For fear of drowning

Stretched out, hot and prickling with resentment on a dry summer
lawn, forced into a skirt that flares stiffly out from the hip and
feeling deeply uncomfortable in a shirt buttoned tight against the
neck, I lie in wait.

I hear the crunch of gravel and scramble to my feet.

It is him.

Cramming myself into his arms I feel the crisp cotton of his shirt
against my cheek. He kisses the top of my head and pulls himself free.
He considers me too old for such blatant displays of sentimentality. My
need for him disgusts him slightly.

I lead him to the table on the lawn where the rest of us sit. I use the
term lawn because we are at my grandparents' house and it is a grand
house, complete with tennis courts and swimming pool.

We do not feel comfortable here, my mother and I, there are too many
unspoken rules designed, I believe, to catch me out. I am forever
treading on croquet lawns, pouring milk straight from the carton,
forgetting to take my jam with a small spoon and remaining resolutely
ungraceful and unendowed with musical talents. My mother is
single-handedly responsible for me and therefore for my faults. A
silent reproach hangs in the air; Why am I not more charming? Why can I
not speak French or play the piano? Why do I look and dress like a boy
and speak too loudly?

The answer can only be that I am like my mother.

It cannot be my father's fault as he sees less of me and he is, as he
strides towards the table hand out, smile beaming, so charming and so
graceful, so obviously endowed with talent that I do not possess.

At this moment I can do nothing but admire his easy charm. He is good
looking, even through a daughter's eyes, and my need for him so great
that I do everything I can to be near him. I stand with the cuff of his
shirt grazing my arm and my head resting on his shoulder.
'Don't stand there staring, Laura, go and help your mother bring out
the tea. Give your father room to breath.'

As I move reluctantly away from the table I hear my grandmother comment
on my being 'clingy'.
'She needs to find herself a boyfriend. Her mother is too soft. You
should say something Rob.'
I do as I am told and miss my father's reply.

My mother is in the kitchen putting cups on a tray.
'He's here.'
She looks round sharply, expecting to see him there beside me.
Disappointment and relief run across her face.
'He's in the garden.'
She nods and continues arranging the tea things. The cups jangle
sharply as she puts them on the tray.
'I'll help' I say, moving towards her.
'No. I'm alright.'

She snatches up the tray and walks past me into the garden. I watch her
as she walks. The sunlight falls on her hair, plainly cut and hanging
just above her shoulders, which lean forward as she walks, as if she is
trying to outrun herself. She looks behind her to see if I am
following.

Walking up the stone steps I hear the voices stop as my mother arrives
with the tea. I follow behind like a smaller, slighter shadow. My
grandmother rises to her feet and takes the cups from my mother's
hands, barking out questions as she does so.
'Milk?'
'Sugar?'
'One or two?'
'Biscuit?'
A plate of dry biscuits is shoved under the nose of each guest and a
cup thrust into their hands. As my grandmother picks up pace my mother
falters, giving way to her mother's sheer force of will and soon she
abandons the tray and sits down.

I am still standing, my toes fiddling with the grass, crushing it,
letting it spring back up and then crushing it again. My father catches
my eye and winks. A smile breaks across my face.
'You look almost pretty when you smile,' my grandmother remarks and
looks at my grandfather for encouragement.
'Doesn't she?'
He nods and says 'She is pretty.'
There is a silence during which my grandmother considers this. She
looks as if she is about to reply when my father, taking advantage of
the pause, raises his tea-cup.
'To Laura. Happy Birthday.'

The others follow his lead and I mutter a thank you. He pulls a small,
sky-blue paper bag out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me, kissing
my forehead as he does so. A deep flush starts in my chest and creeps
up my neck. I feel the smooth paper. It is the prettiest bag I have
ever seen, with a pink ribbon tie and letters stamped in shiny black.
Inside is a box made of navy blue leather, which puckers when I press
my finger into the soft top. I hold it for a moment, not sure whether
to open it or not. I don't look up, if I catch someone's eye I will be
told to hurry up.

I snap open the box and look inside.

Nestling on a pink velvet cushion is a silver chain and on the end of
the chain is a tiny circular diamond encased in a silver cup. Pulling
it out of the box I hold it up, the diamond twists on the chain,
catching the light as it turns. I am certain. Looking at it, that it
will stay around my neck for as long as I live.

