The Water Children

by Anne Berry

  Returning home from that first antenatal appointment, feeling as defiled as the victim of a sexual assault, she alighted at the bus stop nearest Isleworth Pool. Chin up, she squared her shoulders, determined to forget the slithery gel leaking slowly out of her, making her feel that she had wet herself, and walked back to the entrance. Then she had gone inside, checked the opening times, asked if she could see it, with a reverence that might have been reserved for begging to be ushered into the presence of a deity. How could you explain to someone who wasn’t a Water Child how it made you feel, that glimmering expanse? It spoke to her, the lucid stillness. It was magnetic.

  Unfortunately the schools were often in when she was there, but this turned out not to be such a disadvantage. They swam in the shallow end, flapping and paddling like a flotilla of fluffy goslings, while their teachers strutted alongside on the pool’s edge quacking orders. Occasionally shrill whistles bounced off the gleaming tiles, prompting a mass of small bodies to hurl themselves like lemmings into the water.

  For the most part she swam widths. The rhythm lulled her, absorbed her, as nothing in her life had ever done before. Afterwards it left a shimmering deposit at the centre of her. Gradually it pulsed into her veins, making her blood glow Kingfisher blue, as if irradiated. And it gave a cotton-wool blur to her eyesight that she carried with her into the coldness, or the sunshine, or the rain.

  As the months passed she had to swap her navy Speedo for a maternity swimsuit, the green of new grass, and sprigged with small white flowers. It came in two pieces. The bottom, pants that fit snugly over her bump, with an elastic panel designed for the inevitable expansion. The top, very like a baby-doll nighty, gathered under the bust and flaring outwards over her hips. It was, she reflected wearily, almost as much of an encumbrance as being pregnant. When she climbed into the water, carefully grasping the rungs of the ladder, no longer able to jump or dive without doing a painful belly flop, the ugly garment flowered around her. By then she was so hampered by her swollen body, that she seemed to rock through the water, like a squat rowing boat with an uneven load.

  An unfortunate event as she embarked on the lumbering exterior and acidic interior of month eight, robbed her one day of this last blue pleasure. She arrived at the pool, put on her swimsuit in the ladies’ changing-room, secured her clothes and her belongings in the locker provided and, despite her bulk, strode out to the poolside with brave abandon. At the far end, the shallow end, a group of boys huddled shivering at the pool’s brink. Their small ribcages stood out like pairs of miniature abacuses under their albumen skins, their hovering hands battling the strong, self-preserving instinct to cup their shrivelled genitals, their goggles sitting on their foreheads like a second pair of bug eyes.

  She was about to dismiss them and begin her cumbersome descent into the water, when she saw that they were no longer cupping their genitals, but their mouths. They were laughing uproariously, nudging and whispering to each other, and then pointing rudely at her. The boys continued smirking and sniggering even when she was in the pool, ignoring the teacher’s reprimands. She became so embarrassed, having each of their four eyes trained upon her, that her swim was utterly spoilt. More diabolical, she did not have the courage to emerge, while in full view of these Peeping Toms. She ended up wallowing like an unhappy hippo, her flesh tessellating with tiny misty-purple capillaries as the cold seeped into her bones. It was only after the last boy was shepherded into the changing-room, that she risked heaving herself out, the water sheeting off her. She scuttled with as much grace as she could muster, into the sanctuary of her own changing-room. Pulling off her swimsuit, she soon discovered the reason for the children’s cruel mirth. She was still wearing her lace-edged nylon slip, the elastic waistband sitting below her bulge. She had not espied it under the mound of her pregnancy. But the schoolboys would have. They must have seen it hanging like a lewd dripping cobweb around her legs, titillating their young male minds. After that she did not go swimming again.

  She was not able to go through with the abortion. And, of course, she does not regret this now, not now Bria is here. But she was right, the baby has chained her forever to this unhappy marriage. She sits in the depressing lounge. The wallpaper is black with large pink and cream flowers on it. There are grey mildew patches both on this and the Anaglypta ceiling. The skirting board has buckled and the wood looks rotten. The carpet, cream zigzags on a mustard background, is stained. The room smells musty and damp, not the kind of home to bring a new baby to. The settee, like all the rest of the furniture, is second-hand, an asparagus-green synthetic fabric, with brown and white stripes running downwards, towards the floor. She fingers the package in her lap. She has not opened it, but something about the way it crackles when she squeezes it, makes her sure that it contains money. She leaps up when she hears the knocking, and runs to the door. It seems so loud, reverberating through the empty house. She flings wide the front door. There is a man on her doorstep, tall, young, blond-haired, blue-eyed, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of Mick Jagger on it. He shuffles his feet and looks self-conscious.

