The Swimmer Page 3

  ‘Yes, please,’ Sophie, my niece, cried. ‘Can we have it while we watch television?’

  ‘You should cut the grass by the river,’ Zach said. ‘It’s not a good idea to allow it to grow so long. Anyone trying to get out of the water in a hurry might have trouble.’

  ‘Why would you want to get out in a hurry?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Because of the current, stupid!’

  ‘Stupid yourself.’

  ‘Zach,’ Miranda said.

  ‘If you’re planning on swimming,’ I said, ‘perhaps you could clear it for me?’

  ‘Nah!’ he said.

  I wanted to say that a bit of exercise might help him lose some weight. But I’m not his mother. As far as I could see, all they appeared to do in their spare time was watch endless television and play computer games. But this, too, wasn’t my business.

  ‘Why don’t you fence the river off?’ Miranda asked, slicing up the tart. ‘After all, you don’t swim in it, do you?’

  I shrugged. I could have told her that I liked having the river at the bottom of my land. I liked the way it moved, as though it were a sleek animal, lean in high summer, flushed and heavy in spring and autumn, cold and uninviting in winter. If I fenced it off, I would not see the extraordinary birdlife that lived around it, nor would I be able to wave to Eric on his trips upstream, on warm, moist nights, his low battery light encircled by moths as he hunted for pebbleblack eels. I could have told her this, but I didn’t.

  ‘You’d get a flat in London for half the price of this place,’ my brother reminded me.

  Still I said nothing. He wanted a share of the money to fund his political activities.

  ‘Why are you such a loser?’ he asked. ‘Think what you could make—enough to buy two houses.’

  ‘Jack!’ Miranda protested. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning to me.

  ‘Look,’ I said, as pleasantly as I could, ‘shall we stop baiting Ria for the duration of this holiday? I’m just not selling, Jack. Get this into your head. I’m not interested in the monetary value of this house, nor am I interested in funding your fascist politics, okay? Now, who wants coffee and who wants tea?’

  Jack laughed. How the hell was I going to get through the fort-night? Miranda was looking at me with something like kindness. Lately I had begun to feel a great deal of sympathy for my sister-inlaw. There have been moments, when she was pregnant with the children, for example, when we’d come close to seeing eye to eye.

  I went back into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

  ‘We’re thinking of going to Cromer,’ Miranda announced, coming in after me with the pile of dirty plates. ‘Just for a few days—give the kids a bit of beach. Fancy coming with us?’

  I held my breath. When were they thinking of going? We cleared the kitchen together.

  ‘You need a holiday, too, Ria,’ she said after a while. ‘You work far too much. In that way you’re like Jack.’

  I laughed without humour and filled the dishwasher, scraping bits of food off the plates. I would not cry.

  ‘Actually,’ Miranda continued, lowering her voice, ‘I’m a little worried about him.’

  I was surprised. My brother’s marriage had always seemed to me to be run along the lines of a business. Nothing emotional was ever aired. What was she worried about?

  ‘He’s getting far too involved in politics. We’re spending vast amounts of money and I’m worried. You know how stubborn he is. I was wondering if you might talk to him.’

  ‘Me! You must be joking!’

  ‘Yes, I know…’ her voice trailed off.

  If Miranda was appealing to me, then things must be desperate.

  ‘I just want him to take it easy. There are a couple of people who have joined who are…well, a bit extremist, you know what I mean? We’ve had a few odd-looking types visiting. Anyway,’ she glanced around quickly, ‘what d’you think about Cromer?’

  ‘Ria, I need to use the Internet,’ Jack announced, walking in with the empty wine bottle.

  He poured himself a whisky.

  ‘I presume you did get it installed after last year’s fiasco? Let’s forget Cromer, Miranda. I’m thinking of hiring a boat for a few days.’

  The sound of the television drifted out through the open window, mingling with raised voices and the odd thump. The children were fighting.

