Breathing Underwater Page 13

  The air outside is cooler than I expected. I hesitate, then open the shed door and take Joe’s old wetsuit from the hook. Its weight over my arm makes me feel safe, as if Joe himself is close by.

  It’s not completely dark yet. Away from the lights of the house I can see well enough, once my eyes adjust. The sky is clear, a moon rising. The sea will be too high at the sand bar for safe swimming, so I aim for Beady Pool instead. As I come over the brow of the hill at the centre of the island I glimpse the lights from the pub; voices and laughter drift over in waves on the wind. I imagine everyone from the gig race, drinking and chatting outside. Matt. Danny.

  The lane is deserted. No one sees me make my way down the path to the beach. The rising moon weaves a silvery path over the dark water, catching the tips of the waves limping in on to the sand between dark rocks. I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I pull on the wetsuit – too big, but not as much as I expected, not enough to matter – and walk straight out into the waves, flinching as the cold water seeps in next to my skin. As soon as I’m deep enough I start to swim.

  Twenty-four

  Swimming at night is completely different from swimming in the light, in the daytime. The rocks either side of the beach loom blacker and bigger. It’s harder to judge distances. The voice of the sea is louder, wilder, slapping against the rocks, scouring the shore. The water itself seems smooth, thicker than in the day, as if it’s extra buoyant. I change stroke to front crawl.

  Each long stroke takes me out further, till I’m beyond the rocks and can make out the dark line of the whole bay, right across to the black gap which is where the sand bar would be if the tide was lower. A slight frisson of fear ripples along my vertebrae; for the first time it feels slightly dangerous, being out alone on the water, at night. Every so often the sound of voices – singing – comes across the water from the pub. It’s not so very far away. But no one knows I’m here. If I called out, no one would hear.

  I stop swimming, turn on to my back, float. Bobbing on the black sea under this huge starry sky, I start to feel calm, lulled and soothed by the water that holds and surrounds me. Everything else drops away. Nothing matters. Sam, Huw, all that complicated stuff seems trivial and unnecessary. I give myself up to the water, float with my arms stretched out. But it won’t let me stay still; now I’ve stopped swimming I can feel the pull and tug of the current drawing me out.

  My body temperature is stable now, insulated by Joe’s wetsuit. I flip over and start swimming again. The movement wakes me up: energy fizzes along every nerve and muscle in my body. I keep my breathing steady: in, out, long breaths that take the air deep inside, a flow along my blood. It seems completely right, swimming here by myself. The water, deep and clean and cold, washes through my mind, cleansing me of thought, until that’s all there is: water. Clear and open and free.

  With each forward pull of my arms I dip my face down, turn my head sideways, breathe, dip again. Steady, easy, regular strokes. Time doesn’t mean anything any more. I can’t tell if I’ve been swimming for ten minutes or an hour. I don’t care.

  I lift my head again, to check where I am. Water runs over my skull, down my face. My hair’s plastered to my cheek, suddenly stinging with cold. I’ve had my eyes shut, and now they’re open I see how dark it’s become. The moon seems to have disappeared. My teeth are chattering: it’s time to go back. My night swim has done exactly what I wanted. I feel strong and free and empty at last. No thoughts. Just me, here, now, swimming.

  My eyes search for bearings. I can’t tell for a moment where the line of land goes, or how far it is back to the beach. This side of the island you can’t see the sweep of the lighthouse beam, just layer upon layer of darkness. For a second I wonder if I’ve somehow swum right out, past the end of the island altogether, and my belly tightens. Then the moon comes out from behind an edge of cloud, and I recognise a line of rock, blacker against the sky, where wind and rain have sculpted the rock into contorted shapes like gargoyles. The tide and the current have taken me way off course. I can just about make out where the beach should be, at Beady Pool. I start to swim back in that direction.

  The tide must have turned. Ebbing, it’s pulling away from the beach, so I’m having to swim against it. My arms and legs begin to ache. The dull needling in my stomach starts again; not pain, exactly, more like hunger, or fear. I mustn’t get cramp now. I can’t afford to float, to stop swimming, because the strong ebb tide will carry on, sweeping me out, relentlessly.

  My breathing starts to become raggedy. I lose the rhythm and take a wrong breath, gulp water instead of air. The pain shoots deep into my lungs.

