implied either ‘Aren’t we lucky?’ or ‘Aren’t we mad?’
Mad, I decided.
Predictably, I was alone, Gayle having insisted her fitness campaign begin strictly with the school holidays, Ed busy at the All Saints summer fair and Molly at tennis. Perhaps that was why I was experiencing the horrors of submersion so acutely: without her to monitor, I could concentrate on myself – and on the muscular low-hanging legs of a male lifeguard, in his raised seat, who, I noticed with a second, smaller, shock, could not have been out of his teens.
From the café terrace came the metallic clatter of cutlery on plate, the chime of coffee cup on saucer, the rise
and fall of conversation. It seemed a heroic leap to make in a single week, from granola with Ed and his
Guardian
to solo cold-water swimmer, and I had a sudden image of myself springing to my feet at the table, vaulting the rail and crashing into the water fully clothed. The thought made me laugh at just the wrong moment and I took in a large mouthful of water.
‘All right there?’ In a trice, the lifeguard was down from his chair and at the water’s edge. His reflexes were impressive, even if they had caused an embarrassing number of fellow swimmers to look over in concern.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I spluttered. ‘I just swallowed some water.’
Resettled in his chair, he kept an eye on me, his red torpedo aid held benignly across his lap. Even when I swam into another zone, he glanced over regularly – I was one to watch. Still, I of all people was not about to fault him for his conscientiousness.
He really was remarkably good-looking – I could just picture the girls who’d be crowding the sundeck today, hoping to catch his eye. To think of all the young passions that would ignite on these terraces over the course of the summer, requited or otherwise – what a heroic thing Lara Channing had done if this were to become the meeting place for young people. A place of wholesome exercise and cleansing summer sun (provided they remembered sunscreen), better than some dreary shopping centre or, worse, a social media page and the ghastly, compulsive totting up of likes and shares.
Pausing
mid-length to recover my breath, I saw that the café table Lara had occupied last weekend was in use this morning by a family I knew from Rushbrook. The mother, Jo, and I had worked hard to help Sam progress in spite of his ADHD and dyspraxia. In the sunlight, strands of her hair glinted silver and when she bent her head you could see a thick band of pale roots along the centre of her skull. Her body language spoke of defeat. Mothers were so senior now. Lara Channing was a rarity in more ways than one: she couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five when she’d had her daughter.
I decided not to wave to Jo and draw attention to myself. It threw parents off balance to encounter a teacher in the wild, especially the more formal ones like me. To them, I belonged in the classroom, all humanity suppressed but for the parts useful to their children, of course.
That’s what you think, I thought. In less than a week I would be off duty and not due back in the classroom for almost eight weeks. Fifty-five days. Life was too short to work out what that was in hours.
I managed ten painful lengths before calling it a day.
Tuesday, 7 July
Before Lara, I had no illusions as to how I was perceived by the people in my life. Middle-aged, middle income,
middling
. I was a primary-school teacher, a good citizen,
the sort you’d want to witness your signature on a passport application, not enlist to get the party started. I was Old Elm Hill, a known quantity, part of the furniture.
Recently, I’d given myself a bit of a buffing by leaving Rushbrook, the local four-class entry state primary, to take a post at the well-regarded independent Elm Hill Prep, a move driven by the desire for a less chaotic working day rather than any political realignment. In environment alone, it was a serious
Mad, I decided.
Predictably, I was alone, Gayle having insisted her fitness campaign begin strictly with the school holidays, Ed busy at the All Saints summer fair and Molly at tennis. Perhaps that was why I was experiencing the horrors of submersion so acutely: without her to monitor, I could concentrate on myself – and on the muscular low-hanging legs of a male lifeguard, in his raised seat, who, I noticed with a second, smaller, shock, could not have been out of his teens.
From the café terrace came the metallic clatter of cutlery on plate, the chime of coffee cup on saucer, the rise
and fall of conversation. It seemed a heroic leap to make in a single week, from granola with Ed and his
Guardian
to solo cold-water swimmer, and I had a sudden image of myself springing to my feet at the table, vaulting the rail and crashing into the water fully clothed. The thought made me laugh at just the wrong moment and I took in a large mouthful of water.
‘All right there?’ In a trice, the lifeguard was down from his chair and at the water’s edge. His reflexes were impressive, even if they had caused an embarrassing number of fellow swimmers to look over in concern.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I spluttered. ‘I just swallowed some water.’
Resettled in his chair, he kept an eye on me, his red torpedo aid held benignly across his lap. Even when I swam into another zone, he glanced over regularly – I was one to watch. Still, I of all people was not about to fault him for his conscientiousness.
He really was remarkably good-looking – I could just picture the girls who’d be crowding the sundeck today, hoping to catch his eye. To think of all the young passions that would ignite on these terraces over the course of the summer, requited or otherwise – what a heroic thing Lara Channing had done if this were to become the meeting place for young people. A place of wholesome exercise and cleansing summer sun (provided they remembered sunscreen), better than some dreary shopping centre or, worse, a social media page and the ghastly, compulsive totting up of likes and shares.
Pausing
mid-length to recover my breath, I saw that the café table Lara had occupied last weekend was in use this morning by a family I knew from Rushbrook. The mother, Jo, and I had worked hard to help Sam progress in spite of his ADHD and dyspraxia. In the sunlight, strands of her hair glinted silver and when she bent her head you could see a thick band of pale roots along the centre of her skull. Her body language spoke of defeat. Mothers were so senior now. Lara Channing was a rarity in more ways than one: she couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five when she’d had her daughter.
I decided not to wave to Jo and draw attention to myself. It threw parents off balance to encounter a teacher in the wild, especially the more formal ones like me. To them, I belonged in the classroom, all humanity suppressed but for the parts useful to their children, of course.
That’s what you think, I thought. In less than a week I would be off duty and not due back in the classroom for almost eight weeks. Fifty-five days. Life was too short to work out what that was in hours.
I managed ten painful lengths before calling it a day.
Tuesday, 7 July
Before Lara, I had no illusions as to how I was perceived by the people in my life. Middle-aged, middle income,
middling
. I was a primary-school teacher, a good citizen,
the sort you’d want to witness your signature on a passport application, not enlist to get the party started. I was Old Elm Hill, a known quantity, part of the furniture.
Recently, I’d given myself a bit of a buffing by leaving Rushbrook, the local four-class entry state primary, to take a post at the well-regarded independent Elm Hill Prep, a move driven by the desire for a less chaotic working day rather than any political realignment. In environment alone, it was a serious
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