Swimming Upstream Read online

  “Hey. Mind if I join you?”

  “Hey.” Doug patted the ground beside him and I sat down. We stuck our legs up against the railings and surveyed the car park below

  “So how are you?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks. You?”

  Doug nodded. “Roll up?” he offered. I shook my head. “It’s nice to see you,” he added. “I’m glad you came. It’s a shame when people break up and people disappear off the scene.”

  I smiled. “By people, do you mean Zara?”

  Doug glanced behind him through the window to the living room.

  “It’s alright,” I said. “Marion can’t hear. And everyone else knows you and Zara had a thing going on.”

  Doug didn’t try to deny it.

  “So… have you seen her lately? Zara, I mean?”

  Doug shook his head.

  “Nice girl,” I said. “I liked her.”

  “Me too,” said Doug, and smiled. “Off her head though.”

  I laughed, remembering the first time I had met her in the bathroom at Larsen’s house, when she’d told me about the stars talking and then we’d fallen into the bath. “She’s a lot nicer than Marion,” I said.

  Doug sighed. “Yeah. Well, she didn’t stick around. After…”

  “After what?”

  Doug hesitated. “She wasn’t very well,” he said, and then, “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “So where did she go? Is she still in Cambridge?”

  “No. I don’t know. I think she moved to London.”

  “London? Really?”

  “She got offered a job there, I think. It was in one of those big hospitals, a teaching hospital she said, in North London. I can’t remember which one.”

  We sat in silence for a while and Doug rolled another cigarette. I felt a glimmer of hope and something that felt like pride, in Zara. She had always remained on the fringe of things, her relationship with Doug never discussed. Her occasional presence had been accepted because of Doug. But I hadn’t really noticed, until now, that she had stopped being around, made the break, moved away. It was possible, then, to get a new life, to start afresh, without the blanket of love, friendship and familiarity that had shrouded me for such a long time. Zara had done it. Though, unlike me, she had always had a life away from Doug, outside of our crowd. She hadn’t invested everything into her relationship with him, the way that I had with Larsen. I recalled her having friendships with fellow nurses at the hospital where she worked. And I also remembered her being interested in art, talking about some paintings she’d done, and once or twice inviting me to a gallery. Once she had put on an exhibition of her own paintings and she had invited me to that too. But I had made some excuse and never gone.

  I realised now how shallow my friendships had been with all of these women, largely of my own volition. I hadn’t really tried to get to know them at all, in all these years, because for the most part all we had in common was that our boyfriends were friends. That was the glue that had held the group together. And now that I was no longer Larsen’s girlfriend there was nothing left. Zara was the one person that I had felt a real connection with, but I had never nurtured that. I had been too wrapped up in Larsen. I now regretted my inertia; Zara could have been a good friend.

  I glanced back through the window into the living room. Larsen and Jude were still sitting on the sofa talking. I noticed that their legs were close together, touching. Jude then said something, and smiled up at Larsen, who laughed, put his hand on her leg and then kissed her, full on the lips.

  “Oh,” I said. “Now I get it.”

  Doug followed my gaze. “Oh. Larsen and Jude. I thought you knew.”

  I stood up. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Lizzie - wait!” Doug jumped up after me and tried to grab my hands from behind me. I yanked them free and tripped over the step into the living room. Karen turned round and nudged Marion, who turned the music down.

  Jude looked up. “Lizzie..” she began.

  “How long has this been going on?” I demanded.

  “A few months,” said Jude, looking at Larsen for backup.

  “A few months?” I repeated. I looked at Larsen. “You mean… from the moment we split up? Or longer?”

  “No,” said Larsen, quickly. “No, not longer.”

  Jude glanced at him and I knew instantly that this wasn’t true. And I realised suddenly how naive I had been. I should have known that he would never have ended our relationship unless there was someone else waiting in the wings. All this time that I had been reeling from the blow of losing him - imagining him to be doing the same - and he hadn’t felt a thing.

  I looked up and Larsen’s eyes met mine briefly, then flickered away.

  “Don't go breaking your heart,” I said.

  Larsen said nothing.

  Doug followed me as far as the front door, but nobody followed me out.

  I woke the next morning with a throbbing headache and as the events of the previous night began to crash in on me, I also realised that I wasn’t well. I cast my mind back and remembered that I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the day before. I’d been too nervous before the party about seeing everyone again. I sat up slowly, then walked unsteadily downstairs into the kitchen. I filled the kettle and put two slices of toast into the toaster. I was rummaging through the drawers for coffee filters when the phone rang.

  It was Larsen. “We need to talk.”

  I felt bile suddenly rising in my stomach and my forehead prickled. I said, “I'm really not feeling very well.”

  Larsen didn't seem to have heard. “Okay, Lizzie, I don't blame you for being upset. But there are things we've got to sort out.”

  It was as if we were having two different conversations. Which wasn’t that surprising after all, as we were clearly having two entirely different experiences of breaking up. His was soft, cushioned; Jude and his friends had broken his fall. Mine was cold, empty and bereft. I was freefalling in space and time, with nobody standing by to stop me hurtling headlong into obscurity.

