The Water Children

by Anne Berry

  Then they eat pizza slices and drink ice-cold Asti Spumante, sitting on the edge of a village fountain. About them the pigeons splash clumsily in the water, and from their swelling, feather-boa necks come a whole score of deep-throated coos. In the late afternoon they return to Vagli Sotto and begin packing their bags. Relief is Owen’s overriding emotion. The week is over. Tomorrow they are leaving the sleepy town of Vagli Sotto, and the lake hemmed in by the towering wall of the reservoir. Soon, the ghostly clink-clink of the bells tied at the necks of the few wandering goats, the distant muted clucking of chickens, the mewling of the wind that comes and goes without warning, and the resonant clanging of the church bells calling the faithful to their prayers, will be merely a memory. He will walk out on this second life as he did his first – a life that promised escape, but has delivered yet another disturbing slant on reality. Sean’s weakness for gambling, his drinking, his infidelity, his descent into the underworld of the city, Naomi’s abortion, her attempt at self-harm, her disturbing sleep-walking, even Catherine’s misery, all these he will leave far behind. Of course he is concerned for Catherine, for Bria. But she is not his wife and Bria is not his baby. Even if he wanted to, there is nothing he can do to alter their plight.

  They choose to dine on this, their last night in Tuscany, in the nearby town of Castelnuovo. Owen’s mood is upbeat, buoyant. They share a bottle of wine with their meal. On their way back, Naomi suggests that they pull in at the lakeside bar, and have a last drink to mark the end of their Italian interlude. Owen, light headed and feeling invincible, assents. They share another bottle, a Montepulciano, an expensive red wine, and chase it with liqueur glasses of grappa. By then the world, though a trifle unsteady on its axis, has rearranged itself into a benign paradise. It has become a utopia where little girls are sitting on the sand, waiting with ear-to-ear smiles when their brothers round the stripy windbreak that conceals them. Here, mothers have hearts roomy enough to forgive and forget. Here, if their daughters drown, their sons are their salvation.

  ‘Let’s walk back,’ Naomi suggests. ‘We can leave the car and collect it in the morning.’ And when he hesitates she insists, telling him that in any case he is drunk and cannot drive. ‘Let’s take the lakeside path,’ she adds. ‘It is so beautiful bathed in moonlight.’ And this other Owen finds himself agreeing. He has a misty re collection of a double with aquaphobia who could not be prevailed upon to go down to the water’s edge for anything. But tonight this is his shadow. And he can think of nothing he would prefer than visiting a picturesque lake romantically lit. They link arms as they weave down the track that intersects with the path.

  The moon is so bright that it makes its own silver day. The trees stand out in black relief against this pale wash. The silhouette of Vagli Sotto village rises up before them, lights twinkling, like a children’s illustration. To their left the concrete bank shelves steeply down to the water. Close up, through his alcoholic haze, the lake looks deceptively still. It really is a mirror, Owen muses, a solid silver plate inscribed with mountains, stars and moon, the bridge across it seemingly a near circle. The air is spiked with the scent of water, soft and pure, and pine sap, and summer grasses. He floats along, fire in his veins, his feet not seeming to connect with the ground. For a time they do not speak. The shrines to the drowned that they pass have ceased to be sober reminders of the dangers of deep water. Intermittently they sprout like gleaming stalks. The plastic flowers twined about them are silver gilt. The photographs in their cellophane sleeves are no more than a blur to Owen. Both, as if by mutual consent, now slow to a halt.

  ‘I’ve been here all this while but I haven’t swum,’ Naomi says wonderingly, tugging on Owen’s arm. ‘I want to wash myself in the water. Unzip me,’ she commands. She turns her back on him.

  He traces a finger up her spine, along the teeth of her dress zip. Her hair has lengthened considerably, so that he has to lift it up to find the metal tab. Her ivory flesh reveals itself as he pulls. He stands back swaying slightly on his feet as she steps out of it. Her hands reach behind her back and she unhooks her bra, wriggles off her pants and slips off her sandals.

