Swimming Home

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  Under the trees along the street they did see more Islanders, their skin as dark as coal, the little children running naked and laughing, soft voices drifting over to her on the breeze.

  ‘These people are peaceful, more or less, as far as I know,’ Harry said. ‘And who wouldn’t be, living here?’

  She looked out towards the turquoise water. It drew her in.

  ‘There were different groups on the different islands,’ Harry said. ‘But they were always linked by trade. There’s a chap at Cambridge I met after I came here the first time. He’s studied all the different cultures. The Islanders are mostly Christian now, but we English haven’t always understood their ways of doing things. Those canoes you might have seen down on the beach; they can get anywhere in them. They’re beautiful boats.

  ‘Then there was a magistrate back in the nineties, a chap named Douglas, who worked closely with them. He had a lot of respect for the Islanders.’ Harry looked at her. ‘I do too. The protector system takes away their rights same as for the Aboriginals on the mainland. They can’t even travel island to island as easily anymore. It’s just wrong, Louie.’ Louisa agreed it was.

  Further along the main street, she noticed a group of young men outside one of the stores. They had sun-browned skin and short black hair and they all wore cotton shirts and trousers. Louisa thought they might be Chinese.

  ‘Japanese, actually,’ Harry said when she commented. ‘Good lung capacity.’

  ‘Lung.’

  ‘Pearls,’ Harry said. ‘They’re divers.’

  ‘Pearls,’ Louisa said.

  ‘Mother-of-pearl,’ he said. ‘The shell. We supply half the world’s buttons.’

  They turned out of town and up the only hill on the island, a gentle incline of red dirt from which you’d be able to survey the sea on all sides. Harry pointed. ‘That’s the house.’

  From a distance, it looked like a castle, Louisa thought, built from stone, a bell tower on one side, flags flying from the front. ‘A stupid thing I did,’ he said. ‘I think I wanted to impress Julia.’ He winced.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Harry,’ Louisa said, patting his knee. ‘I should have come sooner. Mama sends her love, dear boy.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come,’ he said. ‘And I’m very glad you have.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Ruth Luxton had said it would do him good to tell the story.

  ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘About Julia. What happened to Julia,’ Louisa said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When we get to the house. Later.’

  As they wound their way up the hill, Louisa thought Harry might come home now after all. He’d been quite adamant about the island, Louisa remembered. He and Julia were going to start a new life there, he’d told Millicent, another hint in hindsight that their old life, the life involving the Quicks, was somehow flawed. It was as if he’d become religious. Perhaps Julia’s Catholicism was more strident than Louisa had realised. She did wear a cross on a little chain about her neck, now that Louisa thought about it.

  As they drew nearer, the house was no less imposing. The roof was made of slate tiles and they were indeed stone walls, Louisa saw now—they must have carried it block by block in boats and then up the hill from the jetty. The whole lower floor was surrounded by a deep portico. Harry led Louisa up a small set of stairs and through the large front door. He left her bag in the hall and sat her down in the parlour while he went to fetch a cool drink. It took some time for Louisa’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. There were double sash windows onto the verandah on two sides, she’d seen from outside as they entered, but they were closed now, and covered with heavy velvet drapes of a deep moss green. There was a sickly smell of f lowers past their time. Louisa had an urge to tear back the drapes and open the windows. She felt as if she were suffocating in the humid air. Harry had lost his young wife to the sea outside these windows; perhaps that was why the drapes were closed.

  ‘Lord, Harry, how do you survive the heat?’ she said when he came back.

  He smiled. ‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘And there’s the monsoon. It’s that breeze you could feel from the shore. It brings the rain. Usually by this time of afternoon, we’d have a shower at least. That helps too.’

  Louisa’s eyes had adjusted now. She could see the room was furnished richly, with two sofas and two big chairs. It was spotlessly clean but looked strangely uninhabited. There were no dead flowers, and yet the smell persisted.

  They were sitting sipping their cold water when Louisa heard a voice outside. ‘Where is she? Where?’ A moment later, the door burst open, and filled the room with light.

