Swimming Upstream
Authors: Ruth Mancini
Upstream
Ruth Mancini
Copyright
© 2012 by Ruth Mancini
www.ruthmancini.com
The right
of Ruth Mancini to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All
Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The
characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author
A CIP
catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
For Tracey
and Clare, with love
Front
cover artwork by Redgraphite Design
www.redgraphite.co.uk
Huge
thanks to Christine Lawson at Oxford Editing Services Freelance Press for copy
editing and commenting on numerous drafts of this novel.
Contact:
[email protected]
My thanks
also to Oxford Literary Consultancy
http://www.oxfordwriters.com/
for extensive editorial and marketing advice
Heartfelt
thanks to Catherine Amey, Catherine Scammell, Tracey Wood, Angela Ridley, Lesley
Scammell, Clare McDonnell, and everyone else who read and commented on earlier
drafts of
Swimming Upstream
. Thanks also to Clare Mc for the insight
into radio journalism, and to Estelle Jobson for the talking stars…
I remain
indebted to Jaimie Cahlil (my “Uncle Silbert”) for his love, support and words
of wisdom, and to Lucy Bagourd for the wonderful descriptions of Eaubonne.
Finally,
thanks to my husband Mark for contributing the odd word or phrase here and
there and for making me laugh.
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to
repeat it”
George
Santayana
“Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way”
Roger Waters
Pink Floyd
I once read that the end of a relationship is like being
involved in a road traffic accident. Which is quite fitting really, given what
happened. Only you’d probably think of an accident as something sudden, out of the
blue, and I suppose breaking up is like that for some people. For me, though, the
road had been rocky for some time and I could see all too clearly what was
about to happen: a multi-car pileup. People screaming and car-horns blaring. And
here we were, me and Larsen, gliding towards it, the wheels beneath us slipping
and spinning out of control.
It was Spring 1992, a typical blustery April
afternoon. The streets of Cambridge were gloomy, the pavements wet and the
turrets and spires of the city in the distance were lost in a sepia haze. A
strong gust of wind and a smattering of chilly raindrops assaulted me as I
jogged across Parker’s Piece and crossed the road at Gonville Place to cut
through to the red and grey brick building on the corner that housed the
College of Arts. Even after over seven years of living in Cambridge, it still
surprised me that such an ancient and architecturally stunning city could be
cocooned within the boundaries of what was, on the outer fringes, a perfectly
modest late twentieth century town. But this very building, of course, was
where it all started for me; this was what had brought me here, to Larsen’s
home, and into his life. It suddenly seemed a very long time ago.
I cut through the cemetery behind the college and
paused for breath, ignoring the droplets of rain that were dribbling over my
forehead. I looked back again at the brick and glass building behind me and the
strangest of feelings washed over me, something that I could only describe as
homesickness. But - for what? I had my own home - a pretty two-bedroomed
Victorian terraced house in Vinery Road - and a stable life with Larsen. I had
friends. I had a budding career in broadcasting. My life was full and busy and
I had no reason to feel insecure. And yet, something was missing.
I shifted my swimming bag on my shoulder and set
off again down Coldham’s Lane, breaking into a jog, and a few minutes later I
pushed through the revolving door into the swimming pools complex. I was met by
a welcome wall of heat and the familiar scent of chlorine. I picked up my ticket
and walked into the changing room, hot steam from the showers rising up to
greet me. I didn’t in fact much feel like taking off all my clothes and
immersing myself in cold water; I was wet and cold enough already. There was
also a knot in my stomach and a heaviness in my chest that was more than the
predictable outcome of having drunk the best part of a bottle of wine by myself
and smoked numerous cigarettes the night before. I knew that I should have
talked to Larsen long ago about the way I was feeling, about the thing that had
come between us. But I couldn’t name it; I didn’t know what it was. So I
carried on as if nothing was wrong. Because even thinking that I could lose him
made me hold my breath till it stopped short in my lungs and nothing came back
out again. Because saying it would make it real for both of us and I didn’t
know how or why it had come to this.
My heart sank even further as I exited the
changing rooms onto the pool side; there were no lap lanes marked off. The pool
was packed full of dive-bombing eleven-year-olds and elderly people doing
widths. (“You’re going the wrong way!” I always wanted to shout). It wasn’t the
tranquil haven I had expected; it was one big wet free-for-all. I sighed,
pulled on my goggles, took a deep breath and plunged in, fighting my way in a
frustrated crawl down to the shallow end. A girl on her back clipped me on the
right ear as she meandered past me in an aimless kind of circle, then carried
on regardless, while I wobbled around in her slipstream. I could feel the
tension creeping up my shoulder blades and setting into my jaw. A length and a
half later there was a huge splash to my left and an elbow jabbed painfully
into my hip. I was in mid stroke. I swallowed a large mouthful of water, choked
and gasped for breath. My goggles filled up with water. I shot an angry and
waterlogged glance around me and grabbed for the edge of the pool.