  She turns to face him, smiling, holding her hands out to him. ‘Swim with me, Owen,’ she pleads. There is a buzz in his head, a bustle confusing him, making him forget that he cannot swim, that swimming to him is drowning. He bends to pull off his shoes, to peel off his shirt and trousers. You cannot swim, you cannot swim, you cannot swim, comes the mantra in his head. Suddenly uncertain, he shakes his head and backs a pace. She laughs. Then she is stepping like a skier down the concrete incline. ‘What are you afraid of ?’ she taunts, toeing the water. A spray of pearls scatter and melt back into the mirror. She stretches up her arms and shuts her eyes.

  ‘Naomi, be careful!’ he cries, as if remembering something, someone. But her knees are bent and the next moment she is arcing through the air, and disappearing like a flying fish into the water. The explosive splash, the concentric ripples, all still in seconds. His eyes rove the mirror seeking the spot where the water will split into jagged shards, and she will emerge. But it remains perfectly smooth, polished, nothing stirring beneath its surface. He begins counting the seconds in his head, trying to gauge how long she can safely hold her breath. He reaches twenty with no sign of her. He grips the sandpaper bank with the soles of his feet, and pigeon walks down to the water’s edge. He side steps back and forth, shading his eyes from the dazzling moon, straining them in the shining, unsure what to do. It is fifty seconds, when, far out in the lake, she rockets up.

  ‘Naomi! Naomi, are you okay? I thought something had happened.’ She is swimming towards him, moving sleek as a shark through the black and silver fluid. He watches her approach with envy, wishing it was him, that he could glide over the ghost village and not be paralysed with terror.

  ‘Owen, it’s fantastic. Come on in,’ she beckons, waving a hand.

  ‘I can’t swim,’ he tells her. Then, ‘I can’t swim,’ he tells himself.

  ‘Put your arms around my neck and we’ll ride over the lake,’ she pleads. ‘You have nothing to be scared of. I’ll look after you.’ She is by the bank now, making grabs for his feet.

  ‘No, no, I’m not ready,’ he pulls back.

  ‘What’s the matter, Owen? Don’t you trust me?’ she asks. She keeps slipping under the mirror, her head popping up again.

  ‘It’s not that. I just can’t.’ He sits down and draws his knees up to his chest. ‘I’ll watch you swim. I’ll enjoy that.’ She sculls the water for a bit so that she appears to be pinned in position. ‘I can’t change your mind?’ He shakes his head and she shrugs. Then she is off playing like a dolphin, rolling and flipping and kicking. He knows that if he was sober he could not be doing this, that seeing her water tricks would bring his krakens lumbering to the surface. Only the numbness makes it possible.

  ‘You’ll have to help me to get out,’ she calls ten minutes later. ‘It’s too steep.’ He gets up, goes forward, bends from the waist and offers her his hand. She grasps it and he heaves her up. She clasps him, her body cold and sleek and shaking with exhilarated laughter. ‘It was so good, so very good!’ she breathes, this Teodora, who has swum up from the ghost village to find her lover. ‘You should have joined me. I’d have kept you safe. Because I am the lady of the lake, the lady of the lake.’ Her voice is husky, musical, the siren’s song. He surrenders to its unbearable harmonies. And then they are kissing and he can taste mountain water in her mouth, trickling down her neck, varnishing her breasts. They stagger back, still entwined, up the bank and to a patch of grass. She wraps her dripping thighs about him, and as he sinks into her, gasping for air, his is the surprise of the drowning man.

  He wakes with a jolt. His head is thumping. The interior of his mouth feels like flour. The previous day unrolls before his sore eyes. The abandoned village. The country dancers. Sitting by the fountain. The meal in Castelnuovo. The lakeside bar. Naomi swimming. And then . . . Owen swipes a hand over his mouth as
if trying to rid himself of a bad taste in it. He turns his head on the pillow to see Naomi sitting up, staring back down at him. She has pushed the twin beds together.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says. She bends and kisses the crown of his head. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Mm . . . like . . . a rock,’ he stutters.

  ‘Hung over?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ he winces.

  ‘We’ve a long day ahead.’ She has not taken off last night’s make-up. The foundation is blotchy, the mascara has clumped, and her breath is sour. Her hair is a mess. She looks old, overnight old, her paint peeling.

