The Drowning Lesson (5 page)

When Alice had finished her croissant, she tipped her chair back and shut her eyes. I registered a fluttering sensation deep inside my pelvis, the kind a butterfly might make if trapped in a palm. The courtyard was quiet, apart from the warm thrum of bees in the thyme. We were surrounded by the dusty scent of hot stone.

‘I never want to go home,' Alice whispered, as if she was speaking to herself, or even praying.

I caught Adam's eye above her head. We had two days left. What would it be like if we could stay on? These easy days would continue: swimming, playing and resting, my work fitting into the tranquil routine. There would be time to talk and cook and read. Adam was silent, perhaps thinking the same.

A bee landed on my plate, crawling over a smear of apricot jam. Another joined it. I pushed my chair back as I got up, the metal scraping on old stone. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the cave-like darkness of the kitchen. We would, of course, go
home; we would pick up the threads of our London life. The girls would resume school. Adam would go back to work and so would I. Normal life would take over again.

What about our normal lives?
The question I'd asked Adam when he'd told me about Botswana seemed to echo around the silent kitchen, with its high shelves full of blue and red china and the thick, uneven walls. What had I meant exactly? Normal life was the daily drive to school fighting traffic, then ward rounds, clinics, a sandwich in front of the computer in my office, operating till late, meetings in the lab, then home, snapping at the children and Adam. Ready meals slapped on the table. Evenings answering emails. In a few days that rush would start again, until the next holiday a year from now apart from a brief break at Christmas. I picked up my laptop from the dresser and walked out through the front garden to the table under the olive tree at the far end of the pool.

The children followed in a few minutes. Alice dived into the pool, neat as a swallow. Zoë leapt into the air and landed with a noisy splash. Adam slid in after them. I took a photo on my phone; in some future traffic jam with November rain slanting against the windscreen, I would glance at the picture and retrieve the blue of the water, the scent of lavender in the fields around the villa, the sharp taste of
the soft yellow apricots that fell onto the grass from the tree by the wall.

Adam's shoulders gleamed as he pulled through the water. Zoë clung onto him, shouting encouragement, while Alice kept pace, her arms flashing through the water. I watched her face, as she turned her head for breath with each stroke: it was lit with a fierce joy, and for the first time, I wondered if I could be making an enormous mistake.

Megan had painted pictures of Botswana, adding brushstrokes each time we met. I could see the silent plains clearly now, the friendly people, the engulfing sun. I leant back and stared up through the thin green leaves to cloudless blue. In the last two weeks I'd worked far better here than at home, better in the flimsy shade of this olive tree than in my stuffy office. Was it the clarity of light? The heat? Even though my cotton dress stuck to my back, my hands flew over the keys. I was as focused as if I had a scalpel in my hand. Yesterday I'd updated notes for my performance appraisal and written a case report on uterine cancer. It had been overdue, but until we'd left for France I'd been preoccupied by the summer conference. This had been my first chance to catch up and now I was writing as fast as I could think.

‘Come in, Mummy!'

Alice's wet fingers were cool on the hot skin of my swollen feet, one of the few signs of my pregnancy so
far. As she reached from the pool to touch me, her other hand was on Adam's head while he rested, wheezing slightly, between lengths. I was caught by the light in her tilted face. When had I seen her look as happy as this? Last year? Three years ago? When she was a toddler?

I watched the net of gold light expand and contract in the rocking water. Anchoring the family in London had made perfect sense, but as I closed my eyes I saw Alice's sunlit face change: in the darkness behind my eyelids it became pale and tense, her eyes closed.

It would be hot in Africa, like here. The light would be as clear. There would be time to connect with Alice, and Adam would get to do his project. Zoë would be in her element. The baby would start life in the sun. If I worked as well as I was working here in France, I could keep pace with Adam. I'd get my research done, combine a sabbatical with maternity leave and come back with several papers to my name. The scales would still balance.

I had started to show a small curve in the last four weeks but clothes had disguised it. I'd complained loudly about getting fat and Adam had been completely misled. He said he'd always wanted a plump wife and that perhaps I'd slow down now I had so much weight to carry around.

I peeled off my kaftan and stood in the sunshine in
my bikini; my skin felt bathed in warmth and light. I wondered if the baby could sense the brightness. Adam glanced over, away, then back again, a smile spreading over his face as I dived in.

He was waiting for me in the shallow end when I came up for air and imprisoned me against the wall. His mouth was warm in the cool water. ‘You kept that pretty secret, didn't you?'

Against his tanned skin, his brown-green eyes were very clear. I watched them as I wondered how to answer. There seemed little point in telling him it had been a deliberate ploy.

