The SECRET TO NOT DROWNING

by Colette Snowden

  He’s not giving up yet.

  “So what about your real mum?”

  “My real mum?”

  “Yes, you know, your real mum. The one that gave birth to you, the one that abandoned you, the one you would never even have known about if Marion hadn’t blabbed it all over the school.”

  I hold on to my spoon. I look at the hole I’ve made in the surface of my dessert and hold on tight to my spoon.

  “Her name is Linda. Her name was Linda. She was amazing. She would never have dreamed of criticising me for something like smoking. She smoked like a chimney, and if there was ever anything that was going to make me stop it would be knowing that smoking probably helped to kill her. But d’you know what, it probably helped to keep her alive too. It probably gave her something to cling to when things were tough for her, and things were bloody tough for her sometimes.”

  Julie has stopped eating. We’ve all stopped eating.

  “I’m sorry,” He says. “I didn’t know she’d died. Marion didn’t tell me she’d died.”

  “It’s only just happened,” Julie says. “It’s only just happened, you weren’t to know, don’t worry about it. You weren’t to know, but I will tell you one thing that you should know. I am grateful, unbelievably grateful to Marion for letting the cat out of the bag about me being adopted all those years ago. If she hadn’t talked about it my Mum, not Linda, you know, my Mum mum, she might never have talked to me about it. I might never have known. I might never have met Linda. I might never have spent time with her and I wouldn’t be missing her now. But I would rather miss her like this every day for the rest of my life than have missed the opportunity to spend the bits and pieces of time we managed to get together.”

  “I’m sorry,” He says quietly again. And he eats his tiramisu quickly and then yawns theatrically.

  “I’d better take the dog for a last little wander before I turn in,” He says and smiles vaguely at Julie as he leaves the table and wanders off into the hall to fetch the dog lead. The door slams shut and I can hear Him telling the dog to watch where he’s going as he trips down the front step.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m not,” says Julie. “I’m not and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”

  “You don’t need to deal with it,” I say. “You just need to keep going and wait for it to ease off.”

  “D’you think it will?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe that’s too honest. Now is not the time for honesty. “I’m sure it will. You’re still in shock. You’re still getting used to the idea. You’ll be OK.”

  It’s more of an instruction than an assurance but it’s as much as she needs to pull herself together.

  “D’you mind if I just go?” she says. “I know it’s rude to just eat and run and it was lovely, it was gorgeous. But I’m not the best company. I’m not in the mood.”

  I give her a hug and take the dishes into the kitchen on the way to fetching her coat.

  “Thanks,” she says, putting her coat on. “The food was lovely.”

  I give her a hug as we stand in the hall and she feels like an old lady in my arms, all skin and bone.

  “I just need to nip for a wee before I go,” she smiles, extricating herself from me.

  And she bounds up the stairs taking two at a time.

  He comes back in with the dog, who immediately races up to me with his tail wagging.

  “I’m sorry, I should have told you that Julie’s mother had died. I forgot.”

  “Some friend you are. Forgot? Yeah, right. You were just waiting to make an idiot out of me.” He comes up close to me as He’s speaking. He’s standing more or less nose to nose with me.

  “I did forget. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry,” He prods me in the chest with his finger. “Sorry,” prod, “sorry,” prod, “sorry,” prod, prod, prod. The sorries get louder and the prods get harder and then Julie coughs theatrically from the top of the stairs.

  “I’ll be off then,” she says. “I don’t suppose you could come back to mine and keep me company?” she says to me, glancing at Him.

  “I think you probably need some time on your own. Grieving’s a very personal thing isn’t it?” He says.

  And He opens the front door and stands there like a bouncer while she leaves.

  27

  There are other women. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know. Call me crazy if you like, call me a paranoid, fantasist bunny boiler if you want, but I know.

  The thing is though, I’m not sure I actually care.

  There’s this one, Siobhan. She’s young. She has red hair. What they call red hair, but really it’s orange. It’s the colour of sunsets on cheesy paintings. The colour of orange-flavoured ice pops. The colour of orange-flavoured anything. With a name like Siobhan you’d think it’s naturally ginger but it’s not. It’s pure chemical affectation. There’s not a single freckle on her anywhere.

  There are piercings though. There are a few of those. One on her eyebrow with a little ring through it. A sleeper. Goodness knows why they’re called that. There’s a stud just under her bottom lip in the corner. From a distance it looks like a massive zit, or a wart or a beauty mark. It’s small and round and silver and I’m sure it must catch on jumpers and T-shirts when she pulls them over her head. It’s pointless. It makes her look worse, not better, and it’s a man-made snagging device on her face. But to Him that’s missing the point. To Him the point of the tiny little metal thing just under her bottom lip is that it’s a great big juicy signpost to the other piercings she may or may not have in other places.

  She has one in the middle of her tongue, that’s for sure. And that’s the one He’s got his eye on. He’s heard stories in the pub about girls with pierced tongues. He has plans for that bit of silver, an excellent conductor of hot and cold, a small solid object on a soft, mouldable tongue.

