The Swim Club Page 2

  But it seems that if I allow stray bullets to pierce my armour, if I’m not really quick to slam shut any sneaky chinks, then all the engulfing loneliness and the grief of abandonment will burst in to sweep away my new-found stability. Sopping tissues clutched in trembling hands, my face bloated and my eyes smarting from so many tears, I tell myself I’m weeping for Karen, but I know that I’m really weeping for us both. Karen’s loss has tipped me over the edge again, and sent me hurtling back to the first inconsolable days of my own grief.

  I reach for the phone and ring Laura.

  Laura is a doctor and, as the only female GP in town, spends her days either performing pap smears or listening to people’s woes. ‘Tears and smears,’ she says when asked what makes up her working day. Her clinic is always frantically busy, but today is a Thursday, her day off. I’m really pushing the friendship by ringing in tears when she has so little time away from the emotional public.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ I sob. ‘I can’t sit here and twiddle my thumbs. What can we do to help her?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment,’ says the calm voice of reason at the other end of the phone. ‘She has her mum and dad, and very likely half the neighbourhood. If you want to help, do something for her in a month’s time, or three months, or three years even, when all the do-gooders have fallen by the wayside. That’s when she’ll need help.’

  Some people find Laura direct to the point of abruptness, but I love her for her honesty. With Laura there is never a doubt as to where you stand.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, sniffing. ‘You always are.’

  I cry a bit more and Laura says, ‘You need to do something. Are you writing today?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Maybe later.’

  For the last two years I’ve supported the boys and myself writing romance novels. Laura laughs at the irony of an independent, celibate thirty-eight year old penning steamy stories of lusty studs and yielding damsels.

  Lust and passion might be gone from my life, I tell her, but I do have memory.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, I gave Sam a big hug when I got back from the pool. Funny how husbands seem extra important when someone else has lost theirs.’

  ‘Did Sam know Adam?’

  ‘Met him a couple of times. But …’ She hesitates, reluctant.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘He didn’t seem to bat much of an eyelid. Looked preoccupied. I thought it was a bit weird of him actually.’

  ‘Let’s go to the movies,’ I say on impulse. ‘We’ve time before I have to be back for the boys.’

  Our town of Macclesfield is known for its beautiful rainforest-covered hills and awesome mountain and ocean views, but no one ever moved here for its modern entertainment facilities. Movie-going in Macclesfield means waiting for the last Saturday of the month when an oversized bedsheet is strung up in the community centre and the temperamental, antique projector cranked into life. Anything more involves a forty-minute drive down twisting, picturesque roads to the coast, where a whole world of shopping plazas and megaplex cinemas awaits.

  Normally I avoid the chaos of the coast, but today is different. Today I’m delighted to have an excuse to get off the mountain. I arrive at Laura’s, aching for distraction.

  It’s early October and there’s a hint of blossom starting to appear along the branches of the jacaranda trees that border Laura’s driveway. The real show won’t happen till the end of the month, when the drive will transform into a lavender-blue tunnel that opens up to the scented wonderland surrounding the house.

  Laura doesn’t have much time to work in the garden, but she has her husband, Sam, an artist to his fingertips, and Sam has created their very own Eden. Sam’s eye is faultless, his planting prolific, but he’s a bit slack about pruning. With our lush climate and rich, red volcanic soil, where a sapling might double its size in a month through summer, a garden can quickly get out of control. Today Laura is waiting for me on the front steps, lost in a waterfall of wisteria that almost blocks the access to her front door.

  ‘The Triffids strike again,’ she says as I hop out of the car to give her a kiss.

  She smiles when I pluck a scrap of wisteria blossom from her woolly hair. Laura’s smile is unique. It curves up sharply at the corners of her mouth: a dolphin smile. ‘The honeysuckle’s reached my bedside table. I gave up trying to shut the bedroom window weeks ago.’

  ‘Romantic,’ I say. ‘Imagine waking to the scent of honeysuckle on your pillow.’

