Swimming Upstream (8 page)

“You didn’t. I was up anyway. I was about to go
for a jog.”

I glanced up at him and saw that he was wearing
tracksuit bottoms and a sweat top. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“It’s okay.” He made no move to leave.

I shifted away from him slightly and tried to
think of something to say, before he could touch me again. “Where do you go? Jogging
I mean?”

“Just round the block. Up to the shops, round the
park, back again.”

“Sounds good. I would like to say I’d join you,
but… I don’t think I’m going to be jogging for a while. Or swimming, come to
that.”

“That’s a shame.” Martin paused. “I used to
compete, too, you know. Nationally. I was on the verge of turning professional,
until I injured my back. That put paid to a lot of things.”

“Like?”

“My career for a start.”

“I’m sorry. That’s tough. What happened?”

“I had an accident. On my bike.”

“Your bike? You were on a bicycle?”

“Motorbike. I had a Kawasaki. A Five Hundred. I
used to import and sell them, bikes. And cars, too. A real good crack, it was,
got to drive them all over, delivering them to customers. I had a good little
business going. Till I hit a tree. It was wet. I just skidded off the road.”

“God. How awful. Were you badly hurt?”

“You could say that.” A wry grin. “Both legs
broken, and, worse, damage to my spinal cord. “Incomplete”. That means it
wasn’t a total loss of function, thank God. But I didn’t know that at the time.
I was in traction for weeks. It was bloody miserable. It felt as if my life was
over, at the time. That was back in Eighty-Four.”

The year I’d met Larsen. There I was, all tied up
with the business of falling in love, while Martin was in pain, lying on his
back in a hospital bed. I felt a stab of pity for him.

I said, “You must think I’m a real baby, then. All
I’ve got is a sprained ankle, and look at me, moaning about it.”

Martin smiled. “The trick is to keep it moving. And
put pressure on it. Try standing on it. Stand on one leg.”

“What, now?”

Martin laughed. “I’m serious. As often as you can.
You need to strengthen it. Physio’s what you need - and lots of it. I can help
you if you like.”

“You’re a physiotherapist?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. But I’ve picked up a few
techniques along the way. Believe me, I’ve come across more than a few serious injuries
since I’ve been coaching.” He paused. “That doesn’t sound very good does it?”

I laughed. “I know what you mean.”

“Anyway, I got interested after the accident, in
rehabilitation, I mean. After I got some movement back in my spine. I kept
telling myself, making this bargain with God, you know, that if He would let me
walk again I would do something positive…and then I did walk. And, well, every
cloud, you know. I figured if I can’t train enough to compete myself, I can
help other people.”

“That’s very…well, big-hearted of you.”

Martin shrugged. “It took me a while to get there.
I kind of gave up for a while, after the accident. Got a bit down. You know. But
I got there in the end. And my back’s much better now. Good enough for
lifesaving, anyway. And I keep in good shape.”

 “I can see that,” I said, then wished I hadn’t. “So,”
I added quickly, “How long have you been working at the complex?”

“A couple of years.”

“Ever had to save anyone’s life?”

“Once or twice. There was one time when a very
overweight woman came in eating a kebab.

“What?” I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Straight up.” Martin was smiling now. “I was just
about to go over to her, tell her we didn’t allow food by the pool side. Next
thing, she’s screwed up her wrapper, lowered herself into the shallow end,
flopped onto her stomach and sunk straight down to the bottom.”

“Oh my God, what did you do?”

“Well, jumped in, of course, pulled her out. Resuscitated
her.”

“You gave her the kiss of life?”

“Of course. Had to. That’s my job.”

“And she was okay?”

“Yeah, she was fine. I had onion breath, though,
for the rest of my shift.”

I laughed. Martin looked down at me and smiled. He
placed his hand on top of mine. “So. How are you feeling now?”

I glanced down at my ankle and, under the pretext
of making myself more comfortable, slid my hand from under his and used it to
shift my body weight. “Better. I’m fine. Really.”

“Good.” Martin leaned forwards and kissed me
gently on the cheek. He let his lips pause there for a moment and I could feel
his breath, warm against my face.

“Please,” I said, quickly, to stop him.

He looked into my eyes. His face was still very
close to mine. “What?” he whispered.

I stumbled for words. “Catherine,” I said and
added, “Don’t hurt her.”

