by Jennie Ensor
It was true, she had loved him. A long time ago, back when her family had seemed not so different to any other family. Back when she’d thought her father was special, in a good way.
She’d been someone else, then. A little girl who trusted those she loved as a matter of course. And why shouldn’t she have trusted him? He’d seemed like a good father. He’d encouraged her to learn things, to do things.
He explained how planes stay in the air and why the sky is blue. He showed her pictures of Vancouver Island, Montreal, and the Rocky Mountains, and all the places he’d loved as a child. He played her his favourite music. He said she was clever and praised her when she did well at school. He bought her a book about the ancient Egyptians for her ninth birthday, and took her to the British Museum and encouraged her when she told him she wanted to be an archaeologist when she grew up. He taught her to play chess and tennis, to swim, and to dive from the high board. He read to her on winter afternoons – Alice in Wonderland, The Lord of the Rings, Tales of the Unexpected. They took turns to read poems aloud – The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and The Dong with a Luminous Nose had been her favourites.
They’d done so many things together, just the two of them. She’d done things with her mother, too – pruning the roses or making pastry – usually things that weren’t so much fun. Anyway, her mother always seemed to be too tired, or busy with something or other.
That morning by Lough Derg in Ireland, where they had all gone for a two-week holiday, it had been just her and her father.
‘We must swim in the lake before we go home,’ he says. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk.’ Her mother says she’ll have to spend the morning packing if they’re to be ready for their afternoon flight back to London. Her brother takes one look out of the window and says he’d rather stay watching TV. So, she goes with her father to keep him company, despite the swollen clouds resting on the hills, as they have done for most of their stay, and the storm they watched last night, hissing its fury upon the lake.
They change on a small strip of beach beside a huge, shivering sea. A vicious breeze makes it feel more like winter than the height of summer. There are a handful of people, all dressed for cold weather, sitting on rugs and drinking from flasks, or strolling, hands in pockets.
Before this morning, the idea of swimming in sunlit open water seemed quite reasonable, tempting even. If only because Lough Derg isn’t the school pool, where for most of the spring term she’s had to swim up and down, up and down, for an hour, twice a week, with all those super-fast, super-keen nine- and ten-year-old girls, because her father thought it would be a good idea for her to ‘train properly’, until she’d told him she hated swimming endlessly up and down, confined to lanes, nearly always at the back of her group, and she was never going to become the champion swimmer that he’d been.
She grits her teeth and pulls off her snug fleece and track pants, revealing her black swimming costume. She runs after her father towards the small lapping waves.
‘Dad! It’s FREEZING!’
This isn’t an exaggeration – the water around her feet must have been ice recently enough. Resolutely, knowing her father won’t let her get away with not swimming, she wades out to her hips. Then she stops. The coldness knocks the breath out of her, feels like blocks of ice jammed up against every inch of her skin.
Her father stands.
‘Just get yourself under, Laura. It’s not so cold once you get in.’
No, she definitely can’t do this.
‘Come on,’ he coaxes, ‘be a brave girl. You’ll get used to it in no time.’
She braces herself and plunges into the water, screaming. She’s never swum in anything so cold.
But he’s right – the cold water is soon cool water, warmer than the air above. She kicks out, and rolls over and over like a seal pup, then floats on her back. It’s wonderful to be swimming in the open like this, with no roof, no lanes, no chlorine, no one trying to overtake her or yelling for her to swim faster.
‘Let’s swim over there, shall we?’ Dad points to a small wooden platform protruding from the land, quite a long way off. ‘Can you manage to swim that far?’
She squints at it. ‘I think so.’
It’s no further than all the lengths she’s endured in a typical session at the pool, she tells herself. If they go at a steady pace, she’ll manage it.
They swim out towards the intense green hills rising beyond the shore. She gets into a rhythm, alternating between breaststroke and front crawl. Soon, the platform is closer than the beach they’ve come from, and the thrill of being so far from the shore makes her momentarily forget her worries about getting tangled up with the underwater weeds and being so far out of her depth. Nothing bad is going to happen. Her father will make sure she is all right.
