Underwater Breathing

by Parkin, Cassandra;

  “I said,” he hissed to Jacob through gritted teeth, “get back into your room. There’s someone in the house.”

  “Dad.” He knew it was futile and arguing would only turn his father’s distrust towards himself, but he couldn’t keep quiet. “There’s no one in the house, there’s no way they could get in. I locked everything up when we went to bed, I promise.”

  “You didn’t do a good enough job then, did you?” His father stared wildly around. “There! Did you hear that? Someone’s trying the front door, I can hear them –”

  “How about we go and look together?”

  “You’re not coming with me, my lad. It’s my job to look after you.”

  “But Dad, I’m –” he stopped himself. There was no point in trying to explain to his father the growing gulf of years that yawned between Jacob as he was now, and the teenager his father still remembered. He needed a different approach. He was so damn tired, that was the problem. Couldn’t his father have waited just one night, just until the worst of the exhaustion had left his body?

  “But what if you’re not here? I need to learn what to do.” He could see his father half-liked this idea; the spar of fence-post wavered in his hand. “Let me come with you, Dad, please.”

  “You keep behind me and do what I say.”

  “All right.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Like a pair of cartoon robbers, they crept along the cor-ridor, peering behind doors and checking corners. Only the door to Ella’s room, still sheltering the clothes she’d once fitted into and the bed she’d once climbed out of and the toys that waited in rows for her return, was left unsearched and untouched. What did his father see when his blank eager gaze strayed over that sealed-off space? Did he remember, somewhere in the long corridors of his memory, that he’d once had a daughter? Did he understand how she’d been taken from him?

  “There’s no one up here,” Jacob said when they had finally, painfully, crept over every part of the upstairs floor. “Maybe we should go back to bed –”

  His father’s sudden blow caught the tender edge of his ear, sending up a blaze of red sparks that made his eyes water. While he was still recovering from that, another blow, smashing against his ribs. He fought back a whimper and made himself breathe slowly and steadily.

  “Be quiet!” His father hissed. “He’ll hear you! He’s down-stairs. I can hear him moving around. Listen.”

  In spite of himself, Jacob found himself holding his breath and straining his hearing. But the only sounds that came to him were the creak and murmur of the house settling on its unstable clay foundations.

  “I’ll check downstairs,” his dad said. “Go back to bed, son. I’ll handle it.”

  Jacob’s whole body ached for sleep. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his room and fall onto the sheets and let his exhaustion take him.

  “No, I’ll come too.”

  His father’s smile was warm and real and almost worth it.

  “You’re a good lad.”

  Together they crept down the narrow back staircase, his father wincing and freezing with every creak and crack of the ancient wood. His father eased open the door to the kitchen, his back and shoulders rigid. The sudden click and buzz of the fridge sent his father surging into the room, his wooden post held high and triumphant; but there was nothing, nothing, nothing at all no matter how hard he stared into the pantry, and eventually he came back out again and began to creep towards the living-room, his face scared but determined. Jacob, watching, thought he could feel his heart coming apart in his chest.

  “Ha!” The sudden syllable made Jacob grunt with fright. “I’ve got you! Got you, you utter bastard!”

  “Dad! Dad, don’t, please, don’t – !” He was through the door in a moment, staring wildly around. What had his father seen this time? Was it even possible that there might actually be…

  “Keep back, Jacob!” His father pushed at Jacob with one arm. “He’s got a baseball bat! Now come on, mate, you know I’m going to win this one, just tell me how you got in and –”

  And for a single wild moment Jacob saw what his father saw: a threatening man, eyes blazing with fathomless rage, weapon held ready to strike. It was only when his father took a step towards their attacker and he saw the movement reflected that he understood.

  “Dad, it’s your reflection. See? It’s just you, in the window.” He patted gently at his father’s shoulder. “Can you see my hand on your shoulder?”

