Gwennie's Girl Page 16

  At one stage, the motor of the dinghy cut out, and they were out of control but luckily, they were thrown under one of the other mooring ropes and Sam leapt and grabbed it. He yelled, and Lizzie stood too, on the flabby, slippery rubber. She hooked her feet under the cross-board and held on as if her life depended on it. It probably did, she realised later. Sam let go and fell back to grab the motor. It seemed an age before it sputtered, died, sputtered and came to life and slowly, they made their way back to the spot Kris had indicated and they clambered up together to loop the rope around the rocks.

  Lizzie’s hands were trembling, and she couldn’t get a good grip. It was all too much. She was too old. She was too useless. She couldn’t do it. She could feel the energy draining out of her. She couldn’t do it. Sam, struggling to hold the dinghy against the rocky shoreline shouted at her. She couldn’t make out the words, but she could hear his urgency and his anxiety. Still, she crouched and couldn’t move. He shouted again with more intensity. She looked up and he was pleading with her, telling her to hurry, struggling to keep the dinghy alive and controlled. She crawled, slipped and scrabbled. She put the loop around the rock, and she slid back down in a rush, almost missing the dinghy, but, eventually, flopping back into it. They looked back, and Aquarius was tethered calmly, aloof from the waves that surged around her, and they made it back and climbed aboard wearily.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Sam as her hugged her. ‘We make a good team.’

  Everything was checked while the wind and the rain continued. It was nowhere as bad as it would have been out of the bay, but it was far from calm.

  That night, they ate on-board. It was a ‘German Stew’ of whatever cans they could find, hot and filling, and no one ever asked for the recipe. They had all changed out of their wet gear, and the cabin was warm and snug. When Lizzie crawled into her bed, she was aware that Kris probably wouldn’t sleep. There had been no Captain’s drinks and no wine for dinner. Sam stayed up with Kris. Lizzie felt an odd sense of security that someone else would take care of her. She used to feel that way about Mum, even in a condemned building. She fell asleep.

  By morning, the sky was blue and the sea was their friend again. That was the only bad weather they encountered. For the next week, it was as if the film had changed from black and white back into glorious technicolour. They meandered along the coast, eating and drinking, and Lizzie was again voted “most lizard-like lady” for her talent of stillness in the sun. She didn’t think about anything much. She just was.

  Once they visited a family whose farm was a few miles inland. They knew the man, Nick, who worked in a bar in a small harbour that only served the few yachts that called. He had cooked melting slices of lamb with “potatoes from heaven” and gave them the expected tomato salad and slices of watermelon. Then, he gave them a drink dubbed “green stuff” because no one could make out what was in it. Whatever it was, it was delicious and decidedly alcoholic but the moon was full, the evening air was velvet on their shoulders, and they all got quite, quite drunk. They were all wearing the silken head twists with gilt drops that were sold along the coast. Even the men had them around their foreheads. Nick knew Kris from many years sailing, and this crew had met him on the last three trips. He sat and drank with them. There was one other yacht in the harbour, the crew was Austrian, and in between laughing at their own jokes and flirting outrageously, Lizzie became aware of the sort of feuding between the Germans and the Austrians. Her friends were scathing about intelligence levels, breeding habits and taste in all things cultural regarding Austrians. From the looks coming from the other crew, she felt pretty sure they were saying similar things about the Bavarians. It was just like home with the Aussies and the New Zealand kiwis or the Victorians and the Tasmanians or the Melbournites and the Sydney dwellers. Australians call it “stirring”. Perhaps, fortunately, the Austrians retired early, and Aquarius’ crew stayed on in the moonlight with Nick and his “green stuff” before giggling their way back to the yacht. Tonight, Sam and Lizzie enjoyed the soft rocking of the yacht, and the moonlight coming in the small porthole open to the salty air. Sam’s hands were soft and salty too as he stroked Lizzie’s skin and slowly, so slowly urged her to pleasure.