‘Well done, you made it!’ They clamber up onto the platform. Her father hugs her. ‘Are you okay, sweetie? That was quite a distance, not many girls your age could swim so far. I’m proud of you.’
She glows. She has shown Dad that she’s a good swimmer, after all – herself, too. She’s a bit puffed out, that’s all, and it’s cold out of the water. The wind is stronger out here.
He stands on the edge of the platform looking out into the distant corners of the lake. When he says they should go back, she dives in, as he’s taught her, without splashing, her body a straight line from head to toe. On the way back he swims beside her, or slightly behind, calling out encouragement whenever she begins to flag. Her arms are tiring, yet she’s still certain she can make it back. The cold gets worse, seeping through her muscles and bones. She has to stop and float on her back to rest for a while. She watches the sun’s rays slant through a gap in the clouds, turning the indeterminate colour of the water to a brilliant turquoise, and the nondescript shades of bird plumage to snowy white. Only when they’re almost on the beach, and the tiny figures on the sand are once more real people, does she start to panic.
‘Dad, help me!’
Invisible fronds drape around her legs. She feels her arms fail and all the strength drain out of them. The lake is sucking her down. Her nose and mouth are filling with water. Frantically, she tries to surface.
He’s there in no time at all.
‘It’s OK, sweetie. I’ve got you.’ He puts his arms beneath her legs and, without effort, pulls her out of the water and carries her onto the beach. ‘Let’s get you warm and dry, now. I’m so proud of you, swimming all that way.’
He rubs her dry and helps put on her warm things. She sits on the rug with his big jacket wrapped around her, gulping warm tea from the flask. Slowly, the feeling returns in her hands and feet and she stops shivering. The shock and fright are leaving. What do they matter, compared with her achievement? She smiles at her father.
‘Thanks for saving me, Dad.’
‘Don’t be silly, honey.’ He kisses her cheek. ‘You’re the most precious thing in the world to me. I’d never let anything happen to you, ever.’
Her happiness swells inside her as if it would burst through her skin – for managing to swim so far, and for her father having rescued her. And for simply being here, beside him, knowing he loves her.
8
Suzanne
5 March 2011
They reached the end of the gravel path that bisected the smooth lawn, and turned to look back at the hotel. On impulse, Suzanne reached up and kissed Paul’s cheek.
The memory of their lovemaking lingered in the tender places of her body with a pleasurable ache. She recalled his slow, purposeful touch under the bedclothes, awakening her in the early morning chill, then, in the dazzle of the early spring sunshine, eating croissants and marmalade in bed, feeding him her crispy corners. As it had been in the early days, before the demands of a career and children had taken their toll.
They walked on, towards the distant fir tree where Heinz, one of the hotel staff, had pointed. He had insisted that they do the walk he recommended, presenting them with a package of food to take f
or lunch and afternoon tea. First, they had to find the lake, then they’d see a path up to the lookout.
Suzanne took off her jacket. It was past midday and quite warm. The sun played hide and seek behind islands of cloud. Daffodils rippled in the breeze and birds chirped from fat-budded trees. The path swept past towering tree trunks and weather-beaten statues of ancient gods, crossed a stream, and led them to a white-painted gazebo overlooking a lake.
‘Let’s stay for a few minutes, shall we?’ she said, sitting down on the bench. They watched a pair of moorhens negotiate the water lilies. A line of little ones trailed behind, stepping over the leaves. ‘I wonder what it’s like being a duck. You wouldn’t have to go to work or anything. You’d just paddle around all day, looking out for tasty morsels, making sure your ducklings didn’t swim off or get eaten.’
He squeezed her hand, laughing. ‘You’d have to enjoy swimming in cold, slimy water all day, and screwing in public. You wouldn’t be a good duck, Suzanne.’
They lapsed into silence. The lake’s surface became still. Paul was sitting very close to her, his hand resting loosely over hers. The gremlins in his head had gone somewhere, thank goodness. He seemed relaxed and happy, more so than he’d been for ages. If only he could stay like this forever.
