‘Caught my eye on a cupboard in the kitchen.’ Jimmy squeezed the lie into Aunt Pol with his hug. Added quickly, ‘You look brown. Meet any nice Spanish men?’
Aunt Pol gave a sad little laugh. ‘You look different,’ she said, eyes narrow. ‘And you’re away out swimming on a Friday night. You are different.’
‘I’m racing in the swimathon tomorrow as well as doing the cooking.’
Aunt Pol didn’t comment. Twisted her spaghetti round and round her fork until it all unravelled and fell off. She’d hardly touched it. Shook her head at the tiramisu. Must have Spanish tum, thought Jimmy.
He tried to cheer her up.
‘I’ve lost a stone and a half,’ he said, ‘and I’m swimming every day. Didn’t ever think I’d do that,’ he went on, ‘but d’you know the weird thing . . .?’
Jimmy paused. Wanted to make sure Aunt Pol was actually listening before he ran the Shadow Shape business by her. After all, he’d never told anyone this. Not even Ellie.
‘I’ve always felt I had to swim. I’ve dreamed about it. For years. Cos there’s someone I’m going to meet, or something I’m going to find when I swi . . .’
‘What’s this, Jim?’
Aunt Pol definitely wasn’t right. All her Spanish colour draining away. Lucky Mum’s key rattled the lock.
‘Cooeee? Anybody home?’
‘Visitor in the hall for you, Jimmy,’ called Mum much too brightly. She burst into the kitchen, smiling, but through gritted teeth. ‘Here’s me the daftie thinking you’ve been down St Jude’s helping Father Joseph raise money for those poor wee children in Africa –’ Now she bared her teeth. ‘But you lied: you’ve been away swimming to yourself instead.’
Jimmy could tell by the phoney fixed smile on Mum’s face that she was raging with GI Joe right now. But she would never show it. You couldn’t argue with a priest. It would be like arguing with God.
She was beeling with Jimmy too, the simmering anger in her eyes transmitting a telepathic warning: How dare you go swimming and not tell me. I’ll see you later, boy. Swimming? I’ll swim you!
The brunt of Mum’s fury, however, was hurled at Aunt Pol.
‘I suppose you knew all about this?’
‘Only that he was taking a few lessons again. Thought he’d drop out the same as all the other times . . .’ Aunt Pol’s voice tailed to a whisper. She winced from Mum’s anger as if she’d been slapped.
‘Aunt Pol doesn’t know anything about my training, Mum,’ Jimmy interrupted. He was shocked at the state of Aunt Pol when Mum turned on her. Never seen her look so crumpled, so pale.
‘I wanted to swim myself. Nobody made me, and anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘what’s the big deal?’
He studied the faces around him. Mum: drawn tight with anger. Aunt Pol: chewing colour to her pale lip. GI Joe: hovering in the background, decidedly uncomfortable.
‘What the heck, you lot? All I’ve done is learn to swim.’
Jimmy grinned. Straightened to his full height. Slapped his pecs. Even contemplated giving them a twirl. You should be chuffed, he was thinking. Look at me. I’m different. I’m happy. I’m changing.
But something was going on here. Lurking in the lack of eye contact between Mum and Aunt Pol. Loitering in the sheepish shuffle of GI Joe who looked as though he’d rather be listening to one of Father Patrick’s everlasting sermons than standing here.
This isn’t about swimming, realised Jimmy. It’s about secrets.
‘So you’re a swimmer after all, Jim,’ said Aunt Pol. Her voice was faraway.
‘What goes around comes around, eh?’ snapped Mum, bitter. ‘And he’s got some daft girl on the go, never off the phone to her. Like father like . . .’
Aunt Pol cut Mum off before she could continue.
‘You taught him, Joey?’
GI Joe, stepping out from the safe haven of the kitchen doorway, spread his hands apologetically.
‘Jim asked me, Polly. Well, I told him I’d only let him help me if I could do something for him. Never thought he’d say swim, but what could I do when he asked? And I swear, he’s gifted. Just like . . . I’m sorry, Polly.’
Mum’s eyes were out on stalks.
‘You know each other?’ she and Jimmy asked together.
Joey? thought Jimmy. Aunt Pol had called the dog-collar dude Joey. And what the heck was Joey sorry about? In fact, what the heck was going on? Three people Jimmy thought he knew pretty well seemed to have some alternative existence in a parallel universe all of a sudden. They were talking in riddles, and it was doing his head in!
