Underwater Breathing

by Parkin, Cassandra;

  Ella’s finger probed at the edge of the hole, then withdrew. “It looked like an eye, though. An eye looking at me.”

  “That’s your brain making things up. There wasn’t really an eye.”

  “Oh. Like there aren’t really burglars?”

  “Yes. No. Well, I mean, there are burglars, but probably not here.”

  “But there are. Because, that’s why Mummy can’t go out. In case some burglars get all our things.”

  “Nobody’s going to come and get our things.”

  “Yes, they are. Because, that’s why we have to stay in all the time. And keep the doors locked.”

  “We don’t stay in all the time.” Mrs Armitage could hear his impatience, the way his attention had already wandered away from his sister. “We’re out right now, aren’t we? Going to the beach. Come on, we’re getting left behind.”

  “There was an eye, Jacob, I saw it –”

  “I’ve finished listening to you now. Stop talking and start walking.”

  “That’s what Dad says.” The voices were receding now. One more peek through the knothole showed her Ella’s backpack, the plastic pink head of a creature that could have been meant for a horse protruding from its gaping mouth.

  “I said no talking.”

  “Ella and Jacob!” That must be their father, Richard. What did he do for a living? Something far enough away to need a car. Around here, that meant practically every job imaginable. “Keep up!”

  The children scurried after their parents.

  This brief sighting of her new neighbours had been interesting, but unimportant. Nothing to get excited about or to spend time mulling over. She was a busy woman with plenty to occupy her day: a house to tend, a garden to care for, a difficult and absorbing hobby. Books to read. Places to go. An absence of people to see, but that was her choice and she’d never regretted it. The family was nothing to do with her.

  Besides, she thought as she went to the shed and took down her wetsuit from its hanger, small children were given to odd remarks about their parents and hair-raising details about their apparent home lives. Jacob himself had dismissed it. There was an eye in the fence. We’re not allowed to go out. There was a unicorn in my cornflakes. (Of course, there really had been an eye in the fence. But still.) Her skin felt tight and uncomfortable, her scalp itchy with irritation. She was missing the hushing silence of water filling her ears, the thin stream of bubbles rising above her. She needed to clear her head.

  She packed her rucksack and set out. Her wetsuit would be hot and uncomfortable on the boat, making the water more welcoming. Her head buzzed unpleasantly, as if her innocent act of espionage had let a wasp into her brain and now it was banging its head against the windows, trying and trying to escape. The sooner she was in the water, the better. She climbed down the headland to the tiny concrete mooring where her boat waited for her.

  As she pushed the rowboat away from the rocks (water not too cold, waves not too choppy, the diving will be good today), she recalled Ella’s face the day she rescued them. The look of pure terror, barely mastered. A strange thing to see on such a young child.

  “Forget about it,” she said out loud. Normally talking to herself was forbidden, but today she would give herself permission. “Keep rowing. And forget it.”

  She climbed onto her motorboat and tied her rowboat up behind it and thought that the family would have been going to the beach where she’d taken the children – or rather, the beach where she’d left the children to wade through the water to. They’d build an enclave there, with their plastic bags and their plastic toys and their plastic cheerfulness. Probably they’d have a picnic. Sandwiches turned greasy in their foil cocoons, diluted juice made warm by the sun, the bottle-rim crusted with sand. A picnic with children was supposed to be one of the greatest pleasures the world held, but she couldn’t imagine why.

  The way out to her favourite diving site was a straight steady course to sea, and then around to port and in towards the coast where the rocks gathered like sharks. But for some reason her boat wasn’t co-operating today. No matter how many times she corrected her course, still it stubbornly pulled around to starboard, towards the sand that was now as crowded as it would be all summer (which meant not very crowded at all, but nonetheless meant more people than she wanted to see ever, never mind stripped to their white-and-scarlet skins, awkwardly cavorting with frisbees and footballs). The place where Ella would be.

