The Water Children

by Anne Berry

  When she ran into the sea in the grey sludge of dawn, she expected to drown. By then she didn’t mind. It was worth it to be washed clean, to have the sea draw the blackness from her, like pus from an infected wound. But as the icy weight of it closed in, her body began to move, to swim. Her fingers closed into paddles. Her arms circled. Her legs kicked. The salt water lifted her up. She could swim! Shadow memories jostled in her head. Days at the beach. Her mother, head thrown back, a throaty giggle. Sunglasses, a dark-pink bathing costume, long black hair tussled by the salty wind. Perfume that smelt of pear drops. Shiny red nails. Lipstick on the tips of her two front teeth. And ice cream cones from the kiosk on the promenade. Someone holding her up in the water while she thrashed her limbs. The tickle of sand. The abrasive kiss of the surf.

  She was not afraid of the vortex she was in. She did not resist. She let it toy with her, carry her, pull and push her, tease and comfort her. It ransacked her for hurts, chilled and purified. She took a breath, held it, pushed down, and although it stung, forced open her eyes. She gathered handfuls of sand and waved them about her, so that she was engulfed in a sparkling cloud. She found pebbles, small as boiled sweets, and ground them together in her clenched fists. She listened to the chords of the brine, high and low, let them peal through her. And the sea leached the black coal dust out of her, diluted it so that it was no more than a droplet in the wide, wide ocean. And when she clambered out, teeth chattering, briskly rubbing her shivering body, she was no longer Mara, but Naomi once again.

  Miss Elstob said that if she was lucky, when she left she would get a job in service in one of the nice houses in Ranmoor or Sheffield. And failing that, there was always the factories, ever on the lookout for reliable girls, for Fulwood girls. But she didn’t want to be in service, or to toil on a production line listening to Workers’ Playtime, half-sick for the sea. She thought that she would like her liberty, then she could journey from town to town. She thought she might enjoy travelling. When she escaped she reverted to her former self, Naomi. She gazed out of bus and train windows and saw England flash by. If she had looked to her left she would have spotted Mara sitting beside her, and Baby too, the dead baby who wouldn’t stop crying.

  Chapter 12

  London has become an insufferable furnace. Owen studies the sky, searching for rain clouds, and is sobered by the unvarying blue. The sun is gradually beating city dwellers into submission. Where once they marched the streets like soldiers, now they loll idly outside pubs, frosted glasses in hand. It is over a fortnight since the abortion and much to Owen’s alarm, Naomi continues to be depressed, taciturn, lethargic. She has no appetite, no zest for life. She does not bathe. Her hair looks flat and greasy. Her face is puffy and there are give-away dark smudges under her eyes, indications, if Owen needed any, of her insomnia. As far as he can see, she sits in the chair by the window all day, would probably sit there all night, too, if he did not steer her to bed. He does not know what to do for the best. He does not have the maturity or experience to guide him. She shows no inclination to return to work either. And Sean has not come to the flat since the night of their bitter fray. They seem, all three, to be in something of a stalemate.

  Besides this, the remission from his nightmares is over. The Merfolk are back. Sarah ghosts him constantly, her hair wet and streaming. And when he quickens his strides to escape her, she reappears ahead of him. She smiles as the gap between them closes. ‘Don’t leave me, Owen,’ she says. She chants this until the words muddle up, and it feels as if he is going mad, has gone mad.

  This evening he sits with Naomi on the settee. They hug mugs of coffee, and talk to each other between sips. They are listening to a Jimi Hendrix record, Are You Experienced to the track ‘Foxy Lady’.

  ‘In a previous life, I lived in a camper van travelling from concert to concert, chasing the music,’ she says suddenly, unexpectedly. Her unique eyes look into the middle distance, as his light up with interest. ‘I saw Jimi Hendrix perform this live.’

  ‘Where?’ Owen wants to know.

  ‘The Isle of Wight Festival, 1970.’

  ‘You were there?’

  She nods. ‘31st of August. He wore this psychedelic pant suit. Orange, pink, yellow. Very bright. Flares. Big sleeves.’

  ‘Wow.’ He is trying to place her there, Naomi, among the crowds of people, dancing, as Hendrix gyrates on the stage, as he makes love to his electric guitar. ‘Who did you go with?’

