Swimming Upstream (20 page)

“Well, that’s the bit I knew already,” I said. “So
what else have you found out about him? Which part of Ireland is he from?”

“The North,” said Zara. “Belfast, I think.”

“And what’s he doing here?” I asked.

 “He’s learning to fly, he’s going to be a pilot. How
sexy is that?”

“I thought he said he was a builder?”

“He is,” said Zara. “As well.”

“So where’s he studying?”

“Oh. Yeah. The London School of…something. I
forget.”

“Well, where’s he working?”

“On a building site. He’s building a house. He’s
very good with his hands, you know.” Zara grinned and lifted her eyebrows.

“It all seems a bit sketchy,” I said. “What do you
actually talk about?”

“Not much,” giggled Zara. “He’s a man of action
rather than words.”

We came out of the tube station and waited to
cross the road. On the corner, a black man selling flags wolf-whistled as we
passed.

“Get lost,” I hissed.

“Hello, darling,” said Zara at the same time.

“Zara!” I grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

Zara was still smiling back at the man, who was
calling after her, trying to say something to her. I dragged her away.

“Don’t encourage him,” I admonished her.

“He liked me,” she pouted. “And he was sexy.”

“Zara, don’t take it personally; you’re probably
the hundredth woman he’s whistled at today.”

I felt a bit mean,
trying to bring her down like that. But Zara merely smiled a Mona Lisa type
smile, tossed her head and her cashmere coat, and swaggered off down Knightsbridge,
wiggling her hips as she went, looking for all the world just like a movie
star.

Later, back at the flat, we ate dinner and sat watching
the news on TV. Martin was there, on the sofa with Catherine. Zara was curled
up in the armchair. She was much quieter now and seemed withdrawn. I guessed
she was tired now after her night of passion.

“Look at that,” said Catherine. “Isn’t it awful?”

A bomb had exploded in Warrington, Cheshire,
killing a 3-year-old boy and injuring fifty people.

“That’s got to be a revenge attack,” said Martin

“Revenge? For what?” said Catherine.

“That’s the second IRA bomb attack in Warrington,”
said Martin. “They bombed a gasworks there last month, don’t your remember?”

“Why are they taking revenge?”

“Because of the arrests,” I said. “The police
arrested three people. IRA.”

“God, that’s awful,” said Catherine, again. “Right
in the middle of a busy shopping centre. Poor little boy. Poor parents.”

“It’s so sad,” I agreed.

“I thought there were peace talks,” said
Catherine. “I thought this was all going to stop?”

“It’s not going to happen unless there’s a
ceasefire,” said Martin. “This isn’t going to help.”

“Did they ever catch the people who bombed the
Baltic Exchange?”

“No. This is the IRA you’re talking about.”

“What do you mean?” asked Zara, suddenly entering
the conversation.

“Well, they’re a paramilitary organisation.
They’re highly organised. You’ve got Jerry Adams and Martin McGuinness and
people like that, the political wing, legitimising it, doing all the talking,
the public face. But the men behind the scenes, well… you’d never meet them. You’d
never know if you were talking to one. Even here in London.”

“It could even be James, Zara,” I joked. “He might
be IRA.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, think about it,” I said. “You don’t know
anything about him, other than that he’s James and he’s from Kilburn...”

“James of Kilburn,” interrupted Martin. “Hmmm. It’s
definitely a smokescreen.”

“…and that he is taking flying lessons.”

“There you are,” said Martin. “Trainee suicide
bomber.”

“The IRA don’t have suicide bombers, do they?”
asked Catherine.

“So, why do you think he’s a terrorist?” Zara
persisted.

I studied her face. She looked alarmed. “We don’t,
Zara. We were just teasing.”

Zara was silent.

“Ah, but think about it,” said Martin, “He
wouldn’t tell you his surname. And we’ve never met him.”

“Lizzie and Catherine have.”

“Yeah, we did. Once,” said Catherine.

“Is he Catholic or Proddy?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know.” Zara looked really worried. Her
confidence of earlier that day had evaporated and the anxious frown and shadowy
eyes had returned.

“Does he talk like this?” said Martin in an
impressive Belfast drawl. “Or like this?” he said in a softer, Southern accent.

“The first one.”

“There you are then.”

“What?” said Zara. “What do you mean? How do you
know?”

“You can’t tell if someone is IRA by their accent,”
I said. “He’s just teasing. Shh, Martin,” I said. “She’s getting really
worried.”