  He met her on the bus. No, that’s a lie. She was on the bus, He was on the pavement. They didn’t so much meet as share a moment. The bus was stopped at the side of the road after some kind of incident with a bicycle. The driver had got out to check that the cyclist was OK and the cyclist was gesticulating and asking the driver was he blind, and telling the driver that he had a bus full of witnesses you know so he should watch what he said. And then the cyclist brought Him into it.

  “You must have seen what happened, you were just walking up when the bus nearly wiped me off the face of the planet.”

  He had just been walking round to the garage to get my Tuesday night flowers. They’re not normally from the garage, they’re normally from the supermarket, but He hadn’t had chance to pop out at lunchtime so last-resort garage flowers it was.

  “Sorry mate,” He says, “I didn’t see anything. I was miles away.”

  The driver breathes a sigh of relief and the rest of the bus is staring at Him. A hotchpotch of faces: some delighted that something has livened up their tedious bus journey, some furious that the bus has come to a halt and may not be getting them to where they’re going any time soon.

  But she’s not excited or impatient, she’s just curious. She looks Him up and down like she’s trying to read his life history on his face and, when He looks back at the double-deckered row of eyes all focussed on Him and the cyclist and the driver, hers are the only ones He sees.

  He looks back at her and smiles. She laughs and sticks her tongue out at Him, showing Him the big silver stud anchored into it.

  He smiles back. The bus shudders and grumbles back to life as the cyclist finally gives up ranting and opts to note down the number plate and cycle off with the words ‘this is not over’ instead.

  He just stands there looking at Siobhan and her piercings – the ones that He can see and the ones that He can’t – like that sappy posh bloke in Brief Encounter when the love of his life chugs off back to her husband on the train. And as the bus
moves away He waves at her and she waves back.

  So the next evening He goes out at the same time, says we need some milk for the morning and He’ll just nip to the garage. He has never in his life checked whether we need milk for the morning. But He comes back with a litre bottle and sure enough it comes in handy.

  He walks to the bus stop and makes sure He’s passing at exactly the same time as the night before. The bus stops, and there she is, looking out of the window just like before. Smiling at Him just like before. But tonight there is no rattled bus driver or irate cyclist. The bus just stops to let two people off and one person on and then pulls out again. Barely time for Him to stick his tongue out at her by way of asking her to stick hers out back at Him before she’s gone again.

  For the next couple of nights He finds some pretext to go for a wander. He has indigestion and He thinks a stroll will help Him walk it off. He thinks he might catch the last post, He seems to remember there’s a late collection at the post office on Bradshaw Street. He fancies fish and chips tonight, shall we have take-out? But however creative his excuses to be at the bus stop just at the right time, He doesn’t get to see her. He sees the bus. He scours the bus for signs that she might be there. Maybe she’s changed her seat. Maybe she’s upstairs, or on the right hand side of the bus, or sitting right at the back where it’s difficult to see her. But no. She’s just not there.

  So He waits. Maybe she’s missed the bus and she’ll be on the next one. No.

  So He heads out earlier the next night. Maybe she’s decided she needs to make it out of the house a bit earlier and she’ll be on the one before. No.

  And after nearly a week, when He’s almost out of little ruses to make sure He’s walking past the bus stop at 6.24, there she is.

  He sees her before the bus has even stopped. He smiles at her, she pulls her tongue out at Him and without thinking about it He just gets on the bus, pays for his ticket and sits down beside her with a big ‘Hi, how are you?’ as though they’re long-lost chums from way back.

  “I’m good,” she says in that American way that He always says He hates, but He doesn’t seem too bothered by it when she says it.

  “I’ve not seen you on the bus the past few nights,” He says.

  She smiles. “I only get the bus at this time on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays,” she says. “I work in a bar three nights a week and in a shop at weekends. Different hours. What about you? Where are you going?”

  Good question. Should He lie and pretend He’s on his way somewhere, or tell her the truth that He’s only got on the bus so that He can speak to her. So that He can chat her up. So that He can shag her.

  “I’m not sure,” He says, hedging his bets. “I thought I might just get out of the house for a bit and maybe go for a drink. I could go for a drink where you work maybe?”

  Lame. Really lame.

  “Yeah, if you like,” she says. “It’s usually pretty quiet on a Monday; you can keep me company while I’m working, if you like.”

  So she walks Him to the bar where she works and she leads the way down the steps into a cellar with chandeliers on the ceiling and stainless steel on the floor. He sits at the bar for three hours while she works and He drinks, first beer then cocktails. She makes suggestions from the menu that He’s been idly browsing while she was serving someone else and each one is a different colour from the one before. He keeps offering her drinks to keep Him company and she keeps telling Him that she’ll have one later when she’s knocked off for the evening, and she puts some money in a glass behind the bar.

  He watches as she flirts with other customers. Cocks her head to one side, flashes the piercing in her tongue at them, sticks out her chest and throws back her head while she laughs.

  He asks her what time she finishes work.