  ‘Tickling your nose.’

  I smile at her words. When you’ve been crying and your head aches and your face is swollen, smiling feels tight and unnatural. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks for coming with me. Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Actually, I think you ordered me.’

  She’s angling for another smile, but suddenly it’s beyond me. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  It’s Retro Week at the movies, and they are showing Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in Ghost. By the end of the film, when Patrick Swayze is being beamed up in a tunnel of light, heaven-bound, and Demi Moore, his young widow, is weeping, watching him go, I’m crying so much the tears are running down my face, cascading over my chin and drenching my bra. I’ve never had a wet bra from crying before.

  The morning of Adam’s funeral dawns perversely bright and perfect. There’s not a breath of a breeze: the world is so still and hushed it’s almost as though Nature is pausing in respect. Or perhaps it is guilt. Guilt at having been the one to take him.

  When I arrive at the church with Laura and Sam, I stretch to pluck a couple of lavender blossoms from a jacaranda tree overhanging the car park. I hand one to Laura and tuck the other into my buttonhole. Then we go inside and take our seats.

  The speakers try hard to inject a positive note into the service. We hear about Adam’s achievements, his zest for life, his love of his family, how he never missed his kids in a single swimming carnival. We hear how he loved the music of the Beatles, and we hear of his misdemeanours as a university student. But none of their determined cheer can take away the fact that a devoted, healthy husband and father has been snatched away for no good reason, crushing a young family in sorrow.

  Seeing Karen slumped at the front of the church, her dark hair falling like a curtain that hides most of her face, makes me ask all those whys and hows that are impossible to answer. Why should a good man like Adam perish when there are so many bastards out there who live to a ripe old age? Tyrants and despots. Rapists and child-killers. Where is the justice? If I hadn’t given up believing in God long ago, this would have been the final nail in His coffin.

  With the loss of husbands full in my mind, my attention drifts sideways to Sam. Is it just me, or is he not looking that well? Sam always was spare and wiry, but today he seems somehow diminished; his dark hair is lank – as though it needs a good wash – and there’s an unsettled, restless air about him that I’ve never noticed before. As a couple, Sam and Laura have been one of the staples of my life. Friends might come and go, husbands run away, couples bicker, part, come back together, but Sam and Laura have always been there, solid and dependable, in the same home they’ve lived in for almost twenty years. A rock in the whirlpool of life. I couldn’t bear it if anything was to wobble this constant I still take for granted.

  Sam is twining and untwining his fingers, staring at the ground, staring at the door like he wants to do a runner. Laura’s casting him occasional concerned looks. Perhaps he’s more upset about Adam than he wants to let on. After all, what happened to Adam is enough to make anyone respect their mortality. He catches my eye and I get a flicker of a smile. It’s absurdly reassuring. Suddenly my concern seems unfounded, just a foolish bout of fretting about the uncertainty of husbands.

  The service ends and the congregation stands. ‘Yesterday’ starts to play as the pallbearers lift the coffin. Until today I hadn’t known that Adam was a Beatles’ fan but now, as their music fills the sma
ll church, I know I’ll never be able to hear them again without remembering him. For me, the song has not lifted the moment, the moment has crippled the song.

  Karen, clutching her children, propped up by her mother and father, shadows her husband’s casket out of the church. According to my own mother, who’s been to lots more funerals than I have, seeing as her peers have all entered that dangerous, delicate stage of health, there’s much effort made these days to turn the gloom of a funeral into a celebration of life, with music and memories, quips and anecdotes designed to raise a laugh. But as my eyes follow Karen and her children, whose joy Fate has stepped in and stolen, I can’t see much cause to celebrate. The pain and confusion on the children’s faces is a harrowing reminder to me of the look the twins wore for so long after Alec left. I turn away.

