There was a pause. Then she said, ‘Yes, all right. But keep your hands up, okay?’
The politeness of it was surprising. He moved around to face her. She was standing underneath the exterior light, eyes hidden in the shadow thrown by the brim of her neat hat, mouth straight. How petite she was, short and slim but with a wide stance, her feet planted in sensible black shoes.
‘My wife was working here last night, and she was approached by an assailant. I just thought I’d see if he was hanging around.’
She lifted her chin and gave him a view of her eyes. There was recognition in them. Did he know her? He felt certain he didn’t.
‘You’re Mr Percival?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got ID on you?’
‘Yes, in my pocket. Can I…?’ He lowered his hands and reached into his coat pocket to bring forth his wallet. She came closer, just a few steps, and held out her free hand in a precise, direct manner, as if she was in charge. Which, now he thought about it, she was. The sensation of her gaze on his driver’s licence, then on his face, wasn’t unpleasant. He risked a small smile, which she returned. ‘I had the same thought,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d just have a quick check round. Sometimes men like that come back to the same haunts.’
So it hadn’t been ridiculous after all. David nodded, trying to keep either vindication or disappointment from his expression.
‘How’s your wife?’ she said.
‘She’s gone away for a few days.’
She snapped his wallet shut and handed it back. She didn’t seem surprised, but maybe that was the training she received, to be calm in the face of all situations. He envied her. ‘I think you should probably go home now.’
‘Yes.’ But he couldn’t move, or say more. A knot was forming inside him, a strong, hard knot of despair for this wasted night, for Marianne’s refusal to let him help her. It threatened to choke him, drove tears up into his eyes, and the worst thing was that it was happening in front of this tiny, serious policewoman. His loneliness, made visible to a stranger, pulling tighter around his stomach as he struggled for self-control.
‘Do you want a lift home?’ she said. He shook his head.
‘No, I insist, I can’t leave you alone like this. You live near the park, right? I know your wife, a little bit. I’m a regular at the library. Come on, the car’s parked on the other side of the alley.’ She kept talking as she walked away, so David followed her, amazed by how confidently she strode without looking back, as if she didn’t realise how tiny and vulnerable she looked to him.
* * *
Her name was Samantha, Sam for short. She was a community support officer. She had a way of talking that didn’t tire the ears, even though on the drive back David had not noticed a pause in the flow of her speech on subjects such as the traffic problems of the high street and how the town needed better lighting. It was not entertaining talk, but it was easy to listen to. He could have stayed in the car for hours without feeling any pressure to respond, and so at the end of the drive he accepted her invitation of a cup of coffee. It turned out she lived around the corner from him anyway. He must have seen her around before; that would explain why her face was so familiar, yet utterly unremarkable. He couldn’t have described it to anyone else, except to say that it was neither pretty nor ugly. And that, too, was a soothing thing about her. When he looked at her he was not reminded of Marianne’s beauty.
Sam’s lounge seemed odd to him. It was so different from the cream curtains and wooden flooring of his house. Here, the room seemed crowded by the dark squashy armchairs, the radiator painted red to match the bookshelves and the fringed lampshade. He took a seat in a rocking chair, of all things, next to the small television, and knew straight away that she lived alone. The décor was too individual, and a small cuddly toy, an owl with enormous yellow felt eyes that were peeling around the edges due to age, sat in one of the armchairs, looking proprietorial.
He listened to the sound of the kettle boiling, and waited. Eventually she came in carrying a circular silver tray, her stab jacket undone, her hat removed, but still there was powerful formality in the way she placed the tray down on the glass-topped coffee table and handed him one of the mugs.
‘I know your wife,’ she said. ‘She recommended some thrillers for me. She was really helpful. I’ve been thinking about what happened to her. That’s why I stopped by the library at the end of the shift tonight, just in case there was anyone there. The thought of it makes me sick, someone like that, prowling around the town, looking for a woman who won’t be able to stand up to him. This should be a safe place for people, for families.’ She sat down in the armchair opposite him, clutching her own mug, her face composed, even though her words had been strident. He couldn’t work her out.
