The Swim Club Read online

  ‘I don’t think I could face swimming in murky water ever again,’ she says. ‘I want it crystal clear. Just like this. Let’s come again tomorrow.’

  Karen’s words snap me out of my self-indulgent brooding. Tomorrow? Getting here for six o’clock even twice a week is a logistical nightmare. I see my thoughts mirrored on Laura’s face. But special circumstances demand special effort. ‘Tomorrow,’ we say in unison.

  I’m there on the dot of six. First to arrive, I find the gates still locked. Cate, Goddess of the Pool, shows up in a lycra singlet and micro mini that shows about a yard of tanned, lissom thigh. ‘You’re getting addicted,’ she laughs as she unlocks the gate.

  ‘Got to be a healthy addiction,’ I point out.

  She follows me into the changing room. ‘It’d do you more good if you swam instead of doing those exercises designed for geriatrics.’

  I happen to find the exercises pretty tough, but I’m too embarrassed to say so. ‘I’m not much of a swimmer,’ I mumble.

  Cate smiles. Her face is appealingly adolescent-looking: cute nose, a smattering of freckles. ‘Think about it. Sean could swap your classes to stroke correction. You’d improve in no time.’

  All right for her, I think – she’s a goddess, I’m a mere mortal, who can barely swim one lap without choking half todeath.

  Wendy and Karen appear in time to hear Cate’s fateful words.

  ‘I went to stroke correction classes once,’ Wendy tells us, putting her basket down on the bench. Wendy’s basket is a scented wonder of neatly packed and stashed essentials. Little rows of matching bottles, a fluffy pink towel you’d swear she irons. ‘It was years ago now. But I found out I was pregnant not long after and stopped going.’

  ‘So that’s the secret of your grace and style.’ I’m fossicking through the clutter in my bag for my new swimming cap. Its lurid pink makes my head look like an oversized morello cherry. ‘Though perhaps,’ I suggest hopefully, ‘old dogs like us are beyond learning new tricks.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Cate sounds genuinely startled, and I’m not sure if she’s talking about my hat or my reluctance to enrol in swimming classes.

  ‘Well, I guess I am,’ I admit, choosing to assume the latter. ‘It’s much easier to pick up new skills when you’re young and keen, when you believe you’re bullet-proof.’

  She’s staring at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language. ‘You talk as if you’re about ninety.’

  I laugh, but Cate has struck a nerve. I am determined to ignore it though. I’m clinging to my comfort zone as tightly as I can, thank you very much.

  Wendy, stripping off her shorts and singlet, says, ‘My grandmother learned to fly when she was seventy-three. Gave Grandpa a bit of a fright, but he soon adjusted. He was quite proud of her in the end.’

  ‘There you go,’ says Cate.

  ‘And I heard of a woman in New Zealand who took up kayaking when she was past eighty.’

  ‘What about the ninety year old who did a tandem skydive recently?’ Laura, running late, slings her bag on the bench. ‘What are we talking about by the way?’

  Karen, noticeably brighter than yesterday, is quick to join in. ‘Reluctance to learn to swim when the ancient age of forty draws near.’

  Laura shoots a look at me – no prizes for guessing who’s the reluctant one – then tilts a dolphin smile at Karen. ‘I see we have work to do.’

  We are rewarded with the best grin we’ve had from Karen yet. And I get the dreadful feeling that Laura, never one to miss an opportunity, intends to seize upon the task of Undoing Charlie’s Reluctance as a motivating goal for Karen.

  Either that or my weakness for Karen’s grief is about to be exploited. I’m not sure if Karen realises it herself just yet, not knowing Laura as intimately as I do, but she’ll learn.

  ‘The thing with swimming is that it’s such a good form of exercise,’ says Laura loudly as we make our way to the pool. ‘Doesn’t do your joints in, works every muscle in the body, builds lung power.’

  I ignore her determinedly, but I notice there’s enthusiastic nodding from Karen, and I swear she’s standing straighter, just a hint of that old familiar squaring of shoulders as she says, ‘There are so many reasons to become a strong swimmer. Growing up in England, I guess you had less opportunity, Charlie.’

