Roma Tearne - The Swimmer

‘You’d get a flat in London for half the price of this place,’ my brother reminded me.

Still I said nothing. He wanted a share of the money to fund his political activities.

‘Why are you such a loser?’ he asked. ‘Think what you could make—enough to buy two houses.’

‘Jack!’ Miranda protested. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning to me.

‘Look,’ I said, as pleasantly as I could, ‘shall we stop baiting Ria for the duration of this holiday? I’m just not selling, Jack. Get this into your head. I’m not interested in the monetary value of this house, nor am I interested in funding your fascist politics, okay? Now, who wants coffee and who wants tea?’

Jack laughed. How the hell was I going to get through the fort-night? Miranda was looking at me with something like kindness. Lately I had begun to feel a great deal of sympathy for my sister-inlaw. There have been moments, when she was pregnant with the children, for example, when we’d come close to seeing eye to eye.

I went back into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

‘We’re thinking of going to Cromer,’ Miranda announced, coming in after me with the pile of dirty plates. ‘Just for a few days—give the kids a bit of beach. Fancy coming with us?’

I held my breath. When were they thinking of going? We cleared the kitchen together.

‘You need a holiday, too, Ria,’ she said after a while. ‘You work far too much. In that way you’re like Jack.’

I laughed without humour and filled the dishwasher, scraping bits of food off the plates. I would not cry.

‘Actually,’ Miranda continued, lowering her voice, ‘I’m a little worried about him.’

I was surprised. My brother’s marriage had always seemed to me to be run along the lines of a business. Nothing emotional was ever aired. What was she worried about?

‘He’s getting far too involved in politics. We’re spending vast amounts of money and I’m worried. You know how stubborn he is. I was wondering if you might talk to him.’

‘Me! You must be joking!’

‘Yes, I know…’ her voice trailed off.

If Miranda was appealing to me, then things must be desperate.

‘I just want him to take it easy. There are a couple of people who have joined who are…well, a bit extremist, you know what I mean? We’ve had a few odd-looking types visiting. Anyway,’ she glanced around quickly, ‘what d’you think about Cromer?’

‘Ria, I need to use the Internet,’ Jack announced, walking in with the empty wine bottle.

He poured himself a whisky.

‘I presume you did get it installed after last year’s fiasco? Let’s forget Cromer, Miranda. I’m thinking of hiring a boat for a few days.’

The sound of the television drifted out through the open window, mingling with raised voices and the odd thump. The children were fighting.

‘Oh God!’ Miranda cried, wiping her hands, ‘I’d better go and see what they’re up to.’

‘Yes.’

A kind of hollow despair enveloped me. In just a few hours my house had been stripped of its privacy. Alone in the kitchen I poured myself another drink and walked outside, moving swiftly towards the wild part of the garden. Beyond the river, and before you reached Orford Ness, were the matchstick woods. They were hidden now by fingers of dusk. The air was much cooler here and the trees were outlined sharply against a darkening sky. Nothing stirred. I heard the faint sound of traffic from the road beyond the trees, but that was all. The renters next door seemed to have disappeared too and silence enveloped me. I breathed slowly, feeling the tightness in my chest slowly easing.

Every summer of my childhood had been spent in this house. It had belonged to Uncle Clifford, our father’s brother, and his wife Elsa. By the time he was six, Jack was allowed to come with me. Our parents put us on the train at Liverpool Street and Uncle Clifford met us at the other end. There followed a month of blissful neglect when we roamed the fields and helped on the farm. I was meant to look after Jack. I remember how once we had got lost in some field before finally finding our way back to Eric’s farm. I had been scared, but as the eldest it had been my responsibility to get us home. Peggy, Eric’s wife, had given us two fresh eggs each when we reached her kitchen. We had carried them triumphantly back to Eel House. It was the beginning of a ritual that marked all our summers after that. Towards the end of August, before the weather broke and we returned home, our parents would join us. I was delighted, knowing that at last I could have my father all to myself. Even in those days Jack was a bit of a mother’s boy, less interested in the outdoor life. As soon as Mum arrived he stopped trailing around with me and the pair of them would go to the cinema and afterwards to tea in Aldeburgh, or on a long drive to visit friends. Mum was always buying him toys, which he broke almost instantly, whereupon she would promise him more treats. Dad disapproved hugely of such spoiling, but Jack was a precocious, rather bright child, so I suppose he got away with it. Meanwhile, Dad and I would go rambling in the matchstick woods, looking for fossils. We would pack a picnic and leave in the morning, returning at dusk when the light fell differently and the woods took on an air of enchantment. On other days we two would go out in the boat with Eric. Eric was Dad’s great friend. Dad and Uncle Clifford and Eric had all grown up together. They used to call themselves the Three Musketeers. ‘One for all and all for one,’ they used to laugh. After our fishing trips we would return with eels for supper. Later, Jack and I would play board games with my parents and Clifford and Elsa, laughing and cheating, ganging up against each other; Dad, Jack and Uncle Clifford against Mum and me and Aunt Elsa.

Where had all that easy affection gone? I sipped my wine. Once, I had believed that the farm and the fields, and Eric’s eels, would last for ever. Sighing, I closed my eyes and the poem that had been fermenting in me all day turned restlessly. It was getting late. High above the land a harvest moon moved silently while all the stars appeared like germinating seeds in the wide East Anglian sky. As I went back to the house I could hear the television. Clearly no one was tired.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Jack observed. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’

He sounded subdued. He and Miranda had pulled two chairs out on to the old flagstones and had opened a new bottle of wine.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Ria,’ Miranda said, ‘but we opened one of your whites.’

‘Where are the children?’ I asked.

‘Playing some computer game. They can’t stand being out because of the bugs.’

You’ve brought them up to be townie wimps, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I was more alarmed by the fact they were using my computer.

‘It’s okay,’ Miranda said quickly, seeing my face. ‘They’re using my laptop.’

Thank God, I thought. The poem inside me had begun calling, insistently.

‘What happened about your boat idea?’

‘Oh yes, I forgot. We’ve got one! Tuesday, for a week. Come, if you like. We’re going to sail across the Broads from Wroxham.’

He was looking at me intently.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘But I have a poem in my head that I’ll have to attend to.’

I laughed nervously. Jack seemed to accept my excuse.

‘At least you’re working again!’

A momentary benign feeling descended on us.

‘We’ll leave about midday,’ Miranda said. She sounded a little upset. ‘If that’s okay? We’ll leave some of our stuff here, travel light, be back in a couple of days.’

It was a quarter to ten.

‘I’m knackered,’ Jack said at last. He yawned. ‘One thing I must say, the beds are wonderful here, even though the plumbing is antiquated.’