Swim Until You Can't See Land (5 page)

POST OFFICE

TELEGRAM

Date : 08/06/1940

   PRIORITY – DOWNIE, 24 BLACKNESS ROAD, ABERDEEN  DEEPLY REGRET TO REPORT YOUR SON CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE S/10326973 HAS BEEN REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION PRESUMED KILLED ON WAR SERVICE LETTER FOLLOWS

‘No reply,’ Marièle said to the boy.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he bowed his head, pushed his bike along the garden path. Marièle sat down on the front step, the wheel of the boy’s bike squeaked as he cycled away. She looked up, saw thick blackout curtains twitching from the houses on the opposite side of the street.

‘You’re crazy! Do you think you’re going to pull us both home on that thing?’

‘Oh, ye of little faith, Marie. You’ll never get home in those shoes.’

Marièle’s teeth chattered, her toes had gone numb.

‘Okay, front or back, Cath?’

‘I don’t mind, what would you prefer?’

‘Come on, you two, get a move on. We could be halfway home by now.’

‘Alright, alright,’ Marièle climbed onto the back of the sledge.

‘Here, take this,’ George slipped off his overcoat, wrapped it round Cath’s shoulders.

He took Cath’s hand, helped her onto the front of the sledge. Marièle lent forward, put her arms around Cath’s middle and pulled her backwards until she sat between Marièle’s legs.

‘Onwards, driver.’

George pulled on the rope attached to the front of the sledge. It jerked forward slightly, knocked Marièle and Cath off balance.

‘You girls weigh more than you look,’ George said.

He took the loop of rope, stepped inside it and lent forward, used all his weight to shift the sledge, and began to drag Marièle and Cath through the snow.

CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE

For a moment the formality of the telegram made her question who that was.

CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE
CORPORAL
CORPORAL

George. Big brother George.

MISSING IN ACTION
MISSING
PRESUMED KILLED
PRESUMED

What did that mean? Was he dead or wasn’t he?

He might, even now, be trying to get a boat home. Had they just given up on him? George had better odds than most. They’d holidayed in France, Mama had taught them both to speak French. He’d be able to look after himself over there.

What sort of organisation just guessed what had happened to one of their employees? Just assumed the worst?

She listened to the news reports every day on the wireless. There must be boys scattered all over the place. All unaccounted for. Did they send a telegram to all of their families?

MISSING IN ACTION PRESUMED KILLED

‘Who was it, Marie?’ Mama shouted from inside the house.

‘No grips on these blasted boots,’ George said as he tried to get a footing.

Marièle looked behind, saw the tracks they left behind breaking up the clear snow. George’s footprints, smudged and sliding, the parallel lines left by the runners of the sledge.

The snow was bright, lit their way in the blackout. It hurt her eyes to look at it for too long. She turned to the front again, felt Cath warm and heavy against her chest. Cath pressed her hands over Marièle’s feet, rubbed her numb toes.

‘How long are you home for?’ Cath asked George.

‘Just a few days, I’m afraid,’ he replied.

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

Marièle felt an ache clutch at her belly. It was a strange feeling, joy and melancholy combined. At the love she felt for George and Cath, at the beauty of the situation they were in, at the loss that this moment was fleeting. That she was losing George to the war, losing both of them to each other.

She inhaled, Cath’s lavender perfume mixed in with the smoky chalk of winter, then breathed out. She could see her breath visible in front of her. Heard the crumble of snow as George pressed down with his boots, struggling under the weight of her and Cath on the sledge.

She didn’t want this to end. Even though it was cold, even though it was late and she was tired, even though she could hear George’s heavy breathing, knew he was exhausted.

It was just the three of them, the only three people alive in the whole world. While they trekked through the snow, there was no war, no rationing, no threat of imminent death. It was just the three of them.

‘Marie, what are you doing out here?’ Marièle stood as Mama opened the front door.

She watched Mama’s gaze as it fell upon the blue envelope.

‘Is it from George?’

Marièle handed Mama the telegram, watched as she fumbled with the piece of paper.

‘What does this mean?
Je ne comprends pas
,’ Mama asked, looking up at Marièle. 

Marièle shook her head, ushered Mama back into the house.

‘
Mon fils, mon petit garçon
, oh Marièle, our George!’ Mama said, squeezing the telegram in her hand. ‘Should we get Father from work?’

‘I can’t face going out there,’ Marièle replied.

If someone stopped her, spoke to her, she would break down.

Oh God, Cath.

What would she say to Cath?

They sat down where they were, on the floor, facing each other across the hallway.

Mama reached towards Marièle and she took her mother’s hands, the telegram lay on the floor between them.

‘I believe this is you,
mademoiselle
,’ George said as he stopped pulling the sledge, let the rope fall towards the snow covered pavement.

‘Why thank you sir, that was quick,’ Cath replied.

‘Are you teasing me?’

‘No, of course not, I didn’t mean it like that.’

Marièle felt the heat from Cath’s cheeks, warm enough to melt the snow.

‘Don’t worry, Cath, I’m just having you on,’ George replied, holding out a hand to help her up from the sledge.

‘See you later, dear,’ Cath bent over and kissed Marièle on the cheek. Her lips were wet from the snow, which had started to fall again, and Marièle felt it burn against her cold skin.

‘I’ll see you to the door,’ George said. Cath took his arm and they shuffled up the garden path until they were out of view behind the hedge.

Marièle stretched out her legs, lay back on the sledge. She could hear the murmur of voices as they said goodnight on the doorstep.