  I discard my towel and sit down on the edge of the pool. ‘True,’ I admit, reaching for my plastic milk bottles. ‘There are plenty of English kids who can’t swim at all.’

  Sean approaches and we all lower ourselves into the water. Conversation ends and our gruelling session begins: an hour of cycling, scissoring, doing the twist and treading water with our arms held high.

  My limbs are numb in minutes. A quick glance at the others tells me that Karen and Wendy are breezing the routine, especially Wendy, who’s dancing through the water with a grace that makes me feel like a baby hippo that’s just been chucked in the Nile for the very first time: snorting and spluttering so loudly I can’t even hear what Sean’s yelling about.

  Back in the privacy of the changing room, Karen sits down on the bench beside me. ‘Does it worry you, Charlie, that you’re not confident in the water?’

  ‘My breaststroke’s not that bad,’ I say defensively, but of course that’s only in comparison to my everything else, which must be causing some hilarity amongst the swim squad.

  ‘But imagine feeling powerful in the water, feeling fast. Wouldn’t that be a thrill? I’d like to improve my swimming skills,’ she adds. ‘I’d love to be a strong swimmer.’

  When Karen speaks, everyone listens, everyone analyses her words and tries to think of good, sustaining things to say. ‘You’re pretty good already,’ I tell her. ‘Heaps better than Laura and I.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ she says, and we all know what she’s thinking.

  ‘All in all, I think she’s doing really well,’ Laura tells us. It’s Thursday, Laura’s day off, and she’s sitting with Wendy and me at Marc’s, our favourite cafe in town, drinking coffee and eating pomegranate cheesecake. Undoing all the good of the morning’s efforts in the pool.

  ‘She is doing well, isn’t she?’ agrees Wendy, neat as a pin, not a hair out of place.

  It is a complete mystery to me how Wendy can emerge so serene from an hour’s puffing and panting in the water. In comparison, Laura and I look like wild women: damp snaggled hair and careless clothes. Laura’s shirt is so haphazardly buttoned and askew that I can see the freckled skin of one naked shoulder. As for me, with no time for improvement between leaving the pool and making the sprint home to get the boys on the school bus, there’s no doubt I look, as my old headmistress was fond of telling me, like the wreck of the Hesperus.

  I sip my coffee and poke at the remains of my cheesecake. ‘Actually I think doing well is an understatement. Karen’s way ahead of where I was when I first found myself alone, and I didn’t have the shock of a sudden death to deal with.’

  I get sympathetic smiles and a pat on the back from Wendy. ‘I’ve noticed a real difference in her since we’ve been coming to the pool,’ she says. ‘It’s a goal for her, and everybody needs those.’

  ‘Like learning to swim,’ adds Laura.

  Not quite what I had in mind.

  ‘I do think we should consider it,’ Laura continues between mouthfuls of cheesecake. ‘Cate’s quite right. It would be much better exercise.’

  I look at Laura suspiciously. I’m not sure that this escalating keenness on exercise isn’t masking something; maybe she’s using swimming as a distraction from a deeper issue in her own life. I remember at Adam’s funeral thinking that Sam had changed, though I couldn’t pinpoint in what precise way. There was a bit of weight loss certainly, but something else besides. Something intrinsic in him that seemed to be different. Laura means the world to me, we’ve been friends for years. Surely she would say something if Sam was unwell? Or perhaps she thinks we’ve all had too much to deal with recently and doesn’t want to stir our raw emo
tions by declaring another husband to be in trouble. She’s a woman with the strength to do just that, to take a burden on her own shoulders in a bid to protect others. I determine to keep a keen eye on her.

  This morning she looks bright and cheery, pumped up and obviously poised to push the swimming idea. Vague flutters of panic stir in my belly. Better speak up. ‘But now that we’re doing aqua-aerobics five times a week, surely our fitness levels will leap ahead. Who needs to swim as well?’

  ‘Not as well. Instead of.’

  ‘Okay. Instead of.’ I lick my spoon. I can’t deny that the notion of being a good swimmer is an exciting one, but I’m afraid of looking like a fool, of always being the worst, always coming last, of always being the clumsy, uncoordinated one. Besides, I’ve barely got the hang of the aqua-aerobics. The last thing I need is another challenge.

