' I retorted. ‘Just hear me out.'

‘I've been listening to angry people all day.'

‘Priscilla's trying to sack us all!'

‘That's ridiculous. What on earth's happened?' Stephen leaned back in his chair. He was wearing a pair of loose shorts, and his soft blue cotton shirt was half unbuttoned. His dark eyes focused on me with concern, their astute intelligence radiating.

‘She's gone to the Vice-Chancellor about me,' I said.

Stephen grew still. ‘Why?'

‘She's claiming I'm incompetent. And she's making me have mediation with her like the rest of them.'

Stephen took the bottle and poured a large glass.

‘You've forgotten to fill mine.' I tapped his arm and wine slopped everywhere. Stephen cursed.

‘Has she spelled out on what grounds she's basing this?' he asked.

‘Not really – except to say that I gossip. And that I'm too soft. And some nonsense about being over-budget, which still doesn't make sense.'

Stephen wiped up the spilled wine in one deft movement. ‘She has no right,' he said. ‘I'll speak to the Vice-Chancellor. This must be nipped in the bud.' He stood abruptly. ‘Thanks for putting the dinner on. Promise I'll cook tomorrow.' He kissed the top of my head and went inside.

I watched him fondly as he moved about the kitchen, tossing together a salad. Then suddenly he returned and, bending down, lifted me in his arms. His fingers brushed against my skin as he lifted my dress and manoeuvred me into the house, smothering my lips with his own, which were wet and hot and tasted of wine. ‘Not now,' I said softly, ‘I'm not in the mood.'

‘You looked so beautiful sitting there. I just don't want you to be worried.' His hands and lips worked their way over my tense body, smoothing knots of muscle, calming my jaded nerves. Slowly I started to let go.

‘We'll sort it out,' he said and a familiar surge of attraction jolted through me. ‘You'll be okay.'

My mind went blank as he flipped me around and kissed down my spine, each burning impact fervent and rough. His breath was hot on my neck and his aftershave smelled of orange blossom in spring. I found my body falling back into his, responding ever more forcefully to his touch. Soon I was caught in a fever, with a thirst that couldn't be quenched but was continually satisfied.

•  •  •

The next morning he'd left early again. Another note peered up from the table.
Enjoyed last night. Enormously! xxx

Last night had been unusual: not the same old marital routine. It was as if Stephen had been exploring my body for the first time. Although it had been a welcome distraction from my troubles, something wasn't right.

I itemised my contact with him: nothing out of the ordinary until these past days – the leaving early, coming home late. A dead weight ran through my veins.

Surely I wasn't imagining it? The raw intimacy of last night had been genuinely different.

•  •  •

The campus was humming with students, cooler weather having flushed them out. Melinda looked up expectantly as I entered.

‘Something you need from me, Mel?'

‘Just a nice cup of tea. And a holiday.' The last said with unusual emphasis.

‘You'd really like to go on holiday? But you never go on holiday.'

‘I was thinking of New York. People say it's vibrant and I love the architecture,' she smiled shyly, her lips sensuous beneath immaculately applied lipstick. ‘You know how I always read travel books? I think it's time to get back out there.'

‘Well, just let me know when you've firmed up your dates and I'll arrange it.'