'Do you like it?'
I say nothing but put it around my neck and offer myself up for
inspection.
'Pretty,' my grandmother acknowledges.
My grandfather seizes his opportunity to stand up and leave the garden,
kissing me and calling me 'lovely' as he does so. My mother looks at my
father with an expression that makes me stare at my feet.
'It suits her, you're good at this, you always were.' She attempts a
smile but looks as if she is going to cry.
'I'm going to look in the mirror' I say, a little too loudly, and run
into the house and up to my room.

*

I stand by the pool. The water is dappled as light filters through
leaves, the sounds of nature obliterated by the gurgle of the
filter.

The others are in the house, each occupied with the chores that make up
the days here. Each moment is spent preparing for the next, usually the
next meal. The time after breakfast spent preparing lunch, the time
after lunch spent preparing tea and then dinner. After dinner there is
coffee and drinks and then the day is put away, but not without first
laying the breakfast table.

This is the pool where my small cousin Edward was almost drowned. My
great aunt Susan threw him in and then stood on the edge watching him
scream, believing that if he knew he would not be rescued he would
instantly learn to swim for fear of drowning. As it was he was plucked
out of the water by my father, who heard the screams from the
garden.

I sit down on the ledge and slip my feet in. It is cold and my skin
forms goose bumps immediately.

Pushing off from the side I crash into the water, eyes squeezed shut. I
let myself fall as far as I can. My shorts billow out like clouds and
my t-shirt hovers around my neck, the diamond necklace caught in its
folds. I open my eyes and look up and out at the sky. I try to pull
down to sit on the bottom but I am running out of breath and, kicking
hard, I swim to the top.

As my head breaks the surface I feel the sun on my hair. Rubbing my
eyes free of chlorine I see the tips of my father's shoes lined up
against the concrete ledge. He is looking down at me, frowning.
'Laura,' he sys, as if reminding himself of my name.
I scrape the straggly bits of my hair back off my face and paddle
towards him. My fingers fold over the edge, almost touching the sides
of his shoes, the watery prints spread, dying the concrete a darker
shade of grey.

He clears his throat.
'How's school?'
'Fine.'
'Friends?'
I look up at him, unsure whether he is asking me if I have any or
inquiring after their health.
'You ought to have friends.'
I examine the toes of his shoes. They look expensive, like the box my
necklace came in.
'I do,' I say.

It's true but feels like a desperate attempt to make him happier and my
voice hangs between us sounding like a lie.

He crouches down and smiles at me.
'I know, I know, of course you do. It's just&;#8230;'
He smoothes back my damp hair with his clean, neat hands.
'It's just I worry about you here, with all these people.'
'You mean Mum?'
'No, not your mother, of course not your mother.'
Pause.
'Don't you get bored?'
'Sometimes.'
I do, I do get bored here, of course I do. I could scream. Why does he
think I'm here, floating in the pool, alone and fully clothed? But I
can't say it. I can't tell him that I want him to pull me out of this
pool, wrap me in a towel, put me in his car and drive me away. Instead
he stands up, wiping his wet hands with a crisp handkerchief pulled
from his pocket.

I climb out of the water and sit damply on the side. He stands looking
down at me and clears his throat again.
'What about boyfriends?'
I shrug. There have been kisses and occasional fumblings but no
more.
'They're too immature.'
It is something I have heard my friend Katherine say and I sense that
this is what is needed here, a kind of bravado.

He smiles, the tension instantly breaking, and pulls me up to stand
beside him.
'That's right, of course they are. You wait for them to grow up a
bit.'
He laughs quietly to himself, clearly relieved.

We walk back together and as we draw near the house I can sense his
discomfort.
'Are you staying?' I say, knowing that he won't.
'Well, I don't thinks so. I have things to do and I don't want to upset
your mother.'
We both know that she will be more upset if he leaves.

I can hear voices from the kitchen and I walk upstairs to my room,
calling out that I am going to change. There is no response.

From my bedroom window I see my father opening his car door and
climbing in. The door shuts with an expensive thud.

Throwing my wet clothes into the bath I put on dry ones.

I hear the engine start and the crunch of gravel as he pulls away. I
leave my room and go downstairs without looking out again.