by Tom Vowler
My wife stands and checks herself in the mirror, turning ninety degrees left then right, a look of satisfaction rather than vanity.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and she crosses the room, kisses my forehead, the Chanel still young, yet to blend with her own scent.
‘If you’re awake when I get back, I can read to you if you like.’
We are tackling my favourite Márquez, all 450 pages, most of which I won’t remember, at least not this time round. But the essence of the book lingers in the suburbs of my mind, and so despite my attention wavering every few lines, there is still pleasure to be had. Pleasure especially in the sound of the words, my wife’s voice a blend of honey and whisky, a balm no painkiller can rival. I wonder what texts the students have been given this term, what anodyne classics have been selected for their enrichment, novels chosen by committee to illustrate technique or theme, rather than to delight in. A couple of colleagues visited in the early days, bearing gifts and conversations that groaned with formula, office gossip their stock offering. Better off here, they would say, away from it all. Certainly I was accommodated for in those final days at work. Reasonable adjustments, as they’re termed, were made as symptoms advanced: a parking space, pressure on fire doors eased, reduction of hours. I worked from home where possible. I knew all my work was re-marked, that I was just humoured in the end.
My wife moves the Márquez onto the bed, placing it in the space she will later fill, a promise of sorts. I smile, knowing the pills will render me beyond storytelling later tonight. In her absence I will listen to the radio, a surprising source of company that I’ve neglected most of my life. During the worst relapses, when mobility is nothing but fantasy, entire days can be built on the scheduling of programmes from around the world.
I try to remember the first occasion the matter of her taking a lover came up. Curious verb that, more something you associate with a hobby, the taking up of a pastime. Which lover would madam like to take? Have you browsed our online options? Just click Add to Cart when you’re ready. I know nothing of him, no particulars beyond a handful of unsolicited revelations: age (around ours, a little older), profession (middle management), marital status (widowed). So he at least waited, I thought.
‘Just tell me he doesn’t play golf,’ I said. I couldn’t stand that.
They met at badminton, or yoga, I forget now. He knows the score, of course, knows our situation. Presumably they still interact at badminton or yoga, but dinner and its attendant digestifs are kept strictly to the second Friday of the month, the first couple of which remained platonic, if I read between the lines correctly. She used his name more, was how it started, the word registering subliminally until one day its utterance became frequent enough to jar. And then came the conversation, the one you never conceived of midway through your marriage vows or on honeymoon as you coiled and writhed and devoured one another. A mature tête-à-tête, one that addresses base needs, that purports to be pragmatic, but in itself is enough to crush you. There would be no question of anything else, we agreed. Our bond was beyond severing, half a lifetime’s narrative to this footnote, this loveless frisson. Like servicing the car, it helped to regard it. I could request its cessation at any time, and yet I have begun to cherish the mornings after, when she lies by my side and silently strokes my face deep into the day. It’s as if she returns in need of forgiving, though no such exchange takes place. And then it’s done for another month and I can almost forget about it.
She brings in dinner, checks I’m OK to feed myself, which sometimes I’m not.
‘My taxi’s here,’ she says, and now I think about it I can hear the rapid tolling of the diesel engine, this vessel of sin, transporter of goods. I wonder what the drivers think as they drop her off at the same restaurant each month, this woman who sports a wedding ring yet is always alone. Do they speak among themselves about this fare, about the house in the adjacent village they collect her from in the early hours?
‘I will always have my phone on,’ she once said, in reference to my physical rather than emotional needs. ‘If you text I will come straight back. He understands this.’
Very good of him.
When sufficiently strong I like to revisit in my mind our first few years together, conjure as vividly as possible our trip to Tuscany, to the Lakes, moments within moments kept alive by their rehearsal, my senses fed sound and colour and smell, words re-enacted. Done well my mind can even trick itself, escape its cage for a few minutes. I remember the time I fell in love with her, the exact second as new lovers in our twenties. We’d taken a small cottage on the Gower, and out walking one morning came across a table of free-range eggs for sale, below which was an honesty box. We had no money, but the thought of cooking up those eggs for breakfast was all we could think about. I suggested we just take some, that worse crimes happen all the time, but she insisted we write an IOU note, posting it in the box. After we ate them she walked back the few miles to settle up.
My wife kisses my cheek, tells me not to get into any trouble while she’s out.
‘I plan to have an ASBO before you return,’ I say.
She’s almost at the bedroom door when I speak again, the words sounding so plaintive they disgust me.
‘Eat with me tonight.’
She looks hard at me, gauging the words, my face, to assess if it’s still part of the banter. I lower my head like a child asking to take a puppy home.
‘Please.’
And we remain there in bloated silence, the spoils of a marriage charging the air between us, giving it voltage, and as I stare down at my stricken being I want to say I am still me, the same collection of particles and molecules and memories, still more than this shape-shifting abomination can ever reduce me to. I am more than the sum of my broken parts and I thought I could share you but I can’t.
Instead I ask her if this year’s swallows have left.
