The SECRET TO NOT DROWNING

by Colette Snowden

  “Well this will be a good opportunity for me to sort through it, won’t it? Is it OK if I bring my dog?”

  “Since when did you have a dog?”

  “Since about a week ago.”

  “Well I suppose so, as long as you don’t expect me to clean up after it or feed it or anything.”

  “No, that’s fine. It’ll just be me and the dog.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “Actually, there is just one other thing. I’ve said I’m coming to stay with you because you’ve probably got shingles and you need someone to look after you for a bit.”

  “Oh, thanks very much. Well I’ll know who to blame if I do get shingles, won’t I?”

  “Sorry.”

  “And why’ve you said that? Do you need to have an excuse to spend a bit of time with your own mother?”

  “No. It was just easier. I’ll explain when I see you. I’m planning to get the train at ten past two so I’ll be with you –”

  “Just in time for dinner!”

  “About five-ish, yes. Don’t forget, if anyone rings you’ve got shingles and I’m coming to look after you.”

  “OK, Marion, I’ve got it. It’s shingles I’ve got, apparently, not dementia. Do I need to find a red biro and draw spots on myself in case the police call round? Or will it be MI5?”

  “Bye Mum. I’ll see you around five,” I say and put the phone down.

  And by the time I’ve sat down on the train with my cup of coffee and a newspaper and Chips sitting on my foot keeping it warm, I’m half wondering why I’ve never done this before and half wondering why I’ve done it at all. I look out of the window and one field looks pretty much like the next but they’re all quite nice. And the train goes so fast that they merge one into the next, making one big green line that’s pointing me in the direction of home.

  I could just get off at the next station and disappear. I could dare myself to do it. No matter where it is. I could start a new life and reinvent myself. But the next station is one of those depressing places where no-one ever gets on and no-one ever gets off, and I can just see myself in some awful Christmas dinner photo smiling out from a billboard on the dual carriageway with a big ‘missing’ caption above my head. I can’t really do rebellion. I feel guilty if I accept the leftover half an hour on someone’s pay and display ticket at the multi-storey.

  I have that everyone’s-looking-at-me feeling. I don’t think they’re really looking at me, I think they’re looking at Chips because he’s all cute, but it feels like they’re looking at me. I should read my newspaper but I keep reading the same few lines over and over and then I can’t remember where I’m up to and I end up reading them again. I think I might ring Julie. Or I could just text her. Or I could text Mandy.

  I ring Julie. She answers but she can’t hear me. I’m yelling ‘Hello. Hello can you hear me?’ down the phone and everyone is looking at me now but Julie still can’t hear me so I hang up and then I get a text.

  “Soz was so grumpy. Jst in a mess bout Linda. Will call soon xx.”

  So I send one back: “Gone to mum’s 4 a bit. Hope ur ok. Ring me if u wanna chat.”

  I hold on to my phone in case she texts back. But it just sits there in my hand. I want to text Mandy but I can’t think of anything to say. I just put it into my bag. I have a go at the crossword and eat a packet of mints. That’s what train journeys are for.

  I told my mum she needn’t meet me at the station but when I step off the train I’m wishing she’d ignored me and turned up anyway. But she hates train stations. And she hates surprise visits. I prepare myself for a face like thunder, but when she opens the door she grins at me and summons me into the living room where there’s a big bunch of pink gerberas.

  “He rang to see how I was and to tell me he was getting these delivered for you because it’s Tuesday,” she says. “Aren’t you pleased?”

  I feel like He’s followed me here. I’ve only just stepped through the door and He’s here before me, sitting on the mantelpiece staring at me from under his pink petal lashes.

  “Is it a special occasion? Are you celebrating something?”

  “No Mum, He just buys me flowers every Tuesday. It’s a kind of routine.”

  “Nice routine. You’re a lucky girl.”

  I’m still wearing my coat and she hasn’t even put the kettle on for a cup of tea yet but the words are out there before I even know it.

  “Actually, Mum, I’m here because I want to leave Him and I didn’t know what else to do apart from come here and have a think about it and a chat with you.”

  “Shouldn’t it be your husband you’re talking to? That’s the only way you can work it out, you know.”

  “If I talk to Him, He’ll convince me I’m being an idiot and it’s all in my head and I won’t be able to go.”

  “I see. And are you so sure that going is the best answer, Marion? Marriage isn’t all flowers and Champagne you know. It’s not easy. It’s not a fairytale. It takes hard work. It takes a bit of give and take.”

  I want to scream at her. I want to rant. But I know that won’t do me any favours. From somewhere I manage to find my inner calm.

  “Shall I put the kettle on for a cup of tea? Have you got any biscuits?” And I leave her to sit for a few minutes rehearsing her lines while I hang up my coat and wait for the kettle to boil.

  “The thing is,” she says, snapping her chocolate bourbon in two, “The thing is, every marriage has its ups and downs. That’s part of the deal. But if you take all of this too far, you’ll have gone too far. That’ll be it.”

  So I try to explain to her how things are. I try to explain how He keeps me in a box and doesn’t let me out. I try to tell her that He makes me forget who I am. That He’s cruel to me. That He makes me miserable.

