The Swimmer Read online

  ‘Even God can’t change the past.’

  Still I couldn’t speak.

  ‘I am here now. I won’t see her again and even if I do, the moment will have passed,’ he said.

  I could not identify the tone of his voice. There was something other than sorrow in it, some acceptance, I suppose. He made a small gesture with his hand.

  ‘Too many things have happened, I have known too much, there isn’t any way I can share that with her, or anyone else over there.’

  He shook his head as if shaking some thought away.

  ‘I am talking too much,’ he mumbled.

  I felt ashamed and in an agony at what I had stumbled on.

  ‘I am forty-three,’ I said bluntly, before I could stop myself. ‘We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.’

  A moth danced around the candle flame. We both watched it, dazzled. Half-blinded, I was aware only of the movement, for the second time, very quick and delicate, of his hands on my shoulders. And then he was touching my hair. I heard him trying to say with coherence that he thought it was beautiful, and suddenly the astonishing fact of someone touching my hair and finding it beautiful was simply too much for me. Overcome, I stood up and moved towards him, hardly aware of what I was doing. And as he held me I felt the whole of the front of my body turn molten and quivering, and wanting. Shutting my eyes against the gold of the candle, I felt an extraordinary sensation of nakedness. We stood under the stars and he kissed me. I think he was speaking to me but whatever he said was incomprehensible and it was a moment longer before I realised he was speaking in another language.

  ‘You are different tonight,’ he said at last in English, amused by my bemused state. ‘You look different from the first time I saw you.’

  We sat for a long time like this, under the stars, with the pine trees outlined like woodcuts in the distance, and I knew without a shadow of doubt what I was about to do. I knew and did not care, for the loneliness in my life, undisturbed for so long, was greater than caution.

  Afterwards he curled up close to me like a child, his hair ruffled, his face creased by sleep. The hours that had passed were locked in tenderness. All at once I felt as though a wind was blowing over my soul, taking with it the dusty dreariness of the day.

  ‘I am almost eighteen years older than you,’ I had told him again at the last moment, and in the dim light of the moon I caught him smiling.

  ‘These are not conventional times,’ was all he said as he silenced me with a kiss.

  The picture of the girl in his wallet floated once more before my eyes. Watching him sleep now, I thought of her, again. Curiosity consumed me; pain, I knew, would come later. I determined to ask no questions. I could not know how many women he had had, I told myself; why should I? He slept now with all his life hidden from view, with memory and hurt, and loss sleeping beside him. I was mesmerised, remembering how he had hung over me tenderly, with the patience of someone who had found a wounded animal in the fields, staying with it, not leaving until it could run again. Remembering, I moved my hipbone slightly and touched him gently. My stomach curled against his buttocks but he continued to sleep without moving. Holding him, I had the strangest feeling that I had come home at last. In the night I had cried out: ‘There is no future in this.’

  To which he had replied: ‘We don’t know that!’

  Insect sounds drifted in from outside. I went over it again, under cover of the night, a miser considering his wealth. At the moment when we had joined I had become shyer. My throat had made strange noises. Limb by limb, lip by lip, by sex, we joined together in that dark, starry, night. And after that I wept on him, my eyes closed as he finished, as he took me into the ending as if leading me into another world. A metal spring gave a startled jerk within me, a quiver far down that by the smallest fraction released its tension. For in that moment even I had begun to see possibilities. One day soon, perhaps, the entire spring would uncoil and fly wildly, shattering me with feeling. I must have closed my eyes for a moment, for when I opened them again light hovered behind the skin of the sky. He was gazing at me.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about you,’ he said, and I held my breath.

  An enormous silence followed in the centre of which was our exploration of each other. Behind the rim of the sky I knew an exuberant sun waited to burst out.

  When he woke again he was in a hurry to be gone. He had nothing to shave with and although he had no work that morning he did not want his absence reported or talked about.

  ‘I’ll come back tonight,’ he promised, refusing breakfast, refusing the offer of a shower, wanting only to be gone.

  And, silent as a cat, swifter than a sparrow, faster than a breath, he went. With the speed of a swimmer. Leaving me with a bewildering sense of happiness and confusion, with my world in turmoil, with fear a pulsating fist in my mouth.

  ‘What time will you be back?’ I called, but he had gone and I heard the outside door close softly.

  I rushed out of bed and went to the window but there was no sign of him. The day was waltzing into loveliness. A corncrake was screaming over and over again in the reeds, cornflowers shimmered and somewhere in a distant field a tractor droned on and on. What day was it? What time? I sighed and went into the shower.

  In the coolness of the water streaming over me I tried to take stock of what had happened. My body was still that of a youngish woman. Middle age did not show on it, yet. Forty-three is not so old, I said out loud, willing myself to believe this. The telephone was ringing. Jack, I thought. Miranda. What on earth would they say, had they been here? Suddenly I could not bear the thought of their coming back. Perhaps they wanted to tell me that they were returning today. Panic-stricken, I rushed naked out of the shower, dripping pools of water, but the phone had stopped ringing. I would have to put them off somehow, I thought. Frantically I rang Jack’s mobile but there was no answer. It was too early for them to have rung; the children would still be asleep. Relax, I told myself, and returned to the bathroom to finish dressing, then I went downstairs to make coffee.

