by Louise Voss
I’d always been fascinated by the different ways that children inherited their parents’ characteristics. At every possible opportunity I studied families, parents and children, siblings. Not just for the obvious physical resemblances -matching flame-hair or fat ankles, but gestures, facial tics, toe-shapes, cuticle growth patterns. When a new mother in one of my post-natal massage classes had pointed out that her baby son had inherited her double-jointed thumbs, holding up one of his weeny curved-back digits by way of example, I was overcome with envy and admiration.
‘That is so cool,’ I’d said, in tones of such utter awe that the mother thought I was taking the piss, and gave me a dark look.
Stella was like Dad in so many, mostly non-physical, ways: they were both hardly ever ill, and if they were, it was practically life-threatening for one day, and then they’d both make a miraculous recovery the next. My own bugs and coughs and colds used to drag on for weeks and weeks.
Stella used to come home from playgroup every day and rush to the bathroom, clutching her bottom and squealing ‘I need poo!’, because she didn’t like to go in a strange toilet. Dad was exactly the same – without the accompanying explanations, of course. He’d come back from his photographic assignments and it was always the first thing he did: grab the sports section of the newspaper and head off upstairs for twenty minutes. I remembered his homecomings more clearly as him coming down the stairs, and not in through the front door.
I shot back the bolt on the bathroom door, and returned to my room to assemble map, bag, coat, phone and key before leaving the house. As I took the left, first right, and right again, which I’d learned off by heart from the spidery legs of the roadmap, my hands were beginning to shake just enough so that I had to ram them into my coat pockets,
Three minutes later I was standing outside another large Victorian house, albeit a very different one to ‘Treetops’. Several small and elderly cars were parked haphazardly in the crazy-paved drive, and there was a faintly neglected mien to the building. A neat vertical row of bells to the left of the front door indicated that the house was split into several flats. Taking such a deep breath that I felt dizzy, I examined the little cardboard labels next to each bell. There it was: Flat 3, Paramor/Jenkins.
So who was Jenkins then, I wondered, feeling almost jealous. Partner, husband, lesbian lover, flatmate?
There was only one way to find out. I made myself push the innocuous white button of Flat 3’s doorbell. There was no corresponding sound from inside, but it was a big house, so I waited, my heart in my mouth.
Eventually I heard distant footsteps, fast, clattering down at least three flights of stairs. It took all my will not to bend down and peer through the letterbox. A shape loomed behind the frosted glass panels of the door and the door was flung open with an unpleasant grinding squeak as it scraped across the stone hall floor. I thought my heart would stop.
‘Yes?’ A man in grey stained jogging pants stood on the doorstep, brandishing a paintbrush and looking faintly irritated. He was middle-aged, slightly out of breath, and very hairy with too many teeth, like a DIY Bee Gee, or Kenny Rogers on a bad day. There was a splodge of apple white paint caught in one side of his beard, and my first reaction was to wonder if I should point it out to him.
‘Hi,’ I said, swallowing so hard that I actually gulped, ridiculously and audibly. ‘Sorry to bother you but I’m, um, looking for Ann Paramor.’
I’d decided that straightforwardness was the only way to do this. I didn’t have to tell him why I was looking for her. But to my relief, he didn’t ask. ‘She’s not here. She’s working today.’
‘Do you know when she’ll be home?’
‘Sorry.’ He peered past me into the road. ‘I’m expecting a delivery.’ He looked suddenly hopeful, as if his delivery might just be arriving after all, and he wouldn’t have had a wasted trip down the stairs.
‘Sorry,’ I said back to him. We were having the sort of conversation equivalent to when you’re in the supermarket, and you and the checkout person say ‘thank you’ to one another about twenty-five times in the space of one brief transaction.
I took another deep breath. ‘Are you Mr. Jenkins?’ I gesticulated vaguely towards the name beneath the doorbell as if to underline my question, and his gaze followed my rambling hand.
‘Oh,’ he said, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist. ‘No. I’m just doing a decorating job. I don’t live here. Anyway, I’d better get on. Do you want to leave a message for her?’
