by Joanna Nadin
Het has to squint to see Will stamping in the shallows, pretending his plastic net is a harpoon to stab the minnows that dart around his toes. Behind him she can see their mother in her wide hat and black bikini. Het thinks she looks like a film star. Like Marlene Dietrich. It makes her mother laugh. But her father thinks she should cover up. The sun is bad for you, he says. Makes your skin grow in tight hard moles that will eat you up from the inside. Eleanor tuts, and Het thinks he is just being mean. He’s an indoors person, her mother says, explaining it away.
A man has stopped to talk to Eleanor. Not her father. This man’s hair is not clipped short at the back; it curls defiantly over his collar. And his shirt isn’t tucked in neatly; instead it flows loose around his linen trousers and gapes open at the neck so that Het can see a scattering of white in the hair on his chest. Her mother stands, shading her eyes with her hand. And Het watches as the man touches her on her back. A big wide palm against bare skin. Het recognizes him. It is the man from the gallery in town. In his shop are pictures of the cliffs, of beaches, of blue boats bouncing on the water.
Not a stranger, then, Het thinks. A friend.
Het’s mother looks out to the water at her. Het waves, then turns back to the sea, the sun behind her, rays bursting out of her skin like an angel in a picture.
But then something happens. A bad thing. The cold water shifts, pulling her forward. Sand and the world slip from beneath her, and she is swallowed by the sea. Het kicks her legs, but she can’t see the surface anymore and instead gets dragged inside a wave. Her head is pushed out of the water for a second and she tries to breathe, but instead of air, water floods into her throat, as fear floods her veins, and she is tumbled against the seabed again, rocks tearing at her legs.
Het’s limbs thrash helplessly against the drag, but then she feels herself being pulled again. Only this time the hold isn’t watery, it is real, a person. It is the man from the gallery. His wide palms lift her up to his chest, to the silvery glint and graying hair. He is still wearing his shirt and trousers. Het is struck by this. He is in the water in his clothes. Why didn’t he take them off? she thinks. But she clutches tight to wet white linen anyway, lays her head on his shoulder, and closes her eyes.
When she wakes up she is in bed, at home. Her legs are sore against the covers, and when she peers under the sheet she can see bandages and the black thread of a stitch.
“Daddy did it,” explains her mother, handing her a glass of orange cordial. “Aren’t you lucky to have a daddy who is so clever?”
Het nods. She is lucky. But not because of the clever man who sewed her leg up. Because of the brave one who carried her out of the sea.
And when she looks into her mother’s eyes, she can see him in there, too.
DANNY RINGS the next day.
I don’t believe Mum when she hands the phone to me. But it is him. Thank God it is him, Mum too surprised to wonder how the phone she unplugged can ring at all.
“How did you get my number?” I ask, waving at Mum to disappear, and to take Finn with her.
“Pat.” He laughs, like it’s obvious.
“Right.” So she did look it up after all.
“So are you up for it?” he asks.
My stomach spins. I don’t get it. For what? I think. For him?
“Swimming,” he says into the silence.
“Oh . . . yeah, sure.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“I am. It’s just . . . How much is it?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“You can’t pay for me,” I protest. Don’t want to be his charity case.
But he laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t be. I got free passes off Mercy.”
“Oh. Mercy. Right.” And I should sound relieved. But I don’t. I’m not. And he knows it.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. I’ll be gentle,” he jokes.
I force a laugh. Then listen to the receiver humming with static as we struggle to find words again.
“So, seven, yeah?” he says eventually. “You know where the pool is? West Road.”
“I know.”
“I’ll leave the pass at the front desk.”
“OK. Thanks.” I am sure now, grateful that the call is over. “So, bye.” And I hang up before I hear him answer.
Finn is in my face before I’ve pulled myself off the floor.
“Who was that?” he asks. “Have you got a boyfriend?”
“No. God . . . Mum?”
But Mum’s on his side. “Who was it, then?”
“His name’s Danny. A friend of Eva’s. He’s going to teach me to swim. Remember? I told you,” I accuse.
“Right.” Mum nods vaguely. Then she brightens. “Maybe he could teach me, too,” she says, smiling.
“Yeah, right.” Because we both know this won’t happen. Once Finn fell in a pond on the common, trying to get at the turtles that grow fat there; Ninja Turtles, bought in a fad after the film, then turfed out when they got too big for their tanks. Mum just stood there, like she was superglued to the ground. Luka had to go in, up to his waist in his jeans and Doc Martens. Came out looking like a swamp beast, and smelling like one. Finn was fine. But Mum wasn’t. Luka said she should learn, then. That it wasn’t fair on us. But Mum said we would just stay away from the water instead.
I look at the kitchen clock. It’s four now. That gives me three hours to get ready. And it takes me all of them.
I shave my legs. Under my arms. Then try on my red bikini, the one Cass made me get for the lido last summer. Not designed for swimming, it is tiny and tight, tied at the side with long ribbons. The top just two triangles of Lycra. I look at myself in the mirror. My skin is blue white, translucent. I should have St.Tropezed like Cass, I think. She was footballer’s-wife orange all year, didn’t care that the palms of her hands were giveaway orange, too, or her feet grubby where the stuff clogged on dry skin. But even that would be better than this corpse standing in front of me. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. He won’t see me; I’ll be under the water.