  ‘Hello. I hope this is the right house. I couldn’t see a number. I’m looking for a Mrs Madigan.’

  ‘Hello. I’m Catherine Madigan. Catherine.’ She holds her hand out. He takes it. She bites her lip. His hand feels dry; his grip firm.

  ‘I’m Owen. Sean said you would be expecting me. I’ve come to pick up a package.’ He says this as though it is a question, as though he is not really terribly sure why he is here, standing in the sunshine.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Sean said to expect you. I’ve got it ready.’ A lengthy gap. More shuffling of feet. In this aberrant England the sun is beaming unrepentantly into Catherine’s face. She screws her green eyes back at it and is temporarily blinded. Owen is a furry, dark-purple blob. She feels dizzy. Cars, vans, buses, all roll on by. Drivers and passengers are draped out of windows, swigging from cans and bottles. People walk the pavements, ill at ease in their draughty cottons, missing the buttoned-up feeling of their coats, anoraks, scarves, hats, gloves and boots. Catherine is distracted by the gleam of Owen’s white teeth in the purple haze.

  ‘The package?’ he prompts.

  For a moment she is at a loss. Then she remembers. ‘Won’t you come in?’ she invites, standing back, sounding the epitome of an English lady ushering a guest into her country home.

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience,’ he says. ‘You must be very busy – what with the baby.’

  ‘She’s sleeping. Bria’s sleeping. And it’s so hot. Wouldn’t you like a cool drink? I think I have some ice too.’ She is annoyed that she sounds a needy note.

  More pearly white. He is grinning now. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ She nods. She shows him through to the lounge. ‘Have a seat.’ He sits down on the armchair with a sagging bottom, and glances at the package lying on the settee seat. She does not want to confirm that yes, it is the one he has been sent to collect, just in case he immediately seizes it and rushes off. ‘Lemon squash all right?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  The ice chinks in the glasses as she brings them in. He gets up to take his. ‘Thank you,’ sits down again. She sits opposite him on the settee. Together they take a sip, and breathe their relief. Catherine can feel the cold liquid moving down her throat and into her tummy. She holds the glass against her forehead and rolls it back and forth. She eyes Owen shyly through it. He is no longer purple. The colours of him have calmed down and arranged themselves in a handsome face. There is a vulnerability in his blue fair-fringed eyes, and a sadness too, a grown-up sadness at odds with his youth. She lowers the glass. ‘I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I can’t recall it ever being this hot before.’

  ‘Me neither.’ She smoothes the skirt of her buttercup-print dress. ‘How do you like working at the market?’ she inquires.

  ‘It’s great,’ he replies, a little too enthusiastically.

  ‘I expect it’s dreadfully stuffy down ther
e.’

  ‘An oven.’

  ‘Sean says that you’ve moved into the flat in Covent Garden.’

  He takes another drink. ‘That’s right. It’s very kind of him to let me stay. And it’s so convenient for work.’

  ‘So I suppose you know Naomi?’

  He hesitates before answering. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She lives there, doesn’t she?’

  A pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And works on the stall too?’ Their eyes hold for a long, telling moment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve never met her. I probably won’t. Staff for the market come and go.’

  ‘Yes, I should think they do.’ He finishes his drink.

  ‘I expect you’ll move on, before too long. Where’s home?’

  ‘Home?’ He says this as if he does not understand the word.

  She smiles a touch wanly. A chord is struck. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I mean, where your parents are?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says in understanding. ‘Wantage. Oxfordshire.’

  ‘Is it nice?’

  He hesitates, shrugs.

  ‘Are you from a large family? Do you have dozens of brothers and sisters?’

  His gaze drops to the floor. ‘No. There’s just me.’