I knew I’d said the wrong thing. Martin sat up and
shook his head.

“It’s none of your business,” he said, quietly.

Then he left the room.

It was still early, and there was no sound from upstairs. I
found some paper in my handbag and scribbled a note to Catherine. I left it on
the kitchen table and slipped out of the front door. The street was empty apart
from a few cats and a paperboy doing his rounds. I limped to the end of the
road and stood on the corner, and looked in both directions. I could see a
newsagent and a grocer’s shop at the bottom of the road that I recognised. I
realised that I knew where I was, at the top of Cherry Hinton High Street and
Fulbourn Road. I spotted a phone box on the corner and started towards it,
pulling my purse out of my bag to check if I had change.

Suddenly, I heard a whistle, looked up and saw my
father walking down the street towards me. I stopped in my tracks and stared at
him but he didn't seem to notice me. He opened a gate further up the street and
disappeared up the pathway. I continued to stand there, rooted to the pavement,
holding my breath while time stood still. The gate opened and the postman came
back out. It was the postman. It wasn’t my father. Of course it wasn’t my
father. How could it be?

“Morning, love,” said the postman, cheerfully, as
he passed.

“Morning,” I replied, in a whisper.

When I got home the house was cold. I switched the
heating on but the boiler had gone out in the kitchen.
After a couple of
indifferent flicks at the pilot light, I gave up on it. I made myself a cup of
tea and sat in the living room by the window with my jumper over my knees,
watching a couple of pigeons pecking away hungrily at the cracks in the
pavement outside. My stomach churned, demanding food, but I couldn't think of
anything I wanted to eat. I couldn't think of anything at all, except that I
wanted Larsen back. I couldn't remember what could have been so bad, bad enough
for me to give him up. I thought of all our arguments and longed for even that.
Anything had to be better than this. As Sinead O’Connor had so pertinently
reminded me, nothing compared to him. It was that simple. He was Larsen. Nothing
- no-one - compared to him.

I sat curled up in the chair until my toes and my
nose were numb, then climbed wearily up the stairs and into the bedroom. I
pulled the curtains to shut out the light, pulled off my jeans and crawled
under the heavy feathery folds of the duvet.

Larsen had been gone for nearly three months when Marion
and Doug threw a party at their new flat on Chesterton Road.

“You’ve got to come,” Doug had insisted on the
telephone. “We never see you these days.”

On the evening of the party I took a taxi to the
address he’d given me. I knocked on the door and took a deep breath. Doug
answered. He put his arms around me and squeezed me tight.

“How are you?” asked Marion, as I entered the
kitchen.

It was hard to judge whether this was an
invitation to tell her how I was coping without Larsen, or just the standard
British pleasantry, to which the response “Fine. And you?” would prompt another
“Fine,” and allow her to get her drink and go back into the living room.

“Oh, fine,” I said, watching her. Something about
Marion’s face told me that she had rather hoped I wasn’t fine at all. She was
the sort of person who would slow right down to look at a car crash.

“Drink?” she said. She tipped a three litre wine
box onto its side and squelched the remains out of the silver paper and into
two glasses.

“So,” she said, finally, “How's things between you
and Larsen?”

“Well, we've split up,” I said. I knew that she
knew that. I was just hoping that if I started from the very beginning, someone
might come into the kitchen and interrupt us before I had to say anything very
much else.

“I know that.” Marion looked confused. “I was just
wondering if, you know…” she trailed off.

“No.” I shook my head. “If what?”

“You won't mind seeing him?” Marion still looked
confused.

“Why should I?” I laughed, rather too loudly. “We're
still friends.”

“Oh yes,” said Marion. “Of course.”

I raised my glass and smiled.

“Hello,” said Larsen, coming into the kitchen. He
was wearing an old baggy blue jumper that I'd never seen before.

“Hello,” said Jude,
from behind him.

I was sitting on the stairs with a bottle of wine.

“Alright,” said Larsen, sitting down beside me.

“Hello,” I said.

“How've you been?” he asked, rather woodenly.

“So so,” I said. “New jumper?”

“Not really.” He glanced awkwardly away towards
the living room door. I felt disappointed. I wanted to know how he'd been
coping. I wanted him to put his arm round me. I wanted us to talk like we'd meant
something to each other.

“What about you?” I asked. “How've you been?”