  I’m going diving. That’s why I’ve got my wetsuit ready and my boat loaded with gear. I’m going beneath the water where it’s cool and dark and nobody will speak to me or even look at me or even know I exist. That’s where I’m going. She thought this as severely as she could, but still the beach grew closer.

  “Oh, have it your way,” she said crossly, and let the boat take her where it wanted. Sometimes you had to accept the will of the universe.

  She moored her motorboat as close to shore as she dared, and dropped the anchor. She packed her wetsuit and flippers behind the diving gear. She clambered into the little rowing boat that followed her like a straggling child. She took hold of the oars.

  After all, they might not even be here. Or she might be unable to find them. Or they might recognise her and welcome her over, in which case she would – well, what would she do? How rude was she willing to be? Could she simply ignore them and go back to her boat? How much did she care what they thought of her? Normally the sea cleared her head of anything she didn’t want to dwell on, but today, the silence refused to come. We have to have the doors locked all the time. Mummy can’t go out.

  She reached the beach, grimly accepting the faint flicker of interest from the children whose parents pointed her out (see those long pieces of wood those are called oars see how she’s pulling her boat right up the beach that’s because of the tide no you can’t play in her boat no you can’t ask her for a ride no we can’t afford a boat shall we go and get an ice-cream?). The children all looked bored. The beach looked golden enough, but the sand ran out a couple of centimetres below the surface, replaced with a thick layer of cold wet shale that was useless for digging, useless for building. Some had tried anyway, harvesting sand in long careful scrapes to build castles that were already drying and crumbling in the sunshine. Wandering as slowly and aimlessly as she could, she scanned the beach with long careful glances.

  They were sitting apart from the thin crowd, tucked into a sandy gully between two long fingers of muddy cliff. Jacob was making a careful meditative ring of tiny stones, all gathered from beneath the sand he could reach with his fingertips. As she watched, Ella trotted into his line of vision and held out a bucket. He shook his head and sent her away. She began scraping at the sand, slowly filling the bucket and packing it down after each spadeful. The woman, Maggie, sat with her hands wrapped around her knees, her face turned towards the water; her man sat with his back against the rocks, watching his wife. It was hard to blame him. Even from this distance, Mrs Armitage could see the long slim pale shape of her, the halo of flaxen hair.

  The cliff-path dipped down to the sand and then back up again, rising with the swell of the land. At the point where the family were sitting, she would be no more than twenty feet above their heads. If they looked up, they might see her; but people rarely looked up. She allowed her feet to turn slightly to the right, taking her towards the spot where a brief slope of concrete provided the illusion of permanence and led up to the coastal path. Today was a day for water, not land. A patch of sweat bloomed between her shoulder blades and her face felt too big for the bones beneath it. She wished she’d brought supplies with her, water and food and a hat, instead of leaving everything on the boat.

  Hot and uncomfortable, she climbed the slope and trod gingerly along the path, conscious that the land was not her natural element and she’d formed no accommodation with this particular patch of it through long years of occupation. She settled as close to the edge as she dared, alert for the hiss and rattle of falling earth. It took her
several moments to pick out the rising sound of conversation.

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.” Paradoxically, Maggie sounded like the child she said she wasn’t: her voice petulant and pleading, the voice of someone without power who was used to being told what to do. “I hate it when you patronise me.”

  “I’m not patronising you. Don’t be prickly.”

  A brief silence. Were they sulking? Sleeping? Kissing? People often said they could “hear” the quality of a particular silence, but what they were really hearing was the language of the body. Bereft of sight, a silence was just empty space. She considered wriggling closer, trying for a glance, looked at the raw edge where no green shoots grew, decided against it.

  “You taste of whiskey,” said the woman at last. (Kissing, then, thought Mrs Armitage.)

  “It’s the weekend. I’m allowed.”

  “I don’t know how you can stand it before lunch. Did you bring a hipflask?”

  “I did actually. Do you want some?”

