Swim Until You Can't See Land (26 page)

Sabine dipped the bread in the egg yolk, used it to soak up some of the fat from the sausage before putting it in her mouth. She felt oil seep from the pores on her face, the egg yolk smooth and creamy.

‘Now, Sabine, it is very important that you start work today. I need you to visit Natalie Charron at the Café Rouge, she should have a message for me. You must say to her
je voudrais un café et une patisserie, s’il vous plaît
. She will ask you how you take your coffee and you should reply
noir et très chaud
. Then you must check in with Sebastian, he says that he has found a safe house which you can use for your first few skeds back to London.’

You must never transmit for more than twenty minutes and never for more than three days in the same house.

Sabine looked up, she had only tuned in to the last part of Alex’s instructions. She had been dipping a slice of sausage into her egg, enjoyed the spurt of juice as she bit into it. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. How good a hot meal could taste after going so long without. She swallowed, took a gulp of coffee; thick and bitter, it coated her teeth and tongue
.

Madame Poirier sat at the dining table knitting. The gramophone was on in the corner, crackled music, a man singing.

Ma Pomme

‘What are you listening to?’ Sabine asked.

‘Maurice Chevalier, you’ve never heard of him?’

Sabine shook her head, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘He’s very handsome, like Alex.’

Madame looked up from her knitting, raised an eyebrow.

‘When will you believe me when I say we are not having a love affair?’

Madame shrugged, went back to her knitting. The needles click, click, clicked.

Sabine helped herself to a glass of water from a jug in the centre of the table, closed her eyes and listened to the crackled voice.

There was a knock at the front door and Madame stood to open it.

Sabine knocked her glass of water. A German soldier stood in the doorway. She dabbed at the water which poured over the edge of the table and dripped onto the floor.

Gefreiter

Leutnant

Oberleutnant

Hauptmann

SS
Hauptsturmführer 

SS
Obersturmführer

He’d caught her off guard, her gun was in the bedroom.

‘
Bonjour
,’ Madame Poirier said to the soldier, ‘come in.’

The soldier took off his hat, wiped his boots on the mat before entering the house. He spotted Sabine and nodded at her, she nodded back, sank into her seat at the table.

He hovered in the doorway, shuffled from one foot to the other, as Madame disappeared into the pantry.

‘Do you like Edith Piaf?’ he asked. ‘She played in Paris but I couldn’t get leave to go and see her.’

‘
Voila
,’ Madame interrupted, before Sabine could answer. She reappeared with four eggs and a block of butter.

‘
Danke, es tut mir leid
,’ the soldier said as Madame handed him the food.

He nodded at Sabine again then left. Madame shut the door behind him and locked it.

‘Don’t look so shocked,
mademoiselle
, I don’t help them because
I want to but because I have to. They don’t live here for free, we must pay for the privilege.’

Madame sat back down at the table and continued to knit.

‘God, I’m surprised Alex hasn’t killed him by now.’

‘Alex can be very naïve. That boy,’ she gestured towards the door with a knitting needle, ‘he is just following orders.’

‘But Madame, what if he discovered one of our meetings? How can you bear to let them in your house?’

‘My dear friend gave me this record. I doubt I’ll see him again. The Germans took him away but it was Vichy who allowed it to happen.’

Sabine reached out, laid a hand on Madame’s forearm.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Madame pushed Sabine’s hand away.

‘I was in the square, I saw him being led away to the train station. A lady had her head split open because she wouldn’t let go of her son. It was a
gendarme
who did it, a Frenchman.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sabine.

Tears dripped from Madame’s face, soaked into the wool she knitted.

‘I’m not telling you this to make you sorry for me. Nobody is all black or all white in this war. I have as much reason as anyone to hate the Germans but to hate that German boy who is sent here by his officers, who tells me about his wife and baby back in Germany, who apologises for taking my eggs, that I cannot do. Alex likes to make speeches and play the hero, but he doesn’t know anything. Alex, your friends in London, they think we’re cowards for letting the Germans overrun us, but we are tired.’

‘Monsieur Allard said something very similar.’

Sabine thought of the old man who angered her. The old man who shared his wine and now hung from the tree she’d parked her bike against. She poured herself another glass of water, gulped it down. Sweat dripped down her back. She stood up and fanned her blouse. Madame held up her knitting against Sabine’s back, measured the pullover for size.

Madame Poirier knelt on the floor, feeding a sliver of fat to a tabby cat who rubbed itself against her and purred.

‘
Pas de problème
,’ Sabine replied. ‘now please can you go through that again. I don’t want to get anything wrong.’

‘Do you need me to write it down for you?’ Alex took a pencil from behind his ear, began to write on a cigarette paper.

‘
Non, monsieur
. I know what to do.’

July
2008

The Wrighting’s On The Wall For Hannah

Scottish swimmer to miss Beijing Olympics

Hannah Wright has lost her race for fitness and will miss out on selection for the Beijing Olympics. Hannah, who swam the Olympic qualifying time for the 100m Butterfly at the start of the year, has been suffering from a shoulder injury and has been unable to train properly.

The British record holder had been seen as one of Team GB’s medal hopes for the Olympics, however will now not even make the trip to China.

‘I’m absolutely devastated,’ said Hannah. ‘As an athlete, the Olympics are seen as the pinnacle you want to reach, and it’s always been my ambition to swim at them. Unfortunately for me, it’s just not worked out this time. I’ve still got time on my side though, and I’m determined to make the next Olympics.’