‘It was a mistake. I was so … surprised when it happened, I didn't know what I wanted,' I told him, my heart beating hard. Would he believe me? ‘It took time to work things out. But I have now.' That was the truth, after all.

‘Meaning?' He cupped my chin with a wet hand.

I held on to his shoulders, letting my body float up behind me in the water. It was a relief to feel weightless. ‘We'll go to Africa together, all five of us.'

His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed my evasion. Was he about to challenge me? Ask for more details? Then his face relaxed. I watched him decide to lay doubts aside. After all, he wouldn't want to spoil the moment either: he was being given everything he'd wanted. His hug was so tight I could hardly breathe.

Alice was swimming towards us, grinning widely.
I didn't want to spoil her happiness – she might feel threatened by so much change. ‘Let's tell them we're going to Africa, but not yet about the baby,' I whispered into the wet curve of his ear. ‘One thing at a time?'

He nodded and, turning, swept Alice into the hug.

I was in the courtyard, snapping off stems of basil before lunch, when Megan phoned. I could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I got your text. So you're all going. Wonderful.'

‘Isn't it?' I held the shiny leaves to my face. The green peppery scent was so strong that my eyes stung.

‘What made you change your mind?'

‘Alice mainly, the sunshine and …' I hesitated. The secret had been so closely held.

‘You needn't say. I know.' Her voice was amused.

‘How?' I walked into the kitchen and laid the herbs on the chopping board.

‘Emma, we've had, what, six lunches now?' She sounded affectionate but exasperated. ‘How could I not have noticed? Your looser clothes maybe? The shape of your face?'

I looked into the little mirror by the fridge; even in the gloom of the kitchen I could see my rounded cheeks, my eyes glowing like a cat's. My hair was thicker. I had been too busy to notice, and so had Adam. He left the tomatoes he was slicing and put
his arms around me, his face beside mine in the reflection. ‘Hello, pregnant wife,' he whispered, kissing my shoulder. ‘We're starving to death here.'

I said goodbye to Megan.

That evening, I lay on Alice's bed. Tired out from swimming and the excitement about Africa, she tucked in close, her back towards me as she looked at the olive trees in the moonlight beyond the open shutters. Her warm toes curled and uncurled against my leg. The faint scent of lavender and thyme came to us from the garden. Zoë pushed into my other side. I read ‘Hansel and Gretel' from
Grimms' Fairy Tales
, which Zoë brought on every holiday. She dreaded and loved the telling. Halfway through, she cuddled closer, glancing outside. ‘Are there witches in France?' She pulled her thumb from her mouth. ‘Do they eat people?'

‘It's just a story, Zoë.' Alice's voice was sleepy. ‘There's no such thing.'

‘Okay,' Zoë said obediently, slipping her thumb back in. A few moments later she had fallen asleep.

I lay with my arms around my daughters, watching the moon rise in the darkening sky. I could think of no reason at all why life in Africa wouldn't be this perfect.

Three a.m., emergency Caesarean. The skin edges sprang apart under my scalpel; small packets of red-rimmed fat bulged into view. A wet meat smell seeped upwards into the room.

Foetal distress. Obstructed labour. Undiagnosed breech, inexperienced registrar. The decision to operate had been easy. The operation was easy. Dissect to the fascia, separate the rectus abdominis muscles, slit the uterine wall, suck out the meconium-stained amniotic fluid and reach inside, my own swollen belly making the movements awkward. A few tense seconds spent pulling the wedged shoulders free with a see-saw motion, and then the small, greasy body was out. A stuttering wail, string-white arms widely outstretched: a blood-wet, healthy girl. I handed her to the waiting paediatrician. My back ached. Bending was difficult now I was twenty-four weeks pregnant. I couldn't stop now, though I could have handed the sewing-up to the registrar at my elbow. Giving up wasn't an option.

‘When the going gets tough the tough get going.'

He smiles as he says it. We're in the car, on the way to the pool. Six a.m. and raining. I smile back. It's easy now. When I win, he smiles. I can tell he's happy. He eats more. He's reading books again. He's stopped drinking.

Practice makes perfect; that's another thing he says. He tells me I must never, ever give up.

Every morning is the same. He reads the paper and does his work by the side of the pool. I train. He thinks he's doing this for me. How can I tell him it's the other way round?

I have a coach, and we concentrate on different things. Today it's my hands: how to tilt them in as they go into the water and how to cup the fingers. I swim length after length after length just focusing on my hands.

Never, ever give up.

I concentrated on the open wound, the placenta and the bleeding. The midwife's chatter faded as I worked, the mask damp against my face.

