by Jeremy Page
But while he looks there, far away where the water seems to thicken with shadow, he sees something entirely strange and confusing. A stubborn shape, darker and more impenetrable than the water that surrounds it, moving slowly towards him. He looks hard in the attempt to define it and as he does so it vanishes, or fades, into the wider gloom of the ocean. He stays, trying not to move, looking all around. There is nothing. But a sense remains that he’s no longer entirely alone.
The basking shark takes shape again, solid among the shadows, swimming with an effortless side-to-side motion towards him. Its mouth hangs open, enormously, as it filters the plankton, and as he looks into the jaw he can see how the giant fish is ridged from within, like a Zeppelin model, with a structure that seems to be both inflated and solid, its mouth suggesting an open tent-like interior, but a darkness inside which is nothing but flesh, so dark in fact, that it appears to come from a tunnel longer than the length of the shark would allow.
It swims closer now, mottled like a gherkin, coming at him with an easy rhythm, and he makes out its eyes, set either side of the nose like a pince-nez, but as unreflective as a cut of black flint, and when it passes, close by, he sees the rows of gills that strangely turn the shark into a watery soft shape at the front, as if it’s rippling - giving it a sense of illusion, that it’s not really there.
The basking shark has passed a few feet away from Guy, never once deviating from its route, although it must have seen the man looking so closely, so full of amazement. He turns to watch it leave, its long asymmetrical tail waving effortlessly, its tip feathering the surface of the sea like the tip of an oar. Nothing to steer it, no direction for it to go, except on, into the ocean, into the blue distance that seems to collect round it and remove it from view, in parts, in totality.
He lies on his back to stare up at the sky, once more feeling that he’s on that taut line of nothingness, above nothing, below nothing, then he begins to swim back, rounding the rocks, towards Marta. He sees her standing in the cove, knee-deep in the water, the colourful sarong tied round her waist, such a small object in all this hugeness.
To reach her he wades through the water for the last few steps. She holds out her hand and he takes it and he doesn’t let it go. They embrace each other, an intimacy in all this space. Home at last. And he sees, on the ridge of her shoulder, a perfectly formed bead of water on her skin. It trembles and glistens with the sun caught inside. He smiles affectionately at it, at the memories it brings back to him, not of pain and loss, but of love. The whole world in there, if you look close enough. And he brings his hand up towards it, choosing a finger, choosing a different finger, watching the sparkle of light go out as the shadow of his hand approaches. Then he touches it, marvelling at the fragility of the curving strand between his finger and the drop of water and, a moment later, it has vanished.
In loving memory of Kate Jones
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Kate Barker and the editorial team at Viking, and to Karolina Sutton, for all her hard work. Thanks also to Kathryn Court, Alexis Washam and Sloan Harris. I am indebted to my family, especially to my mother, for her ceaseless energy and spirit, my father, and to Andrew, for his guidance. Thanks also to Juliette Howell, James Clatworthy, Barley Norton, Laura Sampson and Cormac McCarthy. For the boat, thanks to Dominique Rivoal, the Corlea, the Vriendschap, and all the boats of the Fresh Wharf Creek. Also to Neil Trevithick, the Flood, the Anna-Gale and the Albatross. Apologies to the Janet, for crashing you into the bridge, and bless the Misty, which was lost in the North Sea.
Thanks to the shed, where this book was written.
Thank you Liz, for your love and wisdom, as always, and for driving across America with me.
And to my children, Jacob and Barley, for bringing such happiness.
