‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Rad.
‘Frances, stop him,’ I said. But she hesitated, and in that second’s pause Nicky jumped.
The three of us watched in horror as he plummeted towards the water, his legs kicking slightly, as if he was already regretting it. He disappeared beneath the surface as if sucked under, and everything seemed to stop – the traffic on the bridge, the boats on the river, the people on the embankment below, as if time itself was holding its breath, and then, perhaps four seconds later, Nicky popped up like a cork some twenty yards from his point of entry, struggling vainly against the incoming tide that was pulling him upstream and out into the middle of the river. The teddy bear was well on its way to Westminster Bridge by now, and quite unreachable.
‘Oh God, he’s going to drown. Rad, you’ll have to go in after him,’ said Frances hysterically. Rad didn’t move.
‘No don’t,’ I said. ‘Look.’ Below us a police launch was chugging into view. It swung round towards Nicky, its wake tracing a milky circle around his thrashing figure. The current was so strong that each time the boat attempted to come alongside him Nicky would be swept further out of reach. By this time we had been joined on the bridge by a small group of spectators, hopeful of witnessing a successful suicide attempt. A murmur of anxiety, or was it excitement?, ran through the crowd each time the launch failed to pick him up. It took several circuits before one of the boatmen could get close enough to fling out a lifebelt on a line, and Nicky was hauled in. He stood, round shouldered and dripping, in the bow of the boat as it disappeared under Westminster Bridge.
‘If he’d drowned that would have been your fault, Frances,’ Rad said severely.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, red-faced with guilt and anger.
‘You could have stopped him but you didn’t.’
‘You could have jumped in after him but you didn’t.’ They faced each other, glaring. It was the first time I’d ever seen them in a confrontation. The few bystanders, cheated of tragedy by the efficiency of the river police, turned towards Frances in anticipation of fresh drama.
‘All right, calm down,’ Rad muttered. ‘There’s no point in standing here in the rain arguing.’
‘Where do you think they’ll take Nicky?’ I asked. ‘To Saint Thomas’s? He’ll probably need his stomach pumped if he’s swallowed any of that water.’
‘They’re more likely to have taken him down to the cells for making a nuisance of himself.’
‘They wouldn’t be able to charge him with anything, would they?’ asked Frances.
‘Dunno,’ said Rad. ‘Breach of the peace?’
‘Dropping litter?’ I suggested. Frances started to giggle, her familiar madwoman’s cackle, which set us off, and I don’t know whether it was just a release of tension, but the three of us were soon crying with laughter. We were still gasping when we reached the underpass, where we stopped on the kerb to cross just as a black taxi hit the only pot-hole on the bridge, sending up a filthy sheet of water which left an arc of oily spray on Nicky’s new jacket.
It emerged later that Nicky had been taken to the police station – ‘for a change of clothes and a bollocking’ as he reported it. His rescuers had gone on to pick up the bear as well, not as a favour to Nicky, but in a spirit of tidiness, and he was able to present it to Frances when he finally caught up with us back at his halls.
‘Sponge clean only,’ said Frances, reading the label, as she squeezed the waterlogged teddy over the sink. ‘Do not soak.’ Now violently attached to it, she took it home in a plastic bag and sat it on her radiator, where it took two days to dry out, lost its shine and its squeak, and gave off a powerful smell of drains.
28
Frances’ way of atoning for the reckless endangerment of Nicky was to visit a seedy parlour in a side-street in Streatham which specialised in tattoos, body-piercing and other forms of mutilation, and to return indelibly marked behind one shoulder with a green letter N entwined with a bunch of grapes.
She showed this off to me while it was still fresh – raised, puffy and sore-looking – but kept it hidden under a plaster when changing for netball or hockey at school. She had known better than to take me with her on this mission.
‘I thought you had to be over eighteen to have a tattoo,’ I said, trying to disguise my revulsion – after all she was stuck with it now.
‘The guy did ask, and I said, “Why, don’t I look eighteen?” and he just laughed. I didn’t even have to lie.’