Undertow
He watched from an upstairs window as she entered the water. It was one of the few not boarded up, this side beyond reach of even the most competent stone-thrower. The room itself was empty these days, save the rocking chair, where on occasion he’d observe the cycle of the Atlantic as it pitched and tossed, the wading birds prospecting the strandline. He’d vowed last year to make something of it, return it to the handful of habitable rooms, but there was comfort found in its sparsity. He supposed it would have been one of the more expensive guest rooms, and he imagined their mother proudly opening the door for visitors, letting the panorama announce itself.
He was not beyond prospecting the line of wrack himself, a source of endless flotsam: wood for fuel or furniture; a pair of sunglasses he wore to this day. He’d found shoes, dolls, hot water bottles, skulls of various mammals – all curated by the waves after their immense journeys. Twice a day the sea bestowed him with gifts. Once a dead seal lay across the seaweed, half its head missing, flank corkscrewed open – a propeller most likely – and for days he watched the gulls pick it clean.
The light was receding fast and he had to adjust his position at the window to follow the woman, could see that she was up to her knees now. She might still turn back, he said to himself. There was no need to do anything yet.
He didn’t recognise her as someone from the village, reckoned on her being mid-twenties or so, a holidaymaker perhaps, though it wasn’t the season. She would presume the house empty, its tumbledown façade and weatherworn roof, its proximity to the cliff that suggested the sea would one day claim it, which it would. He’d always regarded land as unassailable, the changes it endured too small to witness, giving an illusion of permanence. But he knew the sea’s furious power now, which he’d listen to at night as it dragged away a little more of the rock beneath him.
To live on the edge of things, he thought. The meeting of two worlds, a liminal porthole from known to unknown, as land gave way to leagues of nothing but ocean. Their mother liked to say the sea was answerable to no one, that even God was made impotent by its will.
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br /> The woman was deeper now. Almost to her waist. He looked to see if anyone else was present, a dog walker or a lover for whom this spectacle was intended, but if there was the dark had displaced them. There would be someone fishing further along, but their focus would be narrow, outward looking.
It was a test then, as everything these days was.
After surveying the horizon for an hour, she had climbed down a less sheer spot on the cliff, mislaying her footing a few times. At one point she seemed to lose her nerve, but climbing back up must have felt equally perilous, and a few minutes later she was on the beach. He’d watched as she crossed the shingle, limping a little, the gloaming shape of her less distinct by the second, and had he not known of her presence she might have been just another shadow. She’d paused at the water’s edge and for a moment he thought the reality of the thing would dissuade her.
When she went in her stride had been purposeful and every few yards she fell, recovered and continued.
And then she was gone.
He tried to open the window, to get a better look at the woman, but it had long since sealed shut. Whether the undertow had taken her, or one of the small ridges that fell away, she was no longer there.
There was anger in him now. This was what happened in the world, people forced their business on you, drew you into their lives whether you wanted it or not. Even here, where he’d cocooned himself from the world, fashioned a life of sorts for his middle years.
He took the stairs three at a time, the dog getting under his feet, excited at the prospect of some event or other. He was halfway across the garden when he thought of the torch, but that would take another minute, which could be the difference. The dog was barking now, playing some game, trying to herd him, and he shouted it down.
There was enough light to see the shape of things if not the detail, and he kept a good pace, knowing by heart the path’s course to the clifftop. He tried to remember today’s high tide time, calculate what force he would be up against.
His route to the beach was more plummet than calculated descent, the gorse slowing his fall a little. He stood, sensed that any injuries were superficial. The sea was a hundred yards or so away, distinguished from the beach only by its fluctuating, by a thousand ever-shifting contours. There had been moonlight on previous evenings, but the cloud was dense tonight.
The water was cold, even to him, each stride less productive than the last. His boots were soon small anchors, his jeans already twice their weight as he lunged forwards. Once up to his midriff he stopped, tried to becalm his breathing, knew this to be important. He realised he had no idea where she was, that she could be fifty feet or more away.
He could hear the dog barking on the shore, and he called it to quieten, so he could listen for splashes. Less than two minutes, he reckoned he’d been. Even if she’d been under all that time, the low temperature might save her, force the blood to vital organs.
The cold was deep in him now, his body slowing as it tried to preserve itself. He removed his boots, thinking he should have taken everything off on the beach, that the extra time would have been worth it.
He called out several times, felt the immense scale of the water around him. A small wave broke on his back, enough to unbalance him and he took in some water, lost the direction of things for a moment. He had tried, he said to himself. You couldn’t stop someone if they were determined.
She burst through the surface a few yards from him, arms flaying, taking big gulps of air before going under again. He pushed through the water in pathetic slow motion until the seabed fell away and he had to swim. There was nothing when he got to the spot, and he felt with his hands and legs for something solid, his muscles claggy like they were in mud, and he knew he’d be of no help soon.
His leg was stuck now, caught on something, his instinct to kick out, to release himself, but he realised she’d grabbed his ankle, and so he reached down. He held his breath and allowed himself to submerge a little, trying to find something of substance, but she was pulling him further down, further out.
He managed to surface again, could hear the yelp of the dog and he took some big gulps before plunging again, this time forcing his upper body over itself so that he could swim down to her. He found what he thought must be hair and looped an arm under hers, knowing it was a final effort, that there would be only one go.