  I sank down onto the sofa. “This isn't a good time.”

  “Let's face it, there's never going to be a good time, is there?” he said gently. “I know you probably don't feel like talking to me right now, but you have a right to know what's going on …”

  I laughed ironically. “I kind of figured it out for myself, actually. But thanks for your concern.”

  Larsen paused for a second, then continued. “And I want you to hear it from me.”

  “There's more?” I croaked.

  “I didn't plan this, Lizzie.”

  I didn't say anything. My head was pounding and a wave of nausea was sweeping over me.

  “I'm not saying I'm not equally responsible,” Larsen was saying. “But it just happened and that's that and if you can try and understand ...”

  My stomach contracted and my jaw tightened. “I have to go,” I said.

  “Lizzie, wait. Look, I can't stay at Brian's for much longer.” He paused. “I'm going to need to move back into the house. I’ll buy you out.”

  “What? You can’t afford to buy me out. You can’t even afford to pay the mortgage!”

  “Maybe not, but…Jude can.”

  “Jude? You have got to be kidding.”

  “Okay. Her parents can. That’s what I meant. They can buy you out.”

  “Her parents? Why would her parents do that? You’ve only been together a few months!”

  “We need the house,” said Larsen. “Jude's pregnant.”

  The room was moving. I placed the receiver down, lurched up the stairs to the bathroom and was horribly, violently sick.

  Three hours later the sickness still hadn't stopped. I couldn't even lie down in bed in between bouts because whenever I did, the room started spinning. I was desperately thirsty but every time I tried to drink my stomach muscles contracted so violently that I could almost feel my stomach lining getting ready to rip. I lay in the bathroom for what seemed like hou
rs, my cheek resting against the cold white enamel of the bath, my legs curled up underneath me.

  I had lost all track of time and was almost dozing off on the bathmat when I heard a noise downstairs and a voice called through the letterbox.

  “Lizzie?! Are you there?”

  “Mum?” I lifted my head up, relief flooding through me.

  “Lizzie? Are you home?”

  “Yes!” I called, as loudly as I could, but my voice was so hoarse that all that came out was a whisper. I levered myself up onto my feet and almost threw myself down the stairs. My stomach immediately started to tighten.

  I fiddled with the latch and flung the door open. “Mum!” I screamed.

  I could see that my mother had been about to leave, her car keys in her hand. She turned at the sound of my voice “Oh, you are there. Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better. A lot better, in fact.” I sank to the floor and clutched at my stomach.

  “What's wrong? Are you ill?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Oh Lizzie, what's the matter?”

  “Don’t know.” I hiccupped. “Can't stop being sick.”

  My mother pushed open the front door.

  “Come on. Let's get you into the car,” she said. “We'll soon get you home.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t move.”

  My mother stepped over me, fetched a bucket from under the kitchen sink and pulled my jacket off the coat peg by the door.

  “Up you get,” she said, firmly.

  She took hold of me by the shoulders, tugged me up and pulled my arms into my jacket, through the sleeves, from the cuffs, the way she used to do it when I was little and had my mittens on bits of elastic inside. She steered me out of the front door and towards her car. One of my neighbours walked past and stared at me. I realised I wasn't looking my best. My hair was unbrushed, my face unwashed and I was still in my pyjamas, with my arms now round the bucket. I didn't have the energy to care.

  “How long have you been like this?” she asked, hoisting me into the front seat of the car.

  “Forever, I think.” I slumped back and fastened my seat belt. She started the engine. I watched the windscreen wipers, flicking back and forth. My head was spinning; I felt as if I was in space.

  “You should have called me before,” she reprimanded.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You never know when to ask for help.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You're too independent for your own good, sometimes. Just like your father.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Silly girl,” smiled my mum, and stroked my hair

  6

  I woke with a start. I opened my eyes and waited for the room to come into focus. My body was stiff and hot, my heart beating heavily in my chest, my clothes drenched with sweat and clinging to me. The room was darkened, the curtains drawn, but it was clearly still daylight outside. The remnants of a nightmare faded into the light.

  My mum appeared in the doorway with a tray. “How are you? Did you sleep?”

  I nodded.

  “Here you are.” She placed the tray on my lap and lifted me up, plumping up the pillows behind me. My limbs were weak and I moved with difficulty.

  “What is it?”

  “Chicken soup. It’s homemade.”

  “Thanks. It looks better than that disgusting drink. What was it?”

  “Salt and orange juice. You were dehydrated. It did the trick though, didn't it?”

  I nodded and looked round the room. I was in my sister Keri's bed. It no longer smelled of plasticine and old apple cores the way it used to. It must have been years since I’d set foot in here. In the meantime, it had undergone a complete transformation. The childish crayoned pictures of houses and flowers that she'd stuck to the walls with blue tac had been replaced and the room was now a splash of red and white. The Liverpool team photo took pride of place in the centre. Surrounding it were individual pictures: Ian Rush heading the ball, John Barnes striking, Peter Beardsley in mid-air looking over his shoulder at his backside, both legs flung out beside him. Mug shots of the less prolific goal scorers were dotted around the window opposite. At the end of the bed sat a scruffy, one-eyed teddy bear wearing a red and white bobble hat. With a pang, I found myself wishing for one very long moment that I could come home again, that this was my room.