  She was a beautiful child, with long chestnut hair that fell down her back in a wave, green eyes and dark skin, a handful of freckles thrown across her cheeks, and wit if the speed at which those eyes surveyed Louisa was anything to go by. She was a Quick, Louisa could see, even in the way she stood, toes out, ankles together, like Millicent and Louisa both. Harry, too, now that she thought about it. Duck-footed Quicks. A dancer, Mrs Quick, one of Louisa’s governesses had suggested to Millicent. Young Louisa could be a dancer. Hah! Millicent had crowed. More like a poor skeleton.

  Louisa looked at Catherine’s face and found herself feeling so tender she couldn’t trust herself to speak. She stared.

  ‘You must be Louisa,’ the little girl said, sounding grown up.

  Louisa smiled. ‘And you must be Catherine,’ she said finally, tears pricking her eyes. She had an urge to touch the child, to take her in her arms, which she resisted.

  Harry cleared his throat and Louisa took her eyes off the child, reluctantly, and looked at him. He looked as proud as punch, and she knew immediately what had helped him through his loss. It was Catherine.

  The little girl walked over and stood in front of Louisa and smiled. She took Louisa’s hands in her own little hands. She leaned in and kissed her aunt on each cheek. Then she pulled away and twirled. She wore a blue-and-white gingham dress with white socks and little black boots, and a blue ribbon in her hair.

  ‘She’s so beautiful,’ Louisa said to Harry.

  ‘We’ve done our best with her,’ Harry said, his voice gruff with emotion, looking from his sister to his daughter, tears in his eyes.

  ‘I truly am beautiful,’ the little girl said, twirling again in the dress. ‘Florence made me put on a dress.’ She leaned in. ‘It’s awfully uncomfortable, though.’ She smiled. ‘Florence is bringing the tea,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t allowed to carry the tray. It’s too dangerous,’ she added, opening her eyes wide.

  As if on cue, a native woman came in with the tray. She wore a blue cotton dress with a white apron tied at the back. So Florence was the help, Louisa thought.

  Catherine maintained a steady chatter directed at Florence. ‘She’s here. It’s Aunt Louisa, see? She’s very beautiful, isn’t she? And she’s a proper lady, just like Sister Ignatius said she would be.’ The girl ran over to Florence and wrapped her arms around the woman’s legs. Florence put her hand to Catherine’s head. Louisa noticed the woman’s long, delicate fingers.

  ‘I should have introduced you,’ Harry said. ‘This is Florence, who saved us.’ He looked briefly at the native woman and away. ‘She looks after Catherine.’

  The woman nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ma’am,’ she said. She smiled gently with her mouth closed.

  Louisa noticed a look pass between Harry and Florence then. She had a distinct impression of being shut out, as if there was something between the pair that they weren’t saying.

  ‘Catherine’s been looking forward to your visit, haven’t you?’ Harry said, his eyes flicking to Florence again and then back to Louisa.

  The little girl smiled and curtsied. ‘Where did you learn those lovely manners?’ Louisa said. She still felt the urge to reach out, although it was fading now in the face of whatever was going on between Harry and Florence, which she couldn’t fathom. The looks between them were full of meaning. She rec
alled Alexander saying something about Harry and a native woman in Cairns, but Louisa hadn’t listened. Alexander had never liked Harry, too many years between them and Harry so adored by their mother. Alexander had been concerned, Louisa remembered now. Could the woman have been Florence? Surely not.

  ‘From Sister Ignatius,’ the girl said. ‘She said you would be a lady, and I must curtsy to a lady.’

  Louisa laughed. ‘I’m your aunt, Catherine, your daddy’s sister. You don’t have to curtsy to me.’

  Catherine smiled conspiratorially. ‘I know that,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But it was very important for Sister Ignatius.’ Then she ran to Florence. ‘Oh, Florence, isn’t it wonderful to have Aunt Louisa here with us? Aren’t we so lucky? Well, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, she’s your family,’ Florence said, stressing each syllable of the word family. Florence flashed Louisa a look. It was as if she were sizing Louisa up.