‘I thought maybe it would be someone from the Swindon estates,’ he said. ‘Some of those are pretty rough, and we’re practically a satellite town for Swindon now, aren’t we?’
‘It’s kept its own personality,’ she said. ‘You’re not from here, originally, are you?’
‘My parents still live in Cheltenham, where I grew up. Marianne’s from Bassett. Her father’s always been here, mainly in The Cornerhouse.’
Sam raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.
‘Are you from here, then?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
He got the feeling he’d strayed into unwelcome territory. He said, ‘She’s gone to Skein Island. My wife.’
‘No men allowed, right? The feminist thing. She’ll soon be back, I’m sure.’
He nodded, but that way she said it made him think of his parents. He had stopped telling them things years ago because they always gave the same sort of kindly, unrealistic reaction to bad news. They lived in sheltered accommodation together, sharing a ground-floor flat that cost him a great deal of money, but their fragility demanded special care. His father had a tendency to forget where he’d put things, and his mother nurtured an obsession with old notes, from greeting cards to shopping lists, for no discernible reason. He never bothered them with the details of his life.
She sipped her coffee. ‘Maybe it’s post-traumatic stress. She’s been through a terrible experience, even if nothing happened. She was very brave at the time, but people fall to pieces afterwards, sometimes.’
‘Of course, I’ve thought of that, but I can’t help her through it when she’s on an island where no men are allowed.’
She stood up. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’
He checked his watch; it was past ten. ‘No, I should head off home. I—thanks. For the lift.’
‘No problem.’
She led the way through the hallway, which was painted in an oppressive dark green, with varnished wooden banisters that had red wool strung between them, each strand bearing rows of tiny brass bells. David brushed them with one hand as he walked past, and they tinkled.
‘Early warning system,’ she said. ‘In case someone broke in. I know, it’s stupid, but in my line of work it can be difficult to relax at night. Thoughts go round your head.’
‘Of course,’ he said. He pictured her lying in bed, listening for the tinkle of bells.
She opened the front door. ‘Listen, David.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Don’t hang around outside the library any more, okay? The police are handling it.’
He wondered what the difference was between a policewoman and a community support officer. The thought of her standing out there on her own, with nothing to protect her, not even a proper police rank, scared him.
‘I can help,’ he said.
She blinked. ‘It’s my job.’
‘He tried to attack my wife.’
‘Yes, I understand that. But you don’t want to get into a situation you can’t handle.’
He stepped past her, feeling her flinch away, and then did up his coat in the cold air. The walk would only take a few minutes, but the temperature had dropped further and the pavement was slippery underfoot. Sam was right
; the estate did need better lighting at night.
‘The same goes for The Cornerhouse,’ Sam said. ‘That’s not a place I’d advise you spend any time in. You know where I am if you need anything. Goodnight.’ She shut the door.
David stared at it, then started taking small, careful steps home on the icy pavement. Her last warning made no sense to him. He turned it over in his mind, and as he did so he realised what had seemed wrong to him about her lounge. There had been no photographs in that otherwise homely space: no family, no friends, no scenes from holidays once taken. Didn’t women always love photographs? Marianne had covered their own house in them, all framed neatly, all hung in prominent places: the mantelpiece, the coffee table, every single wall.
There had been the bells, a warning for some possible future, but no photographs on show. He realised he had never met a woman before who didn’t, in some way, continually reference her own past, through her choice of friends, or through cherished cards, or photos. Maybe she was a different kind of woman altogether.
The thought excited him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Each stroke – the lift of the limb, the fall of drops on the surface of the water – is a soft, slow revelation of relaxation. I am swimming on my back, with my eyes open, devouring my delicious solitude.