‘That must have been a great comfort to you,’ I said, and she pulled a face. ‘What does Nicky think of it?’
‘Well, he was pretty shocked at first, but now he’s flattered.’ The truth was his principal feeling was one of dread that he might be expected to reciprocate, and then relief when it became clear that this wouldn’t be necessary. ‘Have you shown your mum and dad.’
She shook her head. ‘They’re broadminded,’ she said, bravely. ‘They won’t mind.’ All the same, I noticed she didn’t make a point of displaying her bare shoulders. She was finally caught out one afternoon when Lexi came into the bathroom while I was helping Frances wash henna wax out of her hair. The henna hadn’t made much impression on her black curls, but the bath was running with red as though she’d slit her throat.
‘Oh my God,’ said Lexi, looking at the bloody splashes across the tiles. ‘I thought you’d injured yourself.’
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the tattoo, right there next to Frances’ bra strap. How could Lexi miss it? Before I could throw a towel round Frances’ shoulders, Lexi had pounced. ‘Oh, that’s not a … Oh, you haven’t … Oh, you stupid girl.’
Frances, somewhat disabled by having her head upside down in the bath, struggled to her feet, flicking her wet hair back, spraying us and the wall with orange droplets. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, then realised. ‘Oh.’ Her fingers strayed to her shoulder. ‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked, fatally misjudging the mood of the moment.
‘Like it? Are you mad?’
Mr Radley, hearing the commotion, poked his head around the bathroom door. ‘Who’s mad?’
‘Look what she’s done. Turn round, Frances.’
Mr Radley laughed – his usual response to any sign of delinquency on Frances’ part – not out of tolerance or good humour, but because there is a certain melancholy pleasure in having one’s low expectations confirmed.
‘Do you realise what that lovely plump bunch of grapes will look like in fifty years’ time? A pile of raisins. Very alluring,’ he said.
‘Honestly Frances, I think I’d have preferred it if you’d gone off and married him. At least that’s reversible,’ said Lexi.
‘It won’t last for ever,’ said Frances. ‘The guy in the shop said it was only semi-permanent.’
‘Semi-permanent,’ said Mr Radley. ‘Now that’s an interesting expression.’
‘A semi-permanent tattoo!’ said Lexi. ‘He said that, did he?’
‘Well, not in so many words,’ Frances conceded. ‘I said, “This is for ever, isn’t it?” and he said, “Nothing lasts for ever, darling.”’
I caught Mr Radley’s eye at this point and the two of us burst out laughing, taking some of the heat out of the confrontation. This set Frances off, too. Only Lexi remained straight-faced. I’d noticed before that she didn’t have much of a sense of humour: if someone made a witty remark she would wait for it to pass, like a fit of sneezing, before resuming whatever it was she had been trying to say. This was one of the few things she had in common with my mother.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a ring through the nose next,’ said Lexi, recognising that the argument had run its course.
‘They did nipples for five pounds each if you’re interested,’ said Frances, a wicked look in her eye. ‘A tenner for three.’
‘Three?’ echoed Lexi, as our laughter rang round the tiled walls.
29
In his first long summer vacation Rad took a job in a bakery, hefting red-hot trays of
loaves in and out of ovens. He would return home at nine in the morning, exhausted, with flour in his hair and eyebrows and weals on his hands. He didn’t need the money – in fact he had already saved enough from his grant to buy a second-hand car – but he had some odd notion, inherited from his father perhaps, about the nobility of manual labour. His knack of living on almost nothing was a source of concern to family and friends.
‘I’m worried about Rad,’ I heard Lexi telling Clarissa over the phone. ‘He seems to be saving out of his grant. What can he be doing up there?’ This was unusual because Lexi never worried, on principle.
Nicky, who managed to be in debt almost before term started, and who had to be bailed out regularly by Obs and Solic, was disgusted. ‘It’s people like you who give students a bad name. The government will never put grants up if it gets out that someone can actually manage.’
