All That I Leave Behind (24 page)

‘Why don’t we jump in?’

‘What?’

‘Why don’t we jump in and have a swim, like old times?’

‘Oh, very funny,’ Rosie began, looking down at her worn jeans, wondering if they would withstand immersion in water, and then up at him. The look on his face was mischievous, a sly grin revealing a flash of white teeth, his eyes crinkling with amusement. She remembered that look: she’d missed it, she thought. That lightness, that way of seeing joy in ordinary things, of taking pleasure in jokes and silliness and fun.

‘You’re serious.’

‘Course.’ And then he took off his shoes and socks, rolling them into a ball and stuffing them neatly into his trainers, then his jeans, which he folded neatly on top of the trainers. He was wearing swimming togs, baggy shorts with pictures of palm trees on them, which looked completely out of keeping with the grey dampness around them.

‘You’ve cheated,’ Rosie said, pointing to them. ‘That’s not fair.’

He shrugged again, as if to say, ‘What can you do?’ and then pulled his T-shirt over his head. Rosie looked down at the ground. She hadn’t seen any bit of him in a very long time, and she didn’t want to stare, but eventually she turned her head to catch a glimpse of that golden skin, the heavy set of his shoulders, the broad chest that had not a single hair on it. She felt her stomach flip. Oh, Christ, she thought. I’m not twelve, I’m a grown woman. He caught her eye and she swallowed nervously.

‘I go for a swim every day after my run,’ he said, by way of explanation. He was standing two feet away from her, almost naked, and all she could do was stare down at the ground.

‘Are you going to swim with all of your clothes on?’ He nodded at her jeans and sensible rain jacket.

She thought of the horrible grey underwear she’d dug out from the bottom of her suitcase this morning, as she didn’t have anything clean. She couldn’t possibly show him that. Then she had an idea. ‘Turn around,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Turn around. I’m getting undressed.’

‘Oh, right.’ His voice wobbled with laughter and she wanted to punch him, but he did what he was told, and before she could talk herself out of it, she quickly pulled off her clothes, taking care to leave her T-shirt on to cover the awful underwear. She tiptoed through the grass at the edge of the water and eased herself in, gasping as the water reached her navel. ‘It’s cold,’ she said, and turned her head to see him standing above her on the bank, looking down at her, an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite read. She lowered her body into the water, feeling its silty coolness surround her, and paddled over to the other side, trying not to think of what might be lurking in the water.

She perched on a little shelf of shingle on the other side of the water. ‘Your turn.’

He was standing with the water up to his chest now, teeth chattering. With a yelp, he dived in, submerging himself completely. She waited for him to come up again, but all that she saw was a ripple in the brown water where he’d dived in. She waited. Maybe he’d hit his head on something, she thought, wondering whether to jump in and drag him up from the bottom. But it was only a few feet deep. She looked anxiously left and right and didn’t see the pair of hands that shot out and grabbed her hips, pulling her down under the water.

She screamed and then laughed as they resurfaced, an arc of water splashing over his head. ‘You bastard!’ She giggled. ‘I thought you were drowning.’

‘Not drowning, just waving.’ He smiled and leaned back in the water, lifting his feet up so that he was floating. The sun had come out now and the water had turned from a steely grey to a bright blue, the lily pads a vivid green and the rushes a browny-silver. Rosie tilted her face up to the sun, letting the water buoy her up as she lay back and floated, looking up at the blue sky, hearing nothing but her breathing, in and out, and the burble of the water underneath her. She closed her eyes and opened them again, blinking drops of water from her eyelashes, feeling the ripples at her feet. I love this place, she suddenly thought. How could I have forgotten? All those years in that other place, that grey, dusty town with no flowers or trees, just acres of brown fields, low buildings. It had felt dry, dead, but this place … Under every bit of grass and reed, there was something growing, or burrowing, or nosing into the brown earth. It felt so intensely alive, and so did she. In spite of everything, she’d somehow come to life again.

She didn’t see him, but felt him instead as he bumped against her. She got such a fright, she swallowed a mouthful of water and had to stand up, coughing and spluttering.

‘Sorry.’ He was still lying on his back, looking directly up into the sky, eyes half-closed against the sun. Rosie had the sudden desire to float over to him, to lie on top of him in the water, to cover his body with hers, but as soon as she’d felt it, she’d pushed the thought away. No, Rosie, control yourself, she thought, you’ll only ruin things the way you always do. She splashed her face with water, then wiped the droplets off. ‘I’m getting out,’ she said, tiptoeing gingerly through the water, feeling the silt squeeze between her toes.