  ‘Oh God!’ Miranda cried, wiping her hands, ‘I’d better go and see what they’re up to.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A kind of hollow despair enveloped me. In just a few hours my house had been stripped of its privacy. Alone in the kitchen I poured myself another drink and walked outside, moving swiftly towards the wild part of the garden. Beyond the river, and before you reached Orford Ness, were the matchstick woods. They were hidden now by fingers of dusk. The air was much cooler here and the trees were outlined sharply against a darkening sky. Nothing stirred. I heard the faint sound of traffic from the road beyond the trees, but that was all. The renters next door seemed to have disappeared too and silence enveloped me. I breathed slowly, feeling the tightness in my chest slowly easing.

  Every summer of my childhood had been spent in this house. It had belonged to Uncle Clifford, our father’s brother, and his wife Elsa. By the time he was six, Jack was allowed to come with me. Our parents put us on the train at Liverpool Street and Uncle Clifford met us at the other end. There followed a month of blissful neglect when we roamed the fields and helped on the farm. I was meant to look after Jack. I remember how once we had got lost in some field before finally finding our way back to Eric’s farm. I had been scared, but as the eldest it had been my responsibility to get us home. Peggy, Eric’s wife, had given us two fresh eggs each when we reached her kitchen. We had carried them triumphantly back to Eel House. It was the beginning of a ritual that marked all our summers after that. Towards the end of August, before the weather broke and we returned home, our parents would join us. I was delighted, knowing that at last I could have my father all to myself. Even in those days Jack was a bit of a mother’s boy, less interested in the outdoor life. As soon as Mum arrived he stopped trailing around with me and the pair of them would go to the cinema and afterwards to tea in Aldeburgh, or on a long drive to visit friends. Mum was always buying him toys, which he broke almost instantly, whereupon she would promise him more treats. Dad disapproved hugely of such spoiling, but Jack was a precocious, rather bright child, so I suppose he got away with it. Meanwhile, Dad and I would go rambling in the matchstick woods, looking for fossils. We would pack a picnic and leave in the morning, returning at dusk when the light fell differently and the woods took on an air of enchantment. On other days we two would go out in the boat with Eric. Eric was Dad’s great friend. Dad and Uncle Clifford and Eric had all grown up together. They used to call themselves the Three Musketeers. ‘One for all and all for one,’ they used to laugh. After our fishing trips we would return with eels for supper. Later, Jack and I would play board games with my parents and Clifford and Elsa, laughing and cheating, ganging up against each other; Dad, Jack and Uncle Clifford against Mum and me and Aunt Elsa.

  Where had all that easy affection gone? I sipped my wine. Once, I had believed that the farm and the fields, and Eric’s eels, would last for ever. Sighing, I closed my eyes and the poem that had been fermenting in me all day turned restlessly. It was getting late. High above the land a harvest moon moved silently while all the stars appeared like germinating seeds in the wide East Anglian sky. As I went back to the house I could hear the television. Clearly no one was tired.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ Jack observed. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’

  He sounded subdued. He and Miranda had pulled two chairs out on to the old flagstones and had opened a new bottle of wine.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Ria,’ Miranda said, ‘but we opened one of your whites.’

  ‘Where are the children?’ I asked.

  ‘Playing some computer game. They can’t stand being out because of the bugs.’ />
  You’ve brought them up to be townie wimps, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I was more alarmed by the fact they were using my computer.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Miranda said quickly, seeing my face. ‘They’re using my laptop.’

  Thank God, I thought. The poem inside me had begun calling, insistently.

  ‘What happened about your boat idea?’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. We’ve got one! Tuesday, for a week. Come, if you like. We’re going to sail across the Broads from Wroxham.’

  He was looking at me intently.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘But I have a poem in my head that I’ll have to attend to.’

  I laughed nervously. Jack seemed to accept my excuse.

  ‘At least you’re working again!’

  A momentary benign feeling descended on us.

  ‘We’ll leave about midday,’ Miranda said. She sounded a little upset. ‘If that’s okay? We’ll leave some of our stuff here, travel light, be back in a couple of days.’

  It was a quarter to ten.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ Jack said at last. He yawned. ‘One thing I must say, the beds are wonderful here, even though the plumbing is antiquated.’

  ‘Who’s going to prise those two away from the laptop?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘Moan, moan.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Jack. You’re the one who’s been complaining.’

  Again the tension was back. We were doing what we always did. Taking small bites out of each other, never addressing anything with honesty. I wanted to scream.