  She does not answer this. ‘You know, he was dead only weeks later,’ she says enigmatically.

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Jimi Hendrix.’ He has had enough of death. The magic has gone. She sets down her mug, crosses to the open window and leans out. Today she is dressed. Jeans. A smocked blouse. She pulls at the neckline. ‘It’s scorching,’ she says.

  ‘I shouldn’t lean out so far,’ he cautions, rising from the settee and moving towards her. Naomi, braced on her straightened arms, hands gripping the base of the sill, cuckoos out her head still further, and peers downwards. ‘We’re three floors up, remember. Please don’t!’

  At his imploring tone she pulls back, straightens up, and fixes him with her perturbing eyes. ‘What’s the matter, Owen? Are you frightened of heights?’

  ‘No . . . no, not of heights,’ he falters, taking an involuntary step back.

  ‘Then of what?’ she smiles encouragingly. ‘Of something, yes?’

  ‘Of something, yes.’ Owen echoes dully. He wraps his arms protectively about his torso. She nears him, pauses. A long beat. ‘Of water. I’m frightened of water,’ he confesses quickly, wanting to get it over with, like pulling off a plaster.

  ‘Of water?’ she quizzes, her tone high with disbelief.

  ‘Of lots of water. Of the sea. Of swimming pools.’ There is a quaver in his voice, and his heart is jumping. Although his stomach is empty he wants to retch. And because his legs are going to crumple under him any second, he goes to the settee and sits down heavily. ‘I can’t swim.’

  ‘Oh, is that all,’ she laughs. She is beside him now, putting an arm about his shoulder. ‘I love swimming. I will teach you, Owen. And then we will go to the coast and swim like a pair of dolphins in the sea.’ He rears back, then leaps up, shaking his head violently.

  ‘No. No, Naomi. I can’t even bear to talk about this any more,’ he says. ‘Please, can we just forget it?’ He is breathless, panting. He can feel the pinpricks of sweat dewing his brow. She is bemused, but does not argue. Nor does she argue when, a little later, he opts for an early night.

  Asleep or awake, he is not certain which, when the image sharpens into focus before him. A dark mass. An orange glow. There is something, someone, in his room with him. A sideways glance and his alarm clock confirms it is 3 a.m. He leans over and switches on his sidelight. Naomi is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees bent, feet planted apart. She is wearing a baggy shirt, long sleeves rolled up, not one of his this time. She is smoking a cigarette and staring at him. She is framed like a painting by two pillars of cardboard boxes, the striped shadow of the taller seeming to sever her face in two, one side lit, one side dark. The curtains, a thick weave in dirty green, billow in the hot draught from the open window.

  ‘Can’t you sleep, Naomi?’ he asks in a voice throaty with slumber. His heart is drumming and his skin is slippery with sweat.

  ‘You were having a bad dream. I heard you whimpering,’ she whispers. Tiny circles of reflected lamplight jewel her eyes. ‘I came and you cried out the name, Sarah, in your sleep. Who is Sarah, Owen? Is she a girlfriend?’

  His mind is all confused, and her tone is so soothing and caring. But he does not like to see her mouth close on his sister’s name. ‘It was a long—’ He breaks off to give a heartfelt sigh. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry if I disturbed your night.’ He sits up in bed and pulls the sheet over his bare chest. He is in his customary nightwear of boxer shorts, and feeling her eyes on his partial nakedness, he has the self-conscious desire
to cover up.

  ‘Don’t worry. I was awake as well, Owen.’ There is a pause. Into the silence comes the light ‘tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack’ of his clock. He glances at the framed photograph on his bedside table, the one of him with his mother standing proudly beside their snowman. He thinks about the Water Child imprisoned inside the frozen white flesh. She draws deeply on her cigarette, funnels her mouth and blows the smoke out in one steady stream. ‘We both have secrets, don’t we, Owen?’ He says nothing. A papery ‘phut’ as she sucks again on her cigarette. It has burnt down almost to the filter. She laughs softly and grinds the stub of it out in a saucer by her side. The acrid smell, heightened by the sensory deprivation of the night, bites at the back of his own throat. He traces the last fraying tail of flint-grey smoke.