He was still lying on his back, not looking at her, but when she passed, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. She stood there for a second, unsure what to do. If she let go of his hand and climbed out of the water, maybe she’d never get another chance. But if she stayed …

She held onto his hand while he leaned on her other arm to stand upright in the water, facing her. ‘I’m cold,’ she said.

‘I know.’ He pulled her towards him then, enveloping her, wrapping his arms so tightly around her that she had to turn her head against his chest to be able to breathe. His skin was wet and cold, a rash of goosepimples against her cheek, and when she leaned against him, she could hear his heart beating, a steady thump-thump. She took in a deep breath and let it out again. I can breathe again, she thought. I can breathe.

‘Mark –’ she began, but he interrupted her.

‘No. Don’t say anything,’

For once, she did as she was told and just let him kiss her, silently, her eyelids, her nose, her lips, her chin, the base of her throat, while she clung to him, her hands gripping the waistband of his trunks. She tilted her head back as he kissed her collarbone and she looked up at the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, and then she stroked his wet hair and his sticky-out ears and, lifting his face to hers, his nose and then planted a gentle peck on his lips, which were now blue with the cold.

When she kissed him on the mouth, she could feel something in him then, an energy, like a wave, coming towards her. His eyes opened for a second and he returned her kiss, forcing her mouth open with his, his tongue darting into her mouth, finding hers, but as soon as she felt it, it was gone. No, she thought. Don’t stop, please. But he was pulling away from her, and the shock made her wake up and realise that the sun had gone in and everything looked cold and grey again.

‘Rosie?’

‘Uhmm?’

‘I could stay here all day, but I’m freezing. C’mon,’ he said gently, ‘let’s dry off and warm up a bit.’

Rosie nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the water, his hand still in hers, pulling her gently through the rushes at the edge and up the gentle slope of the bank. Her T-shirt clung to her now, and the outline of her awful bra and her nipples could be clearly seen through the wet fabric. Blushing, she reached for the safety of her raincoat, and then felt the warmth of his towel around her shoulders. ‘To cover your modesty.’ He smiled. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

Rosie blushed, pulling the towel down over her shoulders. ‘Thanks,’ she managed, and then ducked behind a bush to take off her wet clothes, rubbing her body – which had now turned a greenish colour with the cold – with the towel, then gingerly pulling her waterproof jacket on and zipping it up tightly, stuffing her wet clothes in her pocket.

He was sitting on the bank when she got back but said nothing, just patted the ground beside him, and she sat down, shuffling her bottom until she was touching his.

‘We need a brandy to warm ourselves up,’ he said. ‘I sometimes bring a hip flask with me, when it’s really cold – strictly for medicinal purposes, you understand.’ He rested his arms on his knees and his elbow touched her bare leg.

‘Actually, I don’t drink spirits,’ she said, then added, ‘What?’ when she caught the look of incredulity on his face. ‘I hardly drink at all these days,’ she said. ‘I know, hard to believe, isn’t it, that I have a modicum of self-control.’

He didn’t rise to the bait, just said quietly, ‘When did you stop?’

‘Oh, ages ago. As soon as I got to Dublin, really. I knew that I had to or else I’d ruin my life completely.’ She didn’t think it tactful to mention that it was when she’d met Craig. He’d been in Ireland doing a diploma in dairy herd health, and she’d been working in the bowels of an office on Leeson Street, filing tax forms, when one of her typing friends had made her go to a student night. He was the squarest man she’d ever met, but she’d seen that as a bonus – he was perfect because he wasn’t Mark. It wasn’t fair, she knew that, but she’d been determined. He’d made it clear that he didn’t like her ‘partying’, and it was the look of alarm on his face, distaste, that had made her stop. Because she needed Craig, needed what he had to offer.

Mark looked at his feet fixedly and Rosie noticed that there
was a faint flush to his cheeks.

‘You were young and you had nobody to look out for you,’ he muttered, as if he only half believed what he was saying.

‘I had you.’

The pain flashed across his face. Don’t be sad, Rosie thought. Please don’t be sad. She reached out and rubbed a hand across his hair, feeling the bristles sharp against her palm. ‘Mark, I’m sorry. I know I promised … But look, there wasn’t a day when I didn’t think about you, about us, but I thought you’d finished with me, given up on me. In case you’d forgotten, you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want me around any more.’