  After the burial, we return to the church for sandwiches and tea. No one’s eating much, but the cups of tea slip down very well. I go over to Karen and give her a hug. I’ve never seen her dressed all in black before, nor have I seen her so weighted and drooped. The normal Karen, the pre-grief Karen, was bouncing and straight-backed, with a gleam in her dark eyes that promised energy and fun. Today there’s no gleam. Today her eyes are stark hollows in her face.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, and gives me another hug, murmuring against my ear, ‘I don’t know why I’m still crying. You wouldn’t think there were any tears left.’

  I smile and release her. Maybe it’s the sombre mourning she’s draped in, but she looks small and compressed, like a piece of dough that’s been squeezed into a tight little ball. And I sense the giant discipline she’s had to call upon to make it through today.

  ‘Tears aren’t finite,’ I tell her. ‘We make new ones really easily. You’ll just have to drink lots of water so you don’t dehydrate.’

  She returns my smile and wipes her eyes. Her face is bloated like a puffer fish, pale beneath her tan. Wendy Jackson, another mother from the school, is at her side. She’s watching Karen closely, like a lioness guarding her cub. I say hello to her, then ask Karen how her mum and dad are. ‘Running the show?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Feeding the children, organising the crowd, making rosters to mow the lawn, walk the dog, drive the kids to school.’

  ‘Trying to make you eat,’ says Wendy, and presses Karen’s hand.

  I look at Wendy Jackson properly for the first time. I’ve seen her at school occasionally, but I’ve never really taken too much notice. She’s slightly taller than average and amazingly slender. One of those women blessed with a narrow skeleton that gives grace to their limbs and boyishness to their hips. She’s very tanned, with short fair hair touched by the sun. I think she must spend a lot of time outdoors. Her smile is sweet, and the navy linen dress she’s wearing is ironed to crisp perfection. She looks neat and unflappable. A good person to have around in a crisis.

  ‘Karen’s going to bring me to aqua-aerobics,’ she tells me. ‘I gather you’re a devotee, Charlie.’

  Devotee might be stretching it, but today I’m happy to go along with anything. I beam at Karen. ‘That’s a brilliant idea. It’s been only Laura and me lately. It’ll be good to swell the ranks.’

  ‘I want to get back in the water,’ says Karen. ‘Soon.’

  I’m stunned by her courage. If she’s serious. I mean, from what I’ve been told she was there with him in the water. One minute he’s beside her, the next minute he’s under. Caught in some kind of freak undertow. There was a massive search of course, but it was hours before they found him. My overactive imagination – sometimes a blessing, so often a curse – is entirely unable to get a hold on what Karen must have endured that day. Though I do have the uncomfortable suspicion that, had it been me, I’d be running screaming from anything as threatening as a puddle from now on. Before I can find the words to express my admiration, Karen’s father appears at her side and she is gathered away.

  Watching her drooping, shrunken figure retreat gives me the most helpless feeling in the world. I suddenly feel as though I’d jump through hoops, flog myself, volunteer for the rack, do anything to take a fraction of her pain and see the glow return to her face, that secret smile, a hint of a blush. But there’s only one thing likely to achieve that sort of transformation. And as Adam is hardly going to come strolling through the door, happy, healthy and well, saying, All a big mistake, it wasn’t me, sorry I gave you such a fright, I know Karen’s only hope is time.

  God, how I hated it when people told me that I’d get over Alec in time. I remember one day I bumped into an old friend in the library. ‘Give it time, Charlie,’ she said. She was trying to be kind. ‘Time’s the great healer.’ I nearly punched her on the nose. How dare she belittle my grief and outrage – she had no idea that I would never, ever recover from the blow Alec had dealt me and the boys.

  But of course she was right. Time does help, not that I’m going to say it to Karen. None of this chin up, give it a while, love, and you’ll be right stuff.

  Karen needs to know that we understand what has happened to her is the most heartbreaking, gut-wrenchingly cruel act of devastation imaginable, and that we’ll be beside her through all her grief and fury, for as long as it takes.

  Karen needs to know that she’s not alone.

