Swimming Upstream (18 page)

She hugged me back. “I wish you didn't have to go.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm going to feel rubbish
tomorrow. But it'll all be worth it to see Phil's face when I tell him I'm
leaving, that I've found something better than anything he could possibly
offer.”

“Enjoy,” she said. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

I walked a little unsteadily down the street.
White flakes appeared under the glare of a streetlight. I looked up and saw
that it was beginning to snow. As I passed a small playground I heard the rusty
creaking of a swing and stopped to peer over the hedge, wondering who could be
in there at this time of night. The playground was empty, and everything was
still except for one swing, which was moving slowly backwards and forwards, its
metal ropes clinking like chain-mail. There was no-one on it and no-one in
sight. Entranced, I pushed open the gate and entered the playground. I felt a
rush of adrenalin as I slowly crossed the grass to the tarmaced play area, a
combination of excitement and fear. As I passed the climbing frame and neared
the swing, it stopped moving, slowing down gradually as if someone had jumped
off. I breathed in sharply and stopped in my tracks. Then, tentatively, shaking
a little, but with resolve, I walked over to the swing next to it and sat down.

The swing next to me remained unmoving, its seat
parallel to the ground. I stared out onto the playing field where the snow was
trying to settle over the grass, brightly lit round the edges by the nearby
streetlights, but dark and shadowy in the middle. As my eyes adjusted to the
darkness I saw, slowly emerging from the grass several feet in front of me, the
figure of a man in a dark grey duffle coat and a bright green scarf his wavy
auburn hair tumbling over his forehead and his shoulders hunched against the
cold as he made his way across the park and towards the open gate. Then, half
way across the field he stopped and crouched down to gather up a handful of
snow, which he rounded into a snowball. When he stood up and lifted his arm to
throw it I saw who it was. For an instant, he remained standing with his arm in
the air, his grin impish and his eyebrows raised enquiringly.

“Throw it,” I whispered. “I'm not scared.”

He threw his head back and laughed. He dropped the
snowball and carried on towards the gate.

“Stop. Wait,” I yelled after him, leaping off the
swing and running across the field towards him. He didn't seem to hear me. He
reached the gate and stepped out onto the pavement.

“Don't go!” I shouted
after him, my heart thumping against my chest. “Please, come back!” My voice
seemed to echo around the empty playground. I ran out through the gateway and
looked up and down the snow-covered street. A car drove past. There was no-one
in sight. I sighed, dug my hands into my pockets, and headed for the tube
station.

Uncle Silbert was all ready to go, sitting in the
wheelchair that Zara had borrowed from the hospital. He was wearing a red
jumper. The sleeves were a little too short, and quite a lot of his bony arm
was sticking out at the bottom. He looked tired. I kissed him on the cheek and
helped Zara with his bag, while she wheeled him out to the lift.

“Is he okay?” I mouthed at Zara from behind the
wheelchair. She raised her hand and waved it to indicate “so-so”.

When we reached the house, the aroma of turkey was
wafting out from the kitchen, where Shelley and Tim were busy rushing back and
forth with plates and saucepans full of vegetables. They had already decorated
the table with a white sheet for a tablecloth and there were sprigs of holly
and multicoloured crackers beside each placemat.

“It all looks lovely,” I said. I put the wine I'd
brought in the fridge.

Tim turned to me and smiled, his cheeks glowing
from the wine and the heat from the stove. “There's already a bottle open,” he
said. “Dive in.”

Zara helped Uncle Silbert into a chair behind the
table and I poured everyone drinks. Zara pulled a cracker with Uncle Silbert
and put his paper hat on. He looked a bit disorientated.

“Are you all right?” I asked him, patting his hand
across the table.

“It’s good to be here, Elizabeth,” he said.

I smiled. Nobody called me that but I didn’t
correct him. I thought it lent me a certain gravitas, made me sound like
someone important, like the queen. “It’s good to see you too.”

“I think I need my medication, though,” he said. “And
a stiff brandy, maybe.”

“Coming right up.” I went and fetched him his bag
and a drink.

“You shouldn't really be drinking, you know, not
with your medication,” Zara reprimanded him.

