The Swimmer

‘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 (#ulink_e3eefa0c-5899-557d-8f57-51bf48bfe0f1)

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 face. ‘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.’