The moon rises high and the light slips away. Darkness falls and the cinema screen begins to flicker. A full carpet of people covers the beach; with their backs to the sea, they watch the screen. We feel detached from these cave dwellers who stare at dancing shapes on a wall. They are lit by the light of the projector, as we lurk on distant steps steeped in shadows. My tribe and I face the light of the moon and we stand over harsh ocean.
I wish I could say we are the wise philosophers of this gathering, but we are closer to wild-eyed lunatics, wishing we were fully naked, only we might get arrested. We have reluctantly settled for skimpy bikinis instead. Cave dwellers keep their backs to us and don’t intrude on our space. There is room here for everyone. It feels like they’ve gathered just for us, filling up the background and willing us to jump.
‘Look at the moonpath on the water,’ whispers Michelle. ‘I want to swim in it.’ She has that crazed look in her eye, like if she followed that moonpath she might never come back.
The Tragic Wives’ Swimming Club gets some new members for the night. Alison takes photos. Helen hands out towels. Margie is here for the full swim. Marian has never swum from the steps before and is determined this will be her first time. A fully female energy is harnessed on these rocks as we drop our towels.
The water truly looks like black velvet and is teasingly rough. Waves slap up and hit the rusty step railings. We wait until the Jaws theme music is playing and then we dive in. Marian makes it all the way down the steps to her waist and gets frozen with fright. ‘I can’t,’ she sobs as I climb out of the water to help her. First time is just too big, wrapped in all this darkness. She has brought herself as far as she can go and I won’t push her.
The cold and the moon have silenced us to startled gasps as we plunge, dive and swim circles. ‘I hope Ron the seal doesn’t get ideas watching Jaws,’ I giggle, before diving one last time. A group of teenagers, bored by the screen, have drifted towards us. ‘You’re all fucking mental,’ they mutter respectfully. For the moment, they have stopped ignoring us.
We race to the warmth of the pub afterwards for chats and hot whiskeys. Back in the glow of indoors I look around the table at this awesome group of women. I marvel at the ladies I now count as friends. They are brave and honest and we give nothing but love to each other. It is a powerful find of belonging to feel steeped in your own tribe. One-to-one friendship is wonderful but tonight we weave together as a group. It is a night full of real joy and laughter. I feel more content than I can remember in a long time, or else the whiskey has gone straight to my head.
Marian is disgusted with herself that she only got halfway in. She insists on meeting me at the cove two days later. Treading water, I coax her with soothing words and hope to God she hurries up before I get hypothermia. She eventually throws herself from the rocks with impressive ear-shattering shrieks. Random onlookers spontaneously clap. She emerges with manic, unfixed eyes. ‘It’s bloody freezing! Where’s the fucking adrenaline rush, Ruth?’ she hollers, accusingly. ‘You liar!!! I’m still waiting for it to kick in!’ I laugh as she screams like some kind of adrenaline-soaked whirling dervish.
I still yearn for that naked swim. Seawater and blood plasma have the same composition, according to Mark, a seasoned Greystones swimmer. He speaks and bends into startling yoga shapes by the cove steps. Man, I just love his hippie science talk. ‘The amniotic fluid in the womb is similar to seawater. All that iodine is so good for you too,’ he adds, before diving in with dolphin perfection. He has disappeared into the deep. We can wait minutes before he comes back up again for air.
Our naked full moon moment happens two months later, on 14 November. It’s an unseasonable warm night and no one else is around. The moon hides behind clouds and three of us hide under towels. There is an awkward pause. ‘Who will be the first to …?’ I wonder, but Aifric has already strolled by me, a casual naked goddess. Wow. I follow her bum cheeks down the steps into the black waters. Maire is right behind me. We stand in a line as the wind whips naked parts. I screech and dive in.
Skinny dipping is the ultimate caress from nature, Marian once said, and that’s exactly what it feels like. I have never felt so silky. Mother of God and Earth and Sea, I can only gasp at the feeling. I am not me, I am part of the water. It surrounds every part of me. We dive and pant and climb until the cold is done with us.
Maybe this is some kind of death wish or my sorry soul drawn to eternity. I don’t really know. My mortal coil is unravelling under the wild moon, in an inky mass of cold water. When I swim like this I am fearless. A mad moonpath is leading me towards better dreams. But the more I breathe in time to the ocean, the more Simon and I seem to be out of synch.