‘There’s nothing I need to buy,’ Rad protested. He was wearing ripped jeans which he had attempted to patch up with black insulating tape, and Frances’ old P.E. shirt which had ‘Greenhurst School for Girls’ embroidered across the chest and her netball, tennis and swimming colours down one sleeve.
Only Mr Radley appeared to welcome this state of affairs. ‘I think it’s very encouraging that he has a responsible attitude towards money. Er, Rad, you don’t happen to have any on you, do you?’
‘I must be the only student who comes home for the weekend and ends up giving his father money,’ Rad grumbled, reaching for his wallet.
In Rad’s defence it must be said that he hadn’t saved quite enough to buy a good car. It was a tinny Citroën 2CV, reliable only in the respect that its unreliability could be depended upon, and therefore precautions were taken. Nevertheless it was treated by Nicky, Frances and myself as an object of veneration since it offered us the prospect of day trips to the coast, picnics in the country and broadened horizons. In truth we spent as much time sitting in the car awaiting the RAC recovery vehicle as enlarging our horizons, and still more time dithering over where to go. Our deliberations were marked by a lack of leadership: no one wanted to be held responsible for nominating a venue which would turn out to be a dud. Invariably by the time a decision was made half the day would have elapsed.
One Sunday in July Nicky, Frances and I were lying on the living-room floor looking at an Ordnance Survey map of Surrey, hoping to have fixed on a destination by the time Rad came in from work. Although it was early it was already hot, and Growth kept sidling over to find a cooler spot and flopping on his stomach, panting, in the middle of the North Downs. Lexi’s recommendation of Kew Gardens had already met with derision.
‘What is Kew Gardens exactly?’ Frances had wanted to know.
‘It’s a botanical gardens.’
‘What is there to do there?’
‘It’s a botanical gardens,’ said Lexi patiently. ‘You go there to look at the plants. There’s an Azalea garden and a tropical palm house and a lovely rose pergola …’ Frances gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘Hmm, you’re probably too young to appreciate it,’ Lexi acknowledged, knowing this would rile Frances.
‘What about Shere?’ suggested Nicky, pushing Growth, who gave a growl.
‘Been there,’ said Frances, heaving herself up to open the windows. I watched her move a dead cactus out of the way so she could kneel on the sill, and then carefully replace it.
‘What about the sea – Hastings or somewhere?’
‘Too far.’
‘Box Hill?’
‘It’s just a hill,’ said Frances. ‘Oh, look, that’s a nice name. Half Moon Street.’ She planted a stubby finger on the map.
‘I know that place. I’ve been there,’ I said. Suddenly it was before me as clearly as a remembered dream: that day out with father, the pub, the lake, turquoise sky, apple-green leaves, the cottage, mud, my ruined sandals. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Well, let’s go there, then,’ said Nicky, after I had described it to them. ‘It wouldn’t take more than an hour.’
‘Settled,’ said Frances.
When Rad came back and was happy to fall in with the plan I rang father to check that the Half Moon Street on the map was the same place I had in mind.
He had been in the garden installing Granny in a deck-chair under the magnolia and was puffing slightly as he picked up the phone. I could picture him, hot and flustered, in his jacket and tie. My question took him by surprise and it was a while before he answered. ‘Did I take you there? … Good heavens, fancy your remembering a thing like that … Yes, it’s not far from Dorking.’
‘Was there a pub near by?’
‘That’s right. Half a mile back down the lane, where you leave the car.’
‘It’s probably not even there any more.’
‘Well, you should never revisit childhood haunts – they always disappoint.’ He wished us a happy day and then excused himself. He was not keen on the telephone and I could always sense his agitation to cut things short. ‘I’d better go and check your grandmother. I left her in that deck-chair that snaps shut like a clam.’
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Church. Cleaning the brasses. Do you think it’s too late for me to take up religion?’
‘Yes.’