Are you my mother, I thought. ‘No. Thanks. I suppose I’ll just come back again later, see if she’ll be in this evening.’ Part of me wanted to bombard him with questions: how old is she? Does she look like me? OK, so you’re only the painter, but might you know, perchance, if her middle toe is longer than her big toe or if she suffers from stress-related nosebleeds?
‘Right’, he said absently, and began to close the door, dragging it through the grinding. Then he stopped. ‘Oh, actually, I don’t think she’s in tonight, not till late. She said something about teaching at the pool this evening.’
I could. Why not? If Ann Paramor was teaching in a public pool, there was no reason why I shouldn’t go and see her, at least. In all my mother-meeting scenarios, I had never envisaged the possibility of me in five feet of chlorinated water when I first clapped eyes on her – but this was all so surreal anyway. I had nothing to lose. And at least Mack and his camera wouldn’t be able to record it.
I went back to the guesthouse and asked Janet if she had a Yellow Pages. Keeping a weather eye out for the delectable Mr. Tilt, I carried the phonebook back to my bedroom, but the upstairs of the house was silent and still, with not a cricketer in sight. My room was hot and central-heated dry, so I heaved up the old sash window with a rattle and a thump, before flopping open the big yellow book, grateful for the cold February air ruffling my hair along with the flimsy printed pages.
There were no less than eight swimming pools in the Nottingham area. Thank God for mobile phones, I thought, as I rang the first one on the list.
Five pools later, I hit pay dirt.
‘Could you tell me if Ann Paramor is teaching a class with you tonight?’
‘Just a moment, please…’ I heard a rustling of paper and a distant ringing telephone, but no swimming pool sounds: no echoey squeals or splashes of dive-bombing children. ‘…..Yes, the eight o’clock Aquafit, in the small pool.’
I shivered, as if I already had one toe in cold water. ‘Is it open to the public?’
‘Yes, of course. £3.50. It gets busy so it’s best to put your name down for it.’
‘Right…um, Emma Victor, then.’
‘Thank you.’ The woman hung up, sealing me off from her turquoise tiled and chlorinated world. Even if her office wasn’t right next to the pool, I wondered if her eyes smarted when she went home at night.
Aquafit. Was I completely mad? I rang Stella again, and this time she answered.
‘Stell, you’ll never guess what.’
‘You found her! Oh my God, what’s she like?’
‘No, wait, I still don’t know if it’s her or not.’
‘Oh. What then?’
‘I went to her house, and her decorator told me she was teaching an aqua aerobics class at the pool tonight, so I’ve rung round all the pools and….’
Gales of crackly laughter interrupted me. ‘You’re never going!’
‘I might. What do you think?’
‘Go for it. God, I wish I was coming too, if only for the spectacle of you jiggling around in the water - you hate swimming!’
‘I know. Shut up. Anyway, it’s not swimming. I’ll probably just go and check it out, then join the class if it looks any good. How else am I going to get the chance to get a proper look at her?’
Stella laughed again. She sounded much happier, and I felt a tiny pang of jealousy that Suzanne could cheer her up in a way I couldn’t.
‘Excellent. I think it’s a great idea. You wanted some diff
erent experiences, and you’re certainly getting them…’
I giggled too. ‘You only live once, as they say. Hey, Stell, you’ll never guess what else - Gavin and I are back together, isn’t it great? He turned up yesterday and took me to lunch, then one thing led to another and…I think I’m in love again.’
There was such a profound silence that I thought I’d been cut off. ‘Stell?’
‘Yeah? Oh right, that’s….great. If it’s what you really want. Anyhow, listen, I’ve got to run. I’m late for meeting Suzanne. We’re going to the library. Let me know how you get on at the aerobics, OK? Talk to you soon.’
Before I had the chance to check that she hadn’t seen or heard from Charlie again, she hung up on me - or whatever the correct expression was when you terminated a conversation on a mobile telephone. Switched off, perhaps.
‘But I thought you liked Gavin?’ I said into the ether, worried and momentarily hurt.