‘I’d do that again’, says Aifric softly. ‘The 14 of December is the next full moon,’ smiles Maire. Hello to a chilly Happy Christmas. Getting dressed, we talk calmly about swims and moonbows. Moonbows are like rainbows, says Maire, made by water and moonlight instead of the sun. It’s difficult for the human eye to discern colours in a moonbow so they appear white. Moonbows are rare but they do happen. I feel calm and sleepy. There is no wild elation here. Just deep satisfaction. I go home and sleep deeply for the first time in years.
Waves (and Cheese Puffs)
Storms are provoking the sea to wild heights. Cars swing up past the harbour and slow down in shock at the sheer sight of these enormous waves. A swim in this would spit you out for life. Passers-by stand transfixed, like aliens have just landed. Crashing waves are by far my favourite. These waves are so intense they move in fast-forward motion. They are badass fuckers that chomp on the cove steps in big bites. Swarming over land and rock, they make everything look tiny. Carried by the wind they seem to be in the very air we breathe. Onlookers gasp for breath, knowing this sea is strong enough to bring the whole world down, bang after glorious bang.
For a whole week, the massive waves consume the coastline. White chunks of foam blow from the sea and land on the road like snow. Water sprays on car windows leaving salty snail trails. When the waves finally settle, a new set of steps has appeared at Greystones South Beach. The sea just excavated them like some swift, furious, archaeological dig. ‘Where did the steps come from?’ ask the kids. ‘Those steps got buried years ago,’ explains Phil, our Greystones native. ‘It’s an old swimming spot that used to be called The Men’s’. Alleluia and peace on earth. The men just got their steps back. Ladies’ Cove is now truly mine.
Sadie runs roaring into the kitchen in dramatic floods of tears. ‘My heart is in tiny pieces!’ she wails. ‘Raife just smashed my heart.’
‘I wouldn’t give her the remote control,’ explains Raife, rolling his eyes. I want to tell Sadie that hearts can survive in pieces. I have only ever risked my heart for something that is worthwhile, so smash away. Remote controls may not count as worthy, so maybe I’ll wait till she’s older. If Arden keeps gathering sea glass from the beach, my heart pieces can survive like this indefinitely. I rattle his growing collection around in my coin purse. Sometimes it spills on to tabletops as I count out sea glass in busy coffee shops. Pappy still resides under the passenger seat of the car. I think he belongs there now.
‘When I first came here you used to hoover the house every morning at 7 a.m.,’ Marian reminds me. Sweet Jesus, we’re well rid of that manic lady. The superhero costume slipped for good reason. Weeds may choke the shrubs, dust can gather in corners, toilets crust over with wayward boy streams. The housewife will get to all of it eventually, but for now there are important chats pending with Marian, over steaming cups of tea.
‘Momma, when we grow up we’re gonna be mermaids in the sea, just you and me. We’ll dive in and jump back out because that’s what mermaids do. I want to be a mermaid just like you, Momma. Our magic necklaces will scare away the sharks, won’t they?’
‘Of course they will, Sadie,’ I reply. Hunter whines in protest. ‘I want to be a dog,’ he grumbles, ‘but dogs can’t swim underwater.’ His chubby face wobbles in a thinking moment.
‘I’m gonna be a mermaid dog,’ he decides with faraway eyes.
Raife marches into the kitchen with a notepad tucked under his arm. ‘Momma, give me one of those tablets for greasing up your brain, quick!’ he demands. ‘You mean … a fish oil tablet?’ I guess, at a reach. ‘That’s the one. I want to write a book the same as you and Dadda, so I need a greasy brain,’ he says. Lord help us, another writer, I think. At least he’s given up on the limp.
Days are getting colder so I light the stove and cook baked potatoes. I’m being good to myself because a half-made-up rhyme is playing in my head. Remember, remember, this day in November. Give us a break MND, for my marriage’s sake. If you won’t give me one, I’ll take two, the better for us, and the worse for you. Perched on the noisy bed beside Simon and plumped up with cushions, we watch the first assembly of his film, My Name is Emily. We are beyond dead dogs, distant beds and suspicious glances, and we share a moment. This film spans our entire marriage. So many of Simon’s thoughts and philosophies sing through it. I can see him clearly, a cheeky boy with a charming grin, driving cars too fast.