  ‘I’d like my study back so I’ll tell them, if you like.’

  I put on a fake smile.

  ‘You’re not going to work, are you?’ Miranda asked, amazed.

  ‘Of course she is. Can’t you see she’s dying to get rid of us? Go on, Ria, go back to your masterpiece!’

  ‘Well, I haven’t actually done anything today.’

  If I wasn’t careful there would be a fight. Jack must have thought the same thing because he rose and took his chair in.

  ‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘What time’s breakfast?’

  My study was a tip. Somehow they had managed to knock over a glass and scatter the cushions. There were books on the floor and paper from the printer was everywhere. My good intentions evaporated completely. Furious, I closed the door. Then I cleared the mess and turned the television off. I no longer felt like working, but I didn’t feel like going to bed either. Upstairs, on the third floor, in the room above my study, the children made thumping sounds as though they were fighting. Taking up the book I had been reading I settled down on the sofa. The poem that had peeped out had taken fright and vanished. I could hear Miranda’s voice followed by Sophie screaming. Then Jack joined in and there was a stampede towards the guest bathroom. Miranda began calling me. Oh God! I thought guiltily. I sat pretending not to hear, feeling trapped. To think I had ever wanted children! Towards midnight things quietened down. The floorboards stopped creaking, the house was settling at last. I sighed and switched off the light. Was it safe to go to my bedroom?

  People have said to me that at least I have a brother, at least I have a nephew and niece. Long ago, soon after Sophie had been born, I had volunteered to look after her while Jack took an exhausted Miranda out. It had been a sort of peace-offering on my part. Sophie had been only a few weeks old and I had not long heard I would never have a child of my own. That evening, after they had left, I picked Sophie out of her cot and held her against my cotton T-shirt. Then I put her mouth against me. I had wanted someone to suck my breast. I went into the bathroom with her and locked the door, naked to the waist. I wanted to feel what it was like to nurse her. I wanted to feel the tug and demand of another life. But after a moment I heard a noise and Sophie began to cry. Scared, in case Jack and Miranda had returned, I rushed out. I blushed, recalling the long-forgotten incident. Loneliness expands wherever crowds gather, Eric used to say. Thinking of him, I wished I could have gone over there tonight, but it was too late now.

  Closing my book, I went across to the open window. Immediately the scent of late honeysuckle and jasmine came wafting towards me. Somewhere in the depths of the garden a nightjar called. Just after Ant left me, taking all hope I had of love, I had heard a nightingale pour its fluid notes across this garden. I had stood on this very spot, mesmerised by it, wondering for a confused moment who the singer was. I have never heard a nightingale sing since.

  A slight breeze moved the muslin and the trees rustled. It had become so muggy that there would probably be a storm soon. I yawned, slowly. If I turned in now, I would wake refreshed. Next Tuesday, when they left, I’d be able to have a clear day to work. The poem would, I hoped, return once peace was restored. Turning, I reached out to close the window in case of rain later, my eyes scanning the garden idly. I froze. There was my swimmer! Good God, I thought, astonished, for there he stood, bold as brass, bare-chested at the water’s edge. What a nerve he had, trespassing in someone else’s garden, again. As I watched, to my amazement, he moved towards the honeysuckle and bent to smell it. He was towelling his hair with his T-shirt; I could see the whiteness of the cloth against the dark garden. Then he pulled it over his head. I shrunk back further into the room, but he wasn’t looking in the direction of the house. I saw him edge towards the water and stare beyond it. Something had obviously caught his attention for he stood perfectly still, looking in the direction of the woods. Almost instantly I heard the nightjar again. An owl flew past and my swimmer jumped. I could have told him the garden was full of nightlife and that over by the trees there were a family of owls, but I did not make a sound.