Snowflakes fell fast towards her. Every so often a flake would catch her off guard and she’d recoil, close her eyes. It was like the stars were tumbling down to earth. They melted against her cheeks, her eyelashes, her nose, her tongue.

Marièle jumped as someone knocked on the front door. She still held Mama’s hand, felt it flinch in her own.

‘Maybe it’s the telegram boy come back, he made a mistake.’

Mama stood to open the door.

PRIORITY
CORPORAL GEORGE DOWNIE
MISSING IN ACTION PRESUMED KILLED

It wasn’t a mistake.

‘Claudine, I couldn’t help noticing the telegram boy. Is everything okay?’

Mrs Walker from across the street. God, she didn’t waste any time, did she?

‘He’s just missing,’ Mama replied, ‘they’ve lost him.’ She started to laugh.

Marièle stood in behind the door so Mrs Walker wouldn’t see her. Nosy old bisum.

‘Well, there’s hope then. I’ll pray he comes back, he’s a brave boy. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, thank you, he’s only missing.
Mon fils, mon fils
.’

‘Pardon?’

Marièle knew what the old bat was thinking.

Poor delusional French woman, she doesn’t understand.

Marièle was used to the way people treated Mama, as if she was slow, stupid, just because she spoke with an accent, lapsed into French.

Mrs Walker had accused Mama of being a spy and a coward just because of her accent, and now she had the cheek to pretend to be concerned.

Don’t listen to those girls, Marie, they’re jealous of you. They’ve never been further than Stonehaven.

‘Thank you for your concern,’ Marièle stepped in front of Mama, shut the door on Mrs Walker.

George handed her his coat, and Marièle wrapped it around her shoulders. She dug her hands into its deep pockets, felt the scrunch of brown paper.

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh, it’s a birthday present from Cath. She gave me it just now.’

Cath hadn’t told her she’d got George a present, kept that a secret.

Marièle squeezed the parcel, soft and spongy. She could see Cath now, sitting in her front room, ball of wool on her lap. She wasn’t a great knitter, must have been at it for the last few months. Marièle let the surge of affection sweep aside the jealousy.

George lifted the rope, stepped inside it again and began to pull the sledge forward.

Marièle wrapped his big coat around her, pulled the collar up over her chin and breathed in the scent of lavender and lippy.

‘Marièle?’

Marièle had just left work, turned at the sound of her name being called. A man in uniform hurried towards her. The sun shone behind him, in her eyes, obscured the man’s features.

Was it?

Was it him?

George?

He came closer, stepped out of the sun’s glare. She tried not to let the disappointment show on her face as she recognised him.

Arthur, Arthur Evans. One of the boys who worked in the shop with her and Cath.

Used to work there, until he was called up.

A lot of boys used to work in the shop.

‘Artie, it’s so good to see you,’ she said, ‘when did you get back?’

‘About two hours ago.’

‘Two hours and you come here, what will your mother say?’

‘Ach, she’ll not mind. I wanted to see you actually.’

Marièle stepped back. What did he want?

They’d been at the dancing a few times, but always in a group, and she’d let him hold her hand that time at the pictures.

He didn’t think that meant anything, did he? Some of the boys got a bit carried away, especially when they were away from home for so long. Arthur was nice, but she wasn’t interested in him romantically. She wasn’t really interested in anyone romantically.

Her lips were wet from the snow, and Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.

‘Can I walk you home?’ He asked.

‘Okay,’ she nodded.

God, he looked different. Thinner, older. He’d grown up. She couldn’t imagine him playing jokes on old Mr Jackson in the shop the way he had before.

‘You were there? At Dunkirk, I mean?’ She asked, trying to break the awkward silence between them.

‘Aye.’

‘Was it very awful?’

He nodded.

‘I’m sorry, you’re just home and here I am jumping in and asking questions.’

‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I saw. I’ll never forget them, as long as I live.’

He started to laugh.

God, he’d gone mad.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I’m sorry, you must think I’m such a fool. I was just thinking… me and a group of lads found a row boat. We didn’t even question why it was lying there, why nobody else had used it. We all just piled in, started paddling with our hands. At first we went round in circles but then we got the hang of it. Got about, from here to that fence, then we noticed the water coming in, there was a big hole in the bottom of it.’

‘Oh no! What happened?’

‘What else? It sank! We had to swim back to shore, it was freezing.’

Marièle laughed with him. It wasn’t even all that funny. It was more the absurdity of it. Amidst all that death and destruction, a slapstick comedy routine being played out.

‘How did you make it home?’

‘A fishing boat picked us up. Worst trip I’ve ever been on in my life. I was seasick all the way home. I think swimming back might have been better.’

She thought of George. Couldn’t help it. Deep down, if she had the choice, she’d rather have George home than Arthur and that was an awful thing to think when he stood there beside her. After all he’d gone through. God, she wished she’d never thought that. Take it back, take it back.

‘I saw George over there.’

‘We got a telegram.’

‘I’m sorry. I stopped to help him, but he was too… he was badly hurt. I sat with him until…’

She felt her legs wobble, stumbled. Arthur caught her.

‘Marièle, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have told you.’ He held her upright, fumbled in his pockets and handed her a handkerchief.

‘No. I’m glad, when the telegram said missing in action…’ she took the handkerchief from him. She hadn’t realised she was crying.

‘Christ, excuse my language, but I thought you knew, I wouldn’t have been so blunt otherwise.’