Jimmy looked from one solemn face to the other. The answers were all here, coiled in the silences between Mum and Aunt Pol, curled in the secrets that GI Joe seemed to know.
‘What’s the big deal doing the swimathon, Mum?’ Jimmy’s tone was as light as one of his meringues. ‘I’m well fit for it and I’ve only to do two serious lengths. The rest is just training.’
‘Don’t want you swimming.’ Mum shook the notion from her head, adding lamely, ‘With your chest and your skin, and your ears.’
‘Can hardly swim without them,’ said Jimmy, trying to inject the situation with a bit of levity. ‘Anyway, look at me.’
He thumped his pecs again. ‘Haven’t used my inhaler for weeks. I’m losing weight. You can see muscles. I’m feeling brilliant. Why can’t I swim? This is nothing to do with my health, is it?’
Jimmy looked to Aunt Pol for support. The hand covering her mouth was shaking.
‘Aunt Pol, why shouldn’t I swim?’
GI Joe was no help either. He was frowning hard at Aunt Pol, knuckles clamped to his teeth as though he was scared he’d blurt out something he shouldn’t.
‘I’ll let Barry Dyer know Jimmy can’t make it if you think that’s best,’ he shrugged.
There was a beat of silence before Aunt Pol spoke.
‘No,’ she said. Her voice was strong.
‘No,’ she repeated. She was looking at Mum. ‘Jim’s going to swim. But I’m telling him the truth first.’
They put Jimmy out of the kitchen, to have a powwow before they would reveal why they were all acting like characters from some dire daytime soap. He flicked aimlessly through the TV channels.
His stomach gurgled loudly. Nerves. He squashed his fist into his belly. It didn’t sink in so far any more; he could detect the contours of his ribcage.
‘I’m heading, Jim. Let you folks talk.’
Concern burned in GI Joe’s eyes. He looked small tonight, thought Jimmy, who felt he towered over Coach when he rose to walk him out. Maybe it was seeing him in the dog-collar. He even sounded like a priest, voice quiet; compassionate.
‘Look,’ GI Joe said, laying his hand on Jimmy’s forearm. Gentle. No punches.
‘If you need to talk – later. Anytime. If there’s things you . . . and you don’t fancy swimming tomorrow, just . . . well, I’m here, Jim.’
‘Why wouldn’t I feel like swimming tomorrow?’ Jimmy called after him cheerfully as GI Joe ran downstairs. ‘And, hey. How come you know Aunt Pol?’
‘School.’ GI Joe shouted back. ‘Should’ve been my girlfriend.’
So you’d a thing with GI Joey?
The words were on the tip of Jimmy’s tongue but when he saw the state of Aunt Pol he was glad he kept shtoom.
She was even more peely-wally than before; apart from her eyes. They were ringed red from crying.
‘What’s up?’
Suddenly panicky, Jimmy looked from Aunt Pol to Mum. From her sniffs, Jimmy knew that even Mum – who hadn’t shed a tear at Dad’s funeral – had also been bubbling.
‘Mum? Wait.’
But Mum didn’t wait. She pushed past Jimmy gesturing with a flap of her hand that he should stay with Aunt Pol.
‘Look at this, Jim,’ said Aunt Pol in a tiny voice. She was holding out a small green notebook.
Chapter 24
Frankie
It was a night when Jimmy teetered on the tighrope of sleep witho
ut ever slipping properly into unconsciousness. His mind kept him awake, turning cartwheels, spinning from the chandeliers, tapping out a noisy Riverdance on his skull.
No wonder.
The inside of his brain was like one of those plastic snowstorm ornaments that you shake, sending particles spiralling through a liquid medium. In Jimmy’s case, each particle was a fragment of truth, slipping through his reason as he tried to make sense of it.
Mum’s not my mum.
Aunt Pol’s not my aunt.
Dad wasn’t my dad.
My dad was a swimmer.
Like I am.
That was the nub of what Aunt Pol had revealed, tumble-turning Jimmy’s world upside down in a few bald sentences. Jimmy barely had his head round any of it when the final particles of the crazy snowstorm settled.
‘I’m your mum, Jim, and he’s your dad.’
