by Jenny Oliver
His van was an old mustard VW Westfalia T3. It had a high-top with a little slide-out bed in the roof and downstairs was a faux-wood laminate kitchen and a green and orange tartan sofa. Crystals sparkled at the windows alongside feathered dreamcatchers and a stone Buddha’s head was propped up against the back wheel. The van was parked almost on its own under a canopy of pines, with a secluded view over a daffodil field and then out to the sea. Moira walked round the van and waited as Mitch unslid the side door, lit the gas for the kettle and flipped out two purple floral deckchairs fraying at the seams that must have been at least thirty years old. Mitch’s dog ‘Dog’ curled up on the velour sofa while Frank Sinatra stretched out on a patch of grass next to Moira who tentatively settled herself into a threadbare deckchair. Tucked away from the world, surrounded by nature, she felt unusually relaxed. If she mentioned the fact, Mitch would say it was the healing energy of his crystals but Moira knew it was the escape from herself, her responsibilities, her rules as Mitch so bluntly put it.
As she sat, she closed her eyes, listening to the laconic movements of Mitch making coffee – no hurry, no fuss, pausing to scratch Dog behind the ears – the radio soft in the background. Then, in ten times longer than it would have taken Moira, there were two cups of exceedingly strong coffee and a croissant each on a rickety, fold-out side table.
Mitch took the seat angled beside her, legs outstretched so his tanned feet reached the parched long grass in front of them. He wore a shirt open halfway down his chest with a circular pendant stamped with an Om just visible, and loose yoga pants with elasticated ankles. Dog came out to sit by his feet.
Mitch took long slurps of his coffee while he stared straight ahead at the sun shimmering on the crests of the tiny waves.
Moira drank more neatly. Taking a sip then putting the cup back on the table.
Frank Sinatra gently snored.
‘It was good to meet Stella,’ Mitch said, rolling his head to glance at Moira. ‘Nice girl. Bright. Similar issues to you, here—’ He patted his chest a couple of times.
Moira swallowed. Felt suddenly ashamed for passing on her angry repression.
‘Vivacious though,’ he added. ‘Knows what she wants. I liked her.’
Moira had another sip of coffee, wondering if he would ever describe her as vivacious. She looked up to find Mitch watching her like he could tell exactly what she was thinking and was mocking her for it.
‘She is a credit to you,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ said Moira. ‘Not to me. I don’t think Stella owes anything to me.’
‘No?’ His mouth turned down.
Moira shielded her eyes from the sun, looking out towards the sparkling waves. ‘I don’t think I was a very good mother when it came to Stella.’
‘I’m sure you were.’
‘No honestly.’ She gave a little laugh as she turned into the intensity of Mitch’s gaze, bright like an interrogation light. ‘Graham had a couple of affairs you know, when we were younger.’ She turned back to the sea, watched a yacht in the distance, its huge white sail billowing gracefully. ‘Always came back, never serious,’ she said. ‘But you know—’ She paused. ‘I was never as jealous of them as I was of Stella.’ She looked round at Mitch and smiled. ‘Horrible, isn’t it? Horrible for a mother to say.’
Mitch shrugged.
‘She just commanded so much of his attention. And she did it so effortlessly, as if she didn’t even really want it. Next to her I think I looked very desperate. Very uncool,’ she said in a voice Amy might use, then picked up her coffee with a sigh.
Mitch waited, silent, like time was of no consequence. A dragonfly swooped and Dog lazily lifted his head.
‘Stella was ever such a good little swimmer,’ Moira said, feeling an urge to continue. Like in this hidden tranquillity she had started to get something off her chest and now couldn’t stop, because if she did she would never say it again. ‘It’s a shame really, they pushed her so hard. They were so tough on her. I think that was the way back then. Maybe it still is? I know top athletes have to be pushed, but, well, you have to enjoy it, don’t you? I think that was their mistake really, she was so good they forgot she was just a young girl. For Stella it was all she knew so she just did what they told her and then suddenly she spent some time being normal—’
Mitch laughed at the word normal.
‘What?’ Moira asked.
‘Nothing.’ He shook his head.
