Swim Until You Can't See Land (15 page)

Eliza ran a finger across the picture.

‘What do you think they’d do if someone struck up a romance here?’ Eliza asked. ‘Doris’s already been caught sneaking over to the men’s quarters.’

‘I don’t know. She’s some girl, isn’t she? I don’t think any of the fellas are worth a week of six am runs though.’

‘No, you’re right, what a punishment! My poor feet,’ Eliza rubbed at them, water dripped onto the carpet. ‘I can’t believe they made us go on a ten-mile hike today. Back home, I never go further than the shops or the pictures.’

‘At least you didn’t make a mess of your compass reading. I ended up adding an extra five miles on by mistake.’

‘Oh yes, poor dear. Come and stick your feet in here.’

Marièle sat next to Eliza on the bed and pulled off her thick socks. She sunk her feet into the tub, her blisters stinging in the water.

‘I hate these hideous socks,’ Marièle balled them up and threw them against the wall. ‘So itchy. This feels wonderful.’

The initial sting had dissipated and the water soothed her tired and aching feet.

‘So, what do you tell your friend? Your letters would never get through if you told her the truth.’

‘Oh, I’ve told her I’m enlisted with the FANY, not a lie, and that I’m a driver in London, a complete falsehood. I feel awful making up these stories, but I like writing to her. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to tell her the truth.’

Eliza nodded and lay back on the bed. She laid her feet in Marièle’s lap and Marièle rubbed at her damp toes and soles. Her feet were soft, the skin beginning to wrinkle.

‘You are a dear. It’s hard, isn’t it? I’ve been meaning to write to my son, but he’s so young, I just don’t know what to say to him.’

‘Gosh, Eliza, I didn’t know you had a wee boy.’

‘A minute ago you were telling me off for giving out personal information. To be honest, it’s too upsetting to speak about him. Don’t let on, but I’ve got a picture here under my pillow.’ She reached underneath and handed Marièle a photo, its corners bent and creased.

‘Oh, he’s a wee sweetheart, what’s his name?’

‘Adam. He’s only three, my little lamb. Abandoned by his mummy and daddy.’

Eliza slipped the photo back under the pillow, but left her hand there.

‘How can you bear it?’

‘It’s hard, I won’t lie. I turned them down a few times, but they were very persistent. I sometimes wish I hadn’t answered that ad looking for French photographs.’

‘That’s how they got me too.’

‘He’s very resilient though. My mother-in-law and sister are looking after him. If Bill can go off gallivanting with the forces then I can do my bit too. It’s his future after all. That’s what I keep telling myself. Besides, it’ll all be over soon, won’t it?’

‘If we’re lucky it might even be over before this training is,’ Marièle replied, squeezing Eliza’s feet. ‘Hopefully before the next obstacle course.’

11 June 1943
NAME OF RECRUIT: Miss Marièle Downie
PROGRESS REPORT – Miss Downie works hard and her map reading has improved as a result. She possesses a dry sense of humour and gets on well with the other recruits. Concerns remain regarding her age, although youth may work to her advantage in France.

Marièle stood in the empty hanger while the trainer fixed her into her safety helmet and harness. The doors of the hanger were open and the sun shone in as she was hoisted into the air and swung back and forward, back and forward, back and forward. It was hard to pretend you were in a parachute, the swinging motion was so relaxing.

‘Ladies, this isn’t meant to be fun, it’s serious. You are learning how to parachute. How to fall from a great height and not get hurt.’ The trainer shouted up at them.

Marièle tried to remember what he’d told her before she was strapped in, but the swinging motion was too hypnotic. She closed her eyes, let the harness take her weight. It was like a cradle, back and forward, back and forward, back and forward. Oh, to be a child again, not to worry about wars and George never coming home.

Back, forward, back forward, the seconds ticked away as she swung.

Tick, tock, tick tock, back, forward, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, back, forward.

She kicked her legs out underneath her, as if she were on a swing, kick, kick, kick, faster, higher, faster, higher.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

The silver cross hit against her chest as she swung faster and faster.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

She wanted to go so fast that she rocked away the seconds, minutes, hours, days. She wanted to swing time away, rush on towards the future, the end of the war. They say time heals; could she swing so fast that the lump in her chest broke down and disappeared? Cheat the grieving process by speeding through it.

Or maybe she could go backwards in time if she swung the opposite way? Back to before the lump formed, stop George from leaving. Warn him not to go.

‘You up there, Miss Downie?’ She heard someone shout her name and opened her eyes. The trainer jumped, grabbed her by the ankle, slowed her down.

‘This isn’t a swing, it’s a tool,’ he shouted at her. ‘Out you get, onto the landing apparatus.’

She joined another group of recruits. Took her turn at sliding down the wooden chute which hung over a crash mat, at jumping out of the old fuselage they had set up.

Her stomach lurched as she fell into space, then the ropes went taut, simulating the parachute descent. She hung in the air briefly before being launched into the drop and roll of her landing.

‘Keep your legs together. You girls should be good at this, it’s all about modesty,’ the trainer shouted. ‘You need to learn to fall the right way if you want to earn your paratrooper’s wings.’

July
1943

Darling Cath,

It’s me again. I know it’s not long since my last letter, but I must confess writing to you is a comfort at the moment. Gosh, I’m homesick. My days keep me very busy but I have a bit of spare time before bed and that’s when it hits me. I’ve got myself into the routine of writing a few paragraphs to you. It makes me feel better. It’s like writing a diary, except that I can picture you reading and imagine your responses, it’s almost like having a real chat with you.

I hope they’ll give me some time off soon.

