Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

They’d done so many things together, just the two of them. She’d done things with her mother, too – pruning the roses or making pastry – usually things that weren’t so much fun. Anyway, her mother always seemed to be too tired, or busy with something or other.

That morning by Lough Derg in Ireland, where they had all gone for a two-week holiday, it had been just her and her father.

‘We must swim in the lake before we go home,’ he says. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk.’ Her mother says she’ll have to spend the morning packing if they’re to be ready for their afternoon flight back to London. Her brother takes one look out of the window and says he’d rather stay watching TV. So, she goes with her father to keep him company, despite the swollen clouds resting on the hills, as they have done for most of their stay, and the storm they watched last night, hissing its fury upon the lake.

They change on a small strip of beach beside a huge, shivering sea. A vicious breeze makes it feel more like winter than the height of summer. There are a handful of people, all dressed for cold weather, sitting on rugs and drinking from flasks, or strolling, hands in pockets.

Before this morning, the idea of swimming in sunlit open water seemed quite reasonable, tempting even. If only because Lough Derg isn’t the school pool, where for most of the spring term she’s had to swim up and down, up and down, for an hour, twice a week, with all those super-fast, super-keen nine- and ten-year-old girls, because her father thought it would be a good idea for her to ‘train properly’, until she’d told him she hated swimming endlessly up and down, confined to lanes, nearly always at the back of her group, and she was never going to become the champion swimmer that he’d been.

She grits her teeth and pulls off her snug fleece and track pants, revealing her black swimming costume. She runs after her father towards the small lapping waves.

‘Dad! It’s FREEZING!’

This isn’t an exaggeration – the water around her feet must have been ice recently enough. Resolutely, knowing her father won’t let her get away with not swimming, she wades out to her hips. Then she stops. The coldness knocks the breath out of her, feels like blocks of ice jammed up against every inch of her skin.

Her father stands.

‘Just get yourself under, Laura. It’s not so cold once you get in.’

No, she definitely can’t do this.

‘Come on,’ he coaxes, ‘be a brave girl. You’ll get used to it in no time.’

She braces herself and plunges into the water, screaming. She’s never swum in anything so cold.

But he’s right – the cold water is soon cool water, warmer than the air above. She kicks out, and rolls over and over like a seal pup, then floats on her back. It’s wonderful to be swimming in the open like this, with no roof, no lanes, no chlorine, no one trying to overtake her or yelling for her to swim faster.

‘Let’s swim over there, shall we?’ Dad points to a small wooden platform protruding from the land, quite a long way off. ‘Can you manage to swim that far?’

She squints at it. ‘I think so.’

It’s no further than all the lengths she’s endured in a typical session at the pool, she tells herself. If they go at a steady pace, she’ll manage it.

They swim out towards the intense green hills rising beyond the shore. She gets into a rhythm, alternating between breaststroke and front crawl. Soon, the platform is closer than the beach they’ve come from, and the thrill of being so far from the shore makes her momentarily forget her worries about getting tangled up with the underwater weeds and being so far out of her depth. Nothing bad is going to happen. Her father will make sure she is all right.

‘Well done, you made it!’ They clamber up onto the platform. Her father hugs her. ‘Are you okay, sweetie? That was quite a distance, not many girls your age could swim so far. I’m proud of you.’

She glows. She has shown Dad that she’s a good swimmer, after all – herself, too. She’s a bit puffed out, that’s all, and it’s cold out of the water. The wind is stronger out here.

He stands on the edge of the platform looking out into the distant corners of the lake. When he says they should go back, she dives in, as he’s taught her, without splashing, her body a straight line from head to toe. On the way back he swims beside her, or slightly behind, calling out encouragement whenever she begins to flag. Her arms are tiring, yet she’s still certain she can make it back. The cold gets worse, seeping through her muscles and bones. She has to stop and float on her back to rest for a while. She watches the sun’s rays slant through a gap in the clouds, turning the indeterminate colour of the water to a brilliant turquoise, and the nondescript shades of bird plumage to snowy white. Only when they’re almost on the beach, and the tiny figures on the sand are once more real people, does she start to panic.

‘Dad, help me!’

Invisible fronds drape around her legs. She feels her arms fail and all the strength drain out of them. The lake is sucking her down. Her nose and mouth are filling with water. Frantically, she tries to surface.

He’s there in no time at all.

‘It’s OK, sweetie. I’ve got you.’ He puts his arms beneath her legs and, without effort, pulls her out of the water and carries her onto the beach. ‘Let’s get you warm and dry, now. I’m so proud of you, swimming all that way.’

He rubs her dry and helps put on her warm things. She sits on the rug with his big jacket wrapped around her, gulping warm tea from the flask. Slowly, the feeling returns in her hands and feet and she stops shivering. The shock and fright are leaving. What do they matter, compared with her achievement? She smiles at her father.

‘Thanks for saving me, Dad.’

‘Don’t be silly, honey.’ He kisses her cheek. ‘You’re the most precious thing in the world to me. I’d never let anything happen to you, ever.’

Her happiness swells inside her as if it would burst through her skin – for managing to swim so far, and for her father having rescued her. And for simply being here, beside him, knowing he loves her.

They reached the end of the gravel path that bisected the smooth lawn, and turned to look back at the hotel. On impulse, Suzanne reached up and kissed Paul’s cheek.

The memory of their lovemaking lingered in the tender places of her body with a pleasurable ache. She recalled his slow, purposeful touch under the bedclothes, awakening her in the early morning chill, then, in the dazzle of the early spring sunshine, eating croissants and marmalade in bed, feeding him her crispy corners. As it had been in the early days, before the demands of a career and children had taken their toll.

They walked on, towards the distant fir tree where Heinz, one of the hotel staff, had pointed. He had insisted that they do the walk he recommended, presenting them with a package of food to take for lunch and afternoon tea. First, they had to find the lake, then they’d see a path up to the lookout.

Suzanne took off her jacket. It was past midday and quite warm. The sun played hide and seek behind islands of cloud. Daffodils rippled in the breeze and birds chirped from fat-budded trees. The path swept past towering tree trunks and weather-beaten statues of ancient gods, crossed a stream, and led them to a white-painted gazebo overlooking a lake.