‘I’m not going on my own, Nan. You can’t go into the sea alone in all weathers, it’s rule 101 of wild swimming: don’t go alone.’
‘Who’s going with you then?’ The old lady stared at her.
‘I’ve...I’ve joined a club, actually.’ She hated the embarrassment that surrounded her admission. The Gunns weren’t ‘club’ people. They mocked clubs, teams and anything that required group participation. The unwritten rule was that it was better to run your own race, rely on yourself and crack on.
‘What kind of club?’ her nan barked, with an edge that made the whole affair sound slightly nefarious.
A chess club! What do you think?Tawrie’s mouth twitched into a smile at the prospect of sharing this thought with Connie later in the café.
‘They’re called the Peacock Swimmers and they meet at Hele Bay Beach every morning and look out for each other, and then they just...swim!’ She raised her arms and let them fall by her sides, aware of sounding vague and ill-informed. When it came to the actual activities of the Peacock Swimmers, she was both.
Messages had been exchanged via Facebook, where the photographs of the gang’s activities were shoddy and not that helpful: arty-farty close-ups of foaming seas and an image of a lost flip-flop found on the beach wall, along with a list of dos and don’ts when it came to wild swimming. The list was surrounded by a purple floral frame that to her untrained eye looked to be Easter-themed and seemed a little incongruous to the safety message. Their exchanges had been sparse and to the point: time, place and suggested swimwear.
‘The Peacock Swimmers, eh? Well I never did!’ Her nan shook her head, whether in admiration or horror it was hard to tell.
And here Tawrie was. Day one.
Her bed looked soft and welcoming. She felt drawn to the space lurking beneath her carelessly flung duvet, the spot where her mattress carried the almost imperceptible sag, the springs that had supported her in gentle slumber for the last fourteen years or so now a little worn. The temptation to fall back on to it was strong. She walked to the window where the sea sat bleakly and in shadow in the distance. Another few shoulder rolls and deep breaths helped her focus and find the resolve to commit to her plan.
Hers was a room with an enviable vantage point: a perfect view of the quayside and the Hillsborough Nature Reserve, known locally as Elephant’s Head, to the right. A curious name, inharmonious even, for this peninsula on the North Devon coast, until youstood at a precise point further up the hill and saw the sleeping elephant in all its glory as the dramatic rockscape wound its way around the coast. Her family home, Signal House, was perched on a terrace behind Fore Street, which ran all the way from Ilfracombe High Street to the harbour, and was home to three generations of Gunn women. Tawrie, who would be twenty-eight next birthday, her mother Annalee, who would also, at her own insistence, be twenty-eight next birthday, and her nan, Freda, who unlike her daughter-in-law, found her age to be a source of pride and was about to turn seventy-three.
It was a strange thing, a unique thing, and a much celebrated thing that the three Gunn women were all born on September the fourteenth. Freda delighted in the fact that she’d been sent a granddaughter on her birthday! Tawrie was the only child of Freda’s eldest son, Daniel, who had been married to Annalee. This special day, for as long as Tawrie could remember, was one of celebration, culminating in a bonfire and a gathering at Rapparee Cove, an event that was known by all and sundry as ‘the Gunn Fire’. No one was invited, no one turned away, yet each year they gathered: friends, family, the odd tourist, and neighbours, all looking for one last burst of summer, one last dance under the stars, one last night of carefree laughter before the sharp winter winds took the heat, laissez-faire days of plenty and the tourist pound, spiriting them out of reach for another season.
From a distance, their house on the hill smacked of opulence, boasting turreted attic rooms, floor-to-ceiling gothic framed windows and a wraparound porch. Close up, it was easy to see that its best years were probably a century or so behind it and what was left – a rather weathered building full of holes with wobbly windows and ill-fitting doors – clung to its former grandeur with as much vigour as it clung to the cliff into which it was hewn. But it was home. It had always beenhome and probably always would be. That was how things worked in this harbourside town.