The green notebook lay beside Jimmy on the duvet as he tried to sleep. Photographs. Not many. Newspaper cuttings mostly. They were grainy, ink smudged, paper curled at the edges, yellowing. Old glue discoloured the newsprint, making the articles difficult to read. But the headlines had been clear enough:
Fallon to the Final
Big Frankie Fallon:
New Swimming Hope
CHAMP QUITS
‘Frankie Fallon. That’s his name, is it?’
Jimmy had been surprised at his outward calm as he flicked back and forth over his ancestry. Inside he was too churned up to read anything properly.
‘These are all from before I met him,’ Aunt Pol explained as Jimmy turned the pages. ‘Your dad swam for Ireland in his teens.’
The same muddy photograph was used on the ‘Fallon to the Final’ and ‘New Swimming Hope’ pieces. It showed a line-up of swimmers poised for a dive. One person was unmistakable.
‘He could be my twin.’
Hours later, in half-sleep, Jimmy heard himself repeat what he had exclaimed when he first saw his father. That black and white newspaper picture had only hinted at the resemblance between him and Frankie, however. The single colour photograph of him towering over Aunt Pol, arms round her, was unbelievable.
First, the hair. Frankie’s if anything, looked even redder than Jimmy’s. And longer. Frankie was freckly, even at twenty he was still freckly. Brown eyed, broad-shouldered, beefy, very tall.
And good fun, Jimmy thought, with a pang. There was a twinkle in his dad’s eyes.
‘He was six two, Jim,’ Aunt Pol said. She ran her finger the length of the photograph. ‘Foot taller than I am.’
You’re not my Aunt Pol any more. What do I call you?
Four in the morning, and Jimmy wondered if, like him, Aunt Pol, who was sleeping over on the saggy settee, was staring into the dawn.
‘What am I supposed to call you now?’ Jimmy whispered, wishing he could phone Ellie for advice. ‘I can’t call you mum. Mum’s my mum.’
Jimmy was tempted to slip into Mum’s room right now. Wanted to hear himself say to her, ‘Y’all right Mum?’ Because she’d been the most upset of the three of them about this whole business.
She’d given Jimmy a big hug – not like her – and then she’d cried. Told Jimmy she was sorry. Could hardly get the words out, she was so upset. Horrible, thought Jimmy, the replay forcing tears through his own lashes.
‘You know me and your dad were only doing what we thought was best, Pauline,’ she’d said to Aunt Pol. Or rather, Pauline. Her only daughter, not her wee sister. No wonder Mum’s heart was breaking under the weight of a secret like that, wept Jimmy. No wonder she’d shut herself in her room.
Jimmy heard her sniffing for ages before the house grew quiet, but when he knocked her door her voice was back to normal.
‘I’m fine, son. Go to sleep now.’
It was daylight when Jimmy slept. And dreamed.
He strode along his street wearing his swimming togs, a crowd following him, all the way to the Leisure Centre. First came Mrs Hughes. She led the English class in a crocodile, reading aloud from Jimmy’s essay. En route, Mum’s wee wifey pals from St Jude’s choir joined in, drowning Mrs Hughes out with their Grand Ol’ Oprey rendition of Bowie’s ‘Heroes’.
Two football teams doing Mexican waves came next, accompanied by Busty and The Tyre dressed as cheerleaders. They paraded up and down the line bearing trays of chocolate éclairs on their heads. Amidst the footballers, wreathed in clouds of cigarette smoke skulked Senga, Chantal, Maddo and Dog Breath.
The crowd swelled as it approached the Leisure Centre. Hamblin was there somewhere and all the obesity consultants Jimmy had consulted over the years in their white hospital coats. Around them danced GI Joe’s family from the middle of nowhere.
Jimmy went alone to the pool while everyone else crammed the spectators’ gallery. In the first row, dressed like royalty, sat Mum. Dad was beside her, his newspaper covering his face. Aunt Pol was next, looking anxious. And enormously pregnant. GI Joe, at her side, looked much smaller than in real life, his head disappearing into a massive dog-collar so that only his eyes and his stubbly crewcut were visible. He gave Jimmy a cheery thumbs up.
And a whistle blew.
Jimmy turned to the water as a murmur of anticipation filtered through the spectators. There were only two competitors lined up for the heat, himself and Victor Swift.
Jimmy positioned himself to dive, copying the stance of a swimmer he’d seen in a grainy photograph recently. Arms low, weighting the body towards the water. Knees bent. Primed. Ready to spring.
At the deep end, a movement distracted Jimmy. He raised his head.