Still, at that moment I had more pressing concerns – where was I going to get a swimsuit from in time for the class? It hadn’t occurred to me to bring mine; although it was about time I purchased a new one, anyway. Because I didn’t swim very often, I still had the same costume I’d had since school, and it had deteriorated with age, to the point that at sites of stress - bottom, breasts, stomach - it had become almost transparent, and bobbly like a badly-pilled sweater. I always worried whether my nipples and pubic hair were on display. No wonder I never went swimming.
In a flash of inspiration, I rang back the lady at the pool, asking if they by any chance sold swimwear, and, if so, did they have any size 12 women’s Speedos. After another lengthy pause, she confirmed that they did indeed stock several size 12s.
By six ten I was standing in the reception area of the pool, after triumphantly parking in the municipal carpark outside; another successful navigation experience. I’d even had the correct change for the Pay & Display meters. Superstitiously, I convinced myself that the omens were good; that this Ann Paramor would be the one.
I bought a nice keyhole racing-back blue and yellow swimsuit, pristine in its cellophane wrapper and smelling of petroleum by-products and, after hiring a towel, wandered cautiously into the changing rooms. In a cubicle with the approximate square footage of a coffin, I managed to wriggle into the new costume, deciding that it did fit, if a little snugly. I could feel it digging unsympathetically into the cheeks of my bottom and the ridges of my shoulders. Still, it was too late to take it back and change it – the class began in six minutes.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought, as I emerged self-consciously, pulling the back of the swimsuit down lower over my backside. I shut my clothes, watch and – reluctantly - my glasses, into a locker, and snapped the thick elastic band holding the locker key onto my ankle. Then, my entire body speckled with goosebumps of fear, I ventured forth to meet Ann Paramor.
Even without my glasses on, I could see an alarmingly high incidence of huge bellies amongst the seven or so women sitting on a chilly-looking tiled seat which ran alongside the baby pool, plus a couple of babies in carseats being rocked by their mothers’ bare feet. The receptionist hadn’t mentioned anything about it being ante-or post-natal! I looked wildly around for any other potential classes waiting by either of the two pools, but there were none. I’d made a terrible mistake.
I swallowed hard and picked my way carefully over the wet tiles, wishing that I’d thought to put my towel around my waist, before the meaty-looking blokes thrashing up and down lanes in the big pool got an eyeful of my ass. Pay and Display, indeed. They should put the meters inside the building, not out in the carpark – much more apt.
It seemed a very long walk to the baby pool, and when I got there, all the women ignored me. I sat down gingerly a little way apart from them, feeling that, as with the baby massage classes, I’d once again stumbled into a members-only club for which I didn’t fit the admission criteria. Shyness washed over me, bathing my chest and neck in a raspberry rash of discomfort. Think what Gavin would do, I told myself, and then almost laughed aloud at the thought of Gavin sitting in his trunks amid this display of female fecundity. Panic, that’s what Gavin would do, without a shadow of a doubt.
It didn’t matter what these women thought of me. I was in a strange town, taking a gamble, being a detective. None them would ever see me again. So what if I wasn’t pregnant?
‘How far along are you, then?’ I jumped. The woman next to me had slid along until our hips almost touched.
My hand shot to my throat, trying to cover up its redness. ‘Actually, I’m here under false pretences. I didn’t realise this was an ante-natal class. I feel a bit stupid – I’m not pregnant at all.’
The woman waved her hand in front of her face dismissively, then rested it on the balloon of her belly. Apart from the dark puffy circles under her eyes, she was very pretty, with blonde wavy hair and neat features. She reminded me of Jenny Seagrove, or one of those other delicate little bird-boned actresses.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. There’s another woman who comes every week - look, her over there, and she’s not pregnant or post-natal either. Don’t worry about it.’
I relaxed a little. ‘Phew. That’s a relief. I bought a new costume and everything – I’d be mortified if I got chucked out before it even started.’ Particularly by my own mother, I thought.
‘It’s a nice costume,’ said the woman wistfully. ‘God, I wish I could wear a flimsy little Speedo again - I hate these disgusting Mothercare efforts.’
‘When are you due?’
‘Not for another month. But I tell you, it won’t be a moment too soon. I bloody hate being pregnant. Have you got kids?’