  ‘It can be a bit lonely, can’t it?’ His brow puckers. ‘Being an only child,’ she elucidates, speaking quickly. ‘Actually I have a brother, an older brother. But he’s nearly ten years older, so I’ve always felt as if I was by myself.’

  He swallows. ‘Mm, yes. I suppose it can be.’ Another pause.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better be on my way,’ he says, glancing at the package.

  ‘Oh no, please don’t go yet.’ Then, embarrassed, she says, ‘It’s . . . it’s nice to have a chat.’ Her eyes rake the room. She has been growing steadily more immune to its lack of charm, but now every dingy corner glares back at her. ‘This place is awful, isn’t it?’ She can see that he doesn’t know what to say, that he is fighting to be polite.

  ‘It needs a bit of decorating, that’s all.’

  She laughs. ‘It needs to be demolished.’ He laughs, puts his glass down on the table beside him. ‘I bet Sean talked it up so that you thought you were coming to a mansion. He certainly did to me before he brought me here. He’s like that.’ A cry from upstairs. ‘Oh, that’s Bria. Actually I can’t believe she slept all this while. She doesn’t sleep well, you see. I bet all new mothers wish that they had a bit more sleep.’

  ‘It must be difficult, especially with . . . with Sean away so often.’

  ‘It is.’ She stands up, sets down her own glass. ‘Anyway, that’s the package.’ She nods at it. ‘I expect that you have to get back,’ she says, her voice coloured with regret.

  He has risen too. Then, ‘I’d like to see her, to see the baby.’

  She is pleased and her pale cheeks pink with pleasure. ‘Would you really? You’re not just being well mannered?’

  ‘No,’ he laughs. ‘I’ve heard so much about her.’

  ‘Have you?’ She is genuinely surprised.

  He shoves his hands in his jeans’ pockets. ‘Oh yes, Sean talks about her all the time. He’s very proud of her, you know.’ She blinks quickly because she is on the verge of tears. She feels them rising at the back of her eyes, and the tightness threatening to break in her chest.

  ‘I’ll fetch her then.’ In a minute she is back with Bria. Her daughter is wearing a white vest. Minute legs and arms poke out from it. She is moulded to her mother’s shoulder. Catherine sits down and cradles her in her lap. Owen sits next to her. The baby blinks her startled blue-green eyes up at him. He laughs out a breath.

  ‘She has Sean’s eyes. The exact shade. I’ve given up trying to decide if they are blue or green, because they’re both.’ She nods in agreement.

  ‘I know. Would you . . . like . . . like to hold her?’

  ‘Can I?’ Another nod. Bria changes hands. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he says with absolute sincerity. ‘She has a hint of red in her hair. Not as dark as yours, though.’ Bria is sucking on a tiny fist, looking as if she is determined to eat it. Her other hand is curled around Owen’s finger. He tests the strength of her grip, pulling upwards. ‘She’s so strong.’

  ‘Well, she certainly has stamina. She can go for days without sleeping.’ The windows onto the small garden are open, and a puff of warm air ruffles the faded curtains. ‘Sean’s gambling,’ Catherine mumbles under her breath. They both stare at the baby. ‘I’m worried, Owen. We can’t afford to lose.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The package . . . well, I think it’s money. I think he may be getting himself into some trouble.’ She is blinking again. ‘I’m not sure what to do. He won’t listen to me.’

  ‘I’ll have a word. But I don’t expect he’ll listen to me either.’

  The atmosphere in the room is suddenly very busy, busy with patterns, wallpaper, carpet, curtains, so that Catherine wants to close her eyes and cover her ears. She sniffs in air and smells soap, shampoo, clean perspiration and the acidity of the slices of lemon she put in their drinks. Through her blurred vision she glimpses down at her dress and feels foolish for making such an effort for a stranger. She decides that she must appear ridiculous to him, the abandoned wife isolated with her baby at the end of the Piccadilly Line. The oppressive heat is ironing all the energy out of her, all the spirit. You can no more stop her tears now than turn back the tide. They pour silently down her cheeks. Her shoulders shake them out of her. Gently, her guest lays Bria in a corner of the settee and puts his arms around her. The baby kicks her toes, and catches at dust motes sparked gold by the sun. Catherine turns into him and gives him her unhappiness. The sensation of his lips moving against her hair, of his breath on her scalp, temporarily arrests her weeping. He is her whisperer. His utterance is so hushed that all she detects is sibilance, a soft sibilant whistle above the beating of his heart. She strains it for words and what she is left with is this: ‘Don’t cry, Sarah. Don’t cry. It’s all right.’