“Not bad. But Julia's moving in with Brian…”

“Who’s Julia?”

“His new girlfriend.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Yeah… so, I think I'm going to have to move out.”
He still wasn't looking at me.

I wondered if there was a reason for him telling
me this. I wasn't sure how I'd feel if he said he wanted to move back in again,
into the spare room. Of course it was still his house too. And I missed him so
badly. Seeing him here, now, feeling him next to me, so close, but acting like
a stranger, was almost impossible to bear.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked.

“Well…”

“If you need to… you know, move back…” I trailed
off. “Into the spare room of course,” I added and laughed stupidly. Larsen
still wasn’t saying anything. I suddenly remembered his words the night we met.
“I never go back. Once it’s over it’s over.”

“How's work?” Larsen asked me.

“Good,” I said. “I did a seven-day shift last
week, so I've got a few days off. I'm programme editor from Thursday.”

“You got it.” Without exclamation.

The living room door opened and Jude poked her
head round and looked at us. I smiled. She went back inside and shut the door.

“Well, I'm only acting up,” I said. “You know,
just a secondment…” I was aware that I was speaking very quickly. I was also
aware that Larsen wasn’t really listening properly but I seemed unable to stop
myself from telling him and hoping that he cared. “It’s for the lunchtime show,
in fact. Greg Chappell's got an eight week attachment at IRN. But in realistic
terms it means he's unlikely to come back again.”

“Well, aren’t you on the up and up?” said Larsen.
He stood up. “See you later,” he added, and went back into the living room.

I poured myself another
glass of wine and considered the up and up. I decided there was no such thing. With
an up, it seemed, there was always a down. Laws of gravity, I supposed.

I wandered through the darkened living room and stood
there for a moment. The Happy Mondays were blaring out of the speakers. Karen
and Marion were dancing together in a manner that didn’t invite me to join them.
Larsen was sitting on the sofa, talking to Jude. I spotted the back of Doug’s
head on the balcony outside and opened the door.

“Hey. Mind if I join you?”

“Hey.” Doug patted the ground beside him and I sat
down. We stuck our legs up against the railings and surveyed the car park below

“So how are you?”  

“I’m okay. Thanks. You?”

Doug nodded. “Roll up?” he offered. I shook my
head. “It’s nice to see you,” he added. “I’m glad you came. It’s a shame when
people break up and people disappear off the scene.”

I smiled. “By people, do you mean Zara?”

Doug glanced behind him through the window to the
living room.

“It’s alright,” I said. “Marion can’t hear. And everyone
else knows you and Zara had a thing going on.”

Doug didn’t try to deny it.

“So… have you seen her lately? Zara, I mean?”

Doug shook his head.

“Nice girl,” I said. “I liked her.”

“Me too,” said Doug, and smiled. “Off her head
though.”

I laughed, remembering the first time I had met
her in the bathroom at Larsen’s house, when she’d told me about the stars
talking and then we’d fallen into the bath. “She’s a lot nicer than Marion,” I said.

Doug sighed. “Yeah. Well, she didn’t stick around.
After…”

“After what?”

Doug hesitated. “She wasn’t very well,” he said,
and then, “You’ll have to ask her.”

“So where did she go? Is she still in Cambridge?”

“No. I don’t know. I think she moved to London.”

“London? Really?”

“She got offered a job there, I think. It was in
one of those big hospitals, a teaching hospital she said, in North London. I
can’t remember which one.”

We sat in silence for a while and Doug rolled
another cigarette. I felt a glimmer of hope and something that felt like pride,
in Zara. She had always remained on the fringe of things, her relationship with
Doug never discussed. Her occasional presence had been accepted because of
Doug. But I hadn’t really noticed, until now, that she had stopped being
around, made the break, moved away. It was possible, then, to get a new life,
to start afresh, without the blanket of love, friendship and familiarity that
had shrouded me for such a long time. Zara had done it. Though, unlike me, she
had always had a life away from Doug, outside of our crowd. She hadn’t invested
everything into her relationship with him, the way that I had with Larsen. I recalled
her having friendships with fellow nurses at the hospital where she worked. And
I also remembered her being interested in art, talking about some paintings
she’d done, and once or twice inviting me to a gallery. Once she had put on an
exhibition of her own paintings and she had invited me to that too. But I had
made some excuse and never gone.