The Lido

by Libby Page

  Rosemary made daisy chains without realizing she was making them and chatted without really noticing what she was saying. He listened and practiced his handstands.

  He was better at handstands in the pool, but George was determined to master them on land too. He started with headstands, his head at the base of the tree as he kicked up, resting his legs on the trunk and watching the world upside down.

  “You have to see the world from this way round!” he said. She abandoned the string of wilted flowers in the grass and kicked herself into a headstand next to him. A young mother pushed a perambulator down a gray river that snaked through the park and birds swam in the sky.

  “You’ll be there? Won’t you?” he said as they parted.

  She never broke the rules and she was a little afraid of the dark.

  “Okay,” she said after a moment, “I’ll come.”

  At dinner that night she was restless. She wasn’t hungry but didn’t want her parents to suspect anything so she ate more than usual.

  “A healthy appetite for a girl,” her father said, as she shoveled another potato into her mouth. She helped her mother clear their plates and wash them at the sink. They stood next to each other, elbows almost touching as they tried to get a lather with the soap flakes, silence standing between them with an arm placed gently on each of their shoulders.

  Rosemary wanted to say something to her mother, to remind her of some happy memory or funny story to make her smile and say “Rosy” in a way that would make Rosemary feel like a little girl again. She couldn’t think of anything to make her mother laugh like that though. She could only think of the park gates in the darkness.

  After the table was cleared and the plates were stacked neatly in their shelves for the night, Rosemary kissed her father and mother and told them good night. They went to their chairs by the fire to listen to the wireless, and she disappeared to her bedroom to read.

  Except she couldn’t read, she could only brush her hair again and again and look out of the window waiting for the sun to go to bed so that she could leave hers.

  Her room went from golden to gray to dark as the light fell. In the darkness she changed into her nicest dress. The print was faded but still pretty—white flowers on a navy blue background. It had pockets she had sewn on to hide tears in the front, and a ribbon she had tied around the waist.

  As quietly as she could she pushed open her window. A warm breeze rustled the curtains. She gripped the window frame, swung up her legs, and stepped outside into the flower bed. It was good that they lived in a ground-floor flat. The heads of the flowers tickled her bare legs as she hopped across the border, leaving shoe prints in the dry soil.

  The sound of the wireless drifted along the street. Everyone’s windows were open that night, letting in the summer air. When she reached the park George was waiting for her, leaning against the gate with one knee up and a foot on the rails. His hair seemed combed for a change. Despite his stance he looked nervous, or at least she thought he did. But maybe that was just how she felt. When he spotted her he smiled. His smile was always a hello in itself; it was broad and open and extended directly to her like an open hand or a happy wave.

  “Come on then,” he said, putting his hands together in a cup shape and kneeling in front of her. She put her foot in his hands and reached for the railings, lifting herself up and onto the top of the fence as he stood up and took her weight.

  Once up, she swung her legs over and jumped down onto the other side. Her dress billowed as she jumped.

  “I hope you’re not looking at my knickers, George Peterson.”

  “I wouldn’t dare, Rosemary Phillis.”

  He scaled the fence in a spiderlike motion, leaping down and immediately taking her hand.

  They walked together into the park. The lights from the houses disappeared as they walked farther, but the moon was bright and George knew the way. Rosemary didn’t look back.

  He held her hand tightly as they made their way down the path, the trees creating patches of heavy dark and pale light.

  They usually talked about anything and everything, their voices like young birds. But not tonight. She listened to the sound of their footsteps and her racing heartbeat in her ears. She watched his face in profile as they walked. She recognized the shape of it even in the darkness. She had kissed every part of it, discovering what a man’s face tastes like with fascination.

  Soon they reached a darker shade of blackness, which as they approached became the brick walls of the swimming pool. There was an old tree whose lowest branches hung just above the lido wall on the far side. In the darkness it looked like a giant with open arms.

  Suddenly they were running down the bank toward the tree. They tripped on grassy bumps, loose blades sticking to their muddy knees like flour to sticky fingers.

  The tree looked taller once they were standing beneath it.

  “I don’t think I can,” she said.

  “Yes, we can,” he said.

  Again he helped lift her, this time to the first branch of the tree, which was damp with moss. Her fingernails sunk into the green flesh as she crawled along it, gripping tightly. For a moment she was afraid, but she was too embarrassed to ask to turn back. So she eased herself off the branch down the other side, face to the wall and feet flailing until they met the reassurance of a wooden picnic bench.

  She turned and hopped off the bench onto the deck of the pool.

  Everything was as quiet as a secret. The moon was high by now, bathing the enclosure in a silver light. A canvas cover was rolled over the surface of the water, looking in the darkness like a sheet of ice that could be skated over. At the far end of the decking she could make out the empty lifeguard’s chair, watching over the nighttime lido in silence. She could just make out the face of the clock and the coils of rope curled up on the decking underneath like a sleeping snake.