‘Well, anyway,’ Moira said, ‘maybe not normal. Ordinary. She got injured, went out with her friends, lots of parties, festivals, that kind of thing – and I think suddenly realised what life could be like.’
‘You didn’t ask her?’
Moira felt her cheeks warm. ‘We didn’t talk much about things like that. Stella does what Stella wants to do and off she went. Gave it all up in an instant.’
Mitch frowned. ‘And no one said anything? What did Graham do?’
Moira scratched her head, awkward. ‘Graham stopped speaking to her for quite some time.’
Mitch whistled.
Moira put her cup down on the table again, she felt a little got at, didn’t want to talk about the past any more. Didn’t want to feel criticised.
Mitch picked up his croissant and tore off a strip to feed to the dog. ‘Were you still jealous of Stella after she left?’
Moira had forgotten she’d started this by saying she had been jealous of Stella. She remembered as well that she’d mentioned Graham’s affairs. She wondered what had come over her, she never aired her dirty laundry. Standing up she went and untangled two stalks of grass that had been annoying her. When she sat down again she hoped the conversation might move on.
But Mitch wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Come on, Moira,’ he pushed. ‘What happened? Tell me.’
She pursed her lips. Glanced across at him and said, ‘Nothing happened when Stella left. That’s the stupid thing.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing changed.’ She had always presumed that without Stella and her remarkable talent in the picture, Graham’s gaze might fall back on Moira herself. ‘What I didn’t realise, I suppose, was that Graham and Stella were the great big fireworks of the family. Me and Amy were those little ones on the ground that everyone says are nice but really they’re waiting for the rockets that explode with all the pizzazz.’ She ran her finger along the frayed edge of the chair. ‘No one wants to see just the boring little ones, do they?’
Mitch’s eyes crinkled up with a smile. ‘I don’t know, I’ve always been pretty fond of a Roman candle.’
Moira smiled. ‘That’s sweet of you to say.’
Mitch shrugged like it was his honest opinion.
After a moment of silence, Moira said, ‘It’s terribly hot in the sun, isn’t it?’
‘So, move into the shade.’
‘Oh right, yes,’ she said, as if she hadn’t really thought about moving her chair. But more that it never felt her place to take the lead on such things, years of always fitting in with what the stronger character might do. She repositioned herself under the dappled shade of the pine tree.
Mitch got up and moved his chair as well, then went back for the table. After that he disappeared into his van and came back with a small wooden box stencilled with cannabis leaves.
‘Do you want to get stoned, Moira?’
Moira snorted into her rapidly cooling coffee. ‘Absolutely not.’
Mitch smiled to himself. ‘It’d do you some good, I think. Loosen you up.’
‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I don’t do drugs. I’ve never done drugs.’
‘It’s not drugs,’ he said, all lazy and a touch mocking as he sat back in his chair and lifted the lid on the box. ‘It’s legal in Holland.’
‘Well that’s the Dutch for you.’ Moira felt herself sitting all prim and rigid.
Mitch barked a laugh. ‘Come on, Moira, live a little,’ he said as he started rolling a joint.
‘No.’ Her lips were tightly pursed.
He l
ooked her straight in the eye. ‘What are you so afraid of?’
‘Besides being arrested?’ she asked.
‘We’re in a field, down a lane, in the middle of nowhere. You aren’t going to be arrested.’ He kept his eyes on her, wouldn’t look away. ‘What else are you afraid of?’
She swallowed. She frowned. ‘I don’t know. Maybe losing control?’
‘And what would be wrong with that?’
‘I’ve never done it before.’
‘Well, shall we see what happens?’ Mitch said, running the edge of the rolling paper across his tongue.