He’d read about drowning, of those caught in riptides, the swell and heave of the sea underestimated, the cold sapping all strength from even the strongest. Of waves that pounded down on you like a ton of gravel until you had nothing left. Sometimes fighting it was a mistake, the battering and winding all the worse for it. Soon you couldn’t tell up from down. Panic became resignation, the breath held as long as possible but eventually the body disobeyed the mind and breathed for you, the lungs flooding. Some spoke of euphoria, a painless passing to unconsciousness, but he wondered if this was always the case. Once reconciled to your fate, it was better to inhale deeply, to hasten it all.
It was anger that leavened the woman, anger that she was drowning them both, and he pulled her up until they were both afloat, their heads almost touching, undulating on the surface like buoys. He turned her a little, coiled a forearm around her neck and began the swim to shore. When he could stand he moved behind her, held her in both arms, collapsing on the shingle as the dog yelped and harried.
Even in the half-light he could see her skin was grey, that the water had claimed its colour. He opened her mouth, pushed two fingers in, but it felt clear. He placed an ear to her mouth but could hear nothing beyond the waves or the dog. Pinching her nose shut he cupped his mouth to hers and blew hard, waited two seconds, then blew again. He tried to see if her chest rose, and when he couldn’t he felt her wrist for a pulse.
He knew to press hard on her chest, a 100 compressions a minute, stopping at 30 to blow into her again, and this time he sensed her chest rise. When she convulsed it wasn’t to bring water up but to vomit. Turning her on her side he again forced his fingers into her mouth, scooping the remaining sick out. The dog, he realised, had ceased barking, the game something sinister now, something to fear, and he turned her on her back once again. The cloud had parted a little and, her face burnished in moonlight, he got a first real sense of what she looked like. Serenely beautiful were the words that came, a waterlogged beauty.
He was angry again, but different to in the water. Hers was an age when it was all felt so keenly and there seemed no way to go on. An age of absolutes. Pain you think impossible to live with.
He forced more of his air into her, hoping some of the oxygen found a way, and then sat back, exhausted.
Life was there still, he felt, vaporous and fragile but apparent. He went to continue the resuscitation when the water came, burbling out of her like a blocked drain. She choked and he eased her on her side again, smoothed her back, and the dog resumed its barking.
He pictured his boots on the seabed, barrelling out on the tide, and he mourned their loss.
Looking up at the house, he thought it possible. She wouldn’t be so heavy, even with wet clothes, and after another minute he hoisted her over his shoulder and trudged across the shingle.
The whisky seared, its warmth welcome. He worked out the order of things, decided she was OK while he changed his clothes and lit the fire. Even if he walked to the village, to the phone box, she needed caring for now. He had put a blanket over her, but her wet clothes needed to come off, it was just a fact. Her breathing was at least regular now, broken only by a steady cough, and he felt sure all the water had come up. When he’d first placed her on the sofa, she was still unconscious and for minute it seemed he’d lost her after all, her skin sickly blue, the hope he’d had on the beach diminished. What would he do then, he’d thought. But then she’d spluttered some more.
He tried to recall the signs of hypothermia, knew you could recover then relapse. Pneumonia was possible too. Brain damage. He removed the blanket and began taking off her jumper, pull
ing each arm down over her hands, working the thing up over her head as he tilted her forward. The shirt next, its buttons slipping easily through their holes. She seemed to rouse a little and he thought to stop, to explain what he was doing, but she drifted away again, between worlds. The shoes were harder, their laces tightly knotted by the water, his fingers too thick, nails bitten too short to get any purchase. He tried to remove a shoe as it was but these too had contracted. Leaning back he opened the drawer of the coffee table, felt around for the scissors, and cut each lace below the knot. He thought he might have to cut the jeans, but after initial resistance, they slid down.
He stood back, took in this unfamiliar sight the universe had brought him. Like flotsam. A quick calculation was all it took, to recall the last time he’d watched a woman sleep this close up. More than a decade, and he tried to remember what intimacy felt like but couldn’t. It was as if the body forgot, more than the mind: the brain knew the choreography, its specifics, but not how it felt. There seemed little equivalent, where something else was denied – food, exercise, drink – and the concept of it vanished from your mind. Returning only at a sight like this. She was, he saw now, probably not even 20, more like 18, the age his daughter would be.
He told himself to stop thinking, to stay with the order of things.
The fire hadn’t caught properly, so he worked on it until the flames bickered and he was sure it would sustain itself. He sidled the sofa nearer the heat, then started to remove her underwear. If she came round he would stop and apologise, hope she remembered what had occurred.
The pants were skimpy, a lurid pink, and they rolled down her legs until they were just a wet cord, a figure of eight. The bra was dark green, her breasts pushed unnaturally inwards by it. Rather than turn or lift her again, he felt behind her and unclasped it, waiting for her to stir but she didn’t. Their faces so close, he could smell the whisky on his breath. He adjusted each arm in turn and removed the bra, tried to contain his thoughts. And then she was naked and something in him did remember an aspect of it all, how it felt. An ancient arousal.