  Just keep going. Steady. You’re strong. You can do this. It’s fine. Just water, and waves.

  I try breaststroke: the different movement gives my arms a rest, but it’s not strong enough to take me forward. The tide is more powerful than me. I don’t seem to be getting any closer to the beach. Cold seeps into my flesh, my bones. My legs hurt. My chest aches.

  A wave goes over my head just as I’m taking in a huge breath, and salt water fills my mouth. I spit it out; flail, panicking.

  My mind’s suddenly in overdrive.

  This is how it happens: one minute you’re in control. Then not.

  The sea is not cruel, like Mum said, or even indifferent. It’s just sea, governed by the laws of nature: it doesn’t have feelings at all. The moon pulls the tides: the current sweeps out towards the open sea.

  You’re cold and you’re tired, and you can’t swim much longer. The wind gets up, the waves get bigger. You’re drifting, the waves swamp you, carry you out further and further towards the line of jagged rocks at the end of the island, and there’s nothing you can do, not any longer. You haven’t the breath, the energy’s sapped right out of you. So it goes on, and you’re weaker and more exhausted.

  You don’t care any more. You’re drifting, flotsam, with no will of your own. You feel sleepy. You feel nothing. The water carries you out, on and on, until a bigger wave catches you, lifts your body, sweeps it forward, breaks and smashes you down on to the rocks. Your skull cracks.

  It’s just an accident. You never meant it to happen like this. All you wanted was to get your head clear, sort yourself out, and start all over again, nothing more complicated than that. Swimming, sailing, whatever: horses for courses . . . You never meant to die. Of course not.

  Another wave. Another gulp of water. Salt.

  Freezing cold.

  Numb.

  Can’t struggle.

  Can’t.

  That early morning on Periglis, years ago, when we found the body of the drowned fisher-boy: remember, Joe? Peaceful. Nothing hurting any more.

  ‘Full fathom five thy father lies;

  Of his bones are coral made . . .’

  Gramps.

  Your precious life

  Be happy

  We love you to bits

  Take care, Freya!

  Numb now. Sleepy. Drifting.

  It doesn’t matter, not any more.

  Nothing matters.

  Joe’s face is pale, like the moon’s reflection in the dark water. He gasps for air; I feel his breath, close up to my ear.

  The next shuddering breath is mine. Hands hold me, lift me up, so that with my next breath I get air, not water. My brother is swimming beside me, holding me up with one arm so I can rest and breathe again, steadily piloting me towards the shore.

  Minutes, hours.

  I’m hardly swimming at all, but Joe is, steady at my side. He won’t let me give up. He carries me in, closer to the beach. It’s just enough to let me rest, just long enough for me to get my breath back. My arms and legs start to tingle, energy seeping back in. I begin swimming, sidestroke, again.

  My arm, reaching out, scoops through the water.

  Kick legs.

  Dip. Scoop, pull through the water.

  Breathe deep, steady. Find the rhythm again.

  Joe’s arm is still beneath me, supporting, but I can har
dly feel it now.

  Almost there.

  Next time I lift my head I can see breaking surf, the slope of the beach. We’re swimming in shallow water. Finally, my feet find the sandy bottom.

  Finally, Joe lets me go.

  I don’t look back. By the time I’ve staggered up the beach to my towel and clothes he’s gone. I’m shaking all over, cold to the core, sick. But I’m safe.

  The wetsuit clings to my trembling, freezing body: I’ve hardly the strength to peel it off and dry my goose-pimpled flesh, or pull on my clothes. Bit by bit, teeth chattering, I manage it, and the blood begins to flow again, tingling and warm, all through my body. As I start the walk back, it gets stronger, like a warm flow from the top of my wet scalp to the tips of my fingers and toes. And something else, too: an amazing sense of freedom, of release, begins to dance in me. Something extraordinary happened out there. And I came through, and I’m all right. But it’s more than all right: a feeling too tender and new to put into words.

  As I climb up the path from Beady Pool, I sense how late it actually is. There are no lights from the pub, or from any of the houses on this side of the island. I’ve been in the sea for hours.