“Oh come on, it's Christmas. Let him enjoy
himself,” said Tim, coming over with a bowl of Brussels sprouts. “What harm's
it going to do?”

“Well, actually…” Zara and Tim began a debate
about Uncle Silbert’s medication and its potential side effects.

“Here.” I gave Uncle Silbert his drink and sat
down beside him. “Cheers,” I raised my glass to his.

“A votre sante, Elizabeth. I’m very pleased to
hear about your new job.”

“You speak French?”

“Indeed. You?”

“Yes. I mean, I used to. I studied for a year
after my A-levels but I haven’t really used it since. I was meant to study in
Paris, spend a year there.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“That’s a good question. I fell in love, I
suppose.”

“Ah, love,” said Uncle Silbert, pensively. “Well,
that’s a different kind of journey.”

“I guess.”

“They say it broadens the mind.”

I was confused. “You mean travel?”

Uncle Silbert smiled and said nothing.

“Or do you mean love?” I persisted.

“What do you think?”

I stopped and looked at him with a smile on my
face. His body was old and tired. But his eyes were bright, penetrating. They
were truly windows into his soul. “I think,” I said slowly, “that I’ve wasted a
lot of time.”

“Ah,” said Uncle Silbert. “But have you? What do
you hope to gain by travelling that you couldn’t gain through love?”

I thought about that
for a moment. “Freedom?” I said, realising that I had framed that as a
question.

There was a knock at the door. I went to open it. It was
Catherine.

“What happened to you?” I asked her, as she squeezed
in through the doorway with a carrier bag full of parcels.

“Martin phoned,” she said.

I sighed, pointedly. “What did he want?”

“To wish me a merry Christmas,” she said.

“And?”

She paused and looked down at her feet. She put
the carrier bag down on the floor. “To meet me for a drink.”

“A drink?” I echoed. “You went for a drink with
him?”

“Well, it
is
Christmas,” she said,
defensively. “He was in town anyway. It was just a drink.”

I shrugged. “It's up to you,” I said. “It's your
life.” I turned and headed back up the hallway towards the kitchen.

Shelley was carving the turkey with an electric
knife. Bits of meat were flying off in all directions, and Tim and Zara were
yelling at her. She stopped and let Zara take over. Catherine and I sat down
and passed the plates and vegetables around. There were mashed and roast potatoes,
Brussels sprouts and roast parsnips, and Tim had made bread sauce and sage and
onion stuffing all mixed up together because there weren't enough roasting
tins.

Throughout the meal we sang Christmas carols in
four part harmonies. Tim sang the baritone and Zara sang soprano, then they
swapped around, which had us all in fits of laughter. Uncle Silbert sat there
glassy eyed, watching us, like a proud father.

When we'd finished we opened our presents. Zara
had painted me a miniature watercolour of the sea and the sky with different
shades of blue, and silver stars.

“I know blue is your favourite colour,” she said.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “And those stars look as
if they can really talk.” I winked at Zara and she grinned back at me.

Catherine had bought me a wok.

“Wok's new,” said Tim.

“Catherine,” I protested, holding it up and
laughing. “You know I can't cook anything but pasta.”

“I know,” she said. “It's for reheating your
Chinese takeaways.”

Tim left the room. As he went I caught his eye and
he beckoned to me to go after him. Intrigued, I got up and followed him up to
his room. I felt happily flushed; the wine and the turkey were combining
soporifically. I leaned dreamily against the banister. Tim disappeared inside
and came back to the doorway, where he handed me a small package wrapped in
tissue paper.

“I didn't want to give you this in front of
everyone.” He grinned at me shyly and went into the bathroom and shut the door.
I opened up the package. Inside was a beautiful silver necklace with a tiny
Saint Christopher pendant.

“The patron saint of travellers,” I said to
myself, shaking my head. I was touched. It was an almost identical replica of
one I'd had and lost many years ago.

“Tim.” I knocked on the bathroom door, and he
opened it.

“It's beautiful,” I said.

He looked pleased, and took it from me and put it
round my neck, doing up the clasp behind me.

