by Gillian Best
My brother was too young to come along in the support boat and so was to spend the night with my mother’s friend Doreen, who insisted that we all eat dinner together. Throughout the meal, Doreen and my mother exchanged glances that were a combination of giggles, whispers and smiles and though I didn’t fully understand what they were talking about I felt reassured by their sense of excitement.
On our way home my mother insisted on stopping by the White Horse Inn. I wasn’t sure what to expect – it was a night that provided a lot of insight into the hushed world of adults – and it became clear that my father didn’t know what was about to happen either. We went into the pub and my mother walked confidently up to the bar and the barman smiled and handed her a marker. She looked around the room, weaved her way through the jangle of tables and chairs and patrons, and then wrote her name on the wall to the right of the door.
‘I’ll be back with the time,’ she called.
The barman nodded. ‘There’s a pint waiting for you.’ He turned around and rang a bell that hung near the spirits. Most of the people in the pub looked up from their tables and I saw Mum’s cheeks blush as a round of applause circled the room.
She put her hand up signalling for them to stop. ‘Save it for when I get back.’
There were shouts of good luck all round and a few hugs from people I had never seen before. My father and I stood near the door feeling out of place.
In the middle of the night, an hour before high tide, we drove down to Shakespeare’s Bay and my mother made her final preparations: double-checking things with the pilot, reassuring my father and coating her skin in foul-smelling grease. I stood at the water’s edge and looked across the Channel and all I saw was blackness, the water and the night sky blended into one another and seemed to swallow everything. I had no idea how we were going to keep an eye trained on my mother when it was impossible to see anything.
I got in the boat with my father, the pilot and a man from the federation and we motored away from the shore. The motor was cut and the boat bobbed gently as we waited for my mother to shout that she was ready.
I heard her voice and then I heard her moving through the water, her body making a rhythmic sound as she began her swim. It was similar to the sound that the water made lapping at the sides of the boat but it was consistent: her stroke rate was as measured as her breathing. In the shadowy morning I sat with my back against the railing of the boat and listened to her swim until the sky began to fade into daylight and I could see her in the sea.
She was a different person in the water. On land she could be clumsy but in the water she had grace and strength. Iain used to tell me he thought she was a mermaid and the way she slipped through the water made me wonder if he might actually be right.
The practicalities of a Channel swim were not as interesting as my eight-year-old imagination had hoped. Most of what needed doing amounted to sticking a bottle with tea or broth on the end of a pole, and offering it to her as though she were a trained seal. The only other thing to do was make sure she wasn’t getting too tired or too cold, things I thought would be easy enough to do after the pilot had briefed my father and I on what we were looking for.
We had been on the boat for hours, had seen the sun come up, marvelling at the large tankers on the horizon and I checked the wristwatch that my mother had given me specifically for this purpose religiously.
‘Mum!’ I shouted over the railing as I waved my arms.
She came nearer the boat, being careful to avoid touching any part of it because if she did the swim would be over and she would be disqualified.
It was beautiful out there, with nothing but water stretching out in all directions and the sun colouring the bottoms of the clouds all the oranges, pinks and yellows I normally only saw at night.
‘What’s it like?’ I asked.
She pushed her goggles up and floated on her back. I saw the deep red lines they had made around her eyes as they suctioned the skin inside their protective seal with so much force that the most prominent feature of her face were deep purple bruises.
‘How are you?’
My father stood next to me.
‘Martha!’ he said. ‘Time to eat.’
She was not in a hurry to meet our demands, happily floating in the light chop, but eventually she righted herself and stroked over to the pole.
‘What is the name of the street you grew up on?’
‘I’m fine, John.’
‘Name the street.’
I watched her sculling slowly and knew we were not foremost on her mind.
‘Ardent Road.’
‘When did we get married?’
‘In the afternoon.’
‘Martha.’
She said, ‘You were there, you don’t remember?’
‘I’m not asking for my own edification,’ he said. ‘I’m asking to make sure you’re fit to continue.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
My father gripped the railing of the boat, leaning over as far as he could, squinting to see her face as he offered her the flask of broth and my mother ignored it all, looking straight ahead towards France.
‘Martha,’ my father said in the tone he usually reserved for my brother and I when we were being especially trying. He waved the pole, trying to attract her attention.
‘John,’ she replied. ‘We got married in the autumn and you wore a navy suit with a yellow tie and new shoes that gave you blisters and as we drove from the church to the reception hall, you took off your socks and shoes and I put plasters on the backs of your heels. And we laughed because you had holes in your socks.’
‘What year?’ he shouted across the railing.
She reached for the flask but missed, her fingers touching it briefly before it slipped out of reach. I held it as steady as I could but the sea was changing and the gentle chop was growing up.
‘Mum!’ I called as loud as I could.