  “Not right now. If I was prickly all over would you still love me?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Are you sure?” There was laughter bubbling in her throat. “I’d be so sharp and dangerous you’d never get near me.”

  “Yes I would. Hedgehogs manage. And porcupines.”

  “How do they do it? Do they do it in the missionary position?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Hedgehog missionaries.” Maggie laughed. “I wonder how good their conversion rates are. Maybe they wear suits and give out magazines. Porcupines are American, aren’t they? So they’d be more like the ones who shout about Hell. I wonder which kind God prefers?”

  “You’re talking rubbish again,” said Richard, unwittingly earning Mrs Armitage’s approval.

  “Well, what do you expect? I don’t get any conversation while you’re at work, when you come home you’re tired. And of course I’ve got nothing to talk about except bloody hedgehogs and porcupines. I’m in that house all day, every day…”

  “That’s what we agreed. Remember? I go to work. You look after Ella.”

  “She could go to school. Then I could get a job too.”

  “And who’d take her and collect her? And there aren’t any jobs round here.”

  “How do you know there aren’t any jobs? It wouldn’t have to be anything amazing, I could work in the shop during school hours. Or I could work at the school.”

  “Maggie.” He must have used the pause to calm himself, because his voice when he spoke again was softer. “That’s not what we agreed.”

  “We could change what we agreed.”

  “No we couldn’t.”

  “Why?” That little-girl pleading note again, as if she knew she couldn’t win. Had Maggie always been so spineless? Or was it a skill she’d had to learn?

  “You know why.”

  “Did Jacob’s mum go out to work? Or was she a burden?”

  “You’re not a burden, please don’t say that, you’ve never been a burden. I love you more than anything.”

  “But did she?”

  “Well, for a while she – look, why does it matter what she did? It was years before I met you.”

  So Jacob and Ella were half-siblings. Another silence below. On the cliff-top, the cool breeze lifted the sweaty t-shirt from Mrs Armitage’s back, caressing her spine with gentle fingers.

  “It’s just I get bored sometimes,” Maggie said, all in a rush as if she was afraid of being interrupted, or as if she was breaking a taboo.

  “How can you be bored? You’ve got Ella, you’ve got your writing. We chose this place because it’s quiet. End of the world and turn right, remember?”

  “I know, I know! Here I am, all shut away safely where no one can get to me. I feel like Rapunzel sometimes. She was shut away in a tower, wasn’t she? But the man found her in the end.”

  “Give it a chance. We’ll be happy here, I promise.”

  “How can you promise, Richard? You don’t control the world. Only me.”

  “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I don’t control you, I protect you.”

  “That’s what Rapunzel was about. Keeping women under control. She wasn’t allowed to go out, or to talk to anybody, the witch brought her food every day. I wonder if she used to drug her? The witch, I mean. Drugged Rapunzel. Otherwise she’d have gone mad, wouldn’t she? All on her own with nothing to do and no one to talk to.”

  “Maggie.” There was, Mrs Armitage thought, such tender-ness in his voice. “I’m sorry I can’t make your life perfect. But it’s good, isn’t it? We’ve got the sea. We’ve got the garden. No noisy neighbours to worry about. And you’ve been sleeping much better. Haven’t you? Maggie? Have you been dreaming again?”

  “No. Well, not really.”

  “Maggie.”

  “Why do you care anyway? Everyone dreams.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Dreams are private.”

  “I need to know what’s going on in your head. We can’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “It was about the sea. We were swimming naked together.”

  “Don’t lie to me, love.”

  “I’m not lying, why would I lie? We were swimming naked. It was lovely. I’d love to make that dream come true. If we were selkies, we could turn into seals and nobody would ever find us. Only we’d have to hide our skins really well when we came to shore or we’d be stuck in our human form for always. Do you think the kids know about selkies? Let’s tell them and then take them paddling.”