Rebecca and Kay opted for a yoga class instead, and I’m glad. In their company I’m a different person, fitting in with their thoughts and ideas. I have never felt so malleable. It is the island, working upon me, taking away everything familiar. I should be shelving books right now. I should be standing behind the library desk, giving out my stamp and my smile. Instead I’m formulating a plan to break the rules. I’m going to read something that was never written to be read.
I reach the deep end of the pool and turn, my body curving like a comma, and start on another length.
The lifeguard sits in the tall chair set back from the shallow end, and I can feel her attention upon me, not in an uncomfortable way, but simply as a bored onlooker, like a housewife watching daytime television. After a few lengths, I notice she has climbed down the rungs and approached the poolside. The illusion of separation between us is broken. I swim up to her feet, taking in the serious blue eyes and the muscular calves as the woman kneels down and leans over to me.
‘The pool’s closing for lunch in five minutes.’
‘Okay.’
‘Usually it would be open all day, but the other attendant is off this week, so I don’t have cover. For the lunch hour.’ She has a Scandinavian accent I think.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, ‘if you want to go ahead and have lunch. I’m a strong swimmer.’
‘It’s a question of liability.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Okay.’
‘So, five minutes, then?’
Something peremptory in her tone forces my hand. I say, ‘I’ll get out now, if you like,’ and pull myself out, my thighs slapping on the cold raised lips of the tiles.
The woman walks away. But she’s not offended; she returns with a soft, cream towel from the rack by the changing room door. She holds it out, and I stand up to take it, and wrap it around myself.
The swimming pool is a beautiful space, filled with sunlight from the row of tall clean windows that look out over a stretch of field, and the blue beyond. The roof is a wooden pyramid, very unusual in design, with slats interlocking to form a spire. There are dark blue moulded plastic seats along the wall opposite the windows, lined up exactly, and it feels like being inside a church. I find I’m reluctant to leave. I could have gone on swimming for lengths that multiplied into miles.
‘It’s so calm,’ I say. ‘It must be peaceful, working here.’
‘No. We have to stay alert. Ready for anything.’
The cold is setting in. I excuse myself and skitter around the edge of the pool to the changing rooms, where I dress mechanically, in layers designed to trap heat. When I step out into the foyer, with my wet hair soaking into the back of my jumper, the lifeguard is sitting on one of the tubular stools in the tiny café area by the main door. She has a sandwich on the table in front of her, the cling film wrapper partially peeled back.
‘What time will you open again?’ I ask. I watch her not eat the sandwich. She is staring at it with what appears to be intense dislike.
‘A couple of minutes.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You want my sandwich?’
‘No, thanks. Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s got tomato in,’ she says, as if that explains everything.
I am caught between my desire to swim and the thought of climbing back into my clammy costume. Eventually she says, ‘You picked a really quiet week for your holiday. Usually the pool is so busy. What’s your name?’
‘Marianne.’
‘I’m Inger.’ She half stands on the metal bar between the legs of her stool, and holds out her hand. I shake it, and find myself smiling, tickled by the incongruity of the gesture.
‘Are you happy?’ she asks.
‘Um… yes, pretty happy.’
‘Enjoying your holiday?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good,’ says Inger. ‘I thought you looked sad, in the pool. That’s why I couldn’t leave you in there alone. Sometimes people do dangerous things when they’re sad.’ She says it in such a matter-of-fact tone, while lifting up the corner of the top slice of bread to examine the filling.
‘Really? You mean – in the pool?’
She shrugs. ‘It happens. I’ve had four try to drown themselves. Three, I saved. They could throw themselves off the cliffs, but no, they have to come to the pool instead. Off the cliffs would be much quicker and easier for everyone. But they don’t really want to die, do they? They want me to save them. Being saved is a good feeling. It gives meaning to your life, I’m thinking.’ Inger sweeps up her sandwich and throws it, overhand, into the blue bin next to the main entrance. It’s a fair distance, but the sandwich lands squarely in the bin. Inger doesn’t look in the slightest bit pleased with herself. Maybe she makes the throw every day.
