Peter Davies - The Welsh Girl

He studies her from the roundabout, circling slowly. There’s a watchful quality in him, as if he’s waiting for something, the right moment, and the thought is delicious to her. When she bats at the swings, he calls softly, “Want a push?” and she tells him throatily, “Yeah.”

She settles herself, and he puts his hands in the small of her back and shoves firmly to set her off, and then as she swings he touches her lightly, his fingers spread across her hips, each time she passes. “Go on!” she calls, and he pushes her harder and harder, until she sees her shiny toe tops rising over the indigo silhouette of the encircling mountains. When she finally comes to a stop, the strands of dark hair that have flown loose fall back and cover her face. She tucks them away, all but one, which sticks to her cheek and throat, an inky curve. He reaches for it and traces it, and she takes his hand for a second, then pushes it away. He’s on the verge of something, but she doesn’t want him to come out with it just yet, not until it’s perfect.

“I saw the pool from up there,” she tells him breathlessly and she pulls him towards it. She can see the water, the choppy surface, and she wants, just once, to recline beside it and run her hand through it. But when she gets close and bends down, she sees that what she has taken for the surface of the water is an old tarpaulin stretched over the mouth of the pool. She strikes at it bad-temperedly, as if it spoils everything.

“For leaves and that,” Colin says, catching up. “So it doesn’t get all mucky.”

“But what about the water?”

“Suppose they drained it.”

He can see her disappointment, but he isn’t discouraged. He looks like he’d relish making it up to her.

“Come ’ere,” he says, taking her hand and pulling her along to the metal steps that drop into the pool.

He kneels and unfastens the cloth where it’s tied to the edge by guy ropes. “Follow me.” He climbs down, his feet, his legs, his torso disappearing until she can see only the top of his head. She notices a tiny, sunburned bald spot just as he looks up, and she realizes he can see up her skirt. She hops back, snapping her heels together, and he grins and vanishes.

“Colin,” she calls softly, suddenly alone.

There’s no answer.

She crouches closer to the flapping gap of cloth, like a diver about to plunge forward. “Colin?”

Nothing.

Then she sees a ridge in the cloth, like the fin of a shark moving away from her, circling, coming back. “What’s that?” she says, and, as if from a long way off, comes the cry “Me manhood.”

Despite herself she laughs, and in that moment grabs the railing of the steps and ducks below the cover.

It’s surprisingly light in the empty pool. The tarpaulin is a thin blue oilcloth, and the starlight seeps through it unevenly as if through a cloudy sky. The pool is bathed in a pale, blotchy light, and the illusion of being underwater is accentuated by the design of shells printed on the tiles of the bottom. Overhead the breeze snaps the tarp like a sail. She can just make out Colin, like a murky beast at the far end of the pool, the deep end. She takes a step forward, the world sloping away beneath her suddenly, almost falls, stumbles down towards him.

When she gets closer, she finds him walking around in circles with exaggerated slowness, making giant O shapes with his mouth.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a fish,” he says. “Glub glub, get it?” And she joins him, giggling, snaking her arms ahead of her in a languid breast-stroke.

He weaves back and forth around her. “Glub glub glub!”

“Now what are you doing?” she asks, as he steps sideways and bumps her. “Hey!”

“I’m a crab,” he says, sidling off, scuttling back, bumping her again.

She feels his hand on her arse.

“Ow!”

“Sorry!” He shrugs, holds up his hands. “Sharp pincers.”

“That hurt,” she says, pulling away. She starts to backpedal towards the shallow end, windmilling her arms. “Backstroke!” she cries, clenching her teeth in an Esther Williams smile. But he catches her, wraps her in a hug.

“Mr. Octopus,” he whispers, “has got you.”

She can hear his heart beating.

“’Ere,” he says. “Want to know a secret?”

And she nods firmly, composing herself.

“Pee,” he whispers. “Oh.” He grins. “Doubleyas!” It takes her a moment to decipher him. “POWs!” he repeats, like it’s a punch line, and slowly, queasily, she begins to smile. “That’s who it’s for! And your lot thinking they was part of the war effort.” He laughs, and she sees that this is what he’s been holding in all this time — laughter, a bellyful of it. But after a second she joins him anyway, hoping that if they can share this joke, then he won’t think her one of them, will see her on his side.

He’s still chuckling when she takes his head in her hands and kisses him until the laughter is stifled and he starts to respond. She’s put all her strength into the kiss, but when he kisses back it’s with even greater force, this soldier she’s only known for a fortnight. He turns her in his arms, as if dancing, and she tries to move her feet with him, but he’s holding too tight, simply swinging her around. She feels dizzy. Her shoes scuff the tiles, and she thinks, I just polished them. The pressure of his arms makes it hard to breathe. She moans softly, her mouth under his mouth, his tongue against hers. When they finally stop spinning, she finds herself pressed against the cold tile wall of the pool. Up close it stinks of dank, chlorine, and rotting leaves.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” he whispers hoarsely. “Will you miss me?”

She nods in his arms, although what she feels most sharply is not his loss, but jealous of his leaving. She presses her head against his chest, away from the hard wall. Take me with you, she prays.

“I’ll miss you,” he tells her, his lips to her ear. “We could be at the front this time next month. I wish I had something to remember you by. Something to keep up me fighting spirits.”

She feels him picking at her blouse, the buttons. She feels a hand on her knee, fluttering at her hem, under her skirt—“Mermaid!” he croons — sliding against the silk of her slip.

“Nice,” Colin breathes. “Who says you Welsh girls don’t know your duty? Proper patriot, you are. Thinking of England.” Her head is still bent towards him, but now she is straining her neck against his weight. She can feel the bony crook of his elbow pressing against her side, and across her belly the tense muscles of his forearm, twitching.

“ Nargois, ” she tells him, but he doesn’t understand. “ Nargois! ”

“Fuck,” he whispers, as if correcting her. “Say ‘fuck.’”

There’s pressure, then pain. Colin grunts into her hair, short, hot puffs of breath. She wonders if she dares scream, who would hear her, who might come, wonders if she’s more afraid of being caught than of what he’s doing to her. And then he’s covering her mouth anyway, his tongue opening her lips, thrusting against her tongue, entering her mouth, even as she feels him, with a darting suddenness, enter her below. It drives the air out of her like a blow, breaking the kiss. She clenches her teeth, but his face is in her hair now, his neck arched as if to spit. She twists her head against the coarse wool on his chest, trying to shake it, and he says, “Almost, almost,” and bucks against her. Something jumps inside her, and she lifts her head sharply, catches him under the chin with a crack.

He cries out, stepping back, clutching his jaw, his tongue tipped with blood.

“Oh! Are you all right?” She starts to reach for him.