  The bracken and low gorse bushes either side of the small footpath scratch my bare ankles as I pass. A bramble snags my skirt, but I don’t stop to untangle it, just tug myself free and walk on, the dripping wetsuit heavy over my arm. Every so often I stop to change arms.

  Something – an animal of some kind, snuffles ahead of me. I stop a moment, and the shadow takes shape: a dog. Its eyes shine as it turns its head. I make out the white patches on its fur, the plume of a tail wagging. It’s the young dog from the farm.

  ‘Bess?’

  She comes towards me, body crouched low, tail wagging, and I reach my hand out to touch her. She starts at the bulky shape I’m carrying, whimpers.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I soothe. ‘Hey, Bess. It’s only me.’

  Her breath is warm on my cold hand. I smooth her soft back, feel the way her skin is still loose on her frame, the way she quivers as she stands next to me. When I start walking again she falls in behind me, trotting at the same pace, as if she’s keeping me company. It’s just her and me. Everyone else is asleep.

  When we get to the lane the sky seems much darker. Thick clouds have covered the moon and the stars. The air is cool and wind gusts in the trees, shaking the leaves and sending shadows leaping across the lane.

  ‘Don’t bark,’ I whisper to the dog. ‘We don’t want to wake anyone now.’

  At the gate, I leave her behind. She stands and watches, as if she’s waiting for me to go round the house and out of sight before she goes back to the farm.

  I dump the wetsuit in a heap in the shed. I’ll rinse it out in the morning. There’s a hollow sound of something small rolling out over the wooden floor; I bend down to pick it up. It’s not a pebble, or a shell. It’s hard and smooth and cold in my hand, and perfectly oval. I’ve already guessed what it is, way before I get up into my room and switch on the light by the bed. Tonight, nothing is a surprise. It’s a bead, green spiralled in gold, sea-worn and ancient, made of Venetian glass.

  Twenty-five

  It’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes the next morning, on the window sill where I left it last night. In the daylight the bead looks plainer and less magical, but I know how rare and special it is. All these years of looking and I’ve never found one. It seems remarkable that it should somehow just be bundled up in the wetsuit like that. Did it wash in with me on a wave, somehow caught up in the wetsuit? Or had the tide already left it on the sand and by some trick of luck, some accident, I picked it up with my towel and wet things as I left the beach last night?

  I turn it over in my palm. Hundreds of years old, and it’s landed here, in my hand. I rub it with a corner of the sheet, shining the green glass till it’s almost good as new. The gold spiral is inside the glass, somehow. Perhaps Izzy will make it into a new necklace for me.

  Instinctively, my hand goes up to my neck. There’s no necklace there. The string must have broken when I was swimming last night. My talisman necklace has gone for ever, lost to the sea.

  Some things get lost, others return. That is how it is: the way of things.

  A squall of rain spatters the window. The fine weather’s broken, like Gramps said it would. There’ll be no more swimming today.

  ‘It’s chilly,’ Evie says when I finally come downstairs for some breakfast. ‘I’m going to make us a fire, even though it’s midsummer!’

  She goes to the shed to find wood, and an axe. Just too late, I remember the wetsuit dumped there last night in a sandy, dripping heap.

  I find her hauling it out on to the lawn. ‘Such a mess, Freya! Honestly! How long has this been here?’

  ‘Only yesterday. I was going to wash it out and I forgot. Sorry.’

  Evie’s got tears in her eyes. ‘It’s Joe’s. Just for a snap second I thought Joe was still here.’

  I put my arms round her, and we stand together in the shed, both thinking about Joe. But something’s different for me now, after last night. Some of the sadness has shifted.

  Evie sniffs. ‘I’m glad you’re using it. It’s a good thing. We can’t go on like this for ever, not touching his things. He isn’t here any more, not in the same way, at least. Because in another way he’s always here. Everywhere. I see him. Hear him. We all do, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s such a relief, to hear Evie say that.

  Evie disentangles herself. ‘Which is why it would be a very good thing if your mother would get herself here and face up to it once and for all.’ She sounds almost cross.

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Give it a good rinse, and hang it up. Does it fit?’

  ‘Nearly,’ I say. ‘Good enough.’

  ‘That’ll save us a few quid, then!’ She tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a sob.