Martin laughed, then
checked himself, gave Zara a strange look and sank back into his seat.

In late April, we were all invited over to Zara’s for
dinner. It was a warm evening, unusually so for the time of year. Somebody had
been working on Zara's front garden. It smelled pleasantly of warm earth and
cut grass. The habitually tangled mass of overgrown privet bushes had been
chopped back to reveal a square patch of lawn, and a pile of dead weeds lay
under the fence.

Shelley opened the front door and let us in on her
way out to work. “Night shift,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.

“Oh well,” I said. “At least mostly everyone will
be sleeping.”

“Or dying,” she said, opening the gate.

Tim was in the kitchen, seated at the old wooden
table. He was chopping onions. He looked up as we came in, put down his knife
and disappeared wordlessly into the old walk-in pantry behind the antique gas
stove. He re-emerged a moment later with three chipped wine glasses, which he
placed on the table in front of us.

“Where's Zara?” I asked.

“Up there,” he said. “Working. As usual.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ll just go and get her.”

“Bet she doesn’t come down,” said Tim.

I ran up the stairs and poked my head round Zara's
door. She was sitting at her desk, scribbling away furiously, a book open on
her knee.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, hi. I’m just trying to get this finished.”

“Tim's cooking dinner,” I pointed out. “Catherine
and Martin are here.”

“I know, I know, I know ...” said Zara irritably,
flapping her hands in the air. She dropped her biro on the floor.

“Come on Zara. You have to eat.”

“Okay.” She dropped to the floor and began feeling
around for her pen.

“Have you seen James?” I asked, hoping that her
favourite topic of conversation might entice her downstairs to dinner.

“Why, has he phoned?” asked Zara, from under the
table.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” said Zara, rummaging around on her hands and
knees. “Where did the bloody thing go?”

“Leave it,” I said. “You can find it later. “

“Look, I'm not even that hungry,” said Zara. “Why
don't you lot go ahead and start without me?”

“You invited us over,” I reminded her.

“It was Tim's idea -” Zara began, then stopped
short and sat up, hitting her head on the table.

“Suit yourself,” I said, and shut the door.

Back downstairs, Tim was stirring a saucepan,
which was heating on the stove. Catherine and Martin were in the garden, sitting
on a bench and drinking wine. I stood by the open back door to the garden and
lit a cigarette.

“You want to pack that in, Lizzie,” called Martin.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Tim came and stood beside me in the doorway. He
looked out at the garden and sighed.

“What’s up, Tim?” I asked.

“Clare's dumped me,” he said. “She's met someone
else. She’s moved out.”

“Oh Tim, I'm sorry.” I stubbed out my cigarette
and put my arms up round his shoulders and pulled him against me. He put his
arms back round me and held me tight, his chin resting on the top of my head.
His t-shirt smelled of patchouli oil.

“Breaking up is...” I searched for something
comforting to say which didn't sound like a cliché.

“It's like that feeling that you get in the pit of
your stomach when you're about to jump out of an aeroplane,” Tim said into my
hair. I nodded, stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Martin looked up from the bench where he was
sitting. I could see him watching me and Tim hugging for a moment and then, as
he caught my eye, he smiled and got up.

 “This looks cosy,” he said, walking towards us.

 “Can I play?” asked Zara, who was standing in the
kitchen looking upset. “I'm sorry,” she added, to me.

“Group hug,” I announced, and stretched out my arm
to her. Martin joined in, putting his arms round me and Zara and squeezing us
tight. I looked over at Catherine who was still sitting on the bench. “Come on
Catherine,” I called, feeling Martin’s arm around me and worrying that she
might feel left out. “Group hug.”

“It’s okay,” she smiled.

We ate Spaghetti Napolitana with bread, parmesan
cheese and salad on blankets in the back garden. This one had not been tended,
and was home to all the neighbours' cats as well as various different species
of wildlife which came in through the hedge backing onto the park behind.

“I feel as if I'm in the countryside,” I said,
looking around at the patchy grass and brambles and at the charred logs that
lay in a dirt hollow under the trees where someone had recently had a bonfire.

“We should do something too,” said Zara. “Shelley
did the front.”

Tim topped up our wine glasses. “Only because
she's got a new boyfriend she wants to impress.”

“Oh,” I said. “What's he like?”

“He's a banker,” said Tim.