  “But I need you to tell me –”

  “Later!” Maggie’s voice was on the move now, and a moment later she came into view, half-dancing backwards across the thin sand, beckoning. “Come on! Let’s have some fun. Kids!” She waved impatiently. “Come on! Let’s have some fun!” Mrs Armitage couldn’t see the children or Richard, but perhaps they were resisting, because she beckoned again. “Fun! In the sun! Time to run!”

  She looked powerful now, Mrs Armitage thought, power-ful and confident and in control, her husband and children dragged helplessly after her towards the water. And yet a moment ago she had been pleading with her husband to leave her the minimal privacy of her dreams. Which was the real Maggie? Which was the real Richard?

  They made their way down to the sea: Maggie in the lead, Jacob and Ella at the back, Richard a bridge connecting the two halves of his family. Once she was sure they weren’t watching, Mrs Armitage came down from the cliff and inspected their belongings. The greasy remains of the picnic she’d expected, and a tangle of shed clothes, with a gleam of silver peeking coyly from Richard’s jeans. She thought about stealing the hipflask as a trophy, but Maggie had mentioned whiskey and she herself preferred rum. In the spot where Ella had solemnly played under Jacob’s fitful instruction, a single sand pie sat in a ring of white stones.

  The family were wading through the shallows, two and two, both holding hands. Maggie fair and lovely in her sheer white shirt and frayed cut-off jeans. Richard in her wake, not nearly so good-looking but providing a necessary balance for his wife’s effortless beauty. Jacob and Ella like unformed echoes of their parents, Jacob holding Ella’s small hand with a reluctant tenderness. They looked like a family from a holiday brochure. So beautiful that you were compelled to imagine dark secrets, a counterbalance to their seeming perfection.

  Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she’d simply willed the dark undertones to their conversation into existence. Perhaps they really were as happy as they looked.

  Her rowboat waited, a patient old friend. A man with two children was pointing out the eyes painted on the prow. It would be polite to let him finish speaking before she took the boat away, perhaps exchange a friendly word. There was a distinct pleasure in being rude instead, dragging the boat down the beach in fierce silence. She was aware of the twitch and mutter of the father, the bewildered fluting of the two children. Their discomfort was sharp and good in her mouth.

  Ma
king her way past the breakers, she saw the family strung out in a line across the water. They were jumping each wave as it came in, leaping in unison like puppets. She climbed into her boat and took up the oars and wondered what pleasure they took from it.

  As she began the swift steady pull back to her motorboat, aware of the tide tugging against her, her eyes dwelled on Ella, watching the movements of her expressive little face. Startled recognition. The thought that she could tell her mother who she’d seen: an equally quick decision to keep it to herself. She glanced towards her mother and father to be sure they weren’t looking, then gave Mrs Armitage a very small wave.

  Unable to stop herself, Mrs Armitage waved back.

  Chapter Five

  Now

  In the exhausted dreamless stillness of the third hour after midnight, Jacob was woken by the sound of shuffling foot-steps in the corridor outside his door.

  He was awake instantly, lurching out of bed and halfway across the room before he’d consciously processed what it was that had woken him. He opened the door cautiously, not wanting to frighten his father. His dad had a habit of filling his empty days with the collection of household objects that could be used as improvised weapons, and stashing them around the house. Jacob did his best to keep on top of them, but it was impossible to find them all, or to deduce that this time his father had stashed the garden spade, not beneath his bed as he usually did, but in the corner of the airing cupboard.

  “Dad?” Jacob knocked on the inside of his door, feeling absurd but knowing this was necessary for his own safety. “Dad? It’s just me.”

  “Jacob.” His father sounded grimly determined. Jacob’s heart sank. “Jacob, get back into bed. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “But what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Back to bed.”

  Jacob risked opening his door a fraction anyway. In the dim light, left on all night so no one would break their necks as they roamed the house, his father stood his ground with hair on end and a long shard of fence-post clutched tightly in both hands like a sword.