  Lizzie woke next morning smiling as Sam caressed her again to the sound of the music slipping into the cabin as he slipped into her. At breakfast, Kris told them that the whole crew had been invited to Nick’s home. This was unusual as most of the workers kept the sailors and their own families quite separate. Lizzie had often noted how difficult it was to know any women, even casually, because they were always kept in the background, well protected, well-guarded, working hard. It was the men who served in the bars, who waited at table, who dealt with the foreigners. The men often had affairs with visiting women but there was an underlying disdain for what were perceived as lower morals and brazenness in dress and attitudes. Lizzie felt sure that any local women who “consorted” would be rejected by their own communities.

  So, Lizzie and the two other women dressed carefully in skirts and shoulder-covering tops. They arrived on shore to find Nick with an elderly and very tiny car and heard that the farm was about twenty minutes’ drive away and they would have to go in two loads. Nick took Kris and the two German women first while Lizzie, Sam and the two men sat in the morning sunlight and sipped the cool, freshly squeezed orange juice that Nick had arranged from the bar. Lizzie realised, later, that Nick had probably put considerable thought into how to organise the transport. Kris must go first because he was the captain. But Kris and the other men would not be left at the farm without some of the women. Kris’s reputation was well known along the coast, although, to be fair, he restricted his amorous adventures to the visitors and had always respected local custom and tradition.

  When the tiny car arrived back, Lizzie was put into the most comfortable seat and the guys had to climb in together in the back. ‘I thought this was a man’s world,’ one of them grinned. They bumped and rattled up the main road and then lurched and jolted over the dirt track that went off to the farm. ‘Much more of that and I’d have been a soprano,’ said the large German as he unfolded himself and emerged.

  The farm was lovely. The house was large and rambled away into the surrounding garden and out buildings. Its white stones reflected the luminous green of the vines, and inside it was cool and dim. They were taken into a room that was clearly the family’s pride and joy, empty except for a television set which sat smugly on a lace-covered table with a beautiful carpet doing homage before it. The worldwide adoration of television.

  There were wonderful food smells wafting around in the air that was now quite hot as they gathered at a table outside under a vine and met the family. Nick’s mother seemed very, very old. Her hair was covered with a black scarf and her face and hands looked like brown paper that has been scrunched into a ball and then opened out again. She was silent and did not make eye contact with the visitors but Lizzie was sure they were being closely observed and evaluated. Nick’s wife was beautiful. Certainly no longer young, her features were fine and her movements combined strength and grace as she brought her two daughters to be presented. These two teenagers giggled and talked away excitedly to each other as the foreigners’ clothes and hair obviously came under scrutiny. Drinks were brought and tray after tray of food: warm, soft bread, chicken, beef, fish, potatoes, rice, tomatoes, onions, melons, grapes, coffee and hard, sweet biscuits. The three younger women served and the old lady sat about six feet away and watched silently. Lizzie asked if the women would join them but Nick said, ‘No, Lizzie, they will eat later.’ He added, ‘That is our way.’

  The younger of the two daughters said something laughingly to her father who laughed too, and then stood with one hand on his hip and wagged the finger of the other hand in a mockery of sternness. She flashed back what was, obviously, a saucy reply and he collapsed laughing into his chair again. The girl came to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. Her mother smiled. Nick could not h
ide his affection as he patted the girl’s hand and said, ‘I am surrounded by women. What can a man do? Just love them.’

  The sun passed its peak and they all sat on in deepening shade. Still, the women did not join the circle around the table. After serving and clearing away the dishes they disappeared into the house, presumably to eat too. The old lady stayed in her chair. Sometime later, the three emerged and sat behind Nick talking quietly to each other while they watched him with his visitors. From time to time, Lizzie and the others would smile and gesture to the women, trying to include them but they remained apart.

  When it was time to move, Nick told them he would take Kris and the men back to the yacht first and then return for the women. There were formal goodbyes, the four men loaded themselves into the car and set off down the dusty track, and within about ten seconds, the other women had pulled their chairs up to the table and were talking animatedly. Even the old lady was talking. In a mixture of mime and laughter, the questions began.

