my way back down the hill.
It would be easier this time, I told myself. It was always easier on the way back, when you knew you didn’t have to turn around and do the whole thing again.
I would breaststroke it. Maybe some sidestroke. Survival strokes, Mr Henshall called them.
That seemed like a goal worth aiming for – survival.
I would keep my head up and my stroke
long and slow and relaxed
. I would have Mr Henshall in my head and my eyes fixed on my bright orange towel, all the way over there in the distance, and I would swim absolutely straight, adding not one extra metre to the left or right.
I pushed off from the tree.
The tiredness returned almost immediately, not the welcome buzzing in my limbs I felt after a good, hard swim, but a deadening heaviness.
I put it out of my mind.
I would think about something else. My arms and legs knew what to do all on their own. So I would take my mind somewhere else and before I knew it, I’d be all the way over there.
Old Lower Grange. That was it. I would swim it as if I was walking the streets of the old town, and they would carry me out.
I called up the mosaic, the maps piled in layers in the box under my bed.
The fire tree behind me, the shore ahead. And the sun – which way was the sun? That put the dam wall to the east, the bike track to the south.
In my head, the map spun and turned, roads and buildings bumping from slot to slot. It was a puzzle, that was it – one of those frames with the little plastic tiles you move around piece by piece until the picture snaps into focus.
New Lower Grange south-east, to the right of the hill. The fire tree kind of north.
And me, swimming south. South-ish.
So that would put me somewhere near the bakery, Il Panino. If I turned right, I’d be heading towards school. Left, and I’d hit the old sawmill.
Straight ahead, and I’d pass through the playground and the second bakery whose name I always forgot and the barber’s.
I floated over the top of them all, heading for the town square, seeing it laid out below me in a thousand colourful pieces.
Long and slow and relaxed.
Just head for the orange.
Past the town square now, over the clocktower where I would not think about fiery crashes and tiny Liam in the backseat, all curled-up fingers and toes, not knowing that everything in his brand-new world was already about to change. On up to the rambling old house which would become Country Crafts, where his father would one day grip my wrist so tightly it hurt. Then down the main street to where bakery number three would soon make way for our sparkling, safe, and bandaid-filled pool.
How far was that now? Half the town? I looked out to the shore and then back at the tree. My heart lifted. More than halfway. Maybe three-quarters.
But it was so slow, this grandma breaststroke. I was getting cold, and tired.
I had to get there.
I nodded to myself. I would swim the rest. I would keep my head down and get it over and done with quickly. A few more minutes and I’d be there.
I kicked off and reached back for the first stroke.
Long and easy
, I began.
Long and–
Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. There was a sharp pain in my thigh, as if something had grabbed it. It stopped kicking, wouldn’t do what I told it. It hung there flapping, wooden and sluggish and strobing with pain.
I was so heavy all of a sudden, so useless. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get a breath. Which side was I turning? Which way?
I turned my head, flailing, and sucked in a deep gulp, but it was water I got instead of sky, instead of air.
I was going under, felt myself start to go, my leg dragging me down, and I waited, reaching for something, anything, with my good leg and my foot and the ends of my toes.
But there was nothing. It was too deep and my head was going under, the water closing, knitting itself back together above me. And I was an idiot because for a second I thought I saw someone running, waving, coming across the water,
It would be easier this time, I told myself. It was always easier on the way back, when you knew you didn’t have to turn around and do the whole thing again.
I would breaststroke it. Maybe some sidestroke. Survival strokes, Mr Henshall called them.
That seemed like a goal worth aiming for – survival.
I would keep my head up and my stroke
long and slow and relaxed
. I would have Mr Henshall in my head and my eyes fixed on my bright orange towel, all the way over there in the distance, and I would swim absolutely straight, adding not one extra metre to the left or right.
I pushed off from the tree.
The tiredness returned almost immediately, not the welcome buzzing in my limbs I felt after a good, hard swim, but a deadening heaviness.
I put it out of my mind.
I would think about something else. My arms and legs knew what to do all on their own. So I would take my mind somewhere else and before I knew it, I’d be all the way over there.
Old Lower Grange. That was it. I would swim it as if I was walking the streets of the old town, and they would carry me out.
I called up the mosaic, the maps piled in layers in the box under my bed.
The fire tree behind me, the shore ahead. And the sun – which way was the sun? That put the dam wall to the east, the bike track to the south.
In my head, the map spun and turned, roads and buildings bumping from slot to slot. It was a puzzle, that was it – one of those frames with the little plastic tiles you move around piece by piece until the picture snaps into focus.
New Lower Grange south-east, to the right of the hill. The fire tree kind of north.
And me, swimming south. South-ish.
So that would put me somewhere near the bakery, Il Panino. If I turned right, I’d be heading towards school. Left, and I’d hit the old sawmill.
Straight ahead, and I’d pass through the playground and the second bakery whose name I always forgot and the barber’s.
I floated over the top of them all, heading for the town square, seeing it laid out below me in a thousand colourful pieces.
Long and slow and relaxed.
Just head for the orange.
Past the town square now, over the clocktower where I would not think about fiery crashes and tiny Liam in the backseat, all curled-up fingers and toes, not knowing that everything in his brand-new world was already about to change. On up to the rambling old house which would become Country Crafts, where his father would one day grip my wrist so tightly it hurt. Then down the main street to where bakery number three would soon make way for our sparkling, safe, and bandaid-filled pool.
How far was that now? Half the town? I looked out to the shore and then back at the tree. My heart lifted. More than halfway. Maybe three-quarters.
But it was so slow, this grandma breaststroke. I was getting cold, and tired.
I had to get there.
I nodded to myself. I would swim the rest. I would keep my head down and get it over and done with quickly. A few more minutes and I’d be there.
I kicked off and reached back for the first stroke.
Long and easy
, I began.
Long and–
Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. There was a sharp pain in my thigh, as if something had grabbed it. It stopped kicking, wouldn’t do what I told it. It hung there flapping, wooden and sluggish and strobing with pain.
I was so heavy all of a sudden, so useless. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get a breath. Which side was I turning? Which way?
I turned my head, flailing, and sucked in a deep gulp, but it was water I got instead of sky, instead of air.
I was going under, felt myself start to go, my leg dragging me down, and I waited, reaching for something, anything, with my good leg and my foot and the ends of my toes.
But there was nothing. It was too deep and my head was going under, the water closing, knitting itself back together above me. And I was an idiot because for a second I thought I saw someone running, waving, coming across the water,
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