  For the rest of the morning I tried and failed to work. Nothing had prepared me for these events. The tension was all gone. There was a dark bruise on my arm and another on my neck. Like trophies of an unexpected victory, I thought. In the mirror my face glowed and my hair shone a burnished gold. I went into a delicious daydream. Blushing, for I could hardly believe my new-found vanity, I wondered what it had been like for him. Was he thinking of me now? Oh, foolish heart, I thought, remembering the girl in the picture.

  At midday I gave up trying to work. I wanted him back. I simply wanted him to take my clothes off; to do with me whatever he wanted. Without the haze of last night’s alcohol, without the darkness, I wanted him back in my body. But he did not come and insecurity swiftly returned. Did he mean what he had said? Was he one of those unreliable men, never doing quite what they promised, always leaving one short-changed? I had known others like that and, young though he was, Ben was still a man.

  There was nothing for it but to wait and see, I told myself.

  5

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 30TH. BEN DID NOT return as promised. I kept checking the field in front of the house, but there was no sign of him—or anyone else, for that matter. I was deeply disappointed. Calm down, I told myself, stop being stupid; there will be a good explanation.

  That evening Heather rang once more.

  ‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ was how she began, ‘but there’s been another burglary!’

  I had fallen asleep. Her voice sounded shrill in my ear.

  ‘At the top of the heath, by the crossroads. There are two houses? This is the second burglary in a few weeks!’

  She sounded triumphant and I struggled to wake up.

  ‘Ria? Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘You don’t sound awfully concerned. It isn’t far from you.’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘And you never lock your windows, Ria. Jack to
ld me!’ she added.

  At that I woke fully. Had she been talking to Jack, again?

  ‘When did you talk to him?’

  ‘Jack? Oh, I saw him a few days ago, actually. Stop being so touchy, he was just worried for your safety. Anyway, the point is…’

  ‘What on earth was he doing visiting you?’

  There was a small pause. My mind was racing. The idea that had evaded me for days returned as a certainty. Heather was having an affair with Jack; I was both astonished and triumphant. Had he just left Miranda and the kids on the boat? Without a word? Did Miranda know? Heather was still talking.

  ‘Just statistics,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He came to meet John Ashby. The journalist. John’s writing a piece about the increase in anti-social behaviour amongst immigrants. In Ipswich. And Jack wanted to talk to him. He was only here for a few hours.’

  ‘Does Miranda know?’

  ‘I’m sure she does. Stop fussing, Ria. What’s the matter with you? Do you want to hear about the burglary or not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it started as a break-in, I guess, but they must have disturbed the owner. So they beat him up,’ she said flatly. ‘And killed the dog. Nasty business.’

  I had gone cold. What if Jack had come back and seen Ben? And where was Ben, anyway?

  ‘Heather…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is there something going on between you and Jack?’

  She laughed. ‘Of course not! Why d’you ask?’

  Liar, I thought, certain now.

  ‘Look, Ria, be serious now, please. Why don’t you get a dog? We could give you a puppy.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound as if they’re much protection.’

  Miranda was suspicious, I was sure. Jack was immersed in politics, but she knew there was more to it than that.

  ‘The odd thing is, nothing was stolen,’ Heather continued.

  What a nerve! I thought. Still what did I care? It was their business. I wanted to get off the phone and I wanted Ben to appear.

  Later, I heard the story on the news. Heather had got it wrong. Something had been stolen. A quantity of euros and a passport had disappeared. The dog had had its throat slit.

  Ben did not return and that night I slept fitfully. I was both cross and anxious. The next day I awoke with the sun full on my face like the touch of a hand. I had been quite drunk when I finally crawled into bed and had forgotten to close the curtains. Where was Ben? Another wasted day, I thought dispiritedly. Here we go again. I was weary of my collection of poetry. I felt it was never going to get written at this rate. Perhaps the problem was that I had nothing to say any more. Perhaps this new friendship was just an excuse and the time had come to give up writing altogether.

  Assailed by doubts all over again, I went out into the garden where the river unwound as though it were a roll of flat, bright zinc. A fish jumped into the air, its scales caught in a brief flash of light. Then it was gone.

  ‘You’re up early,’ a familiar voice called.

  I jumped. It was Eric, rising stiffly from the bottom of his boat.

  ‘God, Eric! You gave me a fright. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since about five.’

  He was looking at me quizzically.

  ‘The eels are coming in nicely.’

  ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

  He moved his traps up into the boat.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said, suddenly relieved at the sight of him.

  ‘So, how’re you?’ he asked a few minutes later.

  He held a half-mended willow eel-trap under his arm.

  ‘Look, this was the problem,’ he continued, showing me a hole in the bottom of it.

