Underwater Breathing

by Parkin, Cassandra;

  The shrubby overgrowth was threaded through with little paths. There was a special name for these paths, he knew, and after a moment it came to him: lines of desire. He thought about saying this to Donna, but the word desire, spoken in this place, felt too dangerous. He lost sight of her for a moment, then saw she was sitting on the edge of a greyish-white sarcophagus.

  “This is Violetta Thomas,” she said. “She died about a hundred and fifty years ago. She’s very comfortable to sit on.”

  He perched gingerly beside her. “Doesn’t she mind?”

  “She doesn’t seem to. The churchyard staff mind like hell, of course, but I don’t think they work at night. Which is weird really, because you’d think that’d be the time when most people get up to mischief. She’s a good listener as well.”

  “Do you – um – do you talk to her a lot?”

  “I came here quite a lot when my mum died. Her and my dad live down in Chelmsford and I wanted her to be cremated so I could have some of her ashes to keep with me, but my dad really wanted a burial so that’s what she had, and when I really missed her I used to drive out here sometimes and pretend this was my mum’s grave so I could talk to her.” Her eyes were very dark and beautiful. “If you laugh at me I might have to kill you.”

  “Of course I’m not going to laugh.”

  “No, I know you’re not really. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise.”

  “I didn’t know your mum had died.”

  “I don’t tell people because I don’t want them thinking about me that way. Because if I tell them she’s dead, people immediately want to know what she was like, what happened to her, all that stuff. And I don’t want to share her. She’s just for me.”

  He recognised the feeling. Ella had been like that for him. She was still like that now, even though she had come back to him… Donna’s hands looked very pale and slender in the moonlight and her lips were dark and full. He reached clumsily out for her and turned her face towards him.

  “Jacob,” she said.

  Why else had she brought him to the cemetery? It was so dark and private here. Violetta Thomas was no kind of a chaperone. What a strange thought to have; what a strange evening. At Ella’s bidding, he had taken a risk and sent a text message and now they were here, in the cemetery, kissing. Was this what Ella had wanted for him? Was she coping, at home on her own with their sleeping father? Was he doing this kiss right? After few seconds, Donna pulled away.

  “I haven’t kissed anyone for years,” he confessed. “You’re beautiful. Is this okay?”

  “Are you asking me or yourself?”

  He kissed her again. Donna’s lipstick tasted faintly of strawberries, or rather of a chemical approximation of what strawberries were meant to taste like. He could feel the chill seeping through his clothes from Violetta Thomas. Perhaps he should lay his coat out for Donna to lie on. Was Ella warm enough back at home? Would she find the extra blanket he’d left for her on the chair? The cemetery was damp and the wind was chilly, but after all the years he’d spent living in their house of draughts and sea-spray, he should be used to the cold. He let his hand slip cautiously from Donna’s shoulder to her right breast, taking his time so she could push him away if she wanted to. When she didn’t, he let the palm rest against the curve. The warmth of her skin was soaking through the fabric like water.

  “Um,” said Donna.

  “I’m sorry.” He let his hand fall.

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I just meant that’s probably not doing much for either of us… Look, how about we start again?” She leaned forward and planted a delicate butterfly kiss on his lips.

  He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He was acutely conscious of the presence of the dead, crumbling into dust and greenery along with their grave markers. If they could see what was happening, would they be sternly disapproving, or would they be cheering him on? Donna’s hands were beneath his coat, and he realised he should probably reciprocate. He put his hands on her waist, but that felt too much like dancing. His fingers found the smooth serrated edge of a zip running the length of her spine. Should he try and unfasten it? The angle they were sitting at was growing uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be better if they lay down –

  “Okay, enough,” said Donna wearily, and pushed him away.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “You! Kissing me like it’s some sort of unpleasant job you’ve got to get done.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I’m sorry, that was rude – actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. That’s exactly what it felt like. Like kissing me was something you ought to do. Like it was your homework.”

  Driven by the hot flush of humiliation, he reached out for her again. This time he forced himself to act, to move, to reach for the zipper, to force his hand beneath her buttocks and pull her closer to him. For a minute he thought he had cracked the code, that this was the way to win the girl, but then she was shoving him away with both hands, so hard that he banged his head on the tall cross that stood guard over Violetta Thomas, and even in the dim ambiguous light of the cemetery, he could see she was furious.

  “What the fuck?” she demanded. “What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “I – I just –”

  “I already feel stupid enough, all right? I didn’t even have any of this in mind when I said I’d meet you, I was sorry for you because you never seem to have any kind of life outside of work – but then we had a nice time and you seemed to like me, so I thought, well, why not? And then –” she was trying to keep herself together, but he could see she was nearly crying.

  “I got carried away,” he said. “It was really stupid.”

  “But you didn’t, did you?” She looked at him straight on, not flinching. “You weren’t carried away. You don’t even like me. You’re not interested in having sex with me, or even fooling around a bit to see if that’s where we might end up going, which for the record, was all I was going to do. You don’t want anything like that from me at all. But you kissed me anyway. Because you thought that was what you were supposed to do.”