  There was a light thud and George was beside her, brushing his knees and rubbing his hands on his shorts.

  She stayed still, feeling her heart like a balloon that if cut loose would float out of her throat and into the sky.

  Without speaking she edged to the side of the pool and peeled back one corner of the cover that tucked away the water. A glimmer of silver winked. George walked to the other side and took the other corner; together they peeled back the cover until the pool was exposed, its surface perfect and fragile.

  They were on opposite sides of the pool now. In the dark it was hard to make out each other’s faces.

  Rosemary bent down and carefully untied the laces of her brogues. She placed them neatly next to her and rolled down her white socks. On the other side she saw the shadow that was George do the same.

  Then they both looked at each other, barefoot but clothed. And they jumped. Perhaps she jumped first, or perhaps he was a second ahead of her, but their splash was one exclamation mark of water.

  Under the surface she was a tangle of dress and hair. It was perfect night as though she had jumped down a hole into the dark and cold beneath the earth. She could make out movement on the other side of the pool—someone else was down the hole with her.

  She bobbed up to the surface like a cork. George was floating on his back with his toes poking out of the water. Shaking with golden torrents of laughter.

  She swam across to him, pulling the night through her fingertips. Then she twisted until she was floating too. The moon looked like a child had drawn it in the sky and the stars as though they had been hung there with pegs. She looked at the sky and imagined it watching her. It made her feel sad, and the sadness beat at her chest.

  Rosemary ducked underwater, washing her salty tears with chlorine ones. She swam a steady breaststroke for two lengths and then pulled herself out of the pool.

  George was still floating. He was quiet except for the splashing of his fingers as he dragged them through the water at his sides, making circles in the darkness.

  “Do you think I’ll be a somebody, Rosemary?”

 
She sat on the edge with her knees up to her chest, watching him and dripping.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think I’ll be someone important?” he said.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “The sky is so big when you look at it like this. It seems so important.”

  “I think you are important.”

  “So you think I’ll be someone then?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you will, I know it.”

  The concrete deck was gritty against her bare feet. Her hair dripped down her face and her heart battered her insides. Her stomach ached. She wanted to crawl inside his body and try it on for size, to feel what it would be like to be him, to be running through his blood and swimming in his brain. She couldn’t imagine wanting anything more.

  She could feel him smiling even though she couldn’t see him. He rolled onto his front and swam to the edge of the pool. As he climbed out he took her hand and pulled her up until they were standing on the side, wet arms tight around each other. She shook like a child as they kissed like grown-ups.

  No one tells a tiger to hunt, but still it growls. Her body growled as they kissed, exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues. There was a fire inside her, burning her up. She didn’t feel afraid of the dark anymore.

  They broke away from each other, the complex origami of their bodies unfolding just long enough for them to tug at their clothes.

  Undressing they felt like they were meeting for the first time. Two nervous, naked bodies stood opposite each other on the side of the pool.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  “You won’t.”

  They placed their wet clothes on the ground and lay down together, her warmth becoming his warmth and his warmth becoming her warmth. He kissed her cheeks and her eyelids and her mouth. The ground was hard and rubbed their skin, and they were all elbows and skinny knees and it hurt and she cried and her heart swelled and he held her tight and she felt alive and wild and swimming and falling.

  Losing her virginity didn’t feel like a loss. In the darkness they found each other and held on tight.

  When Rosemary arrived home she climbed quietly back through her bedroom window. She hung her dress on the back of her chair to dry and slipped into bed, pulling her pink daisy covers around her. As she fell asleep she thought of the moon watching her and wondered if she should feel ashamed, but then she remembered that it had probably seen it all before for thousands and thousands of years.

  CHAPTER 12

  That night, Kate phones Erin for the first time in weeks.

  “Hello, stranger,” Erin says as she picks up.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” replies Kate, sitting in the corner of her bed with her knees tucked up to her chin, “I’ve been busy.”

  “Too much partying?”

  “Something like that.”

  Kate can hear clattering in the background: she imagines Erin walking around her modern open-plan kitchen making dinner for her husband, Mark, the phone held to her ear with her shoulder. She pictures the gleaming work surfaces and the tidy living area behind with the spotless cream sofas. Perhaps Mark is pouring them both a glass of wine, passing it to Erin with a smile that says everything both of them ever need to know. When Kate thinks about Erin’s life—about her senior role at a PR company in Bath, her husband’s new business, and their friends who are wealthy and beautiful—she feels left behind, as though Erin has run off into the distance and Kate is left frozen on the starting line terrified by the sound of the gun marking the start of the race.

  “What have you been up to?” asks Kate, sitting down on her bed.

  “Well, I’m just back from a run—third one this week.”

  “Wow, that’s great—good for you.”

  “It keeps me sane.”

  “You seem pretty sane to me.”

  Erin laughs.