  “Is that really – ?” His father held up a hand, waved at his attacker. The stranger in the window waved back. “But, my God, Jacob, what happened to me? I look so old. That can’t be me, can it? Jacob, what the fuck’s happening?”

  “Let’s shut the curtains. Keep the warmth in.” Make sure all the curtains are shut. Another job for the never-ending list of bloody jobs. He took the stick from his father’s hand and hid it as well as he could behind the sofa. “Shall we get some hot milk or something?”

  “But I look so old… Have I been ill? I can’t remember… I wish I could…” his father stared at him in bewilderment. “What was I talking about? I can’t quite remember what I was talking about… Were we looking for someone?”

  He had to distract his father as quickly as he could, give him something to think about besides the adrenaline that told his body there was something to fear, even as the memory of what had frightened him slipped from his grasp. “Let’s go and get something to drink, shall we? Warm ourselves up. I’m cold, Dad, aren’t you cold?” He was sweating and exhausted and standing in the kitchen watching the microwave warm a mug of milk was the last thing he wanted. Almost the last thing he wanted. His father was glancing around the room again, and he fumbled for a way to get him moving, onto the next task. “Or I could make cocoa? Would you like some cocoa?”

  “Too much sugar in cocoa,” his dad said, looking austere. “Bad for your teeth.”

  “Just some hot milk, then. Come on, I’ll make it.”

  “You be careful.”

  “I will, I promise. D’you want to sit in the kitchen while the milk warms?”

  It took him a few more tries, but eventually he got his father away from the living-room, looking old and exhausted as he sat at the table and waited for his son to bring him a mug of warm milk. The clock on the wall above the cooker read 4:07am. Had he ever been this tired in his life before? How was he going to get his dad back to sleep? He couldn’t risk more tablets, but perhaps –

  “Would you like a couple of biscuits to go with this, Dad?”

  “D’you mean, Dad, can I have a couple of biscuits? You know it’s the middle of the night, don’t you?”

  “I know, Dad. I just thought –”

  “Teenage boys. Can’t ever get you filled up.” His father smiled indulgently. “Oh well, why not? Get some for both of us. Only make sure you brush your teeth afterwards.”

  “I will.”

  In the pantry, he fumbled for the whiskey bottle, adding a generous slug to his father’s milk. Do not consume alcohol. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery. But what did it matter if his father drank? The damage had been done years ago. If it helped them both cope, where was the harm? Sun-light was sneaking past the edges of the kitchen blind. His father was yawning and rubbing his eyes. He took the milk from Jacob’s hand and, ignoring the packet of biscuits, drained it in a single long swallow.

  “Shall we get off to bed, then?” he said to Jacob, then smiled. “You’re getting so grown up. Used to be I’d put you to bed and then have a good three hours or so to myself before I went up. Funny how things change.”

  “I know. I’m growing up.”

  “You’ll be leaving me one day soon.”

  “No, Dad. I won’t. I promise I won’t leave you.”

  His father put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re my boy.”

  With his father finally returned to his bed, Jacob had hoped for another hour or so of sleep. But the singing of the birds and the merciless jabs of sun
light were too much for him. He was awake, and another day had dawned, and he had to face it with the few scraps of sleep he’d managed to scavenge already. It was the first day of the holidays. How were they going to make it through?

  He rolled over and reached for his phone. It was half-past six and Donna had sent him a text message.

  What do you get when you cross

  a teacher with a vampire?

  Lots of blood tests :-D :-D :-D

  Okay it’s a bit crap but it’s only the first

  day. See you in September. D

  He smiled to himself and texted back:

  Very good. Why aren’t you on the telly? - J

  She would send him one joke a day, shortly before midnight, on each day of the holidays, and each time he would ration himself to a single reply. It was the only way any of his colleagues would know he was still alive. Some days he thought it was the only way he himself knew he was still alive.