They followed the path further into the woods. Suzanne scanned the grounds for the promised pheasants, but saw nothing – except for what looked like a hen scratching in the dirt. Then, as open grass replaced the woods, she made out something large and dark behind a nearby bush. A head thrust towards them, crowned with a mass of antlers.
‘What’s that?’ she cried out.
‘Only a deer.’
‘What’s a deer doing here? He looks fierce.’
Paul took her hand. ‘He won’t hurt us, don’t worry. Walk on slowly.’
When she turned back a few seconds later, the deer had gone.
The path inclined gradually at first, then more steeply. Below, far away, fields merged into a blur of bluish hills. Paul wrapped her hand inside his. She breathed in the pine-scented air, glancing up every so often to his unshaven face, with its bold contours coated with stubble, and his always-alert eyes. A feeling of almost overwhelming happiness grew inside her, tinged with wonder. How could she help loving this man? How could she stop loving him?
It took a while to reach the vantage point. They sat against a fallen log, where they could take in the expanse of Somerset below. Paul pulled Heinz’s box from his backpack and brought out two bottles of pear juice, two filled baguettes, two apples, and two slabs of fruit cake.
‘We should head back.’ Suzanne opened her eyes. She’d dozed off – they both had. Paul was pulling on his leather jacket. ‘If we stay any longer, we’ll be going back in the dark.’
She checked her watch, surprised at how much time had passed. Quickly, she gathered the remains of their picnic.
The sun glared, too low in the sky for her liking. The breeze was getting chilly. Though they were going downhill, it seemed a long time before they reached the woods.
Suzanne stopped at a fork in the path. ‘Are you sure it’s left?’
‘Come on.’ He spoke impatiently. ‘I know the way.’
A twinge of doubt. Paul had a good sense of direction but the light was slipping away. If they took a wrong turn they could end up lost.
They hurried on, past the one-armed statue and the vine-clad tree trunk. Fir trees stood darkly against an orange-pink glow. The hotel was among them, somewhere.
They crunched acorns underfoot, heard the last flurry of birdsong. A dot glowed high above the line of trees – Jupiter, perhaps.
‘Do you recognise any of this? I don’t.’ She stopped at a dead, hollowed-out tree. Its bark had warped into a crust of blackened ridges.
When there was no answer, she turned, and looked all around. Paul wasn’t there.
It didn’t make sense. He’d been right behind her a few seconds ago. The path was empty now. She bit her lip.
‘Paul, where are you?’
Something crackled in the undergrowth. Suzanne peered into the gloom. A squirrel ran towards a tree and disappeared up its trunk.
‘Paul, are you there? Stop playing games.’
She strained her ears for a sound. He couldn’t have just disappeared. But all she could hear was the creak of branches.
Then everything went black. Something clamped itself over her eyes – a hand. A gasp bubbled up in her throat.
‘Gotcha!’
The hand fell away. She turned and stared at Paul, her relief turning to anger as a damp patch spread in her underwear. He’d sprung out from behind the dead tree.
‘Sorry, Suze, I couldn’t resist it.’ He was laughing.
‘Jesus, Paul! You gave me one hell of a fright. What the bloody hell did you have to do that for?’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to scare you that much. I was only fooling around.’ He pulled her against him and tried to kiss her. ‘Don’t be upset.’
‘Paul, you’re unbelievable.’ Suzanne pulled away. ‘You haven’t grown up at all, have you?’
They walked on, not talking. She was too angry with him to care if they never got back to the hotel. Then he pointed ahead. ‘I recognise that tree over there,’ he said. ‘We’ll be back in a minute or two.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, Suze.’
She was wondering if he was right, even as she saw the hotel through the trees right in front of them, its windows bright and a coil of smoke unfurling from the cluster of tall chimneys. As they approached, she studied the plinths on either side of the heavy wooden door. On top of each one, perched an alarming winged creature, each with a grotesquely shaped, wide-open mouth. A shiver slipped down her spine.