‘I know,’ he said bleakly. ‘It was my fault. I judged you. I thought you weren’t good enough.’

‘I wasn’t.’ Rosie closed her eyes for a moment, and she could see herself that summer, all those years ago, her hair streaming behind her as she cycled down the towpath to the old Norman tower. She’d been in such a rage, she remembered, pushing the pedals around as fast as she could, even though the exertion made her breath come in short, jagged puffs and she remembered that she hadn’t brought her inhaler. She had to slow down then. The last thing she needed was an asthma attack.

She’d arranged to meet Declan there, even though she didn’t even like him, even though the leer on his spotty face when she saw him at school made her feel queasy, and when he put his hands on her, she wanted instinctively to slap them away. She was only doing it to spite Mark, because the week before, she’d asked him, and he’d said he wouldn’t. He’d been horrified when she’d asked, his black eyes widening in surprise, then a look of distaste creeping over his face. ‘I can’t do that, Rosie. Your first time should be special, with someone you love. You shouldn’t want to throw it away like that.’

‘But you love me, I know you do,’ she’d said then and had been gratified to see the faint flush on his cheeks as he looked at his feet. And I love you, she thought. ‘So what’s the problem?’

He’d looked around then, furtively, as if to see who might be watching. ‘Have you lost all reason, Rosie? I am not going to … do that, because you are my friend and I have too much respect for you.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ she’d spat. ‘You do not. You don’t respect me at all. You think I’m dirty, I know you do. It’s because you’re looking down your nose at me, that’s why. Well, you know what, I’ll save you the bother.’ And she’d stomped off then and climbed up on her bike and sped off home, throwing herself on the bed and staring into space, teeth grinding with frustration and rage.

And then she’d gone to the postbox in the village and she’d called Declan. Declan had been only too willing, and it had been horrible, of course, painful and undignified and traumatic. She’d had to stifle a scream as he shoved himself inside of her, his face scrunched up in a grimace, and then rammed himself in further, his breath coming in short puffs as he ground in to her. There was a sharp stone under her left buttock which kept digging into her and her bra, where he’d roughly shoved it up over her breasts, was strangling her. ‘Oh, Rosie, Rosie, Rosie,’ he’d chanted. Please shut up, she’d thought. Please don’t call my name.

After, he’d been triumphant, his eyes glittering, rolling off her with a whoop. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he’d panted, laughing. ‘Fuckin’ A, that was, pure fuckin’ A.’

‘I need a wee,’ she’d said, wiping the grass off her bottom and wincing in pain as she pulled her knickers up. She couldn’t button her jeans because the crotch cut into her, and so she had to half-waddle over to her bike, which she proceeded to push slowly up the towpath. She’d been able to hear him shout then. ‘Rosie, where are you going? Come back.’ But she knew he wouldn’t get up and follow her. He wasn’t that kind of man. He was the kind of man who took what he was being offered without a second thought, who grabbed it and manhandled it and soiled it. Rosie sobbed all the way home, great big sobs that shook her whole body, snot pouring from her nose, which she had to wipe with the back of her hand because she had no tissue. Mary-Pat would kill me, she’d thought. She says that every decent woman should have tissues; you never know when you might need them. But then, she wasn’t a decent woman, was she?

‘I had a miscarriage, did you know that?’ Rosie said.

Mark’s eyes widened, and then he looked down at his feet. He shook his head and didn’t say a word, just picked up a twig that was lying on the bank and began to dig away with it, hacking at the grass.

That September, Mary-Pat had brought her to the clinic in Mullingar, a discreet place tucked away on a backstreet, with a small brass plaque with a polite ‘Women’s Clinic’ engraved on it. She was sixteen years old. Mary-Pat had barely said a word to Rosie from the time she’d come down to breakfast that morning, face chalk white. She’d put her hand there, low down, beneath her stomach, where the pain gripped her, feeling as if it were pulling everything inside her into it, like a black hole. She’d barely got the words out, ‘Mary-Pat, I think …’ and then she’d looked down to see the blood streaking down her legs. She’d given a little moan then and had fallen onto her knees, a wave of pain pushing her down towards the floor. ‘What is it, Mary-Pat, what’s wrong with me?’