  Eric still wove his own eel-traps by hand. It was a craft peculiar to this part of the world but now largely dying out. Partly this was because there were fewer eels and partly because it was so much easier to buy the plastic, mass-produced traps. Eric’s traps were more fragile and needed frequent checking. They took a long time in the making and demanded dexterity and skill. What they lacked in cost-effectiveness they made up for in beauty. And being constructed of willow, they blended completely with the colours of the water. The eels went in at one end and were caught when a partition closed. You couldn’t get traps like these any more. And lately you hardly even found eels on this stretch of the river. The creatures that had swum here for hundreds of years were in decline.

  ‘Mind if I fix it here?’

  I pointed to the kitchen table and handed him a mug of tea. Then I put some bread to toast. I always thought of Eric as a sort of ghost person, almost extinct, not quite gone, but no longer appreciated. Like a dying species, walking the surface of the earth with an intuition that would die out with him.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a bit.’

  He spoke casually, concentrating on his weaving, sipping his tea, making slurping sounds. As always, his presence calmed and comforted me.

  ‘Where’s that fascist brother of yours? And his brats?’

  In spite of how I was feeling, I laughed. Eric couldn’t stand Jack. Years ago, when Jack had been in his early teens, Eric had taken it upon himself to talk to him about our family. He had talked about Dad in the same way he had done with me, but it had been useless. Jack hadn’t wanted to listen and Eric, not wanting to make matters worse, dropped the subject. But then, some days later, when he thought no one was looking, Jack started throwing stones at one of Eric’s dogs. I had been with Eric at the time and had seen what happened. Eric had gone over to Jack and ticked him off. Jack, to my everlasting shame had hit him.

  ‘Oh, Eric!’ I said now. ‘He’s just confused—as you’re always telling me. They’ve gone to the Broads for ten days.’

  He grunted and crunched loudly on his toast. I made some coffee for myself.

  ‘I see you’ve met that young man, Ben, then,’ he said casually. ‘Do us another piece of toast, love, will you?’

  I nearly dropped the teapot.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Mmm. He’s just been fixing some of my fencing, why?’

  ‘He works for you?’

  Eric shook his head and finished off the rest of the toast. Then he drained his mug of tea and pushed it towards me for a refill.

  ‘He works on the other side of the river. Foster’s farm,’ he said laconically. ‘Queer folks. They’ve got some immigrants in a couple of barns and get free labour in exchange for filling in the Home Office forms. So they say.’

  He went back to his weaving.

  ‘I should get Ben to fix this for me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, confused. ‘You’re telling me you know Ben? The Sri Lankan?’

  ‘The doctor-boy? Yes, of course I know him. He’s always sneaking over to do little jobs for me in his spare time.’

  I stared at Eric.

  ‘He never told me.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t know you knew me,’ Eric said, reasonably. ‘How did you get to meet him, then?’

  I swallowed. I could have sworn he was trying not to laugh.

  ‘I saw him swimming across the river,’ I said. ‘He came on to the bank and so I spoke to him.’

  My face was becoming hot with embarrassment. Eric’s shoulders were shaking.

  ‘Pinching stuff from your pantry, eh!’ he said under his breath. ‘Naughty boy!’

  ‘What! Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Talks about you!’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Eric said.

  Then he looked straight at me and burst out laughing. I was so furious that I could only glare at him, but this seemed to amuse him even more. Throwing back his head, he hooted with laughter, until seeing the look on my face he tried to stop.

  ‘Ria…’ he began.

  Putting down his basket, he looked solemnly at me.

  ‘Oh God, Ria! Don’t look at me like that!’ And he starte
d laughing again.

  Then he stood up and came around to me. Bending, he took my hands in both his, forcing me to look up at him.

  ‘Ria,’ he said, ‘the boy can’t stop talking about you! I’m not sure what you’ve done, but…’ he looked thoughtfully at my hands, ‘since he’s met you, he’s become a different being. Transformed, I’d say.’

  I was speechless with resentment. Clearly, even though he couldn’t keep his word and visit me, Ben had no qualms in talking about me to everyone. Eric continued to watch me, his face serious now. He sat down again.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ he said. ‘I haven’t liked the way you’ve looked for a long time.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘When you were a little girl,’ Eric continued, ‘after your dad died, you changed overnight.’

  Still I said nothing, caught halfway between exasperation and interest.

  ‘You left your uncle’s farm a little girl that day and came back all grown up. And completely silent.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘And the next time I saw that brother of yours, he had turned inward in a different way.’

  He shook his head very slightly.

  ‘He was too young to work anything out, whereas you, well…I’ve watched you struggle, Ria, don’t think I haven’t. You deserve to be happy.’

  Embarrassed, I was silent. Eric hadn’t talked about these things in years. I had no idea he still felt so strongly about what had happened.

  ‘And another thing, while I’m at it: I’m glad you left that idiot Ant,’ he said. ‘I never liked him! You can do better.’

  ‘He left me, actually!’

  Eric made a gesture of dismissal.

  ‘This time you’ve met someone different, Ria,’ he said. ‘This man will be good for you, you’ll see. He brings a wider horizon with him.’