The sorrow that’s deep in me rises up and overwhelms my body. Tears pour out. Huge arms of grief wrap around the years and squeeze them in close. In this moment, I love Simon so much. I cling to his Tin Man chest that moves mechanically and I hang there like a soggy rag. Simon cries too. It is the first thing we have shared in such a long time and that makes me cry harder.
This life is so comical. Strangers fill kettles in our kitchen and scuffle around with cups. It is comical and cruel, yet I still hold on to my husband’s magnificent heart. A tender glance later and this moment will be gone, but I won’t forget.
Jack has gone quiet again. ‘I wish Dadda didn’t have MND,’ he says for the hundredth time. ‘Me too, it’s shit, Jack,’ is my reply. I stare at him carefully. Looking at our handsome boy with a heavy, worried head, I wonder whether that head ever looked any way lighter. ‘But you know what?’ I add, ‘Thank God for cheese puffs. Crispy, cheesy goodness crunching around your mouth. I’m so glad they exist. I mean, imagine a world without cheese puffs?’ I wave arms for dramatic effect. Jack’s face lights up and he grins the cheesiest grin. He really does like cheese puffs very much. ‘Yeah,’ he beams. We will always have cheese puffs, Jack. ALWAYS.
I go to bed that night and have the freakiest dream. A large gypsy man in a bowler hat is holding a tray full of bowls. ‘Put money in the bowl to get healed,’ he shouts. I’m contemplating which bowl to pick when I notice Simon’s parents sitting beside a blanket. What’s under there? I wonder. I lift up the blanket and Simon is underneath. ‘We cured him with the right bowl,’ they say. His tracheostomy is gone but he is pale and breathless and young in the face like our wedding photo. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I cry, and I am really cross at them for leaving me out. ‘If he’s cured he needs fresh air to breathe!’ I panic, grabbing him and weeping now with relief.
Simon and I run from blankets and bowls to a wide-open field where crowds of people are dancing all around us. We are kissing each other and laughing and then kissing everyone else with huge hugs. Our love has stretched out past the boundaries of each other and we are bonded to all these other people too. A bearded midget randomly walks by and I don’t know why except that small people are magical beings who always seem to wander for no reason into other people’s dreams. I wake up feeling baffled but calm and alarmingly carefree.
A large moon lingers, with a streak of white streaming out from one side. I think I’ve just seen my first moonbow, but I’m not sure, so I don’t mention it. Arden comes home from school the next day saying, ‘Jack Diamond told Teacher he saw a moonbow last night. What’s a moonbow, Momma?’ Moonbows are rare but they do happen. Maybe I’ll go moonbow hunting with the tribe when we brave our next naked full moon swim.
Marian has brought her piano keyboard to work and sits playing The Snowman theme, with fast-moving fingers. The children and I dance slowly around the kitchen, because her playing is really good. ‘We’re walking in the air!’ Sadie warbles along. Marian laughs and it feels like family.
I stop to survey the circus around me. Simon sits by the fire and lets me cut his nails. Children are dancing. Daydreams these days swirl closer to real hopes. I hope the waves get calmer at the cove soon. I hope that ladies congregate by chance at the steps, within minutes of each other, clutching towels straight after the school run. The Bagpipe Man might be walking the wall, serenading the sea and dogs will run. Ron the seal may pop his head up for a glance.
I know I can be brave as long as the waves keep pounding. That’s just what waves do. I hope Simon and I can be kind to one another. The landscape may change, but it is always surprising and beautiful. This is great love after all and that’s just what love does too.
‘Momma, do you like swimming … SO MUCH?!’ lisps Hunter from the back seat of the car. ‘Of course she does,’ replies Raife. ‘It’s her hippie hobby’. I’m no hippie and it’s not a hobby, I grin, this is everything. I’ll keep flashing Madame Moon for ever, as long as she shows that full frontal. It’s a new rhythm that’s old as time. I follow the tides and the moon. If we can grab some of that moonpath, I won’t hesitate. Just dive right in. Like the waves themselves, don’t you dare mess with me. I am free.
Before
Hello, tree, I’m back. I got a bit lost there for a while, lost in grief.