Safely upstairs, Suzanne shut the bathroom door behind her. She ran the water as hot as she could bear then lay outstretched, her body invisible under the foam. Her sigh billowed into the steamy air. Why had Paul wanted to frighten her like that? Sometimes it seemed he was still a boy at heart, the one she’d glimpsed during his occasional childhood stories, who got a kick out of throwing the family cat out of his bedroom window, and laughed when his drunken friend tripped on the kerb and knocked out his front teeth.
However, he had another side – a wonderfully warm and generous one. He was always thinking of her, in different ways. Without warning he would bring home her favourite chocolate truffles, or an M&S orange cake, or a stunning bouquet of roses. He made an effort to plan and to arrange things so as to surprise her – in a good way. The hot air balloon ride he’d arranged for her fiftieth birthday, the handbag he’d bought after her operation, the trip to Paris on Eurostar last year. Katherine complained that Jeremy never did anything romantic. If Paul were always as calm and predictable like Jeremy, she would probably die of boredom.
Suzanne stepped carefully onto the rather grand staircase, gripping the handrail. Her heels were higher than usual, designed for glamour rather than steadiness.
Downstairs, a suited young woman greeted them and showed them into the lounge. Paintings of dark rural scenes lined the walls, their frames heavy and old-fashioned. She scanned the menu while Paul immersed himself in the wine list.
Heinz came in and walked towards the fireplace, a taper in his hand. A lick of flame grew from behind the grate.
‘Did you find the lake?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Suzanne replied. ‘It was lovely in the sunshine, watching the ducks.’
‘There’s not so many now. We’ve had a few fox attacks – they’ve taken most of the ducks, unfortunately.’
Paul grinned. ‘Sitting ducks, were they?’
Heinz nodded, blank-faced, and left the room.
They ordered drinks and settled into the leather armchairs. She looked around the conservatively decorated room. On the mantelpiece, a pair of marble frogs squatted, their heads tilted upwards on thick necks like bulldog’s heads. Further along, a black wolf-dog reared, its paws grasping a tray with a white candle on top.
‘The decor’s a bit morbid, don’t you think? I wouldn’t want to come here on my own. This place would give me nightmares.’
Paul grunted. He was peering into his glass, lost in thought. Not pleasant thoughts, by the look on his face. But she knew if she asked he would probably say ‘it’s nothing’ in an irritated voice.
The dining room was full of sedately seated couples. It contained more large, gloomy, ornately-framed paintings. A black-suited waiter brought over a bottle of wine and poured some into Paul’s glass. Suzanne watched Paul bring the glass to his nose and swirl the liquid, before taking a sip and nodding to the waiter. Whereas she always felt slightly uncomfortable with the formality of this sort of restaurant – where heavy silver cutlery rested on crisp white linen, your napkin was instantly placed on your lap, and your glass was refilled every few minutes – Paul was in his element. He always knew which wine to order, how to pronounce everything on the menu, and what was in every dish.
‘Happy anniversary, darling,’ Paul said when the waiter left them, holding his glass over the candle. ‘Here’s to our first twenty-five years.’ Glasses clinked. Across the room, a young man began to play the grand piano. ‘You look fabulous in that dress.’
It was her sexiest dress, the hemline a couple of inches above the knee, made of loosely woven black jersey. She didn’t wear it much these days.
The waiter arrived with their starters. Suzanne took a mouthful of lobster bisque, taking care to sip from the side of the spoon and not to drip any liquid on the spotless white tablecloth, or her dress for that matter. The napkin was large and spread across as much of her lap as possible.
‘Fiona, don’t do that!’
The outburst came from a table across the room. A woman in her forties was scolding a slender, thick-lipped girl, with very long, intensely red hair, who looked to be in her early teens. The man beside her busied himself with the menu, while a sullen, younger boy dropped his fork repeatedly on the table. Unable to suppress a smile, Suzanne glanced at Paul. The scene took her back to some of their own fraught family meals. He too was watching them, his head cocked.
