and she wants, just once, to recline beside it and run her hand through it. But when she gets close and bends down, she sees that what she has taken for the surface of the water is an old tarpaulin stretched over the mouth of the pool. She strikes at it bad-temperedly, as if it spoils everything.
"For leaves and that," Colin says, catching up. "So it doesn't get all mucky."
"But what about the water?" "Suppose they drained it."
He can see her disappointment, but he isn't discouraged.
He looks like he'd relish making it up to her.
"Come 'ere," he says, taking her hand and pulling her along to the metal steps that drop into the pool.
He kneels and unfastens the cloth where it's tied to the edge by guy ropes. "Follow me." He climbs down, his feet, his legs, his torso disappearing until she can see only the top of
his head. She notices a tiny, sunburned bald spot just as he looks up, and she realises he can see up her skirt. She hops back, snapping her heels together, and he grins and vanishes.
"Colin," she calls softly, suddenly alone. There's no answer.
She crouches closer to the flapping gap of cloth, like a diver about to plunge forward. "Colin?"
Nothing.
Then she sees a ridge in the cloth, like the fin of a shark moving away from her, circling, coming back. "What's that?" she says, and, as if from a long way off, comes the cry: "Me manhood."
Despite herself she laughs, and in that moment grabs the railing of the steps and ducks below the cover.
It's surprisingly light in the empty pool. The tarpaulin is a thin blue oilcloth, and the starlight seeps through it unevenly as if through a cloudy sky. The pool is bathed in a pale, blotchy
light, and the illusion of being underwater is accentuated by the design of shells printed on the tiles of the bottom.
Overhead the breeze snaps the tarp like a sail. She can just make out Colin, like a murky beast at the far end of the pool, the deep end. She takes a step forward, the world sloping away beneath her suddenly, almost falls, stumbles down towards him.
When she gets closer, she finds him walking around in circles with exaggerated slowness, making giant O shapes with his mouth.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm a fish," he says. "Glub glub, get it?" And she joins him, giggling, snaking her arms ahead of her in a languid breast- stroke.
He weaves back and forth around her. "Glub glub glub!" "Now what are you doing?" she asks, as he steps
sideways and bumps her. "Hey!"
"I'm a crab," he says, sidling off, scuttling back, bumping her again.
She feels his hand on her arse. "Ow!"
"Sorry!" He shrugs, holds up his hands. "Sharp pincers." "That hurt," she says, pulling away. She starts to backpedal
towards the shallow end, windmilling her arms. "Backstroke!" she cries, clenching her teeth in an Esther Williams smile. But he catches her, wraps her in a hug.
"Mr Octopus," he whispers, "has got you." She can hear his heart beating.
"'Ere," he says. "Want to know a secret?" And she nods firmly, composing herself.
"Pee," he whispers. "Oh." He grins. "Doubleyas!" It takes her a moment to decipher him. "POWs!" he repeats, like it's a punchline, and slowly, queasily, she begins to smile. "That's who it's for! And your lot thinking they was part of the war effort." He laughs, and she sees that this is what he's been holding in all this time--laughter, a bellyful of it. But after a second she joins him anyway, hoping that if they can share
this joke, then he won't think her one of them , will see her on
his side.
He's still chuckling when she takes his head in her hands and kisses him until the laughter is stifled and he starts to respond. She's put all her strength into the kiss, but when he kisses back it's with even greater force, this soldier she's only known for a fortnight. He turns her in his arms, as if dancing, and she tries to move her feet with him, but he's holding too tight, simply swinging her around. She feels dizzy. Her shoes scuff the tiles, and she thinks, I just
"For leaves and that," Colin says, catching up. "So it doesn't get all mucky."
"But what about the water?" "Suppose they drained it."
He can see her disappointment, but he isn't discouraged.
He looks like he'd relish making it up to her.
"Come 'ere," he says, taking her hand and pulling her along to the metal steps that drop into the pool.
He kneels and unfastens the cloth where it's tied to the edge by guy ropes. "Follow me." He climbs down, his feet, his legs, his torso disappearing until she can see only the top of
his head. She notices a tiny, sunburned bald spot just as he looks up, and she realises he can see up her skirt. She hops back, snapping her heels together, and he grins and vanishes.
"Colin," she calls softly, suddenly alone. There's no answer.
She crouches closer to the flapping gap of cloth, like a diver about to plunge forward. "Colin?"
Nothing.
Then she sees a ridge in the cloth, like the fin of a shark moving away from her, circling, coming back. "What's that?" she says, and, as if from a long way off, comes the cry: "Me manhood."
Despite herself she laughs, and in that moment grabs the railing of the steps and ducks below the cover.
It's surprisingly light in the empty pool. The tarpaulin is a thin blue oilcloth, and the starlight seeps through it unevenly as if through a cloudy sky. The pool is bathed in a pale, blotchy
light, and the illusion of being underwater is accentuated by the design of shells printed on the tiles of the bottom.
Overhead the breeze snaps the tarp like a sail. She can just make out Colin, like a murky beast at the far end of the pool, the deep end. She takes a step forward, the world sloping away beneath her suddenly, almost falls, stumbles down towards him.
When she gets closer, she finds him walking around in circles with exaggerated slowness, making giant O shapes with his mouth.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm a fish," he says. "Glub glub, get it?" And she joins him, giggling, snaking her arms ahead of her in a languid breast- stroke.
He weaves back and forth around her. "Glub glub glub!" "Now what are you doing?" she asks, as he steps
sideways and bumps her. "Hey!"
"I'm a crab," he says, sidling off, scuttling back, bumping her again.
She feels his hand on her arse. "Ow!"
"Sorry!" He shrugs, holds up his hands. "Sharp pincers." "That hurt," she says, pulling away. She starts to backpedal
towards the shallow end, windmilling her arms. "Backstroke!" she cries, clenching her teeth in an Esther Williams smile. But he catches her, wraps her in a hug.
"Mr Octopus," he whispers, "has got you." She can hear his heart beating.
"'Ere," he says. "Want to know a secret?" And she nods firmly, composing herself.
"Pee," he whispers. "Oh." He grins. "Doubleyas!" It takes her a moment to decipher him. "POWs!" he repeats, like it's a punchline, and slowly, queasily, she begins to smile. "That's who it's for! And your lot thinking they was part of the war effort." He laughs, and she sees that this is what he's been holding in all this time--laughter, a bellyful of it. But after a second she joins him anyway, hoping that if they can share
this joke, then he won't think her one of them , will see her on
his side.
He's still chuckling when she takes his head in her hands and kisses him until the laughter is stifled and he starts to respond. She's put all her strength into the kiss, but when he kisses back it's with even greater force, this soldier she's only known for a fortnight. He turns her in his arms, as if dancing, and she tries to move her feet with him, but he's holding too tight, simply swinging her around. She feels dizzy. Her shoes scuff the tiles, and she thinks, I just
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