She reached her arm out again and it was as if she was stuck in slow motion. Earlier on in the swim her hand had shot out from the water like a shark attacking its prey and the broth was down her mouth in moments but now she moved slowly and carelessly, the efficiency gone from her movements.
I called her name again and when she didn’t reply I turned to my father who was as white as the chalk cliffs that watched over the shore. Even if both of us had not been intimately familiar with the elegance my mother had when she swam, it still would have been obvious that something was wrong.
A pair of gulls circled the boat and screeched their demands of food as I watched my mother’s head – protected only by a yellow swimming bonnet – dip under the water. I waited for it to reappear, silently counting the seconds that passed and realised that her feet had stopped kicking too.
‘Mum!’ I screamed.
I felt the acid coming up from my belly and thought I would be sick. I stared at the water and tried not to think about the worst but I could not keep from imagining my mother disappearing into the sea.
‘Do something!’ I shouted at my father who stood glued to his spot, glaring at the water.
The spray whipped across the deck soaking us through and making it impossible to see anything, but what was more terrifying was that, between the sound of our boat’s motor and the sloshing of the sea, even if my mother was calling out for help there would have been no way for us to have heard her.
‘We have to save Mum!’
‘Go and get the pilot.’
I did as I was told and soon we were all lined up along the side of the boat, looking and calling for my mother, and then I saw the yellow top of her head.
‘Mum!’ I screamed, pointing.
The pilot grabbed the life preserver and threw it out to her but instead of moving towards it, she paddled away.
‘Martha, grab hold!’
When she continued to ignore him, he threw the various bottles of tea and broth at her and she didn’t stop until one of them nearly hit her on the head.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, slurring her words.
‘Get out,’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘You nearly drowned.’
She gasped for breath then put her face back in the water and kept on swimming but it didn’t look like she was actually moving, rather it seemed as though she was swimming in place.
‘Martha, stop!’
He looked for something else to throw at her but nothing was close to hand and after a few more strokes my mother finally stopped and waited for him to speak.
This time he chose his words carefully. ‘You’re going too slowly.’
‘Awfully critical.’
He studied her, looking for a reason she would accept for getting out and giving up. ‘Are you cold?’
‘I’m fine.’
Her voice sounded drunk and she wasn’t able to keep her attention focused on any one thing.
My father bent down to me and said, ‘Tell the pilot she’s getting out and to bring the boat as close as he can to her.’
I did and the boat slowly edged its way closer to her.
‘Martha, you have to get out now.’
She shook her head.
‘This is dangerous.’
She looked at us with a dazed expression and Dad bent down and reached his arms out to her. She lurched to and fro with no control and I had a horrible premonition that she would slip under the water and drift away from us. I didn’t think she would have the strength to pull herself out even if she had wanted to.
Dad couldn’t swim and the pilot had to steer the boat, so I did what I thought was the only thing left to do. I took off my life jacket, shoes, and jumper and just as I had begun to climb over the railing, my father grabbed my t-shirt and pulled me back onto the deck.
‘What are you doing?’
‘She needs help!’
Then we heard her shouting from the bottom of the ladder. Dad scrambled down and grabbed her underneath the arms, hauling her onto the deck as if she were a prize fish he had just done battle with. He fell backwards and half of her body landed on top of him. She was gasping for breath and I helped him drag her the rest of the way onto the boat. I had never felt skin so cold, touching her hands felt like taking ice from the freezer.
What I was not prepared for was the chafing. Where the straps of her costume touched her shoulders there were horrible red sores that looked like knees that had been skinned over and over again without having the chance to heal. Her lips were swollen and there were marks on her face, which I learned later were from some jellyfish she had encountered only a few miles into the swim.
Together, Dad and I helped her to the mound of fishing nets where we lay her down and wrapped her in blankets. I snuggled in next to her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders as best I could.
The first thing she said to us was not thank you. ‘How far did I make it?’
‘A third of the way,’ my father said.
She said nothing but as we motored back home and I lay with my head on her chest, happy to listen to her heartbeat and the whirr of the engine, I felt her body shaking and knew she was crying.
A few days later she was plaiting my hair and I asked her why she’d done it.
‘To see,’ she’d said, as though it was obvious and that whatever it was that was hidden in those two small words was simple enough to understand even for someone my age.
‘But you almost drowned,’ I said.
‘But I didn’t.’
‘But what if you did?’ I said, yanking my hair away from her. ‘What if you did?’
She put her hands on my bare knees and locked eyes with me.
‘Harry,’ she said. ‘I hope one day you know what it feels like to be completely and utterly compelled to see about something.’
When all of the things Dad had pulled out of the wardrobe had been put back, my mother leaned against the bed.
‘Did you ever see?’ I asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Do you remember, after the first time you tried, I asked you why you did it and you said to see.’
She picked up a postcard with the name of a French guesthouse and smiled. ‘Yes. I did.’