  CHAPTER 3

  IT’S THE LAST DAY of November and I’m out of bed at five, scurrying through my routine of packing my swimming bag, pouring scalding tea down my throat and dashing for the car with a piece of toast in one hand. Wendy Jackson phoned last night to tell me she’s bringing Karen to the pool today and that they’re counting on a few friendly faces being around.

  They are there before me, climbing out of Wendy’s car as I pull up. I can’t believe Karen’s not sick to her core and I’m humbled by her determination to nip at her fears so soon.

  In the end it’s taken almost two months for her to take this brave step, a time of lying low at home with her mum and dad and her children. Going out is a daunting business, after all, especially when the entire town knows what’s happened to you. In the aftermath of my own crisis, I always found it best to go out with a buddy – usually Laura. She was formidable, and stared down any enquiries from the overcurious – and there were plenty of those. She was my buffer, and very quick to whisk me away the moment I looked as though I might fall apart. I can’t imagine having survived it without Laura, and I can see that Wendy Jackson is doing just as great a job for Karen.

  I wave at Wendy and Karen, and they wait for me, smiling, baskets in hand. Karen looks calm and serene – not at all like the survivor of a mortal blow – and I marvel at the ability of some to mask the unbearable, to hold their chin high when they must feel utterly plundered. You’d never know that it’s only a few weeks since the heart was ripped out of her life. Not until you drew close and looked into her eyes, once swimming with so much laughter and spirit, now blank with sorrow. I give her a quick hug then the three of us head for the gates.

  It’s a beautiful morning, the air is soft and the dawning sun catches the tips of the cocos palms that ring the pool grounds. We are the first to arrive and the pool is empty, the water lapping lightly at the lane ropes as if to say Come in … come in …

  Swimming in open-air pools was a revelation to me when I first arrived from England. I was used to a crowded, indoor hothouse of steam more chlorine than oxygen. Even as a child I hated immersing myself in a chemical-rich soup warm enough to heat my blood and swell my hands and feet.

  What a joy, therefore, to breathe in the air of this balmy Queensland morning. There is a hint of the scent of gardenias blowing in from a neighbouring garden. A whiff of coffee brewing in the kiosk, and a sweet trace of the shower of rain that fell overnight.

  We’re sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling toes in the water, reaching for milk bottles by the time Laura, habitually late, runs in. Sean hits the music machine. Shania Twain belts out her tune, and the four of us slip into the water.

  Karen is the shortest of us: a coupl
e of inches shorter than Laura and me but strong-boned and sturdy. All bum and tits, as she so eloquently describes herself. But underlying the slight chubbiness of her limbs is a hint of muscle definition. I suspect she was a bit of an athlete in her school days and might show us a thing or two if Sean makes us swim again.

  He does. Once more I am last. Wendy is the surprise. Despite swearing she hasn’t swum seriously for years she makes effortless progress down the twenty-five metres of no-man’s-land. Karen is next, strong but splashy; Laura limps in third and I perform much as I did the first time – pathetically.

  Lolling in the shallows, stretching, making like ballerinas, all our attention is on Karen. ‘I’m going to be okay in the pool,’ she says in answer to our unspoken question. She scoops a handful of water in one small, square hand and lets it trickle through her fingers. ‘See how clear and sparkly it is.’ But when she looks up there’s agony in those eyes. ‘I couldn’t find him, you see. I kept diving under the surface, searching, but the water was murky and there was no one to help.’ Her face crumples and Wendy puts an arm round her bare shoulders.

  She takes a deep, ragged breath. ‘I searched for ages. I knew he was there. I kept diving down, groping with my arms. It was six hours before the divers found him. Six hours and two kilometres away. But this water is clean and clear enough to see the bottom. It’s totally different, no associations at all.’

  Associations that must be the stuff of nightmares. I’d never say it to Karen, but death by drowning has always held a particular horror for me. Adrift in the fathomless deep, at the mercy of invisible currents. Like an astronaut floating off into space, umbilical cord cut, limbs flailing helplessly, trying to swim back to the mother ship even though there’s no hope of reaching it.