  To Lizzie, the questions were predictable. ‘Was Kris her husband?’ No. ‘The big man?’ No. ‘The other man?’ No. ‘Where was her husband?’ Lizzie mimed taking off her ring and throwing it away. Consternation. Sympathy. Lizzie laughed and mimed sweeping out. More sympathy for Lizzie who shrugged and accepted that some things just didn’t communicate across cultures and language. Attention moved to the other two women.

  When Nick returned, all six women were drinking coffee and many questions were managing to cross the barriers. The older daughter pointed to Lizzie’s camera and then to the group. ‘Of course,’ said Lizzie, delighted to have some photos.

  She took some lovely portraits of the women and of Nick. Then the youngster pointed again to all the women indicating that she wanted a group shot. They all stood and arranged themselves, the two Germans, the old lady, the wife and the two daughters and Nick. The girl protested and drew Nick out of the group, taking him by the hand and handing him the camera. It was clear. This was a photo for women only. Nick spread his hands and gave in. Later, when they were developed, Lizzie would send them to the village and smile to think how pleased the women would be to receive them. The photos were memories of a sunny, dappled day and a warm welcome.

  They returned to Aquarius feeling replete and lazy. The next morning, Nick was there to wave them off, and they sailed for the morning and into the midday heat. Aquarius was beautiful. She responded to the breeze and skimmed elegantly across the blueness of the water for a quiet, happy day with only occasional conversation as everyone enjoyed the easy comfortableness of working as a team, knowing each other and knowing what needed to be done. Sam and Lizzie each took the wheel for an hour or so and thought of nothing but compass and sails and the next headland. Lizzie was content to let go, to have thoughts and ideas pass through her mind without ever working on them, sorting them out, analysing or making any decisions. She was simply sailing in the sunshine.

  As the temperature rose, Kris said they would anchor and swim or sleep a few hours because they had made good time so they drew near a beach and dropped anchor. By this time, the water was golden green all around them. One of the Germans said he would stay aboard, and he stretched out under the sun sail that gave a deep blue shade to the deck when they were not at sea.

  ‘You can call me captain. Just don’t call too loudly,’ he grinned.

  The others decided to swim to the beach rather than unload the dinghy, and they tucked money into plastic bags, pinned them to bathers and set off. Lizzie was not going ashore.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Sam, and she nodded and waved them off.

  She would just “dip and bake” taking a short swim around the yacht because it looked too far to the beach, and she was not sure she’d make it back through the waves breaking onto the sand. ‘Too much like hard work,’ she told the group as they went over the side.

  The ladder was down. They had all heard the stories of people drowning beside their boats because they had forgotten to drop the ladder and could not scale the smooth sides of the vessel. As the others moved swiftly away, Lizzie sat with her feet on the ladder and enjoyed the solitude. The “captain” was already asleep, and she was glad she had decided against the long swim as the shore looked even further away now. She almost fell into a daze too, just watching the rise and fall of the water against the white flanks of Aquarius.

  Then she took off her hat and slipped easily into the coolness. There was no sharpness; it just took her gently. She swam a few strokes then rolled and floated, looking at the cloudless blue that stretched into eternity. Her hair fanned out, and she played the twisting game of catching it across her cheeks. She rose and fell as the water lifted her seductively into the nothingness of just being, with no struggle, no thought, simply feeling, becoming part of the sea, the sky, the sun and the salt. She closed her eyes. Everything faded except the warmth and the wetness that wrapped around her like swaddling or a shroud. She was cocooned; buried in her sensations, without will, flotsam in a pink bathing suit. She could drift into the deepest sleep.

  When she decided she should go back, she opened her eyes, squinting to control the glare that ricocheted off the hard brilliance of the water and with an effort lifted her head and looked around for Aquarius expecting to see it close at hand. As she pulled herself upright, her feet entered the coldness that lurked beneath the friendly surface. She kicked away from it, arms and legs jerking as she worked to orient herself. She could see Aquarius but it was a long way away. It was between Lizzie and the beach. ‘Oh, shit,’ she gasped aloud to the emptiness that closed all around her, ‘How the hell did I get here?’