17

I THINK SOMEONE
might have changed Marièle’s nightie. I don’t remember those little pink flowers around the neckline. It looks as though someone’s combed her hair too. It’s pulled back from her face and you can see the lines where the comb’s run through it. Parallel through her greasy, unwashed hair.

What’s the beauty regime for someone who’s unconscious? Are there special hairdressers who deal only with comatose clients? Manicurists who come in to cut fingernails and toenails, because they just keep on growing?

I try to get my head in the visiting zone. I can’t help it though. I’m already thinking about other things that must keep on going even if you’re unconscious. Leg hair and bikini lines and underarms.

I used to shave everyday when I was in proper competition mode. Legs, pubes, pits, arms. Fuzz free.

Greg said that shaving down gave you at least a two per cent advantage in the pool. Even the boys did it.

Dad always thought that was weird.
Bunch of bloody poofs
.

But two per cent is a lot in the pool.

(Jase and I in bed together, legs scraping against each other like sandpaper)

The shave down. My pre-race ritual. I always did it the same way, down the right side of my body then back up the left side.

Stupid really.

Focus, Hannah, focus. You’re here for Marièle, not to reminisce about shaving.

‘Hey, how are you today?’

Her face is slack. Cheeks caved in around her mouth.

I lay my hand out flat on the white sheet covering her. My hands are bigger than hers.

(paddles)

My fingernails painted red, stolen polish from her dressing table. Her nails are discoloured, furrowed and brittle.

Her wrists are tiny, I’m scared to touch her but I want to see if…

…yes, I can. I can fit her wrist inside a loop made with my thumb and forefinger. It fits, with room to spare too. I bet there’s chubby babies in the Maternity Ward who have bigger hospital bracelets than Marièle.

I let go, lay my palm on the back of her hand. Her skin’s warm and papery. I expected her to be cold, which is stupid. She’s not dead.

(not yet)

Her hands give her age away more than her face does, veins under tracing paper skin, liver spots. Her fingers bend slightly inwards, the knuckles knobbly with arthritis.

‘Do you know I’m here?’ I take her hand in mine.

I’m moved by how vulnerable she is. It took holding her hand to do that. Her skin against mine.

‘Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’

Her chest rises and falls.

Rises and falls.

Rises and falls. 

I stroke her hand.

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. 

Gran was happy to have someone sit next to her. Someone to smile, to nod in all the right places. To listen while she talked, while she reminisced. It was a one-way conversation, the stories told time and time again, but it made her happy.

To have company, not to be on her own. She was lonely after Grandad died.

There it is again.

That word.

Lonely.

Alone.

It’s haunting me.

Hannah Wright, failed swimmer, lived and died alone.

Would anyone even remember me enough to write the tiny obituary? The local reporters used to phone all the time for quotes, opinions, updates.

(not anymore)

What’s worse? Being alone or living a lie to escape the loneliness?

I head back to her house after visiting. It feels a bit strange, not being at work this week. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve always had a routine. The five am starts, the pool sessions, the gym sessions, the weights, the runs, the physio appointments, the early-to-beds to start all over again.

‘Hey, fish,’ I sprinkle some flakes in his bowl. He’s starting to smell a bit, the water turning. A scum line rims the bowl, giving away where the water level used to be.

‘You could do with a clean.’

He pecks at the coloured stones lining the bottom of his bowl, darts away from me as I dip a plastic measuring jug into it and decant some of the water. It’s manky, bits of brown gunk, fish poo, float around in it. I empty the jug down the sink, run the tap at the same time to wash away the gritty silt.

I keep going until there’s just enough water for the fish to swim in. He flits from side to side, his tail skimming the surface.

‘Don’t worry, I’m going to fill it back up.’

I scrub the line of scum with a cloth, then fill the jug with fresh water from the cold tap.

‘What temperature is it supposed to be?’

I dip a finger into the bowl. The fish skims by and I pull my hand away as his tail ripples against my finger.

I add some hot water to the jug, mix until it’s lukewarm, pour it into the bowl, keep going until it’s full again. The fish rocks from side to side, buffeted by the waves.

‘That’s more like it.’

I sprinkle a few more flakes in.

‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m trying to help you.’

The fish nibbles at the surface, body shimmering in the fresh water.

I need to pee, so I head out into the hall. 

(what’s behind door number three?)

I squat above the toilet as I pee. My thighs burn, but I don’t feel right touching the seat. 

Her seat.

It feels weird, doing it here in her house.

The bathroom walls are painted blue and there’s a china fish hanging above the bath, a picture of a blackbird in a box frame on the opposite wall.

As I wash my hands, I open the mirrored cabinet above the sink, read the prescription labels on her medicine.

BISOPROLOL    ASPIRIN    SIMVASTATIN
METFORMIN    NAPROXEN  LANSOPRAZOLE
ZOPICLONE    CO-CODAMOL  AMITRITYLINE

I wonder what’s wrong with her. Just old age? Gran was on loads of pills too.

I rummage around on the shelves, moisturiser, comb, foundation, lipstick, talc, denture cleaning tablets, Savlon, cotton buds.

I close the cabinet, the mirror’s smeared with fingerprints. I can’t tell which are mine and which are hers. I wipe it, smudge the fingerprints together, obscure my reflection. I take out her lipstick, Mediterranean Pink, and apply it before blotting onto a sheet of toilet paper, revealing the creases and lines on my lips.