Zara looked up. “I thought he was a sales rep?”

“I wish I could just stay home tomorrow and weed
the garden,” Tim sighed.

I rolled over onto my stomach. “I thought you
enjoyed your job?”

“Oh yeah. Another day of cancelled ops and running
around, getting nowhere.” He shrugged. “They've closed half the wards - 200
beds have gone. All so we can balance our books next year.” He picked up the
wine bottle and shook it. ''We've got two new managers instead, paid fifty
grand a year each to sit in an office and work out ways to cut costs. Isn’t
that right Zara?”

Zara looked confused. “What did you say?” she
asked.

Tim pulled his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and
began rolling a cigarette. “Britain’s oldest hospital,” he continued. “Founded
in the eleven hundreds, it was, by an Augustinian monk. It escaped destruction
by the fire of London and the bombing in the second world war, and now here we
are in the nineteen nineties and they're taking it to bits. One thousand years
of history ...” He clicked his fingers. “Up for sale.”

No-one spoke. Zara looked depressed, even in the
darkness.

“It should be protected,” said Catherine. “Like a
listed building, part of our national heritage. Under customs law or something.
There must be something you can do.”

“It’s called rationalisation,” said Martin. “The
existing beds need to be used more efficiently. That’s the idea.”

“How can you use a bed more efficiently?” asked
Catherine.

“Put two people in it?” I suggested.

Martin looked at me and laughed.

“It’s all about money,” said Tim. “They don’t care
about people, just money.”

“It’s got to come from somewhere,” Martin said.

“There’s plenty of other places it could come
from,” said Tim. “But that might involve taking a bit of money away from the
fat cats.”

“It’s their money,” said Martin.

“No it’s not. It’s ours.”

“I mean “the fat cats”, as you call them. They’ve
made their money.”

“Yeah, by paying peanuts. Off the backs of people
like me and Zara.”

“It's getting dark,” I said, sensing an argument
brewing. Martin was one of those people that would argue that black was white. I’d
heard him saying just the opposite a week earlier. I sensed he was trying to
antagonise Tim.

“Do you want to go inside?” asked Tim.

I shook my head. “Just point me to my wine glass.”
I lay back on the blanket and squinted up at the night sky. “I can only see
three stars.”

“No, there's more,” said Tim, lying down beside me.
“You just have to let your eyes focus.”

“I wonder,” I said, “If they have some sort of
test for astronauts, you know, like the number plate test. Okay, Mr Armstrong,
how many stars can you see?”

“A lot,” said Zara, quietly.

I gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah. You pass. Get
in your rocket Miss Lewis.” Zara wasn’t smiling.

“I wonder what they look like up close?” asked
Catherine.

“Big,” said Martin, looking down at me and Tim,
lying on the rug. I felt self-conscious, all of a sudden, lying there with my
head so close to Tim’s. I sat up again, slowly, and shifted slightly away.

Catherine said, “It’s comforting to know they’re
always there, even if you can’t see them. Puts things in perspective.”

“Souls,” said Zara. “Of dead people.”

We waited a moment, expecting some kind of
amplification.

“Well the scientific view is that they’re big exploding
balls of gas,” said Tim. “But that’s a nice idea.”

Zara sat up abruptly and knocked over her glass of
wine. I realised with alarm that she was crying.

“When I try to look
into the future,” she blurted out, “I can't see anything there!”

Nobody wanted to drive home so we all stayed the night. Catherine
and Martin went to sleep in Clare’s old room and I crawled into bed beside Zara,
but I couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for a while I entered into a
strange half-dream about an Augustinian monk in his hooded cloak, wandering
around, in and out of the old brick walls of the hospital and the courtyard and
by the fountain in the middle, then up and down the empty and hollow wards.
Shelley appeared briefly with a lamp, wearing an old Victorian nurse’s uniform
and said, “They're all dying,” but then the Augustinian monk was back in the
courtyard and nothing much else really happened. I began to get bored of the
same scene with the walls and the fountain and the courtyard playing over and
over, and all the time the Augustinian monk kept repeating “Half the wards, two
hundred beds,” until I realized that it was still just my brain ticking away
and that I wasn't really asleep at all. I opened my eyes and stared dully into
the darkness. Zara lay silently beside me in the same position she'd fallen
asleep, curled up on her side with her back to me. I always found it remarkable
how little she moved, and how deeply but noiselessly she slept.