I thought about talking to you, tree, but I couldn’t. Pain rendered me silent. I had quiet insides with no words to weave. My hand was frantic to form sentences, loop a pen around phrases, swing a paragraph into life, but I couldn’t. Words had left me. Oh, how I missed the slide of a pen around letters. I couldn’t taste food or feel my middle half at all. I was all head and a pair of legs. You can’t really write with a missing gut, I sadly discovered.
My book got published and the housewife became an author. Colour seeped into our lives and tickled like tall peacock feathers. ‘Hey Momma, can I dye my hair for the book launch? I want to dye it black like the colour of my soul,’ said eight-year-old Arden. Ferocious reading of The Far Side Gallery makes him the most sarcastic eight-year-old of all time. My red postbox filled with letters lovingly addressed to ‘The Lady at the Cove.’ ‘ You’re getting some strangely addressed packages,’ frowned the postman. Yes, but the clever postman always finds me.
Whispers scuttled around warrior Michelle near the school gates, but scattered once she was in earshot. They boldly approached her sister, though. ‘We hear it’s so busy at the cove now the tragic wives have to get changed in a pop-up tent. It’s true! Fact! Isn’t that terrible?’ the school Mums hissed. ‘Terrible!’ laughed Michelle, relaying the rumours to me with her glorious tinkling laugh, but there was no room to enjoy the sound. Hold your ears because they hurt. Simon got sick and we all got stuck in hospital world for ten whole weeks.
What was I thinking of this morning? I don’t remember. What am I thinking of now? Not a clue. Hospital strips the mind bare, leaves it ragged in the moment, staring at well-thumbed magazines and greasy walls. ‘It smells like stinky porridge,’ moans Sadie. Yes my love, hospital has a stinky porridge smell. What time is it? Who cares. Fluorescent lights bleach days into unmanageable minutes.
Simon is so sick. The ventilator alarms constantly. Green goop gets sucked from his lungs. He is pumped with industrial-strength antibiotics, but continues to deteriorate. His determined eyes roar with pure defiance. This makes his decline all the more devastating.
In the hospital room I nervously nibble on fingers, pulling the skin savagely. ‘His hair is so perfect and his skin. He looks so well. Such a funny disease, not like cancer,’ croons his mother in a soft lament. Simon sleeps like a corpse most of the time. The vent alarms and his lips lack colour. A chest tube hangs from his lungs, leading to a grimy Tupperware container draining some sort of grey matter. All I can do is hold still. We are all spiderweb stuck. I text Michelle from the hospital room. Inviscate. She texts back. To encase in a sticky subst
ance. My husband has lungs leaking fluid the colour of dirty paintbrush water. There is no magic in any of it.
The bed vigil begins. Family skates around his illness in spinning circles. Skate on a plate as we all inviscate. We’re stuck, he is stuck, not getting any better, not getting any worse.
The doctors say it’s severe lung disease. ‘His lungs are fucked,’ I say bluntly, and this dapper-suited consultant looks at me. He has firm eyes that hold my gaze. I like him. ‘Yes, they’re fucked,’ he replies, speaking my language. He shows me the CT scan and it makes me cry. Such a messy world in Simon’s chest. ‘Imagine we’ve sliced his lung like a piece of salami,’ he says to explain the view. My insides are pureed pink sausage meat. The scan from four years ago is a dark grey mushroom, the healthiest lung tissue can look. The scan from today is different. Foamy white shores of soggy surf surround crazy caverns of trapped pus and fistulas. Oh, my poor husband. His lungs are fucked and suddenly we are here.
Sadie cuddles him and he weeps frozen-faced tears. Hunter whines that he is hungry and lies on the floor. Simon is too sick to use his computer voice. Words are spelled out with a chart and eyelids twitch at half-mast. Curse this suffering. His eyes wander in and out of focus. I pray he may sleep. Angry Jack, practical Raife, and overwhelmed Arden. I worry about my children. Bless them all with their hot beating hearts.
The house feels empty with only six of us, full of new sounds without nurse feet or ventilator beeps. Bathroom doors are flung open. We wander corridors warily in our underwear looking dazed, getting startled by echoes. In bed at night, an empty vessel of aloneness cups around my heart and it hurts. I am a living breathing vampire with no heartbeat. I look to other warm-blooded creatures to save me from this dark cup, this cold clay around my heart. It is panic. It is despair and all things smudgy.
I Found My Tribe Page 13