The Shadow Shape was there. A filmy screen of ectoplasm stretched over Jimmy’s horizon, held at one end by Mum, the other end by Aunt Pol. It moved and writhed, semi-transparent, struggling to remain taut and whole as something bigger and far more concrete tore through it. Big Frankie Fallon. Dad.
‘Fair play to you, son!’ called the huge, red-haired man, cupping his hands to shout the length of the pool.
‘See. Telt you my maw said your auntie wasn’t your auntie,’ said Victor, diving as the whistle blew, leaving Jimmy standing.
‘I’m honestly not hungry,’ Jimmy insisted, pushing away the toast that Mum had thumped in front of him three times already. It was morning. Swimathon morning.
‘You’re not swimming on an empty stomach, is he, Pauline? You tell him. You’ll faint in the pool, Jimmy. Sink and drown. Talk sense into him. He’s as daft as you.’
Jimmy could still hear Mum muttering to herself over the roar of the bathwater.
‘She’s getting all dolled up to come and see you, Jim.’ Aunt Pol drew up a chair and sat close. ‘She’s that proud you know.’
Aunt Pol, pale, puffy-eyed, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before she spoke again.
‘I’m proud too. You’re the best –’ Her chin was wobbling. Tears in her eyes. She was about to break her own nae greetin’ rule that she insisted Jimmy follow even when he had every reason in the world to bawl his eyes out.
‘Eat. Mum’s right, Jim. You’ve got to eat.’
‘Can’t,’ said Jimmy, although he made an unconvincing show of chewing and chewing a single mouthful of toast. Tasted like cardboard.
How could he eat?
He was full to the brim.
Everything he’d consumed last night lay rich and heavy like a thick creamy sauce on his heart, on his mind, on his stomach.
Undigested.
And none of it was food.
The space where the Hungry Hole had yawned was crammed at last. Jimmy was so full, so bloated, that his throat ached when he gulped. But he didn’t feel satisfied yet. Everything inside needed to settle into place first. Right now his guts were churning.
His head was churning. Everything was churning.
‘Jim?’
GI Joe sounded as if he was back in South Africa, his voice was so small on the phone.
‘How’re things?’
Different.
‘OK.’
�
��And your mum?’
‘Which one?’ Jimmy was surprised at how quickly – defensively – he snapped back.
There was a long pause, Jimmy sensing GI Joe’s awkwardness crackling down the phone line.
‘She’s fine.’ Jimmy softened. ‘In the bath, singing. Listen.’
Jimmy carried the phone to the bathroom door to give GI Joe the full flavour of Mum’s swoopy ‘Amazing Grace’.
‘She’s happy if she’s singing. But we’re in a queue out here,’ explained Jimmy. ‘Legs crossed.’
Relief blasted through GI Joe’s laughter.
‘So you’re still swimming? Don’t want me to phone Barry and cancel?’
‘And let my granny down?’ Jimmy spoke very quietly into the receiver, trying out the relationship for size. Now GI Joe would know everything was out in the open. Better all the same that he wasn’t here to see the flush it brought to Jimmy’s face.
‘Polly. How’s she doing?’
‘Ask her yourself, Joey,’ said Jimmy throwing the handset at Aunt Pol so she couldn’t dive into the bathroom before him when Mum opened the door in a cloud of steam.
‘Joey. For you, Polly,’ he said, feeling as he made a quick cuppa for Mum, that whatever had gone on between Aunt Pol and GI Joe was just one layer of the onion too much for Jimmy to peel away as yet.
‘We’re all getting there though,’ murmured Jimmy to himself waiting for the kettle to boil. For a moment he closed his eyes. The sound of Mum’s singing blended with the sound of Aunt Pol chortling deep into the phone. Jimmy smiled.
Chapter 25
Titbits
‘Pauline was eight months gone before we knew anything.’
Mum sounded miles away, but only because her head was buried in her wardrobe as she rummaged among her clothes.
‘Sit down, son,’ she’d said. ‘In case we don’t get the chance later.’
Then she plunged among her coat hangers, talking above the clatter. Maybe the only way she could do this, Jimmy realised. Turned away from him, busying herself with other things, pretending they were more important. Defense mechanism.
‘I must have been blind, not seeing Pauline getting stout. One night I called the doctor out because her back was hurting and she couldn’t settle. She takes one look and whips her into maternity.’
Fat Boy Swim Page 10