Twenty minutes later I was done. Fifteen more, I was driving slowly across Hampstead Heath in the slate grey of early dawn. Leaves lay in dark piles around the trees and in blown heaps along the gutter. A young fox trotted over the road, almost under the car wheels, head high – I had to brake quickly. He must have seen the car but hadn't taken in the danger: it was too big, too near, too alien. The white-tipped brush disappeared into the bushes. The
wildlife on the Heath was hidden by day and, drawing into the kerb, I slid the window open to absorb more. The cool air was sharpened with the scent of wet grass and rotting wood; a few moments later, birdsong unspooled from the surrounding trees. My hands relaxed; the sudden tears were cold on my cheeks.

A police car drove by slowly; a man's weary face glanced, not unkindly, through my window. I started the ignition again and pushed my head hard back into the seat to stretch my aching neck muscles, turning my head from side to side, while I replayed the operation I'd just done, checking for mistakes. There had been none. It had all gone smoothly, though I'd forgotten the patient's name; had I ever known it? Did it matter? I was her obstetrician, not her friend. She didn't need my friendship, just my skill. I turned the car into our street, then let it glide down the hill to our house. The operation had been swift: the child's brain had remained oxygenated; she would be normally intelligent. The mother's wounds would heal. That was enough. I got out of the car, glancing around at the empty street, with its row of curtained houses. If there was something more I should be doing or being, it was hidden from me.

Adam was lying on his side in the bedroom. I pulled up the blind to let in the light, opened the window,
then sat on the bed to watch him. Sleeping, he looked younger, more as he had when I'd first met him, though he was already older than the rest of us. Changing career from the City, he had been more mature, schooled in organization. His notes had always been filed, cross-referenced, indexed; everything to hand. Mine had been in untidy stacks around the room, notes spilling across the desk, on the radiator and spread all over the floor. I was untidy by nature; his orderliness had seduced me.

I bent forward to touch my lips lightly to his hair, feeling the strands of wiry grey distinct from the black softness. Then I pulled off my clothes, throwing them towards the chair where Adam had left his carefully folded trousers. Some landed on the floor, the rest on top of his. He'd notice and mind. Marriage and even children had made no difference: lapped by disorder, his orderliness had become entrenched. The dull morning light picked out the spine of a large book on his bedside table:
The Encyclopedia of Wildlife in Southern Africa.
He'd probably made notes.

Lifting the duvet carefully, I slid close, turning and stretching until my back was pressed up against his warm length. My limbs seemed to melt in the heat. The baby gave a little flurry of kicks high under my ribcage. Adam, still sleeping, moved closer, slipping a hand around me. I'd taken the following day off, I could relax, but a list flickered in front
of my eyes even as the dark edges of sleep began to close around me. Coffee with Megan, a meeting with Mrs Philips, collect up the research papers to print off in case the Internet wasn't reliable in Botswana …

Surfacing into a bright morning, I saw Adam's face above mine. Side-lit by a narrow beam of early sun, the deep creases between his eyebrows were shadowed and faint traces of a flaking rash edged his hair.

‘What happened last night that your registrar couldn't handle?' He bent to kiss me, his mouth tasting of toothpaste and coffee.

‘Undiagnosed primip breech. Francesca panicked.'

Adam nodded and straightened to open the wardrobe. If we were still in France we would have woken up together and made love as the sun came into the room. I rolled to the side of the bed awkwardly and pushed myself up.

‘What are you doing with your day off?' He looked faintly jealous.

‘Meeting Megan for coffee, Mrs Philips after that –' I stopped. Alice had appeared and was standing inside the door, watching us. Zoë followed, pushed past her, held up her face for her morning kiss and ran out of the door again. I heard Sofia calling the girls to breakfast but Alice lingered.

‘Hello, sweetheart.' She must have overheard her
teacher's name. ‘Mrs Philips is going to give me your work for Africa today.'

‘What happens if I get stuck on something when we're out there?' Her voice trembled. ‘When we come back I'll be way behind the others.'

‘You'll be fine, Ally, but if you're worried we can always get a tutor. What do you think?'

She nodded and disappeared.

‘That's a great idea, Em.' Adam leant into the bedroom mirror, baring his teeth rapidly to check he'd brushed them properly. ‘Told you she just wanted reassurance. The holiday in France did the trick.' He was whistling under his breath as he tucked his chin down, buttoning his shirt. Then he looked up. ‘So, Megan, the new best friend. I wouldn't have thought she was your type, somehow.'

My type. Did he mean like me? I distrusted people like me: ambitious, complicated, careless. Megan exuded restful dependability.

I walked stiffly to the chair, leaning backwards, balancing the weight. I picked up my clothes, wondering if he minded. Were we competing for his secretary now? Though she was only part time, perhaps he resented our lunches or that she'd volunteered to pick up the girls on a Tuesday so I could finish my clinic without rushing.

‘I like her, Adam. She's genuine. And kind.' I watched his face. ‘Is it a problem?'