  He is full of remorse and regret. He was drunk. He thinks about the lake and his stomach heaves. Then he thinks about the sex and he is filled with revulsion and self-loathing, and a dreadful sense of the irrevocable. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Why don’t you take a shower, get dress—’

  ‘We could shower together,’ she interrupts him with a lascivious giggle.

  ‘No,’ he says too vehemently. Christ, how is he going to tell her that it was a mistake, that it should never have happened? Her brow creases in displeasure. ‘I mean, we’ve too much to do.’ He is about to leap out of bed when he realizes he is stark naked under the sheet. Perhaps it was naive to assume that if he accompanied Naomi to Italy their relationship would stay platonic. He’d been a fool. He should have kept his wits about him, instead of letting himself get roaring drunk. But after all, she was broken and grieving. He knew that she needed friendship, support, though surely not sex?

  ‘Okay. Plenty of time,’ she smiles suggestively, bouncing out of bed and running to the shower.

  They thank their landlord and bid farewell to Lorenzo, promising to remember him to his brother, Enrico. Owen’s relief at their departure is apparently shared by the handful of villagers who come to see them off, their expressions collectively surly. With every mile he puts between him and the lake with its drowned village full of ghosts, the sinister atmosphere seems to dissipate. They drive with the top down. And as the Spitfire picks up speed, zig-zagging the mountain roads, the air gusts into their flushed faces, cooling them. By the time they pull into a roadside café for lunch, he is less downhearted. It still remains for him to broach the subject of last night’s unwise liaison. But he sees no reason why it should be such a trial to explain away, to extricate himself from what was, after all, a brief drunken episode. In fact, describing it as an episode at all is really according it a gravitas it does not merit. Truly, if his somewhat fragmented memory serves him right, the entire encounter was more like a few camera frames flashing by unnoticed.

  He likes Naomi, and he has to confess, thought her attractive initially. But it was more curiosity than lust. He sees that now. Her maturity and experience, her blatant sexuality, her confidence, her tactility, even her mystifying past, these are all magnets that would naturally attract a young man. But in hindsight, they have nothing whatsoever in common. The tracks of their diverse lives have crossed one another, that is all. And now they will continue their journeys separately. Apart from anything else, there is the discrepancy in their ages. He concedes that this is not an insurmountable obstacle if love is at stake. But it isn’t. And, he tells himself, as they find a table and sit down to drink their coffees and eat their sandwiches, she probably sees it in much the same light. A preposterous incident. High spirits. A holiday fling under cover of darkness. And that lethal grappa leading them on. They both got carried away, dug in their spurs and the moment galloped off with them. But now that they are heading back home it is time to rein in and take stock. It seems sensible, to Owen, to take the initiative and dispel any misunderstandings quickly, before they become ingrained. Besides, it would be prudent to have their tête-à-tête before they overnight in a hotel, to avoid any awkward embarrassment.

  ‘Naomi?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m going to quit the market.’ He waits to see how she takes his announcement. She sips her coffee, blows the steam off the cup, and appraises him with her queer eyes. ‘I’ve stayed long enough. It wasn’t intended to be permanent. Just a summer job. Filling in.’ He sounds as if he is making excuses.

  She runs an index finger back and forth along her neck chain, as if easing a tight collar, then stops abruptly. ‘I’ve been thinking the same. Time to move on. A fresh start. A new beginning.’

  He smiles over at her. Showered, in fresh clothes, with her make-up newly applied, she looks altogether more self-assured. He wonders if he has been worrying unduly. The café is busy. Animated conversations conducted in Italian, co-ordinated with frenzied gesticulations, fly from customer to customer, the clatter of trays, the hiss of steam, the ring of a till, all reach him like surround-sound. ‘That’s a great idea. A change will do you good,’ he says approvingly. But he is not thinking of her benefit. It is Catherine and Bria who interrupt the train of his thoughts. His hair has grown too, bleached to wheat-gold by the sun. He rakes his flop of fringe off his face. His skin glows with wind burn. What she asks next brings him back with a jolt.

  ‘Where shall we go, Owen?’