  Trying not to feel the exhaustion that made him feel as though he was walking along the bottom of the ocean, he crawled out of bed and opened the curtains. The day was postcard-beautiful, all green plants and golden light and milky brown water. Perhaps some fresh air might fill him with the strength he needed to make it through another day. He pulled a jumper over his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. In the corridor, the door of the tower-room bathroom had come open again in the night. Trying to move without thinking, he padded down the corridor in his bare feet and pulled it closed.

  (“Is it the sea coming in?” Ella whispered in his ear. “Is it the water pushing the door open?”

  (“No, of course it’s not. Water spreads out, if the sea came in through the window the whole corridor would be wet. But it wouldn’t come this high up anyway.”

  (“Can we hold our breath for long enough to escape yet? Can we practice again tonight?”)

  He held his breath as he crept past his father’s room, on the alert in case the other man was waiting behind the door. Several times he’d had to fight his father off as he exploded out from the doorway, convinced their household was under threat and he was the only one who could save them. He could have avoided this by going down the back staircase instead, but he couldn’t face the eternal spectre of Ella, her hair flying as she hopped down the stairs just ahead of him, breathlessly singing as she went. That inane little song she used to adore, about cutting up pieces of fruit –

  The thing he had to remember, he thought, as he made it safely to the top of the stairs and allowed himself to breathe again, was that at least this way, Ella had escaped. He was the only one strong enough to cope with his father now. At least Ella had been saved. The words were the mantra that got him past the bitterness that filled his heart each morning.

  In the kitchen, he unlocked the door and let the outside burst in over the doorstep. The dew was on the grass and the world smelled fresh and good. The scent of crushed greenery beneath his wellies spiralled up to tickle his nostrils. He drowned it out with a swill of black coffee, liking the way the caffeine jangled along his nerves.

  (“I don’t want to see the sea. Can we sit under that tree there and have a tea-party?”

  (“Come on. We’re going to see the beach. You’ll like it when we get there.”)

  Over half of their garden had vanished now, although if his childhood self had first looked out onto the expanse that still remained, he would have marvelled at the extravagance of space. Once, they’d been told the cliffs would last another fifty years at least, and he’d thought with satisfaction that fifty years was a lifetime, and the house only needed to last until he and Ella were grown. Now the sea had eaten half of the land they’d imagined was theirs, and the time he needed was now measured in the likely span of his father’s life, which could be… well, what? Decades, perhaps. His father was a strong man, not yet sixty. Was the house going to last? It had to. He was too tired to contemplate a future where it didn’t. On the edge of the cliff, a familiar figure stood like a sentry.

  “You’re up early,” he said, so he wouldn’t startle her with his approach. The look Mrs Armitage turned on him was severe – she had no time for small talk – but he took his place beside her anyway, pressing his mug of coffee against his chest as a defence against the breeze that riffled across his hair and crept beneath the cocoon of his jumper and stole the warmth from his skin.

  “You should have put a coat on,” she told him.

  “I’m wearing a jumper.”

  “So I see. And are you warm enough? Or are you wishing you’d put a coat on?”

  The words were on the tip of his tongue. I’m twenty-seven years old, I don’t need you to tell me what to wear. He kept silent. He didn’t want her to know how much he craved even this small sharp approximation of being mothered.

  “Look.” Mrs Armitage pointed.

  The light coming off the water was so bright it was painful. He had to shade his eyes and squint. After a minute, he made out a smooth slick ball-shape bobbing in the water.

  “Seal,” she said. “Keep watching. It’s hunting.”

  Jacob watched obediently. After a minute, the seal dived, its body a thick smooth curve of flesh that appeared briefly above the surface.

  “I should get back to Dad,” he said, hoping for an escape.

  “No. Wait.” Mrs Armitage’s hand on his arm was com-manding. “Wait until it comes back up again.”