  ‘My sister drowned,’ he tells her. He stares at the boxes piled one on top of the other, like a brick tower. He traces the writing on one of them, an obscure code printed in red. ‘She was four, nearly five. I was supposed to be minding her. I . . . I wandered off. It was my fault.’

  She keeps very still as she listens. Then she climbs to her feet and comes to his bed. She leans over him and draws him to her. After a second she pulls back and smoothes his hair off his forehead. ‘You weren’t to blame. You were only a little boy yourself. It was an accident, a tragic accident.’ He wants to believe her. But it is not her that he seeks forgiveness from.

  ‘Thanks.’ He says this not because he means it, but because he feels that he ought to. She gives a fleeting smile. ‘Perhaps we should get some sleep.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  At length she gets up and goes to the door. ‘And that’s why you’re frightened of the water? You think that you’ll drown too?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he mutters.

  ‘We should help each other,’ she remarks cryptically. Then, before he can question what she means, ‘Goodnight, Owen.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘Owen, I wonder, would you be after running a little errand for me?’

  The day had got off to a bad start with Sean disappearing for an hour with no explanation, while Owen was hounded by a disgruntled shopper. Red-faced and livid, the man was clasping the bag his wife had bought the previous day. The buckle was broken, and the stitching on one of the straps had come away. Owen had to refund nearly double the money to appease him. Now, with Sean’s reappearance, he is hot and feeling cross. Naomi’s unpredictable behaviour is unnerving him. Another thing setting the worry beads clicking in his head, is the procession of unsavoury characters calling in to see his boss. Today the noise and the cheap showiness of the market is proving too much. ‘Yes, that would be fine,’ he readily agrees, without waiting to be told what the errand is.

  ‘We’re short-handed. We need Naomi back at work,’ Sean grumbles.

  ‘I don’t think she’s ready yet,’ Owen says, realigning a display of wallets.

  ‘She’s had nearly three weeks,’ Sean complains. ‘Surely that’s ample.’

  Owen decides that he is looking gaunt lately. He has bruised half moons under his reddened eyes, and lines that he has not noticed before are criss-crossing his brow, and drawing his smiling mouth down. He has not mentioned Naomi’s suicide attempt. But now something in Sean’s resentful attitude acts as a catalyst. His head comes up. ‘She’s really not been well, Sean. The other night when I got back to the flat, I found her lying on the bathroom floor. She’d cut her wrists.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Sean exclaims softly, his eyes darkening with concern. But the emotion is fleeting. A second later and there is a glint of scepticism in his expression. ‘She went to the hospital?’

  Owen hesitates before answering. ‘Well, no. I wanted her to go but she wouldn’t. She was frightened they’d lock her up, that they would think she was barmy because she’d tried to kill herself.’ Sean gives an ironic bark of laughter.

  ‘So . . . why didn’t she bleed to death?’ he asks steadily. Owen avoids his direct gaze. ‘She slashed her wrists. Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ he mutters, wishing that he’d never embarked on this course. ‘I stopped the bleeding and bandaged her wrists. I called a doctor. He came to the flat.’

  ‘Oh yes. And what did this doctor say?’ Owen presses his lips firmly together. ‘What did the doctor say?’ Sean repeats.

  Then, ‘She was lucky. She missed the main artery,’ he reports tightly.

  The Irish man’s eyes narrow shrewdly. ‘On . . . on both wrists she managed to avoid cutting into a main artery? That was lucky, wasn’t it, so?’ Owen sucks a breath in through his clenched teeth. Unfairly, he feels as foolish as a hysterical girl. ‘She did it for attention,’ Sean continues, more to himself than addressing Owen. ‘That’s how it was.’

  ‘You haven’t been with her. You don’t know how it’s affected her. I don’t think you can expect her just to come back to work. Maybe she needs a proper break. Look, I don’t know anything about this kind of thing, but my guess is that she should get right away for a bit, give herself a real chance to get over it.’

  Sean shrugs. ‘If that’s what it takes, I’m not preventing her. A week in Majorca. Fine by me. Though frankly, Iceland’s more appealing at present. I’m not a brute. She wants a holiday. She can go with my blessing. You tell her so.’ Owen nods and screws his eyes shut. He feels the blood pulsing at his temple, the tick of it in his ears. ‘I want you to go and collect a package for me,’ Sean says now, seizing his advantage.