  She set off in her totally inefficient breaststroke. Funny that after surgery to remove a breast, she could no longer do the Aussie crawl at all—it had to be breaststroke. The sun still shone. The sky was still blue. But Lizzie realised that there was a swell. All that rising and falling was really a sinister swell moving away from the beach and away from Aquarius. She swam as calmly as possible trying to concentrate on what she knew of technique so that each stroke would maximise her strength. Her hands came together into a parody of the prayer position.

  Thrust forward. Part and push the water back to clear the way ahead. Fingers together. Legs like a frog. Thrust and push the water. Thrust and push away. The water is too big. There is too much of it.

  It could so easily overwhelm her. For all its beauty and its softness, it could destroy her. It could take her. Hands together like a child in prayer. Everything is surprisingly quiet. There is no danger music, no menacing shadows, no one is screaming. Just Lizzie swimming and swimming and swimming.

  Don’t think. Thrust and push away. Legs like a frog. Legs like a frog. Her arms were tired. Push the water back. Make a path. Swim and swim and swim. Legs like a frog. Hands together for least resistance. Hands together. Like a praying child. Legs like a frog. Hands in prayer. Please I don’t want to die. Please. I want to live. Rise and fall. Make the effort. Move your arms and move your legs. You know the motions. Keep on going. It’s the same as before, just more of it. Don’t give up, Lizzie. You are Gwennie’s girl and Nanna’s girl. Don’t give up. Hands and arms and legs like a frog. Thrust forward. Swim, girl, swim. Use your strength. Keep your eyes on the path, the line between you and Aquarius. Your will is your lifeline. Swim, girl, swim. Please, Mum, I want to live. I don’t want to die. Please, Mum. Please, Nanna. Help me. Help me. I don’t want to die.

  Everything so quiet. Still, there was no screaming. Quiet. The sun still shining. The water rising and falling, rising and falling. Her arms were heavy. Her legs were aching. She was not a frog. Legs were moving but not like a frog. She was pushing the water but there was more, much more of it. It was bigger than she was, so it could beat her, punch her, bruise her, make her cry and make her do whatever it wanted. The water was a disease under the skin and in the bones. It was silent and it infiltrated, finding your vulnerability, feeding on your trust and making slime of your strength.

  Please, Mum. Please, Nann
a. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I do, I want to live. Legs like a frog. Hands in prayer. Swim, girl, swim. You are Gwennie’s girl and Nanna’s girl. You can survive. Legs like a frog. Swim. Swim. Your will is your lifeline. Swim. Swim.

  ‘Hey, Lizzie, are you OK?’

  ‘Lizzie, do you need a hand?’

  ‘Hang on, Lizzie, I’m coming.’

  Hands in prayer. Legs aching and not like a frog. Thrust away. So feeble. The water might win. I do want to live, want to live.

  ‘Grab her.’

  ‘I’ve got her. Keep the dinghy steady.’

  ‘Pull her in.’

  ‘I can’t get her up.’

  ‘Lizzie, hold on. Hold on, Lizzie. I’m here. Stay with me.’ Sam’s voice. That was Sam’s voice. ‘I’ve got her.’

  ‘She’s OK.’

  ‘OK Take off. Get back as fast as you can.’

  ‘Watch the motor.’

  ‘She’s OK.’

  ‘Let’s go. Let’s go.’

  ‘You’re OK, Lizzie. You’re OK.’

  She did not drown that time either but the memories came back, memories of a time when there was no one there, when Sam was not there.

  Nightmares

  Summer passed, and Sam went to Bangkok. In autumn, Europe packed herself away from the heat, the tourists. and Keat’s season of mellow fruitfulness merged into the time of La Chasse and the coming of the new Beaujolais. The sunlight was less robust and the rainbow awnings slowly withdrew into their protective casings. Gradually, the pavements cleared of their pink and green cloths, and for a while, the everlasting plastic chairs endured but they too, eventually, retreated into huddles. Winter dropped from the sky and shone on the pavements in the early light of street lamps as sandals gave way to warm boots. The cold whipped past chestnut stalls and flurried the flags on the Pont du Mont Blanc sending memories of red, yellow and dancing bears across the rippled pewter of the lake. Umbrellas mushroomed. Strollers became walkers as people followed their own breaths through the brisk streets and onto panting buses.