‘Not to me. She loves being involved.' He put his arm round me, smiling. ‘We really don't have to fight over Megan.' Then he patted my abdomen. ‘He's getting huge.'

He? This was a girl, I was convinced. A tiny girl who moved in exactly the same way as Alice had; I felt as nauseous. She would look like Alice, too, a little dark-haired sprite. I hadn't scrutinized the scan, liking the edge of uncertainty, but all the same, I knew.

‘Shouldn't we tell the girls?' He was bent to lace his shoes. ‘Twenty-four weeks – they're bound to notice if they haven't already.'

‘Kids don't look at their parents' bodies,' I replied, though sometimes I'd caught Alice's eyes scanning me with a quick flickering glance. ‘Alice is anxious about her work. Let's wait a bit longer.'

He shrugged. I could tell from his face that his focus had shifted to the day ahead. He put on his jacket, kissed me again and clattered downstairs.

‘Don't forget supper this evening,' I shouted.

He said something I couldn't hear. Then he called the girls to get into the car, and, after a few minutes, the front door slammed.

Two hours later I was waiting for Megan in the café. The smell of coffee, the background hum of talk, the crashing as plates and cutlery were cleared had become familiar over the past few months. Soon this
place would be thousands of miles away. An unfamiliar dart of apprehension, like the echo of a contraction, went through me and was gone.

There was a little fluster of chairs moving. Megan was there, out of breath. ‘Sorry I'm late. We'd run out of Andrew's meds and I had to dash to the pharmacy.'

‘I ordered your cappuccino.' I watched her unwind a scarf, affection jostling with pity. Andrew seemed more like a patient than a husband.

‘I've emailed my friend David in Gaborone.' She leant back as the waitress put a frothy cup of coffee in front of her. ‘He should have some help sorted for you by the time the family arrives.'

I'd imagined working in a garden in the cool shade of a large tree, the baby sleeping by my side, the girls splashing in a pool or sitting next to me at a table doing their school work. A less cluttered life. Why would we need anyone to help? ‘We'd have to get references beforehand,' I said carefully. ‘It might be difficult.'

‘David runs an orphanage.' She looked away, her cheeks stained with colour. ‘All his workers have to be carefully checked.'

‘How about we keep it in reserve for now?' I touched her hand and she smiled.

‘The girls will be a help anyway,' she said. ‘ Have you told them yet?'

I shook my head. ‘I'm still worried for Alice. Right now she's anxious she'll lag behind her school mates while we're out there; my pregnancy could be the last straw.'

‘She seemed fine last Tuesday. ‘We were talking about the trip. They can't wait. I hope Botswana lives up to their expectations.' Megan sounded oddly cautious, as though sounding a warning.

‘But you told me they'd love it.' I stared at her, puzzled. ‘Especially Alice – I remember your words.'

‘Something happened out there that frightened me but it was a long time ago.' Her smile didn't reach her eyes. ‘You'll be fine.'

She hadn't mentioned this before. Thinking back, we had never discussed her childhood, though I'd told her about mine, secret things I'd never told anyone before: how my father, blind with weeping, had turned the car over on the way home from the funeral, trapping us both inside, or how for years after that I dared not bring a friend home in case he broke down in tears. Now she was trusting me. ‘You were frightened at a mission school? By the nuns, you mean?'

‘I wasn't at the mission school. I boarded in South Africa, on a church scholarship.' A little frown appeared on her forehead.

‘Tell me about it.'

She lowered her voice. ‘It started because I looked
different. My mother made my clothes. I was fatter than the rest and my hair was red. There was a girl who told the others to leave me out – she was popular so no one spoke to me.' She paused, then finished in a whisper: ‘After a while, I got the feeling that I wasn't real.'

The girl would have been slim, with a cruel smile. Perhaps she had golden hair. The scholarship would have paid Megan's fees but she would have still been poorer than the rest, with different clothes and different shoes. I pictured her standing at the edge of a playing field, stocky, red-headed, the last to be chosen for a team, and wanted to put my arms round her. ‘Didn't you tell your parents?'

‘They asked questions when they picked me up at the end of term, but once we got back, home took over.' She shrugged. ‘They returned to the clinic. Mum was an obstetrician, like you.'

Not really like me, though I didn't say it out loud. I was planning something different. In a couple of months, Alice would be at the centre of our lives.

‘What did you do?'

‘I got into the habit of hanging around with the kids in the village. They let me into their gang.'

‘That was lucky – that you were accepted, I mean. Obviously you were different from them, too …' I wasn't sure what I was trying to say.

‘They didn't have rules. They didn't seem to notice I was any different. Dira kept an eye out for me.' She nodded slowly. ‘She loved me.'