  “That’s because you don’t live with me. Mark might disagree. Work is exhausting, I can’t remember the last time I had a proper weekend, the flat needs repairs and God knows how much that’s going to cost, and we’re still not pregnant. I barely manage to put on clean clothes on some days. But I’m glad I look sane.”

  Kate doesn’t know what to say. She believes in her sister and her sister’s happiness like she believes in the strength of bricks to keep the wind and rain out of her house. Erin must be happy, for her own sake but also for the smooth and natural running of the world as Kate knows it. But what Erin is saying now—is this the first time she has hinted at a less than perfect life, or is it the first time Kate has listened? Kate doesn’t know what to say, so with shame caught in her mouth she says nothing.

  “But I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rant at you,” says Erin. “What about you—what’s going on with you?”

  Before she can even register the words coming out of her mouth, Kate says, “I’ve started swimming. At a lido. I’m writing an article about it.”

  “Wow,” says Erin. “A lido, that’s outdoors, right? Well, you’re braver than I am!”

  Curled up on her bed, the door firmly shut to avoid any interaction with her housemates, Kate wants to cry. Instead she stays silent.

  Erin pauses, too—the clattering in the kitchen stopping. For a moment the phone line carries nothing but the quiet sound of the two sisters’ breath.

  “Is everything okay with you, Kate?” Erin asks after a moment.

  Kate knows this is her opportunity to confide in her sister—the hand reaching out to her. But there is so much to say that somehow there is nothing to say.

  “I’m fine,” she replies brightly. “I better have some dinner now, though—talk again soon?”

  “Of course. You know where I am.”

  Once they’ve said goodbye and Kate has hung up, she shifts across to her desk and flips open her laptop, bringing up an internet tab. She turns instinctively to her door, checking that it’s closed, and then types into Google: “exercise and anxiety.” As the results come up she feels her heart rate quickening and a knotting in her stomach, like she’s looking up things she shouldn’t be on her parents’ laptop.

  “Swimming outdoors in cold water gives you a euphoria like nothing else,” says one article. “Whenever I feel low, I try to go for a swim outdoors. I always come out feeling better,” she reads.

  Kate closes her laptop and quietly gets ready for bed, thinking about her conversation with Erin. She thinks about crying in the department store and in the lido changing room. The truth is, she has no idea what can help her, but as she pulls the duvet tightly around herself she decides it is at least worth trying to make the lie she told her sister become the truth. Surely she can try just one more swim—and then she’ll see. Just one more swim, she thinks as she falls asleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  The next morning Ahmed, a tall young man in a Brockwell Lido fleece, sits behind the reception desk and smiles at the swimmers as they arrive. He has short hair that is spiked at the front, a shadow of a beard on his chin, and a pen behind his ear. In front of him is an open book. Ahmed reads his textbooks in between serving customers. He needs to get three Bs to get into university to study business. In his last practice exams he got two Cs and a D. He pretends that he doesn’t care about his grades but he does. He cares so much that sometimes he is scared of even trying in case his best efforts aren’t good enough.

  “Good morning,” he says cheerfully to the swimmers, some of the regulars stopping for a brief conversation. He watches them push through the turnstile and toward the changing rooms, checks no one else is on their way through the door, and focuses again on his book, his back to the perfect blue water outside.

  A few years ago he never bothered with schoolwork. He had fallen into a group of friends who would have teased him for it. It was his older brother, Tamil, who convinced him to change his ideas. Tamil had already left for university and one weekend when Ahmed was fifteen their parents finally relented and let him go and visit. Tamil took Ahmed to t
he student bar and ordered two pints. “Don’t tell Mum,” he’d said, sliding one of the pints across the table to Ahmed. Tamil had talked about how much he was enjoying his courses, living away from home, and his new sense of freedom. Every now and then someone would come into the bar and nod at Tamil. He raised a hand at them and smiled, but stayed with his brother.

  “You know, your friends aren’t really your friends,” Tamil had said suddenly. Ahmed had started to argue, but his brother interrupted.

  “I know you think they are now, but they just want you to be like them—pissing their lives away because they can’t be bothered to do anything else. If you keep on doing that, you’ll be stuck living at home forever. You won’t get to do any of this. Is that what you want?”

  Ahmed had looked sullenly into his pint glass, his gangly body hunched over as if he was a child and not a teenager close to becoming a man.

  “I’m only saying it because I love you.”

  At that Ahmed had looked up at his brother. He’d never heard him say that before. Tamil’s cheeks were flushed and he looked around him, perhaps checking if anyone had heard. He was clearly embarrassed but had said it anyway.

  “Okay,” said Ahmed. Because although he couldn’t say it, he realized his brother was right.

  “Can I have another pint?”

  “I’ll get you a half. But if you tell Mum, I’ll kill you.”

  Sometimes Ahmed’s old friends come into the lido reception and try and get him to join them smoking weed and drinking beers in the park after his shift. But whenever Geoff spots them, he comes out and asks them to leave if they’re not going to go for a swim or use the gym.