Swim Until You Can't See Land (4 page)

I swallow down sick, feel it burn my throat.

‘You okay, sweetheart? You’re really pale.’

I nod again, scared to open my mouth in case I puke.

‘Sure?’

‘Feel a bit queasy.’

‘Come on. Let’s just go and sit down for half an hour. It’s the adrenaline you know, it’s fine once it’s pumping round you, but when it leaves you…’

Shirley puts an arm around me, leads me into the staff room. I turn my face away from her bloody hand on my shoulder.

(use the adrenaline, Hannah, use the nerves to your own advantage)

I could work it in the pool, but not today.

I stand at the sink and scrub my hands, smother them in soap, turn the tap up full so the hot water splutters out. My red fingernails flash at me through the foam.

‘God, Hannah, that water’s burning,’ Shirley says as she takes over from me at the sink.

The smell of cheap soap makes my stomach turn.

‘Look at that,’ Shirley says, holding out her hand, ‘can’t stop it from shaking.’

She squeezes her hand into a fist then stretches her fingers out again.

Still shaking.

‘You were brilliant,’ I reply, ‘If you hadn’t come back when you did…’

‘When I went on that first aid course, I never thought I’d have to use it,’ she says as she flicks the kettle on.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

We both jump.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘I think it’s someone at the door, can’t they see we’re closed?’

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

‘Just ignore it, they’ll go away,’ Shirley drops teabags into two mugs.

I want to get out of here, go home, get out of these clothes. Shirley can deal with all this, it’s her shop.

‘Oh, I’m vibrating.’

‘What?’

‘My phone,’ Shirley replies.

I can’t help it though, my mind conjures up dildo. Maybe that’s what she uses now she and Dad aren’t shagging?

Maybe they used one together?

Fuck sake, what’s wrong with me?

Shirley pulls her mobile out of her cardigan pocket.

‘It’s Calum,’ she says, before answering.

‘Hi love.’

‘What? No, I’m okay.’

‘How do you know we’re shut?’

‘Oh, is that you? Hang on, I’ll let you in.’

‘Calum’s outside,’ she says, hanging up.

She leaves the staff room and I relish the few seconds of calm, of being on my own.

‘Hey, Hannah,’ Calum says as he follows Shirley back through, ‘you alright?’

‘Yeah, feel a bit weird, but I’m okay. You want tea?’ I hold up a spare mug.

‘Aye, thanks. Mum was just telling me what happened, fuck sake, eh?’

‘Language,’ Shirley smacks him on the back of the head.

He sits at the table, smoothes his hair down. He’s in his school uniform, tie hangs loose, fraying, the top button of his shirt undone.

The old woman’s hands, grasping for the top button of her blouse
.

I grip the counter, unsteady.

‘I was heading to Bayne’s when I noticed you were shut,’ Calum says. ‘I got a real fright when I looked in and saw the mess.’

‘Oh, you just reminded me,’ Shirley goes back out into the shop and returns with the Bayne’s bag. It seems like ages ago since she asked me what I wanted from the bakers. I can’t believe she’s still hungry.

I finish making the tea, carry the mugs one at a time over to the table.

Even that’s a struggle.

I sit opposite Shirley and Calum.

‘Not sure I can face that anymore,’ I nod at the custard slice. You want it, Calum?’

‘Aye, cheers,’ he leans across the table.

Shirley smacks his hand away.

‘Wait a minute. Hannah, you sure? You could do with some sugar in you.’

‘I’m fine with the roll, you have it, Calum.’

Calum reaches for the cake again. He puts it upside down in front of him, peels the bottom layer of pastry off.

‘I eat it from the bottom up, like leaving the icing till last,’ he says, noticing my stare, ‘it’s the best bit.’

‘Disgusting, he doesn’t get that from me,’ Shirley says.

I smile, keep my lips firmly closed. Calum’s cake habits are doing nothing to help my churning tummy.

‘Who was it anyway?’ Calum asks, mouth full of custard.

I look down at the table, pick a slice of tomato out of my filled roll. I don’t think I’ll manage the bread, let alone something squashy and wet inside it.

Something red.

‘Who was who?’ Shirley replies, taking a bite of her roll and wiping her floured hands onto her trousers.

How can she stay so calm after what just happened?

I play with a bit of grated cheese, squash it between my fingers.

‘The wifie who collapsed.’

‘Hells bells, Calum,’ Shirley hits him on the back of the head again, ‘have a bit of respect. I didn’t know her, did you, Hannah?’

I shake my head, pick up the roll; grated cheese falls out onto the table. I take a bite. It fills my whole mouth, takes an age to chew. The greasy butter, the wet cucumber, the soggy bread.

I keep seeing her face, the expression on it right before she fell. One minute you’re buying Revels, the next…

Snap of the fingers. That’s it.

(the difference between winning and losing a race)

‘Had you better not get back to school?’ Shirley looks at her watch.

‘Nah, I’ve got a free period.’

‘A free period?’

‘Yes, Mum, remember I’m in sixth year now.’

‘Well, should you not be using that so-called free period to do some studying or something?’

Calum rolls his eyes.

‘Either that or you can help me and Hannah tidy up.’

‘I’ll see you guys later then, thanks for the cake, Hannah.’

‘No problem.’

‘You sure you guys are okay?’

‘Yes, we’ll survive.’

Calum waves as he leaves the shop, shirt un-tucked, hanging over his trousers.