  Despite not having started on his sandwich, he wipes his mouth with a paper serviette as fastidiously as if it is covered with grease. ‘We?’ he queries hesitantly.

  ‘You and me.’ She is pulling at the chain again and he can see where it is cutting into the base of her neck, the indented lines pinking.

  ‘Naomi, I’m going by myself,’ he corrects her. She tilts her head, a childlike confusion in her eyes. ‘What happened last night, by the lake . . . well, it shouldn’t have. We were both a bit drunk. If we’re honest with ourselves and . . . and each other, it meant . . . nothing.’ He rubs at his brow with the flat of his hand. The temperature between them has suddenly dropped. He feels it penetrate like an icy blast.

  ‘Nothing?’ she echoes, staring at him, her face still as a millpond.

  ‘God no, Naomi, that came out all wrong. It was . . . nice, of course. Just not . . . not appropriate.’ He rests his elbows on the table and clasps his hands in an effort to still them. She tugs on the chain as though it is strangling her, and it snaps and drops, landing among the chewed crusts on her plate. ‘Oh! It’s broken. I’m sorry.’ Reflexively he reaches for it, to see if he can fix it. But she shields it with her hands, stopping him, then snatches it up herself. ‘Maybe I can mend it.’

  ‘It’s not worthwhile. It’s only cheap gilt,’ she says acerbically. ‘Costume jewellery. Throw-away.’

  He sighs with regret. ‘I’m not handling this terribly well, am I?’ Her shrunken eyes give him his answer. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, especially after you’ve been through so much. But believe me, we’re not suited to one another. You’ve had horrible luck. Sean, and the pregnancy. And really I do think you should give yourself a chance with someone else, but—’

  ‘But just not you,’ she finishes for him.

  ‘Naomi, you can’t think it would ever work out with us. For starters, I’m so much younger than you.’ Her eyes blaze and he closes his own. With every sentence he is making more of a hash of this. When he reopens them it is with hand-picked words at the forefront of his mind. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m fond of you. I care what happens to you, but not like that. If I gave the wrong impression, if I misled you, then I promise it wasn’t intentional.’

  A few links of the gilt chain dangle from her clenched boxer’s fists. ‘I thought you were different,’ she says, reassessing him frankly with those preternatural orbs. He squirms under her microscopic inspection. The café doors swing open and a group of teenage girls in bright dresses come chattering in, and make their way towards the self-service queue. Glancing up at them, he wishes that their high spirits were his, that there was nothing more taxing for him to do today than select a lunch. He pushes away his plate, and drains his now lukewarm coffee. ‘I’ve been stupid. I should have understood how susceptible you are at the moment. All I can say is that I am so sorry. Please, don’t let this spoil our friendship.’r />
  She tosses the chain on the table. ‘Is there someone else? A girlfriend?’ she asks with a lift of her brows.

  ‘No, no! Look, trust me, I’m a mess. I need time to sort myself out.’

  ‘Are you lying to me, Owen?’

  ‘No. I’d never do that.’ He has a sudden prick of conscience, as he recalls reporting to her that he did not go into Sean’s house, that he did not see the baby, Bria. With shaky hands she rifles in her bag for her cigarettes and matches. She knocks the packet a couple of times on the side of the table, her teeth closing around the tallest, pulling it out. On her third attempt to light it, he takes the matches from her, strikes one and holds the steady flame to the trembling tip. She inhales, breathes out the smoke, then waves it away.

  ‘I can wait for you,’ she begs.

  He shakes his head. ‘Please, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is. I’m not ready for a relationship,’ he says bluntly, accepting that there is no kind way to reject her. What he does not add is that he is not ready for a relationship with her, that he never will be.

  ‘When we get back I shall tell Sean I’m going, give him . . . and you, a few weeks to sort things out. And then I’m leaving.’ She opens her mouth to speak but he pre-empts her. ‘Nothing will change my mind, Naomi.’ For a few minutes they sit facing each other. ‘And if you take my advice,’ he continues, his tone suddenly inexplicably tender, ‘you will move on too. Because . . . because you deserve better than this.’ He has leant forward, addressing her, as the cigarette in her hand burns down. But he is dwelling on the heaviness of Catherine’s head cushioned against his beating heart.