  Midnight.

  And what does she do then?

  She might go to a club. She might go home and sleep. Depends how she feels at twelve. Depends who comes in later and who’s up for a late one.

  “I’m up for a late one,” He says.

  “Who are you, her dad?” says a skinny guy with sticky-up hair standing next to Him at the bar.

  “I’m a friend of hers, if you must know,” He says.

  The guy looks Him up and down, then looks at her, then looks at Him again.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  He looks at her and waits for her to come to his defence.

  “We just got chatting on the bus,” she says. Then she doesn’t say anything else, she just goes to the other end of the bar. “What can I get you love?”

  28

  The funny thing about the morning after everything’s changed is that you look out of the window and everything’s still the same. All the houses are the same and all the people behind all those curtains are just carrying on in the same old way as if nothing has even happened. The birds are singing and the old lady next door is hoovering to pass the time as usual, even though no-one will see her spotless carpets.

  Even in here, in this bedroom with its massive bed and fitted wardrobe, even in here there is the silence of a room where nothing has happened. He is still asleep, not snoring, just breathing. I am awake, wondering what happens next.

  Nothing, apparently. I go downstairs and five minutes later I hear Him switch on the shower while I’m eating my breakfast and He finally makes it downstairs just as I’m pouring washing powder into the machine ready to switch it on.

  He says nothing.

  I can’t stand this nothingness.

  “I thought I’d put a wash on, it looks like it’s going to be fine.”

  “Good idea,” He says. And He pours some cereal into a bowl, takes a spoon from the drawer, grabs the milk from the fridge and wanders off into the other room to eat his breakfast. Just like He always does.

  So I put the kettle on for a cup of tea and make a start on the washing up and He comes back into the kitchen, slips his bowl and spoon into the bowl of soapy water and asks me if I want a cup of tea.

  “I’ve put the kettle on.”

  “Yes, but do you want me to make a cup of tea?”

  “If you’re making one.”

  “I’m making one for me, d’you want me to make one for you or d’you want to finish doing that first and then make one?”

  “No, now is fine.”

  “Good. Fine. A straight answer at last.”

  “And then I’ll take the dog for a walk.”

  “Hasn’t he been out yet?”

  “I let him out into the garden for a pee but he’ll need a run around.”

  “D’you want me to come with you?”

  “If you like. It’s up to you....”

  “Well I won’t then. I think I’ll get the grass cut while it’s dry.”

  Result. Chips and I can go for a walk to Julie’s and He’s just told me to go. More or less. And that’s how the end of the world turns back to normal. More or less.

  I potter a bit, waiting for the washing machine to finish its spin so that I can do the pegging out before I go, but it’s still mid-cycle even after I’ve finished the washing up, drunk my tea, brushed my teeth and put my shoes on. So He says He’ll peg the washing out when He’s finished mowing the lawn and I can’t complain at that. I hate the way He pegs out the washing – not that He’s had much practice – He does it all wrong, with things all bunched up so that they don’t dry properly and too many pegs so that there’s pressure marks all over everything when you take it down. But at least He’s trying. At least He knows He needs to make a bit of an effort.

  I take Chips to the park first, just in case He’s watching which way I go. Anyway, the dog does need a walk and a comfort break and I’m getting used to the whole picking up poo with a plastic bag on your hand thing. It’s not that bad really. It can’t be any worse than changing a nappy and I was fully prepared
to do that.

  I see Jupiter‘s owner in the park and ask him where his dog is.

  “Isn’t he a bit old for hide and seek?” I say. And immediately I realise what a mistake I’ve made. The old man clutches my hand.

  “Oh love,” he says. “Jupiter’s gone, love. I had to have him put down last night, sweetheart. You’re right, he was old, and his body was riddled with cancer, there was nothing they could do for him, they said it’d be kinder to have him put down. But I’m lost without him. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do with myself. That’s why I had to come here, love. I always come here with him on a Sunday morning and he sees his little doggy friends and I chat to their owners. It’s what we do.”

  I don’t know what to say. I give the old fella a hug; there’s not much else I can do. But that’s even more awkward for him than it is for me. I’m more of a hug-ee than a hugger and he clearly isn’t used to being hugged by anyone, probably not even people he’s actually related to.

  “I’m OK. I’m OK thanks love,” he says, extricating himself from my well-intentioned awkwardness. “I just need to tell everyone. I mean if we both just disappeared they’d be wondering, wouldn’t they? They might think something had happened to me. And it’s nice ‘cos everyone I’ve seen has been lovely and sympathetic and whatnot, you know. Not like my sons, they think I was daft to keep such a big dog at my age and carry on paying his vet’s bills all that time. They don’t get it, you see. They don’t see what a big gap it leaves in your life.”

  I look at Chips. He’s a lovely dog but I don’t feel like that about him. I think I might cry if he died but I don’t think I’d be in this kind of a state.

  “D’you want a cup of tea?” I ask him. “I only live five minutes away, you’re welcome to come back to mine for a brew if you want a chat and a sit down.”