‘That must be stressful, though,’ I say. ‘Being the one that does the saving.’
‘I like it. It’s the one I didn’t save that bothers me. She drank pool cleaner first, from the storage area. We keep it padlocked now.’ She stands up and stretches, then puts her hands on her hips. She looks ready for anything. ‘You can get changed again now if you want to carry on swimming.’
‘I might leave it for now, actually.’
‘I’ve put you off? I’m sorry. Listen, every swimming pool has a few deaths. Every street, every house, someone has died, yeah?’
‘You seem really…’ I can’t think of the right word and settle, eventually, on, ‘Scandinavian.’
Inger laughs. ‘It’s true. I’m from Denmark. I hope you have a good time while you’re here. You should go to the cinema tonight. They’re showing Jodie Foster films this week. There’s a discussion group afterwards, if enough people come.’
‘Are you going?’
‘For sure.’
Her casual invitation fills me with the confidence to ask my own question. ‘Can I ask – did you know Amelia Worthington?’
‘I met her a few times. She was very old when I started here. She didn’t leave the white house, and staff don’t get invited up there often. Not even now Mrs Makepeace is in charge. She keeps to the house too.’
‘Did you have to do a declaration? When you first started working here?’
Inger hesitates, then says, ‘I first came as a visitor, for the week. I was a manager at a bank in Copenhagen, and I was interested in Buddhism – this was eight, nine years ago. So I thought a free week, alone, to meditate, would be good. I spent the week trying to sit and clear my mind. Have you ever done that? Meditation? It’s very difficult. I couldn’t stop thinking. I wrote in my declaration all the things I’d thought about, and when I read it back to myself I knew I didn’t want to go home.’
‘So yo
u didn’t?’
‘I talked to Mrs Makepeace – she was Lady Worthington’s assistant back then – and she said they needed a pool attendant. I’m a strong swimmer. I stayed.’
‘Didn’t you have family?’
‘I had a boyfriend.’ She smiles a little. ‘He wanted to see other women anyway. I let him see all the women he wanted. Except me.’
‘And what happened to your declaration? Did you finish it?’
‘It went into the vault, with the others, I guess.’
‘The vault?’
‘Up at the white house. The basement is an archive. That’s the point of the island, right? These stories, sealed up, like a time capsule. A record of what it means to be a woman.’
‘Could you see it again, if you wanted to? Your declaration?’
‘Why would I want to?’ says Inger, with such puzzlement on her face. ‘Once you’ve changed your life, why would you want to read about what you were before? I don’t think that’s a healthy impulse. Look, come to the cinema tonight, and stay for the talk, and maybe you’ll understand more about making a declaration.’
‘Yes, okay, thanks.’
‘Back to the pool. It’ll be a quiet week for me.’
I nod. ‘Hopefully no suicide bids, then.’
Inger shrugs, as if it is impossible to tell when somebody might decide to throw themselves into the deep end.
Outside, on the short walk back to the bungalow, I picture that basement filled with declarations. What do those stories mean? Do they have to mean anything? And yet I can feel the pervasive magic of wanting to put down my own words, separating my life into before and after, altering my ideas about the person I want to be.
Am I turning into my mother?
Or maybe that process has already begun, in the library, in the face of that unknown man. Or earlier still, when my mother left. Yes, people are changed forever when the people they love decide to leave.
* * *
‘I think she makes the only choice she can. I mean, she has to avenge him, right? Sometimes we live on instinct and no matter how much we know it’s not a good idea, we can’t listen to anything but our hearts.’ The slim woman in jeans and a cream cable-knit jumper touches the space between her breasts with both hands, and I sit back as the other women in the circle nod. It is the kind of statement that divides people into two categories: those who believe in the all-embracing power of love, and those who think that the first group are a bunch of self-indulgent idiots. I desperately don’t want anyone else to work out that I think I once belonged to the first group. Now I’m not so sure.
Skein Island Page 4