  He turned his head as if he had read my thoughts, but he was still looking in the wrong direction. Then, bending down, he did up first one shoe and then the other with casual indifference and a second later he vanished from view, going presumably around the side of the house. I continued to stare out of the window, unable to move, straining my ears. There was a slight pause and unmistakably, I heard a door open. Could any burglar be this reckless? I hesitated. Damn, I thought, belatedly, the back door was unlocked, again. What if I went downstairs and confronted him? He had looked quite young. Not that it mattered if he was carrying a knife. But would you swim first, before you committed a crime? By now I had moved to the landing and I heard once again an unmistakable creaking of floorboards. There followed another silence. I waited. My study door was shut. I opened it a fraction of an inch, on the verge of going out when I heard a soft step. I was struck with paralysis. He was definitely in the house. I shivered. Something thrilling and fearful passed over me. Holding the empty bottle of wine in my hand I crept downstairs at the same moment as the outside light came on. Instantly I hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen just as the timer plunged the garden back into darkness. In a flash I had switched on the kitchen light. I gasped, there was no one there.

  All this had taken only a few minutes, but any thoughts of sleep had vanished. Locking the back door, I checked the windows. Then I filled the kettle and was about to put some tea into the pot when I noticed the lid of the bread bin was slightly open. I closed it, changed my mind and opening it again peered in. It was empty. There had been a freshly baked loaf inside. I knew this because I had baked it myself only this morning.

  2

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 23RD. ON THE MORNING that Jack and Miranda left for the Broads I awoke to them having breakfast noisily in the garden. I was exhausted. They had now been here for three days. Last night I had again waited up until midnight hoping to catch sight of the swimmer, but the garden had remained undisturbed. Then, just as I dozed off, the outside light came on and woke me. It was him! But by the time I crept downstairs he had vanished. There were damp marks on the kitchen floor.

  ‘There’s no bread,’ Jack informed me, his mouth full of muesli.

  Miranda handed me a cup of tea.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said.

  ‘Of course she is!’ my brother said, waving an empty cup in her fac
e. ‘Workaholics usually are!’

  He laughed a braying laugh and I wondered how Miranda could bear living with him.

  ‘More tea, more tea!’ he shouted childishly. Obviously he was in a good mood. I looked at him over the rim of my mug. Ant always maintained that Jack had a touch of Asperger’s Syndrome. It was the only way he could explain my brother’s sudden mood swings. Eric thought otherwise. Jack, he had once said, was disturbed for other reasons. Sunlight glinted through the trees. We had not had such an astonishing summer as this for years and it was going to be another hot day.

  ‘You need a wash, Miranda,’ Jack said. ‘You’re sweating, already.’

  And he laughed.

  ‘I’ve got seven mosquito bites,’ Sophie complained.

  ‘Aunty Ria, have you seen how weird the spiders are in this house?’ Zach asked. ‘They’re enormous, like in the Caribbean!’

  ‘That’s global warming for you,’ Jack said.

  He was eating and drinking with an odd, manic speed. Miranda seemed not to notice.

  ‘I read somewhere that the insects in Britain will become more like Mediterranean ones as the place hots up.’

  ‘Ugh, how will they get here? By swimming the channel?’

  ‘No, Sophie, I think they’ll just evolve differently. Like your Aunty Ria has!’

  ‘Mum!’ wailed Sophie. ‘I hate spiders.’

  Go, I thought. Just go. We’ll never get on.

  ‘Stop winding her up, Jack,’ Miranda said. ‘There was some bacon in the fridge, Ria. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve used it.’

  I nodded, not wanting the subject of bread to be brought up again.

  ‘Of course, help yourself.’

  In all, my swimmer had appeared three times. Last night the images of him had played themselves over and over again. His visits were a puzzle, I was becoming mildly obsessed by them. Perhaps, I thought, I ought to write a poem about the mysterious way in which he visited and then vanished. I yawned. I had meant to wake at six, begin working, but not having managed this all I wanted to do now was sit in the sun. Miranda was probably right and I needed a holiday. The coffee was lukewarm. Could it be, I frowned, returning to my earlier train of thought, that I had imagined some of it? The facts were few. At some point in the night the outside light had come on and the bread was missing. That was all. I had no proof the swimmer had taken it. I had no proof that he had come into the house, even. I glanced at Jack, but he was concentrating on the map spread out in front of him. My baby brother has a round, slightly chubby face. Curiously unlined. Empty, Eric always said. Like a man who could not comprehend what was lost. I yawned, again, distracted. Hmm, I thought, but had I actually seen the swimmer?