In truth, Tawrie Gunn wasn’t a woman who had desired travel or to gather mementos from the far corners of the globe; she had never longed to sample food made from unfamiliar ingredients and didn’t feel the need to regale strangers with tales of her wanderings. She was a home bird, a proud Devonian, who might best be described as contained. Her tone was measured, her back straight, hair dark and wild, eye contact level, and her inner circle small. Minute, in fact. She served hearty breakfasts to fishermen and lifeboat crews in Connie’s café down on the quay year round, and to tourists and day trippers throughout the season. Connie’s dad, Tawrie’s Uncle Stanley, known to all and sundry as ‘Sten’ on account of their surname, summed up life with his favourite phrase: ‘It’s the four Ps, Taw! That’s what counts. It’s all the Gunns need to be happy! Pasty, pint, paddle and a piddle – it’s the secret to a contented life!’
And yet she wasn’t content, not really. Hence the itch to her spirit and the restlessness in her bones. Maybe Sten was wrong, it might actually require five Ps to make her happy: pasty, pint, paddle, piddle andpeace ...
As she looked out of the wide window she again hoped she might find answers in the ocean. If nothing else it felt like a fine place to start, and that began with finding the confidence to get into the water. Stuffing a towel, wetsuit, swimming hat and goggles into her duffel bag, Tawrie rattled down the stairs.
‘Where you off to at this hour, little one?’ Her nan, always an early riser, was sitting in her armchair wrapped in her tartan wool dressing gown watching the news. She still addressed Tawrie as if she were a child, not that Tawrie minded, knowing it was a hard habit to break.
‘I told you, Nan, I’m going swimming.’
‘You really meant it?’ Her nan twisted in the chair to stare at her, open-mouthed.
‘Yep, of course I meant it! Every day, in all weathers, from March to September. Starting today.’ She tried not to look at the bruised sky beyond the wide sash window.
‘Oh my goodness, Tawrie. I’m not sure I like the sound of it now I know you actually mean it. There’s other ways to lose weight! Who said you’re fat?’
‘No one!’ She balked at the assumption and how quickly they’d got there.
‘Good, cos you’re not. You’re really not. Just ignore them. And if anyone is picking on you, then you tell me!’
Her nan’s words were formed in a mouth that recited only love, no matter how wide of the mark.
‘First, Nan, I’m twenty-seven; if anyone picks on me then I can deal with it myself. And second, I don’t think I’m fat; I mean, a bit wobbly in places, but ...’ She reached back and grabbed her bum cheek, feeling it squish generously in her palm, and was forced to admit, to herself at least, that anything that helped her feel happier with her body would only be a good thing.
‘That’s right, you’re not fat, and don’t let anyone tell you different. Big across the shoulders like your great-aunt Heidi and robust of leg, yes, but there’s no shame in that, Tawrie Gunn. We’re working stock and proud of it! Not for the Gunn women a pretty seat and needlepoint. We’re log-shifters, hole-diggers, net-menders, barrel-hefters, fish-gutters.’
‘Yes, thank you, Nan, I get the message. But I’m not doing this to lose weight. It’s about challenging myself, changing my routine, committing to something.’ She felt any previous confidence flutter out beneath the whistling gap at the bottom of the front door.
‘That’s the spirit, you keep telling yourself that! And where are you going to swim to, anyway?’
Tawrie exhaled and looked out over the sea, her eyes coming to rest on the spot where, in daylight, a shadowy land mass sat on the horizon. An island no more than one point four square kilometres and a place of fascination for Tawrie for the last twenty years. A mound upon which her gaze liked to fall as she walked. An island landscape that filled her dreams with imagery so strong, it roused her from sleep in the early hours. A marker in the expanse of ocean, a place of great significance, in her mind at least: the island where she dared to dream she might find her dad.
‘Lundy. I’m going to swim all the way out to Lundy Island.’