  But she doesn’t get it. And when I say it all like that I don’t get it either. I sound like a spoilt brat complaining about my parents. Any minute now she’s going to tell me that there are children starving in Africa and I need to count my blessings and think myself lucky.

  “He can’t be that bad. He sends you flowers every Tuesday. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s cruel and nasty, that sounds like someone who loves you and wants to remind you how special you are.”

  Nope. That sounds like someone who wants to remind me where I stand.

  “He made me eat them once.”

  “Eat what?”

  “The flowers. He made me eat the flowers. I can’t even remember why, but He made me eat them and He sat there watching me chew the flowers He’d bought for me just to prove that He could make me do it. Just to punish me.”

  She doesn’t say anything. Perhaps she thinks I’m making it up. Perhaps she thinks I’ve finally lost the plot. I have turned up more or less unannounced with a dog and enough clean knickers for a fortnight. It’s not like me, even I have to admit that.

  “So how long has it been like this?” she asks.

  I don’t know.

  “And why haven’t you told me before?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And then suddenly, I do know. I know why and I feel stupid.

  “I do know. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to feel like a failure. I didn’t want you to think I’d messed it up. And I didn’t think I could do anything about it anyway, so what would have been the point? Then I would have been rubbish twice, once for not telling and once for telling and then doing nothing about it.”

  She looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili and I feel like crying but I don’t want to. I really don’t want to.

  “I always brought you up to be a strong woman,” she says. “Maybe a bit too strong, after all... but when your dad left...”

  And she rattles on about her life story and I want to yell at her that it’s not strength but cowardice that’s made me keep it all tucked aw
ay for so long. But I don’t. I just let her finish speaking and I absolve her from her guilt and regrets and I tell her it’s all fine and it’s not been too bad, but I just need to think about what to do next and I just feel tired.

  And then suddenly I feel very, very tired. Like I might fall asleep sitting upright in the chair. I tell her I’m going to get an early night and get up from the chair only for the world to disintegrate into a million tiny pieces that dissolve as I fall and she catches me.

  I wake up on the floor with my mum stroking my hair and crying. She never cries. Perhaps I’m dead and I only think I’m alive, but that seems unlikely.

  “I think you fainted,” she says. “Have you been eating properly? Have you been sleeping properly?”

  Of course I haven’t.

  “Of course I have!”

  Clearly there was never any question of a career on the stage, the lie isn’t even remotely convincing.

  “Have you fainted before?” she asks.

  Should I tell her? The thing is if I lie she’ll probably know I’m lying and then she’ll wonder why.

  “Last night,” I tell her, “in the swimming pool. But it was OK, I was fine. I ended up having a cup of tea with a nice woman. Surprisingly nice.”

  “Marion,” she says, “people don’t just faint in swimming pools.” I can’t decide whether she’s concerned or just embarrassed that I’ve shown myself up.

  “The only time I’ve ever fainted was when I was pregnant. Are you pregnant?” she says.

  “No.” Bloody insensitive question. And then I remember the night of Mandy’s meal and I count up the days since then and I let myself wonder if I might be.

  “Marion?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Right then. It’s off to bed with you. A proper breakfast and off to see Dr Swift in the morning. I can ring at eight o’clock for you and I’m sure we’ll be able to get you in.”

  I know it’s pointless to argue and before I know it she’s handing me a toothbrush with the toothpaste already on it and telling me not to mess about reading but to go straight to sleep.

  ***

  In the doctor’s waiting room I try not to think to the rhythm of the tick from the clock on the wall but apparently that’s impossible. I might be pregnant – tick – what if I am? – tick – what shall I do? – tick – what will He say? – tick – what if I am? – tick- tick – tick.....

  I wonder if my mum chose her doctor for the aesthetics of her waiting room. We’re not sitting on chairs: we’re on huge comfy sofas, the kind you sink into and can’t get out again. There’s a TV on the wall with the news channel on but it’s switched to mute and there are subtitles that move way too fast for you to read them so I try not to look but it’s pretty much impossible to pull my eyes away when it’s there and I’m sitting here trying not to think, trying not to listen to the tick, tick, tick.

  There’s a water cooler and a vending machine for hot drinks, but if it weren’t for them I might think we’d stumbled into someone’s living room by mistake. The walls are covered in big swirly florals, there are ornaments on the fireplace and there’s a massive bookshelf full of books with a big red tub of kiddie books and another one full of toys just next to it on the floor. For my mum this probably says ‘homely and welcoming’. For me it mostly says ‘expect a long wait, have a plastic cup of cappuccino and a read of Pride and Prejudice while you’re waiting.’

  But in the corner there’s a woman peering through a glass window that gives the game away. She has a little medical alcove with wall-mounted leaflet holders jam-packed with all kinds of gruesome information about what you might have if you’re sitting here and how to cope or how to avoid stuff that’s catching. She’s mostly shuffling papers and tapping her keyboard but every now and then she stops for a slurp of coffee and a good old peer through her sliding window and when the phone rings she chirps, “Hello, Doctor’s surgery.”