  ‘Remember how keen Karen was,’ Laura points out sneakily. She’s obviously determined to exploit every possible weakness in my armour.

  I hesistate for a fraction of a second. Big mistake.

  ‘Karen needs us,’ says Laura, with finality, and lays down her spoon. It’s the coup de grâce and she knows it.

  I am defeated.

  CHAPTER 4

  WHEN WE EMERGE FROM the changing room Sean is all primed up and ready to start, hands on hips, stopwatch round his neck. I fancy there’s a sadistic glint of pleasure in his eye as the four of us approach in our caps, goggles and flippers.

  Laura, Karen and I are wrapped tightly in towels. I can’t imagine having the confidence to do as Wendy does, and cover the distance from changing room to pool wearing no more than my swimsuit. Especially in front of the anonymous athletes in the fast lanes. We never see their faces, just their muscled shoulders and backs, the glimpse of a foot now and again amongst the wake of white water churning behind them.

  Sean takes a step towards us. ‘First rule: don’t wear your flippers till you’re sitting on the edge of the pool. Youse’ll fall flat on your faces walking around like a mob of penguins.’

  We look down at our extended orange feet and are suitably abashed.

  ‘Second rule: what’s all this with the towels? They’ll get wet here. Leave them in the changing room. Give us them now.’

  Laura, Karen and I surrender our towels and stand selfconsciously before Sean. I want to jump straight into the water to hide my bloated body. Laura and Karen are also well rounded, but they, at least, are both tanned. I feel like a witchetty grub or some other such creature that has crawled out from under a rock for the first time in its life. Pale, vulnerable and plump.

  ‘In youse get, ladies.’

  He doesn’t need to tell us twice. We jump in, arrange goggles over our eyes, caps over our ears, then stare at each other, feeling strange, alien, looking like bugs.

  Sean gives us all a kickboard. ‘Two laps of kick,’ he says. ‘It’ll warm youse up a bit.’

  We take off.

  To my amazement I’m out in front. At last my sturdy thighs have discovered their true purpose. They can kick. They can kick hard. I push myself, widen the gap between myself and the others, and reach the shallow end again, breathless, thighs burning, but triumphant.

  Sean picks up a spare kickboard in one hand. ‘This is what I want youse to do now,’ he says, and mimes the act of freestyle, swapping the board from one hand to the other as he goes. ‘Face down. Turn to the side to breathe. Off youse go.’

  My brief moment of triumph is over. Floundering, rolling about, losing my grip on the kickboard and chasing it across the pool, I struggle through the hour-long session. My arms and shoulders are worse than useless, and I feel as though I am spending most of the time flailing on the spot. Laura isn’t much better than me, but she, true to form, is displaying an core of steel. Wendy and Karen are doing really well, which doesn’t exactly help. Why do I always seem to pick such capable, plucky friends? Or perhaps, suggests the dark, inner voice of paranoia, they pick me. Nothing like a plumpish, uncoordinated, anaemic-looking sidekick to show off your own talents and attributes.

  Catching my breath in the shallows, I eye my friends with suspicion, and wonder whether I might just slip out of the pool and slink away unnoticed. Then Laura gives me a wave from the deep end and suddenly I’m humbled by her dogged determination to keep swimming. I grab my kickboard and set off again.

  Back in the changing room we compare notes. I mention my arm and shoulder problem.

  ‘I’m the other way,’ says Wendy. ‘Useless legs but good arms.’

  She jumps up and catches the jamb above the toilet door with both hands. Then, to our amazement, does five flawless chin-ups. We are beyond speech. I’ve never seen a woman do a chin-up before. She drops to the ground and smiles at our gormless astonishment.

  ‘It’s my strength-to-weight ratio,’ she says. ‘I’m skinny and light with strong arms. Should have been born a man. I’ll never be able to kick like you, Charlie.’

  I stare down at my solid legs. I’ve never imagined a good use for them before. ‘Alec used to call me thunder thighs,’ I tell them. ‘I pretended I didn’t mind, but really I hated it. Emma has long skinny legs.’