A face appeared. “You okay?”
I pulled off my goggles and hauled myself up onto
the edge. “It’s supposed to be lengths,” I said, making no attempt to mask my
irritation. “Two till four.”
“Sorry love,” said the lifeguard. “Not in school
holidays. Different timetable.”
“So where’s that advertised? How is anyone
supposed to know that?” I was simultaneously angry and ashamed at the tone of
my voice. I seemed to have been speaking like this to people a lot lately. I
pulled the elastic back on the strap of my goggles. They pinged out of my hands
and landed at the lifeguard’s feet.
“There’s a new timetable in reception.” The
lifeguard bent down beside me and, seated on his haunches, picked up my goggles
and began adjusting the strap. I watched him with a confusing combination of irritation
and gratitude. I knew how to fix my own goggles, for Christ’s sake. But then,
despite what Larsen thought, I didn’t always enjoy doing everything myself. I
just never seemed to have had much choice.
“There you go,” said the lifeguard, rubbing at the
plastic lenses with his t-shirt, and handing my goggles back to me.
“Thanks.” I looked at him more closely. He was
tall, well over six feet, with thick sandy-coloured hair, hazel eyes and, I
noticed, eyebrows that met slightly in the middle. “Never trust anyone whose
eyebrows meet in the middle,” Larsen had told me once. I had forgotten to ask
him why. I smiled involuntarily at this thought, and the lifeguard smiled back.
His eyes met mine and I turned away, embarrassed.
“So, do you come here often?” he asked. I looked
back at him, incredulously. Was he really trying to chat me up? “I just mean…
you’re a strong swimmer,” he added. “Your technique’s good. I was wondering if
you had ever competed?”
“I used to,” I said. “County level. The ASA. It
was a while ago.”
“You should give it another go.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t got time for that amount
of training.”
“Well if you change your mind… I do a bit of
coaching. I’ve got time for a few private lessons, if you’re interested?” There
was something suggestive in the way that he said this and he backed it up with
a raising of his eyebrows and a smile.
“I’ll think about it. Anyway… must get on,” I
muttered, embarrassed at his attentions and feeling disloyal to Larsen. I stood
up to dive back in but became suddenly very conscious of the slippery tightness
of my Speedo, which was more than a little chlorine-worn round the chest area. I
had been meaning to buy a new one. I lowered myself back down again and glanced
back over my shoulder. The lifeguard was still smiling at me.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Lizzie.”
“See you again, Lizzie?”
I nodded without meaning to. “Maybe,” I added,
then turned and plunged awkwardly into the water.
At precisely twenty-nine lengths I went through
the pain barrier, the lifeguard was forgotten, and the kids went home for tea. As
my body grew lighter and my strokes became effortless and even, my thoughts
drifted back to Larsen. The ephemeral nature of everything scared me. Why did
nothing last? I couldn’t bear the thought of failure, of losing him, of giving
up. And yet I wasn’t happy. I just didn’t know why. Was it me? Was I congenitally
dissatisfied? And if so, what did it matter whether I was with Larsen or… or
that lifeguard, for instance? How could I be sure that I would not arrive back
here again in another seven years’ time, in this fog of unhappiness, the pain
of yet another break-up looming up ahead in the distance? This is what scared
me the most: how could I be sure that I would ever be happy again?
I showered and dressed. In the foyer, I spotted
the lifeguard, still in his shorts and flip flops, leaning with one leg up
against a wall and chatting with a young woman in a pink neon leotard and
Spandex tights, who had clearly just come out of the dance studio. She had long
blonde hair and, I noticed, an exceptionally tiny waist. I watched as he
appeared about to place one hand on her arm, but then he looked up and saw me
and took his hand quickly away. He smiled at me and I smiled back briefly as I
passed. What a flirt
he
is, I thought. I knew the type: good looking and
knows it. And chases anything in Spandex. Or a see-through Speedo. I fed some
coins into the vending machine and pressed the buttons. My cereal bar wiggled a
little and went through the motions of dispensing itself but had barely moved
by the time the metal robot arm came back and captured it again. I glanced up
to look for an assistant and saw the lifeguard coming towards me. The woman in
Spandex was nowhere to be seen.
“Having trouble?” he said.
“This happens every time. I don’t get it. F6. I
pushed F6. This machine never works properly.”
“You have to let the money drop down fully first. Otherwise
it gets confused. You just need to wait a minute before you make your
selection,” he said. He smiled and looked me straight in the eye. “Although of
course sometimes that’s difficult when you know straight away exactly what it
is that you want.”
“That was
really
corny,” I said, shaking my
head.
The lifeguard just laughed and shrugged his
shoulders, as if he didn’t really need to try that hard. He waved his hand at a
junior member of staff and clicked his fingers, beckoning him over. The young
lad appeared beside him, blinking vaguely.
“
Keys
, Sean,” he said. “Hurry up. Off you
go.” Sean glanced up at him and rushed off at a pace.