  “That’s not true! I – I’ve liked you for years. More than that. I think I’m in love with you.”

  “You’re not,” she said. “You want to pretend with me so you can hide from whatever it is you really want. I mean, what is it, Jacob? Is it boys? Is it kids? Because it’s something you’re not comfortable with, isn’t it?”

  “Of course I don’t like boys! And certainly not bloody kids! How can you even say that? What kind of pervert do you think I bloody am?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I know I’m never going out with you again. Don’t call me. And don’t speak to me when we get back to work in September. Good night.”

  He watched Donna walk away through the trees, straight-backed and head held high, undaunted. He thought he might die of humiliation, because every word she’d said to him was right. He was trying to talk himself into liking her. He was trying to pretend he wanted a normal life. And he had only just realised it.

  The drive back took all his concentration and energy. He’d barely made it half a mile from the bar before he was pulled over by a police car. The two men inside studied his driving licence and asked professionally friendly questions about his evening, then invited him to take a breathalyser test. He blew grimly into the tube. It didn’t matter that he would pass; the point was that he’d been driving oddly enough to attract their attention. When the screen blinked green, he sensed their faint surprise and wondered whether he should tell them that their first instincts were right: he wasn’t in a fit state to drive. What would happen if he told the truth? He could feel the words perched behind his teeth. I had a row with a woman I work with because I kissed her but I didn’t feel anything for her, nothing at all, I mean I couldn’t even get it up for her, not a flicker, not a twitch, and yet she’s gorgeous and I like her, so what the fuck’s wrong with me? Would they arrest him? Was it a crime to be driving while
sexually confused?

  Another few minutes while they checked his car’s tax and insurance status, and they sent him on his way, with a reminder to drive carefully and the memory of their faintly puzzled expressions. He would be home soon, with long weeks to forget about tonight.

  He was expecting to come home to a silent house, or at most to the sight of Ella curled up on the sofa, the television flickering in the corner. Instead, as he crept into the hall, he heard the sound of voices that were unmistakeably his father and sister. His father should have been asleep hours ago. Had Ella forgotten to give him the mug of warm milk? He flung open the door.

  “Jacob!” His father looked up as he came in. He was alert and beaming, his face bright and engaged. “I was wondering where you’d got to. This young lady of yours –” he looked at Ella. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “It’s Ella,” Ella whispered. She looked miserably guilty, as if Jacob had caught her committing a crime. What was she so ashamed of? She’d done a good thing for him tonight, even if he had managed to screw it up completely.

  Then he saw the litter of papers by her feet, and understood.

  “She’s been showing me this book she’s written,” his father said.

  “Ella.”

  “Not sure I quite understand all of it, though. What was the part about the woman again? The one who’s being hunted down by the bad guy?”

  “Ella,” said Jacob, “come and talk to me in the kitchen, please.”

  “It reminded me of something,” said their father. “Some-thing I was supposed to remember.”

  “Forget it, Dad. Ella, in the kitchen.”

  “What was it? Oh, God, what’s wrong with me? I can’t remember anything, I can’t remember your name, I can’t remember – who was the man? The man who was chasing her? Was I supposed to be keeping her safe? Is she safe now? Was it just a story?”

  The mug of milk sat untouched on the table. Ella saw him looking.

  “He didn’t get round to drinking it,” Ella said. “We were talking, that was all.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad, I’ll sort it out. Ella, clear up that rubbish and put it away where he won’t have to see it.”

  “That’s no way to speak to your girlfriend,” said their father reproachfully.

  “For the last time, Dad, Ella is not my bloody girlfriend! I don’t have a girlfriend. And in fact I don’t think I ever will. Okay? Ella, do as I say and then you can explain whatever the hell you’re doing.”

  His rage made him fifty feet tall. His hands as they opened the fridge seemed many miles away from his body. Nonetheless, they did not flinch or falter. The milk poured into the clean mug without a drop spilled. Without pausing, he took three giant steps to the pantry and found the box of tablets, admiring the smooth movements of his fingers as they popped the blisters. One. Two. Three. Was it bad enough for four? Probably not, but best to be on the safe side. He needed his father to be properly asleep.

  “Jacob.” Ella’s voice was unexpectedly close behind him. Startled out of their smooth mechanical progress, his fingers became clumsy. The little tablets slipped through the cracks and rolled away. He turned around and found she was standing in the centre of the kitchen, clutching their mother’s manuscript. For a minute she was looking at his face, and then her eyes dropped and she was seeing the tablets, the litter of them on the floor, the mug of milk, and most of all the expression on his face, and he watched in helpless horror as understanding finally came to her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  2008

  In the quiet evening freshness that came after the storm, Mrs Armitage stood at the end of her garden and inspected the latest alterations made to her land by the ocean. The buddleias that had begun to take root were gone, as was the hebe she’d spent an extravagant twenty-five pounds on last spring, as well as the ancient blackthorn bush that had once marked the halfway point of her garden. Holding her breath, she crept another few inches towards the edge, listening out for the sound of rattling earth and pebbles that might give her enough time to leap back if she had triggered another fall. The shrubs, along with the most recent incarnation of her garden fence, lay in a tumbled heap of earth on the stony strip of shoreline below.