  “But –”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  He stared perseveringly at the surface of the water. How long could seals hold their breath? He and Ella had known once, but –

  (“Did you know seals can hold their breath for two hours?” Ella’s eyes, wide in disbelief and bright with hope. “That’s like four episodes of Scooby Doo. If we practice hard enough we’ll be able to do that too.”)

  “He used to say one day I’d turn into a seal and go back to the sea,” said Mrs Armitage, as if she could read his thoughts.

  He could feel her looking at him, but stubbornly held off making eye contact for as long as he could.

  “Who did?” he asked, when he couldn’t avoid her gaze any longer.

  “You know perfectly well. Once, we had an argument, and I said I was going out to think about things. When I got down to the boat, he’d taken my scuba gear and hidden it. I was so angry I took the boat out anyway and didn’t come back for ten hours. When I got home, he was crying.”

  “Don’t.” He had to fight the urge to press his hand over her mouth. “Don’t talk about him. I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “You’re not talking about him, I am. I asked him if he’d thought I’d drowned, and he said no, he thought I’d left him and gone to live in the ocean instead. It was such a strange thing to hear a grown man say, I wondered if there was something wrong with him. Now it’s your turn, Jacob.”

  “Please stop. It hurts too much to think about. I can’t stand it –”

  “I can’t stand it either, but we both have to stand it. This is the price you pay me. If you don’t want to pay it any more, feel free to pay a nurse instead. One thing you remember about Ella.”

  “Why do you have to keep doing this to me?”

  “It’s how we keep her alive. Oh, look at that. The seal’s come back up.”

  Out in the water, the seal twirled calmly on its axis, its huge liquid eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes. Jacob wished desperately he could be there with it. Better yet, he wished he could dive below the surface of the water and stay there, quiet and secret, invisible –

  “She used to collect stones,” he said desperately. “Not just from the beach. Anywhere we went. Off the drive, sometimes. In the road. And when she had too many to hold in her hand, she’d take one of her socks off and carry them home in that. She never did anything with them though. She just left her socks lying around with the toes all full of stones, and I used to find them and empty the stones out and put the socks in the wash so she wouldn’t get into trouble. There, is that enough for you? You made me cry, you made
me bloody well cry, and now I’ve got to go back to my house and look after my father and if he sees I’m upset he’ll be upset too and I’ll never be able to explain why. Are you happy now?”

  “Of course I’m not happy. And neither are you. But it’s important to remember them, the ones we loved and lost. How else do we keep them alive? You can go now. I’ll see you on the first day of term. Be careful.”

  He could hardly see the ground beneath his feet for the tears that danced in his eyes. He had to force himself to concentrate, aware – as they both always were – of the greedy mouth that gnawed wetly at the land that held them up. Back in the garden, he stopped beneath the apple tree to compose himself, wetting his hands in the dew that clung to the long grass and rubbing them over his cheeks. He couldn’t let his father see him with tear-marks on his face.

  When he got back inside, he could already hear the fitful panicky stumbling that told him his father had awoken to an empty house and was roaming around upstairs, trying to orient himself.

  “Dad!” he called up the stairs. “It’s me.”

  “Jacob!” His father appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning precariously on the bannister to catch his breath. “I’ve checked upstairs and there’s no one, but we need to check downstairs too, they might have got in during the night.”

  His heart sank. It was going to be one of the days when his father’s anxiety clutched him from the moment he opened his eyes, tearing at him throughout the whole weary length of the day. He’d done his best to fathom what might trigger these days, kept a diary of what they had done and said and eaten, noted down the brief glimpses of television they managed to share, but he found no pattern, and after a while the effort became too much. And it was only the first day of the holidays...

  “I’ve checked downstairs. Right round everywhere. There’s no one, I promise.”

  “What did you do that for?” His dad’s eyes were wild with horror. “You stupid boy, I’ve told you – if you think there’s someone in the house you come and get me, do you hear?”

  He couldn’t stand this. He simply couldn’t. Not for a whole six weeks. If only he could get his father to go back to sleep for a few hours.