We cast surreptitious glances at each others’ ring fingers. She didn’t wear one either. I shook my head. ‘Is this your first?’
‘And last. My name’s Ruth, by the way. Do you live around here?’
‘Emma. No, I don’t, actually, I – ‘
‘Oh no,’ Ruth interrupted, nodding towards a hugely fat man waddling towards them, improbably clad in skin-tight black lycra. ‘Ann’s not here – Marty’s standing in for her. Nightmare! He’s rubbish.’
My face fell so far that Ruth looked askance at me. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not that bad. I was exaggerating. Ann’s much better, that’s all. Hey, you think Marty’s fat now - apparently he’s already lost six stone.’
The news of Ann’s absence hit me hard, and tears welled momentarily in my eyes. Sternly, I told myself not to be so ridiculous; I’d just have to make the most of it for now, and go and visit Ann’s flat again tomorrow. I’d psyched myself up this far.
The women stood up and headed for the wide submerged steps into the shallow pool, and I followed, embarrassment preventing me from simply turning around and leaving. Ruth waded into the pool in front of me, knelt down and threw her head back in the water, shaking out her long hair in slow seaweedy slithers underneath the surface. I approved – Stella and I, on the few occasions we’d been swimming together, always laughed privately about the women who kept their heads out of water at all costs, paddling around, long of neck and strained of throat. I followed her, leaning my own head back, feeling the kiss of the blue unthreatening water wash over my scalp.
Marty put a tape into the boombox and then, when the B-52’s Love Shack began ricochetting across the water’s surface, knelt down on the edge of the pool so he was closer to us, waving his arms and exhorting us to jog around in a clockwise direction. Nobody took any notice of him at first, so I stayed floating on my back for a moment more. Underwater, the music sounded different, more menacing, distorted and dominated by the thud of the drumbeats.
Ruth hauled herself upright again, and yanked her head towards Marty.
‘Come on then,’ she mouthed to me, stroking her belly. I watched her begin to wade towards the raggedy circle of women, her familiarity endearing her to me hugely. Despite her complaints about her appearance, she looked sleek and elegant in her spotted maternity swimsuit, stil
l fetchingly baggy around the middle. Even eight months into the pregnancy, she only had a medium-sized bump, halfway along the spectrum of roundness’ on display. I wondered what sort of bump I’d have. Then I wondered how I had carried myself in Ann Paramor’s womb – perkily, high and proud, like Ruth’s baby? Or low-slung and thrashing about?
By now we were all, in a manner of speaking, jogging around. When I jogged past Marty he smiled encouragingly at me, but I had to turn my head away because I was sure I got a faint whiff of something from the crotch area of his lycra casing – a nauseating yeasty, revolting smell which made me shudder. Once I was out of sight I gulped in a big lungful of chlorinated air, reassured by its antiseptic tang. It reminded me of something that happened once, when I’d been swimming as a kid, before Stella was born – not Marty’s crotch, thankfully, but the feeling of sensing a scent through water.
We’d been on holiday in Cornwall, and I’d been showing off to Dad in the local pool, demonstrating my new-found ability to do front-crawl with my face in the water, as he sat watching from the side with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. When I got down towards the deep end, away from him, I’d suddenly become aware of an inexplicably strong odour coming from the water, a not-unpleasant sort of Eau de Cologney smell. Intrigued, I’d thought that it was coming from the bottom of the pool. I had put my face back down into the water and without giving it a second thought, breathed deeply in. Underwater. Dad had to dive in, fully clad, and drag me out as I surfaced, heaving and choking and almost vomiting.
I’d have given anything, right at that moment, with the other women in the baby pool laughing and gossiping, to see Dad standing there, dripping wet and concerned for me.
Ruth caught up with me. ‘All right?’ she said. ‘Wait till we change direction – then it gets hard.’
I tried to talk back to her, but it was difficult to make myself heard over the tinny pop and all the other women’s voices, echoing in the chlorine-heavy air. A fluke of the pool’s acoustics occasionally permitted a comment from someone down the other end to be distinctly heard: ‘....my boobs have got so saggy I might as well just roll the buggers up,’ said a weary-looking post-natal mother.