“Thank you,” I said, and stood up on tiptoes to
kiss his cheek. He stood woodenly, un-responding, in front of me for a moment,
but as I moved away he suddenly put both arms around me, pulled me back to him
behind the bathroom door and kissed me on the mouth. His lips were soft and
warm, and I found myself responding. He kicked the door shut behind us and then
he pushed my mouth open with his. I sank weakly against him; I couldn't move. I
hadn't been kissed like this in a very long time. Tim moved his hand up my back
and pressed against me, sending shivers down my spine. I pulled away.

“We mustn’t,” I said breathlessly.

“Don't stop,” said Tim, pulling me back. “Don't
stop now.”

“What about Clare?” I said.

Tim didn’t answer. He leaned into me and put his
lips on mine.

At that moment the door was pushed open, and we
both lost our balance and fell backwards into the bath.

“Hello,” said Zara, who was holding a glass of
wine. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” said Tim.

“Good,” she said, to both of us, and tipped
herself over into the bath on top of us.

“Zara,” I wailed, laughing. “You're spilling red
wine all over us.”

“Oops,” said Zara. “If
we don't get that off quickly it'll stain.” And, amid screams of protest from
me and Tim, she leaned over and switched on the shower.

Downstairs, all was quiet. Both Catherine and Uncle
Silbert had fallen asleep. Shelley was stacking dishes and glasses up by the
sink.

“What happened to you?” she said, as we all walked
in with wet hair. I was wearing one of Tim's t-shirts.

Zara picked up a tea towel. “Lizzie and Tim were -”

I shot her a warning glance.

“- spilling red wine,” she finished, cryptically.

Shelley looked confused. “Red wine?” she repeated.

“We've all had a bath,” said Tim.

Shelley leaned back against the sink and gave a
vague, uncomprehending smile.

“It was wet,” I added, for something to say.

“I think Uncle Silbert needs to go to bed,” said
Zara.

Zara and Shelley put Uncle Silbert to bed in Tim's
room, while Tim made up a bed for himself on the sofa.

“Where am I sleeping?” said Catherine sleepily
from the doorway.

“In Zara's bed with me and Zara,” I said.

“Okay. I'm going up,” she said. “I'm bushed.”

Tim came in with a glass of whisky in each hand.
He gave one to me.

“I'm worried about her,” I said, sitting down on
the floor and leaning against the sofa. “She sleeps such a lot.”

“She's drunk,” said Tim. “And maybe a bit
depressed,” he added. He sat down on the floor next to me.

“Depressed? She's not depressed,” I protested. “She's
happier than she's ever been. She's got her acting classes, her work at the
theatre, and she's free of that… “

“
That
,” said Tim. “Is the problem. She's
not very good at being on her own. Not everyone is as strong as you, Lizzie.”

“I'm not that strong,” I said. “Everyone just
thinks I am.”

“That's because that's what you show them.”

“I have my moments of weakness.”

Tim paused. “Is that all it was,” he asked
quietly. “A moment of weakness?”

I drained my glass and made a move to get up. Tim
put his hand on my arm.

“Don't go,” he said.

“I can't do this,” I said. “I'm confused. And
besides, you're with Clare.”

“Yeah, like we're always together,” said Tim,
sarcastically.

“Well, you have to sort that out,” I said. “I'm
not going to be her stand-in.”

“You're not,” he said, almost angrily. “You know that's
not how it is.”

I turned to face him. I knew that he was right. That
wasn’t how it was at all. I was being disingenuous, using Clare as an excuse. It
was glaringly obvious that Tim had feelings for me and that it would matter
very little to Clare if I did begin to take her place in Tim’s life. She
already had one foot out of the door; it was only a matter of time before she
left completely.

But while it would be so easy just to give in to
being loved, held, made to feel alive again, I couldn’t tell for how long I
would need this, or, more to the point, how long I would need this from Tim. It
didn’t matter to Tim that I wasn’t Clare. That much was clear. But no matter
how hard I wanted it, or wished for it to be true, I knew I couldn’t love him. Because
he wasn’t Larsen.

I bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodnight
Tim,” I said.

As I moved away I saw the look in his eyes, the way
he was gazing at me, and it took all the strength I had in my aching body to
drag myself out of the door and up the stairs to where the girls were sleeping.