  Chapter 15

  It is late afternoon by the time Owen arrives back at the market with Sean’s package.

  ‘Oh, well done,’ he thanks him, sliding it quickly into his trouser pocket. ‘You met Catherine?’

  ‘Yes. She’s nice.’ Owen recalls the dazzle of her red hair in the sunlight, the uncertainty of her pale-green eyes, his heart beating against the press of her head. ‘And the baby, as well, I saw her too.’

  ‘She’s a darlin’, isn’t she so?’

  ‘Mm . . . yes, she’s lovely. She’s got your eyes.’

  ‘She has,’ he crows. The market is winding down for the day. Stallholders are packing away stock, putting up their wooden shutters. A few disparate shoppers wander the aisles, resentfully watching as their choices are limited.

  ‘What did those men want earlier?’ Owen asks casually.

  ‘What men?’ Sean dodges. ‘It’s been a good day. We took a small fortune.’ He unzips the purse in his money belt, rifles inside it and produces a twenty-pound note. ‘That should cover your fares to Hounslow, Owen. And a bit of a bonus besides.’

  ‘Thanks. But you don’t have to. I was happy to go.’ Sean is leaning back against the counter, eyes unfocused. Owen stands beside him, beset by needling anxieties. ‘It was Blue, wasn’t it? That’s what they call him. And one of his minders? They were here this morning, wanting to talk to you. What’s going on, Sean?’ He is careful to keep his tone mild, his posture relaxed.

  Sean shrugs. ‘A bit of business, you know. They’re influential, good connections to have, altogether.’

  Owen sighs. ‘I don’t think you should get mixed up with them.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, the kid’s giving me advice now,’ he laughs wryly, landing a mock punch on Owen’s shoulder. ‘Well, thank you for that, but I think I can handle myself,’ he adds, striking a sour note.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me, I know. Everyone enjoys a flutter occasionally, but you don’t want to en
d up in debt, having to borrow off some loan shark.’

  ‘What the fuck are you on about now?’

  Owen refuses to meet his eyes. He is stepping onto unstable ground. He takes a deep breath. ‘Gambling. Aren’t you gambling? So long as it doesn’t get out of hand.’ Sean’s pale face suffuses with an angry red.

  ‘If I were you, I’d shut the fuck up!’ His hand finds the sore on his neck and he picks it viciously.

  ‘I’m concerned, that’s all.’ Owen begins clearing the counter. ‘No offence intended.’

  ‘How old are you, Owen?’ Owen is on his knees now, pushing bags into the shadowy recesses of the under-counter cupboard.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Half your life, half your life, Owen. That’s how much older I am than you. Don’t you be after lecturing me. Don’t you dare lecture me. You know shit. D’you hear me, Owen? You know shit.’ He is leaning over him, spitting the words out. Owen waits, counts in his head, clambers to his feet slowly and turns.

  ‘I told you, I didn’t mean to offend.’ As they eyeball each other the music suddenly stops. They finish up without conversation, both observing the enforced silence. Owen is late leaving.

  Enrico is at the flat when he gets back. He pushes through the bead curtain and there he is, lying on the settee, beer bottle in hand, propped on his chest. The sausage waft of pot hangs on the stagnant air. If the music has ceased in the market, it is in full swing here. The record is spinning on the turntable. The guitar is strumming to the easy slide of Bob Dylan’s drawl. ‘Tangled Up in Blue’. Owen glances down at the album cover slung on the floor. Blood on the Tracks. Bob, in profile, dark glasses, mass of curly hair, fuzzy focus. In the kitchen Naomi is also drinking beer. She is wearing skimpy black shorts and a coral and camel-brown bikini top. A small mother-of-pearl star is threaded on a maroon choker at her neck. Barefoot, she moves her body in serpentine waves. One hand is flat, pressing on her once more concave belly. When she sees him she halts, and with the other raises her bottle. Her smile is loose and he judges that this is not her first drink of the day.