      M

‘I thought the wind would be louder up here,’ said Eliza, ‘but you can’t hear anything over the engines.’

They lined up ready to jump, girls first, the men following on at the back. The trainer had taken them to one side earlier at the airfield, told them the reason for the order as they climbed into their bulky overalls.

‘Don’t let me down now, ladies. When you jump first it means the men won’t chicken out. Can’t see the girls getting the better of them, now can they?’

Marièle thought she’d be unable to go through with it when the time came. Thought she’d have to be forced out, had even told Eliza to go behind and give her a hard shove on the back if she hesitated. It was one thing jumping off the Fan strapped into a harness, but quite another jumping out of a plane and trusting yourself to a parachute.

When the time came though, she found it surprisingly easy. Much easier than the six am obstacle courses, the ten mile hikes, the cross-country runs.

The map-reading.

Something everyone should do at least once in their life.

She wished she could tell Cath about it, instead of inventing yet another story about driving officers around London.

‘How can you stay so calm?’ Eliza whispered. ‘I thought you needed a push!’

‘I don’t know. It just feels okay now we’re actually up here.’

‘Speak for yourself, don’t you worry it won’t open?’

‘
C’est la vie
,’ Marièle shrugged.

The smell of the Lysander and the noise of the engines as they rose higher and higher soothed her. She sat on the edge of the drop hole, legs buffeted by the wind as they dangled under the plane, her static line attached to the fuselage.

She placed her hands flat on either side of her, felt the fuselage vibrating. She didn’t need a shove on the back when the light flashed from red to green and the arm of the trainer swung down.

GO!

She was happy to go, happy to jump. Her head throbbed with the thrill of it, the blood pumping in her ears.

It was beautiful. The mosaic of fields and towns, growing and spreading out beneath you. Turning from coloured shapes into real things, from abstract to actual, as the wind rushed through. She preferred the abstract, felt a twinge of regret as things came into focus. It was almost a shame to hit land, to have to run and gather up your chute before the wind caught it and dragged you along the ground.

It was Doris who came up with the nickname, Marièle, Mariemerle, Merle.

Soon everyone called her it, ‘Merle.’ 

‘You deserve that badge, Merle,’ Eliza said, as Marièle stitched the cloth wings onto her tunic.

29 June 1943
NAME OF RECRUIT: Miss Marièle Downie
P
ROGRESS REPORT

Marièle has performed well during training, no reason why she should not proceed apart from the obvious age issue. Her highest score on the obstacle course was 147, well above the 78 needed to pass. Has also performed well on other duties, although still lacks aptitude in map reading. Has a natural talent for parachuting and has outshone the other recruits – men included!

RECOMMEND HER FOR THE NEXT STAGE

April
2007

Hannah Wrights Her Mark On The World Stage

Medal down under for Scottish swimmer

Hannah Wright was celebrating last night after winning a bronze medal at the World Swimming Championships and achieving a new British record in the 100m Butterfly. Hannah swam a personal best time of 57.89 and finished third in a thrilling final, missing out on second spot by three hundredths of a second.‘ A medal and a new British record, well you can’t ask for more than that really,’ Hannah said after her race. ‘I knew I had it in me to get the British record, and I thought there was a chance of a medal if I swam that fast, so I’m just delighted with my performance.’

11

I’VE NO IDEA
where to go when I get to the hospital, so I head in the first entrance I find. The signs aren’t very helpful and I wander around for a bit, past the canteen, a shop selling newspapers and balloons.

IT’S A GIRL!

GET WELL SOON

I end up going round in a circle, find myself back where I started. I’m tempted to leave, just give up and head home.

Being here reminds me…

I stand at the entrance, swing my carrier bag back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, the Lucozade bottle hits against my shin.

Come on, Hannah, you can’t leave. Not after you’ve come all this way.

I set off again, turn left instead of right this time when I reach the end of the first corridor. There’s a woman sitting in a wheelchair, about halfway along. Maybe she knows where Intensive Care is?

I walk towards her, swinging the bag as I go.

‘Help me.’

I stop, the bottle of Lucozade bashes against my leg again. I need to stop doing that, the grapes I’ve brought are going to end up mush.

‘Help me,’ she repeats.

‘What is it?’ I ask. I don’t want to get too close in case a nurse comes running and thinks I’m the one she needs help from.

‘I want to go home,’ the woman says. ‘I just want to go home.’

As I walk towards her, I realise she isn’t looking at me, she’s staring at the wall she’s been parked in front of. I doubt she even knows I’m here. Poor old soul.

   How do you end up like that? You get a bit older and people stop caring, stop treating you like a grown up. When Gran was sick, the nurses spoke to her like she was an idiot.

Dad lost it one day, had a real go at one of them.

‘She’s no a six-year-old, she’s eighty-one and she’s got more common sense than the lot of you put together, so show her some respect, eh?’

It was really embarrassing but I felt all proud of him, sticking up for her like that.

I keep going, can hear the woman still talking to herself as I turn the corner into the next corridor.

RADIOLOGY  →

OCCUPATIONAL HEALTH  →

CHAPEL  →

Why do none of the signs mention Intensive Care?

There has to be someone around I can ask for directions. Where is everyone anyway?

A chill runs up my back and shoulders, someone walking over my grave.

When I was still at school, everyone used to go up to the abandoned
TB
hospital to get drunk.

(training again)

You’re so dedicated, Hannah, I can’t believe you don’t drink.

I’d listen to them talking about it. Rusty bed frames, old gurneys, tables and chairs, just lying around the dusty corridors. All the windows smashed, the staircases rotting, ceilings and floors caved in. They said they heard things, things that couldn’t be explained. Saw things move, shadows.