My memories hadn’t let me down. The pub was still there and Rad, flush with a week’s bread money, treated us to lunch. We sat in the garden eating peanuts and dodging wasps while a girl in a greasy apron turned our steaks on a spitting barbecue. Afterwards I led them down the sunken lane to the lake with a proprietorial air. Within the tunnel of trees it was cool, dark and silent, like the interior of a cathedral. An occasional spear of light shot through a chink in the leaves, and as we turned the corner the sunlight burst off the surface of the water, making us cover our eyes.
The cottage was still there, though uninhabited and boarded up, and the garden overgrown with dandelions and nettles. At the water’s edge a warped and flaking boat drifted back and forth on its leash, causing only the faintest tremor in the reflection of the treetops and sky. The NO BOATING NO FISHING NO SWIMMING sign was still tacked to a stake in the water.
‘I told you,’ I said, nudging Frances. She had been keen to swim and insisted on bringing swimsuits and towels in spite of my warning. Rad had been obliged to dig out a spare pair of trunks for Nicky, while Frances offered me her second best bikini.
‘I hope these aren’t held together with insulating tape,’ was Nicky’s comment.
On the opposite shore a couple were walking hand in hand. The man was wearing a backpack in which a baby perched, swaying, a knotted hanky on its head. Every few seconds its little hand would reach up and drag the hanky down over its face and it would cry until the woman straightened it up again, and the whole performance would be repeated. Someone was taking a setter for a walk in the woods just beyond them. The dog kept bounding out between the trees and shivering to a halt at the water’s edge before tearing back again. On our side two girls were lying on their stomachs on the grass asleep, or just sunbathing. The walk had been enough to deter other visitors.
‘I thought you said it was a lake,’ said Frances, when we had arranged ourselves on a dry patch of grass. ‘This is more like a pond.’
‘I was only six when I was last here,’ I said. ‘Everything looked bigger then.’
Rad had brought a book – Narziss and Goldmund – and was lying on his back reading. Frances and Nicky were playing poker. I didn’t know the rules and couldn’t be bothered to learn, so I made daisy chains for a while and then lay down with my eyes shut and watched the red and yellow lights swim beneath my eyelids.
‘Typical bloody Rad,’ I heard Frances say a moment later. Rad carried on reading. ‘You’re so anti-social.’
‘What’s anti-social about reading?’ he said, without looking up from the page. ‘What would you like me to do? Morris dancing?’
‘You could talk to Abigail. She brought us here, and she’s bored.’
Rad sighed and put down his book. ‘What do you want to
talk about, Abigail?’
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s Frances who finds silence unnerving, not me.’ This was quite true. During our O-level exams the previous year I used to call round at the Radleys’ house to be told that Frances was upstairs revising, and find her lying amongst her books, singing along to the radio. ‘I can only work with music on,’ was her excuse. ‘Silence distracts me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rad, rolling on to his front and finding his place again. Watching him covertly I could see that he was not reading properly – the pages were not turning fast enough – and when Nicky brought up the subject of their forthcoming holiday he was happy to be distracted. They were intending to travel around Europe at the beginning of September, ‘when the kids are back at school.’
‘I wish you’d go earlier,’ grumbled Frances. ‘Then this kid could go with you.’
‘You can’t come,’ said Nicky, ruffling her hair in a patronising manner. ‘We’re going to be sleeping on stations, scavenging for food, living on our wits.’
‘That wouldn’t bother me. Do I look like someone who needs pampering?’ Nicky had to concede that she could probably scavenge with the best of them.
‘Your mum and dad wouldn’t let you come anyway,’ he said.
‘Mum wouldn’t mind – she thinks you and Rad would look after me.’
‘Don’t know why she thinks that,’ said Rad.
‘It’s Dad who’s being difficult.’
The itinerary was still in dispute. Nicky favoured the Greek islands; Rad wanted to go to Berlin.
‘We’ve got to spend a few days crashing out on a beach somewhere hot.’
‘We’ve got to get behind the Iron Curtain.’
‘We don’t want to spend the whole holiday on trains.’
‘We want to cover as much ground as possible.’
The only point on which they seemed to be in agreement was a determination to avoid Switzerland at all costs. ‘Too expensive,’ said Nicky.
Learning to Swim Page 20