There was absolutely no way Moira was going to say yes. Absolutely no way. She got her phone out of her bag, hoping suddenly that one of the girls might have texted and she’d have an excuse to leave. She felt like a prude. Mitch was lighting up, a big grin on his face. There was no text. Only a WhatsApp message letting her know that Graham had Instagrammed. She frowned, clicked on the app that Sonny had downloaded for her the previous week to have a look, and there indeed was Graham’s leg. What was he doing? And next there was a picture of Stella after her swim. When she’d seen her that morning Moira hadn’t thought much about the fact Stella had been swimming, she’d been more focused on keeping her and Mitch apart, but now she saw the picture she realised it must have been quite monumental. Stella never swam any more. Then there was a picture of Gus doing God knows what with the lawnmower. And Jack on a skateboard? And Amy whistling in her big sun hat. Wasn’t everyone busy! And where was she? Feeling guilty about murky details of the past, dealing with septic tanks, and worrying about her daughters who had no trouble unloading their burdens on her but wouldn’t dream of letting Moira move on and live her own bloody life.
So, when Mitch leant forward and passed her the glowing joint, instead of a quick wave of decline, she thought why the hell not? Why not. Maybe I will get arrested and then they’d all have to do a bit of soul-searching to work out what sent me off the rails.
But as she took her first daunting acrid puff, Moira crossed her fingers that she wouldn’t get arrested because she couldn’t imagine anything worse than a night in their local jail. The Travelodge looked bad enough.
She had a few quick cautious inhales, checking left and right that no one was coming, Mitch watching her, amused. She coughed, waved the smoke from her face, coughed again, and then handed the joint back so she could settle herself more comfortably in her chair.
‘I smoked a bit at school, you know?’ she said. ‘Gauloises. We all did. All for show. Thought we were the bee’s knees. Never one of these. Never a reefer.’ She smirked when she said the word. Feeling a little like she was back at school. Also wondering about that expression – did bees have knees?
Mitch was reclining, all lazy and sated in his chair. Moira couldn’t quite put her finger on how she was feeling. Completely normal to some extent. But then she lost her train of thought watching the sun flicker through the pine needles and the shards of light dancing on her skin.
Mitch handed her back the joint.
A couple more puffs and she felt like a ragdoll. Like someone had plucked her from the confines of her packaging; from the bits that cautioned her about what was the right thing to say next. In fact, she didn’t give two hoots about what she might say next. ‘I was quite a looker in my time.’
Mitch gave a wry smile. ‘I have no doubt.’
Moira sighed, her arms fell to the armrests, her hands flopped, she gazed at Mitch in his white linen shirt. ‘Oh to be young again. I had this bright red hair and tiny little figure. And I’d go into work all strutting about in my high heels and pretty dresses. That’s where I met Graham, on set. I was a weather girl on West Country Morning, did you know that?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, I was. And one day the sports man was off sick – it was a Tuesday – and they couldn’t get anyone and I was drafted in. What did I know about sport? Well, nothing. Suddenly I’m on the side of the pool with a microphone thrust at all these men in tiny pants,’ she giggled. Mitch handed her the joint. She was more careless this time, inhaling more deeply, coughing, laughing. After passing it back, she lifted her feet up on the chair, curling them under her like she was a girl. ‘Graham was a young hot shot of the swimming world at the time. Their rising star. And I didn’t know who he was.’ She gave another little giggle. ‘I was just blushing like a beetroot because he was dripping wet, all muscles – very good-looking – and his trunks were so small. I could hardly get a word out, said something like “Good swim?” when he’d just won the British Championships by half a length of the pool and broken about three records. I think that’s probably why he fell for me in the end: that first meeting, me all giggly and blushing while he was puffed up like a gloating peacock.’ She turned to look at Mitch, he was watching her, listening, joint dangling in one hand, the other stretching down to scratch the dog’s ears. ‘When Graham was swimming he wasn’t anything like Stella was. They could shout blue murder at him and he’d just shake it off. Did his own thing half the time. Skin so thick. Arrogant bugger, always was,’ she said. ‘I don’t even think it was the swimming particularly that he adored, it was the winning. Swimming, winning. Does that rhyme?’ She frowned.
Mitch laughed. ‘Maybe Stella liked to swim and Graham liked to win.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. That was his problem really, always has been. Do you know just before his last Olympics one of his teammates hurt his back. Couldn’t race. They asked Graham to take his place in the two-hundred-metre freestyle and you know what he said?’
Mitch shook his head.