But when I get there he’s already in the pool, the only person there, swimming laps, his arms pounding through the water. He is at home. This is his home. The water. And me? I stop dead at the door of the changing room. I feel as naked as I look. I pull my towel tight around me. Think about bolting. But it’s too late. He’s seen me.
“Hey.” It echoes off the blue tiles, a hollow muffled sound, like an empty gym, or a hospital corridor.
I raise my hand slightly, still clutching the towel around my chest.
“Getting in?” He stands up, water cascading down his chest, through the faint traces of down, to his trunks. I look away. In case he sees me. Sees what I’m seeing.
I have to do it. I turn away and drop the towel, piling it on the bench. All the time feeling his eyes on my pale skin, on the too-small bikini. I don’t look at him as I turn and slip quickly into the shallow end, clutch on to the bar. I feel myself shiver.
“You OK?” He’s next to me now.
“Yeah. Just . . . It’s cold.”
“Well, we should get going, then.”
I nod, though every inch of me is saying no. No, I don’t want to do this, can’t do this, can’t let you see me like this, scrabbling on the surface like a three-year-old.
But he hears it. Hears my silent dissent.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Promise. Just lie back.”
And think of England. I hear Cass’s words in my head and smile. Her way of getting through anything. School. Leon. The abortion.
So I do. I lie back in the water. Legs and arms out like a starfish. I feel his hands beneath me, supporting the small of my back.
“Relax,” he says. “You’re tensing up.”
I try. But it’s hard. All I can think is that I’m here, in this strange place, with this boy I barely know, his fingers on the tie of my top.
“Shut your eyes, Billie. You’re thinking too much. You need to let go.”
Yeah, right, I think. But I do as I’m told. Close my eyes. Tip my head back until my ears are under the water. Until I can hear the slosh and the muffled echo of the deep. The water flows over me, thick and soft. Holding me. And it is. It is holding me. I can’t feel his fingers anymore. He has let go. I open my eyes and jerk my head up, arms flailing. Water fills my throat and I can’t breathe; I’m choking.
But he’s laughing. Right in front of me, while I cough chlorine over him.
I can’t speak; wave my hands at him. Stop looking at me, I think.
But he doesn’t. He grasps my arms. “You did it. You floated, Billie. You floated!”
I hang my head, gasping for breath. Feel him pat me on the back. It works. I feel snot catching in my throat, cough it out. I can speak again.
I wipe it away. “Gross, huh?”
“Kind of.” He laughs. “But who cares? You swam.”
“No, I didn’t,” I argue. “I just lay there.”
“Next time we’ll try to move,” he says.
“Can’t I just float?” I ask.
He laughs. “For today,” he concedes, “yeah, we can just float.”
And for an hour that’s what we do. I float on my back, eyes open now, watching the dark sky while he floats next to me, then sculls to the side, wrapping himself in a towel and watching while I lie still on the surface.
Afterward he walks me back into town.
“So you’re looking for work?”
“How did you —?”
“Same way I got your number. Pat.”
I nod. Of course. Well, the secret’s out now.
“You should ask Eva. Her mum works up at the Laurels. It’s a care home. They always need cleaners.”
I look over at him, unsure. “Won’t Eva want it?”
“You must be joking. Eva wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.”
“Right.” Like Cass. Cass wouldn’t even go to one of those places to visit her own nan. Said it smelled of pee and cabbage and death.
He writes down her address on the back of a receipt.
“So, Thursday for swimming, yeah? Same time?”
Thursday. It’s only two days away. But I don’t say no. I watch as he walks back toward the front, still smiling. Then open the receipt out, turn it over to read Eva’s address. And something else, too. A phone number. His.
HET LEANS back on her arms and looks at her stomach, tan against the scarlet of her bikini. She inspects it, this stretch of skin, spreads her hands over it, feeling the heat of the last sun of the day, of the last days of summer. Then pushes gently, looking for something else. Something underneath that she knows is there but cannot see. Not yet.
“Hey.” A voice calls out to her.
Het looks up and out to sea. Searches for him in the shallows. The tide is coming in; it’s safe to swim now. And he is strong. Strong enough for the undertow. Though he is lean, his shoulders and arms are muscled from days of rigging at the fair.
He stands, water running down his chest, hair dripping, body sleek with it. Het searches his face for the answer. An answer he has been seeking in the water, in the rhythm of his arms rising and falling, his legs kicking steadily, the cold of the water against his flesh.
He sits down next to her. Rubs at his hair with a threadbare towel, lets it fall into his lap. “What about your dad?” he asks.
“I don’t care about my dad,” she replies. Her voice scarred with petulance.
“You should,” he says softly. “He cares about you.”
She snorts. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Your mum, then.”
Het sits up, crosses her legs. “They don’t matter. It’s not theirs. It’s ours.”
Tom reaches for her hand, grasps it, making her look at him properly.
“They won’t make it easy.”