‘He’s a bloody mess, that boy,’ Shirley says, ‘right, shall we get this place sorted out?’

‘Yeah.’

Maybe I’ll feel better if I’m doing something. Besides, I want to get the shop back to normal. Get rid of that body-shaped hole.

‘Hells bells, I didn’t notice that,’ Shirley runs a finger along the break in the glass counter. I hear the crack in my head again, her chin splitting, teeth falling out.

‘That’s why she was bleeding.’

‘She gave herself a right clout, didn’t she?’

‘Her teeth…’ I look around.

‘It’s okay, I found them and put them in her handbag. The paramedics took it. Just in case.’

‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’

Shirley’s still looking at the break in the counter.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll give the hospital a phone later.’

‘Yeah.’

I’m not sure if I really want to know either way. I just want to get this day off me.

I could do with pounding the pool. But it’s always so busy in the evening. Swimming lessons and aqua aerobics classes.

(swim club training sessions)

I kneel, pick up packets of chewing gum, slot them back into the cardboard container they’ve fallen from. Congealed blood puddles on the vinyl floor. I should get a cloth, wipe it up before it dries and crusts, but I can’t face it. I’ve just washed my hands.

Shirley clears everything from the top of the counter, piles it up on the floor.

‘I’ll need to phone someone about this glass.’

The woman’s purse sits on top of the stuff Shirley’s cleared.

The lottery ticket and the bag of Revels are there too.

I lift the bag of Revels. Tears sting at my eyes.

She should be at home now, eating her sweeties; grimacing over the coffee one, dislodging her false teeth with the toffee one, biting the chocolate off the orange one, melting the minstrel one in her mouth with a gulp of tea.

Her change, she dropped all her change.

I crawl around on the floor looking for coins, get the brush, sweep out underneath the counter, drag out old penny sweets and dust, a few coins which have probably been there for a while. I drop them in her purse anyway, walk the length of the shop to make sure I find every rogue coin. It’s the least I can do, fill her purse back up after what’s happened to her.

I slide out a bank card, run a finger over the embossed lettering.

MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE
MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE
MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE

The old woman who collapsed becomes Marièle.

Ms Marièle Downie.

She has a name. She’s real. And what a weird name, how do you even say that?

I flick through the other cards in her purse: Nectar card, library card, driving licence.

There’s a photo of her. Younger, she has colour in her face, life.

Her address is there too.

I pass by her house every day on my way home. She’s been so close to me this whole time, but I’ve never seen her before today. In a small town like this, how is that possible?

(wrapped up in my own concerns, my own wee world)

I slip the cards back into her purse, fold the lottery ticket in half, slide it in behind. I can take the purse with me when I leave, put that and the Revels through her letterbox.

Just in case.

4

YOU DREADED THE
telegram boy stopping at your house. If you saw one cycling up your street, you’d pray for them to cycle right on past, to stop at another door. Even if that made you feel guilty later on, guilty that you’d passed the pain onto someone else, another mother, wife, sister.

‘
Les anges de la mort
’, Mama called the telegram boys.

Marièle dreaded them even more since they’d sat round the wireless and heard Churchill order the evacuation. The fear in her stomach never left her, it was there all the time.

George was out in France. One of the boys trying to get home. If only he would get in touch, let them know he was okay.

One of the lucky ones.

Marièle and  Cath came out of the Palais to find everything white.

‘That chap told us the truth,’ Marièle said, ‘it really is snowing.’

‘Oh Marie, and you were so rude to him.’

‘I thought he was just being fresh. How are we supposed to get home now?’

‘We’re not exactly dressed for the weather, are we?’

Marièle and Cath stood huddled in the doorway alongside the other dancers, nobody had come dressed for the elements.

‘Maybe we should just start walking - it’s too cold to stand here,’ Marièle said, pulling her Camel coat tighter, belting it at the waist.

‘Yes, you’re right.’

They locked arms, began to walk in the direction of home.

‘This is going to take forever, these shoes are useless,’ Cath said, tightening her grip on Marièle’s arm as she slid on the snow.

‘Cath, Marie!’

As the days passed, the dread collected in her stomach, cloying and insistent until…

A knock at the door in the middle of the afternoon.

Somehow she knew without looking that the telegram boy would be standing there. 

She felt almost sorry for him. He was so young, so smartly turned out in his Post Office uniform. It wasn’t his fault he was so unwelcome. He was just the messenger.

The bearer of bad news.

But she didn’t know for sure that it was bad news. It might be a telegram from George, telling them he’d made it home. Not to worry, he was fine. Or maybe he’d been hurt, but not seriously, and the telegram was just to let them know he would be in hospital for a few days.

Nothing serious.

‘Telegram for Downie,’ the boy said, and held out the slip of paper.

Someone chased after them through the snow.

A soldier, he was in uniform.

The snow was so thick, it was only when he came closer that Marièle recognised who it was.

‘George, what are you doing here?’ She asked.

‘I sensed a damsel or two in distress and rushed home right away,’ George replied. ‘Your carriage, m’ladies.’ He turned and she saw he dragged a wooden sledge behind him.

Marièle reached for the telegram, realised her hands were shaking as she slid the blue envelope open with a fingernail.

‘Can I help you with that ?’ The boy asked.

She shook her head, the lump in her throat made it hard to speak. She focused on his black tie, tried to bring herself back under control.

She unfolded the telegram, had to read it three times before the words filtered through, made sense.