  I’m wondering whether the cappuccino will taste of coffee or chicken soup and if I should risk it when the peering receptionist calls out my name.

  “Marion, that’s you.” My mum nudges me with her elbow.

  I jump out of my seat and knock my knee on the coffee table. My mum stands up with me and tucks the label back into the neck of my T-shirt.

  “Shall I come with you?” she asks.

  “No, you stay here, it’s fine.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll come with you.”

  “Mum, I need to go in and you need to stay here.”

  She looks at me crestfallen but this is not about her.

  I go through the door in the corner of the waiting room and into a corridor and it’s a bit like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Suddenly I’m in a proper doctor’s surgery with a doctorish smell and plastic chairs and serviceable carpet tiles. I want my mum, but it’s too late to run back into the waiting room and get her now. I could just make a run for it and nip to Boots and pee on a stick like any normal person... but a door opens and a woman who looks more like Cinderella’s ancient and slightly eccentric godmother than an actual doctor sticks her head around it.

  “You must be Marion. Come on in.”

  32

  It’s raining when I get on the train. And even though we’re technically still inside the station it’s freezing cold and the dampness is everywhere: there are puddles on the ground, there’s moisture in the air and the rain sounds like lentils being poured out of a packet into a big metal pan.

  My suitcase is safely tucked away on the luggage rack and I’m standing by the door while my mum stands on the platform. She delves into her handbag and brings out a plastic bag and hands it up to me. There’s a sandwich wrapped in silver foil, an apple, a carton of Ribena and a bar of chocolate in the bag.

  “You need to keep your strength up and your blood pressure on an even keel,” my mum says and I could swear she’s going to cry.

  “Thanks, mum.”

  “I couldn’t find the flask but you can always get a cup of tea on board. Mind you don’t scald yourself though. They always make it too hot.”

  The door beeps and closes.

  My phone rings: “You’re doing the right thing Marion. Just remember. This is for the best.”

  I nod at her through the window but say nothing. She starts to walk alongside the train as it begins moving.

  “Give me a ring and let me know you’re home safe.”

  “I will!” She’s practically running now to keep up with the train. “Don’t worry mum. I’ll be fine. Thanks. I love you.”

  But she’s gone. Even an Olympic sprinter would struggle to keep up with us now and within seconds the platform is behind us and I am on my own again. Except I’m not... quite.

  It’s been almost two weeks since I got on the train at the other end and headed over to see my mum, and in that small time everything has changed. Now, I am an expectant mother and I keep telling myself that it may not last and this baby may decide I’m not a great candidate for motherhood, just like the last one did. Or maybe this one will stick around. Maybe it’s made of stronger stuff. Maybe I’m made of stronger stuff than I was when my lost little baby bowed out.

  I haven’t spoken to Him since I left. He rang a couple of times but I didn’t answer, and in the end my mum told Him I needed a bit of time on my own just to clear my head. She told Him I was exhausted and emotional. She didn’t tell Him about the baby – I made her promise not to – but she dropped plenty of hints about how I was tired and emotional and irrational and hormonal. The thing is, He’s never been very good at hints: a giant banner and He might just get the message, but hints are just background noise as far as He’s concerned.

  Anyway, He knows I’m on my way home and He knows I’m back at work on Monday and the rest is for Him to find out when I get back.

  I’m a bit surprised that I’m going back,
to be honest. I didn’t think I would be, but I’m not sure what else to do. I have a baby and a dog and it’s like my mum says... you have to take the rough with the smooth.

  The rain is making horizontal lines on the train window as we speed along but it’s unbearably hot in the carriage and Chips has just gone to sleep under the table, knocked out by the lack of air. Just as well, probably. I lean on the window to absorb some of the coolness from outside and put my feet up on the seat opposite – if anyone complains, I’m a pregnant woman and I absolutely have to put my feet up: doctor’s orders. I’m in a fantastically stroppy don’t-mess-with-me mood, but no-one on this train seems even to have noticed I’m here, let alone be up for a fight. Which is probably just as well.

  I have a newspaper and I open it and read a couple of headlines but I can’t focus. I’m not really interested. In the back of my mind somewhere there is a thought that I can’t quite get hold of. It’s making me uneasy. Its making me annoyed. I look out of the window and everything is grey and wet and the same. So I’m sitting watching drips of rain on the window trickling down and the trickles join into each other like streams joining a river and eventually the one, fat, community raindrop gets to the bottom of the window and is gone. So I start again at the top of the window and follow them down and start trying to guess which one will be the dominant raindrop. Which one will be the one that accepts the others into it. But the one that’s the big king of raindrops one minute just merges into an even bigger and fatter one the next.

  This is my raindrop. This one here in the top right hand corner. If this one makes it all the way to the bottom without disappearing into another, bigger raindrop then it’s telling me that I should think again. This raindrop is me. This raindrop will tell me whether I can make it on my own. If it needs to join with another blob of water that will tell me that I need to go home and make the best of it.

  “Excuse me love...”

  The ticket man taps my shoulder. “Sorry love, I wasn’t sure whether you were asleep. I just need to check your ticket.”