  The last time there had been a fall this severe, she’d taken her boat out, rowed around the headland and reclaimed the fence-panels. She’d set them a propitiatory yard-and-a-half back from the edge of the land, ceding more than she needed to in order to delay the final battle. The effort of loading the panels onto the back of the borrowed boatyard truck and then offloading them at the other end, of pounding in the fence-posts and hanging the battered panels and making good the damage done by the fall, had made her ache for long days afterwards, and she’d vowed to herself at the time, no more. The next time the ocean invaded her borders, she would give up the struggle, and face the onslaught with her eyes open.

  “No more,” she said out loud now to the waters that boiled and crashed below. “From now on, I’ll be watching you when you come for me. Do you hear?” She tried hard not to talk to herself, but the ocean was a person in its own right, not human but still a conscious living creature, like the seals that occasionally poked slick heads out above the waves, turning around and around in the water like tops before slipping back into the murky calm beneath. Some people might think she was mad, but in her opinion, anyone who didn’t understand the importance of staying on the good side of the life that surged at their feet was more likely to be the crazy one.

  She wasn’t particularly hungry, but it was time to eat, and keeping an order to her day was important to her. So she turned away from the ruin of what had once been a herbaceous border coming out of its difficult adolescence, and went inside to make herself some dinner.

  The evening was still bright, but the walls were thick and the windows small, so she put on the light. Now the fence was gone, when she took the boat out, she would be able to see the kitchen window. If she left the light on before she went, she could enjoy the sight of the small yellow square of light, newly revealed.

  Behind the door of the fridge lived the memory of her husband, hurrying up the path and coming in through the door, calling her by the nickname she allowed him and no one else – Harry! Harry! I missed you so I’ve come home early – with a bunch of daffodils clutched in his hand, and the glad thumping of her heart as she turned to greet him. She fought the memory off by thinking about being out on her boat, wondering if there would one day be a device that would allow her to be in two places at once, so she could spy on herself as she stood silhouetted against the yellow square of light – all the while taking milk and ham and margarine from the fridge shelves, hesitating over the eggs, then deciding to leave them for lunch tomorrow instead.

  There were some sausages too, that needed eating soon. She had seen on the news that too much processed meat could cause cancer, but chose not to pay attention when the reporter explained exactly what “too much” was. She’d known for years it would be the ocean that took her in the end. If she was somehow wrong about this and she ended up dying of a surfeit of bacon and sausages, well, that would be one up to the landlubbers. She took a tin of soup from the cupboard and filled a saucepan, rinsing the tin with a little milk and then pouring it into the pan for extra richness. Soup and a sandwich was a perfect evening meal in this warm weather. She had long weeks yet before she could structure her entire day around the buying and preparing and eating of stewed meat and vegetables.

  She peered into the cupboard where she kept her tea and coffee supplies. She had chosen coffee for lunchtime so would have tea this evening, and she would have some biscuits, too, a little sweetness to take the edge off the austerity of her day. Until Ella began her visits, she’d never bothered with biscuits, but when there was the possibility of someone else helping to eat them before they grew stale, the purchase became worthwhile. Whether you were pleased to see your visitors or not, it was rude not to have something to offer them. Some might say she was senti
mentally attached to the doe-eyed little moppet who had once come hopping along the cliff to see her every two or three days, taking a secret pleasure in choosing the prettiest and most elaborate biscuits the shop could provide, but she herself knew better.

  It was simply manners, that was all.

  The soup bubbled thickly on the stove and she stirred it with a wooden spoon to stop it from splashing. She enjoyed arranging the thin slices of ham with their straight folded edges laid against the borders of the bread. She disliked seeing raggedy edges hanging out of the sides. She cut the sandwich into four neat triangles and poured her soup into its bowl. You could eat it out of the saucepan, she thought, and save yourself some washing-up. No one would know. But you don’t do that; you get a bowl and pour it in and eat from that instead. And that’s how you know you still have self-respect. Sitting upright at her kitchen table, her face towards her newly unfenced garden, she spooned the soup neatly into her mouth, taking care not to spill it on her chin. You could dip the sandwich in the soup and save yourself a dirty spoon. But you don’t do that either. A little gull landed on the thick windowsill and tucked one slender scarlet leg up into its plumage. She would remember to mark it down later on the chart she kept all year round and sent once a year to the RSPB. Did she need to interrupt her dinner to do it now, in case she forgot later? No, she would remember. You’re doing fine, Araminta. You don’t need to worry.

  As she stood at the sink and rinsed her bowl, considering whether she might want to walk down to the boathouse later and go out for an evening dive, the telephone shrilled out its imperious call. For a brief unforgivable moment, until she got control of herself again, she felt all her muscles lock tight and her throat catch with dryness. Stop it, she told herself sternly. The dead don’t make phone calls. The phone’s cradle sat guard over a small patch of clean wood. The rest of the table was blanketed in dust. Dust is normal. Dust is nothing to worry about. When she pressed the button to answer the call, her fingers were precise and did not fumble.