  Catherine was prattling on about the shells she’d found on the beach yesterday. One of them, if you listened carefully, had kept the sea inside, and Catherine would show Louisa, if she liked, once they’d had some tea. But they were most definitely going for a swim that afternoon. Daddy had promised. And scones, there were scones, with real jam they’d made from the mulberries they’d grown in the winter, even though Sister Ignatius said you couldn’t grow mulberries on the island. But Florence could grow anything: ‘Can’t you, Florence,’ Catherine said. Florence only smiled.

  When Florence left the room, Catherine trailing behind her, Louisa said to Harry, ‘Interesting woman.’

  ‘Who?’ he said.

  ‘Your housekeeper, Florence. Catherine adores her.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes. We’d be lost without Florence. She does so much around the house. And for Catherine.’

  ‘That must be a relief,’ Louisa said.

  Harry looked at her. ‘Florence was the housekeeper in Cairns when Alexander and I were there,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘She’s Islander. When we had Catherine she came back here and we … She helped and now … I can’t do it all.’ So Alexander was jumping to conclusions, as usual, Louisa thought, but, still, there was something.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ Louisa said, noting how he skirted over the loss of Julia. Harry would tell her about it when he was ready. ‘You’re the only doctor here?’

  He nodded. ‘I have a chap comes up from Cairns once a month, but other than that it’s just me,’ he said. ‘It’s not as hard as it sounds. It’s more like having a big family. You don’t really take time off.’ He frowned at Catherine, who had come back into the room quietly. She’d sat on the floor at first but then had moved to Louisa’s lap. ‘You don’t need to be bothering your aunt,’ Harry said, more sternly than needed.

  ‘Oh, she’s all right,’ Louisa said, putting her arms around the little girl. She smelled sweet, Louisa thought. Harry was still frowning at his daughter, preoccupied with his thoughts.

  ‘Well, you’re right at home, Catherine,’ Harry said. ‘Come, let’s get down to the beach before dark.’ The little girl sprang from Louisa’s lap, just like the Scotties when Louisa mentioned a walk.

  Louisa had no bathing suit to change into and wouldn’t have dared bathe in the sea anyway—she couldn’t swim. She remained in her woollen skirt and blouse, leaving the jacket in her room, which was on the upper floor next to Catherine’s looking out towards the sea. Although the sun would soon set, the heat was relentless. It would never be cool here, Louisa thought.

  Catherine had shed her dress and was wearing shorts with a boy’s singlet that was too big for her. Harry was in trunks with an old button-up shirt and a wide-brimmed straw hat. They climbed down a path behind the main house that took them to a cosy beach scalloped by rocks at one end and palms at the other. There was a little boathouse above the beach itself. Catherine had scooted ahead, Harry following her. Louisa, who’d carefully picked her way down the path, took a moment to peer through the briny window of the boathouse. There was a sailing skiff on mounts inside. She wondered if this was the boat Harry had taken out when Julia drowned.

  Catherine took to the water as if she lived there, running out alone into the sea and then diving under, terrifying Louisa. In the twilight, she watched her little niece swimming out into the sea and catching the gentle waves back in with her father. Catherine was not like a person, Louisa thought then. She was like a sea creature. That was what she smelled like. It was the sea, clean and pure and alive. Wild, that’s what Alexander had said before Louisa left England. That child is growing up wild.

  Watching her in the water now at fifteen, Louisa couldn’t help thinking that swimming was what Catherine had been born to.

  4

  ‘WE WERE OUT SAILING,’ HARRY SAID SUDDENLY, LOOKING not at Louisa but at Florence. They were in the front parlour. After returning from the beach, they’d eaten dinner—cold chicken and salad followed by jelly and cold custard—in the conservatory that gave onto the back terrace. Catherine had fallen asleep in Florence’s lap over on the sofa, and Florence was sitting there quietly stroking the child’s hair while Louisa and Harry talked. The drapes and windows were still closed to the sea, although Louisa thought she could hear it in the distance. A breeze blew in through the front door of the house.