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘From my place in Hounslow. Catherine’s in. She knows you’re coming. She’ll have it ready.’

  ‘Why can’t you go?’

  ‘I’m meeting some people here, you know. One or two things to sort out.’

  As if on cue, Owen notices two men heading towards the stall. He has seen them before. These are the scum that Enrico warned him to give a wide berth. They look like a comedy duo, one short and skeletal as a whippet, one tall and rock-solid, a great slab of a man. The whippet is boss, known as Blue. The features of his face are delicate, almost effeminate. A cupid mouth, a snub nose, blue eyes, fringed with pale lashes, a thick mop of butterscotch curls. The slab has a square flat face, pockmarked skin and heavy-lidded close-set eyes. His hair, dun coloured at the roots and carroty at the tips, is slicked back. Both are smart, dark trousers, short-sleeved shirts. Blue’s is open-necked, but the slab wears a dark tie. Seeing them approach, Sean rummages in his pocket and gives Owen a slip of paper.

  ‘The address in Hounslow. Off you go.’

  Owen does not need to be told twice. The types Sean has been mixing with recently fill him with foreboding. He has no wish to be sucked into any dealings between them.

  Tube travel is intolerable in the heat. As the train clatters out of central London and the carriage thins, he finds a seat. He stares bleakly at his reflection in the window, at the neglected back gardens of terraced houses, patches of grass that look as if they have been browned under a grill. It is fast becoming apparent that Sean is not the business entrepreneur he pretended to be. He is much closer to the rambling alcoholic, chasing rainbows. Really, he is doing little more than surviving. The stall is hardly a profit-making concern, more a juggling act to keep ahead of costs. Owen has noticed that he likes a flutter too, a flutter on the horses, or the dogs, or anything else he can bet on. His guess is that he is fast accumulating debts. However, it is not Sean who preoccupies his mind for most of the sweltering journey, but his wife, his baby. What an unlikely husband and father his Irish employer is. He is no rock to build a family on, more shifting sands. He is curious, wondering what the third member of this ménage à trois is like. Is she tall or short, or average height perhaps? What colour is her hair? What length? How does she wear it? Is she plump or thin? Her eyes – what shade are they? Does she know about Naomi? Does she mind? He stares at his own reflection in the tube train window, the terraced houses rushing by
, and he ponders. Is she lonely? Is Catherine lonely – too?

  Chapter 14

  Catherine is absurdly nervous at the prospect of having a visitor. She knows that all she has to do is open the front door a crack, and pass the package through, that this is all that is required of her. And yet she has had a shower, shampooed her hair, got dressed. She is exhausted, because she was up most of the night with the baby. She cannot recall when she last had a decent night’s sleep. Now, Bria has dropped off, but she daren’t risk closing her eyes, not with Owen coming. She might miss him. Is she that desperate for company, she ponders desolately. Is she that lonely?

  She has been thinking about swimming. Swimming was the best part of being pregnant, of having to attend the antenatal checks at the West Middlesex Hospital. Travelling in the bus to her first appointment, she spotted it, Isleworth Pool – well, its grey, concrete carapace, the dour building in which it was housed, anyway. It looked deceptively like something you might encounter in the heart of communist Russia after the revolution. Who would have thought that enclosed in that dreadfully dull safe there nestled such a priceless sapphire? She smelt the tantalizing whiff of chlorine drifting towards her through the top vent of the bus window, gliding on the moist autumnal air, or maybe she only imagined it. But imagined or not, it triggered memories of her class being coached once a week to a pool to learn to swim. That small hour, that sacred sixty minutes, trimmed away from the fat of her school days, was revelatory.

  It was a communion with the water that she had, no less, a communion that left her reeling. The allure of the luminous, azure liquid. The thunderous, reverberating clap of it as it received her body. A sky of water and Catherine, a cloud, borne aloft on its surface. The autonomy of her breaths. The taint of bodies wafting from a fog of bleach. It was so utterly in tune with her moods, the water, calm when she was calm, restless when she was restless. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. They were interdependent.