  ‘Shall I chop some kindling?’ I say. It was Joe’s job, before.

  ‘Yes.’ Evie takes the basket from the hook and fills it with logs to take back in. ‘Careful with the axe. Use the chopping block.’

  The rain carries on all day. Mid-afternoon, Danny turns up at the door, dripping wet. Evie asks him in. We’ve both been sitting by the fire for ages, reading. Gramps is still sleeping, upstairs. It’s good to have a visitor.

  ‘How was the gig-race?’ I ask Danny.

  ‘Fun,’ he says. His hair’s gone longer and straighter in the rain. His eyes look extra bright. ‘We lost. Second to last.’

  ‘We always do,’ I say. ‘Did you go to the pub, after?’

  ‘For a little while. It got a bit rowdy. I missed you not being there.’

  I smile.

  ‘The fire’s nice. We’re freezing in the tent, and there’s no space. So Mum and Dad and Hattie have gone to Main Island. There’s nothing to do when it rains, is there?’

  ‘Suppose not. Sometimes Sally opens up one of the barns, for table tennis and stuff.’

  Danny kicks off his trainers and they steam gently in front of the fire.

  ‘Want to play a game? Evie and Gramps have loads. Funny old ones, mostly. Like an ancient version of Trivial Pursuit. You won’t know any of the answers.’

  We rummage through the drawer, getting out board games like Sorry! and Scrabble and some old quiz. We find a compendium with Ludo and Snakes and Ladders and Housey Housey, and play each one, laughing loads and cheating like mad. At the bottom of the drawer there’s the box of Cluedo I last played with Joe. Danny hauls it out and begins to set out the pieces.

  ‘Matt and Huw both got hammered, last night,’ Danny says. ‘They were arguing about Izzy.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I dunno. Huw said something about her Matt didn’t like.’

  ‘Huw should keep his nose out,’ I say. ‘Stop messing things up for people.’

  Danny looks at me. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. Why doesn’t he get his own girlfriend? He’s good
-looking enough.’

  ‘More than Matt?’

  I feel myself blush. Keep my head down. ‘Pass me the dice, then, Danny.’

  My heart isn’t in the game. Danny’s isn’t either. He keeps looking at me, and I can kind of guess why; it’s obvious really. Everything would be so much simpler if I liked him like that too, instead of Matt. But I’m beginning to understand it doesn’t work like that. You’re not really in control, not with this falling-for-people stuff. You don’t plan who you’re going to fall in love with. It’s all random – chance accidents of time and place. People are always falling in love with the wrong person, aren’t they?

  I don’t mean I’m actually in love with Matt. It’s just . . . well . . . it’s hopeless. He’s in a different league. And he and Izzy belong together. And I like Danny loads as a friend, just not anything more.

  Evie brings us homemade scones. She’s obviously just loving having a boy around the house again. She goes back into the kitchen and sings along to the radio. She hasn’t done that in ages. She wants him to stay for supper, but Danny says he’s got to get back. His parents don’t know where he is.

  ‘Bring them all. They could have a meal here and dry out!’

  But Danny’s gone shy again. He stutters, ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘He’s such a nice boy,’ Evie says, as he goes out the door. He probably heard her. She probably meant him to. ‘Was I very embarrassing, Freya?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ I say, but I laugh, too.

  When Evie takes a tray of supper up to Gramps I go with her and we sit on his bed. We tell him about our day. He listens and smiles, but he doesn’t say much.

  ‘I’m tired out,’ he says. ‘I’ll be better in the morning. Tomorrow’s a new day.’

  It’s still raining, quietly. I stand at the open back door, looking out on the sodden lawn. A blackbird’s tugging up an earthworm from the damp earth beneath the apple tree. High in the branches, a thrush sings. I know it’s a thrush because it sings every phrase three times, and Gramps taught me that. His bees will be tucked up snug in the hive this evening. I wonder whether Evie’s told them about him being ill. You’re supposed to tell the bees everything that happens in a family. He’s ill, and it’s raining, and I’m lonely tonight, but I don’t feel terrible like I have done before. There’s a kernel of hope growing inside me, little by little, that one day I will feel happiness again. Little bits of happiness, because it’s in my nature to be happy. And no one is happy all the time. It’s only ever in bits.