  Louisa was surprised that Florence had remained with them after dinner. She’d got up to leave and it was Harry who’d asked her to stay. Catherine, for her part, seemed accustomed to Florence being a part of their life together. Florence was just like a mother to the child, Louisa thought.

  Harry had been drinking; whisky before dinner and now a glass or more of port. Was that how he managed after Julia’s death? Louisa wondered.

  He smiled weakly now. ‘We’d taken lunch and headed for Banks Island, which is north of here. Florence’s people are from there, aren’t they?’ he said, and she nodded gently. ‘I do a monthly clinic and I used to take them sometimes. Julia liked to get out and about.’

  The way he said Julia’s name made Louisa look up. There was something in his voice. Was it anger? Louisa thought it might be.

  ‘You have to understand the weather patterns here,’ he said, putting his glass down heavily on the table in front of him. ‘It can be fine, not a cloud in the sky, and you think you’ll head out. It was a blue day, wasn’t it, Florence?’

  Florence didn’t answer him, only sat looking down at Catherine.

  Harry turned back to Louisa. ‘Actually, Florence said there was a storm coming. Florence, do you recall?’

  Florence looked up at him now and nodded slowly.

  ‘You knew. I wish I’d listened. Later, I wished I’d listened. You understand the weather.’ He pointed at Florence, took another sip of his drink. Louisa had the urge to put the bottle away from him.

  The clinic was soon dispensed with, he said, so they ate their picnic and afterwards Harry and Catherine had a swim—‘She couldn’t swim,’ he said, referring, Louisa assumed, to Julia—and they made for home in good time. ‘Banks Island is a couple of hours away even if the wind is up. And we were lucky, I thought. The breeze was good. But then the sea got rough, the wind whipping up such a swell. Still no storm that I could see, but I know boats. I know what you do. I did it all right. I did everything to stop it.’ He looked up at her. ‘I did my best, Louie.’

  ‘Of course you did, darling,’ she said, noting the awful anguish in his eyes. ‘God, it must have been awful, Harry.’

  He saw the storm front then, he said, approaching from the south-west, between them and Thursday Island. He pulled into a bay near one of the unpopulated islands, thinking they would be protected there until the storm passed. But even in the shelter of the bay the sea was wild. ‘The anchor wouldn’t hold and we were soon swept back out.’ He shook his head, looked as if he might cry. ‘She shouldn’t have …’ He stopped and sighed.

  The storm was furious, he said. ‘When the mast cracked, I knew we were done for.’ He paused. ‘You can’t do anything witho
ut a mast. We just had to wait and hope.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like.’

  He drank again then, pausing so long Louisa thought he might have forgotten he was telling the story. She looked across at Catherine, who twitched in her sleep, as if her father’s telling of the story was being lived in her very dreams. Florence was still stroking the girl’s hair and Louisa had the strangest urge to tell her to stop. She’s not yours, she’s ours, Louisa wanted to say.

  Later, Louisa told Ruth Luxton how she’d felt about Florence with Catherine. ‘Was it because the housekeeper was black?’ Ruth had asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Louisa said. ‘At least, I don’t think it was. I think it was because I realised Catherine was family for the first time, that I owed her something, that she’s a Quick.’

  Harry followed Louisa’s eye to Catherine. ‘I couldn’t provide comfort. That’s the thing. I couldn’t help her.’ He stared at Florence. ‘A boat overturns relatively quietly,’ he said. ‘It’s as if nothing is happening and yet your whole world is falling apart. Catherine screamed when we went in the water.’ He swallowed hard. ‘She was a wee thing, and it was cold enough at night, in a storm, thunder and lightning all around and the wind and rain. The swell, Louisa, it’s likely to tear anything out of your hands. I just held on to Catherine, of course. Through it all.’

  ‘Of course,’ Louisa said. ‘It’s what anyone would do in your situation.’

  They only had the one life preserver, he explained. He left Julia the life preserver and swam with little Catherine for an island. The storm passed, he said. He was able to save his daughter but not his wife. The life preserver washed ashore the next morning. Julia was gone. ‘Why couldn’t she just hold on?’ he said, glaring now at Florence.