She shrugs. “I’ve thought about it. We can go up to London, stay with Martha for a bit. You can play piano in the bars, and I can work, too, later. After.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll work in a café. Write a book. Something. Anything.” Het pulls her hand away and wraps her arms around her knees, holding herself tight. “I’ve got money,” she says.
“Poor little rich girl.”
“Screw you,” she says quietly.
She goes to stand but he pulls her back and into him.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispers into her hair. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just . . . It’s not a book or TV, Het. It’s real.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” she says. “I’m not Cinderella. And there’s no fairy godmother going to come and save me. There’s . . .”
But he’s shushing her now, rocking her gently.
“I’ll save you,” he says.
Het thinks about this. “We can save each other,” she says finally.
“Deal,” he says. And he moves back so he can look at her, drink her in. Then he looks down at her tummy. Puts his hand on it. “Do you think Cinderella ever got pregnant?” he says.
Het laughs. It’s going to be all right. They are going to be all right.
EVA LIVES out on the edge of town, in one of the row houses. It’s nearly nine when I knock on the door, but I figure she’s hardly one for early nights or homework. She leans against the door frame, sizing me up, wondering what I want from her. When it’s not her I want at all.
“Is your mum in?”
“No.” Her voice is tinged with suspicion. “What do you want her for?”
“Work. Danny said there might be a job at the home.”
“She’s at Bernie’s.” Like I know who that is.
“Oh. OK.” I turn to go. But Eva has other ideas.
“You can wait if you want. She’s only gone to borrow a plunger.”
I look past her down the corridor. Can see the front room flicker with TV glow. “OK. Thanks.”
She walks into the light and I follow, sit on a sagging yellow chair, while she slumps on the sofa, an ashtray balanced on the arm, spilling its contents over the white vinyl. On the floor an overweight Staffie is eating what looks like a Mars bar. The room stinks. Of cigarettes and dog and this-is-it.
Eva flicks an orange lighter, dips the tip of a Marlboro in the flame. “Where’d you see Danny, then?”
“The pool,” I say hesitantly, like I’m giving something away. A secret. Then I remember nothing happened. Not really. Not that you could use as evidence. Though it doesn’t feel that way.
“You smell of bleach,” Eva observes.
I smile, shrug. “So, you and Danny . . . ?” I ask. Because I don’t get her, where she fits in. And I’m scared of where it might be. Or where she wants it to be.
“Me and Danny nothing. He’s Jake’s best mate. Been around since I was born. His mum and my mum were at school together. Our school. Can you believe it? The minute I’m sixteen I am so out of this dump.”
I look around and nod. Though I know it’s not the room she means.
“We’re close,” she adds. Then looks at me slyly, gauging a reaction. “Never done it, though.”
“Oh.” I feign indifference. But it’s not enough.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” I bat it back.
“You into him?”
“I . . . I don’t know —” But I’m saved by the sound of a key turning in the lock and the bustle of Eva’s mum stamping her feet on the doormat.
“All right, Eva?” she calls.
“In here,” she replies, stubbing her cigarette out in a heap of ash and cigarette butts. Though it’s hardly a secret.
Eva’s mum is the spit of her daughter, all tight curls and sly eyes. The only giveaway is the lines around her lips, creasing her mouth into a puckered hole. She looks at me, trying to work out who I am.
“This is Billie. She’s after work up at the home.”
Eva’s mum nods. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I say. “Seventeen in a few months.”
“You at school?”
“Yes. No. Well, I will be, after Easter.”
She sighs. And I worry that it’s over. But she’s just thinking.
“It won’t be regular, like. Just when we need cover. But I could use someone Thursday. We’ll see after that. Maybe you can do after school or weekends.”
“Great. Yeah, anything.”
“The pay’s not much, mind. Minimum.”
“I don’t care. Really.”
“Fine. Well, be up there at ten. Ask for Debs.”
“Debs,” I repeat.
“That’s me.”
“Right. Thanks.”
I think she’s going to go then, but instead she looks hard at me, like she’s trying to see inside. Like Finn used to do, when he claimed he had special powers.
“Where you from?” she says finally.
“London,” I say. “But my mum grew up here.” Like that makes it all right. Makes me one of them.
“Right,” she says, lost for a minute. Then she says, “So, Thursday at ten.”
“I’ll be there.” I smile. “Thanks, Debs.”
She nods and walks out, heading toward the kitchen with her plunger and twenty Benson & Hedges and the dog trailing behind her.
“Thanks, Debs,” Eva repeats all singsong, like it’s a joke.
“I’d better go,” I say.
Eva shrugs. “Whatever.”
I laugh. “See you around.”
“Yeah.” She pauses, narrows her eyes. “I’ll probably be at Jake and Danny’s this weekend. If you’re around.”
“Great, yeah.” And I cringe as I hear myself. An eager puppy. Desperate for affection. “Whatever,” I add quickly.
“Whatever,” she repeats.
Eva closes the door behind me. I stand in the street, smell the smoke on my skin, in my hair. I shake it, letting rain spatter onto my face. Do your worst, I think. Because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