‘He said no.’ Moira did a pursed-lipped look of disapproval. ‘And do you know why? Because he didn’t think he’d win it. He knew it would be his last Olympics. He had four events that he knew he could win, and he didn’t want to take on that last one and risk going out a loser. Worried he’d be remembered for being the man who lost one rather than won four. He’s never told anyone that. I’m not even sure he knows I know. But I was listening on the other end of the phone. It was good in those days – being able to listen in. Well not good, clearly, because of course it’s wrong to eavesdrop.’ She stopped. Mitch was looking at her, brows raised. Moira reached up and reclipped her hair, a little flummoxed, trying to grasp some thread of a train of thought so she could gloss over that last bit.
‘Graham loved to win,’ Mitch prompted.
‘Oh yes,’ Moira agreed. ‘Yes, that was it. He couldn’t bear the idea that no one stays at the top forever. That younger, better people come up. It infuriated him. He was terrified of getting beaten. I think that’s why he retired – no question. Wanted to go out while he was still at the top. And it was a mistake, definitely, because when he started coaching none of his athletes were ever quite good enough for him. Always thought he could have done it better. Which he probably could have done, but well, he couldn’t change his mind and come out of retirement, could he? Couldn’t lose face.’ She shook her head, despairing. Mitch handed her the joint. She smoked as she spoke, quite casual with it all now. ‘He moaned constantly that he was fobbed off with the bum end of the squad to coach. But he was too much of a maverick. Didn’t toe the line, enough. To be honest, they were the athletes I would have given him if I was them, but Graham couldn’t stand it. He wanted the stars. He wanted the medals. And, well, then Stella started showing promise. Real promise. She was so fast. Like a little fish. And you could see Graham’s eyes light up. He was going to make her his star.’ Moira took a last drag, huffing out her breath, reaching forward to hand the joint back to Mitch. ‘It was never about Stella, was it? It was about proving a point. It was about the buoyancy of Graham’s own greatness. Buoyancy?’ she said. ‘Is that the right word?’
Mitch shook his head like it didn’t really matter. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘Yes,’ Moira said, aware she would normally feel foolish for her confused aside, but not really caring. His outline was a little blurry. ‘Well, anyway. I don’t kno
w. I suppose in retrospect all of us – me, the women he slept with, Stella – we were all the same, just extensions to make him look better. Don’t you think?’ She paused.
Mitch shrugged. ‘Possibly.’
‘I was what you might refer to as a “trophy wife”.’ Moira did little inverted commas with her fingers, then frowned at herself because she’d never done them before in her life. ‘I had this very big red hair. Oh, I’ve said that haven’t I? Well, I also had quite fantastic breasts. Everyone thought so.’ She peered down at them squished flat by her Tu sports bra. ‘They’re not quite so fantastic any more,’ she added. ‘Just droopy.’ Then she snorted a laugh, astonished that she was even talking about them.
‘They look pretty good to me,’ Mitch said with a mischievous grin.
‘Oh, you rotter.’ Moira guffawed. ‘What was I saying?’
‘About your fantastic breasts.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘About Graham. About all of us. Oh, I know. What is it they say now? For famous people like David Beckham. And Posh Spice? Goodness, where did that name come from? I’m not sure I knew that I knew who Posh Spice was.’
Mitch shook his head, bemused. ‘I have no idea what they say.’
‘You know! About them and their brands. Furthering their brands … That’s it! It’s all about them getting bigger and bigger.’ She made the gesture with her arms, blowing up like a balloon. ‘It’s all about them. Them, them, them. That’s what it’s like for Graham. That’s what Stella winning meant to Graham. It was about his brand. Not hers. If I had realised that at the time, perhaps I wouldn’t have been quite so jealous of Stella. Perhaps I would have been more supportive. Perhaps if I’d had another interest, or stayed at my job or filled up those boxes you keep drawing in the sand, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time waiting for him to notice me.’
Mitch shook his head.
Moira nodded, a little resigned. ‘Or maybe I would.’
‘There’s no point berating yourself about the past, Moira. You can’t change it,’ Mitch said, fingers toying with the Om pendant round his neck. ‘Only learn from it.’