I wanted to ask what she had seen and if it had been worth it, but the voices from downstairs were getting louder so we went downstairs and found Iris and Dad laughing as they looked at old photos.
‘Here’s Harriet on her bicycle,’ Dad said.
Mum and I stood at the edge of the lounge and I don’t think either of us could believe what we were seeing. It was obvious Iris had found her calling as a primary school teacher with her patience and open smile. The way she listened to my father’s stories gave the impression that they were the most fascinating tales the world had ever known instead of tangential, meandering anecdotes that relied heavily on a history she had not been part of. The scene was so beautifully dangerous because it allowed me to imagine him holding our baby as Iris flipped through photo albums after Sunday lunch.
It was a fragile moment and I knew the right thing to do was savour it for what it was. It looked like the honest, modern truth of a family. Without thinking I believed in it and threw my arm around Iris and kissed her cheek. She must have been caught up in it too because she turned to me and we kissed on the mouth.
It was reckless. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.
The sound of my father gasping and sputtering, stuck for the right words to say, shattered the glow of the moment and turned it into something familiar. Dad got up and stumbled backwards and Iris reached out to catch him but he pushed her hand away and fell. The look of surprise, shock and hurt on his face was not on account of the fall.
I knew what to expect next and I would not put Iris through it so I grabbed her hand and dragged her towards the front door.
‘Harriet!’ my father shouted as I opened the door.
We walked down the garden path to the car and I kept my arm around her shoulders, protecting her from everything I vowed I would never endure again.
I opened the passenger’s side. ‘Get in.’
‘Harry,’ she said softly.
I didn’t reply. Instead I turned back to the house and took what I thought would be my last look at it. I forced myself to remember the happy times when we laughed and enjoyed each other for who we were, when I was too young to have been a disappointment.
My mother came flying out the front door waving a plastic carrier bag and trowel. ‘Wait!’
She bent down next to where I stood at the foot of the myrtle bush and dug.
‘Mum,’ I said.
She yanked a branch with small pink blossoms out of the ground and its roots dripped dirt onto the grass as she held it up to me. She gave me the bag and motioned for me to hold it open.
‘What are you doing?’
‘She’s who you went to see, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘When you were a little girl and you asked me why I wanted to swim the Channel.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’
It took me a moment to work out what my mother was trying to say and when I did all I could do was nod my head yes. She fiddled with one of the blossoms on the bush. ‘So you know, don’t you?’
‘Martha!’ my father bellowed from the doorway.
I looked in his direction and she put her hand gently on my chin, refocusing my attention.
‘When I was younger I swam every day. And I left my things under the myrtle bush. It gets its strength from the sea.’
‘So do you,’ I said.
Her eyes were tearing up. ‘And you get yours from her.’
I nodded.
‘This,’ she said, touching the shopping bag. ‘Take it in case you ever wonder if it’s worth it.’
We stood with the plant between us, between my father and my wife, and the past and the future and just then, for a brief moment, my mother and I were in the present with each other, two women who understood what it was
to feel compelled.
‘When are you due?’
‘September.’
‘Harriet,’ she said and hugged me quickly. I felt the tiny bulge of my stomach press into her and I held her tightly.
I forced myself not to cry as I got in the driver’s seat. I heard her say something to my father but I couldn’t work out what, and I remembered that night in the kitchen before she started swimming again, when she had stood up for herself and the thing she needed most.
My parents stood in the doorway of my childhood home watching and waiting for us to leave, and if anyone had driven by they would have seen a normal family, waving goodbye. Only we knew that the unusual was secreted away in the recesses of our wardrobes, buried in the dirt at the end of the garden.
I had my hand on the clutch and I was ready to drive away but something made me stop. I felt I owed it to my mother after all these years to stand with her against my father’s ideas of what was right and what was wrong.
I got out and leaned across the roof of our car. ‘Remember,’ I said. ‘That we came to see.’
As we drove down the road, I looked over at Iris and put my hand on hers, squeezing it. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
When we arrived home it was dark and we were hungry and exhausted and while Iris busied herself cobbling something together for dinner, I potted the plant, hoping it would grow and carry on the tradition I decided the women in our family held dear.
My hands were covered in dirt and all I could see in the plant was my mother’s face as we pulled away that afternoon, wearing the same expression she wore when she looked at the sea.
John Asks
The girl behind the counter at the florist’s grinned as I collected the corsage.
‘Special day?’ she asked. She had that knowing excitement unique to women in certain situations that unnerved me. It was as though they were all connected through some invisible wiring, or tuned into a frequency that was unavailable to men, because in the right circumstances they knew precisely what to do, what to wear, and what would happen, whereas I felt like men – myself more than most – simply bumbled along as best we could, finding ourselves in confusing positions, unable to telegraph the most basic social graces. This, I had learned from my father, was one of the benefits of marriage.