  I finished the last of the soup and was relieved to note that it was staying down. “Where’s Keri?” I asked.

  “At her dad’s.”

  “Oh. Him. She sees him, does she?”

  My mother’s face tightened for a moment. “He’s her dad,” she said.

  “He was supposed to be mine too. Ours; mine and Pete’s. And look how that went.”

  “Let’s not do this,” pleaded my mum.

  “Why not, mum? It’s time we talked about what happened.”

  “Because I can’t. That’s why. Because we’ll both say things that we regret and then we’ll both be hurt. I know how you feel. It doesn’t do to keep raking it over.”

  She sat on the bed with her back to me and began undoing the bandage on my foot.

  I sighed and put my soup bowl down on the floor. “So, what were you doing in Cambridge?”

  “Shopping. Keri needed some new school things. I thought I would stop by and see if you were home. I did try to phone. I can see now why you didn’t answer. It’s a good job I came by when I did.”

  “I know. Thank you. And I am grateful.”

  I watched my mother as she then got up and moved around the room, picking up errant socks and crumpled t-shirts and putting them into Keri’s washing basket. She opened the curtains and the late afternoon sunshine lit the room.

  “What's wrong with me?” I asked her.

  My mum looked up. “You got dehydrated. You have low blood pressure. Hypotension. You know that. Did you eat yesterday?”

  “Not much. I had a bad day.”

  “Oh, love,” my mum put my foot up onto a pillow and turned to face me. “What’s happened?”

  I told her about Larsen, and Jude, and the baby. She sat on the bed next to me and listened, stroking my hand tentatively, and didn’t speak until I'd finished.

  “It must hurt,” was all she said.

  “I can't believe he could just replace me like that,” I said. “I feel like she's pirated my life. He wants her to move in, sleep in my bed, and bring up their baby in my home. And he wants me to just …go.”

  “Poor Lizzie,” said my mum, unhelpfully. She stroked my hand, back and forth, over and over again. I could feel the calluses on her work-weary fingers rubbing gently against my skin. Then she asked, “Did you want him back?”

  I picked at the throw on Keri’s bed. “Maybe. A part of me did, at least. I think that’s what I had hoped for when we first decided to break up, that we would work through our problems. Be there for each other, perhaps. And maybe after some time apart… I don’t know what I expected. But I should have seen this coming. I should have known.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  I sighed. “So anyway, I’m going to have to move out.”

  “Do you really have to?”

  “Either that or find forty grand. I can’t afford to buy him out.”

  My mum paused. “I wish I could help. But you know I don’t have that sort of money.”

  “I know that. I wasn’t expecting you to do that for me.”

  I collapsed back onto the pillow with a thump. A book slid off the bed and dropped onto the floor beside me. I picked it up.

  “The Water Babies,” I said, wiping my eyes and turning the yellowing pages. “I haven't seen this for years.”

  “I found it in the attic. We must have brought it with us when we moved,” my mum said, a little apologetically.

  I flicked through the pages, pausing to marvel at the beautiful fairy-like illustrations of dragon-flies and lobsters and little rounded babies, with ‘Lucie Mabel Atwell’ printed on them at
the bottom and captions underneath which I used to read myself. There was an ink stain on the corner of the back cover.

  “This was my favourite book,” I said, spellbound. I turned back to the beginning, looking for my name inside to prove it had been mine. On the imprint page was an inscription. It said: ‘To my own Water Baby, with love from Daddy,’ which took me completely by surprise. I hadn't remembered it being there at all.

  “I didn't know my dad wrote this,” I said. My voice sounded hollow. It felt strange, sitting there looking at it his handwriting. It was big, slanted, and old-fashioned; it was proof that he'd really existed. “Why did he call me that?”

  “He used to take you swimming; he taught you to swim. Don’t you remember?”

  “No. Not really.” I waited for my mother to tell me more, to remind me, but she didn’t. I looked again at the cover and tried to remember. “I didn't know he gave this to me.”

  “Oh yes,” said my mum. “For your birthday, that year...” she tailed off, got up off the bed and opened the curtains, letting the sun beam in onto the bed. “And the doll,” added my mother. Her voice sounded tight. She was looking away, out of the window, onto the street. “Don't you remember the doll we gave you? We chose it together. For your sixth birthday.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I don't. But I should. I should remember being six, right? There’s so much that I seem to have forgotten.”

  My mother turned to face me with an expression that looked almost like relief. She gave me a quick smile, picked up my empty soup bowl and started to leave the room.

  “Only things have started coming back to me,” I said. My mother stopped in the doorway, turned and then came back again. She placed the soup bowl down on the oak chest of drawers next to Keri’s bed and sat down again beside me.

  “Little things,” I continued. “Like the street that we were living in. I close my eyes and I can see it. A quiet avenue, leafy. Lots of trees.”

  My mother nodded. “That’s right.”