  Karen and Laura have lived in town long enough to know about Emma Lewis. But for Wendy’s benefit, I explain. ‘Emma is the child my husband seduced and ran off with. It was true love. He’d never had that before, you see. So, though she was only seventeen, though he had been her teacher at high school, though he had a wife and twin sons at home, it couldn’t be helped. True Love, once recognised, can’t be denied.’ I say this with a smile to soften the sarcasm, but the truth is that even now, after so long, it still makes me uncomfortable, wondering whether someone’s going to judge me for what happened.

  Wendy has stripped off her swimsuit and is applying talc to the various valleys of her lean body. ‘That must have been horrible for you,’ she says, and snaps the lid back on her talc. Wafts of lavender sweeten the antiseptic smell of the changing room. She pulls on her knickers, then sits down to put on her socks. Sensible white cotton knickers. Little white ankle socks. Wendy looks like a forty-something virgin.

  ‘Horrible? Yes, you could say that. I became the abandoned wife of the town paedophile. Tars you bit.’

  ‘The girl was seventeen, did you say? Far too young, certainly, but legal.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I concede, as I struggle to drag my knickers up not quite dry thighs, ‘but when did it start? Did he cleverly lay the foundations for her seduction when she was fifteen years old? Worse, did he lure her behind the tuckshop and teach her a thing or two in secret? I’m surprised you haven’t heard about this,’ I add. Wendy has only been living in town for the last year or so, but this was big, the sort of thing that becomes set in local lore and legend.

  ‘Your story was huge at the time,’ admits Laura, and sits down to rub Sorbolene into her arms and chest, into thighs as solid as my own. ‘But remember, Charlie, lots of other stuff has happened since. Quite apart from the usual adultery, death and divorce, there was the shocking incident of the vicar.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard about that,’ says Wendy. ‘I think it happened just before I arrived, but that was big. That made the national news.’

  The girls are right. The vicar’s disgrace was huge. And to my disgrace I was almost, but not quite, secretly pleased that it happened. Because the incident totally overshadowed the Alec and Emma drama. I would have been pleased, I would have been ecstatic, had the vicar’s disgrace not involved the death of a woman.

  Less than two years ago, the then vicar of Macclesfield’s Anglican Church was caught in flagrante with the estranged wife of a local dairy farmer. The vicar had, apparently, been having an affair with the woman for some time when the husband, for reasons only he will ever understand, took a gun to the house and interrupted the lovers mid-coitus. The vicar escaped out through the bedroom window, but the husband, in a cruel act of madness, raised his gun and shot his wife dead. Then he fled to the bush, hiding out for two weeks before the police
tracked him down.

  Crimes of passion. Estranged husbands and partners murdering or maiming their women. You hear about it all too often, but what set this case apart was not only that the lover was our vicar, a man believed to be above such weakness of the flesh, but that he fled the scene in what will always be remembered as an act of unmitigated cowardice. Leaving his lover to die at the hands of her violent husband. He is no longer a vicar, but he still lives in town, de-frocked, and keeping a very low profile. Sometimes I can find it in my heart to pity him.

  ‘It’s a strange thing,’ Wendy says. ‘My life is safe, neat and packaged. Three healthy, happy children. Graham has been an accountant with the same firm for almost twenty years. He’s steady and reliable and I’ve never had to worry about bringing in a second income, or putting the kids into child care, or not being at home when anyone needs me. Nothing dramatic or overly challenging ever seems to trouble our lives, which, when I think about what you’ve just told me, Charlie, and what has happened to Karen, should make my life seem very enviable. But there are times when I wonder if my emotions are missing out on something.’

  ‘Like having to experience pain to grow and learn?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Karen is still in her swimsuit, standing alone near the showers. Talk of pain has us all looking at her. She’s finished washing her hair but looks suddenly immobilised and lost.

  ‘If pain is necessary to growth and learning, just think how big and bright you’re going to be,’ I say to her.

  It’s a weak joke, but I do get a suspicion of a smile as she wanders over the patchy concrete floor to the benches. ‘I believe, I used to believe,’ she corrects, as she strips off and starts to dry herself, ‘that some good comes out of everything. That when crappy things happen it makes you take stock, makes you strive to do something to improve your life. But this has been too big.’